If it’s September, it’s réttir, or sheep round up time in Iceland. Some 800,000 of the Norwegian-Icelandic variety (short legged and densely coated) are let out to pasture in late spring to freely roam, untended and unfenced, in the pastures and hillsides of the verdant Icelandic landscape. There, they graze for months on an abundant diet of sheep’s sorel, mountain avens, blueberries and broad leaf grasses. Nurturing, fresh water mountain streams crisscross virtually every open field. Sure-footed and affable, they can be seen, clustered in small groups—almost always a ram and 3-5 ewes—beside the country’s roadways or spotted in the distance as minuscule white dots, high on the sloping mountain ranges. A motorist is more likely to encounter a sheep crossing the highway, than any other kind of wildlife. Such unwarranted encounters are rare, though, because in the vast, open landscape, highway visibility can extend for miles.

Despite Iceland’s almost exclusive reliance on geothermal power for homes and manufacturing (only 9% of its megawatts are generated by oil—and that appropriated for heavy industry), they have indeed had issues with environmental damage. In decades’ past, the number of sheep totaled over two million—more than six-times the human population. Grazing patterns over the course of many months each year resulted in soil erosion and loss of vital farmland and open fields. For these reasons, efforts to limit herds today mean more active control of numbers—hence, the annual réttir.

With the arrival of the autumn equinox, dimming daylight and cooler weather (average daytime temperature in September, 50°F), rural Icelandic communities turn out in droves to saddle up their Icelandic ponies, fire up their ATVs and 4-wheel drive vehicles, release the border collies and enlist the help of tourists—those who are willing and able—to herd these designer sweaters-on-the-hoof into holding areas scattered across the countryside. After months in the field, ear tags are the only way to determine whose mutton is whose, as they are separated in owners’ pens arranged in large wagon wheel-shaped configurations.  Once assembled, the herd is carefully culled: some to slaughter, most for shearing, and some for breeding, where the lucky ones will live on in large barns through the relentless winter months. And with that impending stretch of looming darkness and howling arctic winds due to arrive soon, substantial shelter is essential for survival, even for this hearty breed.

“The nation of Iceland is about the size of Kentucky, perched atop a cauldron of red-hot magma and boiling water.”

For reasons I can’t fully explain, I am strangely attracted to regions of the world such as this, where the land lies blanketed under layers of snow and ice for a good portion of each year. While not widely traveled to earth’s remotest frozen realms, I can attest to a brisk New Year’s Day visit to Niagara Falls, where the very first parking spot, just steps from this otherwise seasonably mobbed destination, was mine, all mine! I’ve ventured into the chilled wind-swept streets of Old Quebec City and Old Montreal where temperatures hovered around -17°F, not including wind chill. Navigating Canada’s remote highways in blinding snow or traveling the winding roads of New York’s Adirondack Range in near-whiteout conditions, seem to suit me fine. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not opposed to a swaying palm tree and turquoise waters lapping at my ankles; but give me the remote reaches of the Arctic Circle over the crowded beaches of the Caribbean any day!

With that confession now out in the open, the fact that the rough-and-tumble nation of Iceland has lingered on my bucket list for nearly a decade may begin to make sense. Now, I admit to booking my July flight on Icelandair (why not immerse myself in Icelandia while still at JFK?), not because I feared the country’s harsh winter conditions, but rather because the duration of Iceland’s brumous state is nearly six months of the year. As an artist and photographer, I needed light to fully appreciate my surroundings and be able to tell my story. Of course, I packed the requisite snow suit (“be prepared for sudden changes in weather”) the brochures excitedly advised. After all, why would a cryophilic like me be vacationing without several protective thermal layers, certain to make it a true holiday?

The nation of Iceland is about the size of Kentucky, perched atop a cauldron of red-hot magma and boiling water. Its population of 370,000 souls is separated from impending disaster by a mere thin crust of volcanic debris fields and isolated stretches of arable land. Steam vents regularly erupt from the typical landscape setting, sending plumes of hot water billowing into the air. Mountain ranges are dotted with high altitude ice fields, some larger than Manhattan by a factor of ten. Iceland has been called the ‘land of fire and ice,’ with an active fissure regularly erupting at the time of my visit (this latest tourist attraction, Fagradalsfjall (above, left) is not a volcano, as often referred to, but an ‘igneous dyke’ or ground-level magma-spewing split in the earth’s crust, commonly found in the country’s eons of geological history, that has ‘coned up’ around its primary site).

Iceland is a country heavily dependent on tourism. Its short growing season assures that little can be produced by its land-rich, far-flung farms, other that hay to feed its livestock. Two-thirds of its population is clustered in the urbane capital city of Reykjavik, on the southwest coast. There, luxury cars and designer retail brands, high-powered business lunches and vital commerce abound. The city’s roadways consist of numerous roundabouts feeding into ever-narrowing, labyrinthine streets. Brightly-colored houses are packed in, row-upon-row, contributing to a festive atmosphere for its urban residents, who appear to be enjoying to the fullest, the few short months of sun and outdoor activity.

Drive just a few miles outside the city, however, and one enters the vast, primordial landscape the country is best known for. To see as much of the country as possible in the days available, I was advised to rely on the Ring Road, a looping, 820-mile long, two-lane highway, circumventing this island nation. The maximum speed limit on this road is strictly imposed at 90 kilometers/hour, or about 56 mph. The perilous design of the Ring Road, with its absence of guard rails and precipitous drops into field and stream adds a hair-raising element to this modest rate of travel. As all good Icelandic drivers do, I readily complied with this speed restriction in this otherwise well-ordered and law-abiding society—mostly because I feared for my well-being on this often rain slicked and wind-swept thoroughfare.    

Beyond Reykjavik’s city lights and tourist shops, Iceland is a land of vast fields of brilliant green, in all imaginable shades and hues. It is a nation of rivers and waterfalls (foss), volumes of water cascading over rocky precipices, tumbling from heights exceeding that of my beloved Niagara. Under the effects of a temperate summer sun, lacey threads of melting winter snow trail down the crevasses and gullies of the surrounding mountains, only to cross open fields to join other streams, becoming another dramatic foss, unexpectedly appearing at the next bend in the highway. It is a country that also presents mile-upon-mile of otherworldly, stone-riddled hills and valleys (the `70s Apollo astronauts trained in Eastern Iceland in such a setting), only to reveal a brilliant, sunlit valley replete with farms and grazing Icelandic horses at the next turn. And the country’s black sand beaches, washed by the North Atlantic’s startling blue waters are almost always just a few turns of the wheel away.

And what is a travel log without a passing reference to local food? I can report that a ‘standard’ Icelandic restaurant menu includes few surprises. For the most part, offerings of pizza and cheeseburgers, excellently prepared, find their way to almost every popular tourist destination menu throughout the country. One can do no wrong by ordering seafood, however. It is plentiful and affordable. If you choose to eat like an American, that’s when it becomes pricey (note the two ubiquitous offerings above). But it’s the notoriously quirky native fare that garners the headlines and attention of incredulous visitors: horse sausage or fermented shark as a luncheon special come as no surprise. But lamb is the staple on every Icelandic table.

The meat is used for everything from traditional meat soup (a predictable offering at most tourist stops and roadside pubs), lamb chops and hot dogs, to Icelandic specialties such as slátur (liver sausage) and svið (singed sheep head). Fish stew thickened with local cheese was a regular go-to for me, as well as that flavorful meat (mutton) soup, kjötsúpa…a steaming bowl (above) prepared with stored root vegetables, served with heaps of rye ‘pot’ bread, a brown bread-like side, steamed to crusty goodness in boiling volcanic sands for twenty-four hours.

That piping hot combination was enough to warm the cockles of this ice-bound traveler’s heart.  

By Richard Friswell, Managing Editor