Day 1: The ferry from Ísafjörður departed at 9am sharp. I watched the colorful houses shrink against the mountainside as we motored into Ísafjarðardjúp. Two hours later, we rounded the headland into Veiðileysufjörður, and I stepped onto the black sand beach with seven days of food on my back. Day 2: The trail from Veiðileysufjörður climbed steeply through Hælavíkurbjarg pass, 500 meters of switchbacks in thick fog. I couldn't see more than ten meters ahead. Navigation was by compass and intuition. Made camp at Hælavík bay as the fog finally lifted, revealing towering sea cliffs. Day 3: The coastal traverse to Hornvík was everything I'd hoped for. The trail hugged cliffs that dropped 400 meters to the churning Atlantic below. I spotted my first Arctic fox near Látravík – a curious blue morph that followed me for an hour, darting between rocks. Days 4-5: Hornvík Bay. I set up a base camp on the black sand beach and simply existed. No agenda. I watched the midnight sun paint the Hornbjarg cliffs in impossible shades of gold. The silence here is different – not empty, but full of wind and waves and distant bird calls. Day 6: Side trip to the abandoned whaling station at Hesteyri. Rusted machinery and collapsed roofs slowly returning to the earth. I met the only other person I'd see all week – a ranger doing wildlife surveys. Day 7: The walk back to Veiðileysufjörður felt different. My pack was lighter, but so was everything else. Caught the afternoon ferry back to Ísafjörður, already planning my return.