Of all the things I'd hoped would work well during my trip to Antarctica, the zip on my sleeping bag was one of them. Instead, there I was, curled tightly into myself on the floor of my tent in the middle of a large wedge iceberg, floating off Paradise Bay on the Antarctic Peninsula’s west coast.
Along with 10 other people, I had been chosen from a silent auction of 345 passengers onboard our expedition ship, MS Fridtjof Nansen, to disembark at 10.30pm and spend one night camping under the Antarctic sky. A small zodiac boat was to transport us from the ship to the landing site, where we had to select our pitch, flatten the area by stomping over it with our rubber boots (fluffy, deep snow does not a practical bed make), and set up camp for the night. Food and water are forbidden to avoid environmental impact and unsurprisingly, there is no toilet. Just a bucket not-so-conspicuously hidden behind a crudely constructed mound of snow, strictly for number-ones only. There is no defecating on Antarctica. Unless you’re lucky enough to be a penguin.
Which, actually, I sort of was. It is mandatory to camp in pairs, so as a solo traveller, I was paired with Lauren, a 30-something photojournalist from New York. “Here,” Lauren gestured as we plunged tent poles into the icy ground together. “I brought penguin onesies, but my friend wasn’t selected for camping, so it’s yours for the night, if you like.” We burst into laughter, quickly throwing the onesies over multiple layers of thermals and waterproofs. The sky never gets dark during the Antarctic summer of October to March (when all cruises take place), so we spent the next few hours marvelling at our surroundings – peaks of dark grey rock looming above icy, untouched glaciers which sank into the still, mirror-like water. A shared awe stunned us into a near silence, all except for the heaving and creaking of ice and the quiet chattering of a Gentoo penguin colony in the distance.
When sleep eventually beckoned at around 3am, I huddled next to Lauren for warmth, my unzipped sleeping bag draped over me. We were surprisingly comfortable, and the 0° air outside – separated from us only by the thin layer of our tent door – didn’t matter. I was curled up next to a complete stranger, dressed as a penguin, floating on an iceberg in the Antarctic wilderness. ‘If this isn’t the adventure of a lifetime I promised myself this year,’ I thought to myself, ‘I don’t know what is’.
I’m five days into a 12-day trip with Hurtigruten Expeditions, but it’s only our second day in Antarctic waters. After travelling over 9,000 miles from the UK to the world’s southernmost city, Ushuaia in Argentina, via Buenos Aires, it was time to embark and begin the journey from South America to Antarctica. To do this, ships must pass through the Drake Passage, the storm-prone body of water between the two continents where the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans meet, causing a massive convergence of waves, winds and currents. You’ve probably seen footage of the Drake’s treacherous conditions on social media – ‘Drake Passage’ has almost 400 million views on TikTok – with waves that can reach 12 metres (though we only experienced swells of between four and six metres during our crossings). Still, sea sickness is pretty much guaranteed, as is exhaustion and jet-lag. It’s not a trip for the faint-hearted. But I suppose that’s what you sign up for when you travel to the end of the earth. Literally.
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But all of that soon pales into insignificance when you catch your first glimpse of our planet’s largest wilderness approaching in the distance. There is nothing but a few research stations on the continent – no homes or hotels – and 95% of all ships who sail here are members of the International Association of Antarctic Tour Operators (IAATO) who provide a range of protocols to help protect Antarctica’s delicate ecosystems and ensure no foreign species are introduced by visitors. All our clothing is vacuumed on embarkation and everyone must wear sterilised waterproof expedition boots which are cleaned after every landing.
It’s day four by the time we venture out on our first landing to Winter Island in the Wilhem Archipelago to explore Wordie House, a research hut built in 1947 and named after James Wordie, the chief scientist on the famous 1914 expedition led by Ernest Shackleton, considered the leading figure in Antarctic exploration. En route to the landing site, a group of Adélie penguins swim alongside our zodiac boat, leaping in and out of the water like dolphins, while the rest of the colony cackle and caw on the crags nearby. Outside Wordie House, a huge Weddell seal dozes on the rocks, unperturbed by the awe-struck gaggle of guests setting foot on his home for the first time.
Later, a brief landing on neighbouring Yalour Island presented the first opportunity to joyfully observe and photograph a penguin colony against a backdrop of snow-cloaked mountains. I was busy snapping when a young Adélie penguin began to waddle eagerly towards me with all the naïve inquisitiveness of a child. Slowly, I took big strides backwards, trying to maintain the mandatory five-metre distance between human and penguin. But the Adélie was not discouraged, his pale pink feet hurriedly patting at the snow, flippers outstretched as if for a hug (though they actually do this for balance and, unbelievably to us, to help them cool off in the “heat” of the Antarctic summer).
But beneath the awe of seeing this ridiculous, curious blue-eyed bird up-close, was an undeniable guilt. The Adélie was cheerfully tottering towards the species responsible for heating his home by 3°C, five times the mean rate of global warming. The west coast of the Antarctic Peninsula has been one of the most rapidly warming parts of the planet in recent years, and the number of Adélie penguins in the area has declined. One study found that up to 60% of the Adélie's habitat could be unfit to host colonies by the end of the century. I backed away from the penguin to a safe distance and sat with the shame. It has never really left. Nor should it.
A short hike the following afternoon up a snowy mountain at Orne Harbour provided our first steps on the actual Antarctic continent. It is here I'm reminded of the White Continent's extremes: it is the coldest, driest, highest and windiest place on Earth, and when the chilling wind bites at what little flesh you have exposed, it isn't hard to believe. Though the beauty of this dream-like, otherworldly place soon makes you forget, and we reached the summit in no time. On one side, the seemingly endless stretch of sea melting into the moody grey horizon; on the other, hundreds of chinstrap penguins, some ‘surfing’ down the icy banks on their bellies, others huddled over their round, fuzzy grey chicks, protecting them from the pairs of fiendish skuas circling overhead. “One skua distracts the mother penguin,” our expedition leader explained, “while the other swoops in and steals the chick.” As much I assured myself on the circular laws of nature, I’m very glad the birds didn’t succeed, and that the chirping, fuzzy mounds made it through another day.
Outside of the landings, time at sea was largely spent wildlife spotting on deck or from my cabin, nose pressed up against the glass, taking in Antarctica’s wonders. Like the pod of at least 20 orca whales heading south, spotted by a sharp-eyed passenger over breakfast whose cry of ‘whales!’ saw the entire ship sprint starboard side. Or the enormous humpback whale with her baby in Borgen Bay, their small and large grey fins rising from the water in unison to a chorus of gasps and clicks of camera shutters. Or the group of five fin whales hunting for food near Damoy Point, cape petrels circling overhead. It wasn’t uncommon to see seals sloped over passing ice floes, or rafts of penguins gleefully swimming past my cabin window. At one point, we found ourselves sailing between two colossal tubular icebergs. The entire ship rushed on deck to crane our necks and stare in shock, Titanic-style, as the captain skillfully steered the vessel between the giant peaks, all glittering white ice with veins of brilliant glacial blue.
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The fifth and final day of landings saw us dock in Telefon Bay in the South Shetland Islands to disembark on Deception Island, so named by explorer Nathaniel Palmer in 1820 because he thought it looked like a regular island on approach, but on closer inspection, discovered that it was actually the crater of an active volcano. Here, we hiked around two miles up the stony slopes to the windy viewpoint above the flooded caldera, which collapsed following a violent eruption some 10,000 years ago. Following our descent to the ashy black sand beach, there was the option of stripping down to swimwear and partaking in a ‘polar plunge’ – quite literally, plunging your body into Antarctic waters. I was hesitant but reminded myself of the reason I was in Antarctica in the first place: adventure. Stripped down to my sports bra and pants in lieu of a bikini (who knew you had to pack swimwear for a trip to Antarctica?!), and hand-in-hand with fellow writer Ally who I’d befriended onboard, I ran towards the sea and flung myself into the icy two-degree water. I tried to speak – a stream of expletives, presumably – but no words came out. My body was in shock. Ally and I lasted a few seconds before the cold became unbearable and we sprinted back to shore, wrapped ourselves in towels and rewarded ourselves with warming hot chocolate and mulled wine back onboard.
It would be insufferably cliché and sentimental to describe my Antarctic adventure as life-affirming, so I won’t. Instead, I will say that whenever I feel weighed down by the pressures of daily life back here 10,000+ miles away in ‘the real world’ – the work email that makes your blood boil, the incessant WhatsApp group that won’t stop pinging, the stranger’s sweaty armpit shoved against your face on the rush-hour Victoria Line – I like to think of that haunting wilderness. Of shimmering blue ice and vast snow-capped peaks, of child-like penguins and prowling whales. Our planet's last great wilderness that we must urgently protect. Then everything else seems a little bit less urgent. Less significant. Some things really don't matter at all.
I was a guest on the Hurtigruten's ‘Highlights of Antarctica’ cruise, currently offering up to 30% off sailings in 2023 and 2024. Prices start from £4706pp based on two people sharing a Polar Outside cabin and sailing on 12 December 2023. Offer ends 30 June 2022. For more information, visit hurtigruten.com.
WWF are working to protect Adélie penguins in Antarctica. To adopt a penguin, visit wwf.org.uk, or you can donate to Friend of the Sea and sign their petition to save penguins from fisheries and overfishing. Elsewhere, the UK Antarctic Heritage Trust are preserving historical Antarctic sites and carrying out vital conservation programmes.
