What the Hello Was That?!
Earthshine reader —
It's me (Dazé), and if you've been following this newsletter, you may remember that six months ago, I introduced a transmission with the following statement:
The previous issue diverged slightly from the structure I've been employing, and I feel Earthshine should continue this trend of expanding its variety whenever the material asks for it. This way, it's more than just one pattern, over and over.
This ethos remains securely perched within me. Why? It prevents pigeonholing, which allows for play, which entices me to show up, which keeps this project alive.
Keeping Earthshine alive means sitting down every once in a while and browsing through my photo walk library, which entails crossing good candidates and … avoiding others, at least temporarily. The reasons vary, but include "lacks substance", "not feeling for it", and "learn to focus, will you?!".
Today's walk was initially a reject under the "lacks substance" decree. Strangely, I kept coming back to it, as if it were a riddle asking to be solved, a challenge calling to be taken on, or … a substance begging to be noticed. Alas, it hit me.
Ready or not, this issue will be an oddball, similarly to the obnoxious fly episode in Breaking Bad, or that bizarre Eleven-goes-to-the-city episode in Stranger Things. (Realistically, there's a good chance the issue will be succeeded by more misfits, ones of even taller order …)
It was April 28, 2024. My family and I drove to my hometown, Mosfellsbær. The premise? To hike to a certain waterfall, one which my mum recalled exploring with us brothers when we were kids. Strangely, the waterfall didn't appear on the (smartphone) maps, which questioned my mother's memory — and infused the outing with mystery.
Long story short, the waterfall wasn't found, but that shouldn't rule it out as imaginary just yet. (For the record, my mother has excellent memory.) There's a good chance the fellow was simply on another hiking trail in the area.
One day, that quest may continue. For now, let's return to the hike.
We chose a different path back, which led between a summerhouse and a grove. (Summerhouses abound in Iceland, but groves … not so much. We have this staple joke for foreigners: What do you do when you get lost in an Icelandic forest? … You stand up.) Being the quick walker I am, I was ahead of the pack, eyeing my sling bag, saddened that I was about to leave without a single photo.
Suddenly, I heard a strange salutation, and by "strange" I mean WHAT THE HELLO WAS THAT?! It was unlike anything I had ever heard, a kind of gluttural raucous. Amid my confusion, however, two things crystallised right away: the sound came from the grove … and I had to find out who it belonged to.
I turned to the others, told them I would only be gone for a moment, and disappeared into the grove to investigate the alien source, camera aloft, with a full battery, but a starving memory card. Below, in the span of five monochromatic vignettes, is the visual novella of this unexpected side quest.
Rock Ptarmigan — or rjúpa as we call it. It's not exactly uncommon, but unless you're a farmer, a mountaineer, or a hunter, you won't come across one easily. The only time most city folk will lay their eyes on one is on Christmas Eve, served with some potatoes and a creamy dark sauce.
But in my (irrefutable!) opinion, the rjúpa's biggest charm isn't its cry, nor its holiday spirit; it's its survival mechanism. Take a good look at the sequence again. You can see it developing in the head and neck. Notice its plumage, moulting from white to brown. Seasonal camouflage, that is. Fascinating creatures, 'tarmies …
(Signing off before I moult into Rubeus Hagrid.)
Until next time,
D