Sheep Whispering in Árneshreppur, Iceland

by Donna McLuskie (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Iceland

Gunnar collected me at Gjögur’s small airfield. “In Árneshreppur, only Gjögur catches the sun all winter.” He pointed back towards Árnes. “This is because the mountains are high and the winter sun stays low.” We went straight to work, to a barn where some recently gathered sheep were being weighed. Gunnar had to collect his sheep, the ones wearing his farm’s ear tags. I’d prepared for this adventure by learning the rudiments of horse riding at my village’s polo club in England. Gunnar laughed when I mentioned this and detoured our drive to show me a fenced-in pasture. “We don’t use horses. It’s impractical. The mountains are too steep. We walk and some of us use dogs. These are the only two horses in Árneshreppur and they’re retired.” The first day of gathering I went out overdressed. Very soon I overheated and the Icelanders began to mutter about me and look concerned. Their process was to select one side of one fjord’s long fingers of mountain each day. They would drive out to the far end, then climb up. En masse they would slowly walk back, fanning out along the mountainside to herd any grazing sheep down to the gravel road by water’s edge and back to the nearest farm. Only a third of the way up the mountain, they stopped briefly. One man told me that I could wait for them there. “There’s a job for everyone,” he said. This steeled my determination. “I’m here to work. I’m coming with you,” I insisted. It was early September and the sheep weren’t keen to be rounded up after a summer of magnificent views and delicious nibbles. Those who had been gathered before knew what was coming. One woman, Sveindís, really impressed me. She worked at the airport and also at a holding farm for lambs destined to be slaughtered. On the hillsides, she always took a high position. She wore wellingtons, not hiking boots. Most extraordinary, she could sheep whisper. Mimicking her, I swapped my boots for wellies and thick Icelandic socks and stopped getting blisters. Instead of hooting as most others did, I tried whispering the word ‘sheep’ as I neared the animals. I learned that standing still and extending one arm outwards, then wiggling only the fingertips could herd sheep beautifully. One day I was sent up a steep grassy mountain face to direct some stubborn sheep down. I was scared. My fear of heights hadn’t surfaced before that point. Most of the mountains had rocks and ledges but not this one. It was a steep slope of smooth grass. How would I get back down? My task was to deter sheep from turning back when someone higher up with his dog sent them down the mountainside. Whenever I glanced down, the woman in charge waved me to climb higher. Finally, she was happy with my position and soon the sheep scampered past as planned. At the thought of descending, I froze and clung onto clumps of grass. I plastered myself against the mountain face, too terrified to move. It was Steini who was up at the ridge with his sheepdog. As he worked his way down, he called out, “Come on. Let’s go.” “I’m scared,” I admitted. “I’m scared too,” he said. “Follow me. Do zig-zag.” I dreaded being left alone or humiliating myself so I followed his faint impressions on the grass, staring at my feet whilst making one precarious footstep after another. Eventually we were back down on the road. Steini sat on a boulder overlooking the farm where others coerced sheep into pens. We sat together and watched. “Why do you go up to the mountain ridges if you’re scared of heights?” I asked him. “It’s good to push yourself,” he said. That evening, Gunnar led me outside and pointed out a spot high up the steep mountain behind his farm. “That’s where Steini lost a sheep and her two lambs last year. They ran over the edge. The sheep died on the mountain. Her lambs had broken legs. Steini had to go back up with a gun and shoot the lambs.” Then I understood what Steini meant. Sheep farmers here must embrace danger.