Latest Photography

The sporting art of Bob White

For almost 40 years, Bob White's paintings and drawings have immortalized hunting and angling

by Hatch Magazine - Monday, Nov 23rd, 2020

Bob White's artwork has graced over 30 books, adorned magazine covers, and illustrated seemingly countless hunting and angling columns in magazines like Fly Rod & Reel, Sporting Classics, Gray's Sporting Journal, TROUT Magazine and more. For many, Bob's work has been just as outsized an element in the stories that have defined our hunting and angling heritages over the last generation as the voices that have narrated them.

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A Short Cast - Alphonse Island, The Seychelles
24 x 20 inches - oil on canvas

"One of the nicest things about painting fishing scenes are the places I get to visit to do my research. I could hardly say no when I was asked to join some friends and get reference material for a few commissions."

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Musky in the Mist
18 x 16 inches - oil on canvas

"I have a lot of friends who chase river musky with flies, but most of us cast to them from boats. My buddy, Fred, does it a bit differently. He likes to get into the river with the fish and stalk them in their element."

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Waiting
24 x 20 inches - oil on canvas

Anyone who’s ever worked at an Alaskan fly-out fishing lodge will tell you that the most difficult days are those when the ceiling and visibility hover tantalizingly around the, ”I think we can make it!” mark.

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Icon - Alaskan Brown Bear
36 x 30 inches - oil on canvas

"Until you’ve actually experienced it, you’ll never know what it feels like to suddenly come to the realization that you’re not at the top of the food chain. The first time it happens can be a very humbling experience."

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The Supplicant
18 x 14 inches - oil on board

"A good friend sent a photograph and asked if he might commission me to do a painting. Since the photograph came with payment, I could hardly refuse and a deal was struck. The truth be told, ice fishing isn’t exactly what I describe as a passion of mine, but the scene held all the elements for a wonderful painting; mystery, suspense, and a strong, low winter light, casting a long blue shadow, while bathing the distant shoreline in a warm glow."

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Goose Decoys
22 x 18 inches - oil on canvas

"I love to paint color and light reflected, especially in an atmospheric landscape. The pools of reflected light dancing on the dark reflection of the hunter are both challenging and rewarding to render."

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Brown Trout Head Study
6 x 6 inches - oil on board

"Sometimes it’s the small studies that really turn out the best. While this tiny painting would hardly fill up any space on a wall, there’s a commanding freshness to it that I really love — a freshness that’s sometimes hard to achieve in larger paintings."

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Getting ready for Tarpon
19 x 17 inches - pencil on archival paper

"The anticipation that grows daily before any fishing trip is always half the fun of the experience. This is particularly true if the trip is to some far-off place where the fish are big. This drawing was done before our annual trek to the Florida Keys to visit with friends and chase tarpon."

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Early Birds
36 x 28 inches - oil on canvas

"Where I grew up, 'bird hunting' meant chasing bobwhite quail. My father was a bird hunter, and I believe it was his crowning glory in life to have a son he could name, “Bob White”. We recently visited his grave, in the small town of Lively Grove, where my mother was born. The small church cemetery is surrounded by the very fields we’d walked together a half a century earlier. As I opened the door the truck, a covey of bobwhite quail began to call all around us."

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The Bridge Pool - III
11 x 9 inches - oil on board

"Sometimes, successfully executing an illustration assignment requires a bit of creativity on the part of the artist. I had great reference photos of a friend fishing a stream in the Minnesota Driftless, but the story called for a bridge. No worries; I transported the bridge from a river in Argentina and plopped it into the scene!"

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Dark Water - Rainbow Trout
24 x 20 inches - oil on board

"Good friends have a delightful way of circling back into our lives. One day, a few years ago, I received a package from a fishermen I’d guided years ago in Alaska. Inside was a photograph of a beautiful rainbow being admired one last time, before its release. My friend had caught the fish and taken the shot just before I let it slip from my hands. I thought those hands looked familiar."

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Odd Duck
14 x 13.5 inches - watercolor on archival paper

"It was rare to shoot a scoter where I guided duck hunters in Alaska. It wasn’t a particularly colorful bird in its plumage of subtle greys and black, but the bill was a fascinating shape and looked to be carved of ivory, which had been dyed yellow, red, black and white. I thought this scoter to be an elegant bird and decided to paint it. It was hung on the side of a shed at the lodge and I sketched it that evening, when the low autumnal light created fantastical shadows."

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Glide
44 x 32 inches - oil on canvas

"There's a time, late in a summer evening, when shadows overtake the land and colors begin to mute. It's during these few minutes that I find myself particularly quieted. Speech becomes unnecessary, even irreverent. I drift on a reflected sky and measure meaning in the water that drips from my oars."

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All Business
8 x 10 inches - oil on board

"I was very fortunate to be invited to my friend’s duck club in the Sacramento Valley, in the shadow of Sutter Butte. The weather was balmy; not exactly what you’d like for hunting, the light was good and I got plenty of reference material for painting. This small panel of my friend’s retriever was painted as a gift to thank him for a wonderful experience."

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The Way It’s Remembered
24 x 20 inches - oil on board

"What we remember about our time afield has little to do with the number of birds we shoot. Rather, our most poignant recollections are made up of the little things; the warmth of a low autumnal sun, the sound of golden leaves twisting in the breeze, and the ripe smell of an aspen copse in the evening. If we’re luck, there might be the heady aroma of a spent shot shell or two, and the weight of a well-shot bird in our vest. And, always, we’ll remember the love of our dog."

bob white - color and light reflected, brown trout

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Color and Light reflected - Brown Trout
30 x 24 inches - oil on canvas

"I love to paint fish; each one of them is a jewel and a joy to render. This is particularly true when the scene includes water and reflected light. This little brown trout was caught in the Minnesota Driftless, and a photograph captured seconds before it’s release."

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A Place in the Choir
8.25 x 9.5 inches - pencil on archival paper

"We all love our bird dogs, but in some very rare instances, the bond that develops between a man and his dog transcends comprehension. Such was the case, with my friend, and his English setter. Few words were ever spoken in the field, sometimes with just a brief look, came an understanding. A friend like that is hard to lose."

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Just Watching
12 x 10 inches - oil on board

"What’s remembered about a day in afield, or in the marsh has more to do with what we’ve seen and whom you’ve shared it with, than the number of birds hanging over our shoulder. If I’m walking out at the end of the day with an empty bird strap, I often think to myself, all of the fun… and none of the work!"

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The Last Ptarmigan
16 x 18 inches - oil on board

"After 16 summer seasons in Alaska, we’d decide to make a go of it with my artwork and start a family. This pair of ptarmigan were taken on my last hunt as a guide. Our Gordon setter, Mac, found them in the high tundra, on a windblown mountainside, well above the timber line."

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Hazy Day in the Driftless
36 x 30 inches - oil on canvas

"My good friend John Gierach and I often share a bit of time on the water, and of course, I occasionally paint him doing what he loves to do. Many of these painting are used to illustrate, “ Convergence”, our collaborative column in TROUT. Others, like this painting are used as cover-art for his books."

The Classic Sporting Art of Bob White is available from Bookshop.org, Amazon, or wherever books are sold. 300 limited edition signed copies are also available at bobwhitestudio.com.

At the edge of the world

Chasing giants on the windswept plains of Tierra del Fuego

by Chad Shmukler - Wednesday, Nov 20th, 2019

Tierra del Fuego, the windswept archipelago at the tip of South America, might rightly be called the edge of the world. Separated from the rest of the South American continent by the Straights of Magellan, Tierra del Fuego is the southernmost location on the entire globe one can reach without crossing the ship and sailor-swallowing Furious Fifties and making landfall on Antarctica.

Split roughly down the middle, the western portions of Tierra del Fuego which border the Pacific Ocean belong to Chile, while the bulk of the eastern, Atlantic-facing lands are controlled by Argentina.

The archipelago's western reaches, predominated by small islands, are mostly mountainous, wet and sparsely inhabited. But the region's largest island, which lies to its north and east and is separated from the rest of the archipelago by the Beagle Channel (named after the HMS Beagle, the vessel that carried Charles Darwin on his historic voyage of exploration) is a large, contiguous, semi-arid, mostly low-lying land mass.

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Tierra del Fuego first attracted European settlers beginning in the late 1800s, thanks to the abundant presence of rivers and high quality pastureland. Today, land on Tierra del Fuego's northern island remains predominantly agrarian (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Though Tierra del Fuego's countless rivers and streams, which flow through austere landscapes and seemingly endless grasslands, first drew Chilean and Argentine settlers seeking to graze sheep and cattle, today they draw anglers from all over the globe, thanks to their well-held reputation as offering some of the finest trout fishing on the entire planet (photos: Earl Harper).

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Despite the region's extreme latitude, which keep Tierra del Fuego's summers cooler than anywhere else on the South American continent, winters are relatively mild. As a result, the archipelago supports a diverse population of wildlife including these guanacos (a wild, close relative of the llama), fox, beaver, and almost 100 species of birds (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Most of the settled portions of the island are a patchwork of estancias—ranches which produce either sheep, cattle, or both (photos: Earl Harper [top], Chad Shmukler [bottom]).

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Some of these ranches—and their expansive, privately held tracts of land and water—are also home to classic Patagonian fishing lodges, like Villa Maria Lodge, which host anglers from December to March, when massive sea-run brown trout enter the famed Rio Grande (photos: Earl Harper).

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Large, two-handed rods lined with bulky heads and sinking tips that can power through Tierra del Fuego's powerful winds are the weapon of choice on the Rio Grande (photo: Earl Harper).

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The Rio Grande's sea-run browns average roughly 7 to 15 pounds but commonly exceed 20 pounds. In fact, 20 pound fish are caught virtually every single week of the season on Villa Maria's beats (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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With high latitudes come long summer days, and 12 hour shifts in search of sea-run browns are common. Midday, anglers escape to Villa Maria's day house, perched high above the Rio Grande, which offers a welcome respite from the conditions. The day house's hearty, indulgent meals, free-flowing wines and the rhythmic howling of the winds outside serve to send even the most nap-adverse for an hourlong siesta (photos: Chad Shmukler [top], Earl Harper [bottom]).

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Recharged, anglers return to the Rio Grande, to ply new beats hoping to encounter sea-run browns that have moved upriver overnight or throughout the day, including dime-bright, silver, blue and magenta-hued specimens like this one (photos: Chad Shmukler).

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The real drug in fishing is anticipation—of a rise, an eat, a reel-burning run. On the Rio Grande, however, the greatest anticipation may be for the release. Tierra del Fuego's sea-run browns, typically subdued and cooperative in hand, explode with electric vigor when released and almost never fail to put on a show (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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As daylight begins to fade, each new cast becomes more precious than the last. Not only because the day is waning and with it the opportunities for the next encounter with the Rio Grande's anadromous trout, but because with the vanishing of the light typically comes the best chances to connect with river's largest, most impressive fish (photos: Earl Harper).

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Scouting—and fishing—continue in earnest until the last glimmers of light sink below the horizon (photo: Earl Harper).

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With the hope that one of the day's last casts will turn up something a bit like this (photo: Alejandro Martello).

Abaco after the storm

20 images of Hurricane Dorian's destruction in the Bahamas

by Dan Zazworsky - Monday, Sep 9th, 2019

Not long before nightfall on September 1, Hurricane Dorian made landfall on Great Abaco island in the northern Bahamas as the strongest hurricane ever to strike the island nation of almost 400,000. For roughly two days, Dorian virtually stalled, thrashing the Bahamian islands of Great Abaco and Grand Bahama with unrelenting winds, rain and storm surge. The devastation on Abaco left in Dorian's wake has been called "catastrophic," "absolute" and "pure hell."

A week later, the residents of the Abaco Islands and Grand Bahama are still trying to understand the scope of Dorian's impact. Estimates suggest that half the homes on Abaco and three quarters of all homes on Grand Bahama may have been destroyed. And the storm's death toll keeps climbing as responders, residents and others continue to pull the corpses of neighbors and loved ones from beneath the wreckage.

The images of Dorian's devastation that continue to emerge from Abaco are difficult to take in, but they are an invaluable tool for helping to understand both the power of nature's wrath and the ongoing and intensifying humanitarian crisis facing the people of the Bahamas.

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The main street through Marsh Harbour in the wake of Hurricane Dorian (photo: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

abaco surveying damage after hurricane dorian

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Two days after Dorian's assault on Abaco finally ceased, floodwaters have receded just enough to allow truck travel on main highway north to Marsh Harbor from southern points on the island (photos: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

hurricane dorian destruction abaco bahamas

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The hurricane's two days of battering wind, rain and flood water has left a path of unmeasurable destruction across Abaco (photos: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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Days after the storm, flood waters continue to inundate much of Marsh Harbour, though reports indicate flood waters were as much as five times deeper in the immediate aftermath of the hurricane (photos: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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Tin roofs, commonly found throughout the Bahamas, were peeled back effortlessly by the hurricane's record-breaking winds [top], which were so powerful that they removed the entire second story of this hardy residential and retail building [bottom], and tore homes and other structures clean off their foundations and (photos: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

hurricane dorian ship in town abaco bahamas

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This ship broke its mooring in the harbor and was carried into town by Dorian's floodwaters, before crashing into and coming to rest against the side of a bank (photo: Dan Zazworsky).

the mudd marsh harbour damage hurricane dorian

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Especially hard hit was The Mudd, an eclectic and vibrant Marsh Harbour neighborhood constructed by Haitian immigrants (photos: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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"These used to be homes, businesses, a community ... but now it's nothing more than wreckage," said photographer Dan Zazworsky—of Abaco's Delphi Club—when speaking about the devastation in The Mudd. "When we were there, you could still smell the dead trapped under the wreckage" (photo: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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A local, rickety watering hole somehow remains defiantly standing days after Dorian (photo: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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A U.S. Coast Guard Jayhawk helicopter over Marsh Harbour (photo: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

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Two Abaco residents wander the streets surveying the damage and hoping for word of loved ones (photo: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

boy riding bike flood hurricane dorian abaco

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A boy rides one of the island's few functioning bicycles through flood waters in Marsh Harbour (photo: Dan Zazworsky).

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Locals take shelter at the Abaco Government Complex, using trees to dry wet belongings (photo: Dan Zazworsky @dan.zaz).

For tourists and anglers that have visited Abaco to tan on its sun-baked, white sand beaches or ply its crystal clear saltwater flats for bonefish and other quarry, these images portray a version of Abaco that is unrecognizable.

For Abaco's residents, what has been left in ruin is more than vacation destination. It's home. At least, it was. A week after Dorian, an estimated 70,000 have been left homeless. On Abaco, the death toll has already climbed to 44, though officials expect that number to climb dramatically.

The road ahead for the residents of Abaco and Grand Bahamas is long and costly one. Your help is needed.

Delphi Club Abaco Relief Fund

Abaco Lodge Relief Fund

Where dorado is king

Exploring Argentina's Iberá Marshlands in search of golden dorado

by Earl Harper - Thursday, Jan 24th, 2019

When leaving the hustle and bustle of Buenos Aires' international airport, you'll see groups of anglers peppered throughout the masses of travelers assembling outside the customs exit—chatting with newly arrived companions, meeting with drivers that will shuttle them across town to the domestic airport, piling and stacking bags of gear. Almost all of them are headed south. And west. In search of trout in Patagonia or Tierra del Fuego. But instead of shuttling across town to catch a flight to San Martin, Bariloche or Rio Grande, we're prepping to ride north. North to Corrientes, to the Iberá Marshlands, the second largest wetland on the entire globe, a region twice the size of the entirety of the Florida Everglades, and home to seemingly countless rivers, creeks, streams, sloughs, lakes and ponds where the golden dorado is king.

Almost entirely protected as a nature preserve since 1983, the Iberá Marshlands—or Esteros del Iberá—is known for its crystal-clear, unpolluted waters. Due to the region's unique geology, the marshlands are a nearly closed system with no inflow—other than rainfall—and only minor outflow. The region is also uninfluenced by mining or industry, due to the lack of either in proximity of the marshlands. Virtually uninhabited, there are still portions of the preserve that have never been explored.

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The sun rises on the Ibera Marshlands (photo: Earl Harper).

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Perched on farmland on the edge of the reserve is Pira Lodge, the only operation of its kind in the region and one with direct and easy access to the reserve (photo: Earl Harper).

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Ibera is essentially one enormous, landless floodplain—its creeks, streams, lakes and ponds formed by partially submerged, floating vegetation. Papyrus, lilies, water hyacinth, lettuces, hibiscus, victorias and other vegetation entangle to form floating mats called embalsados which channel and shape the marsh's waters and are commonly thick and strong enough to walk on (photo: Earl Harper).

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Navigating the marshlands means winding your way through mazelike channels and passageways, each turn offering the chance to discover something new—an unfished lagoon, creek or channel or even an unknown passage through the marshlands to a yet undiscovered part of the reserve (photo: Earl Harper).

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Life of all forms abounds in the marsh, which is known for staggering biodiversity. Over 4,000 different species of plants and animals, including over 350 species of birds, call Iberá home (photos: Earl Harper [top], Chad Shmukler [bottom]).

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Capybara (Hydrochoerus hydrochaeris)—the largest rodent in the world at sizes up to 145 pounds—are seen daily throughout the marsh. Capybara, which are also called carpincho in Spanish, are highly social and are almost always observed in large families and groups (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Both the yacare caiman (Yacaré negro), also known as the black caiman, and the broad-snouted caiman (Yacaré overo) are also encountered with regularity through the reserve (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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But it is the king of the marsh, the golden dorado (Salminus brasiliensis), that we have come to ply Iberá's waters for—to cast big, bushy, brightly-colored streamers through its rivers and streams and to swim and skate mouse patterns through its twisted channels, hoping to entice a strike (photos: Chad Shmukler).

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The quiet peace of the marshlands is shattered when a dorado takes. Lines lurch, water froths and the surface erupts (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Dorado that fail to put on a show before being corralled and released are virtually non-existent. The only question once a connection is formed with one of the marsh's voracious predators is how many times and how high they'll leap (photo: Chad Shmukler [top], Earl Harper [middle, bottom]).

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In fact, should the surface not erupt, it's only seconds before all involved realize that another Iberá predator, the piranha, has grabbed the offering—more often than not sending back only this (photo: Earl Harper).

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In addition to the dorado, piranha like this one are in abundance throughout the reserve (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Fishing Iberá doesn't just mean stripping flies through its smaller creeks and streams, it also includes time spent on Río Corriente, which courses through the marsh only minutes by boat from Pira Lodge (photo: Earl Harper).

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The river, like the rest of Iberá, offers consistent fishing for dorado and can be home to some of the marsh's bigger fish (photo: Earl Harper [top], Chad Shmukler [bottom]).

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Exploring farther into the reserve often means the hard work of navigating the skiff through impossibly tight channels (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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The payoff, however, can be more than worth the effort, revealing untouched channels, lagoons and more (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Which, unsurprisingly, often hold some of the marsh's most zealous and impressive dorado (photos: Earl Harper [top, middle], Chad Shmukler [bottom]).

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Encounters with the king of the marsh, with the dorado that we've traveled halfway across the globe to chase, never seem to grow tiring. Each well placed fly that produces a strike right where you had expected one, each placid channel we pole and discover patrolling dorado, each up-close inspection of the dorado's gold-flecked scales, blinding yellow sides and crimson-hued tails only leave us in search of more. And so, as the stillness of dusk descends on the marsh, we steal a few last casts, greedily hoping to shatter the peace once more (photo: Earl Harper).

Read more about Where dorado is king

In the Highlands

Prehistoric trout and char in Iceland's wild interior

by Earl Harper - Tuesday, Jan 8th, 2019

Vatnajökull National Park - Iceland - Land Rover

Images: Earl Harper and Chad Shmukler. Words: Chad Shmukler.

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A quick on-road pit stop to check tires and make sure rods are securely rigged before descending to ford a river on the outskirts of Vatnajökull National Park (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Though our destination in the highlands can be reached with relative ease via the southern route from Reykjavík, we embark for the highlands from Iceland's northern coast, after a couple of days spent casting to plump brown trout amidst the verdant greenery that drapes the banks of the Big Laxa River. We head south on the Sprengisandur Route, watching the lush vegetation and farmland of the northern coast disappear after putting little more than 15 minutes of dirt road behind us. Only minutes later, the route ascends sharply and turns into what it will be for the next five jarring hours: a rough, boulder-strewn trail that takes us south through the northern desert, and where we'll encounter only two other souls before reaching the ranger station more than 200 kilometers later (photo: Chad Shmukler).

ranger station Sprengisandur route iceland

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The route is accessible only in the summer and only by 4WD vehicles that have the clearance required to ford the multiple rivers along the way. Sprengisandur is an ancient pass and a historically important route between the north coast and southern portions of the island which Icelanders have been traveling for well over 1,000 years. Its name originates from the word "sprengja" which, in Icelandic, means "to exhaust." Long ago, the northern desert was thought to be a bastion of elves, giants and bandits, leading the few travelers who would brave the route to ride their horses to exhaustion for fear of slowing down or stopping.

The Vatnajökull ranger station is the first sign of humanity in hundreds of kilometers. Combined with the moss-covered rocks that line the river we'll ford below, it is an oasis after hours of barren moraine (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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In its upper reaches, not far from its headwaters, the Kaldakvísl River courses almost undetected in the landscape. From Sprengisandur, the eye stretches in every direction, spying only boulder and gravel. In the distance, however, the Kaldakvísl hides in plain sight, sculpting gentle, shallow valleys in the volcanic rock and soil (photo: Earl Harper).

stickleback - Kaldakvísl River - Iceland

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Trout food. Despite long, severe winter conditions, life abounds in the Kaldakvísl. Summertime awakens a cacophony of bug life which bring the river's brown trout to the surface in search of a meal. Even more important to the Kaldakvísl's trout are year-round residents like the one seen here, the Icelandic stickleback (Gasterosteus islandicus), which are prolific throughout the river (photo: Earl Harper).

Kaldakvísl River - Iceland - fly fishing

Kaldakvísl River - Iceland - Brown Trout

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Find a pattern that the Kaldakvísl's ice age trout take for a stickleback and it's likely to produce a connection with a brown trout that won't go forgotten anytime soon (photos: Chad Shmukler).

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As the river descends the highlands, it quickly increases in volume and power, carving deeper into the landscape and producing numerous dramatic waterfalls like Fagrifoss, seen here (photos: Earl Harper).

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Below many of the Kaldakvísl's falls, the river cuts dramatic canyons through igneous rock which often feature deep, glacially-tinged pools (photo: Earl Harper).

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Where one might just find brown trout sipping on mayflies in the pool's placid currents (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Fording rivers isn't just a requirement on the Sprengisandur route, it's a requirement up and down the Kaldakvísl and virtually everywhere throughout the highlands (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Farther south on the Kaldakvísl, near where the river dumps into Lake Sporðöldulón, the hillsides begin to glow with more greenery and flows tumble over the waterfall Nefji, one of the most dramatic in all of Iceland (photo: Chad Shmukler).

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Fishing can be good even right below the falls, where moderately sized brown trout and char congregate in the shelter beneath the tumbling waters (photo: Earl Harper).

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More distant from the chaos of the falls, larger trout take up residence and patrol prime water. They are opportunistic feeders, plucking midges, mayflies and caddis from the surface when present or gorging on sticklebacks and nymphs below when not (photos: Earl Harper [top], Chad Shmukler [bottom]).

From its headwaters to its mouth where it debouches into Sporðöldulón, the Kaldakvísl is fished by only a handful of anglers each year, due to its remoteness and the fact that—like virtually of Iceland's rivers—the Kaldakvísl is private. For hundreds of years, the entirety of the river has been owned by a farming cooperative. For generations, anglers hoping to fish its waters needed to seek permission from local farmers. Today, anglers that ply the Kaldakvísl do so through Fish Partner, an independently-owned outfitter out of Reykjavík who holds the exclusive fishing lease on the river.

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Just south of the Kaldakvísl in the highlands is the Tungnaá River. Though the waters of the Tungnaá, like the Kaldakvísl, are surprisingly diverse even over short distances, the Tungnaá has distinct features and a character that is all its own (photo: Earl Harper).

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The Tungnaá's char are particularly plump and shouldered and, even in midsummer, never fail to put on a color show (photos: Earl Harper).

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Even after a lifetime spent musing about one day setting foot on the arctic island, exploring its well known rivers and geologic marvels from afar, it's impossible to prepare oneself for being in Iceland, for experiencing landscapes so extraterrestrial and unique. Hours spent tumbling over rough terrain, scrambling down hillsides, bushwhacking through fields ablaze with lupine, tip-toeing along canyonsides like the one seen here on Tungnaá, and dragging gear through long hike-ins all pay off in incalculable ways (photo: Earl Harper).

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Months later, proofing images is an endless source of bewilderment, even for those of us that were on the ground. It's futile to try to convey Iceland using words, images or even memories (photo: Chad Shmukler).