This isn’t a travel essay, but- yes- it’s about traveling in Iceland.

In June we took the kids, rented a camper van, and spent ten days driving around the Iceland’s Ring Road. We slept in campgrounds, ate all the fish, encountered very kind Icelanders, saw puffins, experienced 24/7 daylight in the north-coast city of Husavik- on the summer solstice no less, and learned the entire soundtrack to Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga (which is either hilarious or horrible depending on who you ask- we lean hilarious.)

Every square inch of Iceland’s landscape is stunning. Mountains tower over the sea, deep canyons creep out of nowhere, the ocean is beautifully moody, and the weather’s changeability felt like another child- vigorously present and demanding to be included. But, oh my lord, the water. The water- even now after our trip and limited to my memory- is breathtaking.

In all of its many forms, the water of Iceland is power. And beauty. Together. Braided rivers- some clear blue, others mineral-laden and milky white- flow through gravel beds to the sea. Endangered glaciers bury mountains while boasting wintery names like Vatnajökull, Kvíárjökull, and Snæfellsjökull. Bright blue icebergs, broken bits from the ice fields’ edges, guard meltwater lakes like Viking ships. Volcanos steam. Geysers erupt. And the thermal pools beckon.

On our first night in Iceland we camped at the base of Skógafoss, a 62 meter high waterfall. We hiked up a steep and sometimes rickety staircase (losing count of the many stairs) to get a view of the top of the incredible falls and of the Skógar River tumbling and raging, frothy and cerulean, from the north. Though the van made for comfy sleeping, my daughter and I slept in our tiny tent that night to hear the water falling (and, incidentally, entire flocks of sheep bleating too). Already we were smitten with Iceland’s water. 

Over the course of the trip we faced the extraordinary power of regular water through raindrops on the back of Icelandic horses, vapor from humpback whales’ blowholes, piles of snow in the highland fjords, sea spray during gale force winds, a pond full of ducks and two grouchy swans in Reykjavik, and in the incredibly delicious ice-cold drinking water from ordinary sinks everywhere on the island (but don’t drink the hot water, the Icelanders warned us, it tastes like it smells- sulphury and gross).

The waters of Iceland carve and grind, they freeze and flow, they boil and give life. Its water is patient and tenacious, crushing mountains as glaciers slow-mo flow down to the Arctic over thousands of years. It throws temper tantrums as sudden squalls and it sneaks its way, leaking, into your tent at night. It sings lullabies that make you think of home.

We went to Iceland to experience ‘newness.’ And yet, when we returned home, it was with a piqued sense of wonder for the things we’ve always known. 

There’s water too in my home of Minnesota. A lot of water. We’re the Land of 10,000 Lakes (really, 14,380). Our North Shore touches Lake Superior and the international giants, Lake of the Woods and Rainy Lake. The Mississippi River is born here. We are surrounded by water- but that surely doesn’t make water any less spectacular. Minnesota’s water carves and grinds too. It freezes and flows. It gives us life every day.

A lovely, weird Icelandic phrase goes, Leggja höfuðið í bleyti, which translates to “lay your head in water” and it means to spend time thinking long and hard about something. Home again, in this season of drought and dust, I lay my head in the water about all the water. And I will feel refreshed- refreshed and alive.