Not another waterfall: Photographing Arctic foxes in Hornstrandir, Iceland

Disclaimer: Urip is one of 2 guides that work for www.wildlifephototravel.com, that runs arctic fox photography tours. Next trip: 22-June-2026 – 29-June-2026

This is not another article about Skógafoss, the Diamond Beach at Jökulsárlón, or the breathtaking Aurora Borealis. Although all of these are undeniably beautiful—and well worth a visit to Iceland—this story takes you somewhere else entirely. Somewhere quieter. Wilder. Somewhere you may never have heard of.

Welcome to Hornstrandir.

Hornstrandir is a remote and rugged peninsula at the northernmost tip of Iceland’s Westfjords, just a few kilometers south of the Arctic Circle. It is a place that feels suspended outside of time: no roads, no towns, no power lines, no permanent human presence. Only cliffs, ocean, wind, and life unfolding on its own terms.

My first visit was in 2021. I traveled there to photograph arctic foxes and met fellow photographer, guide, and now close friend Samy Berkhani. I have returned every year since. Hornstrandir has that effect on people—it doesn’t let go easily.

Declared a nature reserve in 1957, Hornstrandir remains one of the most pristine areas in Europe. Vast tundra slopes roll into deep fjords. Sheer basalt cliffs rise hundreds of meters straight from the sea. Freshwater streams cut through moss and stone so clean you can drink directly from them. The air feels sharper here, stripped of noise and distraction.

But among photographers and filmmakers, Hornstrandir is known for one thing above all else: arctic foxes.

Thanks to an abundance of food—berries, fish, and countless seabirds nesting along the cliffs—Hornstrandir supports the highest density of arctic foxes in the world. Add to that a complete hunting ban, the absence of cars and roads, and minimal human disturbance for most of the year, and you get something increasingly rare: wildlife that behaves like wildlife, not like a subject constantly reacting to people.

During summer, a handful of tourists arrive by boat for a few hours to see Hornbjarg, the dramatic bird cliffs of Hornvík. Some multi-day hikers pass through. Beyond that, silence dominates. For photographers, this means time. Space. And foxes that are curious rather than fearful.

Most arctic foxes belong to the so-called white morph—grey or brown in summer, white in winter. Across Iceland, roughly 80% are white morph and 20% blue morph. In Hornstrandir, those numbers are flipped. The darker blue morph blends better into the rocky slopes and shadowed cliffs, giving them a natural advantage here.

Seeing your first fox in Hornstrandir is rarely dramatic. There’s no sudden reveal. Often, you notice movement first—a shape among stones, a tail flicking once. Then eyes meet yours. Calm. Assessing. Unhurried. It’s not unusual to sit quietly while a fox goes about its day, hunting, playing, or simply watching the ocean.

Humans have tried to settle Hornstrandir several times throughout history. Vikings were here centuries ago, followed by small farming communities scraping a living from the land. But isolation always won. The last permanent inhabitants left in the 1950s and 60s, when it became clear that building a road to connect Hornstrandir to the rest of Iceland would be impractical, if not impossible.

Today, the peninsula is accessible only by boat—a three to four hour journey, usually from Ísafjörður. Once you arrive, you are on your own. There is no infrastructure, no electricity, no shops, and nowhere to resupply. Phone reception exists only sporadically, often on mountain passes, if at all. Everything you bring in, you carry back out.

And the weather? Expect all four seasons in a single day. Sun, rain, fog, wind—sometimes within minutes. Hornstrandir does not negotiate.

For photographers, there are two particularly compelling seasons. Winter offers thick, luxurious fox fur, snow-covered landscapes, and the ghostlike presence of white morph foxes moving through monochrome terrain. “Iceland in winter is black and white”, as my friend says. Summer—especially June and July—is when fox cubs emerge from their dens. This is when curiosity takes over: play fighting, clumsy hunting attempts, and endless energy against a backdrop of green slopes and dramatic skies.

In terms of equipment, versatility and weight matter more than sheer technical perfection. A 35mm equivalent focal length of roughly 200–600mm is ideal. It allows you to photograph foxes without disturbing them, while still including the environment that makes Hornstrandir what it is.

Personally, I prefer working with Micro Four Thirds gear. In terrain like this, every pound matters. Long days involve constant elevation changes—moving from beach to cliff, den to den—and lighter equipment makes a real difference. The excellent image stabilization means I can leave the tripod behind, even with longer lenses. Autofocus performance on newer bodies is fast and reliable, crucial when foxes suddenly break into motion.

The lenses I use most are the M.Zuiko Digital ED 300mm f/4.0 IS PRO and the M.Zuiko 40–150mm f/2.8 PRO. The 300mm offers remarkable reach in a compact package, while the 40–150mm is perfect for wider context shots that place the fox within the landscape. Both are fully weather-sealed—a necessity, not a luxury, in Iceland.

But beyond gear and logistics, Hornstrandir teaches patience. You wait for light. You wait out the weather, the wind, the storms. You sit quietly while foxes decide whether you’re worth their attention. And often, the best moments happen when you stop actively searching—when you simply exist in the space.

Hornstrandir is not spectacular in the loud, Instagram-famous sense. It doesn’t demand attention. It rewards it. For photographers willing to trade comfort for authenticity, and checklists for immersion, it offers something increasingly rare: a place where nature is still allowed to lead.

And sometimes, if you’re lucky, a fox will pause, look back at you from the edge of a cliff, and remind you exactly why you came.