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Words and images by Jens Bille
Antarctica is a place that defies imagination—vast, raw, and impossibly alive. In 2018, I joined an expedition as a photographer, stepping into a world of ice, wind, and resilient wildlife. This is a glimpse into that experience, where every moment felt rare and deeply humbling.
It was the opportunity of a lifetime: to join an expedition as a photographer aboard one of Hurtigruten's ships, sailing through the Antarctic. At 52, I found myself as an apprentice once more, learning alongside two seasoned photographers. It was humbling to be at the bottom of the hierarchy again, but it brought clarity and focus. Here, in one of the most dramatic landscapes on Earth, there was no room for pretense—only the challenge to observe, learn, and capture.
Antarctica is difficult to describe, let alone photograph. The scale, the starkness, the ever-changing weather—it's overwhelming. The first sight of an iceberg was like stepping into another world. It wasn't just the size or the sculpted beauty of the ice but the realization of where I stood, witnessing something ancient and immense. And life was everywhere. Penguins gathered by the thousands, seals hauled out on ice, and birds wheeled through the cold air. From the deck of a Zodiac boat, we moved between the ice, seeking landing spots, and it felt as though every moment offered a new perspective on this vast, frozen frontier.
Some encounters stay with you. One of my favorite images is of a single chinstrap penguin, captured while I was helping set up a perimeter around a colony. Strict guidelines dictate how close you can approach wildlife, but if they approach you, it’s a different story. I lay in the snow, taking in the sounds and smells of the colony, when one penguin made a beeline towards me. The moment was simple but profound. Its determined stride, the drag of its feet through snow, and the expression that almost resembled a smile. It became one of my favorite photos, not for its perfection but for its sense of character.
On a steep, snow-covered slope, I watched a colony of penguins thrive against the odds.
In wildlife photography, access and timing are everything. One afternoon, we watched a group of Antarctic terns gather on an ice shelf, their movements like fighter jets preparing for takeoff. There was a tension in the stillness—a readiness to launch into the cold expanse. Sometimes, it's enough to just observe, letting the scene unfold.
Other moments were quieter but no less memorable. Sitting with a Canadian biologist, Holly Hogan, we watched penguins jostle for position, fighting for the best nesting sites or vying for a mate. Hours passed in stillness, punctuated only by bursts of activity. On another landing, we climbed a mountain where penguins had built their nests. The resilience of these creatures is remarkable. They trek down to the ocean for food or to collect stones to strengthen their nests, navigating terrain that would challenge most humans.
Sometimes, the wildness was in the silence. I watched a fur seal nap by the shoreline, undisturbed and deeply at ease. For most of the day, it didn’t stir, and there was a temptation to join it, lulled by the stillness of the place. But there’s an unspoken respect in these moments, a sense of being a guest in a world that continues, with or without your presence.
And then there were the human touches, like the old Argentinian research station at Damoy Point. Rusted and weather-beaten, it stood as a relic of past exploration. Nearby, an Adelie penguin wandered by, and the contrast between the bright red building and the endless white snow felt surreal. It was one of those simple moments that stay with you, where the wild and the human intersect, each in quiet coexistence.
Antarctica is a place where resilience shapes every life. On a steep, snow-covered slope, I watched a colony of penguins thrive against the odds. Some guarded nests, others returned from the sea, and all moved with purpose. The sheer scale of life against the barren landscape was striking. It was more than wildlife photography; it was a testament to survival in a place that offers nothing easily.
Weather, of course, is its own character here. The snow, the wind—they shape the mood of every image. I tried to capture that rawness, the way chinstrap penguins huddled together against the cold, rotating positions to shield one another. Moments like these made the journey feel elemental. You see not just animals, but behaviors, survival strategies, ancient patterns that have evolved to meet the harshest of conditions.
This is what makes Antarctica unforgettable. It's not just the landscapes or the wildlife, but the rhythm of the place, the way every life here is shaped by challenge and adaptation. To witness that is to be reminded of nature’s quiet determination—and to feel, for a moment, a part of it.
