the entrance to the cold hell of Dante
I'm really not much of a risk-taker, but I came closer to death here than ever before.
Iceland is not big on safety regulations. They tend to trust humans to make the right decisions, which seems like a lot of trust in someone as silly and untrustworthy as me.
Upon walking down to this biblical waterfall (where Dark Age theologians would tell parishioners they should dive down inside to recover loved ones from hell), I was struck by the rawness and bone chill of the falling ice cage. Every surface slanted and aimed right to the torrent. There was an area of smooth ice, made even more slippery by the mist from the waterfall, which beaded up on the surface, giving it a frictional coefficient of -1.0. I slipped and fell hard onto my back and started sliding towards the hell, only to be saved by grabbing onto a thin yellow rope which cut into my right hand, which was still bleeding a few minutes later when I took this photo.
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