On our first day in Iceland, still struggling to adjust to the time change, we took a drive through the southwest, Reykjanes peninsula and entered a landscape both beautiful and bleak. A stark terrain of eroded basalt, covered with moss and broken by swaths of tussock grass dominated this coastal region. Low hills and higher ridges provided some relief and a restless sea lashed the southern edge of the peninsula; black-backed gulls, eiders and northern gannets were spotted near the shoreline and flocks of golden plovers moved across the sparse, rocky grasslands.
Whenever the sun broke through the dense, gray overcast, certain views were reminiscent of our rugged, Southwest deserts; but then plumes of steam, so common in this geothermal landscape, would change the impression entirely. So too did the roaming bands of Icelandic sheep, direct descendants from those introduced by the Vikings, almost 1200 years ago; numbering more than 750,000 (at least two for every human Icelander), these distinctive creatures are self sufficient for most of the year but are rounded up in autumn and fed through the harsh winter months. This roundup is accomplished with the use of Icelandic horses; hardy, shaggy and well-tempered, these beloved animals are also pure bred descendants from the Viking era. While the Icelandic sheep and horse have become classic images of this island nation, only one mammal, the arctic fox, is a true native of Iceland.
Leaving the mossy moonscape behind, we will head inland to Pingvellir National Park tomorrow, where the spectacle of the North American and Eurasian Plates being pushed apart is especially evident. It is this tectonic process, after all, that accounts for the magnificent, geophysical landscape that we will explore over the coming days.
