Through a Lens

We drove nine-hundred kilometers along the highway, only to find what we needed three miles down a gravel road.
Hringvegur, Iceland's ringroad, is notorious for its diverse scenery: waterfalls throwing rainbows into sparkling air, glaciers melting slowly into the Atlantic, the devastating heights of the eastern fjords. It was only once we wandered off Route 1, however, that we found what we were looking for.
On the murky outskirts of Reykjavík, we had hired an old sedan and filled the boot with tinned beans and a half-empty gas canister. The four of us had set out to trace the entire island, camping in fields and farms along the road. We were nine-hundred kilometers along the Hringvegur, between Borgarnes and the West Fjords, when the muted sun rose over a silhouetted ridge.
The Nordic dawn painted the windshield with frost; it was already September. "We've been on this road for a looooong time," Alice groaned, as she boiled coffee on the stove. Driving by morning and wading through mud and heather in the afternoon, we'd spent the last six arduous days following Route 1. "What if we get off it then?" I replied. "But where would we go?" She asked. I pointed towards the sunrise.
So we sped east down Route 50, as the path became serpentine and rough. "Are you sure there's anything this way?" Alice asked. The distant ridge had become a jagged grey lava field up close. As we shivered in the frozen vehicle, six sheep trod by, spelling out the cold in misty breaths. "Where now?" Alice shot at me. I hesitantly pointed down the road, towards a curious pool of mossy water.
Its green surface trembled as we approached. "It couldn't be a hot spring … could it?" I put a finger in, then a hand, then an arm. "It's warm!" We'd stumbled across one of Iceland's geothermal baths! We quickly stripped off our muddy jeans and jumped in. Six days of dirt fell from our feet as we kicked and giggled in the meter-deep spring.
We stayed well after sunset under the translucent veil of autumn rain, disputing the warmest positions, watching cautious sheep surveil the intruders of their sacred land. As we ran naked and laughing back to the car, we left in our trail the trials of the past week. The outside air welcomed us now and the cold grass on our clean feet no longer felt so harsh.
The Hringvegur had been our map and compass, but it wasn't until we left it behind that we discovered the treasure all travellers are really digging for ­- a moment in time that was truly our own.