Successtrahorn
I don't think I'll ever feel that business is complete at any location. Not even at the so often photographed lighthouse at Godrevy, eleven miles down the road that appears in a disproportionate percentage of my posts as well as the avatar I use here and elsewhere. I'll never capture the perfect shot- and if somehow that happened, I suspect some form of disillusionment would follow - but at the same time there are pictures that make us happy as we develop them into a pleasing final result. Especially so when we return to a place for the second time to find the star of the show has actually bothered to put in an appearance. As Lee said to a fellow tog on the beach here "Well I've been to Vestrahorn twice, but this is the first time I've seen it." The young English photographer apparently furrowed his brow questioningly, waiting for a further explanation. "When we came here in 2019, the entire mountain range was covered in a blanket of cloud that went all the way down to ground level," Lee continued. "We stayed here for about three hours, hoping things might change, but they only got worse, and we needed to move on."
Lee's retold tale took us back to what was without question the most disappointing episode of that whistle stop tour three years earlier, the only other visit either of us had made to Iceland when we'd circled the entire country in a bright yellow VW campervan named Brian. The day beforehand we'd driven from the far north for hours and hours through increasingly bad weather and disappearing visibility. The mysterious southeast corner between Egilsstadir and Djupivogur remained almost entirely a mystery, the occasional hint of untouched fjord looming silently out of the mist as we made our way south. We arrived at Eystrahorn, just forty minutes away to spend the small hours hoping for a change in the weather, but the morning only delivered more of the same. And when you're attempting to encircle a nation of this size in six days where road conditions and speed limits are designed to keep progress at the steadiest of paces, you can only give a location so much time before you have to move on. By the time we arrived at Vestrahorn and paid the entrance fee to get down to the celebrated viewpoint we'd dreamed of seeing for so long, its total absence from the scene was received in the manner of a firm blow being delivered to the solar plexus. We weren't happy. Ironically, I did eventually turn the camera around to take what was later received on Flickr as one of the most successful images from the trip in "The Life of Brian." I've shamelessly added a link to the bottom of this story as a plug. Later, we moved on to Hofn and then to Jokulsarlon glacier lagoon and Diamond Beach, which happily delivered happier results.
So if nothing else happened on this return to the scene, what we wanted to do was actually see Vestrahorn in all of its magnificence. Whether we'd get any worthwhile images under such a bland sky was a question in point, but as we were staying nearby for four nights, we'd get at least a couple of stabs at laying the spectre of that July morning 2019 to rest. The sense of anticipation in the car as we made our way along the sometimes bumpy track from the main road was infinitely palpable. Every corner turned found us expecting to see the iconic view at last, but what we hadn't realised was that you can only really see Vestrahorn once you head out over the causeway towards the dunes. If we'd had a glimpse on the previous expedition we'd have known that. "Where is it?" I screeched excitedly as I drove slightly more urgently than I should have done. "Have they moved it since last time, just to annoy us?"
Of course, it was there. Why after all would the custodians remove it when they do such a roaring trade charging entrants 900kr a head for the pleasure of seeing the place. We can all rant about being charged to stare at a mountain range, but I find that if you've done your research and know the only way you're going to get a good view is to reconcile yourself to the fact you'll be parting with cash to do so, it at least makes things easier. In fact, we happily parted with the fee on two consecutive days to be here, and I've no doubt we'd have gone again given the time to do so. After all, what a place it is when you finally get to see the mountain range that's featured in countless images for yourself. If there were architecture prizes for natural landscapes, this one would definitely be on a shortlist for a major prize. And when you do arrive, you're immediately faced with so many opportunities. You can shoot reflections over a tidal lagoon, or you can choose a golden grassed dune to perch upon or behind as you try to eliminate the billion footprints on the volcanic black sand. You can zoom in to only include one part of the range, but it would be rude not to take the wide angle lens and consign the entire majesty of it to your SD card. And then you can head down to the water and shoot the incoming tide as big sweeps of white water leave streaks across the shoreline. I could happily spend days here, learning the location and capturing it in every imaginable mood. Even the fact that every tog in southeast Iceland will be competing for elbow room here with you as the light intensifies seems tolerable to me. As I stood in this spot, opening the shutter again and again, earning a welly boot full of seawater for my efforts, I was surrounded by a collection of clackers from across the globe, each seemingly lost in their own happy worlds. Some would smile in the knowledge that they were spending hard earned precious time in one of the world's great photography meccas, while others stood behind their tripods with fixed expressions, knowing this might be their only chance to return from this magical land with an image worthy of their wall or their online gallery.
In this image, which was the sixteenth edition of the original, I found myself sacrificing the immediate foreground drama continued by that big sweep of seawater, by cropping the bottom of the shot to bring the viewer closer into the scene. It definitely falls into the "best viewed large" category, so I hope you've switched the computer on to take a closer look. The almost featureless sky was rescued by a yellow sunset glow to the west, while a couple of tufts nestled pleasingly atop the highest peaks on Vestrahorn. And that foreground wash of water towards me made the shot an easy selection from the many I took of this wide angle view. I've got to confess I'm pretty pleased with the result, and the ghost of 2019 has been happily banished from the back catalogue of despondency. Vestrahorn had made its peace and repaid us for that dismal afternoon three years ago. Happy? Well, yes, I rather think I am this time.
The Life of Brian -
www.flickr.com/photos/126574513@N04/49476904751/in/album-...
Successtrahorn
I don't think I'll ever feel that business is complete at any location. Not even at the so often photographed lighthouse at Godrevy, eleven miles down the road that appears in a disproportionate percentage of my posts as well as the avatar I use here and elsewhere. I'll never capture the perfect shot- and if somehow that happened, I suspect some form of disillusionment would follow - but at the same time there are pictures that make us happy as we develop them into a pleasing final result. Especially so when we return to a place for the second time to find the star of the show has actually bothered to put in an appearance. As Lee said to a fellow tog on the beach here "Well I've been to Vestrahorn twice, but this is the first time I've seen it." The young English photographer apparently furrowed his brow questioningly, waiting for a further explanation. "When we came here in 2019, the entire mountain range was covered in a blanket of cloud that went all the way down to ground level," Lee continued. "We stayed here for about three hours, hoping things might change, but they only got worse, and we needed to move on."
Lee's retold tale took us back to what was without question the most disappointing episode of that whistle stop tour three years earlier, the only other visit either of us had made to Iceland when we'd circled the entire country in a bright yellow VW campervan named Brian. The day beforehand we'd driven from the far north for hours and hours through increasingly bad weather and disappearing visibility. The mysterious southeast corner between Egilsstadir and Djupivogur remained almost entirely a mystery, the occasional hint of untouched fjord looming silently out of the mist as we made our way south. We arrived at Eystrahorn, just forty minutes away to spend the small hours hoping for a change in the weather, but the morning only delivered more of the same. And when you're attempting to encircle a nation of this size in six days where road conditions and speed limits are designed to keep progress at the steadiest of paces, you can only give a location so much time before you have to move on. By the time we arrived at Vestrahorn and paid the entrance fee to get down to the celebrated viewpoint we'd dreamed of seeing for so long, its total absence from the scene was received in the manner of a firm blow being delivered to the solar plexus. We weren't happy. Ironically, I did eventually turn the camera around to take what was later received on Flickr as one of the most successful images from the trip in "The Life of Brian." I've shamelessly added a link to the bottom of this story as a plug. Later, we moved on to Hofn and then to Jokulsarlon glacier lagoon and Diamond Beach, which happily delivered happier results.
So if nothing else happened on this return to the scene, what we wanted to do was actually see Vestrahorn in all of its magnificence. Whether we'd get any worthwhile images under such a bland sky was a question in point, but as we were staying nearby for four nights, we'd get at least a couple of stabs at laying the spectre of that July morning 2019 to rest. The sense of anticipation in the car as we made our way along the sometimes bumpy track from the main road was infinitely palpable. Every corner turned found us expecting to see the iconic view at last, but what we hadn't realised was that you can only really see Vestrahorn once you head out over the causeway towards the dunes. If we'd had a glimpse on the previous expedition we'd have known that. "Where is it?" I screeched excitedly as I drove slightly more urgently than I should have done. "Have they moved it since last time, just to annoy us?"
Of course, it was there. Why after all would the custodians remove it when they do such a roaring trade charging entrants 900kr a head for the pleasure of seeing the place. We can all rant about being charged to stare at a mountain range, but I find that if you've done your research and know the only way you're going to get a good view is to reconcile yourself to the fact you'll be parting with cash to do so, it at least makes things easier. In fact, we happily parted with the fee on two consecutive days to be here, and I've no doubt we'd have gone again given the time to do so. After all, what a place it is when you finally get to see the mountain range that's featured in countless images for yourself. If there were architecture prizes for natural landscapes, this one would definitely be on a shortlist for a major prize. And when you do arrive, you're immediately faced with so many opportunities. You can shoot reflections over a tidal lagoon, or you can choose a golden grassed dune to perch upon or behind as you try to eliminate the billion footprints on the volcanic black sand. You can zoom in to only include one part of the range, but it would be rude not to take the wide angle lens and consign the entire majesty of it to your SD card. And then you can head down to the water and shoot the incoming tide as big sweeps of white water leave streaks across the shoreline. I could happily spend days here, learning the location and capturing it in every imaginable mood. Even the fact that every tog in southeast Iceland will be competing for elbow room here with you as the light intensifies seems tolerable to me. As I stood in this spot, opening the shutter again and again, earning a welly boot full of seawater for my efforts, I was surrounded by a collection of clackers from across the globe, each seemingly lost in their own happy worlds. Some would smile in the knowledge that they were spending hard earned precious time in one of the world's great photography meccas, while others stood behind their tripods with fixed expressions, knowing this might be their only chance to return from this magical land with an image worthy of their wall or their online gallery.
In this image, which was the sixteenth edition of the original, I found myself sacrificing the immediate foreground drama continued by that big sweep of seawater, by cropping the bottom of the shot to bring the viewer closer into the scene. It definitely falls into the "best viewed large" category, so I hope you've switched the computer on to take a closer look. The almost featureless sky was rescued by a yellow sunset glow to the west, while a couple of tufts nestled pleasingly atop the highest peaks on Vestrahorn. And that foreground wash of water towards me made the shot an easy selection from the many I took of this wide angle view. I've got to confess I'm pretty pleased with the result, and the ghost of 2019 has been happily banished from the back catalogue of despondency. Vestrahorn had made its peace and repaid us for that dismal afternoon three years ago. Happy? Well, yes, I rather think I am this time.
The Life of Brian -
www.flickr.com/photos/126574513@N04/49476904751/in/album-...