“Moss girl in Grindavík,” “Rísstarli, Fiskjjallar vi gard,” “Hofn, Þorgeislundur: kollgræningi,” “Vogsósar in Selvogi, undiagnosed grapefruit,” “Reykjavík, near the Board of Governors: cow starling,” and “Barn thrush in Tjarnarbyggð.”
While these six messages might seem innocuous at first glance, a closer inspection can leave one choking on their morning coffee or regretting a missed opportunity to refuel. I fall into that latter category; the urge to drop everything and go is irresistible. Why? There’s a wayward bird somewhere out there, and until I’ve laid eyes on it, I’m not quite whole.
An Autumn for the Ages
This autumn in Iceland is shaping up to be one for the history books — the kind of season that will be reminisced about in the damp corners of birdwatching hides for years to come. Here in this tiny North Atlantic nation, where exhausted birds from multiple continents land and momentarily ponder the questionable choices that led them here, every day unfolds like a miracle.
“This autumn will be whispered about in damp bird hides for decades.”
Take note of the autumn of 2025: it’s the season that brought us the Bobolink, the Philadelphia Vireo, the Brown-Headed Cowbird, and countless other treasures. For the most dedicated among us, it’s a time that has compelled many to sprint across lava fields, leave meals unfinished, and even cancel dental appointments.
I count myself fortunate to have seen and documented nearly all of them, often relying on the old “jump in a car and drive like the wind” approach. One might call me an ardent, almost compulsive birder.
The Brotherhood of Binoculars
The community of fervent birders in Iceland is a small but tightly-knit group, primarily consisting of Icelandic men over fifty. There are a couple of enthusiasts in the west, a handful in the north, and some of us hold the fort in the southwest, with whispers of a lone birdwatcher in the east.
Though some of us gather regularly, most interactions are triggered by a message of particular significance on our WhatsApp group, aptly named Fleaking Duty—or “The Vagrant Watch.” When we finally do meet, our customary greetings rarely extend beyond a brief nod or a curt “daginn.” During moments of heightened excitement or uncertainty, you might hear someone venture, “Hefurðu séð fuglinn?”—which means “Have you seen the bird?” Sociologists might term this “bonding through shared purpose,” while passersby might simply see four middle-aged men standing silently in the rain, pretending not to be cold. Personally, I see it as a special blend of both, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
The Gamble of Birding
Among the most devoted, conversation typically takes a backseat until a satisfactory observation has been secured. That could take mere seconds, or it could stretch into hours or even days, depending on the urgency of that feathered visitant.
Is it worth driving across the country overnight? Postponing a mortgage payment to catch the next flight north? Or risking a red light in downtown Reykjavík? When a rare bird appears and conditions align just right, nothing can deter a hardcore birder from chasing a tick on their list.
I recall a story about a city employee discovered lying in a muddy ditch, intently photographing a rare Siberian bird—only for their boss to drive by and spot them, having called in sick earlier that day. In the high-stakes world of hardcore birding, risk often brings immense reward. This autumn in Iceland has been particularly generous for those willing to venture into the unknown.
A Jet Stream Hotel
Iceland’s avian community is modest, with only about 77 resident breeding species, including several that nest no place else in Europe. However, our geographical position makes this island a vital stopover for migratory birds blown off their typical courses—a kind of emergency landing pad floating in the North Atlantic.
Caught in swirling weather systems and fierce winds, birds from eastern and western flyways sometimes find their way to our shores. Upon finally spotting land, they can only hope to land in hospitable environments—whether that’s the fish-drying racks of Garður on the Reykjanes Peninsula or the pastry crumb-littered pavements of Lækjartorg in downtown Reykjavík.
“As the crowd gathered on Arnarhóll, the Cowbird vanished into the throng, merging with the chants of thousands.”
Such was the case for a lone female Brown-Headed Cowbird, spotted on Austurstræti at precisely 12:51 PM on October 24—timed perfectly with the Women’s Strike. This North American brood parasite, often despised back home, likely found itself bound for Iceland by the serendipity of westward winds.
As the crowd swelled on Arnarhóll, the Cowbird became one with the masses, joining their chants. Birders, then, had no choice but to immerse themselves in the unfolding scene. Perhaps serendipitously, the Cowbird was later rediscovered by an astute birder on Ingólfsstræti, comfortably perched among local starlings.
At sunset, a small cluster of birders—exhausted and hoarse—huddled by a white fence opposite a local deli, stretching and craning their necks for a better view of the elusive vagrant. Curiosity swept through passersby, many eager for a glimpse through binoculars. One observer quipped matter-of-factly, “Men will do anything but go to therapy.”
Post-Twitch Stress Disorder
A frequent inquiry I receive is whether it’s more exhilarating to pursue a bird someone else has discovered or to stumble upon one myself—a crossroads of “twitching” versus “discovering.” Few experiences rival the thrill of potentially spotting a rare bird in the wild, relying solely on one’s identification skills as heart rates surge.
The binoculars fog over, the camera malfunctions, and my hand begins to tremble like a caffeine-fueled snipe. Did that bird have a white rump? Was the call a high-pitched “tzeet” or a soft, throaty “prrreet”? It’s akin to a cat-and-mouse chase in the thrilling world of birdwatching, exhilarating, confusing, and just a little bit sweaty.
However, the reality is clear: you’ll accumulate fewer “ticks” if you only venture out solo. Given the option between following a tantalizing rarity or wandering aimlessly to no avail, I usually opt for the joy of the chase. Other obligations—dinner plans, emails, doctor’s appointments, or exhibition openings—can all wait.
In a world where years can stretch between sightings, nothing evokes greater FOMO than the fear of missing a rare bird. A “nemesis bird”—one that eludes your sight again and again—can evoke frustration. In Norway, I once dipped on a presumed American Herring Gull three times consecutively, resulting in three full-day trips, a shredded bread budget, and a sore back. To my fellow hardcore birders, that story is merely an amusing instance of mild post-twitch stress disorder.
The Language of Birds
What fuels this obsession—be it “twitching” or “discovering”—is difficult to articulate. For some, it’s the unpredictable nature of chasing a living creature that could fly away, be hit by a car, or fall prey to a cat before you arrive (and I speak from experience). Others might attribute it to an instinctual drive to hunt and gather. Some see their lists as half-empty, while others view them as half-full. A select few admit they simply lack better things to do. For many, however, it’s the feeling of community and reciprocity that propels them forward, as we share and celebrate our birding observations with one another.
Discoverer becomes twitcher and back again.
My journey has led me into the fold of the “daginns,” the fervent WhatsApp notifications, and the sparkling camaraderie shared with my fellow birding friends in Iceland. As a newcomer, there’s no greater motivation to learn the language than when avid birders exchange whispers about a rare sighting in their native tongue, all while gazing at the same unassuming small brown bird in a lush green hedgerow. It’s no wonder my first Icelandic words were prepositions.
So the next time you see a small group standing silently in the rain, peering through expensive binoculars at a shrub, don’t hesitate to approach. We’re just fine. We’re living our best lives, savoring every moment as we chase the rare, windblown vagrants—and trust me, we have plenty of tales to tell about the unforgettable autumn of ’25.
