Note:This is part one of a three part blog arc. Make sure to start here!

Three years ago I was in Iceland. At that time I had escaped with the only one brave enough to go with me at the time. My mom.

We ended up having the best of road trip adventures, circumnavigating Iceland on the ring road. We saw the harshest waterfalls crashing down into a moonlike terrain. Our "Happy Camper" took us through valleys where the rock and sand was black as coal for miles only to find at the center a green oasis with a cheery log cabin guesthouse.

Yet, when I think about that trip, I think not about Iceland itself, but rather the Westman Islands off the south coast. These towering behemoths of grassy top volcanic cliffs are the only place in my travels I have ever returned to in a dream.

Therefore, when we walked off the ferry this morning after passing through the narrow harbor to the town of people that have forged a life on this rock, I was excited to have my friends and mostly my love, my wife along.

That is when I stood for a moment, eyes closed to take a breath of fresh island air. That is when I gagged on a most poisonous stench.