The alarm clock rouses us from our tents at a time when many others at the campsite are still fast asleep. Getting up is particularly easy for us today, however, because we’re incredibly excited about what awaits us. Thick fog hangs in the mountains, and a fine drizzle accompanies us on our three-kilometer hike uphill, during which we’re once again incredibly grateful for our rain gear. The hike is challenging; our legs grow heavy, and our breath steams in the cold air amidst the quiet, gray beauty that surrounds us. But by the time we finally reach our destination, the effort is already forgotten: before us lies the hot, steaming river, which, in this misty landscape, seems mysterious and, like everything in Iceland, a little magical. Only six other early risers are here with us. Since the river landscape is so expansive, everyone has a small spring all to themselves. We slip into the water, let the warmth flow through our limbs, and watch the fog as it drifts between the mountains.
Suddenly, a snippet of Keimzeit’s song „So.“ plays in Silke’s head: „Let it run down the mountain, let it run into the valley. God gave the river this path, surely he won’t do it again.“ A line that fits so perfectly in this moment that it almost becomes a mantra: The water itself knows where it belongs. In this moment, it feels like one of Iceland’s lessons again. One that nature teaches that you can’t control everything and that some things simply flow. Where will our path lead us? We must trust.
We drift for two hours in this tranquil world until the place slowly fills with other bathers and it’s time to leave. The descent feels easy, almost buoyant, as we encounter more and more people, some even on horseback. We are grateful to have experienced the river in all its peace.
After packing, we continue south along the Ring Road. To the left, green mountain slopes rise up; to the right, the sea glitters. We pass old milk cans, dormant farms, and the mighty Eyjafjallajökull, the volcano that years ago held the breath of all of Europe. We make a brief stop at Skógafoss, where the water thunders into the depths, then drive on to Vík. The campsite there is sheltered from the wind beneath a rock, yet the wind still tugs at our tents. After a detour to the tranquil black sand beach, we fall into a sleepless night. A day full of contrasts lies behind us: cold and warmth, stillness and storm, fog and sea. And somewhere in between is the feeling that life, just like water, often has its own way.
