The Pulse of the Earth: My first experience capturing an active volcanic eruption
Nothing prepares you for the moment the earth begins to bleed. In July 2023, I found myself standing on the edge of the Reykjanes Peninsula, staring into the fiery throat of Litli-Hrútur. It was my first-ever volcanic eruption, and it remains the most profound, bone-shaking experience of my life.
The Trial of the Trail
Iceland doesn't give up its secrets easily, reaching the eruption site required a grueling 24 Kilometer (15 Mile) round-trip hike across a landscape that felt more like the moon than Earth. The terrain was a punishing mix of jagged, ancient lava fields, steep gravel inclines, and relentless Icelandic wind that seemed determined to push me back.
As a photographer, the physical challenge was doubled. Strapped to my back was a pack heavy with tripods, multiple camera bodies, a variety of lenses, a drone, food, water and extra warm layers - essential tools for capturing a subject that is literally too hot to approach. Every Kilometer felt like three as the weight pressed into my shoulders, but the adrenaline of seeing a glowing orange haze on the horizon kept my boots moving.
A Primal Spectacle
When I finally crested the final ridge, the exhaustion vanished instantly. Before me, the earth had torn open, spewing fountains of liquid fire into the sky. The sound is what stays with you—not just a roar, but a deep, rhythmic thumping, like the planet itself has a heartbeat.
The heat was visceral, a dry furnace blast that reminded me exactly how small we are in the face of Mother Nature. I spent hours in a trance-like state, framing the contrast of the cooling black crust against the neon-red rivers of molten rock.
Twice Captured
The experience was so soul-stirring that I knew one visit wouldn't be enough. I returned a second time, braving the long trek once more to witness how the landscape had transformed in just a few days. The main cone had grown, the lava paths had shifted, and the light of the "midnight sun" cast an ethereal purple glow over the rising volcanic smoke.
There is a specific kind of silence that exists at a volcano—a heavy, respectful awe shared by everyone standing on that ridge. Shooting Litli-Hrútur wasn't just about the photos; it was about witnessing the birth of new land. It was exhausting, painful, and perfect.
Below are some of my favourite images from this experience:
