In Ushuaia, Argentina, the capital of the province of Tierra del Fuego, where I began a three-night cruise through southern Patagonia, the daily newspaper is called El Diario del Fin del Mundo — The Journal of the End of the World. It’s a startling name for a newspaper but an apt description of the cruise, which makes it easy to believe that you have, indeed, sailed to the very end of the earth.

Ushuaia, which claims it is the southernmost city in the world, makes a good jumping-off point for exploring southern Patagonia. Last March, my wife, Carole, and I flew there from Buenos Aires, a three-hour flight.

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In Buenos Aires, we wore T-shirts and shorts and drank a lot of cold water. In Ushuaia, even at the end of its summer season, we shivered in polar fleece and gloves and couldn’t get enough café con leche — good preparation for the cruise itself.

Ushuaia has the feel of both a ski resort and an active seaport. Its main street, San Martín, is lined with chalet-style buildings, many housing upscale outdoor-clothing shops

We stayed at the modern Lennox Hotel, right in the center of town and a short walk to the dock. Our room overlooked the town and the snow-peaked Andes in the distance; other rooms, and the beautiful breakfast room on the top floor, offer spectacular views of the harbor, where our ship was already docked and awaiting boarding the next evening.

Australis operates two ships that traverse the narrow waterways between Ushuaia and Punta Arenas, Chile. Our vessel, the Stella Australis, has a capacity of 210 — tiny by today’s cruise ship standard. On our trip there were just 130 passengers, a pleasantly diverse mix of Chileans, Argentines, Europeans and Americans.

Our room was compact but comfortable, with a double bed, small closet and a full bath with shower. The star feature of the room was the view through a window that covered most of the outer wall: mountains, islands, glaciers. It was never less than breathtaking.

Ushuaia, Argentina, one of the stops for an excursion cruise package offered through Australis.

A welcoming cocktail party in the Darwin Lounge on the top deck included a short speech by the captain, in English. Non-English speakers (about half the passengers) gathered in the deck below for a welcome in Spanish. Waiters passed trays of pisco sours — a too-easy-to-drink concoction of the regional brandy, lime juice, egg whites and bitters.

Among the captain’s announcements: There would be no Internet access or cellphone service for the duration of the cruise. This was met with expressions of relief and some murmurs of anxiety. Seventy-two hours with absolutely no news or contact from the outside world added to the voyage’s end-of-the-world feeling.

Our ship threaded the narrow waterways of southern Patagonia, along the Beagle Channel, named for Charles Darwin’s ship, and the Straits of Magellan. Darwin’s reputation looms large in this region; although the naturalist is most closely associated with the Galápagos Islands, he spent more time in southern Patagonia, where he studied not turtles but the native Fuegian people.

While large cruise ships do operate in the area, many of the waterways we explored are too narrow or shallow for today’s floating behemoths. During our time at sea we did not see another vessel of significant size.

The starkly pristine landscape called out for closer inspection, a need that was satisfied by a full roster of excursions.

The first one, a hike on Cape Horn, was scheduled for 7 o’clock in the morning on our first full day aboard.

We were given a brief introduction to the excursion, with a focus on how to board the sturdy, 15-passenger, inflatable Zodiacs that would ferry us ashore: Grab the arm of a crew member, step on the side of the boat, sit and shimmy. This was a mantra repeated before each embarkation — grab, step, sit, shimmy — and it always went smoothly.

The ride to Cape Horn took about 10 bumpy, windy minutes. By executing the mantra more or less in reverse, we managed to step onto the beach with dry feet. We climbed a set of stairs to a long boardwalk over a grassy field that connects a monument at the very tip of Cape Horn and a working lighthouse.

We’d been warned about the wind, but nothing prepared us for the gale-force onslaught we faced. At times the only way to move forward was to crawl. Communicating meant shouting. During occasional lulls I stood up, only to be thrown off the boardwalk by a sudden gust.

Reaching the monument at last, and clutching it for support, it was easy to understand why the waters off Cape Horn, the southernmost headland of the Tierra del Fuego archipelago, were a notorious graveyard for ships before the Panama Canal made the southern route avoidable.

At least our Zodiacs were able to land on shore; the cruise company warns that weather conditions sometimes make this and other shore excursions impossible.

Glaciers and penguins

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On another excursion, we hiked along a beach to visit Águila Glacier, chunks of which were floating in the sea below. The almost surreal blue tint of the glacier, our guide informed us, results when the ice becomes extremely dense and absorbs colors at the red end of the spectrum, thus reflecting primarily blue.

Darwin, on seeing his first glacier in the area, in 1833, perfectly described it in his journal: “It is scarcely possible to imagine anything more beautiful than the beryl-like blue of these glaciers, and especially as contrasted with the dead white of the upper expanse of snow.”

Our last excursion was to Magdalena Island, inhabited by more than 100,000 Magellanic penguins — surprisingly charismatic creatures, many of them peeking out at us, in monogamous pairs, from nesting holes dug in the tundra.

The excursions weren’t overly rigorous — the longest hike was less than 3 miles — and the wind and cold were never as bad as at Cape Horn. Also helping to mitigate the elements was the whiskey-fortified hot chocolate we were served after two of the hikes, just before boarding the Zodiacs to return to the ship.

On board, we happily passed the time in quiet contemplation of the slowly unfolding panorama of snow-capped mountains towering over the white-capped sea.

Who knew that it was still possible, in 2014, to travel for days without a single glimpse of human habitation? That simply observing nature from a comfortable chair, cellphone tucked away in a suitcase, pisco sour in hand, could be the ultimate form of relaxation?

 

By Seth Margolis, The New York Times