PoorX Photography
May 6, 2026
May 6, 2026
In March, I joined a week‑long PhotoPills expedition focused on the west and north coasts of Iceland. Sunrises, sunsets, and middle‑of‑the‑night aurora hunts are magical in theory, but after a few days they start to feel like a very beautiful form of sleep deprivation. And while Iceland offers endless landscapes, it’s not exactly celebrated for its cuisine; most meals were either gas‑station hot dogs or some rotation of char, lamb, or a burger. It was especially tough for those of us who lean toward fresh fruits and vegetables.
All that aside, this was both an absolutely breathtaking introduction to Iceland and one of the most exhausting trips I’ve ever taken.
Before diving into the wild coastlines and sleepless nights, I gave myself a day in Reykjavik to recalibrate—stretch my legs, reset my internal clock, and remember what it felt like to eat something that didn’t come from an airplane galley. It turned out to be exactly the pause I needed before the real adventure began.
ReYKJavik
Reykjavik is really the only true “city” on the island—compact, friendly, and carrying just enough European flair to feel cosmopolitan without trying too hard. Since my flight landed at an hour normally reserved for bakers and airport janitors, I headed straight to the Blue Lagoon to watch the sun rise and pass a few quiet hours before my guest room was ready.
Once in town, I was fortunate enough to stumble upon the Fótógrafí gallery—and the photographer, Ari Sigvaldason, himself. His shop was a small museum of cameras from every era, all hanging from the walls and burying the shelves. He was selling his own work too: mostly monochrome prints with a quirky, humorous voice that made me stop and look twice. The whole place felt like a reminder of what a personal, idiosyncratic photographic vision can be—and something to aspire to.
Beyond the usual mix of quaint shops and graffiti that seemed to have a surprisingly thoughtful design sense, my Reykjavik highlights included Hallgrímskirkja church, the Sun Voyager sculpture, and the Harpa Concert Hall. I’m fairly certain I walked the perimeter of the city three times, photographing each landmark in every kind of light Reykjavik felt like offering.
The duck pond at Tjörnin was its own small drama: a cluster of waterfowl sharing the only unfrozen corner of the pond, all politely but firmly competing for bread tossed out by a little old lady who clearly knew her audience. And the best surprise was stumbling upon the Ingólfsgarður lighthouse at sunset—just in time to watch the full moon rise, as if the city had arranged a final flourish.
Barnafoss, Hraunfossar, and Selvallafoss
Early the next morning, off we went. PhotoPills had rented a custom Sprinter van with five rows of seats and a shaky little trailer for our gear. It was plenty big for our group, though I managed to choose the one window seat where a structural pillar intruded directly into my personal space. A strong start.
We rolled down snowy highways, through a long tunnel, and eventually reached our first stop: Barnafoss. It was cold—properly cold—and I immediately learned the benefits of wearing crampons on my boots. I also learned that I absolutely hated my tripod. The cold froze several of the adjustment dials, and my gloves made it impossible to operate anything with precision. So most of the time, I was bare‑handed in sub‑freezing temperatures, trying to pretend this was all part of the adventure. The rest of me was warm enough, though, and I silently thanked my past self for investing in Patagonia outerwear right before the trip.
The discomfort didn’t matter once we reached the waterfalls. The landscapes were breathtaking—worth every numb fingertip. At Selvallafoss, we stomped cross‑country, downhill through fresh snow, and were rewarded with a half‑frozen waterfall and a heart‑stopping view of the valley below. I kept reminding myself to look up from the viewfinder, to be present, to actually absorb what was unfolding in front of me rather than just collecting pixels. It was one of those places where the camera feels both essential and completely inadequate.
Kirkjufell
After piling back into the van and thawing out from Selvallafoss, we continued north toward one of the most photographed mountains in Iceland—and one I’d been quietly (and not‑so‑quietly) excited about for months.
Kirkjufell was something I had really been looking forward to, and it didn’t disappoint. We visited twice—first at sunset to get a lay of the land, and then again after dinner for some astrophotography and the hope of catching an aurora. The Kirkjufellsfoss waterfall, however, surprised even our hosts: it had transformed into a solid wall of ice, which meant it couldn’t provide the classic flowing‑water foreground to complement the mountain. So we ended up hiking along the frozen stream and lake, searching for any foreground that might rise to the occasion.
This was also where I tried focus stacking for the first time. I understood the concept in theory, but had never actually practiced it. Without my camera manual in front of me, I stumbled through menus and experimented with settings—pure trial and error, with a little more error than trial.
When we returned later that night, I will say that my experience photographing the Milky Way last summer did actually paid off. I knew the aperture and shutter speed I needed, and I remembered the all‑important ritual of manually focusing until the stars became tack sharp.
There wasn’t a dramatic aurora display, but we did get hints of one. It was nearly impossible to see with the naked eye, but when I downloaded my photos later that evening, I let out an involuntary whoop when I realized my camera had caught faint streaks of aurora in a few frames. A small victory, but a satisfying one.
Arnarstapi
The next day, we headed for the Snæfellsjökull peninsula. Our hosts were a little anxious about the weather—a mountain pass stood between us and the coast, and the roads tend to close whenever the snow piles up or the wind decides to get dramatic. But luck was on our side, and we made it down to Arnarstapi and Gatklettur for sunrise (even if the sun itself seemed reluctant to participate).
It was no surprise we had the place entirely to ourselves, given the biting cold and the wind gusts that awaited us. But the photos were there for the taking. This was one of the few times I pulled out my telephoto lens, aiming it at the nesting seabirds clinging to the basalt cliffs hundreds of feet above the pounding surf. The whole area looked like it had been lifted straight out of Game of Thrones or The Witcher—especially the scenes featuring Aretuza, the cliffside academy where Yennefer was trained.
A Bump in the Road
Somewhere after we left the Snæfellsjökull peninsula, several of us suddenly heard a racket coming from the back of the van. As it turned out, the trailer carrying our luggage had blown a tire. After dragging ourselves to a random repair shop in the middle of nowhere to get it replaced, I wandered around the yard and snapped a few photos with my cellphone. Somehow, the scene—the rusting equipment, the snow‑dusted odds and ends, the quiet stillness—perfectly captured the vibe of that moment.
Honestly, I find my creativity at the strangest times.
Hvitserkur and Kolugljúfur
Rounding out the day, we headed for the Vatnsnes peninsula to visit the stegosaur‑like rock rising from the shallow ocean—Hvítserkur. The trail down was about half a mile and laced with ice, but once we reached the shore, we had the entire place to ourselves. With several hours to photograph this geologic oddity from every angle imaginable, my spirits lifted. It was one of the rare moments on the trip when we could slow down, breathe, and really take in the landscape rather than sprint through it.
Our final stop before reaching the hotel in Akureyri was the canyon called Kolugljúfur. By this point, most of us were beyond tired, and honestly, the details of this stop are a bit of a blur. I do remember being thoroughly impressed by the woman who rolled up on her bicycle sporting road tires embedded with nails for traction. It was such a simple, ingenious idea that really caught my imagination. Some people bring energy drinks; this woman brought engineering.
Goðafoss, Aldeyjarfoss, and Hrafnabjargafoss
Early the next morning—4 a.m., to be exact—we headed to Goðafoss to photograph the waterfall under a full moon. While many of the photographers stayed at the main viewpoint, I wandered off, stomping around the icy terrain in search of something less “postcard” and more personal. I lost track of time completely and didn’t realize it was time to regroup until I heard one of our hosts shout my name across the canyon. Not my proudest moment, for sure.
From there, we met up with a team driving custom 4WD trucks built for deep snow. The F‑roads into the highlands in winter demand these beasts, and they delivered. In places where the snow was several feet deep, the trucks simply powered forward—on the road, off the road, wherever the drivers pointed them.
Our first interior stop was Aldeyjarfoss, and it was spectacular. Glacier‑green water roared out of a hole in a wall of ice—loud, powerful, unstoppable. It felt like standing next to a living engine.
We continued upstream to Hrafnabjargafoss, which was completely iced over. The truck drivers got out first, stomping around the edges of the cavernous drop‑off to test the stability of the ice before letting us anywhere near it. Even then, I had a hard time getting clean shots—the mist from the falls kept landing on my lens and freezing instantly, giving several of my photos a “dreamlike” haze that was not, unfortunately, intentional.
Hverir
The next morning, we headed to the Hverir geothermal area to catch the sunrise. The smell of sulfur in the air, the place reminded me a lot of parts of Yellowstone—or, closer to home, Bumpass Hell in Lassen National Park. Plenty of mudpots and fumaroles, but no geysers. While we had the entire area to ourselves and the weather was cooperative, I could tell many of us were running on fumes. People wandered around trying to compose shots they felt good about, but the collective energy level was… muted.
Our host, Clément, probably walked away with the best image of the group—though having been here many times before gave him a distinct advantage. Experience counts, especially when the rest of us were mostly held together by caffeine and stubbornness.
Mývatn and Dimmuborgir
While we were based in Reykjahlíð near the shores of Mývatn, we had several opportunities to photograph the lake and its surroundings. On our first night there—after the long day at Goðafoss—our hosts had a hunch that conditions were right for the aurora. We headed down to the shoreline, and sure enough, we saw the aurora with our own eyes. No camera tricks, no super long exposures—just the real thing, shimmering over the hills. It was breathtaking.
The next day, after visiting the geothermal fields, we attempted to drive to Dettifoss to squeeze in yet another waterfall. But overnight snow had buried the road so deeply that getting in was impossible. We were slipping and sliding just trying to turn around, and another tour group’s van was actually stuck on the one‑lane road, waiting for a tow truck. That was our cue to abandon the plan.
So we shifted to Plan B: Dimmuborgir. I’m sure a few people in the group grumbled, but I loved it. It felt good to hike around and take photos in a place that didn’t feel like “trophy hunting.” No iconic composition to chase, no pressure to replicate a famous shot—just volcanic formations, soft winter light, and the dormant crater Hverfjall brooding on the horizon. It was exactly the kind of slower, more exploratory photography I’d been craving.
On our last morning, we began the long, quiet six‑hour drive back to Reykjavik. Outside the windows, the landscape slipped by in shades of white and blue; inside, everyone seemed to be replaying their own private version of the week. When we finally arrived, we exchanged tired goodbyes and scattered into the city.
For me, the trip felt like an introduction—brief, intense, and unforgettable. Iceland is a place that reveals itself in layers: wind, ice, silence, light. The PhotoPills pace nearly flattened me, but it also opened a door I didn’t know I’d been waiting for. I’ll return. There’s more here for me.
Chasing the aurora was the excuse. Iceland was the discovery.