A friend once asked me what my favorite emotion is. A question so personal I felt almost naked in reply. Delight, I told him. My favorite emotion is delight. Surprise mixed with elation. Thrill. An uncontrollable grin. The perfect venn diagram of wonder and novelty. Delight. And this part of Iceland, dear readers, delights. Inside my chest it swells to bursting as the snow-covered vista expands around me. Capped in all directions by volcanic mountains, the southern region of our hike does not fail to impress.
In ripples delicate as draped satin the land undulates endless little drainages for us to descend into and then immediately climb back out of again again again. The snowscape of the afternoon is a contrast to the morning’s black-capped ocher hills and sulfur vents. The belching volcanic valley winding narrowly before depositing us atop a plane of blinding snow. In the afternoon the snow begins to melt, draining beneath itself and slickening the mud below and turning all of our numerous little descents from steps to slides. Several times Keith ends up on his butt, and through nothing short of miracles I manage to keep my feet.
Spurred on by the good weather and views, I feel strong. Tackling the same mileage as we were doing a week ago but with far more elevation gain, my body feels capable of whatever it is I may ask of it. A sensation both foreign and welcome.
And beyond my delight I am grateful that the weather window we are relying on has manifest and that the last 60 miles of the hike will be under blue skies and without the infectious rain and snow we have been dealing with until now. With each step under blue sky the sadness of our skipped miles lessens and I accept the reality of big dreams: sometimes they experience setbacks, sometimes they get derailed, but that is hardly a reason not to dream big in the first place. I always wondered what Iceland held in her interior and while I won’t get to see all of it I’m enamored with what I do get to see.
At night we camp under clear skies amid volcanic rings of rock. Overhead geese honk their way south. Their every cry a confirmation that winter is coming to this land.