A Mountain without Shadow

When I visited New Zealand in February 2013, the weather was idyllic.  Colorful sunrises and breathtaking sunsets bracketed days of blue sky, puffy clouds, and golden light.  The weather during my trip to Iceland, however, has been almost the exact opposite.  First, there exists no sunrise or sunset, because the sun is always in the sky—or so I gather by the general, white glow that permeates the air through heavy cloud cover.  Second, it rained almost constantly, about 87% of the time according to my figures.

I’ve been trying to decide this morning whether Iceland or New Zealand is more beautiful, and I was looking back at some of my favorite photos from NZ and comparing them to a few preliminary favorites from Iceland.  The NZ photos are rich with contrast, extreme angles of light casting beautifully long shadows across the the landscape.  The Iceland photos are shades of grey, most of the color brought out through manipulation of the RAW images using the Adobe Camera RAW conversion tools in Photoshop.  Rarely can shadows be seen.  After all, how can a shadow exist without a directed source of light?

There can be beauty in subtlety, however, and I worked as hard as I possibly could to find it.  While many of the images I took and will wind up printing don’t immediately appeal to the sensibilities that most people share when it comes to what makes a generically “good” photograph, I think at least several of my shots match the best of those from NZ in composition and beauty.

As to which country is more beautiful…well, I really cannot decide.  Much of the time in Iceland, anything above a hundred or so feet was shrouded in cloud, so I didn’t get to see vast swathes of the countryside.  While I do wish the weather had been more cooperative, I can say with certainty that Iceland has an otherworldliness to it the likes of which I’ve never seen.  It’s simply beyond my capabilities to accurately describe the truly bizarre nature of some of the landscapes I’ve witnessed.  In my lifetime, it’s probably the closest I’ll come to visiting another planet.

Ain't no Sunshine when I'm Here

Yesterday, when I set out in the morning, it was fizzling.  Twenty minutes into my drive, it was raining.  After thirty minutes, it was pouring.  The rain followed me across the sea on Baldur ferry and to Snæfellsjökull National Park, despite the weather information claiming sunshine at my very location.  I took any "fizzle time" as an opportunity to get out of the car and take some grey, colorless pictures.

I'd skipped breakfast that morning because I had to leave before the hotel started serving food (8 AM), so by the time I arrived at my next hotel at nearly 6 PM, I was cold, wet, and famished.  After shoveling some cod down my gullet, I headed out at 7 PM on what could be a beautiful walk along lava field cliffs.  When I began, it wasn't raining, but the sky was dark grey, and the air smelled of rain.  Thirty minutes into my walk, however, something miraculous occurred.  

A small patch of blue sky formed in the distance above a mountain.  I could barely determine whether I was imagining the color through the force of wishful thinking or whether it actually existed, so pale and sickly a color blue it was.  But after another few minutes, the patch of blue sky began to expand, rapidly widening until the sun itself shone through this cloud-lined orifice.

HALLELUJAH!  I spent the next hour and half taking pictures of rocks that actually cast shadows, of houses that popped from the landscape, and of flowers brimming with golden hues.  I don't think I captured any spectacular photos, but the experience was wonderful.  It was as if I'd been laying under a soggy mattress for days, forgetting that anything aside from grey, dampness could exist.  When I finally was allowed to escape, I discovered that the world is green, and blue, and yellow, and orange, and purple, and red, and gold.


Fun with Fuel

The only gas pump in Hólmavík belongs to the fuel station company Olís, one of the major fueling options here in Iceland.  Uselessly, the car rental company handed me a discount chip for Olís stations, which I would—in theory—use by waving in front of the pump, inserting my credit card, and then begin pumping diesel into my Ford Kuga.  There’s a little hiccup, though: my credit card needs to have a chip and pin system, something uncommon with American cards…despite the security benefits that go along with this card technology.

Yep, that's my rental car!

Yep, that's my rental car!

At just over half a tank, I didn’t want to risk driving through some of the most remote sections of Iceland without a full tank of gas under me (ironic that sitting atop a sloshing jug of explosive fluid would bring be such comfort), so I decided it’d be worth attempting to buy fuel at the Olís pump.  And it literally was just one pump, plopped down directly on a side street in front of a tiny convenience story filled with flies and two very old men.

The store owner, who must have been in his mid 80s, spoke not a word of English, so I had a lovely time attempting to explain to him that in order to pump the gas, he’d essentially have to pay for it, and then I’d reimburse him.  A bit round in the face with a double chin that hung down below his collar-bone, the old man poked at the pump for a bit with my discount chip, though it was, of course, in vain, as I had no means with which to pay for the gas directly.  (With N1 stations, I’m able to buy a gas card that works at their pumps, but not so with Olís.)  Eventually, his equally old friend wandered out of the fly-filled store.

This man was thin and wind-whipped, and I imagined him to be a retired fisherman.  Luckily, he spoke a bit of English.  Unluckily, he was more interested at poking fun at his friend than actually translating or facilitating the transaction.  He shouted, arms wide to the sky, “This man belongs in crazy house.  Look at him.  Police come any day now to take him to crazy house.”  While entertained by the newcomer’s shenanigans, I couldn’t help but notice that the original man had disappeared back into the store with my car keys and discount chip.  “He is a loon, can’t even run his own gas pump,” the second man was saying, cackling into the sea-smelling wind.

All this went on for fifteen minutes or so before I finally managed to sort out the situation, get my keys back, pay for the gas, and be on my way.  The second man high five-ed me in apparent glee when all was said and done, wishing me well on my trip and laughing off down the street.

"And then we come to the Tunnel" - Gollum

When I was a kid, I aspired to drive the tractor without having to sit on my dad’s lap.  A few years later, I yearned to drive a car.  “Enjoy driving while it’s still new,” I was told.  I suppose the idea is that after the novel becomes stale, the experience is no longer as exhilarating.  Driving does often become tiresome, so the sentiment holds weight for the most part…but not today.

Today, I drove around the Tröllaskagi peninsula, which is off the main road circling Iceland.  With the ocean on my right and towering, snow-capped mountains on my left, I wound my way carefully over sometimes unpaved roads, stopping now and again to take a few photos.  There was no way to really capture the scale of the environment, the fragility you feel in your human-constructed automobile as you cling to the side of sheer rock cliffs like an ant scurrying along the crevice of a brick wall.  I felt that same, fresh excitement from the first time I applied pressure to a gas pedal and controlled a car.  I felt free, unleashed, unstoppable.

Then came the tunnels.  Oh my goodness, the tunnels.  Quite abruptly and with barely a hundred meters’ warning, I plunged into the mountainside.  I quickly discovered that when they say “tunnel,” they don’t mean no Lincoln Tunnel; this is a roughly carved, dimly lit channel several kilometers long.  You can FEEL the weight of the mountain around you, unthinkably massive yet so ready to fracture should there be an earthquake.  

Oh, and did I mention there’s only one lane?  Whenever I see the headlights of an oncoming car in the distance, I have to either rush for the next niche carved into the wall on the right to let the oncoming car pass or back up to the previous niche, depending upon how far away the car is (which is nearly impossible to judge).

Luckily, some tunnels were wide enough for two lanes, so I took this as an opportunity to shoot a little video.  Just picture the single lane tunnels as being much, much more confined.

It actually reminds me of a scenario in so many video games, the goal of which is to push forward through a narrow space.  Of course, this space gets filled every few seconds with lava, tornado-force winds, plasma, or a death rays, so you have to duck into some crevice and wait for the deluge to cease before proceeding.  Indeed, I felt today the same sort of exhilaration mixed with sweaty anxiousness I’ve felt while playing those types of games.  Except in the tunnels of Iceland, there’s no restarting from the previous check point when you are incinerated.

Sun, Gnats, and a Shower

And on the ninth day, He said, “Let there be sun.”  And there was sun.  And it was good.  I guess what I’m trying to say is that it was sunny today and that I appreciated it.  On the downside…instead of rain, there were gnats.  Billions upon billions of gnats flying around every part of my body they could reach, flooding into my rental car every time I opened the door, and generally hovering in front of my camera to disrupt what would otherwise be a perfectly good shot.

Yes, these are gnats.  I zoomed in on them so they look larger, but this is just to give you an idea of the air to gnat density ratio.

Yes, these are gnats.  I zoomed in on them so they look larger, but this is just to give you an idea of the air to gnat density ratio.

But enough about that—let’s talk about the shower in my hotel room.  I so look forward to taking a shower each night and washing off the filth that accumulates over the course of the day.  Yesterday, I particularly looked forward to the warm spray, having suffered a fall earlier in the day.  Ah, finally, it’s time to take a shower.  I disrobe (this is a polite way of saying that I get naked), turn on the tap…and discover that the water is coming out of the bath spout and not the shower head.  I poke and prod at every knob, pipe, button, and really anything metallic-looking, but I simply cannot figure out how to make the water flow upwards towards the shower head!

I’m kind of wet already, and the thought of drying off my still dirty body, putting on clothing, and hunting down a receptionist (who doesn’t sit at the desk all the time, as this is a small establishment) is simply too much.  How much is too much, you ask?  Well, perhaps this will give you an idea: I spent half an hour soaping up and rinsing off by pouring cupfuls of water over myself using the tiny glass cup they provide in hotel bathrooms.  Little by little, I became clean.

You pull down on the tip of the bath nozzle to activate the shower, by the way.

They Called me Paranoid O_O

They called me paranoid.  They said I was wasting money.  They told me it couldn’t possibly rain that much!  They were wrong.  (I’m not sure who “they” are, precisely, but let’s say “they’re” parents/friends/psychiatrist).  For the past several days, I’ve been traveling through Iceland in the kind of weather you see newsmen standing in during a hurricane.  Should that man really be standing so close to the sea, should he be within a hundred feet of live electrical wires, and what’s the point of holding that inside-out umbrella, anyway?  Well, if the newsman wants to captivate his audience, then the answer to each of these questions has to be: YES (except for the last one, which isn’t really a “yes” or “no” kind of question).

I spent around $850 on a Nikon AW1, a water and shock-proof camera with an interchangeable lens and better image quality than any other waterproof camera within a few thousand dollars.  And good thing I did, because boy has it been raining.  I’ve climbed up mountains, descended into ravines, and approached more waterfalls than I can count—all with my waterproof shoes, pants, jacket, backpack, and camera.  

Whenever I get a spot of sun or a break in the rain, I pull out my two Canon cameras, run around like a maniac, and capture as much as I possibly can using each of my lenses.  I can’t even imagine what I must look like to other tourists, but I don’t care.  I came here for the purpose of taking great photos, and great photos are what I’m going to take.  When the rain returns, away go the Canons, on goes the waterproof backpack cover, and out comes my Nikon AW1.

All of this photo craziness came to a head yesterday when, while hiking out to see Dettifos—the most powerful waterfall in Europe—I slipped and fell.  The rain and wind combined forces to push and pull me in every direction, and the rocks over which I climbed were slick with layers of algae that had built up over days of rain.  I looked up for just a moment to find the next trail marker, and it was then that my foot slipped.  I shouldn’t have tried to take a step while looking up, but I did, and I fell hard, my 40+ pound backpack pulling me down like an upside down pendulum onto sharp knives of rock.  The damage, luckily, was minimal.  I have various bruises covering the right side of my body (“I swear, officer, my wife didn’t beat me up THIS time…”), and my right arm is just a tad too sore to be of much use.  As it was raining, the Nikon was hung around my neck, and though it too smashed into a hard rock, it came out rather less damaged than I.

Rekya-something

I arrived in Iceland a day early due to an airline strike, which means that I have two days to expend in Iceland’s capitol, Reykjavik.  This city is quirky; buildings are colorfully lop-sided, psychedelic murals twist and swirl over walls, and hundreds of what I’d call knick-knack shops litter the streets.  Yet the city is growing.  Modern towers are rising everywhere you look, supported by literally dozens of yellow cranes crisscrossing the grey sky.  Iceland’s capitol is clearly undergoing a transformation.

As I have no interest in photographing people and only a minimal interest in photographing architecture…I decided to find the most architecturally interesting spots (a subjective analysis, of course).  With my rain jacket, waterproof camera, and covered backpack, I allowed Google Maps to lead me through the drizzle to Hallgrimskirkja, a Lutheran parish church which also happens to be the tallest church in the country.  It was 8AM, yet the surrounding area and interior buzzed (or should I say clicked) with the sound of dozens of photographers, each with a camera matching or exceeding my own in quality.  

Right away, while I was framing a shot, an older man with a lovely Sony A7r ordered me out of his way, as I was blocking his view.  Very rude!  I was there first, after all.  Not wanting to initiate an altercation, I obliged.  I did, however, intentionally block at least seven of his other photographs at the last moment, just as he was preparing to press the shutter.  That’s called photo bombing, right?

Onwards, I trekked up a large hill via gravel pathways to Perlan, a building comprised of four massive stone cylinder connected by a domed, glass cylinder in the middle.  It used to be a hot water storage facility (and maybe still is?), but now the center structure is a museum and restaurant.  One of the other cylinders used to hold the Saga Museum, but that has since been moved to a larger location.  My favorite bit was the artificial geyser, which spat a massive plume of water into the air at regular intervals.  My least favorite bit was the bus of Chinese tourists, which released a torrent of very loud.  (Yes, I intentionally ended the previous sentence like that.)

After I’d had my fun with the water fountain, I walked towards the center of town, where I saw lots of boats, sculptures, and the Harpa concert hall, a fairly new and modern looking glass structure.  I also ate fish and chips.  Yum!