I come from the land of ice and snow. Idiot.

On the plus side, it appeared we had another 2 weeks of daylight. Alternatively   my immediate survival was in serious doubt.  I remember cold. Wet, damp. People talking at me, their faces etched with sudden strange concern.  They were speaking in swedish.  Maybe it was the wind.

The dreaded death spiral.

Could they land a helicopetr up here to airlift me out? Would I ask dear friend Allen to  fireman carry me down the 1000 foot lava field to safety?  Are there donkeys up here? I know there are asses.

Embarrassment.  I was about to force ten lovely  eco tourists  to change their plans from "a  sprightly  romp across the  boiling mud fields"  to "A scene from the Buthan death march  transporting some idiot who should not have  attempted  apline hiking while  gobbing prednisone and percocet  to fight the GVHD fire in his mouth."

Iceland’s summers are cold.  The air holds a vague Nantucket trace,  cool fog condenses on the fishing fleet bobbing in the bay. We had planned this trip last year as a lark, a hoot, a race among the runes. Four  hours from Boston.
We were standing at the exact spot Led Zeplin had wrtitten the immigant song  40 years ago

 I come from the land of ice and snow
 from the midnight sun
where the hot springs flow.

 I am stupid man, Stupid stupid man.  I think my IQ was clocked in at 150 something, but  I lack  the   sense that god gave geese.

On the plus side I rely on a near death experiences to  trigger   strange new blogs.

  I want to prove  I am intact, bold, rough, a AARP card carrying eccotourist  decked out in a 1000 dollers worth of high tech,  drip dry  synthetic, colorful  fabrics.
Eccotourist . A new word that  refers to anyone willing to use a staddle toilet and risk Hep A while on vacation.

The guide looks concerned " Do you have any health issues?" he asks. I laugh.

The vacation has been wonderful.  We biked the streets of Reykjavik, biked past Bjorn’s sea side house,  feasted on  cod tongue and swam the silicated  viscous waters of the blue lagoon.  Reykavyk has a  ski town feel, slightly tacky and shabby,  but a town with heart, soul,  people with ideas. Glad to be here.

Who can avoid dangerous drama?  It's wonderfully distracting. More to the point, If your only goal in life is not to lose consciousness and continence,    you can elegantly avoid life's real issues: A daughter who is one phone call from  joining an Amsterdam  boyfriend to open a vegan restaurant in the Hague.  She's running a YMCA camp this  summer,  exposed to  Bob cats and deer ticks.

As I  struggled with  losing consciousness  I feel  relief  I am suddenly spared obsessing over my parents' heath,  the  gun epidmeic in the US and the inexorable  fact  we are sliding  into  war with Russia.

  You can't hide from danger, no matter how  carefuly you try. Jeffrey is  spending his summer in Guatamala city,  learning  spanish and treating the local populace for parasites.  Guatamala city. Death squads, 45, 000 people dissapeared in the 1980s.  When his body goes missing  will our friends roll their eyes?   they'd NEVER let their  son work in a war Zone.  The  central American  tragedies were 30 years ago,  but Jeff walks on ground staurated with human  bone meal.

Be careful, I want to warn him.  Be careful.  Dont accept rides from  men in  military fatigues.

These warnings are useless.   What if you are a 19 year old American in love, who wants to visit a girlfriend in Kuala Lampur?    Does  flying 33,000 over a war zone count as  risky business? Was he a moron?

Can't run can't hide.  Last month a Danish tourist stepped off the path up here  and was instrantly parboiled. Really.  As he's lying there  frozen,  scalded and dying, did his tour  leader think  

heimskulegt Dane, þú ekki vara hann við að villast úr t leið?

 Stupid Dane didnt I warn him to stray from the path?


So many of my stories involve  near death experiences. I count my cherished freinds as people who have actively  intervened  to save my life.  God bless Allan, you saved my life in the  lava flows.  Thanks Tony, thanks Martha, I wouldnt be here if not for you.

Let's leave the sickening scene. I'm in my high tech rain gear, in the rain,  fog and steam.  I am hallucinating, frozen and  spiraling  toward the big sleep.  I can't stop shaking. It's 52 degrees.  Cyn  steps over,  embraces me and I start to feel the earliest trickle of warmth filtering back into my core. The Swedish mom has given me an extra sweater and a chocolate bar.  The hallucinations  fade. I will live.  I will be OK, even if it's not. We have no choice.