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Thursday, 25 August 2011

Searching for Eyjafjallajökull - Page 5

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We drove from the park towards the next two stops in the Golden Circle: the geothermal area of Geysir and Strokkur, and the rushing waterfall of Gulfoss, magnanimous in size and musicality. We donned matching outfits and climbed aboard snowmobiles on a different glacier, flat and reminiscent of a lunar landscape. After an hour bouncing atop the concrete ice, circumventing moulins and crevices, observing the solitude and solace that accompanies this type of activity, the volcano that shall remain nameless seemed like a dream of the past. A goal that if reached, perhaps would have supplanted the thrust of the snowmobile across the hardened lunar landscape or the windy ride throughout century-old lava.

We climbed back into our jeep and the rain ended. Our tour guide drove for several miles until he stopped the jeep suddenly, and as if he were as excited as we, turned us all around to witness a double rainbow, from crest to crest, each of the seven determinate colors touching the ground before us. “This is why we can’t avoid the rain,” he said. “Something good always comes from it.”

                                                        * * *

We left Iceland without having scaled the dusty shores of Eyjafjallajökull. But for the first time in my over-planned life, the days materialized precisely as they were intended. I had sipped water from a glacial stream, stabbed my cramponed-flexed feet into the ground, slid around the moon, and for what it’s worth, learned how to pronounce the name behind the great volcano that the whole world watched light the globe on fire. Ay-uh-fyat-luh-yoe-kuutl-uh. And for that, I scaled my very own volcano.
© Elizabeth L. Silver

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Last modified on Sunday, 16 December 2012

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