Elemental Iceland

Feel the planet's untamed energy in Europe's westernmost island

By Andrea Davoust

I went to a desert island for work. Not the palm-trees-and-sandy-beach kind of island, mind you. My company sent me to Iceland, the icy piece of rock jutting out of the North Atlantic, just below the Arctic circle. In the middle of November. I absolutely froze, of course. But I also swam in a hot turquoise lagoon, just outside Reykjavik. And that is what I found so fascinating about Iceland: over there, water comes as either icebergs or as scalding steam. Truly, I had arrived at the land where ice meets fire.

Because of Iceland’s position on the mid-Atlantic ridge, the blood of the Earth boils up through its soil, in the form of countless volcanoes and hot springs. At the other extreme, glaciers and ice fields are a huge part of the Icelandic scenery. I came unprepared for ice-climbing or any other feat requiring Viking stamina, but was still able to explore some of the country's more accessible natural wonders.

In Reykjavik, my friend Marta and I booked an excursion called "horses and hot springs". The tour company drove us out into the Icelandic countryside – if the scrubby, treeless expanses surrounding Reykjavik can be described with the same word you might use for rolling English pastures. (In fact, the lava fields of Iceland are so desolate that NASA astronauts have practiced moon landings there.) At the riding center, we donned fleece-lined jumpsuits with reflective bands - on top of our double layer of clothes, coats, scarves, gloves- plus a helmet over our hats. "We look like obese space invaders!" shrieked Marta.

She then waddled out into the wind, which was driving the thermometer to 18 degrees (Celsius) below zero. Our horses were sturdy little mounts. They carried us across a flattish, tundra-like landscape, totally devoid of trees, its brown monotony here and there interrupted with a sprinkle of snow.

No matter how hard I buried my hands into the horse's bushy mane, I couldn’t warm my fingers enough to feel them. My horse sensed that I was a poor rider and took malicious pleasure in falling behind everyone else, in spite of my attempts to prod it ahead. A couple of mind-numbing hours later, we returned to the welcoming warmth of the center, dismounted and peeled off the layers.

A bus then took us through snow-flecked plains to the Geysir field, from which the English word geyser is derived. Leaning into the biting wind, we made our way across a lunar-like, pockmarked area, past a muddy bubbling pool, to Strokkur. Like Old Faithful in the United States, the spring is well-known for the predictability of the eruptions - every ten minutes.

As we arrived, the crater, which was the size of a small jacuzzi, was steaming lightly, like a cauldron cooking. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Strokkur violently spewed out a ten-foot-high cloud of thick white steam, which blew across the field. After a few seconds, the geyser spurted another, as if on the second convulsion of a vomiting fit. We clapped and cheered. Pretty soon the freezing wind drove us back to the bus, and we left for the next site, Gulfoss waterfall.

Again, the Arctic wind brought tears to our eyes as we slipped and stumbled on the icy path to the edge of the cliff overlooking Gulfoss. The "Golden Falls" plunged down a double cascade into a deep gorge. The water foamed and frothed, tinged with pink by the setting sun. The spray rising from the falls had solidified into arm-length stalactites hanging from the hand ropes along the footpath. After just enough gazing and photo-snapping, we once more retreated to the heat of the bus.

Our final visit was to the Blue Lagoon, a natural geothermal pool set in the middle of a barren lava field. Shivering from the walk between the changing rooms and the pool in our bathing suits, we carefully lowered ourselves into the hot, milky blue water. The pool was instantly relaxing.

As we waded in the chest-deep water, we could feel the swirl of hotter, almost scalding pockets, where the mineral water sprang from the ground. Marta and I caked our faces in silicate mud dredged from the bottom - "excellent to soften our skin!" we exclaimed. Having gone through so much bone-chilling cold that day, we decided to we also deserved a massage at the Blue Lagoon spa. All in all, Iceland was an otherworldly experience, one where the powers of the Earth could truly be felt.