The cape sits south of Punta Arenas in Chilean Patagonia, and reaching it is no casual outing. You can arrive by boat. Or you can walk, on a brutal four-day round trip that begins at the Río San Pedro near Fuerte Bulnes, where the road simply stops. The route hugs rocky beaches and threads through dripping forest, but its real difficulty is water. Three rivers must be forded, and the crossings have to be timed to the tides. The second river runs waist-deep at low water and becomes impassable when the tide comes in. Hikers carry their packs over their heads and check the tables at the Chilean naval hydrographic service before they ever set out.

Out here, the ocean sets the timetable. Stretches of beach that are an easy walk at low tide turn into a scramble over slick boulders, or vanish entirely, when the water rises. The trail is poorly marked, fading in and out of the forest, and the standard advice is grimly simple: if you lose it, follow the coast. Help could be days away. Ships pass in the distance but cannot reach you; with a signal they might radio for rescue, which is why no one is advised to walk it alone. After heavy rain the rivers can swell and strand a party for days, so trekkers pack extra food against the possibility of simply waiting the water out.

The final approach earns its reward. From the last beach, ropes lead up a cliff, then a forest path, then a steep climb of more than an hour to the base of the cross itself. The Cruz de los Mares stands hollow and metal, built to survive what wood and earlier crosses could not. The original of 1913 has been replaced again and again, each one defeated by the same forces: relentless wind, driving rain, and salt. To stand beneath it is to stand at the literal terminus of a continent, with the Strait of Magellan stretching away and Tierra del Fuego rising across the water.

This is the end of the world, and it feels like it. Expect cold even in midsummer, expect rain, and expect the Strait of Magellan's notorious winds, which can knock a person off balance and rarely let up. Wildlife is sparse and fleeting: seagulls wheeling overhead, the occasional seal or dolphin breaking the gray surface. There are no facilities, no rangers waiting, no easy exit. What Cabo Froward offers is not comfort but a kind of clarity. Few places on the planet make geography feel so absolute. Here the land gives up, and the southern ocean begins.