Lieutenant Gregory Fletcher for the win. Crash landing in 14°F is kinda sorta not easy. Had they made haste in Atlantic Ocean, hypothermia would have set in almost immediately. No deaths. No injuries. Just the birth of a badass pilot.

Short answer. Iceland joined North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) in 1949, establishing United States military presence in the country. November 21, 1973, a routine supply cargo flight to Naval Air Station Keflavík went astray in a blizzard.

Headline: U.S. Navy C-117D wreck at Sólheimasandur. A modified Douglas Dakota whose fuselage remains sculptured on black sand just steps from the coastline. If only the family who owns this land received a royalty per tourist visit.

Back to saturation. Because life is oh so colorful. Blue on orange.

Captain James Wicke with a distress call heard ‘round the country.

An outdoor museum with foolish Icelandic wallpaper backdrops.

Playing with dehaze levels to increase contrast in distant shadows.

Luna says “Ooou”. The midday moonrise. Memorable mindtrip.

Midnight sherbet sunsets over silhouetted flora and fauna. Damn.

Huarache

Imagination. Creating seven standalone Story’s from one travel assignment seemed unlikely. Until it happened. Each Story of Iceland is incredibly different from the others. An indelible landscape. Quaint culture. Country is so clean it is repulsive.

Recognition. Flying is dangerous for humans. As private pilot of single-engine and unmanned aircraft, part of our safety checklist when entering the cockpit is to remind ourselves of basic decision-making. Pilot error is deadliest of all factors.

Intuition. Do not think. Just do. Wicke and Fletcher spared the lives of everyone on board in the most volatile of weather conditions. They did so by instinct and composure. Perhaps the most notable attributes to being a successful pilot.