...and thar she blows
Even from afar, Geysir looks pretty cool
What a young, steamy land
Gone from the interior now, where the wind blew snow and sleet and rain at our tent and our faces. Tiny, fierce bullets. We shook in our shaking tent. At Hveravellir we sat for hours in the hot spring, just on the edge of enjoyment. The pool was comprised of two tubes of cold running water and one tube extremely hot. It seemed to us, with the rain pelting our faces, that everywhere the water was lukewarm or cool except near the hot water tube, where it was deliciously comfortable. Only, the hot water was fed from some geothermal vent somewhere so that periodically the pipe would sputter its contents willynilly and scald us. Therefore, our time in the spring became a dance--ten minutes of squirming contentment followed by a rapid but cautious easing away, ten seconds of twirling in the resulting gush, and then a rapid scramble to our original spot where we carefully adjusted our bodies to trap the warm water. "Why, why, why?" we cried, laughing each time. The fun of Iceland. (Also fun: standing pants-less and bare-bottomed in the horizontal sleet, struggling with the broken zipper on the tent as a busload of tourists descend. I could not bear to look into their faces.)
The infamous hot spring that Chris remembers fondly but that I fondly hated.
We leave the day after tomorrow. I confess I have not written much about Iceland, but mostly because I've experienced it in a benumbed daze. Half my mind is working at preparing my body for the next challenge while the other half is dealing with the current one. When we are gone I will be able to sort out the images, the impressions that must have stuck somewhere in my brain.