We hastened across the meadow along the border of the lake to regain the trail leading to _Geysir_. Hasten is the correct word. No air was stirring and the clouds of tiny _mý_, midges, that rose out of the long grass as the ponies disturbed them, simply smothered us. They filled the ears of the ponies, crowding in with the long hair and swarmed in patches upon their flanks and legs. Instances are related where the midges so tormented the ponies that they rushed into the water, in spite of the protestations of the riders, that they might get rid of their tormenters. No horse of my knowledge has his ears so completely filled with hair as the Icelandic pony. Doubtless this is an adaptation for a special purpose and I believe that purpose was to protect these delicate organs from these stinging insects. We drew forth our fly veils and put them on with some relief, but as we did it while at a full gallop they were not securely fastened and some of the pests got under the netting. Here they were happy, for we could not drive them away. In desperation I pulled off my veil, for the express purpose of giving all the midges an equal chance. It needed no urging to put the ponies to their best paces, for they well understood that the insects would leave us when we had attained an elevation above the meadow. We entered a tract of scrubby willow and dwarf birch. Some of the birches were as high as our shoulders while we were on horseback and thus we rode with our heads protruding above the Icelandic forest and there was some free advice given about getting lost in the woods. There are two or three larger forests in the north which we shall visit later. We passed several good farms and every one, men, women and children were busy with the hay harvest. Two hours riding took us to _Miðdalr_, Middale, church, which is close to the famous _Brúará_, Bridge-River. Many streams rush out of the mountain gullies and unite up this side valley. Here the _Brúará_ comes foaming down its shelving bed in a passion. Near the crossing it spreads out in a wide sheet over the lava which is full of ugly crevasses. One great rift, of unknown depth, and five feet wide extends through the center of this lava and the river tumbles into it from both sides. Tumbling into lava rifts is a characteristic of Icelandic rivers, some of them entirely disappear. Until the coming of King Frederick in 1907 the traveller rode his pony through the water for about one hundred feet, carefully avoiding the cracks, with the water well up the flanks of the pony. When the rift was reached it was crossed on planks bolted to the rock and often with the water flowing over them. When safely across the “bridge” another passage of one hundred feet through the water brought the traveller once more upon dry ground. This is why it is called “bridge river.” A suspension bridge now spans the stream and the view up the river is excellent. In former days it required some steadiness of purpose