Why This Iceland Northern Lights Tour Was Even More Memorable Than Expected

“Next please!” called out Bjarni, our guide for the night, from beneath his beanie, his camera poised. One by one, he was photographing us beneath the sky, capturing us in front of something we could not yet see. A couple stepped forward, their faces momentarily illuminated by the flash. “Bingo bingo! Next person, please, on my left!”

There was only a faint glow in the sky above—was it a wisp of a cloud, or something else entirely? I peeked at the camera, noting the green sky lit up thanks to the long exposure of Bjarni’s camera—the northern lights. They weren’t quite visible to the naked eye yet, but Bjarni assured us they would grow stronger at some point tonight.

“Patience is everything,” he said. The camera clicks. “Bingo bingo! Next!”

But we weren’t there yet. Our group of around 12 people had started the night in Reykjavik’s twinkling winter streets, each of us conveniently picked up from bus stops around the city, bundled in layers, before piling onto the bus to peer out of foggy windows at the snow-laden roads, the houses strung with Christmas lights, their golden glow spilling onto the drifts, warm and inviting against the deep December darkness. In a country where winter driving can be daunting, it was nice just to be along for the ride.

Once we were all on board, Bjarni’s microphone crackled to life. “You need three things to see the northern lights in Iceland,” he announced on the bus, the glow of Reykjavik fading behind us. “Clear skies, solar flares, and a good bit of luck.” A beat. “Or you could try sacrificing a lamb to the Nordic gods. Sometimes works, I hear.”

We were leaving behind Reykjavik’s warmth for four hours in the icy dark on the Reykjanes Peninsula, home to vast lava fields, the international airport, and, lately, active volcanoes, to chase the elusive northern lights. The drive took less than 30 minutes, and once we’d arrived, we spent the rest of the evening mostly outdoors, stepping in and out of the cozy bus to warm up as needed.

But before the hunting began in earnest, we watched a short film explaining the science behind the aurora on the bus; meanwhile, outside, snow-dusted lava fields blurred past, moss peeking through the white. Eventually, Bjarni turned off the main highway, guiding the bus down a quiet dirt track into the middle of nowhere. A road you’d never notice, but chosen with precision. There were no other tour groups in sight, just the quiet and cold—one of the perks of going with an experienced guide.

“Here’s our spot,” he said, stopping. “Now, we wait.”

We clambered out of the bus, the cold slapping our faces, stinging our noses. Nearby, a small church stood bathed in soft light, its angular roof silhouetted against Reykjavik’s glow. Overhead, the sky was restless; clouds shifted and unraveled, revealing pockets of night sky where stars twinkled. The weather was changing fast, which could be a blessing or a curse for aurora hunting, depending on whether the skies stayed relatively clear or clouded over completely.

Bjarni lugged his tripod from the back of the bus, setting it up on the frozen ground. “There! That’s them!” he exclaimed shortly after setting up, pointing out the long, low-lying cloud. We lined up, one by one, stepping in front of his camera, our faces briefly illuminated by the flash before peering at the green lights that appeared—like magic—on his screen.

The northern lights don’t always appear as a dazzling show of color. Sometimes, they start as a pale streak in the sky, so faint you might mistake them for a cloud. Cameras, with their long exposures, pick up the glow more vividly than the human eye, turning a barely-there shimmer into an emerald-green arc. The science behind it is straightforward: charged particles from the sun collide with Earth’s atmosphere to produce a glow that shifts from green to purple depending on the gases involved. But spotting them? That’s a different story. Even with clear skies and a promising aurora forecast, seeing the lights is mostly down to timing, luck, and patience.

So, we did what Icelanders do in winter: we made ourselves comfortable. Bjarni pulled out a thermos of steaming hot chocolate—“a top-secret recipe,” he claimed—and a box of cinnamon rolls, passing them around as we huddled against the cold. The perks of taking an aurora-hunting tour were becoming more apparent by the minute.

“I do so many of these tours that my wife has forbidden me from eating any more cinnamon rolls,” Bjarni admitted. He took a bite anyway. “Lucky for me, none of you know her.”

For the next few hours, we stood in the darkness, craning our necks at the sky, scanning for movement, taking our turn in front of the camera, and listening to Bjarni regale us with stories and legends about the northern lights that we wouldn’t have been fortunate enough to hear had we headed out alone. There was still no luck with the naked eye, but the green seemed to be growing stronger in the photos.

I’d seen the northern lights before—sometimes as a faint shimmer, other times dancing wildly in shades of green, pink, and purple. Once, on another trip, the forecast had been bleak, but at the last moment, a break in the clouds revealed a swirling aurora above while I soaked in a holiday home hot tub. They were fickle. But that made them more rewarding.

And persistence is key. "Hunting the aurora is like fishing—you won’t catch anything if you don’t cast a line," Bjarni told us. But even with his optimism, there was no fighting the cold. My hands were deep in my pockets, and I stamped my feet to try and shock some feeling back into my toes. More people had drifted back into the bus to warm up, and I soon followed suit. Bjarni stayed outside with a few others, scanning the sky. Now and then, I heard the camera click as he snapped another photo. It was a quiet, in-between stretch—nothing much happening, freezing toes, and, if I’m honest, creeping into boredom. But all it took to jolt myself out of it was to remember where I was: in the middle of a lava field, in the Icelandic wilderness, under a shifting sky.

Bjarni leaned into the bus. “Come on! The lights are here!” he exclaimed excitedly. We scrambled off the bus to see them before they disappeared again. It was a slow unveiling, the wisp of white cloud that Bjarni had assured us was the lights slowly pulsing a faint green color. It stretched across the sky like a brushstroke of watercolor, shifting ever so slowly, a light green wave suspended in inky darkness.

One by one, we posed for Bjarni’s camera—a major plus of going with a pro is that you’re sure to get the picture-perfect shot you’ve dreamed of—the aurora glowing faintly behind us. “Bingo, bingo!” he called, snapping a shot of one couple. “Wait a minute, eyes were closed! One more,” he said.

Suddenly, the man in front of the camera dropped to one knee and pulled out a ring. His partner gasped, hands flying to her mouth. The question, the pause, the northern lights glowing faintly behind them. Then, a resounding yes. We all clapped and cheered. Bjarni grinned, clicking away with his camera.

Eventually, the lights faded back into the night sky. We lingered a little longer, soaking in the moment, before climbing back into the warmth of the bus for a cozy ride back to the city—no driving required on our parts. It was a short showing, but a memorable one, especially for one couple. As we drove back towards Reykjavik to the soundtrack of Bjarni’s Icelandic music playlist, we replaced the darkness of the country with the glow of the city.

Seeing the northern lights in Reykjavik is never a guarantee. But with an expert guide, the right conditions, and a little patience, you’ll have the best chance of witnessing one of nature’s greatest shows. And if all else fails? At least the hot chocolate’s a sure thing. (Though the proposal is optional.)

This tour was provided courtesy of Viator.