Dressed to Chill

Winter Chill, Kirkjufell and Kirkjufellsfoss, Iceland
Sony a7R V
Sony 12-24 GM
1 second
F/11
ISO 100

From brisk to chilly to freezing to downright frigid, we warm blooded humans have lots of labels for the discomfort imposed by low temperatures. But I’ve always felt that we need something beyond frigid, something that adequately conveys the true suffering low temperatures inflict, and would like to submit an even chillier option: stupid cold. At the risk of stating the obvious, “stupid cold” is so cold, the only people out in it without a life-or-death reason (for example, the house is on fire) are, well….

Before I get into my latest encounter with stupid cold, let me offer a little background. Being California born and raised, I often find myself with a slightly higher “it’s too cold” threshold than the average person. I’m not exactly proud to say that pretty much any time the temperature drops below 50, I’m breaking out the wool hat, gloves, and down jacket. Without shame. I get a lot of grief for this from workshop participants hardened by more extreme climes, but I take the abuse with a shrug and smile because I’m warm. In fact, no matter how cold it gets in California, I’ve always been able to bundle up enough to stay comfortable. Viva la Mediterranean climate.

So why in the world would Don Smith and I schedule Iceland photo workshops in January? Because Mediterranean climates alone do not a photographer make. And as you’ve heard me say many times, the best time for photography is usually the worst time to be outside.

As you might guess, Iceland winters are no exception to this rule. While Iceland is beautiful year round, in winter low-angle sunlight creates an all-day golden “hour,” long nights maximize the aurora viewing potential, pristine snow purifies the harsh terrain, cathedral-like ice caves dot the island’s many glaciers, and storm-whipped surf attacks the volcanic coast with relentless fury.

On the other hand, witnessing Iceland’s winter beauty means enduring “normal” highs in the 30s and lows in the 20s in the warmest parts of the country, and colder if you venture north and away from the ocean. Suffice to say, even on a good day, January in Iceland approaches my own stupid-cold threshold. Add to that frequent cold snaps that drop the mercury down to single digits and lower, combined with wind that can rip off a car door (Icelanders always park facing the wind), and I start feeling stupider by the minute.

Of course many people live places that get this cold, but how many of them actually go out specifically at the times when it’s coldest (after dark until sunrise)—and then just stand there? Unfortunately, when you’re a photographer, sitting by the fire when the northern lights are dancing, or staying in bed at sunrise, are never viable options.

So anyway, about those single digit lows. Surely, I rationalized, anyone who can endure San Francisco Giants night games at Candlestick Park (RIP) in July (as Mark Twain never said but should have, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.”) can (given enough layers) handle whatever Iceland has to dish out. So, on my first visit I simply employed my tried and true Candlestick Park infinite layer approach. I mined my closet for cold weather gear, crammed everything I found into my largest suitcase, then crossed my fingers when the IcelandAir ticket agent hefted the bulging cube onto the scale (49.8 pounds, thankyouverymuch). Off to Iceland.

Don and I landed in Reykjavik to find temperatures as advertised. Wind too. I know, now you’re going to tell me about your Antarctica penguin expeditions, or that time in Saskatchewan when you stayed up all night to photograph the northern lights, but you don’t know true suffering until you sit through the last pitch of a night game at “the Stick.” Or so I thought.

My Candlestick more-is-better strategy turned out to be okay for Iceland (I didn’t die), but I can’t say I didn’t suffer for my craft on that first visit. Flannel-lined pants kept my legs happy enough, and my torso survived inside a long-sleeve undershirt, Pendleton wool shirt, and a Patagonia Down Sweater. A conventional wool cap kept my ears from turning black and falling off, but I fear they’ll never forgive me.

Worst of all, the thing thirty years of Candlestick experience hadn’t prepared me for, was cold hands and feet. Oh. My. God. Wool socks and high-top hiking boots? Not even close. And I thought I was ready with my thin poly running gloves as liners beneath thick wool gloves. Ha! The problem, I soon realized was that as cold as Candlestick’s concrete was, it wasn’t nearly as cold as the Iceland snow I stood on for hours at a time. And unless you’re keeping score, watching a baseball game doesn’t require hands unless there’s something to cheer for (a rare event indeed during most of my Giants Candlestick years). At the ‘Stick I could sit on my (gloved) hands, or bury them in pockets or beneath my wool blanket (never left home without one), and not think about them again until I pulled my keys from my pocket in the parking lot. But a camera, it turns out, requires hands. Fingers too. I quickly found that I could compose, focus, and click maybe three frames before the cold drove me to our car to pound life back into my numb digits. Not a productive approach.

Never let it be said that I don’t learn from my mistakes. When Don and I returned the next year, I was ready. And on each subsequent visit, I’ve upped my cold weather game to the point that I now scoff at single digits with sub-zero wind chills.

For me it’s all about layers. Not just piling on California-grade cold weather gear until I’m comfortable (but look like an Apollo astronaut), but actually layering clothing designed for layering and extreme cold: silk, wool, down, and Gore-Tex. Now I start winter mornings with thin wool liner socks under thick wool socks, heavy-duty insulated (don’t skimp on the insulation) and waterproof boots, silk long-johns, fleece-lined guide pants (jeans, even lined, don’t cut it and are worthless when wet), lined powder pants (lifesavers in extreme cold), silk or wool long-sleeve undershirt, insulated flannel shirt, down vest, down parka, layered gloves (more on this later), neck gaiter, and a down hat that covers my ears and snaps under my chin. I don’t usually wear all of these layers at once; instead, I add and subtract layers as conditions dictate, but never make the mistake of packing a layer away in the suitcase where I can’t get to it until I get to my room (and I no longer need it).

This year another big concession I made to Iceland’s winter cold was upgrading my jacket (again). Since the Patagonia Down Sweater I used on that first visit was woefully inadequate, the next year I upgraded to super-puffy North Face down jacket (picture the Michelin Man). That was plenty warm enough, but not waterproof, or as long as I’d like. So this year I purchased the warmest down parka LL Bean sells—it’s waterproof and drops all the way down below my butt.

Another important consideration is rain (worse than snow). Since my boots and parka are waterproof, all I need to add to my warmth layers when the forecast hints at the possibility of rain (no matter how slight), are waterproof over-pants (the powder pants qualify, but can be too warm), a waterproof hat, and an umbrella. Since I’m waterproof head-to-toe,  the umbrella is more for my camera than me when I’m shooting.

Back to the gloves. Gloves are probably the number one Catch-22 for most photographers because thick enough to keep your fingers warm pretty much guarantees too thick to control a camera. But after years of trying, and drawers full of abandoned gloves, I think I’ve finally cracked the code.

It starts with the acceptance that there’s no one size fits all solution. Therefore, on all cold weather trips I always carry three pairs of gloves. First, I have a pair of Eddie Bauer First Ascent gloves that are thick enough to provide some warmth on their own (warmer than my running gloves), but tactile enough to enable me to easily control all my camera’s buttons and dials, as well as my phone’s touch screen, with all fingers. Over these I slip a pair of Black Diamond convertible (the top pulls back to expose the fingers beneath) fleece mittens. My third pair is the warmest down gloves I can find—these go on (and the others come off) when I’m just standing around (for example, waiting for the northern lights) and my fingers are starting to chill from inactivity.

The thinner gloves and mittens combination while shooting keeps my hands warm enough (though not quite toasty) to use my camera in single digit, windy conditions. And since, even with the mittens fully engaged, I can still focus and press the shutter button, I only need to expose the thinner glove (of one hand) for a few seconds at a time to adjust a dial or press a button.

About this image

Going through prior trips searching for unprocessed images, I found this one from early in this year’s first (of two) Iceland workshops. This was an unusually chilly evening on the Snaefellsnes Peninsula, even by Iceland January standards. I don’t have the exact numbers, but I’m guessing that the temperature was around 20F, and the wind was around 20 MPH as well. But I was ready.

Despite the clouds this evening, I found the fresh snow especially beautiful and set out to find a composition to capture it. Because Kirkjufellfoss (the waterfall) was flowing nicely (it’s often frozen when we visit), I walked a little farther down the trail than I normally do to get a better angle on the fall. Also wanting to feature lots of foreground snow and turquoise water, and include all of Kirkjufell and some clouds, I opted for my 12-24 lens. Going to 12mm relegated Kirkjufell to a less prominent role than it plays when you’re actually there, but that was fine because this emphasizes my favorite elements that evening: the snow and water.

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Stupid Cold

Click any image to scroll through the gallery LARGE

Alpenglow, Kirkjufell, Iceland

Twilight, Tasman Lake, New Zealand

Sapphire Sanctuary, Vatnajökull Glacier, Iceland

Wings of Angels, Aurora Above Dyrhólaey, Iceland

Fresh Snow, Valley View, Yosemite

Falling Snow, El Capitan, Yosemite

On Ice, Kirkjufellsfoss, Iceland

Winter Chill, Kirkjufell and Kirkjufellsfoss, Iceland

Moonlight Magic, El Capitan, Yosemite

Electric Night, Kirkjufell Aurora, Iceland

Snowfall, Tunnel View, Yosemite

Glacial Twilight, Tasman Lake Reflection, New Zealand

Snow on the Rocks, Londrangar Basalt Cliffs, Iceland

Winter Reflection, Cathedral Rocks and Bridalveil Fall, Yosemite

Swoosh, Northern Lights Over Kirkjufell, Iceland

Winter Chill, Lake Wanaka, New Zealand

Iceberg in Fog, Glacier Lagoon, Iceland

Blue View, Vatnajökull Glacier, Iceland

Infinity, Lake Wanaka, New Zealand

Aurora Ribbons, Dyrhólaey Coastline, Iceland

Winter Fog, Londrangar Basalt Cliffs, Iceland

Silent Night, Yosemite Valley from Tunnel View

Moonlight Cathedral, Valley View, Yosemite

Frozen, Kirkjufellsfoss, Iceland

Wonderland, Golden Circle, Iceland

Neon Night, Aurora and Glacier Lagoon, Iceland

Middle Earth Morning, Matagouri Trees Near Glenorchy, New Zealand

Winter Blue Hour Reflection, Half Dome, Yosemite

Clearing Storm, Hooker River, New Zealand

Clearing Storm, Half Dome Reflection from Sentinel Bridge, Yosemite

Starry Night, Lake Wanaka, New Zealand

Wings of Angels, Aurora Above Dyrhólaey, Iceland

Winter Night, Milky Way Above Tasman Lake, New Zealand

Sunset, Hooker Valley, New Zealand

Sunrise, Mt. Cook, New Zealand