Winter in North Iceland is dark. It can be brutal, with high wind speeds and heavy snowfall. And after spending nearly three months in minimal daylight, seasonal affective disorder takes over — even against the breathtaking landscapes. In Ólafsfjörður, a town of 800, spirits are high during December, with Christmas to celebrate and a New Year’s Eve bonfire and firework show to look forward to. Houses are decorated in Christmas lights that, quite literally, brighten the town. For foreigners, the darkness can be excruciating to manage as the days grow darker and circadian rhythms are thrown off. For locals, it’s another way of life — and they handle it like champions with the assistance of vitamin D and cod liver oil.
There were 2 hours and 42 minutes of “daylight,” though it feels like twilight, on Dec. 21, winter solstice. Ólaf sits in shade cast by the mountain range blocking the sun. Winter solstice means that longer days are near and the fleeting sun will return. New Years Eve is an exciting celebration in town: At 8 p.m. the rescue team, made up of local volunteers, host a large bonfire on a snow-covered beach where they'll put on a deafening firework show. At midnight, more fireworks light up the town as they're launched in the streets, on the beach, and on the mountainside.
Every day, the sun rises higher and, after 9 weeks away, locals gathered to welcome it back, though a snowstorm made it impossible to see. Despite the storm, Siggi, a goði (priest) from the Norse religion held a sun ceremony on Jan. 26 dedicated to Freyr, ruler of peace and sunshine, and Syn, the goddess who guards boundaries (or tunnels). Locals gathered around a fire at the high school, Siggi spoke to the gods in Icelandic, then passed a ram's horn filled with MaltExtrakt, a malt drink, as each person hailed to something: mother nature, the sun, even uncertainty.
Dec. 21, 2018; 2:43 p.m.
Leftover shipping palettes, cable spools, and scraps of wood are collected and brought to the town’s central location on the beach for the New Year’s Eve bonfire.
Dec. 25, 2018; 2:03 p.m.
During winter in North Iceland, clear days and daylight are rare. I took advantage of both by hiking with friends from Listhús artist residency on a cliffside-trail paved by sheep to see a lighthouse at the edge of the fjord. The sun was hidden behind the mountains.
Dec. 31, 2018; 9:24 p.m.
Locals gathered around the beach for the firework display put on by the search and rescue team.
Dec. 31, 2018; 9:22 p.m.
The pile of wood scraps on the beach surrounded by snow is set on fire as a prelude to the New Year's Eve festivities.
Left: Jan. 12, 2019; 1:43 a.m., Right: Jan. 13, 2019; 10:32 a.m.
At this point, I have lost any sense of routine and my circadian rhythm has been thrown out the window. So what does a photographer do at one in the morning? Walk around town to photograph snow falling on the trees. Mornings are dark but the town is easily lit up by nearby lights. The sun didn’t “rise” until 11:15 a.m.
Jan. 13, 2019; 3:30 p.m.
The entire town can be seen from an avalanche protection structure called Snjóvarnargarður behind the senior center (and hospital) but hopes of seeing the sun is lost to another snowstorm.
Jan. 24, 2019; 4:00 p.m.
In two days, the sun will rise above the mountains. For now, a little tease on the frozen lake will suffice.
Jan. 26, 2019; 4:30 p.m.
Sigurður Mar, one of ten Norse priests in Iceland, performing the sun ceremony, Sólarblót, on the day we should have seen the sun.
Jan. 26, 2019; 4:30 p.m.
"We have adapted to modern technology so I will read from my phone," Siggi said before reading an old Norse text in Icelandic. When deprived of the sun, a little humor goes a long way.
Jan. 26, 2019; 4:30 p.m.
Everyone at the ceremony hailed to something — the sun, nature, uncertainty, trust — before drinking from the ram's horn.
