With so much pristine, unique wilderness in Iceland, it’s not hard to find thrills and jaw-dropping landscapes just beyond the city limits. But as we do on the Edges of Earth Expedition, we weren’t looking for the well-trodden sites or paths—we wanted to find ourselves surrounded by the unexpected. So, we left our route in the hands of the locals, trusting their knowledge to take us somewhere truly offbeat. And on this occasion, our expectations were exceeded in one of the strangest stops we’ve had on expedition yet.
Iceland has long been one of my favorite places to explore, but until now, my travels had stuck to the familiar—following the Ring Road like most visitors do. And the first time I tackled that route, it was with my father. A ten-day overland adventure powered by midnight sun, pushed us to stay out as long as possible, cramming in every sight we could during our limited time there. While it was a well-traveled and documented route, going off-season meant we had much of it to ourselves. The semi-frozen iconic landscapes left us amazed. But this time, I was eager to break away from the norm.
Each region of Iceland has its own claim to fame—the south for its glaciers, the west for its dramatic peninsula, the east for its fjords, and the north for wild whale encounters. But I’d heard a rumor in the dive community that the north held something else. Beyond what the average traveler sees, the marine life here was said to be otherworldly—alien, even. I hadn’t yet realized that the people committed to studying this unique marine life would prove to be just as fascinating—if not more.
So, in my quest down the rabbit hole (or fjord in this case) I started digging, seeking out the legends that know Iceland unlike any other. Before I knew it, we were on our way to Iceland to dive with them. But, like any good expedition, things didn’t go according to plan. Two weeks in a country known for its unpredictable weather meant we were rolling the dice.
As we battled unexpected snowstorms and relentless wind on our way around the island up to the north, we knew diving was unfortunately off the table. Regardless, we pressed forward. Eventually, we arrived at the only dive operation in this sub-Arctic region and were greeted enthusiastically by its owner, Erlendur (Eli) Bogason. Since we were officially grounded, with not a single boat venturing out into these storms, Eli decided to show us his collection of artifacts sitting atop the dive center: treasures he’d recovered from Iceland’s waters over the years.
The collection was nothing short of magnificent, and Eli’s obscure obsessions made me feel I’d found yet another kindred spirit on the road. But what caught my attention most weren’t the relics in his shop, but the massive skins hanging in the container next to his office. These were the skins of both a Greenland shark and a polar bear. Meticulously carved from their deceased hosts, they looked like something out of a natural history museum.
Why did a dive shop owner have these? And what were their stories? Eli told us about a mysterious woman who worked next door—a master at skinning animals. She rarely spoke to outsiders, valuing her privacy above all else. And for the sake of this story, we’ll leave it at that—anonymous. Eli asked us if we’d be interested in meeting her, giving us the rare chance to explore her works of art. We stood silently, fingertips grazing the hanging skins, likely the closest we’d ever get to these animals in our lives, wondering if this woman would let us into her secrets. And to our surprise, after Eli asked, she said yes—to this day I don’t know why she decided to let us, a group of random strangers, take a look at her world.
Unsure of what we were stepping into, we cautiously entered another container space, this one with multiple floors. The first floor was where the processing happened—where skin was carefully separated from bone. The air was thick with the foreign scent of this science. It was not the smell of death, but something distinct—the raw and earthly scent of hide.
Inside, the woman was training an apprentice, guiding him through the delicate process of skin removal. As we entered, she turned her attention to us, walking us through it step by step as if we were next in line to pick up the craft. Clearly, this wasn’t just a trade for her. It was an art, a lifelong methodology she took immense pride in. She showed us her latest acquisitions: a cheetah from Africa, a few beautiful cows, and a couple of Icelandic horses. Each one excited her in its own way, and same for us.
The kind of place that might make you question whether these animals had been taken for human vanity, for trophies or personal gain. But she quickly dispelled those notions, explaining in detail where each skin came from. Nothing here was hunted. Every animal had died naturally—roadkill, illness, old age, or, in rare cases, circumstances too unique to ignore.
Take the polar bear, for example. It had somehow floated on a chunk of ice all the way from the Arctic to Iceland—a journey it was never meant to make. But with a changing climate, sightings like this were becoming more common. There was no chance of a polar bear surviving in this region and there was no shot at relocating it, so it was turned over to this motley crew.
The Greenland shark was another freak occurrence. Its remains were discovered during a dive, and Eli worked to recover it—not just to study its life and cause of death, but to preserve its skin as a one-of-a-kind relic. Apparently, the skinning process for a Greenland shark is one of the hardest and most labor-intensive, requiring extreme patience and precision. Even those who witnessed it were shocked at the level of diligence needed to keep the skin perfectly intact. Excess pieces from the process weren’t discarded, though. They were repurposed—one was even stretched into a drum, one that fittingly produced a deep, resonant bass.
Leaving the workshop, we climbed upstairs into a space that seemed to be part showroom, part store, and part museum. The walls were lined with creations, each one a nod to a lifetime of craftsmanship, skin processing, and upcycling. But nothing here was for sale. If a piece was meant for you, this woman would know. She would appoint it to you. Only then could you take it.
From fur seals to wolffish, animals were preserved and displayed in intricate ways. Skins were transformed into handbags, necklaces, and yarn balls. Yet another massive drum sat in the center of the room, which she played for us, challenging us to guess which animal’s skin provided its head (it was a wild bison, by the way). The space wasn’t large, but you could get lost in its multitude of details for hours.
And every piece had a story. She knew them all by heart, recalling each tale of how she came to receive the skin as if they had just happened. She spoke about each animal—how it died, why it ended up here, how she preserved it, and what its second life became. We were speechless. Using skins isn’t a new concept, as repurposing animal hides is a practice practically as old as humankind itself. But this was different. Seeing Iceland’s wildlife preserved this way wasn’t how we expected to spend our time on expedition here. But with diving off the table, I couldn’t have dreamt of a more unusual and mesmerizing way to see these creatures up close!
She was surprisingly open with us. It started with farm animals, then evolved into Icelandic horses, which became the foundation of her craft. From there, the rest became her life’s history. She had developed a rare and highly specialized skill—one that made her sought after by those who needed it most. She was the definition of doubling down on a niche craft and running with it.
It left me thinking: in a world that pushes us to be generalists, to rely on technology for every move, what happens to the mastery of timeless skills? Craftsmanship like this—deeply specialized, honed over years—feels almost unheard of, especially in my world. True creativity is harder to come by when everything moves at lightspeed, forcing us to adapt constantly just to keep up. Specialization like hers seems almost countercultural. She didn’t just get good at something—she became the master of it, carving out a space so precise that no one else could replicate it at her level. I never expected a master hide tanner to get me contemplative about my own path. And I never expected to be in the room with so many precious animal skins at the same time no less!
This day became one of those lessons in embracing the pivot. Diving was our reason for being here, but stumbling into this experience—this strange, fascinating detour—felt just as valuable. It forced me to pause, to rethink, to reconsider. The “skinner lady” came into our journey at the right time, as we wrestled with bigger questions about what comes next. After such a grand expedition, living on the road for so long, what can follow that? And how can we double down on what we’ve learned out here in the field? People like her, artists who exist fully for their craft, thriving in the wild, raw world—maybe they’re the ones who can answer questions like these.
To be continued …
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