At an exhibit of my work, a man approached, excitedly, about something he had discovered in one of the pictures.
“I see a horse,” he said. I have photographed horses, but this was not one of those images. It was of a waterfall plunging a thousand feet down a sheer cliff — a drop so steep even mountain goats couldn’t traverse it.
It’s been a while since I’ve been on a flight where the pilot encouraged us to look out the window. When it happens, it’s a rare event. It usually requires passing over something with the magnitude of the Grand Canyon. I never once heard the captain suggest looking out at the rugged landscape of Greenland or a spectacular view of the northern lights, even though it’s not like any of us passengers have anything better to do.
The basalt columns on Reynisfjara beach in southern Iceland have stood there for at least a few thousand years. A black sand beach has put the towering hexagons within easy reach for as long as anyone can remember. But in a flash, or rather a winter storm, the columns, a product of an ancient volcanic eruption, are now out at sea, the beach cleared away.
Some of our most spectacular national parks are the result of exploration. Once they’ve become a dot on a map, however, we stop looking further even though there’s so much more we could discover.