On Thin Ice in Antarctica

In theory, it’s now possible to fly to Antarctica in a day. But can you seriously hope to follow Shackleton’s epic journeys in just over a week? 


(This article first appeared in the Sunday Telegraph (click here) and in edited form in The Week)

We were at the Jose Nogueira Hotel on the southern tip of Chile sipping pisco sours in the Shackleton Bar when they told us the regular plane couldn’t take us to Antarctica the following morning.  Thrillingly, the operators were going to borrow a C130 Hercules military transport from the Uruguayan air force instead. But I began to suspect our plan for a quick visit to Antarctica may have been a little ambitious. Just how far were we going beyond the world of scheduled travel?

I’ve always been fascinated by Antarctica. An entire continent covered in ice, bigger than Europe, without a single proper town or airport, cut off from the world by the storm-wracked Southern Ocean. A place where history only started a century ago, where the time of heroes may not yet be past. Somewhere so remote that I’d always thought going there simply wouldn’t fit into the narrow gaps many of us have between kids and work. The polar explorers staring down from the walls of the Shackleton Bar would have scoffed at such mundane concerns.

I’d found out that with a bit of luck and an air service that cuts out the five day return trip by sea, a not unfeasible 24 hours in the air could get us all the way to a genuine Antarctic base. From there, we could get on a small research ship for a week sailing along the Antarctic Peninsula and landing on the continent itself. With some accommodating friends to look after the kids (too young for the trip) and a ten-day window before starting a new job, the plan looked pretty good. To me, at least.

Olivia was less certain. She wasn’t happy about leaving the children so far away, even in the capable hands of Georgia and Georgina. She’s never shared my liking for climbing mountains or sailing boats and as she pointed out with increasing force when it became clear I was serious, you have to go past some really, really nice places – hot, with beaches – just to get there. Getting her stuck on a small ship in the Southern Ocean, hove to in a hurricane, meant I was definitely on thin ice.

Of course the weather is, as Captain Scott would confirm if he’d survived it, one of the main drawbacks to the Antarctic as a holiday destination. Always unpredictable, and even in the southern summer you need so many layers to make the place tolerable that it feels like getting dressed for a trip to Mars. One of the Russian crewmen’s hats read ‘Aliens in Antarctica’ – which is exactly how it feels to step ashore from a Zodiac boat into a colony of penguins going about their daily business of looking after the nippers, commuting to the sea to bring home the krill, maintaining the nest, bickering with the neighbours and all the rest of a life that seems so familiar.

Tourism in Antarctica is carefully controlled by the odd but effective consensus between fifty countries that governs the continent, and sea-based visits are encouraged as they minimise environmental impact. Being on a ship isn’t the endless snow desert of explorers like Scott, Amundsen and Cherry-Garrard. But it can be utterly ravishing, an otherworldly vision of sea, ice and cloud-wrapped mountains in a minimalist palette of blues and greys. It was easy to forget the cold, wrapped in our Rab down jackets on top of the bridge watching current-carved icebergs so blue they look like someone had soaked them in Quink, skuas swooping above and seals lolling on icefloes like indolent teenagers.

On a small ship, Zodiacs can take passengers ashore two or three times a day - on larger cruise ships, it can be difficult for passengers to get much time ashore. Some areas of penguin colonies, historic sites and research areas are protected, so even a small group like ours often has to stick together off as well as on the ship. Smaller boats make people-watching more fun, too - getting past the national stereotypes of crazy Russians, partying Latins and birdwatching British to find the many motivations for a visit to Antarctica.

Landings have something for everyone – with the help of the knowledgeable scientists on board, there’s a surprising amount to learn about penguins. Then there’s the sense of history being newly made - the ruins of a Chilean base, most of it burned to the ground by a doctor left alone for the winter when the authorities refused his request to be allowed home. We climbed a hill behind his charred hut to look out over a bay surrounded by black mountains and jumbled, tumbling glaciers, as he might have done, then tobogganed madly down with our shouts ringing off the silent slopes.

Port Lockroy is perhaps the most remote museum in the world. An abandoned British Antarctic Survey base, it was due to be cleared away until some old BAS hands heard about it. Astutely pointing out that it would be cheaper to repair it than remove it, they got stuck in and restored the buildings exactly as they would have been in the 1950s, complete with longjohns drying over the Aga, the original wind-up gramophone and cupboards full of Marmite. Curator Rick Atkinson now spends four months a year manning the Port Lockroy post office and museum with just the wildlife and a couple of attractive female assistants for company, who welcome passers-by on yachts and ships with a nice cup of tea and – inevitably – Penguin biscuits.

Then there’s the extraordinary Deception Island. An active volcanic caldera about six miles in diameter, it contains one of the biggest natural harbours in the world reached only through a dangerous gap in the crater wall. As a pod of minke whales crossed our path, the ship steamed slowly into the mist-shrouded entrance. Inside the fog lifted a little, grey resolving into black and white; ash and rock, snow and cloud. Hot water vents under the black beaches produce white steam that rolls across the surface of the sea like an effect in a horror film. It sends shivers down the spine – but not as much as taking off your thermals and swimming in alternate waves of boiling and freezing seawater.

Endlessly fascinating as Antarctica is, Olivia was by now running up a huge bill calling the children on the ship’s satellite phone and it was time to go home. Or so we thought. Antarctica had one more surprise for us - a storm that came out of nowhere, the wind rising to hurricane force in less than an hour and turning the safety of Fildes Bay into a trap. The Grigory Mikheev’s captain hauled up the dragging anchor and turned for open sea.

Heading away from home again was not what we wanted to do, but after an exciting (and uncomfortable) night the storm subsided and we returned to Fildes. Our Hercules had left and another was on its way, but no-one knew quite when. The tour staff were on their mobile phones re-booking connecting flights and after one further delay as the airfield was turned over to an emergency evacuation from the nearby Korean base, the Hercules thundered in through the cloud, lights blazing. The delay used up all our safety margin, and it took a lot longer than 20 hours to get home.

Antarctica isn’t like anywhere else on Earth, not even the Arctic - it’s not like you can hop in the Volvo and drive there. It’s a unique experience, still the preserve of scientists and the military, and still off the map of scheduled travel. As first man to the South Pole Roald Amundsen said, “adventure is just bad planning” - but Antarctica is so extreme it defies even the best-laid plans. Which means that however you get there, it’s still a genuine adventure. And there aren’t too many of those left. 

This article originally appeared in the Sunday Telegraph and in edited form in The Week. 

Ian and Olivia’s Antarctic trip was organised by South American adventure specialists Excedo. For reservations, detailed itinerary or further information on luxury adventure travel call Excedo on 0845 246 2666 or visit www.excedotravel.com