In 868 AD, a Viking named Flóki Vilgerðarson left Norway with a clear purpose: to find land and start fresh. He wasn’t just any wanderer. He had earned the nickname Hrafna-Flóki — “Raven Flóki” — because he sailed with three ravens aboard his ship, using them as living navigation tools across open water.
When he reached the Faroe Islands, he released the birds one by one. The first turned around and flew back toward home. The second circled and came back too. The third didn’t return — it flew northwest and disappeared. Flóki took that as his cue and followed in the same direction, eventually reaching the coast of Iceland.
He and his companions settled at Vatnsfjörður in the Westfjords. The summer was good — almost too good. Fish were plentiful, and the group threw themselves into fishing instead of cutting hay and preparing stores for winter. When the cold arrived, they paid for it. Their livestock died from lack of feed, and by spring there was little choice but to abandon the settlement.
Before leaving, Flóki climbed a mountain and looked out over the fjords. They were choked with ice. Tired, disappointed, and not feeling particularly charitable toward the place, he called it “Iceland.” The name stuck — and it has stuck ever since, long after the frustration that inspired it was forgotten.
