After our aborted attempt to see the Krafla volcano, we stopped at Hverarönd, in the shadow of Námafjall mountain, a rhyolite colored bareback peak looming over Lake Mývatn. 
This place was like stepping into a time machine and seeing an earlier age of the earth. Solfataras (boiling mud pits) burbled and burped, geothermal steam vents roared like jet engines, hydrogen sulfide permeated the air.
The pity was you could see where idiots on a dare (maybe drunks, teenagers, or both) stepped beyond the ropes, onto the thin and fragile soil. Every year someone gets scalded by sinking into the hot soil. Darwin in action, I suppose.
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