Hunting at the End of the World | Reindeer Hunting in the Fjords of Iceland
The fog swallows everything
The ride to the hunting grounds takes us through a landscape that, now and then, behind briefly parting veils of mist, radiates untamed beauty. Black lava fields, steep fjord slopes, rocky and dark at the top, merging into deep green in the valley, interspersed with glistening streams that wind their way down the black slopes like delicate silver threads.
For hours we stalk through the rugged highlands, scanning the horizon, hoping, waiting. At times, visibility is barely fifty metres. Bjarki leads us with sure-footed steps uphill over slippery scree and downhill through ankle-deep mud – yet the reindeer we are hoping to spot remain out of sight. Except for that brief moment when the veils of mist play their wicked tricks on us and, for just a fleeting instant, reveal a glimpse of the slopes where we can actually make out a herd of reindeer. But the very next moment, the fog – here not the chamois herder but the reindeer herder – once again lays its protective hand over the game. A white-grey wall that greedily swallows up all contours. And so it goes on all day. In the evening, we return to our lodgings empty-handed once more.
The fjords reveal their secrets
The third morning dawns clear and cold. During the night, the wind had swept away the fog and now – at last – Iceland reveals itself in all its splendour: sharply contoured mountain peaks are reflected in the dark waters of the fjord, whilst the sky heralds the first delicate pastel hues of a sunny day. The air has that crystalline clarity one rarely finds elsewhere in the world – every contour is sharp, every sound can be heard from afar. Franz, Gunnar and I exchange a glance in silent agreement – today the situation will change!
We cruise along the steep coastline towards the north-east, deeper into the fjord landscape, past gigantic basalt structures that tower over the valleys like frozen, prehistoric sentinels. Bjarki suddenly stops, grabs his binoculars and points them at a mountainside opposite. He says nothing, hands the binoculars to me and nods briefly towards a spot high up on the slope. I look through them – and my heart starts pounding.
Around 700 metres away, on a steep mountainside, a herd of reindeer is moving calmly and steadily. A powerful bull stands slightly apart, occasionally raising his head with its sturdy neck, upon which rest his impressive antlers – a sight of striking majesty.
The moment of truth
What follows is certainly one of the most exhausting and thrilling hours of my hunting life. Bjarki guides us – at an incredible pace, as if wearing magic boots – in a wide circle around the slope, always against the wind, always sheltered by the rocks. The climb is steep and relentless – loose gravel, icy potholes between the rocks, our lungs burning with exertion in the thin mountain air. Franz is gasping behind me too, yet neither of us thinks of giving up for a single moment.
After about two hours – with only short breaks – we’ve sneaked up to about 200 metres behind the herd. Lying on my stomach, I crawl the last 50 metres behind Bjarki to the final rocky ridge, my heart pounding in my throat. The guide gestures to Franz and me to come closer, pointing to a plateau about 150 metres below us where the herd is grazing. Through binoculars trembling with adrenaline, the bull is quickly spotted. Take a deep breath. Extend the bipod, secure the sturdy polymer stock of the Mauser 18 Extreme, lock onto the target, stay on it.
In the seconds after our shots, there is absolute calm, a reverent silence – only the cold wind and the soft murmur of an invisible stream deep down in the valley reach us. The bull lies there; Franz has also had a successful hunt. He bagged a suitable female reindeer with a clean shot. And now we wait – two brothers – here side by side on the cold rock, in silence – each lost in this moment. Then we stand up at the same time, the tension and exertion of the last few days falling away from us. Gunnar and Bjarki approach, congratulate us warmly on our successful hunt, and we embrace. A gesture that says it all and expresses our shared experience better than words ever could. The nerve-wracking fog of the first few days, the gruelling long ascents, the moments of doubt – and now the quiet joy of not having given up.
Then we walk down in silence to pay our last respect to the game, tend to it, and then set about the long and gruelling task of bringing it down. The wind, the game, the vastness of the fjords – Iceland has given us something that defies description.
Conclusion: Iceland – a hunting trip to remember
Reindeer hunting in the north-eastern fjords of Iceland demands physical fitness, stamina, and a willingness to adapt completely to the rhythm of this wild, unpredictable landscape. The first few days, with their impenetrable fog, were not a failure – they were a necessary lesson in humility.
And the Mauser 18 Extreme? In this harsh terrain, it was exactly what you would expect from a hunting rifle: absolutely reliable, robust and accurate – even after a exhausting climb over rocky scree. A tool that lives up to its reputation in every situation. The Mauser 18 Extreme proved its worth on this hunt right from the start. Despite the damp climate, the cold, the mud and the occasional slip during the ascent. The Cerakote tungsten coating on the barrel withstood the harsh Icelandic weather perfectly – no rust spots, no scratches. A hunting rifle cannot be any more robust or reliable in this terrain.
