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
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