The road to Reykjavík is out there, somewhere. Getting to it from here -- deep in Iceland's remote, primordial highlands -- would normally be routine for our convoy of 15 Land Rovers: climb a few escalator-steep slopes, ford an ice-filled river, crawl across a field of boulders the size of dump trucks, hang a left at the volcano. But that's when your vehicle isn't being pummeled by snow and black volcanic ash blasting sideways at 65 miles per hour, as ours has been for the past 10 hours. During that time, we've traveled, oh, maybe three miles. Now the sun's setting, and we're low on gas. My car-mate frowns. "I hope I don't have to eat my own foot."

For years I'd heard about Iceland's otherworldly landscape -- glaciers, active volcanoes, bubbling hot springs -- so when I got the chance to join a special one-time Land Rover Experience in Iceland run by the same guides who lead Land Rover trips in some of the world's greatest off-roading destinations, I knew I had to go. It never occurred to me that my adventure might end in cannibalism.

But then, nothing in Iceland is what you would expect. For one thing, Iceland isn't icy. Yes, there are glaciers, but nearly 90 percent of the country is a sharply contrasted blend of grassy coastal lowlands and rocky, moonlike highlands. Yes, there are snowstorms, but thanks to the warm Gulf Stream, Iceland's winters are generally milder than New York City's. And unlike what you've heard, Icelandic women are among the most hideous and unattractive on earth. Wait. I'm lying. The women are breathtaking.

First on our itinerary was a dip in the Blue Lagoon, the famous man-made lake of geothermally heated, silica-rich, milky-blue water. Continuing on to Reykjavík, the clean, trend-conscious capital city, I grabbed a Viking (pronounced VEE-king) beer at Vegamót ("crossroads"), a softly lit, simply furnished two-story bar full of young locals. Late that night, I crashed in my spare white-and-black room at the ultramodern Hotel 1919.

As our convoy left Reykjavík the next morning, the weather was fair and our mood was high. Our mission: to drive far into the desolate highlands, where we would camp before launching the next morning on a trek across Myrdalsjškull, a massive glacier that sits atop Katla, an active volcano, and over the black-sand beaches of Skogasandur.

Two hours out of the city, we stopped for coffee at the Hotel Rangá, a log-cabin lodge overlooking Iceland's most productive salmon river, the East Rangá. Fully caffeinated, we steered off the main road and began our off-road detour into the highlands, a landscape so alien that Apollo astronauts used it as a training ground for moonwalks. So far, it was fairly low-adrenaline off-roading -- no deep mud or tricky descents. But then we made several river crossings, including a dicey one during which the water sloshed up nearly to hood level. As we powered through we also played icebreaker, smashing into chunks big enough to frighten a ship's captain.

By nightfall we reached a small lodge and campground in the Landmannalaugar region, 60 miles from the nearest settlement. A hot spring outside the lodge beckoned, and as I slipped in for a post-drive dip, the sky was in full IMAX mode: the northern lights glowed on the horizon, the Milky Way shimmered above, shooting stars crisscrossed the cloudless void. I thought: What's not to love about the "land of fire and ice"?

Then, while we slept, something pissed off Old Man Winter. An unforeseen blizzard nearly buried our tents. At dawn, we couldn't see 10 feet in front of us. The news was bleak: no glacier, no black-sand beaches. All too possibly, no more us. We would abandon the planned route and head straight back. Our guide, David Sneath, gave us instructions as we inched away from camp: Follow the taillights of the vehicle directly ahead, and whatever you do, don't lose them.

That was 10 hours ago. Since then, we've been moving 100 feet at a time in the whiteout, scraping solid ice off the windshield every five minutes. Each time we step outside to clear the glass, the wind nearly rips the door off its hinges, and the snow and stirred-up ash pummel our faces like a sandblaster. Bathroom breaks are shriveling.

It continues like this for hours. And hours. We're constantly digging out our wheels and hooking up tow ropes to snatch each other out. Then, around 11 pm, several of the vehicles run out of gas; the jerry cans we brought don't have enough fuel for everyone. We pile into the still-functioning Land Rovers and leave the dead trucks behind. We battle forward, snatching and slipping and charging through snowdrifts, when finally -- some 18 hours after leaving Landmannalaugar -- our convoy reaches the paved road back to Reykjavík.

Inside a cabin where we stop to catch our breath, someone hands me a celebratory glass of whiskey, and we toast: To all our limbs intact.

ENGINE 32-valve, DOHC, 4.4-liter V-8
TRANSMISSION 6-speed automatic
POWER 300 hp @ 5,500 rpm
0-60 MPH 8.5 secs
MAX TOWING 7,700 lbs
EPA FUEL ECON 14/18 (city/hwy)
BASE PRICE $53,450

BRIEF Since its release last year, the stout, luxurious LR3 has earned a reputation as one of the finest off-roaders around, thanks largely to its electronic Terrain Response system, which allows you to adjust settings (ride height, throttle response, traction-control modes, and more) for snow, mud, sand, and rocks with the twist of a dial.

THUMBS-UP Smooth and potent Jaguar-sourced V-8 engine, true seven-passenger seating, plush on-road ride (the LR3 sits on a cushy air suspension), powerful off-road capability, and great standard gear, including a voice-activated DVD navigation system and a 550-watt Harmon Kardon surround-sound stereo system.

THUMBS-DOWN The big V-8 has a serious thirst for fuel. Buyers who want the LR3's Iceland-conquering excellence will pay for the privilege at the pumps.

By: Arthur St. Antoine
Photographs by: Nick Dimbleby
(March 2006)