The day after our return from I notice some nominally itchy bumps clustering on my knuckles, and subsequently spent the next 18 hours wondering about their possible source:

Unnoticed mosquito bites. Nah, it was too cold for bugs except the cumulonimbus of gnats along the coast. Literally, we saw no other flying insects.

Weird river scum. Okay, we literally followed that river down from its trickling glacial source, and all source stated that almost all non-metropolitan, non-sulfuric water sources in the whole country were potable. Not likely.

Assworms. Oh, wait, that would be Karla's GUY16 crew.

Bugs from home. Noone'd lived in my room for several months, and it was awfully humid out. Possible, and terrifying.

All WebMD diagnoses pointed to herpes — GEEZ! — so I spent a fretful 18 hours wondering what kind of hardcore little Icelandic bugger had worked its way into my knuckles. I was convinced its spawn was now fortifying itself for a systemic attack via my lymph nodes! Panic!

And then I trailed my mom to a consultation for my youngest aunt, who had just been diagnosed with late-stage lung cancer. The doctor took a glance, piffled "allergic reaction", and handed me a tube of steroid cream. Upon whose daily application my own sprouting stand of Núpsstaður woods (must've been — can't remember any other vegetation above calf height) stood DOWN.

The slight rope burns have faded almost to invisibility by now. They're really all that physically remind me about that surreal evening, tramp, and descent.