Driving into the westfjords themselves felt about as surreal as making the actual decision to do it the morning of. I based the entire direction, literally, of my month in Iceland on it. I knew that October 25th in the westfjords was going to be a gamble. But I knew that somewhere in late November was going to be an even bigger gamble. There was a lot at stake by going, but I'd also be leaving a lot at stake by not going, by not taking the chance. The days were short, really short - down to just hours of daylight, and even less when the skies opened up with snowfall and heavy clouds ate up even more of that daylight, and the roads were... unpredictable at best. If it wasn't blizzards, or patches of black ice and compact snow, it was foot deep mud-holes to weave in and out of on gravel roads kilometre after kilometre.But the payoff was immediate, and grand. Particularly after 152 kilometres of gravel road to Dynjandi - seven spectacular waterfalls partially frozen over, thundering down into the fjord below. Also... Icelandic ponies. My favourite.