It has been a long while since I last posted anything and there is a lot of catching up to be done. First I need to go back nearly 3 months!
Towards the end of November, I finally got the chance to accompany Bjössi and Sverrir on one of their forays into the hills to shoot ptarmigan. It was a fine, Friday afternoon with the temperature holding at around zero and plenty of snow still on the hills. The days were already very short, so we were anxious to get started, especially as Sverrir didn’t finish his work until 2 pm. Having parked by a lake to the south of Hólmavík, we shouldered our rucksacks and the 2 shotguns as Gordon, Bjössi‘s pointer, already ran wildly around in his bright yellow coat. The walk began with a steep ascent to around 300 metres above sea level. Panting, I doggedly followed my companions as they strode ahead, regretting my sedentary work and lifestyle, and not least my smoking habit. I could accept not being as fit as Sverrir who, after all, is about twenty years younger than me, but Bjössi and I share the same birth year and he was decidedly fitter than I was. By the time we reached the top of the hill I was already glad that this was not one of their all-day shoots, as they can cover up to 25 km up hill and down dale!
We decided to split up, Sverrir taking one valley while Bjössi and I searched another. I soon found that the sport in hunting ptarmigan lies entirely in being prepared to walk long distances while keeping one‘s eyes open for these elusive, pidgeon-size birds. In their white winter plumage, ptarmigan are almost invisible against the snow and their instinct is to stay absolutely motionless when danger threatens. Bjössi forged ahead, his boots sinking through the soft snow, sometimes crushing the over-ripe berries that lay beneath and staining the snow red as if we had already made a kill. Before very long, Gordon spotted a brace of birds about 100 metres ahead of us and stood quivering as he pointed with his entire body. At first, I could not see the ptarmigan at all, but Bjössi gave me an indication and took aim. I had been expecting him to wait until the birds flew, as we do in England, but this was a pointless exercise. Ptarmigan instinctively simply lie still; you can literally throw stones at them and they won‘t move. So, aiming at the static target, he fired and got the first kill of the afternoon. Finally startled, other ptarmigan flew away low across the rocky landscape.
However, we had a good idea where the birds had flown to and it didn‘t take long for Gordon to find them again. This time, Bjössi lined them up nicely and killed two with one shot. Gordon excitedly ran forward to retrieve them, performing a ritual ‘lap of honour’ with one of the dead ptarmigan before we eventually managed to call him back.
Encouraged by this success, we continued uphill in search of more prey. I found that my initial fatigue from the steep climb had been forgotten now that the adrenaline kicked in and I was caught up in the thrill of the hunt. We entered a shallow gill and Bjössi suggested that we should scout along opposite sides of it because the ptarmigan were most likely among the rocks on either side. As I walked on, I noticed one of the snow holes that these birds create to shelter from the frost and icy wind at night. The entrance was fairly large – big enough for me to insert my head for a closer inspection – and led off sideways to left and right with two tunnels long enough to accommodate several ptarmigan. I don’t know whether they cluster together for warmth, but it would seem the logical and instinctive course to take. Resuming my scan of the landscape, it occurred to me that our prey could well be lying quietly in the middle of the gill and laughing at us as we passed by on either side. I remembered my military training from long ago - scan carefully, looking for any unusual shapes - and was rewarded by the sight of one bird’s head reverse-silhouetted in white against a darker rock about thirty metres away.
Encouraged by this success, we continued uphill in search of more prey. I found that my initial fatigue from the steep climb had been forgotten now that the adrenaline kicked in and I was caught up in the thrill of the hunt. We entered a shallow gill and Bjössi suggested that we should scout along opposite sides of it because the ptarmigan were most likely among the rocks on either side. As I walked on, I noticed one of the snow holes that these birds create to shelter from the frost and icy wind at night. The entrance was fairly large – big enough for me to insert my head for a closer inspection – and led off sideways to left and right with two tunnels long enough to accommodate several ptarmigan. I don’t know whether they cluster together for warmth, but it would seem the logical and instinctive course to take. Resuming my scan of the landscape, it occurred to me that our prey could well be lying quietly in the middle of the gill and laughing at us as we passed by on either side. I remembered my military training from long ago - scan carefully, looking for any unusual shapes - and was rewarded by the sight of one bird’s head reverse-silhouetted in white against a darker rock about thirty metres away.
Alerted by a low whistle from me, Bjössi joined me, making a wide semicircle as I pointed. Our target must have been aware of our presence, but still trusted absolutely in the virtues of stillness and camouflage and so made no move to escape. Shouldering the shotgun, Bjössi squeezed the trigger and shot the bird cleanly. The carcase was stowed with the others in a rucksack and we continued on our way with Gordon in the lead.
I was amazed by Gordon’s speed and vitality. He would range far from us, sometimes so far away that it would be difficult to spot him but for the orange coat he was wearing. We would see him loping in the distance and then, before we had trudged many paces through the snow, he would race right past us to try his luck in another quarter. On one occasion we saw him a long way off, pointing, but when we arrived at the spot there were no birds to be seen. Laughing, we speculated that he had realised we were making our way back and didn’t want the day’s sport to end yet. However, the sun had long set; the light was fading and we really did have to get back to the car. Going downhill can often be harder work than the reverse (even if it does not leave you as breathless) and the more so when hampered by poor light, but we were able to cross some stretches quickly by sliding on our bottoms down expanses of frozen snow. We came across more ptarmigan on the way, and these were duly added to the bag.
Eventually, at last light, we got back to the car. We had bagged eight birds in all; not a particularly impressive day’s shooting but, as another shooter had said to me, “It’s not about the bag; it is about the fun of looking for the ptarmigan and having a good day’s walk in the snow.” I felt mildly exhilarated and very tired, and I remember that I slept very soundly that night.
Eventually, at last light, we got back to the car. We had bagged eight birds in all; not a particularly impressive day’s shooting but, as another shooter had said to me, “It’s not about the bag; it is about the fun of looking for the ptarmigan and having a good day’s walk in the snow.” I felt mildly exhilarated and very tired, and I remember that I slept very soundly that night.
By way of an epilogue, I later asked when the ptarmigan would be eaten. This was important to me: apart from wanting to find out what they taste like, I would not willingly participate in killing something unless I wanted to eat it. By eating the prey, you give thanks for its life and death and give it the chance to live on as part of yourself. Bjössi and Signý told me that it is customary in Iceland to eat rjúpa on New Year‘s Eve, but because I would then be in England they would lay on a special meal for me before my departure. And so, on the 11th of December, my last Friday in Iceland before the Yuletide break, we gathered for dinner at Bjössi and Signý‘s. There were 10 of us at the table and the best meat from 15 birds was served, accompanied by sauces and a variety of other dishes, washed down with full-bodied red wine. It was an enjoyable and fitting conclusion to my first four and a half months of living in Iceland.