The Usual Suspects of Rauðavatn

Earthshine reader —

It's me (Dazé), and if you're one of those who also reads my other newsletter Moonquake, particularly the latest issue, the choice of walk for this ninth Earthshine transmission won't come as a surprise to you.

… Yes, I'm longing for the sun, the warmth, the green surroundings, and the ability to go out in shirts. As I've said in (one too many) past issues, Iceland has two seasons: Spring and Winter. Summer never really comes, and if it were a song, it would be titled "Spring (Extended Version)". What about autumn? Let me put it this way: The word exists in the dictionary (haust), but so does einhyrningur ("unicorn").

I should end this intro before a rant sprouts. Earthshine is all about mindfulness, journey, discovery, seeing — really seeing — appreciating the ordinary, spotlighting the overlooked, and reporting the findings.

It was June 9, 2024. I was unemployed, living at my mother's, and keeping my spirits up by walking (a lot) and writing (a ton) of walk-themed essays. For this reason — as well as the season — June was my second-most active month last year.

The two main locations for these walks were Elliðaárdalur (yet to be featured in this newsletter) and Rauðavatn. Why these, you ask? They were close by, circuitous, and best of all, surrounded by nature — my buckshee therapists.

Today, I'd like to introduce you to one of them, in case you ever find yourself in Iceland, unemployed, living at somebody else's, and feening a haven to decompress your mind, soothe your soul, and steer yourself towards change.

Rauðavatn means "red lake", but as you can see, it doesn't quite live up to its name, except perhaps that it sits close to its natural neighbour Rauðhólar ("red hills"), which does merit its name … as well as a future episode — *notes it down*.

Incidentally, this was the last walk I took with my 100-400mm lens before I sold it, which is why this establishing shot is somewhat … tight. Despite my best efforts — go high, back away, zoom out — I couldn't fit the entire lake in the frame …

Also, yes, those are snow patches basking in the June sun.

When I take (photo) walks, I'm not guided by a particular theme. (This might change if I embark on more hardcore photography projects.) Instead, I simply document the things I see along the way (and talk about them here). On this occasion, however, I did have a topic in mind: birds. You see, wildlife was the main reason I bought this lens, and it had been a while since our last outing. My first subject happens to be the usual suspects of Rauðavatn: gulls. Unlike their seaside relatives, these like to keep to themselves and are rarely heard mewing.

Another reason I fell for this lens at first was that it offered pseudo-macro capabilities, which in this scenario enabled me to capture this little fellow and its half-hidden companion up close. (If bugs are your thing, let me know what these are — and if I should stay away from them in the future.)

I noticed this foreground potential and decided to play with it. I like the "twos" pattern between the rocks and the swans, but wish they were swapped. Then again, "swans on a lake" is a saturated market … So, what about I inaugurate a new photographic trend called "rocks on a lake"? Could it knock the swans out of the water? Stimulate career choices in geology? Stand the test of time? Ooh!

… Nevermind.

Mallard ducks. When I first learned about sexual dimorphism and realised these two "very different" ducks were, in fact, the same species, I had a "mindquake" of magnitude 10. The feeling was similar to when I was taught that stars are indeed other suns — I beg your absolute pardon?! Having your mind blown daily and sensing your perspective of the world expand is one of many things I miss from childhood. Of course, we all learn as long as we live, but once you mature and map out the rough scope of life and the world, these precious feelings don't come easily. (Ironically, I experienced one recently while watching Friends, of all things. Ross tries to flirt with a pizza delivery lady by informing her — and me — that gas is odourless, but that the industry adds the smell so you know when there's a leak. Wait, you're almost 30 and you didn't know that?! What can I say, I'm in the field of trading self-humiliation for a good read.)

… And how come you crop the photo that way? Oh, I don't know, to give it some spice, some tension, some character. I put on a dumb smile each time I look at it.

Here's a long stretch, and not because it involves a lamp post: I see the upper part of a black swan and the lower part of a white swan. Don't see it? Too bad! You're missing out on a fun psychological phenomenon called pareidolia.

Oh! And here I see a meerkat playing hopscotch with an octopus. Don't see it? … I'm just pulling your leg. No pareidolia here. I merely liked the colour contrast.

I spotted a moving rock on the shore which turned out to be a — redwing? (my birding needs practice) — taking an afternoon bath. My camera froze the moment it ruffled its feathers to cleanse its body. Fascinating technique.

As I wrote in this essay, a photographer should "dare to experiment" when the gut calls for it. Now, experimentation by nature doesn't have a high success rate and will likely require several attempts to achieve something novel. This photo is an example of experimentation in its first stage, meaning the image is a failed attempt, but one in a promising direction. The seed intent? A dynamic frame, nothing more. The skewed angle gives it a lot of that, but the large depth of field and lack of motion blur act against it. If you ask me, the next attempt should be opening the aperture and quickly swivelling the camera as the photo is taken, rending a frame that — I hope — resembles the POV of a bee.

Another unorthodox depiction of reality, once again utilising the enigma of the Dutch angle to give the clouds something, some … oomph. (I used to cringe at that word. Not sure why. It still bothers me a little, so I use it sparingly.)

As I framed these clouds, an older couple crossed me. The gentleman paused and asked what lens I was using. I answered. He said he had the fancier version, the one with a longer reach and brighter aperture, adding that was one of the perks of being older — to allow oneself the good stuff. Condescendence? Perhaps, but even if I had his budget, I wouldn't have bought it — I prefer lighter lenses. Now, if only I had said that instead of smiling awkwardly until he took off after his receding wife, clearly a victim of her man's day-to-day camera craze.

Ah, a dandelion in its prime, serving as a pit stop for these two winged buddies enjoying its sweet nectar before flying off to the next pile of horse shit.

And then, it was time to head back through a path no less rewarding. (Hill paths often make good photo spots because they allow you to angle the camera in a way that makes all buildings — even mountains — disappear from view, giving the image a "stairway to heaven" feel. This area is by no means flat. Reykjavík's landmark mountain Esjan is just off frame, scraping 914 metres at its tallest peak.)

Well, dear reader, that was my therapy session on this stunning Sunday afternoon. If you live in a part of the world that has four seasons and is currently undergoing Spring or Summer, I hereby envy you. Smell some peonies for me, will you?

Until next time,
D