TROLLING

THRIHNUKAGIGUR VOLCANO, SOUTH ICELAND

Outside we stumble along a loose cinder path across holey lava fields. Ankle-length slickers threaten to trip us up and plunge us in a deep pit, where only the trolls will find us. Black cones loom gloomily against darkening skies. Bracing winds tear at our eyes. We wear fluorescent lime-green to keep track of the group. Still, we feel we’re losing ourselves.

Inside is windless, warm, bright. A rickety rig drops us twice Hallgrimskirkja’s height into the volcano's magma chamber. Openly exposing us to an eruption of colour: euphoric reds ochres indigos greens. Vaginal labial oracular. We bask in volcanic art, painted by Jörð, the Earth herself. Shadows at the edge frame chthonic mystery. Just how extinct, we wonder, is “extinct”?