Near the southern tip of Iceland, a great arm of ice stretches across a mossy, gnarled landscape toward the sea. It writhes down the mountain at a snails pace, from it’s home at Myrdalsjökull, the cap of ice atop a sleeping volcanic monster.
Near the southern tip of Iceland, a great arm of ice stretches across a mossy, gnarled landscape toward the sea. It writhes down the mountain at a snails pace, from it’s home at Myrdalsjökull, the cap of ice atop a sleeping volcanic monster.