12 guests, no fixed schedule: inside my bucket-list Arctic expedition

It's as if we're entering an outdoor cathedral. "These rocks are hundreds of millions of years old," our expedition guide and biologist, Federico Beaudoin, says, turning the tiller towards one of the towering walls of Vikinbugt. Row upon row of basalt organ-pipe-esque columns created by lava gushing from the Earth's mantle sprawl across the face, chiselled in perfect mathematical sequence. Tufts of scarlet dwarf willow, the world's smallest tree, cling precariously between the cracks, and veils of mist swirl around us as we become part of the Arctic's breath. Beaudoin cuts the engine; our cameras fall silent and we allow ourselves to simply be.

This slow, contemplative type of travel has drawn me to explore the world's largest fiord system within the world's biggest island on board the smallest ship I've ever been on - Vikingfjord, population 12 guests and 10 staff.

Scoresby Sund in East Greenland is about as remote as it gets. Closer to Iceland than the (relatively) busier western side of the country, the labyrinth of fiords meanders like branches and tendrils of a tree across an area half the size of Tasmania, before reaching the Greenland Sea. A trusty vessel and crew are essential. We have both.

Tough on the outside, marshmallow on the inside, the mighty Vikingfjord spent her first 50 years as a lighthouse engineering supplies workhorse in Norway. "She knows the way of the Arctic and feels the pulse of the water," says Captain Tarjei Mittet, who welcomes us onto the bridge 24/7. Modernised with a meticulous focus on minimal environmental impact and refurbed in sleek, cosy Scandi style, the grand dame was relaunched in 2024 by Secret Atlas, a micro-cruise outfit focused on "rekindling the art of exploration".

There are no sea days. Earlier, a charter flight from Reykjavik delivers us within cooee of the ship. There is no set itinerary. Over six days, our time is guided by nature in a landscape so raw and powerful my eyes often fill with tears in sheer wonderment. I'm not alone. Audible wows and damp cheeks become a thing among my fellow expeditioners of varied ages, who hail from UK, New Zealand, the US and Australia. We bond quickly, drawn by an invisible thread of self-discovery weaving through a journey into an unknown world.

With two Zodiacs on board, when the weather is in our favour, we split into groups, don the waterproof onesie, muck boots and life jacket and are on the water in a matter of minutes.

Our first foray onto the tundra comes at a pretty bay in Rypefjord. Within a few steps of the rocky shoreline, the ground springs into a tapestry of reds, yellows, greens, purples and whites stretching towards the peaks. We tread lightly, marvelling at the delicate structure of plants and mosses that lie dormant in darkness beneath metres of snow during polar winters.

Reading the earth like a book, at one point Beaudoin gathers us around a depression where the permafrost has been squashed and scratched.

"What we have here is very rare. And it's fresh," he says, beaming. "Look at the claw marks. A polar bear has been digging, probably searching for moist roots." We follow Beaudoin's gaze as he studies the pawprints and scans the area, his hand touching the mandatory-in-the-Arctic "scare bear" firearm slung across his shoulder.

Once back in the Zodiac, we skim across glassy water into the next cove, where a sighting of a species I've never seen before has me transfixed. After spotting a herd of 13 muskox grazing on the autumnal-tinged tundra, Beaudoin swaps the motor for oars and gently paddles closer to shore. With soft light illuminating their long shaggy coats, calves pad along behind their mums, adolescents jostle and the bull gives us a momentary glance before returning to the more important things in life: keeping his 400 kilograms of bulk sustained. Looking like giant fluffy cows, these relics of the last ice age are more closely related to sheep and goats than bovines, Beaudoin says, surprising us. "Their undercoat is a precious fibre called qiviut, much warmer than sheep wool and as light as a feather."

As we navigate between fiords, icebergs parade past as if it were Mardi Gras. The more outrageous the shapes, the more creative we become. "Wedding cake with lion head on top." "Witches face." "Horse and carriage." "Pavlova." "Stonehenge mixed with the pyramids of Giza." "Sails of a yacht." "Funfair playground."

Surrounded by untold beauty, environmental fragility is omnipresent. Expedition leader Bob Gilmore draws on his time studying ice in Antarctica and experience as a climate educator to enlighten us to see the climate crisis as an invitation to act, rather than wallow in despair. "Once you understand something, you start to care. Once you care, you want to protect. That's the human chain reaction we need," Gilmore says during a rousing onboard presentation. He carries his insightful energy onto the water and land, especially on the afternoon we spend at Eielson Glacier.

Gliding the Zodiacs slowly and carefully across the massive face of the glacier, we discover the intricacies of ice. Gazing into the small lump of glacial ice that we pass around, I think of its journey. "Every bubble inside is a time capsule of the atmosphere," Gilmore says. We also learn to recognise where sea ice is starting to form by a thin film of almost transparent ice glistening on the surface. Gilmore and Beaudoin expertly manoeuvre the Zodiacs to avoid disturbance. As the basis of not only life here but the health of Earth, every crystal of sea ice is precious.

Towards the end of the lake, the ice of the glacier turns to zebra stripes of white and cobalt black, and Gilmore deems the conditions perfect to moor on the shore and take a hike onto the moraine. With the ground crunching underfoot, we clamber across a small stream; stop to admire the multitude of colourful rocks and stones, before heading up, up, up. It feels like we're the only people on the planet, particularly when on the way down we spot an Arctic hare whose white hair seems to stand on end at the sight of us.

The following morning, we sail through a wide stretch of water strewn with icebergs and bergy bits and smaller "growlers", floating pieces of ice about the size of trucks. From the bow, I watch in fascination as a growler puts on an acrobatic performance, flipping over seven times. It happens quickly, with only a slight splash, and once finished, it drifts by as a transformed shape.

A little further on, a ringed seal lounges across an ice floe. In the vastness, it looks lonely and vulnerable. "They're solitary animals, except in the mating season," Beaudoin explains. As top prey for the Arctic's apex predator, this smallest of the seal species has a strong defence mechanism: sharp claws. "During winter and spring, they hide under the ice and scratch out holes to breathe."

When darkness falls, the Earth speaks in mysterious whispers as greens, yellows, pinks and purples streak across the sky. Mittet drops anchor in sheltered coves and the mighty Vikingfjord turns into a theatre where we find our own seat to marvel at the dance of the aurora borealis. One night, I leave my camera in the cabin and head to the outdoor hot tub. Being cocooned in warm water, surrounded by the unfurling phenomenon, moves me in a way no photo could ever capture.

On the last afternoon, we slowly (and reluctantly) emerge from the wilderness and chug towards another superlative - one of the world's most remote settlements. Nestled into a hill dotted with brightly coloured chocolate box houses, from a distance Ittoqqortoormiit looks like a toy town. However, this centenarian village, with a population of about 350 united by the flow of the seasons and traditional Inuit culture, is very real.

We happen to visit on a red-letter day. There's a buzz of excitement in the frigid air as a shiny new vehicle is rolled out to a chorus of oohs and aahs, and curious eyes scan the boxes and crates being unloaded. Surrounded by sea ice for about nine months of the year, a visit from a supply ship is celebrated.

That night, the wind whips up. By morning, it's howling, with snowflakes whirling around like confetti dropping from the sky. A bumpy Zodiac ride takes us to shore at Constable Point before being whisked onto the charter flight back to Reykjavik. Glued to the window, I watch as snow blankets a landscape that's made a profound impact. I reflect on Gilmore's words: "Once you've seen sea ice that may not exist in the next few years, you can't go home unchanged."

The writer was a guest of Secret Atlas