A Field Guide of Memories: Lessons from the Species of Iceland
By Alexander Harrop
Nothing in the world felt more alien to me than first landing at Keflavik Airport. My brain barely had time to recover from my redeye flight over the Atlantic before I found myself in another world—a land of barren rock, moss, steam, and ice. As a part of my summer internship, a team of 12 college students and I were assigned to write a field guide to Iceland, and my focus was to be the species of the country. Writing a national field guide is a tall task, but doing it after flying alone for the first time is an even bigger one.
Iceland’s native animal population is nearly all birds, a result of being so far from other land. Birds inhabit the island from the cliffs to the tundra. The only mammal species found naturally are Arctic foxes, which migrated there during the last ice age. Iceland’s only predators are raptor birds and foxes, which makes the island a safe breeding ground during avian migration periods. Across Iceland, I encountered many birds that captured my heart. The first of these was the Arctic tern. These birds are known for having the largest migration distance of any species, traveling from one pole to another within a year. Iceland is home to an abundance of Arctic terns in the warm summer months, which is, luckily, when I went.
The house we lived in during the trip bordered a large nature preserve. Early in our stay, while hiking around the property, our team came across a pond. From across the pond, I could see something hovering over the surface. It looked motionless. With its pure white body and black cap to its bright orange beak, the bird instantly captured my interest. As I made my way closer, the tern swept into action, diving right into the pond, scooping up a fish, and flying off with its meal. This interaction was one of many that assured me of Iceland’s majesty. There are few places around the world where you can walk from a suburban neighborhood to a nature reserve and see such beauty.
The most incredible animal experience I had was with European golden plovers. These birds have been a large part of native Icelandic culture ever since the Vikings first landed and believed that the bird represented the coming of spring. Icelanders have established them as a symbol of their country and the prosperity of summertime—or perhaps just something to sell to a tourist. I had always been captivated by the gold, black, and white plumage of the inconspicuous plover. On one occasion, as the team and I were hiking a geothermal mountain, passing an open geyser before moving into a mossy field, I heard a small chorus of “tuus” calling to my right. I turned to see a European golden plover staring off into the canyon. As he called out into the wind, I readied my camera. As I snapped several photos, he began to turn his head towards me. The bird and I stared at each other, not 20 feet apart, until he scurried off.
Having the ability to see such incredible species and have meaningful connections to them defined my experience. Without a doubt, it is the most important work I have done in my life. Prior to this trip, I had just begun to get into photography as a full-time hobby. I had found my grandfather’s old camera and couldn’t wait to edit and work on shot composition. Immediately, I knew that the camera was coming with me on this trip to help document everything possible and that the trip would become a core part of my artistic expression.
In addition to these native species, Iceland hosts a myriad of non-native species brought over by Vikings during colonization. The Icelandic sheep is particularly notable. Most non-native mammals tend to grow smaller in Iceland than their counterparts in Europe, due to limited nutrients in the ecosystem. That is, except for the Icelandic sheep, which grow larger, as they can use the whole country for grazing.
Iceland’s lack of natural predators allows many species to roam without fear or flocks. Oftentimes, small families of sheep can be seen together on the sides of cliffs next to large waterfalls or simply in the middle of the road. On our last day, we went to take some data on the last major ecosystem in Iceland: the sea bird cliffs. These cliffs, home to many different species of birds, are a prime showcase of species’ niche interactions, as they can be observed partitioning themselves out onto different layers of rock. On the drive, we saw a family of sheep that decided to block the road by sitting down and refusing to move so the team and I hiked an extra two miles to the trailhead and another three miles to the cliffs. Here, we ran into open land as far as the eye could see, next to the cliffs and waterfalls. We focused on an unnamed waterfall near the ocean. These falls ran through the middle of the grass and over a 1000-foot cliff where countless birds gathered below. As we walked along the edge, we saw another small sheep family approaching. Staring at them as we walked along the cliffs, I began to feel sentimental on my last day in Iceland. My trip to the edge of the world allowed me to make lifelong friends—both human and nonhuman.
Iceland wasn’t just a random fascination for me. While reading Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Gathering Moss prior to the trip, I was captivated by her writing about her connection with the small plants around her and the intricate beauty of their survival. I began to do some research into the topic and saw Iceland’s landscape as a moss-abundant place. Mosses are prevalent across the whole country in basins where water and snow collect. Having the opportunity to witness this abundance of moss firsthand, the uniqueness of this landscape was truly impressed upon me.
As majestic as Iceland’s swathing fields of green are, beauty can also be found in smaller ways, which I experienced during our trek to the Gullfoss (Gold Waterfall). Gullfoss is the biggest waterfall in all of Europe, by volume, and attracts thousands of people annually. On the path, we crossed a hill and were met with a bold purple—a clearing full of lupine. Lupine is a flowering species initially brought over from the Americas to help with soil erosion but has become an invasive species. It fixes nitrogen in the soil, making it difficult for other species to compete in these environments.
In retrospect, I realize that my trip to Iceland was more than research. It was just as valuable in the sense that it shaped the way I see life. Now, I look at everything with more warmth and peace. The landscape taught me lessons about perseverance and hardiness in a fragile world. The species that I quickly became passionate about and connected to are not found anywhere else in the world. They are the key elements that make Iceland what it is and to me, that is the ultimate memory. H
Art by Wylie Roberts and Photography by Alexander Harrop
