Gazing at the Aurora at the Edge of the World.
Some trips are about reaching a destination.
Others are about proving something to yourself—
That this world holds a kind of beauty that a camera can never truly capture.
Iceland and Greenland fall into the latter.
Flying north all the way from Taiwan, the view outside the cabin window begins to grow unfamiliar. Cities, roads, and clusters of houses gradually vanish, replaced by endless stretches of snow, mountain ranges, and the vast ocean.
When the plane finally touched down in Iceland, my first thought wasn't "how beautiful."
It was—
It is so quiet here.
It’s the kind of silence you almost never encounter in Taiwan.
No skyscrapers, no gridlocked traffic, no streets teeming with people. The wind sweeps in from the distant sea, and the air is so sharp and cold that you can’t help but hunch your shoulders.
Iceland’s first impression is that of a place not yet fully tamed by humanity.
Driving south, black volcanic rocks, glaciers, waterfalls, and desolate barrens constantly flicker past the window.
Sometimes, you drive for miles without seeing a single house.
Just one road.
On either side lies black earth dusted with white snow, while massive mountains loom in the distance.
In those moments, you finally understand why people say Iceland doesn't look like Earth.
It feels more like a planet from a movie.
Iceland by day is spectacular.
But what I was truly looking forward to was the night.
Because for this entire trip, I had been waiting for one thing.
The Aurora.
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The First Night in Iceland
It was just past 9 PM when I first stepped out of my accommodation.
The sky was impossibly dark.
Looking up, the stars were so numerous they felt surreal.
I stood outside for a long time, waiting.
Nothing.
Only the wind.
It was so cold my fingers began to go numb, and I started to wonder if I had romanticized the aurora too much.
I had seen too many photos before the trip.
Silk-like ribbons of green hanging in the sky, sometimes even purple or blue.
But standing there in the Icelandic night, I realized that seeing the aurora is never a guarantee.
It requires darkness, clear skies, and a stroke of luck with solar activity. The season generally runs from autumn to the following spring, but true aurora chasers spend their time obsessively checking cloud cover and solar forecasts.
So, that night, I saw nothing.
I was a bit disappointed.
But for some reason, my heart grew more expectant.
Because I knew—
I still had Greenland.
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Flying to Greenland
Traveling from Iceland to Greenland felt like taking another step toward the very edge of the world.
As the plane crossed the North Atlantic, the view below turned into a vast sheet of white.
At first, it was just scattered bits of ice.
Then, there was more and more.
Finally, the entire world seemed to consist of only two colors.
White ice and deep blue sea.
The biggest difference between Greenland and Iceland is the sudden disappearance of human presence.
Iceland is desolate, but it still has roads, hotels, gas stations, and tourists.
Greenland is different.
The towns and settlements are tiny, and there are no road networks connecting them like in other countries.
You suddenly realize:
Humanity here is just a small guest living within this gargantuan nature.
Walking through a Greenlandic town, the most enchanting sight is the houses.
Red, yellow, blue, and green.
They sit scattered across the snow and rock like toys.
Behind them are mountains.
Beyond the mountains is the ice.
And further out lies the endless Arctic Ocean.
When you walk out at night, you don't have to go far to find a truly dark sky.
This is part of what makes the aurora in Greenland so captivating—with such a small population and almost no light pollution, you can often see the lights without even leaving the town.
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That Night, I Finally Saw It
That night, I was actually quite tired.
After dinner, I returned to my room, and the temperature outside was so low I had no desire to step back out.
I lay on the bed, thinking to myself:
"Forget it, probably nothing tonight either."
Just before I got ready for sleep, I walked over to the window one last time.
I pulled back the curtain.
I looked up.
And I froze.
Above the sky, there was a very, very faint streak of green.
At first, I wasn't even sure.
I thought it was just a cloud.
But it was moving.
Slowly, that green glow began to brighten.
It looked as if someone had taken a giant highlighter and drawn a soft stroke across the pitch-black sky.
Then a second beam appeared.
Then a third.
The entire sky began to transform.
I rushed outside.
The freezing air hit my face instantly.
But in that moment, I didn't feel the cold at all.
Because the sky above was "flowing."
It wasn't the static green you see in photos.
It was truly moving.
Like a massive green river swirling slowly across the heavens.
Sometimes it was just a faint veil.
A few seconds later, it would flare up brilliantly.
Then it would slowly disperse again.
The whole sky felt alive.
I stood in the snow, unable to say a word.
I just kept looking up.
In that moment, I felt how tiny humans really are.
The things we usually worry about—
Work.
Money.
Relationships.
The things that keep us awake at night.
Underneath that sky, they all suddenly seemed so insignificant.
There was only me.
And a sky that has existed for ages beyond measure.
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I Finally Understand Why Everyone Wants to See the Aurora
I used to hear people say:
"You have to see the aurora at least once in your life."
I didn't really get it.
Isn't it just light in the sky?
It wasn't until I was actually standing there that I understood.
You aren't just looking for "green light."
You are looking for that feeling—
The feeling of having traveled thousands of miles to the other side of the planet, and having the universe perform a show just for you on that specific night.
It has no schedule.
It has no fixed shape.
You don't even know if it will vanish in the next second.
You can only stand there and wait.
And when it finally appears, you think to yourself:
"I'm so glad I came."
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Looking Back at Iceland
At the end of the trip, I returned to Iceland.
The same roads.
The same black volcanic rocks.
The same icy wind.
But my perspective had completely changed.
Before, when I looked at Iceland, I was just looking at the scenery.
Coming back, every mountain, every sheet of ice, and every road felt like a reminder—
The world is so much bigger than the tiny circles we live in every day.
Some places don't exist just to be photographed.
Some places require you to actually stand there, let the wind whip across your face, and let yourself grow quiet before you can truly know how beautiful they are.
Iceland showed me the power of the earth.
Greenland let me feel the weight of silence.
And the aurora made the whole journey unforgettable.
If someone were to ask me:
"Is it really worth going to Iceland and Greenland?"
I might not answer immediately.
Because it isn't an easy trip.
It’s far, it’s cold, it’s expensive, and half the time you don't even know what the next view will be.
But if you ask me:
"If you could only go once in your life, would you go again?"
I think I would.
Because I still remember that night.
Standing alone in the snow.
Everything was so quiet you could only hear the wind.
And then I looked up.
And saw the entire green aurora unfolding across the northernmost sky of the world.
In that moment, I wasn't thinking about anything.
I just felt—
The world really is more beautiful than I ever imagined.