On Iceland
Iceland is a place of few words, mainly on account of the lack of available verbiage worthy of such a landscape. I’ve spent weeks trying to muster the courage to describe what ultimately can only be experienced in person, or at least through pictures.
We flew into Reykjavik. I suppose that’s where I’ll begin. The city felt new, and the architecture centered on necessity. The city thrived and survived simultaneously.
We visited the central church, Hallgrimskirkja. A Gothic-Revivalist marvel in the center of Reykjavik, the spire stood tall and alone. Most locals can see the church from their homes.
With eighteen hours of daylight this time of year, we spent the evening exploring the city until our dinner reservation. Of course, we found a Dubliner.
We walked across town to the rental car facility the following morning, a Quonset hut with a big logo slapped out front. It was there that we met our Sprinter, fully equipped with an intercom system. We fell in love that very minute and named her Helga, after the bartender at the Dubliner (previously mentioned).
Into the unknown we ventured, an unfamiliar and difficult landscape, rough to settle and stunning.
Putting our sense of adventure to the test, our arrival at the mountain range’s edge prompted the first pull-off. The misty air carried a drama, and we were overcome with the beauty and excitement for what was to come.
Onward into the esoteric ramblings of a photographer obsessed with “something greater”. I struggled throughout this journey in defining what makes a good landscape photograph. I struggle more now with what one can possibly put in words to add to a landscape. More on this later.
We approached the first major waterfall of our visit. Featuring a loop, we were able to walk a full circle behind the falls. The area was wet and we took turns running downhill through the final stretch of our lap through the torrential liquid onslaught.
And there we were, behind the waterfall. It was at this moment that I was faced with the unforgiving nature of this region. I was in it, and I enjoyed it deeply.
Along the main southern road, we stopped for refreshments between our first and second waterfalls. A choice for each of us between sandwiches or soup, I also opted for coffee, an iced americano specifically. I consider myself a connoisseur when it comes to the edge of bitterness that a proper americano entails and, I must say, I was pleasantly surprised time and time again at both the quality and consistency of Icelandic espresso makers.
Skogafoss. A great natural love.
Black and white or color? These are different images of different peaks and even still I am torn between the two. There is a fine line between the drama of black and white or the romance of particularly rich color, a line I find myself tripping over repeatedly.
Our trek began with several hundred steel stairs up the hillside to the Skogafoss observation deck. What followed was the most beautiful hike of my life thus far. Waterfalls into waterfalls, cliff edges, great conversation, and continuous rain followed us along the path up and then back down to Skogafoss.
The quality of a landscape is more in the conditions than the features, I’m learning slowly. Any given rock wall can be photographed, but the mist of the falls steals the show and finishes the image. On a different day with brighter daylight, this mist may have been too dense to see through. On this particular day, the conditions happened to be exactly what they needed to be for this particular image.
The scale of this place is difficult to understand and even to remember, having been there. I was overwhelmed by the stature of each mountain as the structures we make stood small along their valleys.
I was drawn to the finer details of the landscape above all else. A friend of mine calls these “portraits of the landscape”. They are small moments and cutouts of an impossibly large subject that help to tell the story of the whole. The landscape, the gestalt.
Pops of bright orange against the dark Icelandic Earth.
The brothers pose for a portrait along the trail. I appreciate everyone’s patience with my camera and myself, it takes a lot to hike with a photographer. I tend to stop and go, and I ask for the more-than-occasional portrait.
Leaving Skogafoss, I told G I had been changed permanently. Some things are not worth describing, as nothing in words would ever express their glory. The power of that falling river can only be seen and felt.
Puffin Homecoming.
After a restful night nearby, we ventured to Black Sand Beach down the road. We were reminded of the treacherous swimming conditions and made an effort not to approach the shore too boldly.
Countless lifers on this trip.
The textures in the rock wall were a challenge for me as I could not determine where any given frame should start or stop. It all seemed beautiful and worthy, too difficult to pick.
Another incredible outfit from G.
The hike that followed was moving and spectacular. Up the edge of a mesa amid the infinite beaches of black sand, we chose mountain goat names for each member of the crew. We ventured along it’s vast upper surface to a Viking burial mound. The wind was tremendous and constant, as though the air never took a breath back in and only continued to exhale violently into our path. I felt the skin of my face grow against the pressure. I knew that I should not make photographs up there, but continued on our descent.
The infinite beach was a trick to the eye, and the water seemed to meet the horizon and shoreline all at once.
There we stood at the end of our hike inside the Yoda Cave, a cave that looked surprisingly like the outline of the famous small man from Star Wars.
Icelandic horses were fascinating in that they were very small, extremely inefficient, and the purest breed of horse on the planet. Beautiful creatures with a very friendly character.
We journeyed to a tomato farm where much of the Island’s tomato supply comes from. The place was insane. Unlimited tomato soup, unlimited olive bread (very good olive bread), unlimited coffee, you name it. Everything had tomatoes in it.
The restaurant and farm keep bee hives that help the plants throughout.
We visited with some more Icelandic horses before continuing our journey onward.
This is the waterfall that was “painted from memory” in Sokka’s Master from Avatar, The Last Airbender. A great spot along the Golden Circle.
Farm dogs greeted us at Efstidalur Il, where we ate fresh ice cream and met the cattle responsible.
She simply never fails with these outfits.
Nearing the end of our journey, we visited a national park featuring the Earth’s “newest” plate fissure. There were incredible views throughout.
I will be printing and framing this for my home.
Our final stop was a great volcanic crater near where we stayed. We arrived after 10PM, and the sun was still up.
Walking a lap around the inside of a crater feels parallel only to trespassing, as though I was a teenager on the brink of delinquency again. From what I understand, this had been a pocket of magma at some point that had since drained into the Earth. And we stood in it.
And there’s our team. I’m grateful for every character and for their excellent morale. We carried each other through the difficult weather and tough climbs, and I would certainly travel with this team again. Thank you to everyone for putting up with me and my camera.
Maybe I should have shared the photographs with no captions. Maybe they spoke for themselves. Regardless, I’ve seen these images for hours combined, and I continue to travel back to Iceland in my mind. This was not our last trip to that rock, and I look forward to the next.