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On the edge of wild — Atacama Desert, Chile

D. Craig Young · July 2, 2022 · 2 Comments

Explaining Atacama. Information along B-245, Atacama Desert, Chile

With the wilds of Patagonia still fresh in our minds, Bill and I spent a short night in Santiago and then climbed on another Latam flight. We were headed north, working our way up the latitudinal expanse of Chile, exploring the regional extremes from glaciers to desert dry lakes, from sea level to the altiplano with volcano summits at 20,000 feet. And, for a time, we were only slightly higher flying into Calama in the dry heart of the Atacama Desert.

Turistas. Exploring the small pans of the high desert, Atacama Desert, Chile
Above the salar. Volcan Licancabur rises to 19,553 feet, looming over the Salar de Atacama, Atacama Desert, Chile

It took quite a while in the queue for a rental, but the little truck was perfect once we got going. I was back in my element, driving desert roads stretching to high horizons, strips of pavement and gravel bounded by salars (dry lake beds) and conical volcanoes. The mountains appear in their simplest form, symmetrical peaks with tonsures of snow, as children draw their first mountain scenes. We based out of the little tourist hive of San Pedro de Atacama; it is the obvious gateway for a short visit to the region, with key tracks leading north and south along the cordillera. While it might not be a wild adventure, it is beautiful way to taste the flavor of the altiplano. Our days do not disappoint.

Atacama Collection

Traveling in the time of covid presents some obvious difficulties. While Chileans tend to practice good caution and care, with vaccinations and masking required in most spaces, it also means many places are closed. This is especially true for those areas, even if wide-open spaces, managed or owned by indigenous communities where limited access to health services and allowing access to exotic tourists is a bad mix. We realize soon enough that some of our plans for visiting water features – springs and wetlands – that pock the vast valley-bottom salars will not work out. We are adaptable in every way, though I keep having to wake up an oxygen-hungry Bill as we drive roads at an elevation above the highest mountains in the contiguous US.

High road. Desert highway near Socaire at over 12,000 feet, Atacama Desert, Chile
Sin agua. The playa of the Salar de Agua Caliantes, Cerro Aracar rises in background, Atacama Desert, Chile

We first explore the region south of the village of Socaire. Our wildlife encounters are fabulous – a fox hunting in coppice dunes and bunch grasses, a family of vicuna cautiously grazing, and flamingos wading in the expanse of Laguna de Aguas Calientes. Our early start allowed us to take advantage of the dusty morning light. Even with the various closures, our first trips into the altiplano were all I had hoped they would be.

Morning patrol. A South American Gray Fox (Lycalopex griseus) in sparse grasses of the Atacam Desert, Chile.
Curiosity. Vicuna family in the altiplano of the Atacama Desert, Chile
Flamingo blue. Andean Flamingos on the Salar de Agua Calientes, Atacama Desert, Chile
One and two. Andean flamingos on the vast Salar de Agua Calientes, Atacama Desert, Chile

A dusty ambient light around San Pedro had caught my attention on the previous evening, and with today’s addition of low clouds, the evening held promise of a stunning sunset. We found the Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon) closed – even its back entrance near Tres Marias was blocked by an ad hoc barrier of boulders – due to covid restrictions, so we wandered various dirt tracks looking for a viewpoint to capture the expansive evening desert. We hiked a short way into the park’s margin and set up on a rocky bench overlooking badlands in washes tributary to the Valle de la Luna. I might have been disappointed that the park and various popular viewpoints were closed, but this allowed us to walk a bit, getting to places we might not otherwise see, and maybe shooting images beyond the obvious. Or so we thought. We were alone when I first set up, enjoying the patient anticipation in the early glow of evening. As our wait continued and the light progressed, however, a crowd grew on the hills behind us, dozens of cameras (phones, of course) pointed in the same direction. We were furthest in, maybe half a kilometer down-canyon, so it looked as if the crowds along the roadside (including several tour buses) had turned out to watch me work the scene. Oh well. The sunset was putting on a splendid show, and, with the closures, this stretch of highway provided accessible theater for everyone – I was happy we had walked in a bit.

Dust of dusk. Valle de la Luna, Atacama Desert, Chile
Evening alight. Sunset in the Valley de la Luna, Atacama Desert, Chile

Bart met us after we had been in San Pedro for a couple days; his trip paralleled ours for a time after we left Patagonia. Picking him up in the pre-dawn darkness at the edge of San Pedro, our rental truck joined a train of white vans on the highway to El Tatio geyser. Although we had seen clues around town that the geyser trip was popular (and open), we did not anticipate the early morning rush of guided tours. Trying to not submit the rental to an undo beating on the teeth-shattering washboard of the over-used, multi-tracked road to the geyser, I was passed by an incessant stream of vans, sprinters, and buses of various sizes, a long string of red taillights cresting every hill and switchback for miles as we climbed steeply into the darkness. It was not a pleasant drive.

Early arrival. Visitors at dawn at the El Tatio Geysers, Atacama Desert, Chile
Geyser Bill. El Tatio Geyser, Atacama Desert, Chile
Precipitate I. El Tatio Geyser, Atacama Desert, Chile
Precipitate II. El Tatio Geyser, Atacama Desert, Chile

The geysers – after one navigates the various covid sign-ins – are fascinating and it is a nice walk on the necessarily restricted trails of the park. If there is an up-side to tour groups, it is that they seem to be built on rather strict itineraries, so the groups move quickly through the ‘attraction’ and move on. I’m not sure where they might go next, but not long after sunrise (the promise of the ‘sunrise geyser tour’) the trails empty rather quickly. And, not very long afterward, as the day warms and the steam clouds that highlight the geysers and pools dissipate, the park basically closes. Nothing to see here, I guess.

Green and yellow. Atacama Desert, Chile
Morning watch. Andean Flamingo (Phoenicoparrus andinus), Atacama Desert, Chile
Giant coot. The Giant Coot (Fulica gigantea) of the Atacama Desert, Chile
Not yet. A chick considers the options, Giant Coot (Fulica gigantea), Atacama Desert, Chile

With the tours departed for somewhere and someone else’s great attraction, we have the road home to ourselves. This is the highlight of the day. We stop often, looking for little groups of vicuna on the dry hillsides and wandering among the few isolated wetlands to see birds mostly foreign to us. It takes us quite a while to get back to town where our usual cantina and siesta await.

Magellenics and core. The pleasure of an unaccustomed night sky, Atacama Desert, Chile
Crescents. The early morning crescent Moon and Venus, Atacama Desert, Chile

A pleasure during the day, the drive also highlighted a location or two that would provide good foreground for night-sky photography. With this long-held goal in mind, I picked up Bart at 3.30 AM the following morning; Bill wisely chose not to join at this ungodly hour. We retraced the geyser highway, but we beat the rush and were alone. I had chosen a canyon near the village of Guatin, hoping to get a foreground with cardon cacti spread among red-rock outcrops. We walked into the spooky shapes making sure not to wander off any cliff-edge; the southern milky way and Magellanic clouds glowing above us. The nightscape of the Atacama Desert is unequaled, it was almost tactile. While my technical skill at astrophotography is lacking, it was a pleasure spending this time with Bart marveling at the sky, trying different compositions, and laughing as the bolus of tour buses motored by on their way to another El Tatio sunrise. My resulting images did not work for various reasons, mostly because I failed to capture any foreground, but one or two provide memories of the amazing night above San Pedro de Atacama. Our galactic pleasure was followed by the appearance of a new moon and Venus leading to a dusty sunrise above Andean volcanos. Was this really my last day here?

Volcanic dust. Along the frontier of Bolivia and Chile, Atacama Desert, Chile

Atacama Collection

It was, all in all, a short desert excursion; our four days were not nearly enough to get to know anything about this great landscape, much less of its wild interior. The magnetic attraction of this desert will have a hold on me for a long time, and its pull will allow me to plan for a deeper, slower visit when (if) possible. Bill and I left Bart to his worldly travels and returned to Calama to catch our flight out. And yet, the journey had one more surprise in wait for us.

Balanced nap. Andean Flamingo (Phoenicoparrus andinus), Atacama Desert, Chile

Once back in Santiago, we made our preparations for our outbound flights. This included the requisite covid test, available conveniently, as planned, at our hotel. We lunched and watched sub-titled movies waiting for our results. When my phone lit up with the negative notification, I was ready to go. Bill, however, stared blankly at his screen; he was covid positive. Now what? How could I be negative, having traveled with him for so many days, in such close quarters? He had no apparent symptoms, but we decided quickly that I should get a new room so he could isolate. The hotel was very accommodating; I moved down the hall, and Bill began the process of re-testing in case of a false positive. Bill is a very experienced traveler and though cautious, was not overly concerned – he encouraged me to continue with the planned itinerary. My wife and doctor – two people – thought that if I was going to present symptoms, it would be better for me to get home to deal with them; it seemed even more likely that I managed to dodge the viral bullets shot at me.  I would travel home carefully. Yes, I had been in close proximity to Bill over many days, but with the news of rising variants, it seems travelers are likely in proximity to positive fellow travelers (and so many others), knowingly and unknowingly, throughout any trip. It is clearly going to be common characteristic of travel, especially air-travel, now. The vaccinations and boosters are the best things we have for keeping us going. So, with Bill’s zen attitude and approval, I boarded our scheduled late-night flight home. He would stay isolated in Santiago for an additional week, until a negative test allowed him to reschedule his flights home. If not asymptomatic, his brief encounter with the virus was barely noticeable, he says. Our two-legged itinerary – Patagonia and Atacama – had thrown a final curveball at us, but we made it home without too much inconvenience, though Bill got more room-service meals than expected (or usual).

Mudras de Atacama. Cactus in the early morning of the Atacama Desert, Chile

Looking back, I realize we had the good fortune to experience the edges of only a fraction of the amazing wild lands of Chile, getting powerful glimpses of the interface between these spaces and the indigenous, development, and tourist economies that try, along a vast continuum of success and failure, to accommodate those remnants of the wild and natural world. It is good to walk among the wildness, even if at its edges, and to seek some way to communicate this struggle – I travel to learn, experience, and document, but this trip has made me strongly consider, maybe reconsider, my role in the struggle. I have few answers at this point; I’m hoping that that awareness leads in a helpful direction and, sometimes, maybe that is enough.

Keep going.

On the circuit in Torres del Paine National Park, Patagonia, Chile

D. Craig Young · April 12, 2022 · 2 Comments

Patagonia morning. The idyll of Puerto Natales, Patagonia, Chile

In January, I had the good fortune to travel to Chile with my good friend, Bill Bloomer. We planned this after the rise-and-fall of Covid’s delta variant thinking that, just maybe, the window would remain and, with due care, we could wander a few distant places once again. And then there was omicron.

Click here for Patagonia Image Collection

I have already given our decision away. With our triple-play of vaccinations and several tests of various varieties, we left the winter of northern Nevada to find summer in Santiago, Chile. After a few days acclimatizing to the new season – really an unneeded, built-in buffer in case of travel delays, we flew to Puerto Natales to meet up with the other three members of our trekking party and our two guides. Once oriented, we caught a van to the entrance at Torres del Paine National Park and, almost immediately, started walking. It would have been hard not to; the magnetic beauty of the Torres pulling us forward.

A glimpse. The towers of Cerro Torre peek above the moraine, Torres del Paine National Park, Chile

We were there to hike the O Circuit, eighty-six miles, give or take, circumnavigating the park over eight days. It is basically a hut-to-hut or camp-to-camp daily walk, with all parties traveling in a counter-clockwise direction. The O Circuit incorporates the well-traveled and somewhat more popular “W”, where travel is a bit less regulated given its possibilities of relatively easy access and multiple variations. While the “W” offers up the requisite highlights of Torres del Paine, the “O” provides a full-immersion trek, accessing the park’s wilder backcountry on a single-track path of diversity and, indeed, sublime experience. Only a climbing expedition into the high glaciers, ridges, and walls would be more remote.

El equipo del senderos. Torres del Paine National Park, Chile

Our group, unknown to each other prior to our rendezvous in Puerto Natales, consisted of a nicely diverse group of experienced hikers. Although our previous hiking resumes varied from demanding day-hiking to month-long jungle excursions to backcountry mountaineering to multi-day Himalayan treks, we bonded with each other easily over the first few days but had taken to our two wonderful Chilean guides immediately. We could not have been more fortunate getting to know Karina and Andrea.

Walking among mountains II, Torres del Paine National Park, Chile

I was there to experience the mountains of Patagonia and hoped to follow dramatic light among peaks I had dreamed of since I first flipped through climbing magazines in high school. I no longer crave the technical climbs, but as a wanderer and photographer, I still sought the experience of nature’s light – cool or warm, drama or subtlety – along the trails and hills in front of me. I was soon immersed in the pleasurable pace of our point-to-point hikes. I did, however, find it difficult to get into the mindset of photography. First, with two exceptions, we had mostly sunny days filled with blue skies; wonderful days for walking and absorbing the beauty of the boundless expanse of Torres del Paine, but difficult days for creating compositions that would express the feelings of that expanse. Also, we did have to keep a basic daily schedule, whether hiking seven miles or fourteen. The camps – whether in bunkhouses or tents – provided all the provisions we needed, wonderfully throughout the trek – luxurious in a Chilean backcountry way. This afforded the opportunity to get out early and stay out a little late, but I struggled for focus in these places unknown to me. I would generally wander along at the back of our group, watching for birds and admiring the variety of habitats and landforms along our trail. It was always so good. The trail sections were not difficult, although the steep, bouldery and brushy drop from John Garner Pass into the valley of Glacier Grey was an exception. This took a good all-day effort, a pleasure nonetheless.

On two days, however, the drama of Patagonia reigned. On our first-day foray into the Rio Ascencio we followed a storm that prevented any visit to Lago Torres at the foot of the iconic pinnacles. The clearing storm hinted at the power the atmosphere ripping between two oceans. Then calm set in, for days. Finally on our penultimate day, and fortunately as we traversed the foot of the Paine Grande to climb in the French Valley, drama returned. It was perfect – wind-driven squalls tore at my jacket and pack, trees slashed and were suddenly calm, avalanches thundered from Paine Grande, and dark clouds cut among the peaks where sunlight flashed rainbows to light the granite walls. So perfect, that for long moments I could not hold back tears – the light, wind, and rain overwhelmed me so simply that I had to pause in the perfect emotion, for long moments the beauty surrounding me was beyond words and my eyes were literally full. My favorite images come from this day.

Paine Grande. Sunrise and approaching rain, Torres del Paine National Park, Chile
A light rain. Early drama on the edge of Los Cuernos, Torres del Paine National Park, Chile
Hanging blue. The hanging glaciers of French Valley peak from the storm, Torres del Paine National Park, Chile

I should have anticipated this. The day prior a Chimango Caracara (Phalcoboenus chimango) played with me on the footslopes of Paine Grande. The Chimango is a common falcon here, but her eyes seduced me into believing she was the only thing worthy of attention. She inquired into my presence and finally released me back to the trail. The storm was coming and maybe that was the message she stared into me – why would I be there if not to experience her mountain. Silly stuff, but I am keeping it with me for a while.

Eyes of Chimango. The Chimango Caracara visits the trail, Torres del Paine National Park, Chile

Click here for Patagonia Image Collection

The best thing about the O Circuit is that it gets better each day. It soothes you into rolling hills along floodplains of the Rio Paine. It climbs into glacial lakes that yesterday only peaked from the bases of massive glaciers and icefields. It wanders through beech woodlands to dance at the foot of waterfalls cascading from the backs of the Torres. Astounding hanging valleys of Glacier de los Perros and Glacier Amistad Glacier culminate at John Garner Pass overlooking Glacier Grey and the South Patagonian Icefield (the second largest, non-polar, contiguous expanse of ice). From Glacier Grey, one is led to the foot Paine Grande and into the drama of French Valley – the “W” is joined at Glacier Grey, its arms reaching into adjacent valleys. The black-capped Cuernos rise above Lago Nordenskjold as the O closes back at Rio Ascencio. If someone planned the required counter-clockwise circuit, it had to be with this sublime build to closure. A perfect trek.

Attention. This ridge held my gaze throughout the day, Torres del Paine National Park, Chile

Over the next few weeks, I hope to present a ‘behind-the-image’ for a photograph taken on each day of the circuit. It will augment this Patagonia Collection, which also may evolve as I continue to digest this group of 50 or so images from a wonderful experience – ultimately culling these to a ‘calendar’ portfolio of a dozen or so prints. Thanks to Bart, Bill, Rosalind, and Sarah; it was such a pleasure. Utmost thanks to Karina and Andrea for sharing their homeland with us, it was an honor to walk, learn, and laugh with you.

Keep going.

Please respect the natural and cultural resources of our public lands.

#naturefirst #keepgoing

Iceland Day 12: Kirkjufell Denouement

D. Craig Young · December 8, 2018 · Leave a Comment

We were down to five – Erno, Bob, Ken, Nick, and me. Nick and I had commandeered a rental van early in the morning, then we loaded up the rest of the small team at the guesthouse, dropped Thor at some random roundabout near his home, and headed back to the Snaefellsnes Peninsula. A stop at the Hotel Rjúkandi was required, we’d hit this café for coffee a few times already, stopping here on our first foray to the peninsula.

We had the highway to ourselves all the way to Grundarfjörður, the small harbor town below the most photographed mountain in Iceland, Kirkjufell. The wizard-hat or arrowhead peak rises from the peninsula’s north coast, and with its paired waterfalls—Kirkjufellfoss—it basically composes images for you. We were too late for sunrise, but the clouds were interesting enough that we headed straight for the carpark at the falls. Well, all but Nick; he dropped us and cruised away, having earned some alone-time after a week and a half of shepherding the workshop around. The workshop was over and I think the need for independence spoke to all of us. The trails around the falls were basically empty and our little four-some dispersed, one-by-one, to deal with the icon.

Grundarfjörður sunrise The other view from Kirkjufellfoss.

Iceland 2018 Collection

I had seen 100s of images of Kirkjufell, we all had, but there is definitely something about capturing or trying to capture, one of your own. Only seven or eight days ago Ken had confided to me his disappointment in having a storm prevent our initial visit, and now he was here, gleefully hitting the trail, undoubtedly prepared to capture a long-exposure featuring the towering peak. I wasn’t sure what I wanted. I checked the popular spots around the falls—the iconic perspective, but snow and ice draped the small cliff and in the subdued light the scene lacked the impact I sought. It was beautiful but not in my skill set to really capture it.

I would move higher. It felt good to hike and climb a little; I traveled cross-country, traversing crunching snow and finding traces of sheep trails along a fence line. I liked the higher perspective. It wasn’t particularly original, but it was different enough to feel creative. I worked on images using snow-filled drainages as leading lines between mossy volcanic rocks. For awhile I simply sat in a rocky swale and watched the clouds skittering above Kirkjufell, enjoying my last few hours of daylight in Iceland.

Kirkjufell. Hiking the frozen swales and streams in mid-day light.

As the sun crept low, we retreated to our guesthouse overlooking the small port town. I know Iceland can seem crowded with tourists, but right now, it seemed we were alone on the peninsula. We settled into the quiet, multiroom guesthouse. Dinner was found at an establishment that was either the city library that happened to have a comfortable café and museum attached, or it was a café that was also the city library. A perfect combination if only folks could put their phones down long enough to remember that there are books to read.

The Kp index was in our favor, there would be aurora at Kirkjufell tonight. We geared up for the dark and cold, powered by dinner beer and desert coffee—the nutrition of night photography. Nick suggested we use the bay to get reflections of Kirkjufell glowing in the lights of the port. We scurried along the rocky beach and scattered to set up our images as the first aurora peeked from behind the mountain. With the false confidence of not using my headlamp, I stumbled into an unseen creek in the dark. Ok, the feet would not know warmth again tonight.

Kirkjufell townlight. Watching the aurora build in long curtains behind the front-lit peak.

Using some high ISO images to get the mountain and reflections working, we waited for the aurora to build. It came and went in long glowing curtains, but with little drama. Our patience failed. Someone mentioned moving to harbor to possibly get artistic with some boats and maybe the aurora backdrop would return. The harbor lights proved a definite nuisance and we quickly abandoned that idea. But I recognized the fishing port from the Walter Mitty movie—a bonus. Our evening was over, it was time for the warmth of the guesthouse. We turned north, everyone lulled by the van’s movement through yet another roundabout, but then Bob said something. What? The quiet man who spoke in the most efficient terms, as in, one word a day for the duration of the workshop. A truck driver, the kind man was used to no one being there to hear him, I guess. Hell, I drive alone a lot, uttering all kinds of oratory to no one but the bugs on the windshield. Bob’s cut from very different cloth.

But what? “Turn around, Nick, it’s coming. Turn around now.” When Robert spoke, we listened.

Parting light at Kirkjufell, Iceland. Sitting back with new friends, I could enjoy the last show of a wonderful journey.

Iceland 2018 Collection

The aurora danced around Kirkjufell as our tripods skated on the clear, glassy ice in the meltwater pools below the ponds. We hooted and laughed as we lay prone on the ice, getting wide-angle images as light beams shot from the clouds on the horizon. The aurora’s green and magenta reflections swirled at our feet as our eyes (and cameras) took in the mountain and its awesome sky. Once again, I had to stop photography and simply watch. This was why I came.

Keep going.

Epilogue: Endless thanks to Nick and Thor. I would not think twice about doing it again, and I would recommend one of their dynamic-duo adventures to anyone. But most of all, thank you to every member of our workshop team. It was a great environment to learn in, to share, and to laugh about. The latter came easily and often. I hope each one of you enjoyed our Iceland Winter Adventure 2018 as much as I did.

Iceland Day 11: South Coast Return

D. Craig Young · December 7, 2018 · 8 Comments

It was the final day of the Iceland Workshop, and it felt like we had some locations to catch up on. Although the storm had faded, it left a sky that couldn’t decide if it was going to be a backdrop of interest or a curtain of gray. We’d try to make the most of it before heading back toward Reykjavik and the departures at Keflavik.

We dropped to the beach at Vik where dawn unfolded. The shore was blue and breezy as wet mist clouded the sea-stack Trolls just off shore. I worked a variety of compositions and played with exposure times, long and short, trying to capture the trolls in their habitat. The muted sunrise kept the scenes somewhat flat, the foamy sea providing the only highlights against the dark rocks. High clouds would bloom with color momentarily, but their distance relative to the rocky subjects made them feel disconnected. I worked hard without much success.

Trolls at dawn. Long exposure at the Black Beach below Vik; stopped down so the long exposure time produced the feeling I wanted. 5 sec, f/18, ISO 100.

Iceland 2018 Collection

I then noticed Jeremy or Erno, can’t recall whom, maybe it was Mike or Quinn, shooting straight down at their feet. The troll scenes had called for the telephoto, so pointing my 100-400mm at the repetitive texture of the perfectly rounded beach gravels, uniformly dark with misty highlights, created a mesmerizing but relaxing composition. I loved it. Here and there, a random red stone highlighted the gray-black clasts, and a wet sheen revealed a self-reflection in each of the million stones. Oddly, one of my favorite compositions of the trip, right at my feet and I might have missed it had others not suggested a look.

One of red, Iceland. Self portraits in the simplicity at my feet.

Then came the waterfalls, the icons of the South Coast. Having been a generally rag-tag workshop group operating mostly away from the crowds over the past several days, it was disheartening to pull into the crowds of Skógafoss (I can’t imagine the summer scene). I know we are an element of the crowding and the falls are certainly an accessible attraction, but being surrounded by the bustle of busses and their denizens changed the vibe of the day.

Quinn at his craft; seeing it differently.

The light had turned flat. I waded into the stream to work some foreground rocks and ice into the looming Skógafoss. I could not get the mid-ground figures—sightseers and photogs at the iconic falls—out of my frame. Worse, and all my fault, I did not pay attention to the mist collecting on my lens and all my images were spotty, even though I was happy in the moment with the live view on the camera-back. This haunted me endlessly as I reviewed my waterfall photos later. Nick had warned me, but I didn’t dry the lens often enough. When I did remember, it wasn’t the composition I’d hoped for. When I’d forget, the composition was good. No keepers from Skógafoss!

Thor had a better idea. We’d drive a short distance south and hike the similarly short distance to Kvernufoss. It is wonderful how the necessity of a hike allows an escape from crowds—and this was not a long or difficult hike. I got a little mojo back as the walk invigorated our small group, and the sharp falls pouring through a small grotto appealed to me more than the massive curtain-like falls. I waded into the stream to capture the energy flowing at me. It was amazingly fun. Leaving the stream, I climbed along an icy trail behind the falls to gain a perspective I’d never experienced before at any waterfall. Back streamside, I watched from a distance as Ken lost his grip on his Nikon D850. It tumbled toward the rapids, but he and Quinn dove toward the water, Ken grasping the fumbled camera on its last bounce before the water. The two men sprawled on the grassy terrace, water flowing at arm’s reach. That was close!

Portraits at Kvernufoss. Photos by Nick Page.

Capturing Kvernufoss, see below. Photo by Nick Page.
Kvernufoss. Exposure blend to show the power of the falls and its outflow stream; 1/80 sec (falls), 1/6 sec (stream), f/8, ISO 320.
Behind the falls. A difficult perch in cold mist, a fun shot, 0.3 sec, f/8, ISO 100.

On our short hike back, Quinn and Jeremy scattered along a field to get a composition of a languid Icelandic pony. The horse was pretty far off, but their effort established the idea of looking for some close-up horses to photograph. I think plenty of folks were hoping to capture a few pony images so we were soon traversing some side-roads and approaching small herds grazing in winter pastures. The afternoon light was kind to our group and several folks took to it happily. However, we soon realized our light was fading on our last day and we had at least another iconic waterfall to visit. So, with a little more scurrying we were soon at Seljalandsfoss. This typically popular spot wasn’t too busy in the fading evening and I was able to wander the paths and enjoy the light. Ice coated the viewing platforms and, in one exhilarating moment, Randy, Robert, and I found ourselves skating and scrambling for foot-holds, crashing together on the wood planks, tripods skittering. We carefully retreated.

Island pony. Just had to take one, 1/50 sec, f/5.6, ISO 400.
Seljalandsfoss. A frozen deck at sunset, 1/8 sec, f/14, ISO 100.

Iceland 2018 Collection

And then the quiet drive to Keflavik. We’d done a lot on this last workshop day. Maybe too much, trying to fit in several stops and a variety of scenes as we traveled to the end. It was nice to see the sights, and I love my intimate beach gravel image, but it really wasn’t a day for mindful photography. We had experienced many gifts from Snaefellsnes to Vestrahorn; you can’t win ‘em all. That’s a given with photographic journeys. Our group gathered late into the evening at the Keflavik guesthouse, reminiscing and trading stories about future plans. An endless, own-rules snooker game kept Ian and I occupied. Most were soon packed for their stateside returns, but a few of us prepared for one additional excursion to visit an icon. Tomorrow, we were on our way to Kirkjafell.

Keep going.

Iceland Day 10: Out of the Storm

D. Craig Young · December 6, 2018 · Leave a Comment

Our outlandish luck finally abandoned us. After several days of weather that supported our photographic desires, day and night, the second storm of our trip descended on us with as much fury as the first. We had driven into its teeth returning to Hali from Vestrahorn yesterday afternoon. Hurricane winds carried heavy rain and lashed at Iceland’s southern coast. This storm was warmer, so the rain never changed to snow, but the wind kept us off the roads, vast segments of which were once again closed.

Late into last night, Thor searched for alternative locations and Nick huddled with several of us to check forecasts for any break in the clouds, but eventually a sense of relief settled over the group. Maybe it was about time for a break in the action. We had taken advantage of our great run, so when we decided to hunker down for the coming day, there was almost palpable relief. It was an opportunity to catch up on sleep, sort and clean our gear, share some processing ideas, and tell stories.

Iceland 2018 Collection

The Hali guesthouse has a central living room and this became a commons area between trips to the restaurant and museum. Nick processed a few images in real-time and guided us through his work flow and several alternatives. Soon little groups formed around laptops to share images and early processing results. The variety of compositions was impressive. Processing experience varied greatly, with some folks just getting traction, others being proficient in Lightroom, and still others rocking results out of Photoshop. I’d think I had something good, and then someone would let me look over their shoulder and I’d watch and learn as images sprang to life.

At seemingly random intervals in the evenings, a guesthouse staff person would open a small refrigerator and allow us access to the exorbitantly priced beer. Erno remarked that it was basically like paying ballpark prices while sitting in your living room. But, when in Iceland…  We were probably better off that there was limited supply. We’d have gone broke and our processing and story sessions would have gotten out of hand. Needless to say, it was a nice, long day of finally getting to know everyone.

Over the course of our conversations, while watching the forecast, we realized that a few of us had an extra day on the island after the workshop conclusion. A small group gathered and a plan developed. Nick wrangled up a rental van and we found an empty guesthouse near Grundarfjörður and Kirkjufell. The weather and aurora forecast looked promising, and the plan was set. The close of our adventure could be post-poned for one more day and night!

In the dark of the late afternoon, with the roads mostly open, Thor decided we could head west and make Dyrhólaey for dinner. That would set us up for some waterfall shots in the light of tomorrow. There was one 30-kilometer section of highway that had wind restrictions, but we all agreed it was worth the effort. Our cool sprinter van would be pushed along, but hopefully the down-mountain gusts wouldn’t be too bad. We were off into the blustery night.

The van was quiet, it seemed all could sense that the workshop was coming to a close. We were now heading toward Reykjavik and tomorrow would be the last day with the full group. Would the rain let up and clouds break for some good light? The drive wasn’t bad, a couple gusts buffeted the van, but we sliced through the squalls and climbed to the Dyrhólaey guesthouse, well-rested and ready for the falls.

No photos for Day 10 but here’s a few that didn’t make my Iceland “galleries” but bring back very good memories…

Skógafoss midnight

Late in the night, after leaving the plane wreck location, we ventured to Skógafoss, hoping to capture another dancing sky above the falls. We hiked the short distance and started our wait. And wait. And wait. I remained optimistic while most of the crew returned to the warmth of the van. I have an aversion to headlamps while prepped for night photography and try not to use one if at all possible. The floodplain below the falls was basically pitch black with only the weakest glow of from the mist of the falls, is it reflecting starlight? I moved carefully toward the edge of the bouldery outwash in hopes of framing the falls under the aurora that was yet to come. I’d set up and was again waiting in the growing chill, thinking I was alone. A scrape of boot and the boulder next to me came to life with Nick’s voice. “I don’t think we are going to have much more luck.” It was like the talking boulder back at the writer’s museum at Hali. From the dark, he once again talked me through high ISO framing and bracketing and I captured several practice images; the aurora never returned. Even so, to have the place alone for an hour was relaxing and special. This image is from those few moments. It wasn’t until I downloaded the image that I noticed I’d been up against the trail boundary chain and never realized it would be prominent in my frame.

Equestrians at Vik

Watching the equestrians in the dawn at Vik made me think of home. Someday I hope Des can ride these black sand beaches.

Iceland 2018 Collection

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