The country of Iceland is little more than a dot of lava lost in salt spray at the edge of the Arctic Circle. Parts of it are still steaming. Whole swaths are reminiscent of something from the Oort cloud. And yet, ringing the edges of the country are verdant meadows, cavorting seals, breaching whales, and seabirds gibbering in their multitudes. Hot water bubbles out of the ground for free. It seems like some kind of environmental paradise.
Or it did before I learned the bad news about the Atlantic puffin—a seabird so cute it has been all but trademarked by the Icelandic tourist industry. For the past nine years, puffins have had almost complete breeding failure over the southern half of Iceland, including in the world’s largest colony, in the Westman Islands. We’re talking about hundreds of thousands of failed nests each year.
So it was a shock to find out that the biggest puffin debate in Iceland this summer was over whether to keep hunting them.
By 2011 and 2012, breeding failures had taken such a toll that puffin hunting was banned in the Westman Islands. Some scientists recommended making the ban nationwide. But in 2013 a vocal minority grew restless and petitioned for the season to be reopened.
“They were getting frantic about not hunting for so many years,” said Erpur Hansen, a biologist at the South Island Nature Centre who has been studying the puffins’ decline. “It’s understandable; it’s a culture for these guys. But it’s simple: It’s a nonsustainable harvest.”
The hunters’ argument was crushingly straightforward:
- There are so few young puffins around that it will be hard to catch them.
- That means a hunting season will have no discernible effect on puffin numbers.
- Ergo, hunting should be allowed.
If that sort of logic makes a screeching sound in your head, it’s just the collision between the way things have always been and the way things are now. A symptom of the insane human ability to ignore a calamity just because it interferes with tradition.
But killing puffins? They’re one of the few species the non-binocular-wearing public can get excited about. Squat little guys in orange gumboots with fish crammed in their beaks. They weigh about a pound with all their feathers on. To us, eating them is grotesque. In Iceland, they’ve been a source of protein for 1,000 years.
Maybe you have to be Icelandic to get why. The country was settled by Vikings so cantankerous they were chased out of Norway by other Vikings. They were like the guys in the death metal band who got kicked out for being too satanic. These renegades settled in turf houses and developed a cuisine around sheep, dried fish, and seabirds. Every winter it goes dark for several months, except when volcanoes are erupting. In short, Icelanders have developed something of an iron will toward nature.
The town council voted to allow a five-day puffin-hunting season at the end of July.
That month I went puffin hunting with Hansen and his friend Marino Sigursteinsson, an ex-hunter. It was a strictly catch-and-release mission; they wanted to attach tracking devices that would tell them where the birds went in winter.
The Westman Islands are a group of small volcanoes thrusting their summits out of the ocean, ringed with sheer cliffs and topped with thick, green grass. Thousands of seabirds—fulmars, guillemots, razorbills—cling to the cliffs to nest. The puffins dig winding burrows into the grass on top. About 4,000 people and 1.6 million puffins live here.
A stiff breeze was blowing sheets of rain out of the west. We walked down vertiginous sheep meadows to where the slick, wet turf gave way to thin air. “Don’t slip here,” Hansen said, “It will be like a bobsled.” Sigursteinsson tied a single strand of safety rope around his waist and gave the other end to Hansen. The rain pelted down onto his bony head. He laid his net, a big thing with a 12-foot handle, in the grass and looked over the edge for his prey.
A steady trickle of puffins flew past a couple hundred yards out to sea, banked into the wind, and flapped slowly along the edge of the cliff. Sigursteinsson just had to wait for them to come within reach and he would flip his net up and snag them.
Official records indicate that in an average year, hunters in Iceland catch at least 260,000 puffins by this method, and about a quarter of those come from the Westman Islands. (Hansen has estimated that under-reporting is as much as 50 percent.) Thousands are eaten during a single, giant, century-old music festival in August; many more are smoked and saved for winter; others are put on menus alongside cormorant, guillemot, and whale, to titillate the tourists.
Most of the birds that get caught are young—2 to 4 year olds. They’re naïve and, lacking nests of their own, they don’t have much else to do but fly around in circles. They’re much easier to catch than breeding adults, and this quirk has helped keep the puffin hunt sustainable over the years. Puffins 4 years old and younger make up at least 70 percent of the catch. The ones that avoid the nets can live well into their 30s, breeding each year.
But our hunt didn’t quite go as planned. After an hour, only three puffins had flown within range of Sigursteinsson’s net, and each one had dodged it as it came up. Mostly there was just a yawning absence of young puffins in the air, which sooner or later will translate into a yawning absence of adult puffins making nests.
The problem in Iceland is similar to what happened in Maine in 2012, when warmer waters pushed the birds’ main food fish, herring, out of reach and caused dozens of puffin chicks to starve. In the North Atlantic, warmer currents have brought mackerel north to Iceland in previously unheard-of numbers—from zero in the early 2000s to more than 1 million tons today. They’re too big for the puffins to eat, and they’ve upset the food chain and caused the birds’ main food, sandeels, to crash. The difference is one of scale: there are only about 2,000 puffins in all of Maine. In Iceland I saw six times that many in a single afternoon.