Into the Rainbow Mountains

Into the Rainbow Mountains

In the morning we packed the camp and headed towards Landmannalaugar — Iceland's Rainbow Mountains.

The asphalt slowly disappeared behind us.

What remained was stone, dust and an enormous open landscape.

Our two white vehicles quickly became tiny objects in it. Sometimes the car in front disappeared behind the edge of a hill, only to reappear a moment later in a cloud of dust.

And then came the first river crossing.

The vehicle ahead of us slowed down and carefully entered the water.

The surface opened around its wheels.

For a few seconds, time seemed to stop.

I watched the line it took through the river, knowing that in a moment we would have to follow exactly the same way.

It was more than water across a road.

It felt like a border.

On one side was the familiar world.

On the other, the Icelandic Highlands.

We crossed.

And the landscape changed.

The road wound between dark volcanic slopes and strange green surfaces that looked almost like delicate lace thrown across the mountains.

There were no villages.

No houses.

Hardly any signs of people at all.

Only space.

The kind of space that makes two large cars look ridiculously small.

Every bend seemed to reveal another landscape.

Black.

Green.

Ochre.

Grey.

Sometimes all of them at once.

And then, almost unexpectedly, the Rainbow Mountains appeared.

Landmannalaugar.

Mountains coloured by minerals, light and weather, changing with every cloud that moved across them.

It is one of those places where photography becomes strangely difficult.

Not because there is nothing to photograph.

Because there is too much.

Every direction asks for attention.

Every slope seems more extraordinary than the one before it.

So I did what I increasingly try to do when a landscape becomes overwhelming.

I stopped.

I looked.

And I tried to choose less.

Later came another Icelandic luxury.

A hot river.

After cold mornings, dust, wind and long hours on rough roads, we lowered ourselves into naturally warm water surrounded by mountains.

For a while nobody needed a camera.

Nobody needed to go anywhere.

We simply sat there.

Warm water. Cold air. Mountains around us.

That was enough.

Then came coffee, eggs and the familiar little routines of camp life.

And somewhere between all those enormous landscapes were the small things that made the journey ours.

A cup held in cold hands.

Breakfast cooked outside.

Mud on our boots.

The sound of cars arriving after another river crossing.

And waiting.

Always waiting for light.

At one point there was only a grey hill in front of us.

Nothing spectacular.

Nothing that would normally make anyone stop.

And then the light arrived.

For a few moments, that ordinary grey slope became something I could have waited years to see.

That is Iceland.

You travel hundreds of kilometres towards famous mountains.

And sometimes the photograph you remember most is simply a grey hill touched by the right light.