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
Rowan’s Night

Rowan’s Night

Up early to process a few photos and then a good morning of shop creativity working on shelving in the studio. It feels good, and splintery, to work in the sawdust again – it has been a long while. I used up my wood supply, but I am satisfied with the first corner-piece of built-in shelves; time to get stuff off the floor.

Nice storms in the afternoon, so we planned an evening excursion to Big Meadow, a short, up-hill hike from the trailhead where the Tahoe Rim Trail intersects Highway 89. I have run the trail through the meadow often. Tonight, we are hoping for some astrophotography in the meadow, and we pack our gear and a few snacks. There will be a chill in the air after the rain, so we pull some dormant down jackets from the closet. We left a bit late, after enjoying a rainstorm at StoneHeart, our first little adventure in the new Crosstrek. It is a relatively short walk in on a nice section of trail, a really easy access.  The trail was moist from the afternoon rain and humidity hung in the air. We hiked to the meadow and wandered a bit looking for compositions that would bring some leading lines or foreground interest into the Milky Way. Some small drainages create boggy ground in places but it is pretty easy to walk around the meadow. I wanted a few boulders for foreground interest but the west side of the meadow lacked a view of the sky due to fingers of forest extending along any bouldery ground. We retreated to a small bridge where the TRT crosses Big Meadow Creek. Here the trail curves nicely to where I knew the Milky Way would soon appear. Small trout jumping at a flourish of mosquitos in the little runs and riffles of Big Meadow Creek. Very fun watching the little fingerlings doing dolphin-like leaps. Bats in-coming. These guys should eat good. A very nice spot, but a little cloud-cover remains, and I am rather skeptical we’ll have much luck with the sky tonight.

As I’m framing some views of the trail leading toward “Red Mountain” where the Milky Way will rise, Des and I notice, at the same time, that the sunset is in full bloom above the western forest line. Easy enough to re-compose to capture the fiery sky beyond the trees, speeding up the shutter speed and dropping the ISO to capture the contrast and avoid noise in the glowing and shadowed sky. This one might be nice. I bracketed 1-stop either way and then captured some longer exposures for a foreground blend. Not sure if I have the chops to develop this as I hope, but we’ll see.

Big Meadow Sundown.   1/30 sec, f/9, ISO 100 (bracketed 1-stop, HDR blend); Canon 6D, 20mm.

 It is not long before I turn back to the southern sky above Red Mountain. Clouds are starting to thin and some glow coming. This post-storm sky might work out after all. Then Des gets the text that Kristen and Robert are on their way to the Monroe Hospital, their baby has chosen this night, with the Milky Way rising through rainswept clouds, to come into the world. A good night for such a thing.

A patient wait. Desna on the Big Meadow Creek bridge.  6 sec, f/1.4, ISO 800; Canon 6D, 20mm (cropped).

The unfolding news brings a new emotion to our time in Big Meadow. It is, of course, a beautifully disconcerting and brand new thing for us to think of ourselves as grandparents, and now we will associate a night at Big Meadow with Kristen, Robert, and, now, Rowan. Rowan’s Night at Big Meadow.

Experience of a place or emotion in a place changes a photograph significantly. I have a captured several nice images where I stepped to the side of the road or stood at an overlook, no real connection or emotion that lingers or re-surfaces at each view, and there is little incentive to revisit the image ever. On the other hand, I have taken bad pictures on a mountain climb, jungle expedition, or family gathering that I just love seeing. The memories return instantly. Thankfully, I have piles of bad pictures with good memories.

I work on exposures until the clouds return, Des waiting patiently on the bridge, cuddled tightly against the chill. I like a few of the starry exposures, even though the bluelight of the evening is prominent and the Milky Way is barely present. Still, the clouds give the stars a nice glow and the constellations of Sagittarius and Scorpio look fantastic. And a child is being born many miles away, but at arm’s-reach when compared to the beautiful light pouring from the sky of Rowan’s Night.

Rowan’s Night. A portfolio keeper on many levels. 15 sec, f/1.4, ISO 1600; Canon 6D, 20mm.

This one checked both boxes, I think. The night was redolent with emotion and experience. As a bonus, the images capture the magic and, as the family grows, bring us back to the simplicity and beauty of that night.

Our promise.  20 sec, f/1.2, ISO 3200; Canon 6D, 20mm (cropped).

Night landscape photography in Dry Lake Valley, NV

Night landscape photography in Dry Lake Valley, NV

A long reconnaissance beyond Tonopah, NV, traversing south of the Reveille Range and into the playa of southern Railroad Valley. I located good access to the playa of Sand Springs Valley near Rachel and then moved on to Alamo, NV, to check in at a small motel. It’s a small strip motel, family-owned, old and a little sad, but really pretty nice. Right on the noisy highway but room is set back and perfectly quiet. Vern the owner/manager said I might be able to park my trailer if we are working nearby, he has one hook-up that sometimes works.

It’s close to the new moon so I headed out to Dry Lake Valley late in the evening. I left the hotel about 9:45PM, fueled up, and pointed the truck down the dark highway. I’m in the area mapping and investigating desert loess (fine-grained dust) deposits and had scouted out a cool spot for astrophotography earlier. I liked the spot because of the prominent outcrops that extend toward the valley floor. These would provide the foreground subjects as I experimented with low-level lighting to illuminate the outcrops, alcoves, and even some ancient rock art panels.

The drive was longer than I remembered, and I overshot my turn with a big-rig bearing down on me. After a quick turn-around, I was there. A perfect, calm evening, finally a warm one. Bats circled around me as I set up some lights. From the rocks above me, in an alcove beyond the rock art, a haunting songbird called in a steady repeat—once every twenty seconds. It’s probably a whippoorwill or something similar.

The small tripod-mounted lights adjust to emit a very low amount of light. While composing the image the light is almost impossible to see, but in a long exposure to capture the night sky, the light works nicely to create foreground interest. I have to take several practice shots to make sure the levels and direction of lighting works. It’s more controlled than light painting and works over relatively long distance. I learned about it on the PhotogAdventures Podcast and thought I’d give it a try. I’m not an expert at this (it’s my first time), but it has definite potential.

Ancient sky. Experimenting with lighting and capturing the starry backdrop above Dry Lake Valley rock art panels. 6.8 sec, f/5.6, ISO 6400; Canon 6D, Sigma Art 20mm.

Point of Rocks. The Milky Way above the boulder outcrops was fun, but I have to seek out some foreground interest to work with these lights (and why did I shoot these at 5.6?!). 19 sec, f/5.6, ISO 6400; Canon 6D, Sigman Art 20mm.

My images don’t really pop, but I like the rock art against the starry sky. A long perfect night in the darkness of Dry Lake Valley. Tomorrow will be a long day.

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