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The only problem was the Eyjafjallajökull volcano that happened to erupt at the same time as our trip, shutting down European airspace and stranding travelers around the globe. Fortunately for us, our arrival was timed perfectly. We slid into the Reykjavík-Keflavík Airport between closures and then traveled six hours north to the Troll Peninsula and the sleepy port town of Dalvik, home to the only heli-ski operation in Iceland: Arctic Heli.

Back home, FOX News painted a picture of a country buried in ash, but the reality was that, downed travelers aside, most of this vast Nordic island remained unaffected by the eruptions. Cancelled bookings, socked-in coastal weather, and a helicopter that went AWOL while it conducted media flights over the ash plume caused some chaos at Arctic Heli, however. We rolled down a gravel road to the old Skíðadalur Valley farmhouse that serves as the Arctic Heli home base and waited as owner Jökull Bergmann booked and rebooked clients from the cramped basement that does triple duty as a guide's office, dry-goods storage and Wi-Fi hotspot.

Two days later we got our clearance to fly. We lifted off from the N1 gas station in the neighboring fishing village of Ólafsfjarðar as a local crowd that had gathered to see the helicopter waved us farewell. Under a circling sun we rode softening, uncooked corn snow above vast fjords, walking out from our last line through sheep pastures and past wooden racks of drying fish.

On our second clear day, diverted international jetliners refueling at the local airport caused a backlog, so we didn't lift off until late afternoon. Our flight was directed to a massive, roadless zone named the Hidden Land for its abandoned farmsteads and lore of hardship, where we lapped steep faces at full speed to the sea. The sun stays out until 10 p.m. this far north, so we did too, flying back at sunset to feast on a traditional Icelandic dinner of lamb stew and fresh bread at the farmhouse.

Grant GundarsonHike or heli, or both. You decide

The next day's forecast looked grim, so we burned the last of our heli time just after breakfast, ripping five first descents in Bergmann's backyard range. In Iceland, farm families own the mountain peaks behind their pastures so the steep-sided runs Bergmann led us down in the Ski Valley were literally his home turf. This fact gives him a local advantage in his effort to live off the land in a geographic zone that's got an historically harsh environment.

As the clouds stacked in, we tried to adapt to the situation like true Icelanders. We visited gurgling mud pots, soaked in natural hot pools and toured a local Kaldi microbrewery -- where we learned incidentally that the country only legalized beer in 1991. Back in the capital, the volcano finally grounded us as well. The delay allowed us a night to experience Reykjavik's world-famous, late-night pub-crawl, however, so all was not lost. We were off island one day later.

We are still reeling from spectacular landscapes of a Nordic nation that awed at every glance, and the untapped terrain waiting to be explored, and are already plotting our return. If you have a similar craving for first descents and cultural immersion--or for traditional Icelandic foods like salted cod, cured horsemeat and grilled whale steak--the world-class corn season at Arctic Heli runs each year from late March until late June.