You don’t just show up at South Georgia. You earn it. And finally, after years of chasing it, I was here.
By the time I boarded the Greg Mortimer in Ushuaia, Antarctica wasn’t new to me. I had spent the last two seasons chasing the surreal landscapes of the White Continent—icebergs the size of cathedrals, penguin colonies stretching to the horizon, that electric silence that fills your chest when you stand alone on a frozen shore. I was obsessed.
But South Georgia—that was different. It was my white whale. Twice I tried to get there. Twice, it slipped away—weather, logistics, the chaos that comes with trying to reach one of the most remote islands on Earth. You don’t just show up at South Georgia. You earn it. And finally, after years of chasing it, I was here.
This journey wasn’t just about ticking off another destination. It was about standing in places few people ever get to see, and feeling the weight—and the wonder—of them. Christmas would be spent in Antarctica. New Year’s, in South Georgia. And if the past few seasons taught me anything, it’s that the polar regions have a way of surprising you no matter how many times you think you’ve seen it all.
As the ship pulled away from Ushuaia's harbor and pointed toward the open sea, I knew this wasn’t just another expedition. It was something bigger. I just didn’t know how big yet.
Ushuaia – Gateway to Antarctica
Ushuaia, Argentina, often called “El Fin del Mundo” (the End of the World), was alive with anticipation. Under a clear summer sky, my fellow travelers and I boarded the Greg Mortimer, Aurora Expeditions’ sturdy polar ship. The crew greeted us warmly. As the ship pulled away from the dock, I stood on deck watching Ushuaia’s lights fade against the rugged Patagonian backdrop. A cold breeze stung my cheeks and my heart pounded with excitement – we were truly on our way to Antarctica.
The Drake Passage – Trials of the Southern Ocean
Soon we faced the infamous Drake Passage. For two days, our ship climbed and plunged over rolling swells. Some passengers battled queasy stomachs, but we were buoyed by excitement for what lay ahead. I stood on the bow, salty spray in my face, watching giant albatrosses glide effortlessly alongside us. By the second evening, the seas settled. In the pink light of sunset, an iceberg appeared on the horizon. We had reached the threshold of Antarctica.
Mikkelsen Harbour – First Footsteps on Ice
On December 22nd, I stepped onto Antarctic soil for the first time at Mikkelsen Harbour. Jagged white peaks encircled this tranquil bay, and icebergs bobbed in water the color of steel. Our Zodiac nudged onto a pebbled shore where a welcoming committee of Gentoo penguins waddled nearby. Bleached whale bones and the hull of an old wooden boat lay strewn across the beach – haunting relics of long-ago whaling days. I stood beside a massive whale rib, awed by the history etched into this lonely place. The penguins, of course, paid no mind; they went about their business, squabbling over pebbles and trumpeting to their mates. I snapped countless photos, hardly believing I was here, breathing in the raw, pristine air of Antarctica.
Neko Harbour – On the Continental Shore
On the morning of December 24th, we arrived at Neko Harbour, one of the rare places where you can set foot on mainland Antarctica. I strapped on a pair of snowshoes – one of Aurora’s special offerings – and hiked up a pristine slope for a panoramic view. From that high perch, our ship looked like a toy against the towering glacier across the bay. As I paused to catch my breath, a distant rumble reverberated: a chunk of ice calved off the glacier and crashed into the sea, sending ripples across the water. The sheer power of it left us all speechless. Below, hundreds of penguins speckled the shore, their squawks echoing in the still air. Neko Harbour was Antarctica at its most sublime, and I felt incredibly small and awestruck in that moment.
Christmas in Antarctica – A Night to Remember
That afternoon, our ship glided into Charlotte Bay under a calm, cloudless sky. Conditions were perfect for kayaking. A few guests paddled between glowing blue bergs as curious seals popped up around them. I stayed in a Zodiac with my camera, capturing the sight of tiny kayaks dwarfed by ice giants. At dusk (though the sun never fully set), we embarked on a special excursion: camping overnight on the ice at a site called Roccus Cove. We laid our sleeping bags on the snow under the polar twilight. It was surreal to watch the sun kiss the horizon at midnight; I barely slept at all, too mesmerized by the golden glow on the ice.
Christmas morning, I awoke on Antarctica itself. After packing up our frosty gear, we returned to the ship and soon made a landing at Hydrurga Rocks, home to a boisterous chinstrap penguin colony (aptly named for the black band under their chins). In lieu of carols, we listened to the din of penguin chatter and the distant crack of icebergs. The expedition team handed out steaming cups of cocoa laced with a splash of frangelico, and we toasted to a holiday unlike any other. By afternoon, we said goodbye to Antarctica’s glistening shores. The ship pointed its bow northeast toward South Georgia, our next great adventure still a couple of days away.
South Georgia – The Heart of the Journey
This wasn’t my first time venturing to Antarctica or the Falklands. I’d been lucky enough to photograph penguins beneath towering glaciers and ride out the Drake before. But South Georgia? That was the wild card. The white whale. The reason I boarded this ship in the first place. And from the moment we arrived, it was clear: no matter how many remote landscapes you’ve seen, nothing prepares you for South Georgia Island.
Our first landing was St. Andrews Bay, and stepping ashore felt like walking into a fever dream of wildlife and scale. Tens of thousands of king penguins—actual tens of thousands—covered the beach and hillsides like a living, breathing mosaic. Their bright golden plumage shimmered in the sunlight as they shuffled, bickered, and whistled their distinctive calls.
Chicks the size of duffel bags, still wrapped in their shaggy brown down, waddled past elephant seals the size of compact cars. One juvenile penguin stopped right in front of me, tilted its head, and stared. That single moment of eye contact felt more powerful than any wildlife shot I’d ever taken.
But South Georgia doesn’t stop at spectacle—it reaches inside you. There’s a rhythm to life here that feels unchanged by time. At Grytviken, we wandered among rusted whale oil vats and crumbling whaling stations overtaken by moss and penguin colonies. A century ago, this place was the beating heart of an industry that nearly wiped out the animals now reclaiming its ruins. There’s poetry in that. Shackleton lies buried just beyond the shoreline, and we raised a quiet toast to him in the cemetery—watching the wind sweep snow across the headstones. You feel his presence here. The persistence. The grit. The reverence.
Over the following days, South Georgia unfolded like a slow-burning epic. At Hercules Bay, macaroni penguins launched themselves onto the rocks in chaotic bursts—like little feathered punks with attitude and yellow mohawks. The cliffs roared with their chatter. In Ocean Harbour, a shipwreck leaned like a ghost in the tide, while fur seals claimed rusted relics as their personal sunbathing spots. Every landing blended extremes: life and decay, chaos and peace, history and wildness.
But the moment that broke me wide open came on New Year’s Day. We’d anchored off Jason Harbour the night before and welcomed 2025 on deck with a modest champagne toast beneath the southern stars. The next morning, the bay was bathed in gold—one of those rare, still moments where the wind holds its breath. I went ashore with the expedition team for a few minutes before the rest of the guests arrived. Just me, a slope of tussock grass, and the sound of penguins calling from somewhere out of sight. For the first time in days, I lowered my camera. I wasn’t there to capture anything. I just stood, letting the island imprint itself on me.
South Georgia isn't a stopover. It's a soul check. It makes you question how places this remote, this teeming with life, can still exist in our over-connected world. It felt like touching something raw and elemental—something most people will never see. And even though I’d already been to the ends of the Earth, this island reminded me that wonder doesn’t wear out. It expands.
What Sets Aurora Apart
Having been on expeditions with other companies before, I can say this: Aurora Expeditions is playing a different game. Most cruise operators might let you kayak once. Maybe snowshoe once. Possibly squeeze in a snorkel if conditions are perfect (a handful even offer snorkeling). But with Aurora, those aren’t novelties — they’re programs. Sign up for kayaking, and you're paddling nearly every day. Same with snorkeling, same with snowshoeing. These aren’t side activities — they’re fully immersive ways to experience the polar world, and that commitment to access and adventure sets Aurora apart.
Stanley – Return to Civilization
After weeks in the wild, setting foot in Stanley, the tiny capital of the Falkland Islands, felt almost surreal. On January 4th, our ship docked in a harbor dotted with colorful rooftops and bobbing boats. I wandered through town, past the famous whalebone arch by the cathedral, and into a cozy pub to enjoy a pint and some fish and chips. Yet even amid Stanley’s quaint charm, I found myself already missing the emptiness of the open sea and the chorus of seabirds. Civilization had its comforts, but the wilderness had captured my heart.
West Point Island – An Avian Finale
Our final expedition day took us to West Point Island in the outer Falklands – a grand finale of wild beauty. Hiking across green hills, we reached the cliff tops at a spot called Devil’s Nose. There, hundreds of black-browed albatrosses and rockhopper penguins nested side by side on ledges above the crashing surf. We sat quietly among the tussocks as albatrosses soared overhead on nine-foot wings, returning to their downy chicks. Meanwhile, pint-sized rockhoppers hopped fearlessly up the cliffs, shaking off spray as they reunited with their partners.
As the late afternoon sun gilded the waves, I felt a swell of emotion, knowing our journey was nearly at its end. It was hard to pull myself away from this untamed scene, but it was a perfect final memory of our voyage. This was the first place I had stopped on my way to Antarctica three years prior. It felt like a great place to finish what had become an obsession with the white continent.
As we sailed away from West Point Island that evening, the ship fell into a contemplative quiet. We were bound for home, but we each carried the gift of perspective that only such a journey can give. I had watched sunsets alongside penguins and walked in the footsteps of legendary explorers. The world felt both bigger and closer than ever. This adventure through Antarctica, South Georgia, and the Falklands wasn’t just a trip – it was a life-affirming odyssey that will stay with me forever.
