I’m an office rat. Happily wedged into a routine of typing at my computer, crafting words for an audience, blissfully free from life-and-death responsibilities. It’s a comfortable existence — one where working in my pyjamas from bed doesn’t diminish the quality of my output. My parents, to this day, remain unconvinced I have a “real” job.
So when Ann Peters from Katla Geopark reached out with a chance to step into a different world — one where I could try my hand at being a scientist, no less — I said yes without thinking too hard. What does that kind of role actually involve? Could I contribute anything useful without a degree in the field? Would my inexperience get in the way of serious work? I was ready to find out, even if it meant a few embarrassing moments. One crisp September morning I woke at five, ready to spend a day on a science-driven expedition.
Fieldwork Begins
My trusted companion and photographer, Art Bicnick, and I set off from Reykjavík towards Hvolsvöllur, where we would meet Ann and the rest of the team. The rendezvous point was the N1 gas station, where we met geoscientist Jóhannes Marteinn Jóhannesson and our driver Davíð, who was behind the wheel of a super jeep — more accurately described as a super bus. “I’m thrilled to have you here with us today,” Ann said, smiling despite the early hour.
As we pushed deeper into Þórsmörk, I turned the question over in my head. Could I genuinely become a scientist in a single day?
“The ride is about to get bumpy,” Davíð warned, adjusting the tyre pressure ahead of some challenging river crossings.
“Katla Geopark isn’t just a collection of stunning vistas,” Ann said. Covering 9.3 percent of Iceland’s area, this UNESCO Global Geopark takes in infamous volcanoes including Eyjafjallajökull and Katla itself. “Over the past year we’ve been running expeditions to map coastlines and glacier outlets — much of this area is still unmonitored. We train citizen scientists, locals and visitors alike, to collect data that actually matters,” she added.
The non-profit relies on funding from municipalities in South Iceland. “Tourism helps sustain our operations,” Ann noted. “It covers staff salaries, signage, and research that gets shared with global organisations tracking these glaciers.”
Unlike mass tourism, she was quick to point out, these expeditions take small groups — just two to eight people — who can make a genuine difference for the park.
“What we’ll be doing today is measuring the glacial snout of Krossárjökull,” Jóhannes explained, visibly energised by the prospect. As the park’s geoscientist, trips like this are actually rare for him — a staggering 75 percent of his time is desk work. “We’ll also head to Landeyjasandur to measure one or two profiles of the coastline.”
In plain terms, the expedition tracks whether glaciers are advancing or — far more often — retreating. “Sadly, most of them are retreating,” Jóhannes said. On the coast, we’d be looking at changes in beach width.
Being a citizen scientist means doing the same work professional scientists do. At the end of the day, participants get a Citizen Scientist Certificate, their names appear in the Geopark’s report, and they receive ongoing updates about the research area. Not a bad return for a complete newcomer. Ann and Jóhannes assured me no geology background was needed — I’d pick it up as we went. And with that, we were off.
Hold On Tight: River Roads
As the super jeep climbed into the highlands, September made itself known. Trees had gone orange, puddles caught the sun, and a flock of geese lifted off heading south. The road turned rocky and I could feel the river crossings coming.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught Art’s restless expression. A former rally driver, he hates being a passenger almost as much as he hates small talk. “Need me to take over? I can handle this,” he offered the moment Davíð dropped into the river for the first time.
Davíð shook his head, eyes on the water. This crossing was manageable.
We pushed on through Þórsmörk for about an hour — a few more rivers, a gravel road full of bumps — until we reached the one we’d been warned about. I was staring at my phone (the rough terrain made conversation difficult) when a loud noise snapped me out of it. We were stuck mid-river. Everyone went quiet.
Davíð weighed his options, then reversed carefully — the boulders were worse than they looked. He climbed out, checked the situation, shifted a few rocks, and eventually found another line through. When all four wheels hit solid ground again, Ann broke into applause.
Minutes later Davíð pulled up and announced this was as far as the vehicle could go. About 90 minutes of hiking still stood between us and the glacier.
We started with a river crossing on foot. This was the part I’d been dreading. My hiking boots — the ones that once claimed to be waterproof — had long since given that up. On Ann’s advice I’d packed a spare pair of trainers, which I now pulled on while the rest of the crew waded in. Watching Jóhannes and Davíð push through water up to their knees, I felt a distinct sinking feeling.
Still, I went. Davíð had a rope stretched across the river and I grabbed it, steadied myself, and stepped in. The cold hit immediately, rising past my knees — and then I was on the other side, Jóhannes raising a hand for a high five.
Perched on a rock trying to dry my feet with my hat, the sensation sank in. Something like jumping into a frozen lake: intense but brief.
The rest of the hike ran along a flat valley. Moss so green it looked artificial, cliffs rising like walls on either side. Krossárjökull sat in the distance, growing slowly larger. Jóhannes stopped now and then to pick up interesting rocks. “This one’s ignimbrite,” he said, holding up a patterned piece with visible stone fragments. Taking rocks from nature is illegal in Iceland, but this was for research — decorative pieces for the Geopark’s office.
In the Scientist’s Shoes
After about an hour we reached the glacier and the ground changed completely. Rock formations twisted into strange shapes, green moss gave way to black quicksand. Several times I stepped across a stream and the ground shifted under me — each one a small reminder that nature doesn’t care about your footing. One large rock looked like a human-scale sculpture; another had a hole punched clean through it. “How about flying your drone through that hole?” I suggested to Art, picturing the shot. Weighed down by gear, he didn’t even look up. “I’d crash it for sure.”
The team split briefly — Davíð jumped across a river to check on the ice cave. I’d been looking forward to this part. He came back with bad news. The ice cave was gone.
In the year since Ann and Jóhannes had last visited the glacier, it had melted away entirely.
“Most of them are retreating rapidly,” Jóhannes said quietly. He’d seen this before.
“Is this my last chance to see Krossárjökull?” I asked, only half joking.
First, drone footage. Jóhannes positioned Art, Ann, and me at specific points to form a rectangle, noting GPS coordinates for all four corners. Ann then flew the drone, shooting from different heights. “These images give us the data to build a clear picture of what’s happening across Krossárjökull right now,” she said.
Then it was my turn. Jóhannes handed me a Topcon GPS device — a pole with a small computer mounted on it. It was more intuitive than I expected. I planted the pole, hit save, moved a few steps, and repeated. Walking alongside the glacier, logging point after point.
There was a genuine sense of satisfaction in it — this data would feed into real monitoring of the glacier’s retreat. The physical side was another matter. The GPS was heavier than it looked. As a writer, I run mostly on caffeine and light snacks; this required more of a solid base. My arms were feeling it by the end.
Just as I’d found a rhythm, Jóhannes called time. We had somewhere else to be.
Off to the Coast
The walk back felt quicker and less demanding. The river crossing still delivered its cold shock straight through my already-soaked shoes.
Once everyone was across we stopped for lunch on the rocks in the thin September sun. Ann had put together lunch packs — something I’d quietly been anxious about, given my notoriously fussy eating. She’d made wraps, plus a solid spread of snacks and drinks. More than enough. Jóhannes finished his wrap at speed before Art reminded him, to general amusement, not to eat the props for his video project.
The drive to Landeyjasandur was quiet. The day’s events had settled over everyone, the conversation thinning out. But arriving at the beach shook us back to life — it was a spectacular afternoon by the sea.
My role as citizen scientist here was essentially the same as before: logging GPS points along the coast to track whether the shoreline was pulling back. Recent news had made the stakes concrete — just weeks earlier, a seawall in Vík had collapsed, taking a barn and its sheep into the sea.
Starting near a battered wooden shipwreck — a Danish supply vessel from about a century ago — I marked GPS points every few steps, edging closer to the water. “I can get one more before the next wave!” Jóhannes called out, sprinting in and tagging a final point just as the surf came in.
The idea of last-chance tourism had come up throughout the day — a concept I’d never really applied to Iceland before. Was this genuinely my last chance to see Krossárjökull?
“Not necessarily the last, but it will vanish quickly,” Jóhannes said. “In the next few decades. Maybe within a decade or two.”
He paused. “The coastline should be around for longer. But its character is changing — climate change is driving more extreme storms and stronger waves. Monitoring our coastlines matters for the future. We need to understand how rising ocean levels will affect this region.”
Ann came back to the thing she clearly cares most about: what citizen scientists make possible. “We designed these expeditions to be genuinely impactful — changing the story around tourism from taking to giving back, producing the data that research depends on,” she said.
Dear scientists: you’re welcome. I hope I didn’t muddle your data.
This trip was hosted by Katla Geopark. To discover their science-driven expeditions, visit: katlageopark.com
Thanks for the wheels: graveltravel.is
