Filtered light, rising steam, echoing droplets, inky darkness, vibrant pools.
When writing my Steemit travel log detailing adventuring around the ring road in Iceland, I briefly touched on stopping at Grjótagjá cave.
I climb down into the cave and hang out as the rain begins pattering out of a clear sky again. I eat some Skyr while listening to Sólstafir, alternately sticking two or three toes at a time in the eerie, partially opaque, periwinkle water. I feel I have now reached peak Iceland. It's fucking hot, the steam has that delightfully gross sulfurous quality to it, and I crack my skull three or four times on the cave roof while setting up my gear for some long exposure shots.
Standing at the cave mouth, with snaking tendrils of steam winding around my feet, I wrinkle my nose at the pungent smell (geothermal heat and activity means sulfurous tendencies), and carefully lower myself backwards down into the recess.
The darkness that enfolds me as I wiggle down the rough rocks into in the cave is palpable. As I settle in, crouching on the flat rock and waiting for my eyes to adjust, my fingertips brush the surface of the warm mud. The blackness stretching into what arguably could be forever feels real and tangible and close, with the simmering moisture permeating the air and pressing into my lungs each time I breathe in. I passed a brave bather on the way in, but now the recesses echo my own noises and soft drips back at me, and nothing else.
After two false starts — smashing the side of my face and my chin into rough outcroppings — I slink along one wall, sinuous and low. I imagine that I might cut the figure of an intrepid prowler spelunking through a sacred crypt; I likely look more like a thoroughly disheveled, mud-smeared child, overburdened by her backpack and smelling of farts.
As my vision gets used to the dimness and the swirling steam, I begin to realize the main cave is not very large at all. Settling in on another small ledge and unpacking my gear and my lunch, I contemplate one of the dark openings where I can see a small pocket above the water. I briefly consider trying to wade to it, but between knowing that the water has a heat advisory and remembering the old internet classic creepypasta Ted the Caver, my wild imagination takes over. I terrify myself into staying put with visions of boiled, sloughing skin and demonic rock hauntings...
I unfocus my eyes on the azure surface of the spring instead.
As with anything, with a bit of mindful breathing and quiet reflection, I don't even really notice the smell fade away as my heart stops beating stacatto on my ribs; just that I have become accustomed to it quickly enough that I am completely comfortable eating a container of skyr. I listen to most of the Berdreyminn album by Sólstafir, disjointed and floating as if it rests just on the surface of the water, and I am transfixed by the colours emerging out of the darkness and the soothing steam and the incredible beauty of this flatulent crack in the ground hidden in the middle of nowhere. I can see how it would be easy to get lost underground forever, drawn in and disarmed by the strange comfort, sitting still so long I become one with these ageless rocks.
Rays of light begin to slant through the opening, and I start, realizing the weather is changing and the day is passing. As I climb back out to trace the crevice towards the volcano in the distance, I breathe deeply with my face pressed into my sleeve. The wind is lifting the stench away from my hair and clothes and out over the rocks to the horizon. It doesn't seem at all strange that I almost miss the smell.
These photos and words are my own work, inspired by travels all over this pretty blue marble of ours. I hope you like them. 🌶️
