ICELAND’S SHEEP THRILLS
Fall is the time when farmers collect and sort their herds of sheep after summer grazing It’s more of a party than it sounds. Flock to the fun.
For an unusual experience, join the island nation’s sheep farmers as they herd flocks from summer grazing lands into retts, where they are sorted according to owner. It’s work, but it’s also a fall tradition: Have a drink, sing a ballad, play tug of war. But know that not all sheep are easily led.
SKAGAFJORDUR, Iceland — “You must come for the rettir,” my friend Kristin said.
It’s her favorite time of year in Iceland — the annual fall roundup where Icelandic farmers on horseback retrieve their grazing flocks from the mountains and drive them into specially designed sorting rings called retts.
This boisterous celebration is filled with laughter, drinking and music, punctuated by Icelandic ballads and spontaneous games of tug of war while friends and neighbors help one another wrangle their sheep.
“This is the fall party for countrymen,” Kristin said, and extra participants are welcome.
I couldn’t pass up this chance to get a glimpse of rural Icelandic culture. On a chilly day in mid-September, I drove three hours north from Reykjavik to Kristin’s home in Skagafjordur, a farming region along Iceland’s northern coast.
You don’t have to know someone to join in, either; there are opportunities to join the “fall party.”
Rounding up
Early the next morning we drove deep into the valley of Maelifellsdalur, where Kristin’s husband, Leo, would ride with their friend Sara Reykdal. We bumped along a rough dirt track that crossed rocky streams and eventually arrived at the windswept top of a plateau.
It was bitterly cold even though the sun was shining; I quickly piled on every layer I had brought. A fence with a single gate opened onto the highlands, Iceland’s vast, virtually uninhabited interior of tundra cut by glacial rivers.
The hardiest riders had set out days ago to reach the most distant sheep near Hofsjokull glacier. Now, our group would help corral the ever-growing herd and direct them along the final leg through the valley.
Near the gate, 15 riders clustered with their mounts, braced against the wind. Several Icelandic sheepdogs whirled excitedly underfoot.
Sara stood coolly beside her horses. Her sister, Tota, manages their family farm, Starrastadir, meaning “place of the blackbird.” Sara’s 17-year-old son, Ulfar, waited nearby, bright red hair peeking out from beneath his riding helmet.
Everyone sported yellow safety vests for visibility and walkie-talkies for communication — no cell service here.
“This is just the way we breed sheep in Iceland,” Sara told me. Shortly after lambing time in May, farmers release their flocks to live all summer off the rich highland vegetation.
“If you would keep them home, they would be depressed,” Sara said. “They want to be free.”
The group rode to direct the oncoming herd as a wave of shaggy wool squeezed through the gate.
Most of the animals obediently followed the valley road, but a few had other ideas. One recalcitrant ram balefully stared down a rider, then bolted up the hill into the highlands, leaping past hollering children.
“Of course, it’s a black sheep,” Kristin said, laughing.
We wended our way along the road, staying well behind the bleating crowd. The riders formed lines up and down the valley walls, moving forward only when every sheep was heading in the right direction.
“If you have some naughty sheep, they can cause a lot of trouble,” Kristin said. “The riders hate it, but this is what I love — because it’s the action.”
Sara and Ulfar worked in tandem, aided by their faithful sheepdog Ronja, clearing each ridge one by one. They reached dizzying heights, sometimes scaling steep cliffs to nudge crafty creatures into the valley.
Sunbeams rolled across the landscape, lighting slender waterfalls that trickled down the slopes.
Small white flowers grew next to a rushing glacial stream. High on the hillside, I spotted a patch of snow. It hadn’t melted all summer.
We relaxed near the mouth of the valley, waiting for dawdling sheep to catch up. Sandwiches were unwrapped, Viking brand beer cracked open and jokes started flying.
“Now is time for the small talk and gossiping,” Kristin said. We sat on the grass, savoring the sweet wild blueberries that covered the slope. A would-be troubadour began to sing, his voice rising in a lilting Icelandic melody as friends
Inside the sorting ring
The next day, Kristin jounced us along a steep mountain road to show me Stafnsrett, a traditional livestock sorting ring. Radiating from an open circle in the middle of the large rett were nearly 50 sections, each labeled with the name of a local farm: Austurhlid, Hafgrimsstadir, Vidiholt.
The rett was abuzz with people and animals: sheep bleating, dogs barking, friends hollering across the ring and chatting over the walls. Families picnicked beside an icy stream.
I joined a lineup of locals in the holding pen, urging the flock to flee before us into the ring. We waved arms wildly, clapped hands and yelled — “Hah! Hah!” — sparking a stampede of thundering hoofs that flowed around us.
Some farmers claimed to recognize their sheep by each one’s “special facial expression,” Kristin told me, but they’re also identified by plastic tags in their ears. Locals charged into the melee, checking tags and dragging protesting animals to their proper sections.
Several tourists snapped photos and waded into the scrum, trying their hand at sheep wrangling.
I was swept along by the tide, buffeted by creamy, pungent wool. When a ram tried to take a bite of my pants, I retreated to a perch on top of the wall.
Retts such as Stafnsrett can be found throughout Iceland. Some are hundreds of years old, constructed of weathered stones; others are sleekly modern.
Back at the rett near Maelifellsdalur, the team from Starrastadir was sorting the sheep we had helped round up. Sara manned the gate to their section, while Tota, Ulfar and Heidar Oskarsson, Sara’s partner, gathered the animals.
Kristin’s 15-year-old daughter, Alma, accompanied us.
She was 4 years old when her parents brought her into the sheep sorting ring for the first time. “They wanted me to experience it because it’s an Icelandic tradition,” Alma said. “My dad held my hands and was walking with me. They were so big to me then.”
Now, the gentle bleating of the sheep reminds her of childhood.
On the farm
Stock sorted, team Starrastadir again took to horseback to lead their herd to their farm, where further selection would decide which sheep went to market and which would breed “new models,” Sara said.
I joined the family for dinner: lamb, of course, with rice, curry sauce and small yellow potatoes slathered with butter. The lamb was tender and sweet.
“You probably get the cleanest meat in the world in Iceland,” Heidar said.
The country’s regulations are strict: No growth hormones or preservatives. And because the sheep spend all summer eating grasses and berries, they’re almost completely free range, he said.
It’s a standard that Starrastadir and other Icelandic farms intend to maintain — and the rettir is an essential element.
“This has been going on for centuries,” Sara said. “I have been doing this for 30 years. My father did before, my grandfather [before him] and so on.”
It’s a beloved tradition, even though you’re tired for days afterward, Sara said. “The sheep roundup is something you do not want to miss,” she said. “It’s a part of your life — you do not want to lose it.”