“We’ll go down to the bottom and take photos of the waterfall from the river,” we said. “Then we’ll open up the telephoto lenses on the falls from above and zoom into details,” we continued. But what we’re not going to do is widen the world out to sixteen millimetres and photograph the entire show in a single frame,” we concluded. “It’s just too big.”
Well you can see for yourself that I took it. Of course I did - who was I kidding as I pontificated on the purpose of the wide angle lens in the bag, adamant that I was only ever going to incline it towards the space just beyond my toes and swallow up foregrounds greedily as if they’d been spilled from giant sweetie jars?
There are always exceptions to the bastions of perceived wisdom, and as far as I'm concerned, Háifoss is most certainly one of them, a wild sweeping canyon at the edge of nowhere. From the natural platform at the top, the view is seemingly endless. The river winds away towards distant green hills, splitting into small and numerous channels over wide swathes of gravel before regrouping into one silvery ribbon, gliding carelessly towards lazy sunbeams, while beyond lies the restless ocean, hidden behind the land, existing only in the imagination. All of those miles in front of us, not one square yard of it tainted by human hands. Places like this really still do exist in the margins of Europe.
Too much stuff for one image? I don’t think so. I’ve seen some very dramatic pictures taken from this exact same spot, under blood red winter sunsets in the teeth of gales that steal excited conversations from open mouths and scatter them to the corners of the world. Today was far more benign, and for much of the previous two hours I’d been down at the river, using the wide angle lens on flowing lines that chased across shallows over glistening black rocks. A fine mist rose from the deep roar of the basin below the enormous white column, catching the sunlight at my back and bouncing it back in a perfect rainbow, slowly spreading, testing waterproofs as if by stealth, yet never dampening my enthusiasm for the task at hand. And now, back at the top, my breath taken by the steep hike and the infinite vista in equal measures, there was no question that I’d use that lens one more time here. By now the rainbow in front of the waterfall had gone, while clouds filled the southern sky and marched towards us threateningly, reminding us how exposed we were in this lonely place where looking straight down over the side of the canyon was not for the fainthearted. No fiery sunset here today, but atmosphere and mood that played its part in painting the moment. I’m glad I ignored my resolve and took the shot. I’d have only kicked myself for not doing so later. Intransigence is so often the mother of regret.
While the secretive treasures of the Highlands remained to be discovered, this was our outpost, the furthest distance travelled from the soft grassy pastures where people live and breathe their daily routines. Here was a raw empty space, away from the coach loads of tourists on day trips from Reykjavík. Only a dozen or so off road vehicles filled the parking area, and a couple of smaller cars, driven over the last four miles of potholed track by people who hadn't bothered to inspect the small print in their rental agreements too closely. If a “road” has a three digit identification number around here, you can assume it’s going to be a bumpy ride, even if it isn’t one of the fabled “F” roads that only four wheel drive cars are allowed to travel on.
When I’m plotting, planning and chasing dreams across the online map, green flags appear as I sketch itineraries. My online map of Iceland is an ever growing forest of them. Before, Háifoss was the most remote of the outlying markers in the southern half of the country, but now there are new green flags, planted further into the Highlands, Iceland’s El Dorado, along roads where things get really tasty. And where there’s a marker that remains to be uprooted and inspected from every angle, a new plan lies in waiting, just a matter of time before it becomes reality. While I very slowly amass the resources that such a trip requires, I’ll carry on planting flags. So many of them I’ll probably need to go three or four times. My kids are going to love me when they count their inheritances one day.
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