In which I find a creepy-beautiful shower, climb into a crater, and have a slippery run in with a waterfall.
Another entry in my stream of consciousness travel log of completing the Icelandic ring road (if you haven't read the previous ones, no problem — links to all previous entries are at the bottom of each post.) This series of posts features my preliminary thoughts and a few cell phone photos, rewritten — I'm loving the process, and the interaction with you, so thank you. I can't wait to share my editorial photos with you in the future... I'm rediscovering the joy I find in writing and the thrill and temerity of sharing these stories with you all.
Day Five of the Iceland Ring Road Mission by the numbers.
Around 5.5 hours of driving.
About 440 kilometres traveled.
- Current running total of all-soup meals: 13
- Approximate number of heart stoppages: 8
- Times nearly losing shoe in half frozen fart mud: 5
- Memory cards filled: 4
- Times caught in freak blizzards: 2
- Times tripod blew over: 2
- Entire thermoses of tea spilled: 1
- Neutral Density Filters sacrificed to nature's majesty: 1
- Temptations to take Murder Shower: 0
- Vikings found: 0
Blues and oranges; caresses of light and lashes of ice
For the second time on this trip, I wake up and stretch that exaggerated Disney stretch of someone who doesn't need to be anywhere. Cartoon birds flutter through my imagination, carrying ugly, stretched out thermal socks to my lap; tiny woodland creatures scamper around the base of the bed, and I blame them for all the gravel and shit tracked in from the evening before. Let's ignore that I ignored the "remove your shoes" sign at the door, and that my heinous boots are stacked in a pile at the end of the sheets where they fell when I passed out in a blissful, awed slumber after watching the aurora for hours.
Today, I'm not changing places to stay overnight, which means I can drive around in crazy loops, get lost on purpose, and climb all the things.
With the siren call of that strange, warm opalescent water in my ears, I pick a geothermal crater to hike. It dots the map satellite view like a tiny milk glass jewel and I am itching to run wildly around it like a lost boy. I pop the coordinates into my phone and set out, but it takes so much longer than my assistant expects; I'm driving through more of the incredibly varied Icelandic landscape and pulling over to gawk and snap out the window every few kilometres. The estimated time of arrival ticks steadily upward, and I'm pretty sure if a disembodied GPS voice could get exasperated, mine would be letting me have it.
The approach to the crater is through a long, weirdly empty looking geothermal processing center in the middle of absolute nowhere.
And before I get even to the main outbuildings along the cratered, alien stretch of barely paved road, I notice a running shower, standing alone on the side of the road.
Well, I suppose it can't be considered 'alone' as I wrinkle my nose and peer into the slimy sink standing a few feet away. The pair look so forlorn, but a good dreary sky is perfect for that. Most people who travel through Iceland come in high summer; they pack into camper vans and trek around the country under the midnight sun. I know firsthand just how... ripe... you can get when you spend a week marinating in a tin can, and I marvel at how smart it is to let the geothermal heat and pressure power this brilliantly bizarre little wash station unmanned. I am — at current — mostly palatable, so don't need to avail of the services, and even though there's nothing but open space all around, I'm still a bit nervous even thinking about it. There's something extra horror movie about the weathered pipes and windblown droplets scattering the sullen horizon line as they're whipped about. Even if I were inclined to step into the almost uncomfortably hot flow fully clothed, I imagine that I would still feel completely exposed. Noping the fuck out of here.
The mud lot, like much else this trip, is empty. Travelling in shoulder season means that in most of the places I've been, I've missed a flood of other tourists. Selfishly, I love this. Krafla is just behind a lip of rock and scree in front of me, and I decide to head all the way up and around and try to get down into the caldera from the opposite side. The higher I climb, the harder that damn wind pushes. By the top I need all my layers and my buff to stop the abrading ice from scouring my little bits of exposed face. The stark contrast in weather has been the most noticeable thing about this whole trip; hourly changes, complete volatility without complete hostility. It was sunny blue skies and gentle warmth at the cabin, and now I'm getting exfoliated with vigor by the most extreme natural spa treatment in the country. To be fair, I've ascended just under a kilometre up along the ridge and I'm standing un-sheltered in one of the most remote and empty regions in the country, but d e t a i l s. I pass a tiny little caldera that mirrors the one that I want to get to in miniature... I just have to pick my way across a thin layer of ice hiding a scalding field of foul smelling wet clay.
I manage to keep the sucking mire from stealing a boot and make it down the side of the caldera by following a small trickle of hot water down through some rocks. It has created an ice canopy over itself, flowing silently beneath with trapped bubbles and sluggish swirling. It's lovely looking, but I don't care about much but the handholds, as I'm not super interested in taking the expedited route down. I spend about half an hour with my feet in the water, enjoying solace from the wind and watching the strangely still blue surface. Viti, it's called, translating roughly to Hell... but the bright sky and temperate water, gentle pastel slopes dusted with pristine snow, wafting, wreathing steam and utter silence is more heavenly than anything. I figure even smellier sulfur hooves are just part of the day's trade-off, because I'm still sure as hell not using that shower on my way out. I picture a berserk Viking driven insane by solitude and howling wind chasing me with an axe and my bare feet torn to shreds by the crushed lava stones everywhere and if only I had sturdy shoes on I could run to the safety of the car! Nope. NOPE NOPE NOPE. (Listen, I told you previously that travel makes me fanciful.)
On my way back towards my temporary home, I stop at another hilarious fart smelling geothermal field full of sporadic steaming vents and giggling tourists who just want to put their hands in the bursts to see how long it takes to get burned. I have to say, one of my favourite things about Iceland is the laissez-faire attitude towards public safety. They'll put up a piece of string and shrug when your skin is horrendously boiled from your bones or you tumble off a rocky escarpment because it's just sooooo insta-worthy. If you don't respect nature it's gonna getcha: do you need to be told? We need more of that, I think. I wander through the rivulets of boiling water admiring colorful mud and pretending I don't notice mother Earth has some bombastic flatulence. Eventually I drive to Dettifoss and Selfoss, two waterfalls a few kilometres apart in one of the most famous places in the entire country. The roar and spray of Dettifoss combined with the new addition of some misty rain drive me to hike up to the companion falls instead. They're much less popular as you have to cross a few hundred feet of this:
As I settle carefully to my stomach on a lichen slicked rock at the edge of the cliffs for a once in a lifetime view of this stunning green and grey mosaic, I tip wildly to one side and snag a foot in a crevice and plunge a hand into the water, soaking my good leather gloves through. My cell phone screen is crushed under me, and I hear a delicate tink as my brand new neutral density filter (which I didn't check to see if screwed on tightly) hits an outcropping and explodes into unnoticeable stardust destined for burial at sea a hundred feet above the rapids. I lay there with an alternately pounding and stopped dead heart as tears are pushed more quickly down my face by the cold rain. I literally just laughed at idiot tourists. Like an hour ago. I ignored the string. What. the. fuck.
I chastise myself as I crawl the whole way back along my belly through the water, well beyond where I could possibly fall further than an inch while standing upright. Even then, I feel like I'm sort of awkward shame crouch-crab walking the rest of the way back. A lesson I clearly needed a reminder of, and one I am thankful and humbled that was dealt gently, all considered. Pride over using a DLSR over a Snapchat filter won't make me less dead, and if we're being honest, will actually mean I'm less attractive on the way there. I hide during the early evening, ruminating on my selfish entitlement, and wait for the moonless night to deepen so I can feel insignificant under the aurora once again. Tomorrow's a new day on the road.
All of these photos, stories, and words are my own original work, inspired by my travels all over this pretty blue marble of ours. I hope you like them. 🌶️
!steemitworldmap 65.659881 lat -16.528680 long Craters, Waterfalls and Geothermal Fields in Iceland D3SCR