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Words and images by Jens Bille
In the remote wilderness of Hornstrandir, Iceland, winter reveals a rugged, untouched landscape. Among shifting weather and snow, the elusive Arctic fox lives. This journey is about patience, resilience, and the unforgettable encounters that come from waiting and watching.
There is something wild and rough about Iceland that can only be explained once you have been there. One moment, sunlight breaks across the horizon, and the next, snow descends and cover the landscape, or the wind picks up and pulls you in all directions. It's a land of constant change, where the elements shift with little warning. It's this unpredictability that keeps me coming back. For the last 3 years i have travelled as far north you can go in Iceland to photograph Arctic Foxes in the natural reserve Hornstrandir which is just below the arctic circle. This place is completely isolated during the winter months except for a small group of photographers who go there to photograph the foxes in their winter coat surrounded by the harsh landscape.
The journey always begins with uncertainty due to the ever changing weather. Sailing from Isafjordur takes 1,5 hours before we land on a desolate beach and carry our gear to an old farmhouse. Six days in isolation lay ahead. The house is primitive—no shower, a simple toilet, and heat that depended on a diesel generator. Yet there is something liberating in that simplicity, a return to essentials. The daily rhythm is very basic and simple: eat, gear up, venture into the stark landscape, and wait. Wait for movement, for a shape against the snow to appear.
The foxes were elusive, blending effortlessly into their environment. In Kvia, where snow had retreated earlier than expected, the landscape lay bare under an unlikely February sun. The foxes matched this terrain, their coats shifting from brown to a subtle blue as they moved from hillside to shoreline. Camouflage was their craft, survival their art. Watching them navigate through the landscape, I was reminded how finely tuned their existence is—how their color morphs, their hunting patterns, even their movements align with the rhythm of the seasons.
There are two distinct morphs of Arctic foxes. The white, ghostlike in the snowfields, hunting for rodents and birds. And the blue, coastal that scour beaches for fish and sea urchins. Their fur keep them well protected from the cold and this 4-5 kilo fox can tolerate cold like few other animals. It was the blue morphs I had come to find, their darker fur blending with rock and sea. Even so, they were not easily seen. More than once, I realized I had been sitting just meters from a fox, only aware of its presence after it had passed me and looked back at me. On the beach, they moved elegantly over the slippery rocks searching for food. On the mountainside, they were little more than tiny black spot against the rocks before they disappear out of sight.
The photograph came quickly with little time to react to the rawness of the moment in the heavy snow.
Capturing these moments required patience and surrender to the landscape’s pace. One afternoon, snow began to fall as a fox traced the edge of a hill. The wind sharpened, and I followed, sliding down a slope with my camera, landing not far from the fox. As i watched the fox eat right in front of me with the snow covering its fur, i had little time to react and take the photo. Photographing in a snow storm can be tricky, but the moment was so intense and after seeing the result i knew that this was a special moment and the result was something i would always remember.
Another time, I waited for hours by a rock formation where I had seen a fox the day before. The boat to take us home had arrived, and the calls to pack up echoed in the distance. The discipline of waiting and waiting is crucial to master. More often than not nothing happens, but you have to believe that the moment will come if you spend the time. And then, as the crew from the boat started yelling for me to return, the fox appeared. Crossing into view with measured steps. The wait was over and the photo i had planned was now in front of me to take. Moments like that can’t be rushed but when they happen there is nothing like it. Besides getting a great photo the bonus of having a great story to share with it makes it even better.
It is in these encounters that I find the essence of Arctic photography. Not in the image itself, but in the waiting, in the cold hours spent listening to the wind, watching the light shift, the landscape change, and observing the wildlife around you. Snow sharpens the contrast, draws out the textures of fur and stone, speaks of endurance and survival. In the fox’s dense coat, the intense stare, there is a story of resilience against the odds.
And sometimes, the landscape surprises. A fox appearing over a distant ridge, a shape small against vastness, reminding me of my place within this wilderness. Or a moment when movement catches the corner of my eye and, suddenly, the fox is there, closer than expected, blending with rock and shadow. These are gifts that come with patience.
There is a simplicity to being here that strips away distraction. It's just you, the cold, and the wait. A discipline of presence. And in that stillness, a kind of connection forms—between observer and observed, between human and wild. It's a connection that lingers long after the journey ends.
