Iceland Day 6: Moving to South Coast

Iceland Day 6: Moving to South Coast

We could not make Kirkjafell. The skies cleared but the Snaefellsnes Peninsula, probing proudly westward into the North Sea, could not escape the wind. Snow drifts remained and the gales kept high-profile vehicles from the mountain passes. We were on the peninsula’s southern edge and had hoped to cross over to Grundarfjörður on its north coast for some locations near the iconic wizard-hat peak of Kirkjafell. The group gathered after breakfast, still in the dark of the late morning, and agreed to the decision to drive for the South Coast region, back beyond Reykjavik. I could, however, sense some disappointment in missing the photographic icon. The workshop had only the most basic itinerary, a prerequisite when adapting to conditions of brief wintertime daylight and of chasing cloudless night skies when aurora is likely. So, given the storm pattern, even as it cleared, we had to move on. We wanted the iconic shots, of course. There may be a hundred-thousand photos of Kirkjafell (or any other iconic location), but almost every photographer wants their own. Our photography friends know the shots, and on-line image searches inundate our small screens, but put an original iconic keeper—if you are lucky enough to capture one—on your wall and no one knows there are thousands of the same scene (many probably better, too); for a moment the icon is yours. For now, we drive through almost perfect golden-hour light—the golden hour that lasts all day here. At first it was a bit frustrating, as back-lit storm clouds danced in the volcanic mountains. But we were committed to the goal of the South Coast, the good weather and aurora forecasts pulling us onward.

The islands of Vestmannaeyjar — I climbed the volcano Eldfell in 2005.

Volcanoes, glaciers, waterfalls, ponies—the beauty of the coastal ring-road unfolded before us. In the slowly setting sun, we crossed the vast braided river Markarfljót where the islands of Vestmannaeyjar loomed far offshore. This kindled the memories of a previous winter visit to the islands in 2005. An hour later, the sun and golden light barely changing, Thor finally turned us onto a set of gravelly switchbacks leading to the Dyrhólaey lighthouse. Relieved to have the drive behind us, the group eagerly dispersed along the volcanic rimrock with precarious drops to the sea, arches and seastacks among the waves below. It was a pleasure to walk along the paths and watch the sunset, but I think the long day’s drive had taken its toll. I composed a few images, but I wasn’t really feeling it. The day’s—that is, night’s—highlight came later.

A short day’s long sunset at Dyrhólaey.

We checked in at the Dyrhólaey guesthouse, met for dinner and brews, and prepped for a late night of aurora photography. We were headed to the Solheimasandur plane wreck on the black sand of glacial outwash, where the Hólsá River meets the sea. After an emergency landing in 1973, the U.S. Navy Douglas Dakota (Super DC-3) was stripped and abandoned. It’s a few kilometers from the roadside parking, sitting in a barren landscape at the end of a sandy path. It takes a while to walk to the plane and tourists often get lost in the dark or in bleak storms when guiding landmarks are absent. That is, unless you have a key to the gate—a key that Thor picked up from the landowner during a quick stop on our earlier drive. We turned into the two-track road, headlights absorbed by the dark sand and darker skies. It was a perfectly calm, clear evening, but I could see how navigating the black beach at night would be adventurous. Recent snow glistened in low spots and remnant drifts. An icy mist coated the banks of the Hólsá River. We forded the river, breaking through ice and crawling to the other side. Suddenly, out of the blackness, a stark fuselage seemingly jumped into our path. Thor swerved the headlights—I enjoyed his dramatic little maneuver—turning around to unobtrusively park the van. We were alone with the plane. In the moments before your eyes adjust, you walk in pitch black knowing a creepy hulk of an aircraft sits within arm’s reach. Although everyone limited their headlamp use to keep our night-vision, the occasional, random beam would highlight the scavenged, slumbering beast. This was going to be fun.

Prelight Checklist. Learning the possibilities with aurora building; winter milky way and evaporating clouds.

We gathered to talk about compositions and settings, Nick’s voice in the dark among the shadows of students. The plane at night only really worked as a foreground element, we weren’t here to simply document the dark historical wreck. I practiced setting the ISO super high and taking test exposures. Modern cameras soak up the dimmest light and though ultra-high-ISO images are noisy and granular, you get an idea of how the foreground elements work as a composition. Once that’s done, a low-ISO long exposure, say three or four minutes, lets the ambient light, maybe even some aurora, reveal the foreground with good clarity, but the sky isn’t very good, usually. Keeping your position and increasing ISO a bit allows one to capture a starry backdrop or aurora with a relatively quick exposure. A short duration limits star trails (unless that’s what you want) and keeps the dancing aurora from being a glutenous green blob (unless that’s what you want [um, no]). It takes some experimenting and practice, along with knowing your camera controls blindfolded. With a bit of exposure blending in photoshop, your memory and emotion of experiencing the night are revealed. A relatively typical astro-landscape photography workflow; typical but not easy. I struggle with the imaging and processing but, again, it’s just so much fun. And, damn, do I know the buttons on my camera now.

Approaching Symphony. A concert never forgotten at Solheimasandur wreckage.

So much for the technical stuff, how was the aurora? Set against the backdrop of stars and glow of some low clouds, our eyes now adjusted, it was pretty easy to draft compositions. We waited for the light, and I had little expectation that the seminal experience at the black church could be surpassed. I was so very wrong. Take away the blistering wind and cold of Snaefellsnes and add a coronal (“full overhead”), multi-colored display and you get an experience few of us will ever forget. It was—cliché alert—magical. Awesome by its original undiluted definition. Music in the sky, in-concert for an hour at least. I could not begin to capture it. From the laughter and ecstatic hoots around me, I knew that the others felt the same. Images are beautiful, and we got some keepers, but after a while I simply laid back and let the symphony sink in. I can still hear it.
Back to Day 5.5. Click here for Iceland Gallery. Up next: Vik to Vestrahorn
First Astrophotography – Pine Nut Mountains, NV

First Astrophotography – Pine Nut Mountains, NV

I have long wanted to try photographing the Milky Way. I wasn’t too sure how it would turn out, but I liked the idea of getting out in the dark of the early morning and giving it a try. I’d messed around as a geeky teenager trying to photograph galaxies and nebulae by attaching my SLR to a Meade telescope. I still keep the 30-year-old mount adaptor, but I don’t remember any of the images turning out as we anxiously reviewed negative strips we got back from our local photo developer. I can still locate most of the common dark-sky objects, but this morning I just wanted a picture of the Milky Way; and, I’d heard that DSLRs made it pretty easy to capture one.

I decided I’d get up at 3 AM and head over to the Pinyon Trailhead. I could see the Milky Way easily enough. The moon had set long ago and the sun was a couple hours away. I’d prepared by investing in a  20mm, f/1.4 lens, having reviewed several tutorials about astrophotography. I wanted wide-angle and a fast, light-grabbing lens. At the trailhead, I set up my tripod, pointed my 80D at the Milky Way, cranked up the ISO, and hit shutter for a 10-second exposure. Wow, that’s cool. A bright, well-defined Milky Way and its receding core appeared on the LCD screen. It was beautiful, and nothing like what I could see with my unaided eye. I experimented with various exposure times and ISOs until settling on 15 seconds and an ISO of 3200.

The first astro image. The Milky Way over the Pine Nut Mountains. I’d yet to learn about the helpful creativity of foreground interest. 15 sec, f/1.4, ISO 3200

Working the RAW files in Lightroom, I tried to create the relatively clear images of the stars and dust of our galaxy. Although I was amazed at the outcome, I will need plenty of practice to get images that capture the feeling of a dark night and the deep sky. It takes imagination and creativity because you can’t see and experience the image like you can when you capture a landscape, even when you process nature scenes to communicate the feeling and experience of a place and its light.

Learning the astro cliché, a headlamp selfie. 15 sec, f/1.4, ISO 3200