Around Cape Horn on Ventus Australis

Nothing had prepared me for the sheer wildness of Patagonia. From the heat and buzz of sophisticated Buenos Aires, where my journey began, we flew south across endless expanses of khaki-coloured steppes to Ushuaia, at the icy tip of South America, swapping flip flops for fleeces on the way.

Ushuaia, a cluster of brightly coloured, low-rise buildings, huddles defiantly between snow-capped mountains and the wind-whipped Beagle Channel. Expedition ships line up along the quayside. To the north, hundreds of miles of wind-twisted forest and bleak mountain ranges. To the south, Antarctica.

Unlike most of the people browsing the many trekking shops in town, I wasn’t headed for the White Continent. Instead, I’d opted for a different kind of expedition, on the brand new Ventus Australis, a ship built specifically for meandering the misty channels and inlets around Tierra del Fuego, the wild, rugged island at the tip of South America that’s divided between Chile and Argentina. Chilean-owned Ventus is a sister ship to the older Stella Australis, and these are the only two vessels to explore this remote area, retracing the routes of the early explorers seeking a safe sea passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific.

Despite the fact that it’s built for coastal cruising, Ventus Australis is a proper expedition vessel, its upper decks occupied by powerful Zodiacs, the only way to get ashore in a landscape where there are no jetties to speak of. There’s no sun deck, no pool, no spa – but instead, beautiful interiors, flooded with light pouring through huge picture windows in every lounge. This is no place for sitting on deck; even in midsummer, it’s cold. The weather in Patagonia takes your breath away; one minute, black clouds and lashing, icy rain, the next, dazzling rainbows, iridescent in the pure air. Then watery sunshine, clouds scudding across the sky. Then hail, maybe, or sleet.

On the first morning, we woke to black skies and whitecaps but the captain gave the all-clear to land at Cape Horn, the southernmost point of South America, guarded by a squat, red-and-white lighthouse. Our Zodiac skimmed across dark water so clear that you could see rocks on the bottom, brown fronds of a kelp forest drifting languidly on the surface.

A vicious wind whipped around as we clambered a slippery wooden staircase to a sculpture of an albatross, a monument to the 10,000 lives that have been claimed by these treacherous waters.

Ventus anchored in Wulaia Bay that afternoon where two hikes, an easy and a difficult one, were on offer. We joined guide Cristobal’s ‘difficult’ group with an element of confidence but he marched off into the trees at a cracking pace, up a steep hill, and within minutes, we were gasping for breath and peeling off layers. “That’s just the warmup,” he said, smugly.

At the top, the whole bay stretched out below, a great vista of islands, forest and channels, the ship tiny in the distance. Cristobal asked for two moments of silence and we sat, quietly, listening to the call of birds and the wind rustling in the trees.

Every day, there were two stops and despite the uniformity of the surroundings – gunmetal grey skies, rocky shorelines and dark green forest – everywhere was different. Life, too, thrived everywhere we went, like these tiny flowers.

Our first glimpse of ice was Pia Glacier, a craggy, blue-white wall that emitted pistol-like cracks as chunks calved off into the milky water below, creating mini tsunamis. The hike here was shorter but steep, and despite a light drizzle, we gazed for ages at the glacier, willing it to calve. Back at the bottom, the bartenders had set up a hot chocolate station and were pouring generous slugs of whisky into each drink, which was most welcome.

At the Garibaldi glacier, the hike was billed as ‘extreme’, with threats of thigh-deep mud, so only a few die-hards joined in. I kept a vigil on board as we cruised the sound, watching a colony of sea lions on the bank, the sea lions in turn observed by huge, black-and-red turkey vultures.

At the Aguila glacier, we hiked around a glassy lagoon, venturing into the forest to admire swathes of spongy, lime-green moss.

Back on board, dinners were both hearty and elegantly presented, with plenty of ceviche, fresh fish, Patagonian lamb and for vegetarians, delicious concoctions of stuffed vegetables, quinoa (a local staple) and palm hearts.

Desserts were extraordinary; fluffy cakes, meringues, mousses, chocolate brownies, tiramisu; we justified it all by the fact that we were hiking every day.

One of the highlights is saved till last, a vast colony of Magellanic penguins on Magdalena Island. You can walk around the island — but the penguins have right of way.

The brown, mossy landscape is riddled with penguin burrows and there are, literally, thousands of them, nesting, squabbling, fishing off the rocky shore, tending their fat, fluffy chicks. Several of us had our shoelaces and ankles pecked at by inquisitive individuals searching for nesting materials.

The four day trip was only too short. This Australis expedition may not be the hard-core experience you’d get in Antarctica, but it’s such a privilege to explore this beautiful, desolate landscape in the knowledge that you’re all alone, surrounded by the raw power and beauty of nature.