Rooted in Rock: Examining Ecological Relationships and the Future of Öskjuhlíð

WHEN ARE WE HOME?

Is home a physical space in which we feel respected? A person or group of people? Can home exist without relationships? Is there one static definition?

When I am home in Alaska, we calculate time in old-growth forests. Lifetimes are measured not in years but in the richness of the soil and bedrock revealed by glacial retreat. As ice pulls away from mountainsides, lichen takes hold of landscapes, using metabolic processes to create soil from rock. Resilient pioneers like lupine and alders take root and fix nitrogen in new soil to create a fertile environment for species to grow. Cottonwood trees spring up within a hundred years; robust species like spruces follow. Hemlocks thrive in well-established communities. We among them also tend to thrive in community.

We have names so we can exist in community with each other. Names–of each other, of other things–are only necessitated by relationships and a need to live collectively. Language has given us a way to express the need to live outside of the individual.

‘Eco’ means ‘home’, and so ‘ecology’ is the study of relationships with home. This includes the interconnected relationships of all living and nonliving things and home, including our relationships with each other. Ecology is deeply embedded in our relationships. To better understand home, we can look to the ecology of plant communities.

Plant succession–the order in which plants grow in an ecosystem based on their needs–is the physical evidence of our natural and social history. It is a timepiece; if we look closely, it shows us where we have been and predicts where we will go.

The relationship described here is my perception, but it is not unique to me or unique to my home. Indigenous people all over the world, for example, have fostered deep, reciprocal relationships with home for thousands of years. Their roots run deep; family trees intertwine with natural systems so far back it’s impossible to distinguish human from nature. We were designed to be on Earth; quite literally, human evolution has carefully crafted us to have a deep relationship with home.

This does not mean that everyone shares a homogenous relationship with the environment. Our identities and experiences are intertwined with the experiences of the land, and Earth contains multitudes: endless biodiverse environments, social richness, vast cultural experiences and knowledge. Each of us can sit in front of the same tree in a forest and have a unique experience. Our relationship with the natural world can also be limited by colonized worldviews of domination and social systems that systematically sever relationships with the land and each other.

Icelanders’ relationships with trees and the land are not one I will claim to know; a distinctive natural history, a unique environment, and a rich culture built alongside innovative civilizations within a challenging landscape. The recipe is bound to nurture a complex relationship with the land.

A microcosm of the Icelandic relationship with trees can be found in the ongoing discussion about the pine trees in Öskjuhlíð. If ‘ecology’ is the study of relationships with home, then ‘economy’ means ‘care and management of home’, and the negotiations with the city of Reykjavik, the domestic airport, and the public reveal the ongoing transformation of this relationship. Isavia, the operator of the Reykjavik Domestic Airport, requests 2,900 trees be felled as soon as possible to improve flight safety. The discussion is multi-dimensional: does this green space have enough value to outweigh the requests of the airport? Is it a good enough reason to cut down trees? How do ‘non native’ trees that were planted some 50 years ago impact other species? And on a geologically recent island that at one time was a barren volcanic byproduct, where is the threshold for deciding which species belong?

Ole Martin Sandberg, professor in Ethics of Nature at Haskoli Islands, wrote on human-nature relationships in Heimildin last year:

“It's all about perspective. We all have different experiences. We are not only shaped by culture and social relations, but also by the landscape in which we grow up. Other feelings about trees have no less value – and are no less human – than mine…Of course, they do not apply to all people, and not all Icelanders either. The well-being of people in different environments is an important issue, whether it is about urban planning (like how the green areas in Reykjavík are disappearing) or wild nature (which is always under some influence of humans).”

Ole does not condone removing the trees at Öskjuhlíð but provides a clear analysis of the arguments. He goes on to describe how introducing species does have consequences:

“The IPCC (Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change) has repeatedly warned against growing trees in historically non-forest ecosystems. This applies especially to species that come from very different environments, such as conifers in Iceland, as this can have a negative effect on biodiversity and not necessarily a good effect on the climate (IPBS-IPCC: Biodiversity and climate change, 2021). In fact, recent studies show that the cultivation of forests in the Arctic, such as here in Iceland, could have a negative effect on the climate. Newly planted trees contribute little to carbon sequestration (if that were the case, emphasis should be placed on restoring wetlands, which sequester much more carbon). If we cover the land with evergreen trees, where there is usually a white or sinewy surface in winter that reflects more sunlight, it reduces the albedo effect and thereby causes further warming (Portmann et al: "Global forestry and deforestation affect remote climate via adjusted atmosphere and ocean circulation", Nature Communications, 4 October 2022).”

Öskjuhlíð is an ideal plot of land over which to have a discussion. A controlled setting, a beautiful anthropocentric location, a controversy that speaks to a deeper problem; environmental reconciliation must be purposeful, not aesthetic. But does reconciling this valid argument mean pacifying the agenda of an airport that serves mostly private jets? That seems counterproductive. Many arguments can be justified; Iceland has undergone centuries of deforestation–does this make it a historically non-forest ecosystem? Perhaps an environmental cost-benefit analysis of planting trees for carbon sequestration vs. preserving Iceland’s albedo would provide some clarity. On a country-wide scale, the solutions are not obvious, although in this case, not letting an airport make decisions about a beloved greenspace may be more straightforward.

If we use plant succession to measure our complex histories with nature, where do introduced species fit? Can we have the same deep connections with the land standing in a homogenous, planted forest as we can in a rich, biodiverse natural wood? If we feel disconnected from transplants, does this mirror the disconnect we may experience far from home? Are we the same people if we leave home?

Whether or not we consider ourselves environmentalists, we are a part of every ecosystem. We must look inward to recognize our biases and agendas. It is not enough to say, “Protect the environment”. That’s a hollow statement to make when reconciling our impact. How can we deeply focus our bodies on where they are in space and not “make peace with nature” or build a “new” relationship, but recognize our role in a complex system and remember an ancient, well-established relationship? We are made of recycled matter in a closed system.

Öskjuhlíð is a small example of a larger, more complex set of issues to address. We are restless to make something happen; to fix the environmental and social crises we face. We learn about the ways in which humans have impacted Earth and the consequences, and we cycle through emotions to attempt to find the cure. Nearly every major cultural and environmental shift in human history, for better or for worse, has originated from local-scale collective action, and very seldom from governments. And while the intersectional nature of social and environmental issues can feel overwhelming, they provide opportunities to reconcile and heal compounded past harms at once, while understanding that justice will unfold over generations, and we may not see the outputs. The best we can do is prioritize what we care about, find the community that aligns with those goals, and dedicate time to getting into some good trouble. All the answers we need to reconcile are already in our bodies, in our communities, and in the land.