\u201cSince I was a little boy, I was always catching puffins,\u201d says Hilmarsson, who\u2019s in his 50s and grew up hunting seabirds in the Westman Islands. \u201cEach year, I would catch 5,000, 6,000. I was raised up on bird meat.\u201d<\/p>\n
We\u2019re sitting near the Arctic Circle signpost outside the two-story yellow house that serves as Gr\u00edmsey Island\u2019s hotel. Hilmarsson unwinds with a smoke after hours crouched on a wet, tick-loaded hillside, sweeping birds from the sky with a long-handled net. His party of fathers and sons, neighbors and friends, has come to catch puffins with a triangular net, or h\u00e1fur <\/em>[HOW-verr]; the older ones teaching the youngsters, like their elders taught them. And the group\u2014all members of the same Westman Islands hunting club, a hub of island social life\u2014has a mission: to fetch birds for the puffin-hungry folks at home.<\/p>\n \u00c1rni Hilmarsson uses decoys to lure puffins close to waiting hunters. Photo by Carsten Egevang\/atlanticseabirds.info<\/a><\/p><\/div>\n For centuries, seabirds have been crucial to the coastal peoples of the North Atlantic. Viking Age explorers followed ocean foragers such as guillemots and gannets to new shores. Vast colonies of kittiwakes and puffins sustained the settlements they established on the harsh seaboards of Iceland, eastern Greenland, and the Faroe Islands. For the settlers, seabird hunting and egg gathering meant the difference between life and starvation. For their descendants, the tradition lives on as the heart of community identity.<\/p>\n The seabird harvest is a test of nerve: men dangle on ropes dozens of meters above the sea, plucking eggs from cliff-side nests. It\u2019s a test of skills: gauging flight paths and timing the h\u00e1fur swing just right to snag a bird mid-air. For some, it\u2019s a small source of income. For most, it\u2019s the essence of a cherished cuisine. And above all, it\u2019s a tie between generations, a link to their maritime past, a bit of a taste of the sea.<\/p>\n But North Atlantic seabirds and the way of life surrounding them are now disappearing. Seabird populations have plunged up to 60 percent in parts of the region over the past decade due to climate change and other human activity. Breeding failures in the once-prolific nesting colonies are widespread. Five species native to Iceland, including the iconic Atlantic puffin, are now on the BirdLife International\/International Union for Conservation of Nature\u2019s Red List as near-threatened or vulnerable.<\/p>\n Hilmarsson tells me his home in the Westmans used to be prime puffin territory. The volcanic archipelago hosts a mega colony that\u2019s the largest Atlantic puffin breeding site in the world. But the ecosystem has gone awry. Warming coastal waters have decimated chick production for more than a decade. The picture is similar around most of Iceland and extends south to the Faroe Islands and throughout the northeast Atlantic.<\/p>\n With climate change and other ecological stressors, seabird numbers in the North Atlantic are declining and bringing the fate of the annual puffin hunt into question. Photo by Carsten Egevang\/atlanticseabirds.info<\/a><\/p><\/div>\n \u201cWe cannot catch puffins on Westman Islands,\u201d Hilmarsson says. His sharp, weathered features crease up. After the long run of breeding catastrophes, Westman authorities limited the local hunting season to three days in 2016, down from five the year before. Only a couple hundred puffins can now be taken there.<\/p>\n Outsiders may bristle at the thought of eating this endearing\u2014and often anthropomorphized\u2014bird with the clownish honker. But it\u2019s almost a ritual for the 332,000-odd residents of Iceland. Puffin cuisine stars in family gatherings, community events, holidays, and feasts that fortify north folk as winter approaches.<\/p>\n \u201cWe have to eat puffin once or twice a year,\u201d Hilmarsson says. He squints at the snow-capped peaks glinting on the mainland. \u201cEspecially on Thj\u00f3\u00f0h\u00e1t\u00ed\u00f0<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n He\u2019s talking about a huge festival held in the Westman Islands every summer. The event began in 1874, when bad weather prevented Westman Islanders from traveling to the mainland for the nation\u2019s 1,000th anniversary celebration, so they decided to hold their own. The party is legendary\u2014a multi-day bacchanalia drawing revelers from all over Iceland and beyond. The Thj\u00f3\u00f0h\u00e1t\u00ed\u00f0 [THYOTH-how-teeth] is only a few weeks away. And Hilmarsson\u2019s club is supposed to provide the birds.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s difficult for Westerners to grasp the importance of harvesting seabirds to the Nordic people,\u201d says Danish biologist Carsten Egevang. \u201cThere\u2019s a strong sense of pride in doing things like your father. I\u2019ve seen it in the Faroe Islands, Greenland, all the Nordics.\u201d<\/p>\n Egevang, a researcher for the Greenland Institute of Natural Resources in Nuuk, Greenland, is traveling around the North Atlantic studying Old Norse traditions that are now declining along with the seabirds. The project, planned to culminate in a book, combines science, anthropology, and art. A keen photographer, Egevang has gone out in boats with seabird hunters in Greenland, and hung from cliffs with Faroe Island egg harvesters to capture images of a fading culture. He\u2019s now on Gr\u00edmsey Island with Icelandic ornithologist Aevar Petersen to record what may be one of the last vestiges of lundavei\u00f0ar.<\/p>\n Atlantic puffins stand guard on a Gr\u00edmsey Island nesting cliff overlooking the North Atlantic Ocean. Photo by Carsten Egevang\/atlanticseabirds.info<\/a><\/p><\/div>\n We\u2019re walking on a rutted dirt road along Gr\u00edmsey\u2019s west coast, on our way to watch the Westman Island hunters in action. Egevang totes a gear-filled backpack nearly twice his girth. It\u2019s early morning, but the midsummer Sun hovers near the same high piece of sky as at dinnertime last night. Birds soar and swoop around us. Plunging snipes whirr like badminton shuttlecocks. Arctic terns give a bandsaw screech as they dive for our heads. And rows upon rows of puffins line the clifftops, like tuxedo-clad sentries at their posts.<\/p>\n Egevang has spent the past two decades monitoring Greenland\u2019s seabirds and watching their numbers drop. Over time, being around hunters and their communities, he became aware of the societal consequences as well.<\/p>\n \u201cThere are so many cultural traditions bound to harvesting seabirds,\u201d Egevang says. \u201cIn the old days, it was a matter of survival. And of course it\u2019s not like that anymore, but the tradition still carries on.\u201d<\/p>\n The extensive use of seabirds has long been a distinctive feature of Nordic coastal culture. Seabirds are mentioned in Norse sagas as early as the 9th century, and their bones have been found in the middens of Viking settlements. Landowners\u2019 hunting rights, along with regulations restricting hunting near colonies where eggs are collected, are laid out in a 13th-century Icelandic law book. A land register makes note of good puffin cliffs in the early 1700s. Hunting and egg gathering prowess bestowed personal fame, community pride. It\u2019s a millennium-long thread between generations.<\/p>\n \u201cPeople really care for these traditions,\u201d Egevang says. \u201cThey will literally set their life at risk to get, say, fulmar eggs, when they could easily go to the store and buy chicken eggs. \u2026 They are doing this because they like it, because they feel that it\u2019s part of their heritage.\u201d<\/p>\n We reach the spot where the Westman Islanders are hunting. Streams of bird shit streak the hillside like vats of whitewash overturned. A brisk sea breeze broadcasts the acrid, fish-tinged funk. Clutching a rope, we ride the guano slip-and-slide down the long, steep slope to the hunters\u2019 blinds. A galaxy of puffins swirls around us, circling between ocean and land.<\/p>\n Tucked behind rocks, the hunters wait for an off-course straggler or a burst of wind to push a bird within reach of the h\u00e1fur hidden at their sides. Suddenly, a net arcs across the sky, then swoops back to ground with an angry puffin tangled in its web.<\/p>\n \u201cIt reminds me of back home when I was a kid,\u201d says Ragnar J\u00f3nsson, an orthopedic surgeon who grew up in the Westman Islands and has come to Gr\u00edmsey for a taste of the past. As a youngster, he tells me, he spent summers climbing all over the bird cliffs with a pole and net. He speaks of the nature and the bird life and the freedom. \u201cThere were no restrictions,\u201d he says wistfully.<\/p>\n Like many Icelanders, J\u00f3nsson seems reticent about discussing his people\u2019s seabird harvest traditions, aware that outsiders may find them controversial. \u201cA lot of people think it\u2019s disgusting that we eat seabirds,\u201d he says, \u201cbut it\u2019s part of our culture.\u201d<\/p>\n A Westman Island hunter snags an Atlantic puffin using a traditional h\u00e1fur. Photo by Carsten Egevang\/atlanticseabirds.info<\/a><\/p><\/div>\n But the environment is changing, J\u00f3nsson acknowledges. The rapacious Viking spirit must find a way to adapt. For him, seabird hunting has become a way to relax and enjoy the outdoors. And while his companions scoop up puffin after puffin, he sits with just one stashed in a hollow behind him.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s beautiful here,\u201d J\u00f3nsson says, gazing at the flocks drifting over sparkling water. \u201cI like to sit and watch. It\u2019s not just about catching as many as you can. Been there, done that.\u201d<\/p>\n Culture. Heritage. Tradition. I hear those words a lot as I stroll around Gr\u00edmsey Island, passing small clusters of hunters every kilometer or so.<\/p>\n \u201cThis is in our blood,\u201d says Hilmar Valur Jensson, a Heimaey tour guide hunting with the Westman Islanders on the steep cliffs of Gr\u00edmsey\u2019s northwest coast.<\/p>\n \u201cToday we [hunt] mainly for the heritage,\u201d says Ing\u00f3lfur Bjarni Svafarsson, a teenaged Gr\u00edmsey native, whom I encounter on the road to the lighthouse at the island\u2019s southern tip. Svafarsson has hunted seabirds on Gr\u00edmsey as long as he can remember\u2014going out with his father before he was big enough to hold the net. He hopes to teach his own kids someday.<\/p>\n What about women, I ask Gu\u00f0r\u00fan Inga Hannesd\u00f3ttir, who is having a picnic with her young son, Hannes, on the high path over the island\u2019s grassy spine. Do Icelandic women see hunting and egging as just a macho thing? Even kind of old school?<\/p>\n \u201cI think it is cool that they still do that. \u2026 It\u2019s not old school at all,\u201d says Hannesd\u00f3ttir, a teacher at the island\u2019s seven-student primary school. Even though the actual harvest is mainly a male activity, she says, everyone enjoys the outcome.<\/p>\n Life on Gr\u00edmsey is intertwined with seabirds. The small rocky island has been inhabited since the first Norse settlers arrived in the early 900s. The abundance of birds was one of the main draws, and eggs were a key source of income before fishing became king. The island\u2019s sole restaurant is named Kr\u00edan\u2014Icelandic for the Arctic tern, a striking white creature so abundant and aggressive that people wave poles over their heads to fend off its attacks when they walk outside. Murre and razorbill eggs from the island\u2019s cliffs sit next to cookies in the cafe\u2019s bakery case.<\/p>\n But it\u2019s puffins that rule. In summer, h\u00e1furs are as ubiquitous here as surfboards in Hawai\u2018i\u2014sticking out of car windows, leaning against bicycles, propped against practically every house. Young and old share this passion, from former sheriff Bjarni Magnusson, who, at 86, bagged around 40 puffins this hunting season, to 14-year-old twins \u00c1sbj\u00f6rn and Th\u00f3r\u00f3lfur Gu\u00f0laugsson, who together caught 86 puffins in one day. It was their first time.<\/p>\n Puffin hunters on Iceland\u2019s Gr\u00edmsey Island gather the day\u2019s catch. Photo by Carsten Egevang\/atlanticseabirds.info<\/a><\/p><\/div>\n \u201cOur brother taught us,\u201d says \u00c1sbj\u00f6rn, cleaning his catch in a shed by the harbor. \u201cIt\u2019s fun, and we have money,\u201d Th\u00f3r\u00f3lfur adds. They plan to sell part of their haul to people craving a taste of puffin in Reykjavik and the Westman Islands.<\/p>\n The h\u00e1fur looks something like a car-length lacrosse stick and is a fairly recent adaptation. Imported from the Faroe Islands, it arrived in Iceland around 140 years ago, supplanting more strenuous\u2014and more destructive\u2014old methods, such as pulling chicks from burrows with hooked sticks. The long-handled nets catch mostly juvenile birds that are too young to breed\u2014flying around like bored teenagers with no responsibilities and little else to do. By centering on the nonbreeders, hunters maintain they are not harming the overall population. As a further safeguard, they avoid capturing birds with food in their bills: a sign of parents rearing chicks.<\/p>\n These days, however, few young puffins are even around to catch outside of Gr\u00edmsey Island and other colonies in the north. So far, these places continue to produce offspring, but the marine ecosystem is changing fast, especially in the Arctic.<\/p>\n While Egevang photographs the hunters, Petersen counts the birds. Treading carefully across slippery rock beaches, stepping gingerly over burrows potholing the hillsides, he scans the cliffs for kittiwake and fulmar nests.<\/p>\n Red-faced from the driving wind, Petersen is a real Icelander, outside in shirtsleeves despite the cold. But the graduate of universities in England and Scotland speaks English with a slight Scottish lilt. The former researcher for the Icelandic Institute of Natural History has been surveying Iceland\u2019s seabird colonies for more than 40 years. Now retired, he continues to travel around the country keeping track of its avian populations.<\/p>\n \u201cThe kittiwakes are doing terribly,\u201d Petersen says, as we encounter yet another dead white bird with wing tips that look like they were dipped in black ink. When he last surveyed this part of the island, in 1994, he counted more than 3,300 active kittiwake nests. This year, there are only about a quarter as many. He\u2019s seen the same trend at his study sites in western Iceland, where he\u2019s also found sharp drops in Arctic terns, puffins, and other seabirds. Similar trends are being noted in colonies from Scotland to Norway, and beyond.<\/p>\n The statistics are sobering. The North Atlantic basin is a crucial habitat for many of the world\u2019s marine birds. More than two dozen species breed in the region\u2019s cold, food-rich waters. Iceland alone hosts some 22 species, including a substantial portion of the northern hemisphere\u2019s Atlantic puffins, common murres, northern fulmars, razorbills, black-legged kittiwakes, and Arctic terns. All of these species are now in trouble.<\/p>\n A host of factors is behind the North Atlantic\u2019s seabird declines, including introduced predators, large-scale fisheries vacuuming up their prey, by-catch, excessive harvesting, and more, with differences depending on species and location. One force, however, is common throughout the region: profound ocean disturbances driven by climate change.<\/p>\n \u201cSomething seems to be happening to the food supply of seabirds over a large area of the northeast Atlantic,\u201d says Morten Frederiksen, a seabird ecologist with Denmark\u2019s Aarhus University, \u201cand climate change is the most obvious explanation.\u201d<\/p>\n The waters of the North Atlantic have been warming at an alarming rate, particularly in the coastal regions where breeding seabirds forage. Along south and west Iceland, ocean temperatures rose 1 to 2 \u00b0C since 1996.<\/p>\n![](\"\/wp-content\/uploads\/propped-last-puffin-hunt.jpg\")
<\/a><\/a>Millennium-Old Culture on the Edge<\/h2>\n
<\/a><\/a>In Our Blood<\/h2>\n
<\/a>Sobering Statistics<\/h2>\n
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