Teetering Atop the Bird Cliffs

It was an aerial assault of the avian variety on the westernmost point of Iceland and all of Europe. Squadrons of aerodynamic Atlantic puffins, razorbills, northern fulmars, kittiwake, and common guillemots, seafaring birds all, were returning from another busy day of feeding in the teeming North Atlantic.

Their landing spot was the daunting Látrabjarg Cliffs (Bird Cliffs), vital nesting habitat for thousands upon thousands of hardy seabirds during Iceland’s brief summer months of June and July. I had positioned myself in a precarious alcove just below the edge of one of the sheer cliffs to photograph the colorful, photogenic puffins. The view was lofty. The cliffs are 400-to-1200-feet-tall. However, I quickly discovered all the other seabird species were equally impressive as they reared their young in one of the most weather-beaten and wave-battered corners of Mother Earth.

Sleepless Nights

Iceland was sensory overload. Virtually everywhere I turned was breathtaking, and because Iceland sits high in the Northern Hemisphere, summer months never get dark. My best moments in Iceland were from 9 pm to 4 am. The light was stunning, and for three weeks my sleep patterns were all over the map. I slept when I could. After leaving the Vestmannaeyjar Islands off Southern Iceland at the beginning of my trip, I realized those hours were the best with minimal crowds. Truth be told, I took solitude for granted during that time. Even though it wasn’t dark, life slowed to a crawl. 

The sun sat low on the Nordic horizon, and the Icelandic landscape was otherworldly. Towering waterfalls, deep fjords, steaming geothermal plumage, cute and curious Arctic foxes, and kayaking among icefloes and glaciers filled lengthy days between epic car camping locales. By the time I reached Látrabjarg Cliffs, my internal clock was used to short stretches of sleep. I was averaging about three to four hours of snooze time each day.

It seemed like the most remote locations had two things in common, a church and a lighthouse. The Látrabjarg Cliffs were no different. There was a church resting all by its lonesome near where I car camped, and just a short walk away from Breidavik Beach. It’s known as one of Iceland’s finest beaches. Pinkish pearly white sands curved into a crescent moon-shaped beach where it appeared the only footprints were my own… and a lone Arctic fox.

Just before the bird cliffs was an unmanned lighthouse. It made sense that the westernmost portion of Europe, and the wave-battered coastline below, was also a graveyard of sunken ships. The North Atlantic has always possessed the ability to wield a heavy blow against the sturdiest vessels. Teetering on the edge of those cliffs, and peering down below, I saw there wasn’t a lot of room for error if the sea conditions grew perilous. 

The Bird Cliffs

Every night I spent on the Bird Cliffs, I was alone for most of it. I waited each day for buses full of tourists to vacate the cliffs. By 7 pm, everyone was gone. One late evening, sometime after midnight, I ran into a cool young American family backpacking the cliffs en route to more stunning beaches eight miles to the south. The mom and dad looked like they were in their late 30s. Their three kids ranged from eight to 13 years old. They all donned backpacks, fully loaded for an epic Icelandic adventure. 

I was envious of their family excursion, but the birdlife was mind-blowing, and I was drawn to it. Of course, I had to be mindful of where I stepped and placed my hands. I didn’t want to do a Peter Pan into the deep, cobalt blue Atlantic. Still, the proximity of where I hunkered down in relation to the nesting seabirds was more than I imagined. 

On elbows and knees, I belly-crawled right up to inquisitive Atlantic puffins, which had zero fear of me. They flew in off the frigid Atlantic, directly into their subterranean burrows to tend to their young. The towering cliffs were like a seabird condominium. I’m not saying there was a pecking order, but the puffins nested at the top of the cliffs. Below were majestic razorbills, and further down were football-sized common guillemots. On the fringes of the tallest cliffs were kittiwakes and Northern fulmars. 

All the species had active nests, doting parents arriving with freshly caught baitfish. The puffins held beaks full of tiny baitfish delivered directly to their chicks. Fulmars and kittiwakes consumed their fish on the water. After arriving back at their nests, these seabird species regurgitate what they’ve consumed to feed their ravenous broods.

Sunset on the Látrabjarg Cliffs was at 5 am. I mostly made it until then every evening and during my entire three weeks in Iceland. Even though sleep was minimal, it was the natural wonders of Iceland that kept me charged throughout those memorable nights.