There's a reason Iceland is called the land of fire and ice. I didn't fully understand that until the day the wind tried to throw my daughter off a waterfall.

Volcanic Fields and Tipped-Over Motorhomes

We were navigating the south tip of Iceland, heading toward Dettifoss through endless fields of volcanic lava that stretched as far as the eye could see - in a Go Campervan.  The landscape was otherworldly—like driving on Mars, except Mars probably has better weather.

The wind that day wasn't just strong. It was angry.

As we drove our camper van through those lava fields, the gusts were so powerful they nearly knocked us over. I'm not exaggerating. We passed motorhomes—full-sized motorhomes—tipped over on the side of the road like toys a toddler had abandoned. Other travelers had given up. They'd pulled over, accepted defeat, and waited it out.

We kept going. (In hindsight, this may not have been my brightest parenting decision.)

Soaked to the Bone at Dettifoss

We finally arrived at Dettifoss—Iceland's answer to Niagara Falls. It's massive, thunderous, and absolutely breathtaking. There's a travel center there, and we geared up like we were heading into battle: waterproof pants, jackets, boots. The whole armor.

It didn't matter.

Within minutes, we were soaked. Absolutely soaked to the skin. Ice to the bone. The mist from the waterfall was relentless, and the wind was still doing its best to rearrange us.

We stood at the lookout, trying to take in the majesty of it all while simultaneously trying not to become human popsicles.

The Moment Everything Changed

Then the wind whipped up.

Ariel's parka caught it like a sail. My tiny daughter—already small enough to fit in a backpack—was suddenly airborne in a way that made my heart stop.

I grabbed her. Hard.

For a split second, I watched my child nearly sail off into one of Iceland's most famous waterfalls, and every maternal instinct I had kicked into overdrive. I pulled her back, held her tight, and made an executive decision: we were done with Dettifoss.

The waterfall would still be there another day. My daughter needed to be somewhere warm and dry and, most importantly, not plummeting into a canyon.

The Dusk Till Dawn Moment

Driving out of there, soaked and shaken, we spotted something in the distance: a beer store, standing alone in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by that volcanic wasteland.

It was like something straight out of Dusk Till Dawn—that George Clooney vampire movie. You know the one. The kind of place where you know something sketchy is about to happen.

I looked at that store. I looked at my soaked, exhausted kids. I looked back at the store.

"Nope," I said. "This is one beer store I'm driving past for sure."

And I kept going.

When Adventure Becomes a Survival Story

Iceland is stunning. It's magical. It's also absolutely, unforgivingly wild.

That day taught me something: there's a difference between adventure and recklessness. Standing at the edge of Dettifoss in a hurricane-force wind, watching my daughter nearly become a cautionary tale, was the moment I realized I'd pushed it too far.

But we survived. We made it back to the campervan, peeled off our soaked layers, and eventually warmed up. And now? Now we have a story that reminds us why Iceland is called the land of fire and ice.

It's not just poetic. It's a warning.

The wind, the water, the raw power of nature—it doesn't care how brave you are or how waterproof your jacket is. Iceland will humble you. It will soak you. And if you're not careful, it will take you.

We were careful. Just barely.

And we're never driving past a sketchy beer store in the middle of a volcanic wasteland again. Some instincts are worth trusting.

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