The master of fire

We are running into the ascent of a small mossy moutain over Thorsmork... as madmen, I think.

We follow a dog, we get lost in a small wood of small trees...we find our way, following the same small dog. Or maybe it's the opposite, I don't know. We climb, we jump, ... we are on the summit.

The cold disppears with the crazy view... the river is beautiful, reflecting the midnight sun. A sun bleeding, fighting with the clouds and the night. The light is pink, soft, pallid. And strong in the same time.

Iceland, last day of the 'Laugavedur' trekking.