_Ljósavatnsskarð_, Lake-of-Light-Pass, is a narrow valley, a watershed. The stream that tumbles down the gorge from the mountains divides into two arms, one flows eastward into the lake and the other westward into the _Fnjóská_. The ride down towards the lake is one continual crossing of small streams that rush down the snow gullies. From the pass to the margin of the lake we crossed, by actual count, fifty-three of these white streams during a ride of two hours. _Ljósavatn_, Lake-of-Light, will ever remain one of the brightest memory pictures of Icelandic scenery. The lake is long and narrow, the mountains descend abruptly on either side. The tumbling cascades, the many sheep upon the green ridges between the cataracts, the cattle grazing eye-deep in the lush grass along the shore, the numerous water fowl, where many a “Stately drake, led forth his fleet upon the lake,” the spectrum colors in the lava cliffs, the bands of cloud that hang perpetually over the narrow notch,—with clouds, colors, waterfalls and crags mirrored in the burnished surface,—formed a picture framed in the dark outlines of the mountains that caused us to dismount and for an hour held our close attention. At evening we reached the _Djúpá_, Deep-River, well named. This stream has carved a gorge through a mass of old craters and heaps of volcanic ash. Under the influence of several days of continual sunshine the snows had been rapidly melting. We spent an hour in a fruitless search for a suitable ford and then drove the pack ponies into the torrent to swim across and composed ourselves for a good wetting in the icy water. We drew our knees above the necks of the ponies, seized the crupper strap with the left hand, turned the ponies up stream and made the crossing without serious mishap. A portion of the way the ponies were obliged to swim and the rapid current carried them far down stream. Thanks to the sagacity of the little fellows and to their perseverance, we escaped without getting wet, although our precarious position, balanced as we were on the top of the saddles, promised to topple us into the angry waters. The pack horses swam the stream with the packing cases partly submerged. Within an hour we were made comfortable in the tidy farmhouse at _Ljósavatn_ and the contents of the cases were spread in the kitchen to dry. The house is large and comfortable and two beds were prepared for us upstairs, an unusual condition as the guest room is usually on the ground floor. We had only one inconvenience,—the telephone is located in the guest chamber. Beside the house there is a small church where the farmers and their families assemble on Sunday, some of them from a considerable distance.