Reykjavík Grapevine - 19.07.2019, Blaðsíða 47

higher ground and settle in to
wait. Several of the group have
come prepared with telescopic
zoom lenses, and they trace the
land patiently for signs of move-
ment.
Eyjó’s voice lowers. He recounts
how Arctic foxes are Iceland’s
only indigenous land mammals,
thought to have arrived on ice-
bergs 10,000 years ago. They can
survive temperatures as frigid as
-35°, so the rough winters aren’t
a threat, but they’ve been locked
in battle with Icelandic farmers
since the settlement era. Foxes
were the settlers’ nemesis, known
for raiding larders and killing
vulnerable livestock—a matter of
grave importance in the time of
subsistence living. They’re still
hunted today, mainly for sport—
but they’ve been a protected spe-
cies in Hornstrandir since 1993.
Into the valley
The afternoon draws on, and my
companion and I decide to part
from the group for a while and
hike up the valley. We head to-
wards a waterfall in the middle
distance, and fox-signs peter out
the farther we get from the den.
Kvíar drops out of sight as we
cross the lush wetlands, and we
pass through meadows of cotton-
grass, wild angelica and purple
creeping thyme, soaking in the
sounds, smells and colours of the
untouched countryside.
As we circle back along the
coast towards the house, I mo-
mentarily fall behind, absorbed
in the hike. When I look up, my
heart skips a beat—just a few
metres away, my companion has
happened upon a sleeping fox, al-
most stepping on it. It leaps up
in surprise, bounding past her in
two arcing head-height jumps and
trotting off to hide in a nearby
outcrop. The three of us freeze.
The fox’s head rises from behind
the rocks as it regards the situa-
tion. Its coat is patchy, between
the white of winter and the black
of summer. Its pointed ears sink
away once more. Although Horn-
strandir’s foxes are tame, this one
has been startled, and it slinks
away up the steep hillside and
over the clifftop.
Last gasp barks
Back at Kvíar, Eyjó is serving up
a dinner of baked fish, omelettes
and potatoes. There’s been no ac-
tivity at the den. We recount the
story of our sighting, passing
around the camera to share the
handful of blurry pictures of our
encounter.
However, all is not lost. After
packing up the house, the group is
hiking back to meet the returning
boat when a strange sound echoes
down from the cliffs. Camera
lenses shoot up, and the culprit
is quickly identified—it’s the
bark of a different fox, this time
on the mountain overlooking
Lónafjörður. Shutter snaps ring
out as it stalks along the crest of
the mountain and into the wilder-
ness beyond.
The group’s spirits are lifted
even after this sighting-at-dis-
tance. There’s much to talk about
on the homewards journey—so
much, in fact, that we barely no-
ticed the choppy sea as the wild
cliffs of Hornstrandir vanish back
into their halo of clouds. gpv.is/travel
Follow all our travels
A fox assessing our sudden encounter
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