The first time Iceland came into my view, I wondered if alighting on the moon might induce similar unidentifiable sensations. Only much later did I learn that American astronauts trained here before they actually landed on the moon; in retrospect it isn’t hard to see why. During our descent to Keflavik airport, a thick swirl of cloud and mist intermittently parted, laying bare the most strangely barren landscape I had ever seen — and I spent half of my youth mucking about in deserts. Iceland’s are, as its name promises, of a distinctly cooler stripe.

This is, according to the Reykjavik Grapevine, an island “named by a man who came here, spent the winter, watched his sheep die and his crops wither, left and decided never to come here again. But some persisted, and now we have wooly jumpers, whale watching and Björk.” That man was a Viking named Hrafna-Flóki Vilgerðarson, and he had sailed to this mystifying isle by choice. Today too, travelers tend to go quite deliberately to Iceland.

Sadly, I did not meet Björk on that trip, though as Nordic fate would have it I did run into a lovely harpist, Zeena Parkins, who left her sonic mark on the quirky crooner’s entrancing “Vespertine.” That 2001 album includes a track called Aurora that starts with the sound of the cold crunch of footsteps across a glacier head. The Icelandic tourist board couldn’t have asked for a better anthem.

Of course, now is the best time of year to gaze at the actual aurora, the Northern Lights. A Belgian friend of mine flew up to Reykjavik last week for precisely that purpose, as well as to eat some fish.

In the years since my initial visit, Iceland has known economic turmoil and recovery, volcanic eruptions big and small, and swerved from overtourism to (for a spell) virtually no tourism at all. The present is marked by a more mass market tourism product, one that may not be to every Iceland purist’s liking. 

Case in point, the famous Blue Lagoon. When Iceland started to lure intrepid travelers in the early 2000s, making a stop at this sprawling geothermal spa with distinctive sky blue water (it’s the silicates) was the sine qua non of any journey to these daunting latitudes. The site’s proximity to the busy international airport at Keflavik helped ensure its visibility on the global tourist circuit.

Today, the number of Icelandic geothermal spots is almost too many to mention, but with a little effort you can wind down in relative tranquility. Thermal waters discovered during a tunneling project are the draw at a sleek new geothermal spa in the Vaðlaskógur forest, on the island’s north coast. Even further north, overlooking Skjálfandi Bay toward the Arctic Circle, geothermal seawater is the thing in which to soak one’s cares away at Geosea, a very modern facility essentially in the middle of nowhere. At Myvatn, the nature baths have the kind of mineral-rich, milky blue water familiar to visitors of the Blue Lagoon, but minus all the tourists. 

Near the eastern fjords, Vök Baths boasts the island’s only floating infinity pools, which are fed by geothermal springs and encircled by Lake Urriðavatn. The water temperature hovers around 100 degrees, even in winter. 

About 40 miles east of  Reykjavik, near Flúðr, the Secret Lagoon dates to 1891, making it the country’s oldest geothermal swimming  pool. It has a spouting geyser, too. While “secret” is something of a misnomer, one is likely to find here less of the Instagram crowd and more of a local clientele.

Ditto for  Sky Lagoon, which beckons at the tip of the Kópavogur promontory, which is just slightly south of Reykjavik’s compact downtown. The highlight here, other than the oceanside setting itself, is a seven-step “ritual” that includes  a cold plunge in a glacier-fresh pool, a detoxifying pause in a glass-walled sauna, and a cleansing Sky Body Scrub. Even in early December, my Belgian buddy tells me, “the conditions for chillaxing were just perfect.”

From the capital it is easy enough to book an excursion to some of Iceland’s more famous natural wonders, such as the beautiful Gulfoss waterfall and nearby Geysir with its signature geyser — though another one called Strokkur erupts more reliably. At Thingvellir National Park it is possible to inspect the continental rift between the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates up close. For those feeling more adventurous, a snowmobile tour of the Langjökull glacier can be a fun and frosty hoot.

How much time does one need in Iceland? To properly explore it, at least a week; but to get a taste of its chilly charms, even three or four days will do. You can kick around “the 101,” the heart of Reykjavik that is widely known by its postal code, for a couple days — if it is a weekend, be prepared for a lively nightlife scene courtesy of the energetic locals — and still get a memorable nature fix, too. 

The flight from New York takes about five and a half hours. About the same amount of time flying west puts you in a sunnier kind of desert, which is great if a California tan is all that you seek. Guess which place is less crowded this time of year, though? Pack an extra jumper, get thee to Iceland, and see for yourself.