A Zodiac excursion on an expedition cruise around Southern Patagonia.
For majestic fjords and glaciers, wild animals and stunning views, Nori Jemil hops on board an expedition cruise around Southern Patagonia.
Before I even set foot on the expedition ship, I get a glimpse of what’s to come. Grabbing my camera, I head down to the beach at Punta Arenas, Chile’s gateway city to the far south and Antarctica. Clumps of mussels cling to the semisubmerged struts of the dilapidated Loreto pier – perhaps one reason it’s a haven for a breeding colony of imperial cormorants.
These elegant blue-eyed birds frequent the Strait of Magellan and the remote southern Patagonian network of channels we’re navigating over the next five days. This might be a short trip, as cruises go, but we’re packing a lot in. Wending our way between Punta Arenas and Ushuaia, Argentina, we’ll pass the larger island of the Tierra del Fuego archipelago, flanked to the west by an estimated 43,000-plus islands and islets of Chile’s fjord system, landing at Cape Horn before sailing down the Beagle Channel.
I’m on the Stella Australis, one of two ships operated by specialist expedition company Australis. Sailing in opposite directions, each makes the journey to or from Ushuaia, passing mid-route like literal ships in the night (well, day, in this case). With exclusive access to waterways that are off-limits to larger operators, the twice-daily excursions glide through glacial waters to reach secluded shores, usually only frequented by web-footed and winged wildlife. Meanwhile, on the ship, floor-to-ceiling windows reward passengers (capped at 210) with spectacular views of the ever-changing scenery.
At Tucker Islets, on our first full day of exploring, we sweep through Admiralty Sound to the first islet where we see hollows in the mossy cliff-face housing pairs of nesting imperial and rock cormorants.
The photography is trickier from a bobbing dinghy, but the shallows of the next island’s bay are a different matter. Black and white banded Magellanic penguins greet us, unfazed by a gaggle of orange-clad humans. We observe the colony as they variably waddle, preen or dive into the water. Some disappear into burrows, hidden amidst long grasses and scrub. Apart from the scavenging, sharp-beaked skuas hopping around opportunistically, it’s an idyllic scene.
Indigenous to the southern cone of Latin America, Magellanic penguins have made their way as far north as Brazil and Uruguay, depicted in two recent films, My Penguin Friend (2024) and The Penguin Lessons (2025), both based on heart-warming true stories. There’s no getting away from the fact that these animals are one of the biggest draws here.
Despite that, guides remain steadfast that we don’t overstay our welcome. For those of us taking the return journey to Punta Arenas, it’s the nearby Isla Magdalena penguin sanctuary that excites. Arriving at dawn, the golden light of sunrise hits the shingle beach, illuminating both the lighthouse and the resident rangers’ huts.
The other star attractions in Tierra del Fuego are the mountains of the Darwin Range and the immensely beautiful tidewater and hanging valley glaciers – there’s even a stretch of the route called Glacier Alley, which is celebrated on board with pre-dinner cocktails.
Pia Glacier, on day three, is one of the most memorable excursions of the journey. Approaching by ship, its magnitude becomes apparent, even at a distance. Excitement builds as we switch to Zodiacs, which creep and creak through icy debris recently shed into the fjord. The intermittent calving of the ice as we walk on the striated granite moraine causes a fellow passenger to jump around in a wild and unsuccessful attempt to capture it digitally.
Sound fills the entire fjord. It’s sobering to think about what’s causing the ice to break away so dramatically. Climate change and glaciation are part of the lecture programme onboard – and guides also play a larger conservation role, taking water samples and reporting back on the health of the islands’ wildlife and flora.
In talks, we also hear about Alberto de Agostini (1883-1960), the Italian missionary and photographer who was one of the first Europeans to explore and document this region. On the route from Argentina, a visit to Aguila glacier in the national park named after him is a highlight, especially as passengers get to approach it on foot.
Condor Glacier is another gem – the fast Zodiac journey in and out of the sheer cliff opening making us feel like characters in a high-octane adventure film. We marvel at the immensity of the glacier, passing upland geese and sea lions basking on nearby islands, while giant petrels and condors circle high above us. The clarity of the water here, pristine thanks to the lack of regular human visits, makes me selfishly grateful that the region remains too remote for many travellers.
Perhaps not remote enough, however, for the indigenous groups that used to inhabit the archipelago. At Wulaia Bay on our last day, we reach one of the most significant settlements in southern Patagonia, where the Yaghan, or Yamana, people lived for centuries before the arrival of Europeans.
It’s this part of the trip that fascinates me the most, especially after seeing Agostini’s photos in the previous day’s lecture. Surviving in one of the most inhospitable places on Earth, the mostly naked Yaghan used fires both in canoes and on land to stay warm, diving for fish and foraging. We explore one side of Bahia Wulaia, where shell middens are a reminder of these early settlements.
Our last day starts early at Cape Horn. Of course, given its position at the northern edge of the Drake Passage, where the Atlantic and the Pacific converge, often turbulently, like something from Homer’s Odyssey, sea conditions are going to play a huge role in whether we make land or not. But, despite a bit of “movement” in the middle of the night – the crew’s euphemistic term for choppy waters – we unexpectedly hear our expedition leader announce that we’re good to go.
Landing on the Cape is an adventure in itself – two crew members remain up to their necks in water for the duration, others throwing ropes, and everyone grabbing on as we approach the platform. On dry land, we climb steeply up a series of wooden steps, before continuing on a (thankfully flat) walkway towards the icon that gleams in the distance – the monument that’s dedicated to all those who lost their lives trying to round the Horn.
As we get nearer, an albatross poetically forms in the gap between the two sides of the metal sculpture, enhanced by the literal poetry by Sara Vial engraved there – “I am the forgotten soul of the dead sailors who crossed here”. I still can’t quite believe that I’m standing here, reading these words on this fabled spot. I get a stamp for my passport, perhaps just to prove to myself one day that I did actually set foot on Cape Horn.
The journalist travelled courtesy of Australis.