It’s a beautiful mid-September day. The sun is not covered by clouds, the biting winds have the mercy to cease once every half hour or so, and I am on the bumpiest ride of my life with a growing herd of me-ing companions. (My fellow tractor rider, Þuríður Kristjana Þorbergsdóttir, informs me that in Iceland sheep “me” instead of “ba.”)
I came to Glaesibaer farm in Sauðárkrókur, a town in northern Iceland, with my co-worker, videographer Gabriella Garcia-Pardo, to help make a video for National Geographic News about Göngur, which is the annual herding of horses and sheep back to the farm after their freerange summer mountain grazing. I, however, had not ridden a horse since I was 14, when I earned the nickname “Poofy Eyes.” Turns out I’m allergic. So the wise people of Glaesibaer offered me an alternative mode of transportation for the herding—the sheep tractor.
When someone invites you into their tradition they usually brief you on it beforehand, which is good. Otherwise I might have been foolish enough to forego the tractor to attempt the 10-hour horseback ride. But even if you’re given a play-by-play, you can’t know how something feels until you’re in it. And did I ever have a full-sensory experience that day—I acquired bruises from the tractor, tasted celebratory lamb’s leg with pepper sauce, and witnessed more adults wearing sweaters of the same pattern (called Lopapeysa) than I had thought was possible.
Part of what’s special about the Göngur is that it’s not just one farm bringing home their horses, but the whole community. The atmosphere is celebratory in that unique way where people who know each other well are working together towards a common goal. That said, it also felt like a special day for the family at Glaesibaer—They had three generations present. The grandfather, Freidrick Stefansson, has been riding in Göngur for over half a century.
This family’s traditions, I discovered, are rooted in practicality and performed in sync with the rhythms of the environment. From my perspective as an urban American, that’s rare. I wanted to see more, so I decided to come back to Glaesibaer a few weeks later to spend more time witnessing those rhythms.
When I returned, about 20 sheep had just been slaughtered. It’s something they do in the fall. Most of the meat is sold, but some is kept for the family. They use every part of the animal: the skin, the head, the heart. Ragneiheidor Erla Bjornsdottir, Freidrick’s wife, uses the fat to make sausage that she serves to her family (she has 11 grandchildren) through the biting days of winter.
One morning at 7:00 am, Helgi, one of their family friends, knocked on my window, gave me some galoshes, and we took to the nearby lake in a red canoe. The sky felt thicker than normal as it sprinkled us with light rain. Helgi’s actions were so repetitive—the oars dipping into the water, his hands pulling us across the surface as he tugged the submerged net, stopping to cut out a fish caught in the green webbing. Repeated 73 times, it was hypnotic. He does it every day.
And then there was the predictable chorus of the clinking dishes each day around noon and six, as the family reunited at the table after they’d completed their various tasks. There was always, always coffee served with a pitcher of milk from a neighbor’s farm and quiet conversation that was consistently peppered with laughter.
When I first arrived in Iceland, Ragneighdor Erla Bjronsdottir, who shares a name with her grandmother and is one of the 11 grandchildren of Glaesibaer, told me that a popular Icelandic poet, Einar Benediktsson, is known for saying that the lack of trees in Iceland doesn’t matter because they make up for it with their knowledge of their family trees. It’s true that Icelanders value their lineage. But beyond that it seems that many Icelanders see themselves as being a part of the landscape.
And so I was reminded, on a little farm in Sauðárkrókur, that by following the lead of the land—by shoeing horses and making sausage—ordinary tasks, it seems, can become traditions that ultimately remind us of our place in a larger and ongoing narrative.
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