I swam uphill through violet lupine.  A ram stared me down, and then I stared him down, and he ran off with his harem.   Waterfalls made themselves known by their sound before I could see them through the mists.  I found mushrooms and mosses and strange figurines on hilltops.  I climbed mossy rocks and thoroughly ruined my boots tramping through the endless, wet tufts of blueberry bushes and lichen and streams and fog, while the drizzle came down and into every corner of my clothing.  Water coursed through the grass, finding its way down to the sea.  Within two hours I was soaked while hiking around the waterfalls and trying to find out where the mists ended.  Could I get above them somehow?  No, I couldn’t.  But they were beautiful in their most inaccessible places, where rams and ewes trotted up the rocky wedges amd moss-covered crags.  And each ridge was an illusion-summit, and revealed more going-up-and-up.   And the streams became too wide to cross, and the rocks became too steep and wet to climb.  But after a while you just got used to it, because every part of you was wet, and it was like walking in a pool, surrounded by green grass and mountains.  If it hadn’t been so cold, I could have just given up trying to stay dry and jumped into the crashing splashing white tumble of water and rock. It was so tempting, and everything was already so wet.  But muddy and tired and cold and happy, I returned to the hostel, made potato soup, listened to the Spanish kids chatter while they made fruit salad, eavesdropped on the French couple planning their route and watched the mists cover and uncover different parts of the mountain around Seyðisfjöður, a small town on the eastern coast of Iceland.  Tonight I will sleep well.  What will tomorrow bring?