![moss and fungi](/sites/g/files/omnuum4346/files/styles/hwp_21_9__1920x825/public/2026-11/PXL_20240920_112328670%20%281%29.jpg?itok=Xgvlsh-D) # Day of Days November 10, 2026 This morning we awake early in Ísafjörður, a small town on the northwesternmost tip of Iceland, and walk down its quiet streets to the dock. A few other adventurers are already there, all of them younger than us, and we chat as check-in and orientation begin. One of our guides is a young woman from Ireland named Orla. She is the kind of fit you see in ads for Title IX athletic wear. With long flaxen hair, she fits the meaning of her name, “golden princess.” She and Doug, a slim Brit missing a front tooth, make sure we have the correct clothing and gear, and outline the day: the crossing to the remote peninsula of Hornstrandir, further orientation at a base camp there, a hike up to a waterfall, lunch back at camp, another hike, and then back to Ísafjörður. The Arctic foxes we are all hoping for have been spotted recently in the area we’ll be hiking, so we have a good chance of seeing them. I’m fairly bouncing with excitement, more so even than the one child with us, a quiet boy named Henry. On the boat, the ten or so of us settle into our seats in the cabin, but I can’t be contained and am compelled to stand on deck near the bow. Underway, the boat picks up speed, blasting my hair back as I cling to the metal rail, grinning into the wind. The sky is grey but not rainy, the air cold but not freezing. We pass mountains, glaciers, and fjords, all blanketed in mist. Mere yards from the boatside, guillemots dive underwater, and fulmars fly alongside, skimming the surface. We come in sight of the reserve, and the boat anchors offshore. We’re instructed on how to disembark properly onto a Zodiac for the short trip to the rock-strewn beach. Orla is already in the red rubber vessel, reaching up to give us a hand and ferrying us over a few at a time, followed by the supplies for lunch. While waiting for the others, we wander around the stretch of jumbled rocks looking at the different kinds of seaweeds and beach plants, the arrangements of mussel shells, fishbones, driftwood, and sea urchins. So many sea urchins, purple-red shells cracked open, showing dark, glossy innards. With everyone onshore, we grab gear and climb up the grassy hillside to “base camp,” which is actually a restored farmhouse. Like the homes we passed this morning in Ísafjörður, the stark architecture is painted white, with a red roof and trim. As part of further orientation, Doug gives us its history. This remote area has been inhabited for centuries, with remains of turf houses and stone walls dating back to the 1300s. This home, Kvíar Lodge, had been built in 1921 to house two families. They lived by gathering guillemot eggs, fishing, growing potatoes and turnips, and keeping a few sheep, cows, and sturdy Icelandic horses. Since trees were scarce, fishermen built boats from driftwood that washed in from Siberia. They had wind-powered generators and used hydropower, but deserted the homestead in 1948 as residents left for jobs on the mainland. The house sat for sixty-four years until being restored for use as an adventure headquarters. Inside, pictures of the original families hang on the walls, and my favorite artifact is the huge teakettle on the old-fashioned stove. It was found in the caved-in kitchen and will be used to make our tea. ![Alexis Rizutto on a hike](/sites/g/files/omnuum4346/files/styles/hwp_1_1__360x360_scale/public/2026-11/PXL_20240920_115303543%20%281%29.jpg?itok=SOiys-AL) As we set off on our first hike, Orla shows me another artifact: the remains of a kitchen garden marked by crumbling stone walls, where an important herb still grows: angelica. It resembles cow parsley, with tall stalks and umbrella-like flower clusters, and was used for flavoring but also medicinally, for stomach upset. She picks a cluster and encourages me to taste it; I chew a soft green seedhead (it being mid-September, the flowers have gone by now) and am reminded of anise. I read later that this plant was so important to early Icelanders that there were specific laws protecting ownership of one’s patch. Its significance to me is that this is my first true taste of the island, and I feel a deeper connection to its wild landscape. Before we even get going, we see our first fox. Down the grassy hill, on the shore we’d climbed up from, it is trotting along, looking for food among the rocks and finding plenty— especially sea urchins. I can’t believe I’m actually looking at the creature I'd been dreaming of for a year, the one I had crossed an ocean to see. We watch from the hilltop, eyes glued to the little animal. Its fur is not the pure white I had always seen in photographs, but a blue-grey, camouflaging it among the dark, wet rocks. Doug tells us that, based on the color and fuzziness of the fur, it is most likely one of this year’s kits striking out on its own. I notice the eyes are blue, not the amber of an adult, but Doug thinks it’s pretty much full grown. This fox is so differently shaped from the red foxes I’m used to: stockier and more compact, with shorter legs, a shorter muzzle, and rounder ears atop a squarer head. This one also has a round, puppy-like tum. After about twenty minutes, we leave it to its business and head away from the shore. ![animals walking across rocks](/sites/g/files/omnuum4346/files/styles/hwp_1_1__360x360_scale/public/2026-11/PXL_20240920_144033334%20%281%29.jpg?itok=iILPnKJs) Leaving the farm behind, our hike takes us across the pathless tundra, some areas spongy with mosses, others rocky or covered in scrub. Here and there, small streams burble through the muted green and red-brown expanse, their steep sides hidden by tall grasses. I’m fascinated by the myriad types of moss, fungus, and dwarf alpine plants. Although she is leading the hike, Orla walks with me for a while. She is a good naturalist, able to name many of the flora we walk over: cotton grass with its tufts blowing in the wind, dwarf lady’s mantle, reindeer lichen like tiny white antlers, mountain sorrel, purple crane’s bill, dwarf birch, polar willow, haircap moss, Arctic saucer lichen with its little orange fairy cups. We also come upon fox scat, ptarmigan pellets, and large fish skeletons. The scrub is mostly crowberry and low-bush blueberries, which I sample, taking in the tundra literally. The crowberry is another important plant in Iceland, known for its health benefits (being rich in anti-oxidants). Its purple-black berries grow on evergreen branches so low it’s basically a ground-cover. When I eat a few, their juice is tart. Humans, birds, and other animals take advantage, and some of the fox scat we find is bright purple from the berries. Our group begins following a large stream to its source, and the hike becomes steeper. My husband Alex and I fall behind the younger couples, and by the time we get to the waterfall, people are sitting on rocks and pulling out snacks and water bottles. We savor our skyr, sharing the one utensil in my pack: a wooden knife. I ask the guides for the name of the fall, and they tell me it’s simply *Fossar*, the plural word for waterfall. The water itself is glacial melt from a higher mountain stream, filtered through lava rocks. There are no mammals larger than foxes here, and the water is free of parasites. “It is absolutely pure,” Orla tells me. “You should drink some.” I empty my canteen and scramble down to the rocky edge, where a small pool is accessible if I can reach down far enough. Angelica stalks line the banks. I fill my canteen with the icy water and take a drink. It feels like a sacrament, like holy water—except in church the holy water is not for drinking. This water is ancient, melted from a glacier eons old. Yet it is living, filtering through the land itself, running through the tundra and into me. I stand and fling my arms wide in praise. Participant, Exploring Spirituality in Nature Writing Workshop ### Alexis Rizutto Former environmental editor at Beacon Press, Alexis Rizzuto (MFA, Emerson) is a freelance editor based in Cambridge. She has taught writing at Syracuse University and Grub Street, and currently teaches at Boston College. ![Alexis Rizutto, photo](/sites/g/files/omnuum4346/files/styles/hwp_1_1__480x480/public/2026-11/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-17%20at%201.45.02%20PM.png?itok=Muu0Qu9Y)