The Falls

The Hvítá flows down a wide, curved staircase of rock before plunging in two stages: an 11-metre drop where the river fans out across a ledge of hard dolerite, then — almost at a right angle — a 21-metre plunge into a crevice so narrow that from certain angles the river appears to simply vanish into the earth. The total drop is 32 metres.

The canyon below is about 2.5 km long, 20 metres wide and up to 70 metres deep. Geologists think it was carved either by a catastrophic glacial outburst flood at the end of the ice age, or, more likely, by the steady work of the river over thousands of years, exploiting a soft layer of conglomerate and gravel sandwiched between harder basalt. That gravel layer matters because Gullfoss is not finished: the falls are still retreating upstream as water washes loose sediment out from beneath the dolerite ledges.

The name means "golden waterfall." The likely explanation is the glacial flour carried by the Hvítá, fine rock sediment that gives the water its golden-brown colour in sunlight. Others point to the golden hue the falls take in late-afternoon light. There is also a folk legend about a Viking who threw his gold into the falls rather than let anyone else have it. The name stuck well enough that the entire Golden Circle route is named after it.

When we visited on a sunny afternoon, rainbows arced permanently through the spray — the kind of sight that makes you stop mid-sentence. On overcast days the falls have a rawer, more powerful look: all white water and grey mist, the canyon edges dissolving into cloud.

Gullfoss nearly became a hydroelectric dam. In 1907, an English businessman named Howell leased the falls from landowner Tómas Tómasson with plans to harness the Hvítá for power. His daughter Sigríður, born at Brattholt farm near the canyon, refused to let it happen.

Sigríður made repeated trips to Reykjavík — 120 km each way — to campaign against the project, meeting government officials and rallying support. Popular legend says she walked barefoot, though historian Helgi Skúli Kjartansson notes the trips were more likely made on horseback. She reportedly threatened to throw herself into the falls if construction went ahead.

She hired a lawyer: Sveinn Björnsson, who would later become Iceland's first president when the republic was established in 1944. The legal case did not succeed in court, but it did not need to. Howell's project ran out of money and the lease payments lapsed. Sigríður lost the case and won the argument. By the time the dam plans collapsed, Gullfoss had become something people cared about protecting, and that shift in attitude mattered more than any court ruling.

Upper vs Lower Viewpoint

Summer vs Winter

In summer, up to 140 cubic metres of water per second crash over the falls — peaking in June and July when glacial melt from Langjökull is at its highest. The spray is at its heaviest, the rainbows most frequent, and the surrounding hillsides are green. During spring floods, the volume can spike to nearly 2,000 m3/s, turning Gullfoss into one of the most powerful waterfalls in Europe.

Winter drops the flow to around 80 m3/s, but the falls look more dramatic, not less. The canyon walls grow thick with ice, jagged icicles and translucent sheets that catch the low winter light. The landscape turns white. With only 4-5 hours of daylight and far fewer visitors, you get the place nearly to yourself. On clear nights, the Northern Lights are visible from the area.