I’m an office rat, happily ensconced in my routine of typing away at my computer, crafting words for an audience, blissfully free from the burden of life-and-death responsibilities. It’s a comfortable existence—one where even working in my pajamas from bed doesn’t diminish the quality of my output. To this day, my parents remain unconvinced that I have a “real” job.
So, when Ann Peters from Katla Geopark reached out with an opportunity to step into a different world—one where I could try my hand at being a scientist, no less—I jumped at the chance. What exactly does such a role entail? Could I possibly contribute without a degree in the field? And would my inexperience tarnish the valuable work already being done? I was ready to embrace the adventure, even if it meant risking a few embarrassing moments. One crisp September morning, I awoke at five, prepared to dive into this new role as part of 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 our expedition team. Our gathering point was the bustling N1 gas station, where we encountered geoscientist Jóhannes Marteinn Jóhannesson and our driver Davíð, who was at the helm of a super jeep—more aptly described as a super bus. “I’m thrilled to have you here with us today,” Ann greeted us, her smile illuminating the early morning.
As we ventured deeper into Þórsmörk, I pondered my day ahead. Could I truly transform into a scientist within just a single day?
“The ride is about to get bumpy,” Davíð warned as he adjusted the tire pressure, signaling some challenging river crossings ahead.
“Katla Geopark isn’t merely a collection of stunning vistas,” Ann elaborated. Covering a remarkable 9.3 percent of Iceland’s area, this UNESCO Global Geopark encompasses infamous volcanoes like Eyjafjallajökull and Katla itself. “In the past year, we’ve initiated expeditions to map coastlines and glacier outlets, as much of this area remains unmonitored. We’re empowering citizen scientists—whether locals or visitors—by training them to gather impactful data,” she added.
This non-profit endeavor relies on funding from municipalities in South Iceland. “Tourism helps sustain our operations,” Ann noted. “It covers our staff salaries, signage, and research shared with global organizations tracking these glaciers.”
Contrary to mass tourism, Ann emphasized that these expeditions cater to small groups—just two to eight participants—who can make a difference for the park.
“What we’ll be doing today is measuring the glacial snout of Krossárjökull,” Jóhannes explained, excitement evident in his voice. Although he’s the park’s geoscientist, trips like this one are infrequent, with a staggering 75 percent of his time spent in the office. “We’ll also head to Landeyjasandur to measure one or two profiles of the coastline.”
To put it simply, our expedition aims to monitor whether glaciers are advancing or, more frequently, receding. “Sadly, most of them are retreating,” Jóhannes added. For the coastline, we’ll observe changes in beach width.
Becoming a citizen scientist means participating in the same work professional scientists engage in. At the day’s end, participants receive a Citizen Scientist Certificate, their names published in the Geopark’s report, along with ongoing updates about the research area. Not a bad deal for a newcomer like me! Ann and Jóhannes reassured me that no geology background is necessary; I’d learn everything on the job. And with that, we were off!
Hold On Tight: River Roads
As our super jeep climbed into the highlands, the chill of September nudged me—autumn had arrived. Trees donned their vibrant orange coats, puddles glimmered in the sun, and a flock of geese took flight, heading south to warmer climes. The road turned rocky, and I could sense the thrill of the impending river crossings.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Art’s restless gaze. A former rally driver, he abhors being a passenger as much as he dislikes small talk. “Need me to take over? I can handle this,” he quipped when Davíð plunged into the river for the first time.
Davíð shook his head, keeping his focus on the water ahead. This crossing was manageable.
We pressed on through Þórsmörk for about an hour, navigating a few more rivers and dodging bumps along the gravel road, until we reached the one we had been warned about. As I stared out the window, caught in my scroll of notifications (the gravel terrain left little room for conversation), a loud noise jolted me from my device-induced stupor. Glancing outside, I saw we were stranded mid-river. Silence enveloped the vehicle as we collectively held our breath.
Davíð evaluated our options, then skillfully reversed; the boulders were trickier than anticipated. Exiting the vehicle, he inspected the situation, moved a few rocks, and finally decided to try another route. As all four wheels finally regained solid ground, Ann broke into applause.
Just moments later, Davíð brought the vehicle to a halt, declaring this would be our parking spot—the terrain too rugged for continued driving. We had approximately 90 minutes of hiking ahead to reach the glacier.
Our journey began with another river crossing, but this time on foot. This was the moment I dreaded most. My hiking boots—the ones that once promised waterproofing—were now riddled with holes. Following Ann’s advice, I had packed an extra pair of sneakers. I quickly slipped them on while the crew forged ahead through the chilly water. Watching Jóhannes and Davíð wade in, water reaching their knees, I felt a sense of trepidation wash over me.
Yet, determination spurred me on. Grabbing the rope Davíð was holding across the river, I steeled myself and stepped forward. Securing my footing, I took a deep breath and ventured deeper. The icy water crept past my knees, but before I knew it, I was safe on the other side, greeted by a high five from Jóhannes.
As I perched on a large rock, trying to dry my chilled feet with my hat, reality sunk in. The sensation was akin to plunging into a frozen lake: overwhelming but fleeting.
The rest of our hike unfolded along a flat valley, where nature unfurled a breathtaking landscape—moss so green it seemed otherworldly, cliffs standing guard like ancient sentinels. Krossárjökull loomed majestically in the distance.
Jóhannes paused occasionally to pick up intriguing rocks. “This one’s ignimbrite,” he explained, showcasing a patterned piece with visible stone fragments. In Iceland, it’s illegal to collect stones from nature, but this was for research—decorative pieces for the Geopark’s office.
In the Scientist’s Shoes
After a trek lasting about an hour, we reached the glacier, and the landscape transformed dramatically. Rock formations grew surreal, twisting and bending, morphing from green moss to stark black quicksand. A few times, as I stepped over a stream, the ground gave way beneath me—each misstep a reminder of nature’s unpredictability. One massive rock resembled a human-sized sculpture; another sported a gaping hole. “How about flying your drone through that hole?” I teased Art, envisioning a spectacular aerial shot. Tired from lugging gear, he simply shot back, “I’d crash it for sure.”
The team split momentarily, as Davíð leapt across a river to scout the ice cave. I felt a thrill of anticipation; this was the part of the expedition I had been eagerly awaiting. Moments later, however, Davíð returned with disappointing news—the ice cave had vanished. Vanished? Not quite what I had envisioned.
In the year since Ann and Jóhannes had last visited the glacier, the ice cave had melted away.
“Most of them are retreating rapidly,” Jóhannes said, his tone one of resignation. I knew he had witnessed such changes before.
“Is this my last chance to see Krossárjökull?” I wondered aloud.
First, we needed drone footage of the area. Jóhannes directed Art, Ann, and me to take specific positions to form a rectangle. He jotted down GPS coordinates for all four corners; Ann then flew the drone, capturing images from varying heights. “These shots provide vital data, enabling us to construct a comprehensive understanding of what’s happening across Krossárjökull today,” she remarked.
Next came my turn to engage directly in the science. Jóhannes handed me a Topcon GPS device—essentially a pole adorned with a small computer. Surprisingly intuitive, the task felt manageable. I positioned the pole firmly and pressed the save button, repeating this process as I walked alongside the glacier.
As I collected data, a wave of accomplishment washed over me—this information could assist actual scientists in monitoring the glacier’s retreat. However, the physical demands of the job began to weigh on me. The GPS, unexpectedly hefty, tested my endurance. As a writer, my sustenance generally derives from caffeine and light snacks; here, being a scientist required fortitude and a solid breakfast.
Just when I had settled into a rhythm, Jóhannes signaled it was time to wrap up and head back; we had another destination to reach.
Off to the Coast
The return hike felt swifter and less taxing. The river crossing, however, remained an adrenaline-inducing chill as the cold seeped through my already soaked shoes.
Once everyone safely crossed, we broke for lunch, sprawled on rocks under the brisk September sun. Ann had prepared lunch packs, a fact I had nervously anticipated, recalling my picky eating habits. To my delight, she had provided tasty wraps, along with an assortment of snacks and beverages—sufficient to satisfy even the fussiest of eaters. Jóhannes inhaled his wrap before Art humorously reminded him not to consume props for his video project.
As we journeyed toward Landeyjasandur, the weight of the day’s events washed over us; our movements slowed, conversation faded. Yet, upon arrival at the beach, a surge of energy returned—it was a spectacular day by the sea.
My responsibility as a citizen scientist here paralleled the earlier task: mapping GPS points along the coast to gauge whether the shoreline was indeed receding. Recent reports confirmed dire news—just weeks ago, a seawall in Vík had collapsed, taking a barn and its sheep into the sea.
Beginning near a weathered wooden shipwreck, a Danish supply vessel from about a century ago, I marked GPS points every few steps. As I crept closer to the waves, Jóhannes called out, “I can grab one more before the next wave reaches you!” Dashing into the water, he quickly secured a final mark just as the surf surged.
Throughout the expedition, discussions often circled around the concept of last-chance tourism—an idea I had not previously connected to Iceland. Is this truly my last opportunity to behold Krossárjökull?
“Not necessarily the last, but it will vanish quickly,” Jóhannes cautioned. “In the next few decades, perhaps within a decade or two.”
He paused before adding, “The coastline should remain for a while. However, its dynamics are shifting due to climate change, leading to more extreme storms and potent waves. Monitoring our coastlines is crucial for the future, as we need to understand how rising ocean levels will impact this region.”
Ann expressed her belief in the vital role of citizen scientists. “We designed these expeditions to be impactful, changing the narrative around tourism—shifting from taking to giving back, producing the data that’s essential for research,” she explained.
Dear scientists, you’re welcome. I hope my contributions 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
