Iceland #16 - Day 7: The Day of the Dreadful Fall

Usually on my Icelandic trips I have the odd little mishap - a careless stumble, a trip here and there, usually resulting in a couple of bruises and broken nails, and occasionally a tiny bit of broken skin. The worst injury I suffered on my last trip was a cut on my finger from a broken clip on my backpack while I was packing at home. This time, however, I suffered my first injury that could well have been a lot worse.

I woke up late, having listened to wind whistling around the cabin half the night. I poked my head through the curtains and it was pretty white outside. I got up, had some breakfast and tea, and took a couple of shots out of the window. Visibility was limited, but what I could see looked quite pretty, all white from the snow that was still gently falling outside.

I didn't want to miss the prettiness of the snowy landscape and decided that it would be nice to explore down the road opposite on foot. I'd done that the previous year - got a nice walk in and enjoyed being out in the snowy landscape. I left the cottage at about 11.30am, all geared up, carrying the tripod under my left arm, camera bag full of lenses on my back, and the camera with the 70-200mm lens around my neck, held in my right hand. It was freezing, so I was dressed in the usual array of layers, including the thick down jacket and outer waterproof coat; I felt quite snug. I also had my little shoulder bag with all of the filters in it on my left side.

I walked down the path from the cabin in tyre tracks from my neighbours who'd already left, the snow soft under my feet. Visibility had improved a little since I'd got up and it began to look magical. The sky was still dark in the distance but I could just make out the mountains now. As I walked past the farmhouse I looked down towards now-visible Brunnhóll and exclaimed to myself how this was one of the most amazing views and Sigurdur and his wife were lucky to live here with this view ahead of them every day. I lifted the camera up to my face to take a picture of the view at the exact moment when my left foot began to slip. I remember vividly thinking "Oh no! The ice! I'm falling!" as my left foot caught one of the large icy patches on the track which I'd driven past for the last two days, and which was now concealed under the fresh, soft snow. As I fell it felt as if it was happening in slow motion, as always seems to be the way in these situations. The leg slid forward underneath me and I came down on the ice with a massive thud, landing with a huge amount of force on my upper left side, my legs out to the side ahead of me. The tripod I was carrying had somehow managed to land in front of me and didn't cause me any injuries, and the camera was miraculously unharmed. My left hand had a slight redness to it. My head seemed to be okay. I was in shock as I got up, and felt a bit embarrassed, wondering if Sigurdur or his wife might have seen me from their window being so careless as to fall! I continued on, walking from then on along the edge of the track, on grass, treading carefully. After about 30 metres I checked my camera and realised that the lens cap had come off, so I retraced my steps to the site of the fall and picked up the small black cap, lying in the mess of snow that I'd made. (I took an iPhone shot on the way back for posterity - you can see the smooth black ice now visible after my feet and legs pushed the snow cover away!)

I decided to continue with my walk - didn't want a stupid fall ruining everything. As I walked all sorts of things started running through my head, around what kind of damage I might have done to myself. The whole of my left side ached immediately, but if I tried to press my left side I couldn't quite locate the pain. As well as the whacking of my body against the sheer ice, I'd also jarred the rest of my body as I'd fallen, presumably as I'd moved my right arm and head in a way so as to avoid whacking them on the sheer ice too. I kept counting my blessings that the camera was okay. And that my head was okay.

I crossed the road and stopped to take a few photos of the horses. They looked beautiful with the snowy mountains and steely grey skies as backdrop. A few of the horses were shoving their noses into the snow and eating a little - they looked pretty cute after doing so.

I caught the odd silly expression and the odd mugshot.

I continued on down the snow-covered road that heads towards the coast, where I'd driven the previous day - and on other occasions - to see the wonderful river braids. Thoughts kept running through my mind - internal bleeding, damage to my breast implant (which I had 5 years ago to match the left one up with the right one, where I'd had a mastectomy), damage to my organs... But I kept on walking. I phoned my husband and told him about the fall, and that he should call me in a couple of hours to check on me. I felt freaked out, unsure of what I'd done and what the consequences might be. I knew that I was probably having melodramatic thoughts, but it's pretty easy to do under the circumstances - if nothing else I was definitely suffering from shock.

The river braids looked striking, as they had the previous year, although the sky was more dramatic and bleak. I walked as far as the fork in the road and took the same right-hand road that I'd driven down a couple of times, leading off into nowhere... The sun came out for me and I felt a little bit better about my predicament.

I took out a filter, hoping to do a couple of long exposures, only to discover another casualty from the fall - a smashed 6-stop ND filter. I was a bit devastated - this is my go-to filter for smoothing water. Ho hum.

I turned round, thinking that I shouldn't over-do it too much, and walked slowly back up the road towards the cottage. The clouds were getting thinner over the mountains to the west, and to the north there was even blue sky. If it wasn't for the pain and the worry it would have been blissful!

I stopped to take a few more photos of the horses, now basking in the afternoon sunshine. Some of them appeared to be sleeping, standing up. This is not something I knew horses did until this moment.

*Not ignoring me; just sleeping...

When travelling in Iceland in the winter it's sometimes easy to forget how much farming goes on in the country. This is one of the few places I pass where I am reminded of the farming - as the cottage is located on a sheep farm. The buildings always fascinate me and I love the patterns the bales of hay sometimes make. In summer it's a completely different experience, with sheep absolutely everywhere!

I got back home at 2.20pm - having been out for nearly 3 hours, in spite of the agony that I was now in. I had begun to feel quite stiff. It was a relief to be back at the yellow cottage, to be able to relax, make a cheese sandwich and drink some tea - tea always makes everything better.

As I'd arrived back I noticed that the wind had got up in the distance and fresh snow was being blown from the mountainsides. It looked absolutely spectacular and I was transfixed - looking out of the front window every few minutes to check and then popping out to take a few more shots, with the blowing snow backlit by the afternoon sun. I kept on checking for about an hour and half before I finally made myself go out again, in spite of my aches and pains. It was just so damned beautiful!

At 5pm I forced myself to go out - knowing that the sunset was fast approaching, and Stokksnes was only a short drive away. The forecast for the aurora wasn't bad for the evening, and the skies were looking to be clear too, so there was a chance of a decent sunset and also some northern lights. The afternoon isn't the best time to visit Stokksnes, given that hundreds of feet will have traipsed through the dunes during the day. At least since the wind had got stronger there was a chance that some of them would have blown away. On the drive there I passed a few snow-drifts - at the bottom of the hills that I'd seen the snow being blown from, no doubt. I was lucky that there wasn't more blocking my way, but I did pass a snow-plough, so I guess the locals were aware of the situation!

This time I paid my entrance fee inside the café and drove up to the end of the road, not wanting to lose time with walking (and not having a great deal of energy to do so). I wandered around for a while in search of some ripples - there wasn't much to see unfortunately.

The light was still a little harsh, without the golden warming of the hour before sunset yet, but the sun was already low in the sky, resulting in long, tricky shadows. The snow had settled over the black sand in places, and in turn the sand had then been blown across the snow, resulting in weird grey patches and some interesting patterns.

I noticed some tracks in the sooty snow - presumably from gulls - which looked very cute and made a nice abstract pattern.

There were some interesting ripple patterns too that caught my eye (it's not just about that impressive mountain backdrop).

The light began to become softer and warmer at about 6pm, but there were some annoying low clouds near the horizon, so the sunlight diminished. There was a chance that it might come back - and it did from time to time - so I then spent the next twenty minutes rushing around from the dunes to the beach, trying to capture that perfect composition, with the last light on the peaks. At the edge of the beach I found some little pointed snow patches that were suddenly illuminated with some wonderful golden-hour light. I was pretty happy with that!

Most of the surrounding area was covered in footprints, but I managed to find a pristine patch. I carried on towards the water's edge, hoping to capture some reflections. I was also in luck for this too! In spite of this being one of the most photogenic spots in the whole of Iceland, I've never seen it very busy. The weather was clear, if rather windy and (very) cold, so I'd expected to see more people there. But no - they must've been elsewhere, thankfully!

The light on the peaks gradually faded and turned a soft pink before disappearing.

As the light on the peaks disappeared the sky to the east turned pink instead.

I walked to the end of the beach, hoping the rocky bits might provide something more interesting than the previous morning. The waves weren't massive, but the odd one or two came over the rocks and created some pretty trails as they receded. The alpenglow increased in intensity; I've often seen this wonderful deep pink and blue from this beach.

The waves were getting a bit frothy and bubbly, which isn't very pretty, so I took a last few shots before heading up past the little pond towards the car.

I got to the car just before 7pm and drove a few metres down to the edge of the dunes to wait until it got dark; there were a couple of other cars there too with the same idea. I rammed on the heating and warmed up a bit. My plan was to wait until I could see a few stars before heading back down to the beach and the water's edge. Hopefully the aurora would come out to play for me. Just after 8pm, which was only about half an hour after civil twilight had finished, I saw the first faint green glow, so wrapped myself up warm, got the wide angle lens on, and headed off to the beach again, head-torch guiding my way. There was a vague green arc over Brunnholl, which I was rather pleased about, given that the previous time I'd been here at night there was nada.

I used the usual method of jacking up the ISO to take a quick shot to see if I'd got the focus right - the stars have to be crisp - before setting it at 2500 and a shutter speed of 6 seconds. Within minutes the skies and wet sand beneath my chilly feet were lit up with rather yellow northern lights.

It was pretty special, and I felt I deserved some luck after the disaster of the day. Thoughts of internal bleeding and ruptured implant were still rushing through my brain from time to time, but I decided it was probably just cracked ribs and I'd live to see another day. There wasn't a soul on the beach, so just as well I didn't collapse! It's a strange thing, to be on your own, standing on a beach in the dark, with just a camera, tripod and head-torch, the waves washing over your feet every few minutes. I should feel slightly anxious, but I just feel free, alive, in heaven!

At 8.45pm another photographer arrived, but was considerate, using a red light to see what he was doing (not like Jökulsárlón where people intentionally shine lights on the bergs - grrrr). I decided to call it a night. The lights had subsided and I felt exhausted and hungry. By 9pm I was back in the car and on my way, just as a tour group had arrived and were taking photos from the top of the dunes. I drove through the tunnel and pulled onto the private side road to see if there were any more lights. There was a rather purple haze which was pleasant, if not spectacular.

I was home by 9.30pm, and rustled up a quick pasta. I avoided beer that night, still worried about the effect of the fall and what damage I might have done. I got to bed pretty early, and set the alarm for a late start, as really poor weather was forecast again.

I'd survived the day, and the worst injury I've suffered on my photography holidays. I set an additional alarm for the middle of the night, to check on myself (!), before heading to sleep. Next time I'll buy the crampons (which I'd been considering but thought I wouldn't really need...) and be a bit more careful!

Click here for my blog from Day 6: Stokksnes, Lón and Stafafell
Click here for my blog from Day 8: A Snowy Day around Stafafell