Everything’s going as planned. I'm out here trying to look like a travel blogger, soaking in the sights, and soaking in the chill Icelandic air. I’ve heard about this volcano that erupted , and naturally, I’m all in. Who wouldn’t want to see the aftermath of a volcano that’s literally shaped the landscape? You can practically feel the power of the earth beneath you. The steam, the lava rocks, the whole thing just fascinating.
So, I’m trekking around, camera in hand, eyes wide, ready to take some “wow” pictures for the ‘gram. There’s steam rising out of the cracks in the lava field, and it’s mesmerizing, like nature’s own steam bath, bubbling from the earth itself. Every step I take, the air feels heavier with that earthy, sulfur smell. It’s raw, it’s real, it’s Iceland in all its untamed glory.
Then, naturally, my clumsiness strikes. You know when you’re just walking along, minding your own business, when suddenly your foot catches on something? Yeah, that was me. I had the grace of a newborn giraffe and the balance of a toddler trying to walk in the snow. I tripped. Not just a “whoops” stumble. No, this was a full-on, slow-motion fall into the volcanic rock. In that split second between falling and crashing, I thought to myself, “I can’t believe I’m going to fall on lava. I’m going to be that person.” But instead of gracefully saving myself, my calf hit the sharp edge of a volcanic rock.
Cue the pain, the horror, and the realization that I now had a leg wound in the middle of a field of lava rocks. Great. My first thought wasn’t even “Ouch, that hurts,” it was more like “How on earth do you heal a lava cut? Do I just put it in the cold sea or something?”
I’m standing there with lava rocks at my feet, blood dripping down my leg, feeling like I’m in a weird nature documentary where I’m the star of the chaos. Not exactly the adventure I had in mind.
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