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Title: The wilds of Patagonia
Author: Carl Skottsberg
Release date: June 11, 2025 [eBook #76274]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Edward Arnold, 1911
Credits: Alan, Peter Becker and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WILDS OF PATAGONIA ***
THE WILDS OF
PATAGONIA
[Illustration: CARL SKOTTSBERG.]
THE WILDS OF
PATAGONIA
A NARRATIVE OF THE SWEDISH
EXPEDITION TO PATAGONIA
TIERRA DEL FUEGO AND THE
FALKLAND ISLANDS IN 1907-1909
BY
CARL SKOTTSBERG, D.SC., ETC.
LONDON
EDWARD ARNOLD
1911
_All rights reserved_
TO
SIR JOSEPH DALTON HOOKER
O.M., G.C.S.I., C.B., D.C.L., LL.D., F.R.S., ETC.
THE PIONEER AND THE
MASTER
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED IN PROFOUND
ADMIRATION
PREFACE
When, in January 1904, I had returned from taking part in the
Swedish Antarctic Expedition, and had begun to work out my notes and
collections, it happened to me, as it has happened to so many others
before, that every now and then questions cropped up which, for want of
material, had to be left unanswered. Gradually also quite new problems
presented themselves, and the thought of returning once more to some
of the countries I had visited soon arose. One of my companions from
the _Antarctic_, Dr. J. G. Andersson, had just the same experience, but
was kept in Sweden by his work as director of the Geological Survey.
Without knowing of my scheme, he had got two of our common friends,
T. Halle and P. Quensel, interested in our old field of operations in
South America, and one day, as we happened to be speaking of it, we
considered the possibility of planning a modest expedition, principally
for geological and botanical purposes. With a geological survey were
connected a number of geographical problems, such as the changes of the
land after the Ice Age; the formation and true nature of the Patagonian
Channels; the origin of the transverse Andine Valleys; the influence
of geology and plant-geography on the landscape, &c. The algological
investigations would also lead to the formation of zoological
collections, and besides, we thought that in the Patagonian Channels we
should have opportunities of making ethnographic studies.
In order to discuss our plans I arranged with Quensel and Halle that
they should meet me in Stockholm at the Geological Survey office, and
one evening was born the enterprise, afterwards called the “Swedish
Magellanic Expedition,” of which the author consented to undertake
the leadership, the members being: CARL SKOTTSBERG, born 1880, D.Sc.,
Lecturer at the University of Upsala; PERCY D. QUENSEL, born 1881,
B.Sc. (now Dr.), Upsala; and THORE G. HALLE, born 1884, B.Sc. (now
Dr.), Stockholm.
I devoted myself to botanical work, but also made most of the
insignificant zoological collections. The speciality of Mr. Halle was
the survey of fossiliferous deposits, and as a clever bryologist, he
assisted me in gathering mosses and other cryptogams. Mr. Quensel was
mainly occupied with studies of the eruptive rocks, the origin of
the Andes and the phenomena of glaciation. On many occasions the two
geologists collaborated.
But it is one thing to make up one’s mind to go to South America,
another to get money for such a purpose. The expedition cost about
23,000 Swedish crowns (£1280), and thanks to several funds, scientific
societies and private persons, we procured the necessary money without
great difficulty. Many useful articles in our equipment were presented
to us, and the Swedish Johnson Line in Stockholm gave us a free passage
on its steamers to and from Buenos Aires. To all those who assisted us,
I have tried to express our gratitude in the preface to the Swedish
edition of this book, and have explained how it would have been
absolutely impossible to make a journey which lasted nearly two years
at such small expense, had it not been for the unparalleled generosity
shown by Argentina and more especially by Chile--not that the Argentine
Government was less interested, but we spent most of the time in Chile.
I need not repeat this, nor my sincere thanks to the representatives of
Sweden. There is, however, one thing that I want specially to mention
on the occasion of my book being laid before English readers. We spent
part of the time in a British colony, the Falkland Islands, where
His Excellency the Governor, Mr. W. L. Allardyce, C.M.G., and Mrs.
Allardyce, both deeply interested in scientific work in general as also
in our personal welfare, did all they could to promote our success. We
are also greatly indebted to the Falkland Islands Company Ltd., to its
director in London, Mr. F. E. Cobb, as well as to its representatives
in Port Stanley, Mr. W. Harding, Mr. W. C. Girling and Lieutenant
Colonel A. Reid, D.S.O. (no longer in the Company’s service). We also
owe very much to numerous sheep-farmers, Mr. Allen of Darwin, Messrs.
Benney of Saunders Island, Mr. Bertrand of Roy Cove, Dr. Bolus (now in
Punta Arenas, then in Fox Bay), Mr. Felton of Westpoint Island, Dr.
Foley, of Darwin, Mr. Mathews of Port Howard, Mr. Miller of Hill Cove,
Mr. Packe of Port Louis, and many others, too numerous to mention.
In Chile as well as in Argentina we met and were assisted by a great
number of English people; we made good friends wherever we came, and
learnt to admire the English nation as the great civilising power of
the world.
It may not be considered unnecessary to mention, that during the whole
journey under most trying conditions, I and my comrades remained the
same good friends as we had been on leaving Sweden. Nothing is so well
calculated to try friendship as a wild life away from culture and from
other people. In this case friendship certainly stood the test.
C. S.
UPSALA, 1911
CONTENTS
PREFACE Page vii
CHAPTER I
THE COASTS OF THE FALKLAND ISLANDS
We leave Sweden: Visits to Buenos Aires and Montevideo: Arrive at the
Falkland Islands: Position: Port Stanley and its Social Life:
Communications: The Landscape round the Town: Cape Pembroke
Lighthouse and the Forest in the Sea: To the West Falklands: Wild
Cattle: The Falkland Fox: Adventure on Fox Island: Life on Remote
Islands: Roy Cove and the Tale of a Ship’s Adventure: Westpoint
Island: Tussock-grass: Bird Life: The Dead Forest Pp. 1-18
CHAPTER II
RIDING THROUGH THE FALKLANDS
Hill Cove, a Fine Settlement: Shepherds and their Life: Ascent of
Mount Adam: A Nocturnal Excursion: Saunders Island and a Page of
History: Valley of the Warrah River: A Dangerous Passage: Port
Howard: Across Country to Fox Bay: A miserable Christmas: Notes
on Geology: Lafonia and Port Darwin: A Ride to San Carlos: Return
Overland to Port Stanley: Port Louis and its History: Departure
Pp. 19-31
CHAPTER III
IN TIERRA DEL FUEGO
Punta Arenas: Babylonian Confusion: Preparations: Dawson Island and
the Salesian Mission Station: On the Shore of Lake Fagnano: Hardships
in the Azopardo Valley: The First Guanaco: We Pitch the Tents at
Fagnano: Pagels: The Betbeder Pass and Discoveries South of it: A
chilly awakening: Halle’s Excursion to Lake Deseado: Boat Trip
on Lake Fagnano: We Raise our Camp: A Difficult Embarking:
Back in Punta Arenas Pp. 32-61
CHAPTER IV
OTWAY WATER AND SKYRING WATER
Cape Froward: Jerome Channel: Patagonian Gold Fever: Along the
Shores of Otway: Notes on Vegetation: Fitzroy Channel: Storm:
A Solitary Hut: Traces of Indians: Excelsior and Glacier Sounds:
Gajardo Channel and a Perilous Boat Excursion: _Huemul_ Aground:
The Water of Skyring: Fossiliferous Beds: Another Tale of a Mine:
A Nocturnal Adventure: Saved Pp. 62-74
CHAPTER V
THE PATAGONIAN CHANNELS
Preparations: Captain Bordes: Our Indian Interpreter: The Magellan
Skärgård: On the Evangelistas Rocks: Unknown Waters: The Patagonian
Channels and their Nature: We meet the first Indians: Two
Tracks: The Penas Gulf: Baker Inlet: In the unknown Interior of
Peel Inlet: Back through Smyth Channel Pp. 75-90
CHAPTER VI
A DYING RACE
Our first Encounter with Aborigines: Appearance: Visit to an Indian
Camp: The Indian Wigwam: Food: Hunting and Weapons: Social
Customs: Treatment of the Women: Character: Nomadic Life:
Canoes: Travelling: Remarkable Portages: Language: Extermination:
Views of the Future Pp. 91-103
CHAPTER VII
CHILOÉ AND THE GULF OF CORCOVADO
Chiloé, Historical Retrospect: Ancud, the Capital: Schools: Power
of the Roman Catholic Church: The Chilotes and their Life: A Ride
to the Pacific Coast: Pudeto River: Primeval Forest of Chiloé: Castro:
Adventurous Voyage to Huafo Island: Forest Scenery: Wild Days:
To the Island of San Pedro in the Footsteps of Darwin: Quellon:
Corcovado, “el famoso”: The Yelcho Valley Pp. 104-124
CHAPTER VIII
IN THE HEART OF CHILE
To the Centre of Chile: Corral and Valdivia: Halle’s Surveys in the
Coal-mines of Arauco: Lota: Valparaiso: Santiago and its Swedish
Colony: Los Andes: The Uspallata Pass and the Transandine
Railway: Aconcagua: Baño del Inca: A Strange Descent: The
Great National Festival of Chile: To Port Montt Pp. 125-133
CHAPTER IX
ROBINSON CRUSOE’S ISLAND
The Islands of Juan Fernandez: Discovery and Position: First
Impression: Robinson’s “Look-out”: Wonderful Plant World: The Chonta
Palm: Marvellous Ferns: Extermination of a Unique Vegetation:
The Memorial Tablet of Alexander Selkirk, the real Robinson: The
History of the Sandal Tree: The last Sandal Tree: Robinson’s Grotto:
Bahia del Padre: Masafuera Island: Topography: Remarkable Plain:
Wild Goats: Marvellous Valleys: Our Scientific Results: The Future
of the Islands Pp. 134-148
CHAPTER X
ACROSS THE ANDES INTO ARGENTINA
Plans for the Return South: Notes on the Discoveries in Patagonia: The
Boundary Dispute between Chile and Argentina: We leave Port
Montt: Osorno and Calbuco Volcanoes: Lake Todos los Santos: On
the Glaciers of Mount Tronador: Across the Pass: Snowstorm:
Bariloche: Preparations for a Long Journey: Our Caravan and Equipment:
On Horseback Pp. 149-166
CHAPTER XI
THROUGH NORTHERN PATAGONIA
First Impression of the Pampas: Our First Camping-place: Norquinco:
Half the Caravan Disappears!: Inquiries: Across the River Chubut:
Life on the Lelej Farm: A Hearty Welcome: Ostriches and Guanacos:
Through the Nahuelpan Pass: 16th October Valley: Notes on Vegetation:
Along the Futaleufú River to the Chilean Boundary: South
Again: In the Valley of the River Carrenleufú: Another Bankrupt
Company and a Swedish Colonist Pp. 167-186
CHAPTER XII
THROUGH THE CORDILLERAS TO THE PACIFIC COAST
Salt Lagoons and Abundant Bird-life: The First “Meseta”: The Cisnes
Valley: Excursion to the Forest Region: Tuco-tuco and Patagonian
Deer: Senguerr River: No Water: Back in Chile: Lamb-marking:
The Coyaike Valley: The Aysen Company: To the Pacific Coast:
Luxuriant Rain-forest: Return to Aysen Pp. 187-197
CHAPTER XIII
LAKE BUENOS AIRES
The Swamp of Rio Mayo: Meseta Chalia, an Adventurous Passage: Floating
Soil and Tuco-tucos: A Dangerous Descent: The Puma: Valle
Koslowsky: A Singular Telegraph Office: The Landscape round Lake
Buenos Aires: In the Fenix Valley: Interesting Vegetation: Hunting
Young Guanacos: Patagonian Fur-trade: Armadillos: Ruckel’s
Peril: Difficulties in the Jeinemeni Valley: Ascent of the Mountain
ridge at Zeballos River Pp. 198-220
CHAPTER XIV
LAGO BELGRANO
The Zeballos Pass: Natural Features at Lake Pueyrredon: Troublesome
Ascent: In the Tarde Valley: Across to Belgrano River: Unexpected
Encounter with German Colonists: Our Sin against the Eighth
Commandment: Christmas: We Start on the Lake: Contrary Winds:
On the Lake Azara: Glorious Mountain Scenery: A Happy New Year!
We strike Camp Pp. 221-238
CHAPTER XV
LAKE SAN MARTÍN
Across the High Pampas: Crossing the Rivers Belgrano and Lista: The
Troublesome Tuco-tuco Rivulet: Through the Forest to Carbon
River: The Fósiles Pass, our Worst Day: Lake San Martín: Start
with a Berthon Boat: Head Wind: In the Northern Arm: The
Schoenmeyr Glacier: Imminent Peril: “Galley-slavery”: Farewell
to San Martin Pp. 239-257
CHAPTER XVI
ACROSS THE SIERRA DE LOS BAQUALES
The Swamps round Laguna Tar: An Unexpected Encounter: Pavo and
the Skunk: On the shores of Lake Viedma: Leona River and a Dead
Landscape: With Carlos Fuhr: The Ferry-boat on Santa Cruz River:
Visit to Cattle’s Farm: A Lady Gaucho: The Baguales Range: Back
to Civilisation!: Notes on the History of South Patagonia Pp. 258-271
CHAPTER XVII
LAGO ARGENTINO
Quensel’s Boat Journey in 1908: The Start and Equipment: Squally
Weather: Bismarck Glacier, a Splendid Sight: Large Icebergs: With
a Canvas Boat in the Ice: To the North Arm: Hell Gate: A Dangerous
Landing: A Narrow Escape: Upsala Glacier: Another Clean Shave:
Back again with Rich Results Pp. 272-277
CHAPTER XVIII
OUR JOURNEY TO PUNTA ARENAS
Estancia Payne: Importunate Foxes: Cerro Payne, Patagonia’s most
Beautiful Mountain: Quensel’s Excursion in 1907: Cerro Donoso:
A Bad Day and a Worse Night: Tame Deer: In the Payne Mountains:
The White Stag: A Picnic Party: My Excursion to the Inland Ice:
A Heavy March: Ultima Esperanza: The Eberhard Family: The
Maylodon Cave: A Night’s Ride: We part with our Horses: Arrival
at Punta Arenas Pp. 278-295
CHAPTER XIX
THE BEAGLE CHANNEL
Back in the Channels: The Brecknock Pass: Wonderful Glaciers: Lapataia
and Lake Acigami: The Mission in Douglas Bay: The Last Yahgans:
Notes on Geology: Ushuaia: Bridges’ Farm: Slogget Bay and Gold-digging
in Tierra del Fuego: Another Boundary Dispute: Return to
Punta Arenas and to Buenos Aires Pp. 296-313
CHAPTER XX
A WINTER TRIP TO SOUTH GEORGIA
We leave on Board the _Cachalote_: Severe Damage of Engines: Adrift on
the High Seas: Exciting Situation: The Engines Repaired: Bad
Night on the Coast: At Anchor again: Nature and Position of South
Georgia: Climate: Flora and Fauna: Winter’s Unexpected Arrival:
Along the Coast: Stormy Days: Whaling: A Singular 1st of May:
With Escort to Buenos Aires: Return to Sweden Pp. 314-329
INDEX P. 330
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_To face
page_
Carl Skottsberg _Frontispiece_
Percy D. Quensel 4
Thore G. Halle 4
Typical Landscape in East Falkland with quartzite ridge 10
Mollymawk Rookery, West Point Island 16
Penguin Rookery (Eudyptes), West Point Island 16
The Great Stone-run South of Port Louis, East Falkland 28
The Roads of Punta Arenas, South-wester blowing 32
Punta Arenas from the hills 32
Back from the Betbeder Pass 38
Indians at the Dawson Mission Station 38
The Betbeder Valley 52
Mount Svea, with glacier and moraines 52
The Bottom of Ventisqueros Sound 68
The Entrance of Excelsior Sound 72
Our Interpreter, Channels of Patagonia 78
Two Channel Indians 78
Peel Inlet, with great glaciers 90
Indian Camp, Sarmiento Channel 94
Chilote House 106
The Plaza in Ancud, Chiloé 106
The Famous Corcovado 116
Valdivia 126
Harbour at Valparaiso 126
Robinson’s “Lookout,” with commemorative tablet 140
View from top of Masafuera showing canyons 144
Robinson’s Grotto 144
Puerto Montt 158
Ready to start 158
Small Patagonian Sheep Farm 176
Patagonian Rain-forest 194
Fenix River 214
Valley of Antiguos River looking South 214
The Belgrano Pass, with giant basalt pillars 226
West Arm of Lake Belgrano 226
German Colonists, Lake Belgrano 234
Breakfast Table on Christmas Day, Lake Belgrano 234
View of Pampas, near Lake Argentino 262
Dead Landscape, East of Leona River 262
The Bismarck Glacier, Lake Argentino 274
The Upsala Glacier, Lake Argentino (the biggest in
Patagonia) 274
Icebergs and Canvas Boat, Lake Argentino 274
Last Hope Inlet 288
The “Neomylodon” Cave, Last Hope Inlet 292
The Beagle Channel, looking West 296
Ushuaia and Martial Mountains 304
Glacier in N.W. Arm of Beagle Channel 310
Panorama South-west side of Lake Acigami 312
“The Winter’s Bark,” Tierra del Fuego 312
The Norwegian Factory, South Georgia 316
A Meeting in South Georgia 316
Humpback Whale, upside down, South Georgia 324
Three Right Whales, South Georgia 324
MAPS
Map of South America _At end_
The Falkland Islands _Facing page_ 6
Otway and Skyring Waters ” ” 62
CHAPTER I
THE COASTS OF THE FALKLAND ISLANDS
The Swedish steamer _Princess Ingeborg_ left Gothenburg on September
10, 1907. Wind and sea favoured us, and, after a most agreeable
passage, which came like a strengthening, refreshing rest after all the
work of the preceding months, we arrived in Buenos Aires on October
7. The Swedish Minister, Mr. O. Gyldén, gave us a hearty welcome,
and informed us that the Argentine Republic had generously granted
us the help we had applied for. We had ample time to get a glimpse
of the surrounding country, but naturally preferred to confine our
attention chiefly to the scientific centres, to La Plata, Buenos Aires,
and Cordoba, where people always showed themselves interested in our
enterprise and helped us to make a good start.
In Montevideo the Swedish Consul, Mr. Rogberg, met us, and after a
short stay, which we thoroughly enjoyed, we began our voyage on the
P.S.N.C. liner _Oravia_.
The big steamer made its way over a calm and friendly sea that lay
glittering in the bright sunshine. For a couple of days we carried the
spring of favoured Uruguay with us, but on the very morning when we
expected to get our first glimpse of the Falklands a chill fog slowly
descended over the waters, and anxious passengers tried in vain to
get a sight of land. All at once, close by, the brown and yellow,
storm-beaten coast loomed up out of the heavy mist, and through furious
squalls and a deluge of rain the _Oravia_ steered between the Narrows
and anchored in the spacious, natural harbour of Stanley.
The first person to greet us was one of the staff of the Falkland
Islands Company, Lieut.-Colonel Alexander Reid, D.S.O., who had
served with the C.I.V.s during the last South African War. We shall
always remember him as one of the best friends our expedition met on
its long journey. Presently the acting Swedish Consul, Mr. Girling,
arrived on board, and soon afterwards we found ourselves comfortably
seated at afternoon tea in our new quarters. Once more the smoke
from the Falkland peat-fire filled my nostrils, recalling to memory
my old acquaintance with this peculiar land and its inhabitants--an
acquaintance that I was now to revive and to increase. We said good-bye
to Mr. Quensel for some time, as he was going straight on to Punta
Arenas, in order to make an expedition into the interior of South
Patagonia.
The Falkland group extends from S. Lat. 51° to 52° 30’ and from Long.
57° 40’ to 61° 25’ W., and consists of two large and a very great
number of small islands, which form a regular barrier against the ocean
waves. The coast-line is exceedingly broken; long, narrow, and winding
creeks penetrate far into the country, marking the course, as there are
many proofs to show, of old valleys now submerged under the level of
the sea.
On the east coast of East Falkland is situated the little town of
Port Stanley, with about 1000 inhabitants. Along the south shore of
the harbour and on the slope of a low ridge, which shuts out the view
of the ocean towards the south, long rows of houses are erected, for
the most part small cottages built of wood. They leave a very homely
impression, as their occupants have tried to transform their porches
into small conservatories, where the eye rests on bright colours--which
the soil itself absolutely refuses to reproduce.
Some buildings attracted our attention more than the rest. In the far
“West End” there is a conglomeration of houses, together constituting
the Government House, the residence of his Excellency the Governor.
Mr. W. L. Allardyce, C.M.G., now holds this position. He is a man
warmly interested in the material as well as the spiritual welfare of
his colony, and we fully recognized his appreciation of our scientific
work, which he tried to promote as far as lay in his power. He rules a
vast dominion. Some years ago Great Britain painted red another large
section of the globe, the colony now including, besides the Falklands
and South Georgia, the South Sandwich Islands, South Orkneys, South
Shetlands, and Graham’s Land. The result of this spread of British
power was far-reaching. The whaling industry having languished in
Norway, energetic whalers started in the South Atlantic and Antarctic
Seas, and numerous vessels hunt there every summer and pay their
tribute to the Falkland Government, which has thus increased its
revenue.
At the other end of the town lies a long white building, representing
the second power here--not _the people_, but the F.I.C.--the Falkland
Islands Company--a mighty institution. Only with the assistance of
its chief on the spot, Mr. W. Harding, were we able to carry out our
investigations in the most interesting part of East Falkland, or to
visit the western islands, where the company’s small schooners are the
sole available means of communication.
The third State power, the press, is closely connected with the Church,
as the name of the only paper, _The Falkland Islands Magazine and
Church Paper_, issued once a month, bears incontestable witness. Close
to the beach rises the cathedral; a proud title which is borne as a
matter of fact by a little stone chapel. The city of Stanley is the
headquarters of a bishop, but as his diocese includes almost the whole
of South America the islanders do not enjoy his presence for more than
a fortnight in the year. Naturally, the inhabitants are too numerous
to be of one faith. Both Roman Catholics and Baptists have their own
churches, but the relations between the different sects seem to be most
amicable, at least if one dare judge from a certain little scene that
has remained in my memory. A welcome was arranged for the bishop, and
on that occasion the faithful gave free scope to their talents, and a
Roman Catholic, whose intentions were excellent if his voice was poor,
appeared on the stage and sang a little song in honour of his lordship.
[Illustration: _Atelier Dahlgren, Upsala._
PERCY D. QUENSEL.]
[Illustration: _Wiklund, Stockholm. phot._
THORE G. HALLE.]
It is remarkable and almost touching to observe with what faithfulness
the 2300 Falklanders cling to the habits of the old country, from the
parlour with its polished stove, the china cats on the mantelpiece,
the breakfast of eggs and bacon, to the bedrooms without a fire. When
you have drawn the curtains and lit the lamp you can believe that you
are in a snug little house in a small English town. But take a look
out of doors, and you generally meet a howling west wind, a cold rain
beats on your face, and whichever way you turn you always see the same
dreary, desolate landscape. You must certainly be born in Northern
Europe, or you would lose heart in this forlorn corner of the world.
The centre of Stanley society is Government House, and picnics, dances,
and dinners follow hard upon each other. I can assure you that there is
plenty to amuse you in Stanley--that is, if you have the privilege of
being admitted to the “upper ten” (without a thousand!).
Life is much less easy for those who have been stranded on this
inhospitable coast, not of their own free will, but by a cruel
fate. Generally they seek refuge in one of the six small “hotels,”
where statistics show the consumption of whisky to be considerable.
Nevertheless, the police can go to bed early in Port Stanley, where the
peace is seldom broken.
Communication with England is kept up by the P.S.N.C. steamers, which
touch once a month on their outward and once on their homeward passage
from the west coast of Chile and Punta Arenas. Their visits put new
life into the little town; boxes and parcels bring dainties and the
latest fashions; the post-office is besieged; strangers come ashore
to have a look round and to buy illustrated post-cards. But the huge
black hull soon disappears, and the town sinks back into its usual
quiet. Now and again a sailing-vessel happens to come inside the
harbour--generally it is some damaged craft, which then often loses
its freedom. To repair it is too expensive, and so the F.I.C. buys the
whole thing, and the port makes an addition to its fine collection of
old hulks.
* * * * *
It is a day in early spring on the hills near Port Stanley. The heath
stretches yellow and dreary, the withered grass is beaten to the ground
by an irritating wind, from which you can find hardly any shelter.
Grey and broken quartzite ridges run through brown peat-bogs. Nowhere
is there a tree visible, scarcely a bush is to be seen; the islands
are absolutely destitute of timber, and the inhabitants use dried peat
for fuel. Here and there a little white flower has ventured to peep
out of the dead grass and stands shivering in the cold. Let us climb
one of the low peaks that rise a little above the surroundings, and
get a more extensive but not a finer view. Everywhere we see the same
sad picture; low ridges, undulating plains, winding brooks, where
boggy ground gleams with its dangerous bright green colour as if to
warn the horseman. Here and there glitters some little shallow pond. A
frightened flock of sheep hurries off, screaming seagulls hasten past,
slowly the turkey-buzzard soars away....
Such is often the impression you get on a short visit to the Falklands,
especially during the unfavourable season, and even a bright sunny
day can hardly give this scenery real charm. Grand it could never
be without the assistance of the sea, for here as in so many other
places in the world the roaring surf bestows a wild beauty upon the
black, inhospitable cliffs.
[Illustration: FALKLAND ISLANDS]
Expeditions on land
” by sea
We spent the first few days making excursions in the neighbourhood of
the town, and Mr. Halle went as far as Port Louis. Later on I shall
say more about that place. Before we leave this part of the island,
however, let me conduct the reader to a point not far from the city,
the lighthouse near Cape Pembroke, a spot that has always possessed a
strong attraction for me since the first time I visited it. One can get
there overland or by boat--let us choose the latter way this time! The
landing is interesting enough; the shore is rocky, and we steer through
foaming breakers towards a narrow gap. Every eye is watchful, every
hand ready. Across the opening a heavy chain is stretched, and when the
boat passes underneath a line is flung round it, the end being secured
round the middle bench of the boat; at the same moment another line is
thrown ashore, where a man stands ready to receive it. It is indeed
required; the surf rolling in hurls the boat forward with creaking
timbers and then draws it back again, so that the ropes are strained
like the strings of a violin. If you miss the chain your boat may be
crushed against the cliffs. This, indeed, _has_ happened, but I am glad
to say that I managed to get ashore without adventure, and at once went
to see that good fellow, the lighthouse-keeper, who was glad enough to
get some company in his loneliness. In truth, one would have to seek
far to find a more desolate place than this. After the destruction of
the tussock-grass the whole promontory was changed into a vast field
of drifting sand. Desolation whispers in the whistling sand that
beats on the windows; desolation howls in the gale round the black,
jagged rocks; desolation thunders in the everlasting breakers. But
one gets a certain feeling of security when within; the light carries
on its silent struggle with danger and darkness and the sand rattles
incessantly against the iron walls. The magnificent lamp is of the
“Lux” pattern, and a good old “Primus” is used to heat the burner. The
vigorous keeper, my friend Mr. Pearce, nurses his light as if it were a
baby; every part of its mechanism is perfectly clean and shining, and
he tells you with barely concealed pride that the electric flash from
the mail-steamer is but poor stuff in comparison with his own light. He
listens to every word when you tell him of foreign countries, and he
himself has rather specialized on the Antarctic regions, ever since the
time when the leader of the Scottish National Antarctic Expedition, Mr.
Bruce, was his guest.
When the sun rose I found plenty to do. At low tide there is a
precious world spread out on the dry rocks or in half-emptied pools.
The rocks are covered with seaweeds, green and reddish brown, of all
shades and colours; half dead from thirst, they await the arrival of
another tide which shall restore them to life. In the small ponds
or basins a variegated company dwells. A carpet of rose-coloured
calcareous algæ covers the rock, and here and there are patches of
other seaweeds, from the largest blade-like variety to the small,
elegant bushes, displaying the brightest scarlet or crimson, purple or
violet colouring. And what a life there is in these recesses! The most
splendid _actiniæ_--sea-anemones, as they are often called--stretch
their hundreds of arms; an innumerable horde of little crustaceæ dance
round and round, wild with delight; beautiful shells rest lazily in
safe nooks and crannies, while here and there little fishes that have
got left behind when the water receded dart to and fro in their anxiety
to escape their temporary prison.
Deeper down the gigantic _Durvilleas_ roll their bodies in the
foam--they are some feet broad and many feet long, and fastened on
the bare rock by means of a short thick stalk, and a disc just like
a horse’s hoof. Some of them farther out in the heaviest surf are
of another shape: they are divided into long, cylindrical segments,
which writhe like serpents in eternal struggle with the full force of
the sea. Below lies the forest of the ocean. It is formed of another
brown kelp, the arboreous _Lessonia_, with trunks many feet long and
as thick as a man’s thigh, carrying a crown of large yellowish-brown
leaves, just peeping above the water, and slowly swinging forwards
and backwards in the waves. It is a magnificent sight, this submerged
forest, with its rich bower, where fishes and all sorts of marine
animals swim, while a whole world of plants and creatures thrive in its
shadows. A pair of ducks glide along chattering and quacking, followed
by five dear little ducklings, who make their voyage of discovery to
the promised land under their parents’ wise direction. Clear as crystal
is the water, and the temptation to have a bathe is very strong indeed.
How one would enjoy climbing in those curious trees! No fear that the
branches may give way, for they are made to carry a greater weight
than ours. What a pity that the water is so cold--but a few degrees
above freezing-point!
Finally, let us gaze round farther away over the water. There is a
yellow or brownish band, that extends along the shores as far as we can
see. It is one of the most famous plants in the world, _Macrocystis_,
Nature’s own beacon. One might say that as a rule there is no dangerous
reef where that giant seaweed does not grow to warn the sailor. And how
beautiful it is, with its graceful branches softly moving to and fro
with the swell of the ocean!
We landed in Port Stanley on October 26, and it was long before we
found a schooner bound for an extended trip. But finally, on November
18, the _Lafonia_ hoisted the Swedish as well as the English colours
and steered out to the open, to work her way westward round the north
coast.
The outlines of the country are monotonous; only here and there a round
hill rises above the neighbouring plains, always making a good landmark.
The land has disappeared; we are outside the Falkland Sound which
separates the two large islands, and by-and-by we get sight of the
three hummocks on Pebble Island. We steer clear of the thousands of
dangerous reefs, and continue westward with a fresh N.N.W. and a heavy
sea that washes our little craft from bow to stern. The good wind keeps
fresh, and we pass the straits at Carcass Island, cross Byron Sound,
and have the good luck to reach Westpoint Passage with the rising tide,
which allows us to get through this difficult channel. The tidal
currents on the Falkland coast are perhaps the greatest danger to
sailing-vessels. They swirl through those innumerable narrow channels
which one is bound to get through, with the strength of up to six or
seven knots. A look on a chart is sufficient to persuade us that we
are navigating a very disagreeable coast. Hardly a year passes without
one or more of the small Stanley schooners leaving the town, never to
return.
[Illustration: TYPICAL LANDSCAPE IN EAST FALKLAND, WITH QUARTZITE
RIDGE.]
The scenery has changed a little. It is desolate as before, but
grander. The cliffs run down to the sea sheer as though cut by a knife,
while heavy breakers throw their foam high above them. On the inside of
the steep Rabbit Island, in King George’s Bay, the _Lafonia_ anchored,
but the next morning we continued our journey across the gulf, through
the critical East passage, and then through a long and winding sound to
the entrance of Port Philomel. Here we encountered a gale lasting four
and a half days. With the prevailing south-west wind it was out of the
question to get away. We were anchored only a few hundred yards off the
land, but the wind was so strong that it was with difficulty we managed
to get ashore. We wanted to march across the peninsula, in order to get
acquainted with one of the more inaccessible parts of the island. It is
a heavy job to march in the Falkland camp, up and down all the time,
through ravines, stone-runs, or swamps. Our fame as “foot-Indians” is
not small in Port Stanley, and we begin to understand why the people
regard a long walk in the camp as something rather eccentric.
We had just climbed a steep ridge when I thought I smelt something
familiar, and stopped to trace it. No doubt it must be cattle, which
seemed peculiar so far away from any settlement. But the smell got
stronger, and from the top of the ridge we caught sight of the
cause--some of the scanty remnants of the wild cattle, a small herd of
twenty, amongst them some calves and two bulls. They at once caught
sight of us, cows and calves fell back, and the bulls stopped in front
of them, ready for action. But we did not want to come any closer, and
thought it better to stop where we were and watch them. They were two
imposing beasts, very wild-looking, with enormous horns, long coarse
hair, and a tail with a tuft of respectable dimensions. Some minutes
passed; they slowly retired, but turned round at every second step in
order to send us a friendly look. We picked our way cautiously, for we
did not wish to run across them unawares, in which case they would have
charged us immediately. And as we were on foot and without any other
arms than a knife to dig up plants with, we were not exactly prepared
to enter on a struggle.
When the colonists in the middle of the last century came to the
islands these were well stocked with wild cattle, and we were told the
most exciting tales of hunting them with lasso and knife, but without
firearms. “That was grand sport,” said an old gentleman-pioneer. I do
not doubt this, but horse and rider lost their lives in more than one
encounter.
Finally the wind changed, and the question of how to get out through
the narrow passage arose. The current here, which makes about seven
knots, played with the ship for a while, but eventually we came safely
through it, and anchored again on the north side of Fox Island. Here,
however, no foxes live, the name being all that is left of the Falkland
fox. He was too tame; that was his worst fault. An old farmer on the
settlement in front of the island told me that he killed his last fox
in 1873, and shortly afterwards the animal was extinct. This is a pity,
as the species _Canis falklandicus_ has now disappeared for ever.
The glass had fallen for a second time, but our anxiety to visit Fox
Island was so great that not even the threatening Falkland weather
could keep us back. My intention was to look at and photograph the
largest land plant of all Falkland, the _Veronica elliptica_, or
Falkland box, which seems to reach its greatest dimensions just here.
I had just exposed a couple of plates when the first squall came with
a deluge of rain. We tried to get on board while there was time, and
made full speed for the landing-place; at 1 P.M. we were back there.
But it was too late. A fresh gale was blowing in the harbour: far out
the _Lafonia_ lay, rocking on her cables. I shall never forget the six
hours we spent on shore without shelter. At seven o’clock the wind fell
a little, enough to let the crew lower the lifeboat and come to fetch
us. Captain Osborne himself held the tiller, and though six oars worked
with the full strength of muscular arms they nearly failed to reach us.
We did not regret that place very much when we weighed anchor to visit
the outlying islands, Weddell, Beaver, and New Islands, each of which
is a small sheep-farm. I can hardly imagine people more shut out of
the world than their inhabitants. Years pass without their seeing any
strangers save the crew of the little schooner that comes once or
twice a year to bring provisions and carry away the wool. Here one
has to economise; for if one runs short of an article one remains so,
though there is always a spare supply of important things. We met
several full-grown persons who were born there and had never left
the place, and who thought Port Stanley something marvellous. This
explains the queer behaviour of a young lady of eighteen who ran away
and hid herself when we came, thus providing us with an altogether new
experience.
No scientists had visited the outlying islands, and people had told us
many remarkable things about the geology as well as the botany of the
place. But though these are typical of all parts of the West Falklands,
it was nevertheless worth something to be able to reduce such rumours
to their proper proportions.
It will be easily understood that it must be very difficult even on
the greater and richer settlements to reproduce the features of a snug
and sheltered home, where the natural conditions are so unpromising as
on the Falklands. When we steered into the narrow creek on the north
side of King George’s Bay, called Roy Cove, we were quite astonished
to find that place well worthy of being called habitable. The hills
are rather picturesque, and the comfortable little houses, embedded
in gorse-hedges now in full bloom, left a very favourable impression.
In the creek we made a discovery that caused us all to stare with
amazement. Here lay a large iron vessel, and we could not possibly
imagine what business it could have in such a remote corner. But the
enigma was soon solved: the French barque _Duc d’Aumale_ had sprung
a leak on the high seas, on her way to the west coast of America,
and though in another couple of hours she would have gone down to a
certainty, at the very last moment her captain managed to bring her
into Roy Cove with the aid of a chart. The ocean here has many tales
to tell: almost every point or reef is connected with some shipwreck;
innumerable are the ships that destruction has overtaken on this coast,
where no beacon or light announces danger.
We had got much information about West Point Island, and had resolved
to make a fairly long stay there if possible. When we anchored at the
settlement on the island, “Clifton Station,” on December 7, there was
no need for the owner’s (Mr. Arthur Felton) persuasions; we were only
too glad to abandon the _Lafonia_, which continued her voyage, and to
settle on shore. Mr. Felton approximates very nearly to my ideal of
a man. Ready to enjoy life and civilization when there is a chance,
he nevertheless lives in complete harmony with the wild camp life;
interested in his work, he tries all sorts of grasses for his sheep,
but is also--an exception to the general rule--intensely fond of nature
itself and gifted with such a remarkable capacity for observation that
many a naturalist by profession has reason to envy him. He knows every
beast or plant on his island, he loves and nurses them, quite convinced
that the human race can live at its ease without depriving living
things which do him no harm of any chance of existence. I have never
met anybody but him who tries to save one of the Falklands’ finest
adornments, the giant tussock-grass (_Poa flabellata_), which is nearly
extinct wherever there are sheep, much to the detriment of the coast’s
appearance.
[Illustration: MOLLYMAWK ROOKERY, WEST POINT ISLAND.
[Illustration: PENGUIN ROOKERY (EUDYPTES) WEST POINT ISLAND.]
Mr. Felton expressed the deepest interest in our work, and spared
neither trouble nor time to prove it; he took the greatest care that
we should get the best possible results from our visit to his kingdom,
which we left after a week, not without considerable regret, joining
unanimously in the praise that has been showered upon West Point
Island. An excursion across the island to the cliff with its steep
rocks and crevices is well worth making. Large grass-bogs cover the
slopes, where mollymawks (_Diomedea chlororhyncha_) have their rookery.
There are eggs in the nests, one of which is more than sufficient as a
breakfast dish. To obtain these one must lift the hen away by force;
quick as lightning she turns her head, opens her long beak, and shuts
it with a click, and finally tries to turn her crop inside out and
sprinkle the half-digested, stinking food on the intruders. On the
slope above the albatross’s dominion is a penguin rookery, where the
visitor may like to stop and look at those, perhaps the most comical of
all, animals chattering and screaming among the pink-coloured guano.
They belong to the “rock-hoppers” (_Eudyptes chrysocome_), and are
dark blue and white, with a number of yellow feathers on the side of
the head. The penguins depend completely on the water, and those of
West Point have a hard climb of over a hundred yards to the surf,
where they tumble about in a most neck-breaking fashion. Thousands
and thousands of small penguin feet have dug deep marks in the hard
rocks, climbing up and down, century after century. Quite struck with
the uncommon sight, we sat still to watch them, as they emerged out
of the breakers, jumped ashore, and started their fatiguing climb up
the cliff, carefully putting their little claws where their ancestors
through innumerable ages have put theirs, the road being so narrow and
difficult that the penguins willy-nilly must follow in each other’s
footsteps.
As I have already mentioned, the Falklands have no indigenous arboreous
vegetation. This was not always so. I am not alluding to distant
geological periods with a plant-world quite different from that of our
era, for even in the epoch in which we live there were forests in the
Falklands. With the deterioration of the climate that gave rise to the
ice-age large tracts of austral South America became covered with a
mighty ice-cap; hundreds of plants and animals died out or migrated to
the north. This did not take place on the Falklands. They experienced
the hard time in another manner, and there is no trace of a glaciation.
The weather became more chilly and wet, and the ground was so saturated
with moisture that it began to slide away downhill, carrying with it
blocks of all sizes and shapes. The forest disappeared, and certainly
a number of animals and plants. When the conditions grew better the
moving soil came to a standstill, the finer material, sand and clay,
was washed away into the sea, but heaps of blocks are left in evidence
of past times. These are the famous stone-runs or stone-rivers, that
will always rouse the interest of the stranger as well as the islander.
Everywhere these peculiar formations are met with, forming a network on
the slopes of the valleys or long grey streams of stones at the bottom.
They constitute an obstacle to traffic quite as insurmountable as the
swamps.
We had no idea before our arrival at West Point that there had been
forests on the islands during a period, geologically speaking, so
near our own. The rumour of heavy logs found in the ground had helped
to bring us there, though we had been disposed to attribute the find
to common driftwood. There was no doubt, however, that this was the
remains of an old forest of needle-trees, well covered by the old
sliding soil, and we had been lucky enough to make a discovery of the
greatest interest. Long afterwards “the kelper” spoke of nothing but
the old forest--the consciousness of the simple fact that there had
grown big trees on his island seemed to strengthen his pride.
Our time was up. The signal-fire flared, and on “the main” a man with
horses expected us. We were to experience a new phase of Falkland
life--life on horseback.
CHAPTER II
RIDING THROUGH THE FALKLANDS
On horseback we slowly advanced along the rough, stony northern slope
of the long peninsula. Several hours passed. We came close to the
house of our guide, an old, taciturn Scotsman, and stopped for a while
at his invitation. At once his talkative wife, attired in her best
Sunday clothes, served us with whatever the Falklands can produce of
delicious dishes, and we were then ready for a fresh start. What would
this country be like without horses? All people ride, and ride well;
it is the only way of travelling in the camp, where roads are unknown.
At first we found it marvellous with what agility the horses trotted
along, climbing the steepest slopes, and struggling down places that
appeared perilous enough to the inexperienced rider. Sometimes there is
danger, but soon one does not think of it, for in ninety-nine cases out
of a hundred the horse is equal to the occasion. Hour after hour one
rides in the comfortable wooden saddle without getting tired, thanks to
the soft sheepskin. The wretched ground forces one to walk or trot, and
the patches where one can gallop one’s horse are easily counted.
Our goal for the day was Hill Cove, one of the finest settlements. With
its numerous, friendly-looking buildings and its beautiful gardens
it produces an uncommonly agreeable impression. Widely known is the
“forest” of Hill Cove. In a little depression a number of northern
trees are planted, mostly Scotch fir, which, being well sheltered, seem
to thrive very well. It was pure delight once more to hear the wind
soughing in the heads of the trees.
We were received with the usual hospitality, and were provided with
horses and guides, in spite of its being the busiest time of the year,
when the sheep-shearing was on. Flock after flock was driven into a
paddock, and from there to the shed, where the thick white wool was
cut with clicking scissors, until one almost thought one heard the
resultant heavy golden sovereigns jingling on the floor. Sheep-farming
is a profitable industry, and many of the farmers are able every year
to exchange the winter in the Falklands for England’s summer.
The total stock on a settlement is divided into flocks, each watched
by a shepherd, often a Scotsman. He lives out in the camp, sometimes
far away from other human dwellings, in his snug little house, with
his family, his dogs, and with good pay; he can keep a couple of
cows, grow potatoes and cabbages, and use as much peat as he needs
for fuel. Certainly his life is hard enough in summer-time; there is
lamb-marking, shearing, and finally dipping, and no thought of a rest;
but with winter comes an easier life, when he works with his horse-gear
or reads sixpenny books and illustrated papers. Now and then he takes
a ride round his district, gives an eye to the sheep, and sees that
fences and gates are in order. We made many friends amongst the
shepherds, who brought us safe through the thousands of dangerous bogs,
offered us a seat at their table, and gave us a bed without any thought
of payment.
The land south of Hill Cove is mountainous, and a few hours’ ride
brings us to the foot of Mount Adam, 2315 feet high, the highest
mountain in the islands, and regarded as a very Mont Blanc by the
islanders. As no scientific observations had been made there, we
resolved to make an ascent. From Hill Cove we had to cross several
ravines, but were able to ride up to the summit itself without
inconvenience. Here we found the face of Nature very different from
what we had been accustomed to! From the mountain-top we enjoyed a
splendid view over half West Falkland, suggestive of Alpine landscape,
certainly very tame, but still adorned by small snow-patches, a number
of glittering mountain-lakes, and a few Alpine plants. Here were no
sheep, but an expanse of virgin ground decked by the hand of Nature.
And the weather! This wonderful everlasting April was very gracious to
us all day long.
We did not intend to stay long in Hill Cove, for the schooner which was
to take us to Stanley might be expected in Fox Bay before Christmas,
and we had several interesting places to visit. Our start, however, was
almost too precipitate. One of the brothers Benney from Saunders Island
came to the farm, and in spite of not having more than an hour to make
ourselves ready, we made up our minds to accept his invitation and
visit his island. We trotted away, a party of four, in order to reach
Rapid Point, where a boat was to meet us before nightfall. But we were
indeed deceived. When we reached the beach it was already pitch-dark;
but horses have cats’ eyes, and soon we had a fine signal-fire on a
hill. After a while the reply flashed forth from the island, but when
the boat came it proved too small to take us all, as Halle and I were
not expected. As the tidal currents in the channel are very strong,
we could not be sure of being fetched the same night. We were told,
however, to wait for a signal--one flash meaning a disagreeable ride,
two a boat journey to the island. The night was very chilly, but we
made ourselves as comfortable as possible with a queer camp-fire of
gigantic dry trunks of seaweed (_Lessonia_), and Mr. Benney found some
tea and sugar in his “maletas” (valise; many Spanish words, especially
referring to horse-gear, are still used in the islands), so we had
nothing to complain of. Midnight came, still no message; but at last
two flashes illumined the darkness, and after a while we heard the
longed-for splash of oars. We set off, but as we could hardly see our
hands before us, the current took us outside the reef between Rapid
Point and the island. The breakers told us the truth, and using all
our strength we managed to reach the reef, jumped into the water, and
dragged the boat across. Before a neatly laid table and some fat mutton
we soon forgot the adventures of the night.
Saunders Island is one of the few places on the Falklands to which
historical reminiscences are attached. The discovery of the islands
took place in 1592, though they may have been sighted even before 1520,
but only in 1764 was the first colony founded by the French, who
settled in Port Louis, on the East Falklands. The next year the English
appeared at Port Egmont, and built their quarters a short distance
from the actual settlement. But soon Spaniards from South America
cast envious glances at the colony, and as the enemy was superior in
numbers the fort at Port Egmont was given up. Old cannon-balls are
still preserved, and several other relics such as the foundation-walls
of the fortress, while traces of extensive gardens and ruins of the
old settlement are still left. Later on the Spaniards left the place,
colonisation proceeded once more, but only for a short time, and in
1774 the place was abandoned.
We had enjoyed Falkland summer weather for several days, but it was not
long before it broke up. We were just on our way back to the mainland
in a small yawl when the first squall came on us like lightning, and
within half an hour the sea was so heavy that we were forced to turn
back and had to cross in a small cutter. The narrow channel looked like
a boiling cauldron, as the current ran against wind and sea; several
times the cutter refused to answer the helm, but we managed at last
to reach the mainland, where horses were once more awaiting us. The
rain poured down, the ground was very difficult, wet and slippery,
and progress very slow. We passed the natural ruin of Castle Hill,
crossed five rivers, of which the last is the main river Warrah, the
others its tributaries, and reached a shepherd’s house at nightfall.
Horses from Port Howard met us here, and early the next morning we
again found ourselves in the saddle. We wanted to survey the valley
of Warrah River, which is one of the largest streams in West Falkland.
At that time of the year, however, it carried but little water and we
could cross without difficulty. We followed the barranca, which became
steeper and steeper, necessitating our riding in single file, with the
guide in front. Suddenly he stopped and shouted out a “Look out here!”
Truly we could hardly see any signs of a path; a couple of hundred
feet below wound the river, on our left a precipitous wall rose, and
the narrow way was barred by huge blocks of stone. For an instant the
horses seemed to hesitate, groped among the stones, got a foothold,
took two or three unsteady steps, and scrambled past the obstacle. A
slip, and horse and rider would have been precipitated into the river.
“Rather a nasty place,” our man remarked, and neither of us found any
reason to contradict him.
We followed the river down to the place where the tidal region
commences, crossed it once more, struggled a while with the network of
a stone-run, and turned towards Port Howard, whose interesting natural
harbour I would ask the reader to study on the map. Once more we found
ourselves in a large and comfortable settlement, where Mr. and Mrs.
Mathews gave us a hearty welcome, always ready to put that question to
us which we heard so often: “What can we do to make it comfortable for
you and to help you to attain good scientific results?”
The bad weather continued; we made our excursions in storm and rain,
walking about in oilskins. One day we made an ascent of Mount Maria,
one of the highest mountains, and only a little lower than Mount Adam.
But as the ground is uncommonly bad, the slope being one extensive
network of stone-runs, we had to travel on foot. The rain poured down
as we climbed along, and suddenly we found ourselves enveloped in a fog
so dense and white that the view was shut off in all directions. It
was certainly more by good luck than by good judgment that we walked
straight on to the little cairn at the summit.
Our stay in Port Howard yielded very good results, and with regret we
said good-bye to our hosts, jumped into the saddle, and headed for Fox
Bay on the south coast. We were accompanied by the mail-carrier. After
a long and tiresome ride we reached our goal. Here lives the doctor of
West Falkland; on the occasion of our visit the position was held by
Dr. Bolus, who received us with the utmost courtesy and kindness. This
young doctor was a good all-round man, for besides his proper duties he
fulfilled those of custom officer, policeman, postmaster, and public
registrar. Being a spirited fellow who rides alone by day or night in
any weather, he had many tales to tell of hazardous rides, when snow
covered the dangerous bogs; how he reached the western sea-shore,
jumped into an ice-clad boat, and struggled through storm and mist
to one or other of the outlying islands, where a fellow creature lay
wrestling with death.
Meanwhile the _Lafonia_ lingered. We had already made ourselves
familiar with the thought of celebrating Christmas Eve with Dr. Bolus
and his wife--it did not cause any mental struggle, as we could hardly
have been better off than in their cosy home--when on the afternoon of
December 22 the schooner entered the narrow creek. It brought us our
mail, and, from the consulate in Port Stanley, the news of King Oscar’s
death. And down here, in a remote corner of the Falklands, two blue
and yellow flags were hoisted, half-mast, on the doctor’s house and on
the little schooner. The next morning the _Lafonia_ weighed anchor.
The wind was north-easterly, a rather uncommon occurrence, and with
some misgivings we regarded the approaching Christmas Day. I believe
that we never experienced anything like it. The small schooner rolled
incessantly with a hard wind and heavy sea; we ran short of provisions,
and there were no possibilities to raise our spirits.
Gnawing at the last mutton-bones, we arrived in Stanley in the
evening of Boxing Day, but found the capital empty. In a deluge of
rain horseraces took place outside the town, and of course all the
inhabitants had placed themselves under their umbrellas. But we stayed
at home and ate, quickly, but heartily. Thus Christmas passed, and 1907
was soon only a memory. We sat up to see the New Year in with some of
our English friends, who did all they could to make us feel at home.
And warmed by their friendship we almost forgot that we were far away
from our homes and everything dear to us.
We did not intend to stop long in Stanley, as the time had come to
survey East Falkland. We had done but little there, and the most
interesting part was still left. As soon as a schooner was ready,
Halle went to Port Darwin, in Choiseul Sound; I had to complete my
studies in the vicinity of Stanley. The camp revelled in the beauty
of summer--everything in this world is a matter of comparison!--and
the life on the rocks round the lighthouse once more attracted me. But
Halle sent a message telling of great geological discoveries, and on
January 14 I went on board the _Lafonia_, which could thus hoist the
Swedish colours alongside of the English once more. We came out through
Port Williams all right, and also passed the tussock-islands, where the
sea-lions lay snoring. From there we had a miserable run, having to
beat all the way down, and did not arrive at Darwin until late the next
day.
The south part of East Falkland, south of Wickham Heights, does
not differ much from the rest of the island in appearance. With
the exception of a very doubtful find on Speedwell Island, nothing
indicated that layers younger than Devonian would occur on the
islands. Halle’s discovery that the whole south part of East Falkland,
generally called Lafonia, belongs to a younger period, viz., the
Permo-carbonian, was thus of great interest, and in several places he
made beautiful and valuable collections of the fossilised remains of
plants (_Glossopteris_) which had once spread their shadow over the
Falkland soil. Lafonia is owned by the Falkland Islands Company, and
about 200,000 sheep graze on the undulating plains. We found here the
largest pampas-like spots I ever saw in the islands, and enjoyed being
able to travel at a fair speed. Otherwise the camp was more or less the
same as usual--the same winding creeks, that appear in the middle of
the country when you do not at all expect them, forcing you to make a
long _détour_, the same streams slowly creeping through the treacherous
peat, sometimes impassable, and always difficult to cross on horseback.
The coast, of course, is as charming as ever with its rich bird-life,
flocks of many coloured geese (_Chloëphaga_), red-legged gulls (_Larus
Scoresbyi_), flapping shags, and a long row of squeaking waders; and
its cliffs with guano and white rocks, sculptured by the waves into
fantastic forms and tunnels.
Darwin Harbour is the camp centre of the F.I.C. It is the next largest
settlement, with about seventy or eighty inhabitants, and boasts of a
good store, a school, and also a doctor.
[Illustration: THE GREAT STONE-RUN SOUTH OF PORT LOUIS, EAST FALKLAND.]
When we had crossed Lafonia in all directions we wanted to pay a visit
to the west coast. Several days of heavy rain had soaked the camp and
delayed our start, but finally we were able to set out, accompanied
by Dr. Foley, who kindly acted as our guide. We soon left the plains
and reached the usual broken ground; the wind was biting cold, and now
and then a wet squall paid us its attention. Suddenly a long creek
appeared; it was Port Sussex. The tide was out, and our horses splashed
across cheerfully, making deep imprints in the smooth mud. Carefully
they climbed the stony barranca on the other side; as they were not
shod they hated stony places, and peered to right and left in order to
see if there was no chance of breaking out. The doctor had pointed out
a rock high up on the grey quartzite ridge; that was our landmark. The
ascent was troublesome; the ground had become covered by loose peat
and the horses began to get tired. On the top of one of the ridges we
met with a critical passage, for which the doctor had already prepared
us; a place where the pure peat, brown and loose, was exposed. At the
edge the horses stopped with firm resolution, and we could read in
their faces a “No, sir, that’s enough.” We dismounted, grasped the
long cabresta (halter-strap) and pulled away. Absolute refusal; we
pulled each at his end, the horse and I, and the stronger won. Then
the lashes hailed down on the back of the insubordinate creature, it
took a desperate jump, lay kicking and struggling in the black mud, and
finally gained firm ground. We had passed the crest of Wickham Heights,
and rode down a series of slopes to San Carlos South, a farm where the
doctor was to vaccinate some children. As soon as he was ready, we
started again. Night was coming on, and we neared our goal, the San
Carlos valley, where the largest river of East Falkland winds its way
along, deep and rapid. On the other side sharp crests rise, and at
their foot we sighted the settlement, San Carlos North, where we were
received with the same kindness as ever. The next day we returned to
Darwin. I was anxious to return to Stanley, but delayed my departure as
long as possible, as I wanted to make an ascent of Mount Usborne, the
highest mountain in East Falkland. But the rainy season would not come
to an end, and finally I had to leave for the town. This time I took
the route overland. I asked Halle if possible to climb the mountain and
make some observations for me, and as he was able to fulfil his mission
I had no reason to complain.
The track to Port Stanley follows the southern slope of Wickham
Heights. It is one of the very worst in the islands (especially after
a long rain like the one we had experienced), and near the town
stone-runs appear with dangerous holes, covered by vegetation. We
changed horses twice, and easily covered the distance, about sixty
miles, in two days. Covered with mud and soaked to the skin, I rode
into the town on February 1. Only twelve days were left till the day
when the mail-steamer for Punta Arenas was due, and much work had
still to be done. Amongst other things I would not willingly leave the
islands without paying a visit to Port Louis, where J. G. Andersson
and myself had lived some time during the winter of 1902. Port Louis
is the classical ground of the Falklands. Here lie the ruins of the
old settlement; here Charles Darwin strolled about; here J. D. Hooker
collected materials for his famous “Flora Antarctica”; here the
_Challenger_ was anchored. All these memories crowd upon the mind of a
naturalist of to-day and cast a halo round the brown, desolate heath.
Several historic ruins are left in Port Louis. Here in 1764 the first
settlement was established by the French; a few years later Spain took
possession of it, but probably withdrew the garrison before 1780. In
1820 the captain of a vessel took possession of the islands for the
Government of Buenos Aires, but in 1833 a British man-of-war was sent
to enforce England’s rights, and since 1843 the Falklands have been
constituted a Crown colony. For further details I refer the reader
to Darwin’s journals, as well as to a paper read by the present
governor, Mr. W. L. Allardyce, C.M.G., at the meeting of the Royal
Colonial Institute, March 22, 1910. During the last days of our stay
in Port Stanley everybody was walking about rife with expectation.
A man-of-war, H.M.S. _Sappho_, was due, and from the camp the young
ladies came to the town prepared for a dance or a picnic. Some years
ago a man-of-war used to be stationed in Stanley for several months
every year, and opposite the town expensive constructions were made, a
dock was built, and large coal-sheds erected. But hardly was it ready
when the whole scheme was abandoned, even the stationed vessel being
withdrawn, much to the grief of the Stanley girls.
At last the _Sappho_ came, but by this time our period of rest had
nearly elapsed. Halle returned from Darwin, we had to prepare our heavy
luggage, and when the _Oronsa_ let her sonorous voice be heard she
found us ready. On February 12, a bright summer day, the barren coasts
of the Falkland Islands disappeared from our sight--perhaps for ever.
The big steamer hastened westward, and soon the lights at the Magellan
Straits twinkled in the twilight. As we approached Punta Arenas the sky
shone bright red, and with the glasses we soon found out the reason:
the forest south of the town was on fire; it made a mighty lighthouse
that showed us the way to the roads, where we anchored at 1 A.M. on
February 14.
CHAPTER III
IN TIERRA DEL FUEGO
In front of us stretches the long, yellow, sandy sea-shore, with
slender jetties running far out into the shallow water; in the
background rises the land, with forest-clad ridges and hills. Between
the forests and the sea extends Punta Arenas, the town of the Magellan
territories, a good type of mushroom city with a startling story
of development behind it. In the last ten years its population has
greatly increased, and more than 12,000 people now have their home
there--Chileans and Spaniards, Germans and Englishmen, Frenchmen and
Italians, Swedes, Norwegians, Danes, Russians, Austrians--a babel of
tongues. Pretentious stone buildings, interspersed with corrugated-iron
houses, dozens of hotels and American bars, howling gramophones, the
rattling of cocktails in the mixing--that is the first impression. We
take up our quarters in the traditional retreat for Swedish scientists,
the Kosmos Hotel, a low, white-plastered building on the sandy beach.
[Illustration: THE ROADS OF PUNTA ARENAS, SOUTH-WESTER BLOWING.]
[Illustration: PUNTA ARENAS FROM THE HILLS.]
We now found ourselves under changed conditions and with a
starting-point for our work where we knew nobody and where we had to
do with authorities speaking a language not very familiar to us. I had
almost expected that Quensel would be back from his survey of the
interior of South Patagonia, but there was not even a message from
him. Neither had we received any reply from the Chilean Government,
and the entire future of our expedition would possibly depend upon
their answer. So we started at once with short excursions in the
neighbourhood; Halle found a vast field for work in the coal-mines in
the narrow valley of Rio de las Minas. A few days after our arrival
we had just returned home when our landlord, the ever kindly and
good-humoured Brockow, told us that a Swedish gentleman had just
arrived and wanted to make our acquaintance. Judge of my astonishment
when we found him to be the highest representative of Sweden in Chile,
Consul-General A. Löwenborg, who had employed a short period of leisure
in running down to Punta Arenas in order to welcome us and render us
assistance in our dealings with the authorities. I know that if I now
tell him that we shall never be able to thank him sufficiently for all
he did for our expedition during its work in South America, or for the
hearty personal friendship he showed us, I do not say too much.
Now we could begin preparations for our first excursion in real
earnest. The governor of the territory, Señor Chaigneau, received us
with great courtesy, and Mr. Löwenborg brought the answer from the
Government that the naval station in Punta Arenas had already received
orders to do everything possible to promote our success. The chief,
Rear-Admiral B. Rojas, put the small steamer _Huemul_ at our disposal
for the first voyage--to Admiralty Inlet, in Tierra del Fuego.
These preparations having been made, we completed our party. We were
sitting at the dinner-table one evening when a wild, red-bearded
camp-man entered the dining-room in the Kosmos; it was Quensel; and
we instantly followed him out to the courtyard, where his servant for
the summer, the German Albert Pagels, was busy unsaddling the horses.
In the most glowing terms they gave us a brief description of their
travels in the most remote part of the South Patagonian Alps, so
prolific in results that from that moment I longed to go there myself,
but entertained little or no hope of being able to do so, as this lay
beyond our original scheme.
Now we could make ready. The horses were sent to a paddock, we
bought hay, maize, and provisions, and looked over and completed
our equipment; for once alone in a virgin country nothing could be
procured. When I had discussed Pagels’ qualifications with Quensel, I
engaged him for the trip, and asked him to bring another man with him,
and as a result a fellow with the not particularly uncommon name of
Müller joined our party.
Now follows a hurry and a scurry and a sorting of half-packed boxes!
Is nothing forgotten? The _Huemul_ is waiting at one of the jetties,
the last nails are driven into the lids of our boxes, and finally the
cart jolts over the bumpy streets of Punta Arenas. All of us work like
niggers; bags of maize, bales of hay, and boxes of all shapes and sizes
are taken on board. Now only the most difficult affair is left--the
embarkation of the horses. We tried various devices, but at last found
that the only way was to use the derrick on the jetty. A lifebelt of
special construction was employed, and wild with terror the animals
were hauled swinging and kicking high up in the air, to land safe and
sound on deck. We felt easy when all four had been transferred, but
there was not much left of the limited deck space.
As Punta Arenas is a town full of temptations, we went on board in
the evening in order to be quite sure of getting off early the next
morning. At daybreak, February 25, our vessel left the roadstead. Our
first visit was to Dawson Island, where the Roman Catholic Salesian
mission station has long been established. They have partly converted
the land into a sheep-farm, with Indians as labourers. The station in
Harris Bay is an imposing collection of buildings. We went on shore,
and were very well received by the missionary, a stout and shining
_padre_. He had already found time to send the boys to make themselves
presentable, and they appeared in more or less queer dresses, but
looking rather well-brought-up. Few of them were pure Indians: mostly
they betrayed a rather mixed origin, a fact perhaps somewhat remarkable
at a mission station! Under the guidance of the missionary we went
round the place, inspecting the church bedecked with cheap finery, the
school, the small saw-mill, and so on. Certainly they have seen to it
that the hitherto empty life of the natives shall find a real object
and meaning. One thing, however, is of little account--the Indians
themselves. According to what the bishop in Punta Arenas, Monseñor
Fagnano, told me, there are only forty-five in the station, most of
them Onas, but there are also some Yahgans and Alookoloop. The number
is gradually diminishing. It is the old story; the natives are subdued
or won over, put into clothes, forced to live in houses, and turned
into labourers; in some cases perhaps their life gets easier, but with
the kind of civilization imposed on them, absurd and more than shallow,
there follow diseases and a misery unknown before. What the naked
Indians can stand is too much for Indians in European clothes; they
pine away and die in “the true faith.” But perhaps there dwells in the
depths of their expiring souls a question never uttered: “What have
we done that we should be taken away from our land, that we should be
exterminated from the face of earth?” How many of them there are who
really consider themselves indemnified by the liberal and, alas! cheap
promises of a place in the special heaven of the Church that “rescued”
them I cannot tell. But how men can imagine that by putting people
whose mental life has proved to be so little developed and so utterly
different from our own on the seats in church and in school they can
be got to grasp those intricate dogmas that have caused and still
cause so much hatred and dissension amongst ourselves--that I confess
myself unable to understand. I should, indeed, like to hear a religious
dispute between a Lutheran and a Catholic Ona-Indian!
To-day there is much spoken and written about the necessity of
preserving natural scenery, rare animals, &c., and all naturalists
encourage the general tendency which has already evoked special laws in
various States. But we seem to think more of remarkable animals than of
human races. Could we not at least refrain from directly preventing
the continued existence of interesting forms of _Homo sapiens_?
Most of the male inhabitants of Dawson Island were away working in
the camp, and we only saw some sick or feeble ones, who were seated
outside their doors making Indian curiosities, to be sold by the
missionaries in Punta Arenas. In a special house the women were
occupied in spinning. The camera was familiar to them all, and with
the aid of the missionary I was able to take a group, but it was more
difficult to obtain permission to snap them in the costume of Adam.
However, I managed to take photographs of an old married couple of
Alookoloop, but they anxiously asked me not to show them to anybody.
_Cuisc-shiku-toreluk-scisc_, my good fellow, your brown skin still
glistened under the miserable rags you wore, besmeared as it was with
stinking grease, that called forth old remembrances! Have you then
forgotten that you are baptized and call yourself Brasito and that it
is strictly forbidden to practise such uncivilized customs?
I asked them in Spanish, a language their tongues convert into a
scarcely intelligible lingo, how their lives pleased them and where
they came from. “She comes from afar,” the husband says, pointing
to his wife. “From the channels far west?” She nods assent, and
adds: “There we were so many, so many, and now”--her voice expresses
desperation and helplessness--“all dead, all dead!...”
But all round us in the forest dozens of images and pictures of saints
bear witness to the triumph of Christian civilization.
A fresh breeze met us when we steamed out of the mission bay, and
the _Huemul_ rolled with might and main. Our horses had some very
disagreeable hours; they were not far from falling overboard, or at
least getting injured. After a short consultation we resolved to seek
shelter from the rapidly increasing gale. There are very few harbours
in Admiralty Inlet, and probably none better than Puerto Gomez, where
we anchored; a true Fuegian cove, with the water-soaked virgin forest
coming down to the water’s edge, with steep, wooded ridges all round
and snowy peaks in the background. The autumn scarcely shows its
presence here, only the grass on the beach is more yellow than usual,
but the forest itself stands as fresh and green as ever, even if the
few flowers are still fewer. That day the winter sent us its first
warnings, and we awoke to a splendid though hardly welcome sight: the
summits shining white, the ridges powdered with snow, and a light
cover on the branches of the evergreens down by the beach. But the
squalls grew less frequent, the sun spread broader and broader golden
stripes over the bank of clouds, and once more we tried our fortune
afloat. Halle and I inhaled this fresh atmosphere in deep draughts. The
enviable Quensel had just come from Payne, but we who saw only dirty
colours in the Falklands thoroughly enjoyed the black mountains, the
white snow, and the bluish ice of the glaciers. Farther and farther
into the deep fiord we steamed, the mountains closed round us on each
side, and in the innermost corner, called Hope Bay on the Admiralty
chart, a pretty place where deciduous-leaved forest patches shimmer
in the first crimson of autumn, the _Huemul_ anchored.
[Illustration: BACK FROM THE BETBEDER PASS.
SKOTTSBERG IN MIDDLE, QUENSEL TO LEFT, PAGELS TO RIGHT.]
[Illustration: INDIANS AT THE DAWSON MISSION STATION.]
First we had to bring the horses ashore. Here luck helped us in a
peculiar manner. Outside Dawson Island we found a lighter adrift, a
runaway from Punta Arenas, and it came as though sent on purpose. The
animals were lowered down from the davits, once more half dead with
fright, but soon recovered when they found the good pasture along the
shore. Our equipment was put in a heap on the shingle, and we set out
to look for a comfortable camping-place, and soon found an inviting
corner on the edge of the wood. Instantly we pitched our tents and
hoisted our little Swedish flag. At the request of our friend Captain
Mayer we returned on board, had our dinner with the officers, and slept
there. Early on the 28th the _Huemul_ steamed out of the bay, hooted us
a good-bye, and was soon out of sight. We were left to ourselves for a
month.
But we had not yet reached our goal. Towards the east we had to follow
the valley of Rio Azopardo, and there, behind the woods, is the big
lake, Lago Fagnano. The distance is only eight miles, but these few
miles have a very bad reputation. Some remarks on explorations prior to
our own might be mentioned here. The first proper description of the
lake and its surroundings we owe to the well-known Boundary Commission
of Chile and Argentina, which finished its work here in 1895, and
had then erected a cairn at each edge of the lake to indicate the
boundary-line; the members had also effected some boat-journeys and had
constructed a map. The natural history still remained unknown, and
the Swedish expedition in 1896 under O. Nordenskjöld resolved to pay a
visit to the big lake. He and his companions had their encampment not
very far from ours, and we found some traces left by them and others of
the Boundary Commission; especially a wooden corral, which we put in
order and used ourselves.
Nordenskjöld was only provided with food for a fortnight; he brought
many people with him, and a rather big boat, intended for the
navigation of the Rio Azopardo. This, however, proved impossible, and
he was never able to make a camp on the lake. Accompanied by one man,
he made an excursion on foot, crossed the valley of Rio Betbeder, and
saw from the slope of a mountain, probably Cerro Verde, that a pass
over the main ridge, called Sierra Valdivieso on the Chilean map, very
likely existed. The pass itself can hardly have been visible from the
spot where he stood. Of the nature of the lake this expedition has very
little to tell: Nordenskjöld alone got close to it.
In October 1902 J. G. Andersson, well known as a member of the Swedish
Antarctic Expedition and the leader of its winter-journeys, managed to
reach the eastern end of the lake, using a road cut through the forest
by the brothers Bridges of Harberton, a track that united their vast
camp at the Beagle Channel with that on the Atlantic coast. He brought
a small canvas boat and made some zoological collections from the
lake, but everything got lost in the shipwreck of the _Antarctic_, in
February 1903. Consequently we had an open field for work; but time was
valuable, as the winter might come any day. I think that autumn is the
best season for travelling in the interior of Tierra del Fuego; summer
has dried the innumerable bogs and made them to some extent passable,
and the rivers, that all come from the eternal ice and snow, do not
carry as much water as they do earlier in the year.
We set to work without a moment’s delay. One of the officers on board
the _Huemul_ had told us that some of those indefatigable prospectors
had left some sheep on a small island not far from our camp, and we
sent Pagels there with our canvas boat (on the Berthon system), which
was now launched for the first time. Müller was left at the tents, and
we started on foot up the Azopardo valley in order to survey a suitable
track for the horses. We only carried a couple of ship’s biscuits each
for provisions. The first mile did not look very bad. It was, however,
impossible to follow the bank of the river, as it is covered by an
almost impenetrable brushwood of _Nothofagus antarctica_, one of the
Antarctic beeches (ñire). We followed the slopes of a mountain-ridge
south of the valley; sometimes the ground seemed very dry and firm,
sometimes we had to walk knee-deep through red and greenish-white
peat-moss. Now and then we came across a forest patch where we had
a hard struggle with innumerable fallen trunks, marshy places, and
thorny bushes. But we thought that an axe might open a way for horses,
especially along the guanaco tracks. Arriving at the top of a hill,
we stopped in mute admiration. There between steep mountain-chains
we beheld for the first time Lago Fagnano in the far east, melting
together with sky and mountains in a blue haze. It was still early in
the day, and in spite of our meagre supply of provisions we resolved to
continue our march down to the lake. And we had good luck. We were just
climbing the barranca of Rio Mascarello when we discovered a guanaco
not more than ninety feet from us, grazing in unconscious security.
We had not been observed, and a ball from our Winchester sent it into
eternity. The meat was certainly very welcome. We had counted on living
upon game, and had only brought some preserved meat for excursions. The
big steaks were greeted with applause; one piece we put in a knapsack
for dinner, and the rest was fixed on a tree out of reach of foxes and
birds.
The guanaco (_Auchenia huanaco_) is closely related to the lama. When
with straightened neck it slowly turns its small, elegant head, pricks
up its ears, scenting danger, it makes a very pleasing impression of
something at the same time strong, swift, and graceful. The nose is
grey, the back covered with a reddish-brown wool, the throat and belly
white. The thighs are red-brown, the legs white. Smaller or larger
herds wander about in Tierra del Fuego and Patagonia, mostly on the
pampas, but also at the edge of the forest-zone on the slopes of the
Cordillera, where green patches and rich Alpine meadows are their
favourite grounds.
We had already passed several “pantanos” (peat-bogs), with red,
swelling tussocks sharply contrasting with the dark-green forest
patches, but we now came to that part of the valley where all the open
spaces are filled with marshy ground. We could cross all right if we
chose our way, but we at once realized that the horses would never
follow our example. Here the forest gets still worse, the river runs
close to the mountains, only leaving a very narrow space. To cut our
way round bogs and forest higher up on the slope was not to be thought
of, and further progress looked doubtful. But it was better here and
there, and we felt hopeful till we came to the last mile. No horse
would ever come through that; we should have to carry our own luggage.
We stood on the shore of Lago Fagnano. This fact did not elate us
unduly; it was simple enough to walk there; but the thought that we had
reached our longed-for lake on the same day as we landed afforded us
some amusement. With gathered driftwood we made a good fire and dried
our clothes. Fixed on a stick, the guanaco meat soon became a regular
“asado” that tasted very good, with a biscuit and water from the lake.
A few yards from the shore we found a suitable place for the night in
a grove of _Nothofagus betuloides_ (coiguë), the evergreen Antarctic
beech, and beautiful Winter’s bark (_Drimys Winteri_), and we made
our beds of fragrant branches round a roaring fire that sent showers
of sparks through the dark night. The sky was clear and cold, but we
maintained the fire and slept well for a while with the knapsack as
pillow. We had not brought our sleeping-bags.
The ground was covered with hoar-frost when at dawn we crept out of
our nest. After eating the last piece of biscuit we walked back to our
camp, keeping a desultory look-out for new tracks for the horses. How
inviting the camp looks on our return! the tents shining white at the
forest’s edge, in the pots our dinner cooking with a cheerful sound,
and at a little distance our horses grazing peacefully! Is there a
truer sense of happiness and freedom than when the tent or the sky is
your roof, the ground your bed, the camp-fire your hearth? In front
of us, on the other side of the fiord, Mount Hope raises its jagged
porphyritic mass, and icy crests peep forth behind it. The sun beams
from a clear blue sky--it is still summer in Tierra del Fuego.
Pagels had not seen any sheep, but had shot some kelp-geese
(_Chloëphaga hybrida_), which, however, are generally considered as
inedible. We had not been able to find our store of guanaco again
when we returned from the lake, so, untroubled by a belief in the
omniscience of authorities, we prepared the disdained geese and ate
heartily of the dish.
The first day of March was occupied by Halle and myself in a survey
of the valley of Rio Fontaine, which discharges into Admiralty Inlet.
Its nature closely resembles that of the Azopardo valley. Quensel and
Pagels went to look for the guanaco meat and found it. In the evening
we collected all the things to be brought up to the lake with the
first transport, and at night everything was ready. One of the horses
had been injured in landing, but the rest were saddled early the next
morning, and the first caravan, under the direction of Quensel, soon
disappeared among the hills. The next day Halle and I made an ascent
of a mountain behind our camp. The worst part of a Fuegian mountain
is the forest belt, but sometimes one may get help from the winding
paths of the guanacos. Thence one wanders free and happy over meadows
adorned with flowers or across slopes of rattling stones, where small
herds of guanacos with elegant tails gallop away, neighing merrily.
From a summit we had a very fine view of the lake and the surrounding
landscape. As we were studying it through the glasses we discovered
some black specks at the bottom of the valley--the caravan coming
back--one, two, three men, one, two, three horses. Good! At once we
hastened down to the camp, anxious to hear their experiences, in which
truly the trip had been rich enough. The track surveyed by us was
of little use--the dry ridges where we had walked so hopefully were
covered by peat, hardened on the surface, but not strong enough to
carry the weight of a horse. Each horse had nine times been bogged so
badly that it had to be unloaded, dragged out of the peat, and loaded
again--twenty-seven times altogether! After eight hours’ desperate
effort a distance of four miles was covered, and the cargo had been
deposited at the Mascarello river. Thus it was evident that we should
have to carry all the luggage for the rest of the way. We hastily
selected provisions for fifteen days, packed our 8-feet collapsible
Berthon, and divided everything into two horse-loads, as one of the
horses had proved unfit for transport of that sort. The rest was put
together in a depot, and early on the 5th we struck camp.
We advanced slowly and without adventure till we had passed the first
small tributary, when bad luck attended us. The horse with the boat
and tents was badly bogged, capsized with his cargo, and lay groaning
under the heavy load. To make matters worse, it happened on a steep
slope, and we barely managed to save him from tumbling down into the
river. Standing knee-deep in the loose peat, we unloaded him, turned
him round, and got him on his feet again. He bled, but not very much.
To give him the same load was impossible, as the ground grew worse
still, but Müller and Pagels took the boat on their shoulders and
continued the march. Now the horses had an easier march, but were of
course bogged now and then. We dragged them across the worst places,
one hauling at the cabresta, the two others walking by the side of the
staggering animal supporting it. Nevertheless we got on, cheered the
depot, and sent the horses back. I continued the way with our men,
and we brought three loads up near to the lake. At nightfall we all
gathered at Mascarello, and soon forgot our troubles round a mighty
fire, although a treacherous trunk made me capsize the appetizing
pea-soup, just as we were ready to devour it with the appetites of
lions. Another spell of impatient waiting was spent in discussions of
what the coming day might have in store for us. We all felt that now
the real hardships were about to begin.
The loads were distributed in a very simple manner. Everybody took as
much as he could carry, and a procession of five individuals started.
Progress is not rapid, the steep riverbanks make our knees bend and
our backs ache, the sun broils us, impudent flies torment us. The
conversation is not very lively. Somebody throws his burden down, the
others follow his example; we straighten our backs, wipe our brows
with dirty shirtsleeves, and fall flat on the ground; mechanically we
chew a biscuit or a piece of chocolate--there is no time for dinner. Up
again, through the thickets, where thorny bushes scratch our faces and
bare arms, where every minute the load is caught in the dense branches,
where mouldering trunks trip us up; through the bogs, where the oozing
surface makes walking heavy work, through the ravines, where we _must_
stop to drink the pure, cold water that comes directly from the melting
snow. What delight when we catch a glimpse of the lake! With a sigh of
relief we throw off our burdens on the shore. Here we found the boat
and the flour-bag left on the previous day, and we pulled round a cape
and landed in a sheltered bay, called Expedition’s Cove. We walked back
again to Mascarello in order to make an early start the next morning.
Some things were left there as a reserve depot, the rest we took on
our shoulders and trod the same old wretched way again. Thus our camp
at the lake became a reality, our first destination was settled; the
Swedish colours floated in the heart of Tierra del Fuego.
The tent door is wide open. In most cases the chilly mornings tempt
us to enjoy the warm comfort of the sleeping-bag for another five
minutes, but to-day it is not possible. Not a leaf moves. The lake lies
shining like a mirror, only furrowed by a mated pair of patovapores
(steamer-ducks or loggerheads, _Tachyeres cinereus_), that glide away
chattering merrily. The mountains on either side rise clear and sharp
against the sky, one behind the other like gigantic wings; close to us
dark green with shades of red and violet, on the crests they gradually
change into a bluish grey. In the background the rising sun over the
water, a splendid white sun, promises us a magnificent day, sending us
its greetings and illuminating every corner of our camp. Out from the
bags, a speedy toilet, and as Pagels announces “Porridge is ready” we
gather round the cauldron. Round the fireplace we put some big logs as
sofas, make ourselves comfortable, and with often-repeated words of
praise consume large quantities of oatmeal porridge and coffee with
biscuits--and if three or four guanaco steaks should happen to go
the same way, there is nothing to say against that. The work may be
hard, but days like this make everything easy, mapping or geology or
botany. The sunbeams play on the velvety moss-carpet, with infectious
laughter the stream falls down the precipice. Can any but bright faces
gather round the fire when twilight falls over Lake Fagnano? Fixed on
a stick over the embers our asado is roasted, delicious enough to make
one’s mouth water. The teapot sings, we light our pipes--this is the
hour for stories. Pagels has an inexhaustible supply of stories from
real life, for he has indeed seen a little of everything. What do you
say to a fellow of thirty, who has been sailor in the German navy,
boatswain, sealer, gold-digger, who has traversed half Patagonia on
horseback, has smuggled troops into Central America, and assisted at
the capture of Peking during the Boxer rebellion? He was indispensable
on our boat-journeys, the type of Teutonic giant, used to all sorts of
tricks on shore as well as on sea. Certainly he did not hide his light
under a bushel. Sometimes he would make us half desperate with his
patent dodges; he was always so absolutely sure that it wasn’t worth
while to try any other method than his--that there could not exist a
better! Müller, with his pale face fringed with a big black beard, was
more timid, but when he loosened his tongue we soon found him to be a
rather well-read man, who was up to date in many things, especially in
politics. He had arrived from Brazil, shook his head at the Fuegian
weather and pulled his cap over his ears. After dinner, just when we
are ready to go to bed, he puts his private kettle on the fire and the
_yerba_ or maté makes the round. Night has come; Prince, the expedition
dog, is asleep with a guanaco bone, and the last embers show us our way
to the tent.
The first days we were very busy with detail-work in the vicinity of
our cove. Halle made a map, Quensel studied the geology, and I myself
made botanical excursions, tried the boat, and took soundings in the
western corner of the lake. But we could not put off the excursion
to the Betbeder passage over the mountains, to which I have alluded
before, and on March 10 we started, Quensel, Pagels, and I. In our
knapsacks we carried a pair of socks and provisions for four or five
days; the sleeping-bags were tied to the sacks. After a hard climb
up the slippery slopes, sometimes on our hands and knees, we reached
a ridge, but the view to the main Cordillera was still shut off by
several summits. To the left there was no way, to the right was a peak
sloping sheer down to piles of sharp-edged slate-blocks. Pagels had
hastened ahead, and shouted to us that he could see a way round the
summit. With great care we groped round the precipitous wall, making
use of fissures and narrow shelves that gave way under our weight, and
after climbing some hundred feet more we finally reach the eternal
snowfields at a height of about 3000 feet.
We stopped here a while in order to get an idea of our position and to
make up our minds how to continue. The view was certainly splendid. All
round us bright green Alpine meadows, black _débris_ or white snow,
below the small characteristic valley-basins, sometimes occupied by a
small glacier or furrowed by icy brooks, surrounded by an emerald-green
moss-carpet and the last flowers of autumn. If we compare the Alpine
flora of Tierra del Fuego with, for instance, that of Europe, the
former without doubt is left far behind, but nevertheless it has the
same peculiar stamp, the same gay colours. Our looks sweep over the
plateaus; not far from us our destination, Sierra Valdivieso, rises,
and in the distance the summits of Darwin Mountains, one of the highest
parts of Tierra del Fuego, shine like diamonds. Silence and desolation
reign over this height; only a single guanaco neighs and takes to
flight, and a condor majestically soars over our heads.
As to the direction in which we should find the pass the maps had
misled us; we had made a long _détour_ and the day’s labour had partly
been thrown away. We were forced to climb down into the Betbeder
valley and follow it up to the pass. Without hesitation we left the
mountains and dived into the brushwood. I think that we shall not
easily forget this expedition. The tough branches clung round legs and
arms, and only after we had lost our patience did we really make any
progress. The mountain-wall falls off nearly at right angles; when the
hands grasped for the branches the legs touched the heads of other
trees beneath, and more like monkeys than human beings, dirty and
soaked, we reached the yellowish-brown bogs in the valley. We found a
dry hillock with a nice carpet of diddledee (_Empetrum rubrum_), and
spread out our sleeping-bags there.
The night was chilly, but we awoke to another fine day, and porridge
and coffee soon put new life into us. The way was always more or less
wretched; several streams with ice-cold water were crossed without
ceremony: we emptied our boots, wrung our socks out, put them on again,
and were all right. Some stretches were covered by tall forests of
“roble” (down here _Nothofagus pumilio_). Several times we crossed the
Rio Betbeder, making use of fallen trunks as natural bridges. By-and-by
we climbed upwards with the valley, and soon beheld a beautiful
mountain, called by us Cerro Svea; most interesting as differing
widely in geological features from the surrounding country. The river
disappeared in a deep gorge, but we struck it again, and were able to
follow it with the eyes up to a glacier with beautiful edge moraines
on Mount Svea, whence most of the water comes. We crossed the river
for the last time, worked our way through the belt of brushwood, and
found an open space big enough for our bags and comparatively dry. As
we had three hours left before nightfall, Quensel and I at once climbed
the ridge behind us in order to look for the pass. Being hard up for
meat, we had brought the Winchester, and came across a small herd of
guanacos at a height of about 2500 feet. They were too far off, and we
started to stalk them; perhaps we should have been successful had not
the mountain-fog, thick and impenetrable, come down upon us, and with
it a snowstorm. From a crest at about 3300 feet we saw the herd hurry
away down towards the valley on the other side of the pass. But we had
also seen something else before the foggy wall shut out everything
round us. Beneath our feet stretched an unknown valley, red, brown, and
yellow like the Betbeder valley, and in numerous serpentines a river
wound through the peat-bogs, coming from the glaciers on the south side
of Mount Svea, while in a side valley we perceived a small mountain
lake that discharged into the river. Then the curtain fell; violent
snow-squalls forced us to return, and, groping in the _débris_, half
blind with the snow, we came down to the fire with the night. Snow
continued to fall, but supper tasted better than ever, and the flakes
quickly melted in the hot cocoa. Later the sky cleared, Cross and
Centaur glittered. “We’ll have a dry night,” we said, and crept into
the bags.
[Illustration: THE BETBEDER VALLEY.]
[Illustration: MOUNT SVEA, WITH GLACIER AND MORAINES.]
It was a strange awakening. Certainly I had felt, half asleep, that
the bag was growing heavier and that water was trickling in from the
“pillow” (my coat and trousers), but I shook off the snow, pulled the
hood tighter round my head and slept again. I jumped up on hearing
Pagels’ “Aber, Herr Doktor,” and looked round. The landscape had
changed. Certainly Mount Svea had been white and glistening before, but
now--here was winter. All round us everything was white and clean. The
sleeping-bag was covered two inches deep, more or less, our boots had
disappeared, our clothes were soaked. It was not especially agreeable
to put them on, but there was no help for it. The fire half dried us,
and then we had breakfast.
The sky is blue, the sun is already melting the snow, no time must be
lost. Pagels was sent to shoot a guanaco--Prince had not had anything
to eat since we left Lake Fagnano. Quensel and I walked to the pass and
down along the slopes of the new valley; the river we named Rio Rojas,
after the admiral in Punta Arenas; it is the same river that discharges
into Lake Acigami near the Beagle Channel. The new lake was named
Laguna Löwenborg. Probably we were the first white men here. We have
been told that in old times Indians used to cross the mountains from
Azopardo to the Beagle Channel, but we do not know if this be true or
not; if so, they would have used our pass, Paso de las Lagunas, as we
call it. Its height above sea-level is about 2100 feet. It was a matter
of some disappointment that we did not see the Beagle Channel. Pagels
had followed the other side of the valley, climbed a peak, and saw
from there two sheets of water. To judge from his description one of
them was Yendagaia, the other the Beagle Channel itself. Moreover, he
brought back the best pieces of two guanacos; and Prince could hardly
walk back to the camp, so much had he devoured!
The weather had changed once more. It did not snow, but rained hard
instead; however, we resolved to stop one day more, provided that
the sky was clear enough. The next day opened with mist and rain,
so we could do nothing but return. It did not matter much that the
rain poured down; we were as wet as we could possibly be, and only
the interior of our sleeping-bags was still dry. It was not easy to
find a dry spot for the night’s camp, and still less easy to make a
fire. But after an hour’s work we had a nice blaze. It rained all
night and all the next day, but we went on. The forest seemed denser
than ever, the streams were swollen and rapid, and we felt it a
relief to wade through the open bogs along Rio Betbeder down to the
lake. In the camp everything was in perfect order. Halle was ready to
undertake the proposed trip across the mountains north of Fagnano and
down to Lake Deseado; and accompanied by Müller he set out over the
lake to a suitable starting-place. Pagels and I were busy preparing
for a boat-trip, and early on the 16th we loaded the cargo. When
everything was on board, the rifle, provisions, sounding-lines, nets,
sleeping-bags, &c., we had so little room left for ourselves that we
had to sit very uncomfortably. From the shore we had seen some small
islands; we set our course for them, and found them interesting enough,
as they showed beautiful traces of the glacial age in the form of
moraines, erratic blocks, and polished stones. The direction of the
morainic ridges and the origin of the blocks showed to a certainty
that the ice had moved west-eastward here. Later in the day I found
new proofs, and with regard to plant geography, a subject I desired to
study more specially, I had a rare chance of following step by step
the gradual change of evergreen into deciduous forest. At 3 P.M. we
passed the remnants of a cairn with a tripod of rough sticks on the top
of it: we were now in Argentina! Now and then an inquisitive guanaco
looked at us from the forest’s edge, but soon withdrew, and flocks
of screaming paroquets flew among the heads of the roble-trees. But
no trace whatever of Ona Indians was to be seen. A small forest-clad
island appeared to us a suitable camping-place, and at nightfall we
landed with great care.
Good luck was almost necessary for us. Only for a few days in the
month is Lake Fagnano calm; generally a fresh westerly breeze keeps up
a heavy sea. The lake is about fifty-six miles long, and we had now
covered one-fourth of that distance. Another nice day and we should
have done our work.
Through the canvas and blanket I heard a soft murmur--only a little
breeze--and we breakfasted with strong hopes for a good day. But we
were greatly deceived. The wind increased, and when we finished our
meal there were already white crests on the billows. The sky promised
a gale, but as we did not want to be idle we pulled across to the
shore, where we strolled about along the beach. We returned at the last
moment and got some water in before we reached our island. I had plenty
of time to survey our position. Seldom was the impression of virgin
ground so strong as here. No guanacos ever come there; the grass is
_never_ grazed upon, but grows in enormous beds where one sinks down
to the knees through piles of dry blades. Several plants that were
quite familiar to me in other places here grew to a gigantic size and
were hardly to be recognised. What a difference between this place and
the Azopardo valley! We are in the zone of the _roble_: the dense,
dark-green groves with the thick, water-soaked carpet of mosses and
liverworts has disappeared; so has also “canelo,” or Winter’s bark, one
of Flora’s most beautiful children in the far south. The forest is dry,
the green colours bright; dry is the moss-carpet, and out of the thick
layer of fallen leaves slender forest herbs peep forth. Our island is
a little paradise, but nevertheless we want to take leave of it as
soon as possible. All day passed, and all night it blew hard enough to
make the big trees wave and groan; in the morning the sea ran as heavy
as before. The situation became still less pleasant. The next day we
expected Halle back, and he could not reach the tents without a boat.
Our provisions were almost finished, and we found nothing to shoot. We
looked for berries, and found “calafate” (_Berberis buxifolia_) and
“chaura” (_Pernettya mucronata_); we had also some biscuits left.
Suddenly the wind died away. It was already late, 5 P.M., but we did
not linger a moment, loaded the boat and left the island. Our little
nutshell quite disappeared in the troughs of the waves. We could not go
further east--probably the next day would bring us a strong head-wind
on our return. We crossed the lake and were just close to the northern
shore when we caught sight of a tiny column of smoke rising out of the
forest--Indians, some of the last families still living the old life.
However, we could not stop, but preferred to take advantage of the fine
weather. The night was very dark; we made only one halt, at a place
where Indians had had their camp long ago, as the guanaco bones gave
evidence.
On our return we sounded and got our greatest depth, seventy fathoms,
close to the island. A series of soundings show that the bottom slopes
gradually to the east; the deepest part is probably west of the middle.
Early in the morning we were back “home,” where Quensel and Prince
received us. Halle had not shown any sign of return, but his signal
came later in the day, and Pagels was sent with the boat to fetch him.
He had penetrated to the mountains north of Lake Deseado; no natives
were seen, but otherwise he had had a bad time. The comparisons Müller
made between Brazil and Tierra del Fuego were not in favour of the
last-mentioned country.
We had reason to be contented that we were all back, for the same day
a storm came on, the end of which we hardly saw. The last excursions
were done with the rain pouring down. The _Huemul_ was expected on
the 25th, and three days earlier we struck camp. The cargo was, of
course, not so large; no provisions were left; and, besides, Pagels
undertook to pull the boat with some less fragile things down Rio
Azopardo, in spite of the rapids. Quensel had to follow alongside the
river and give Pagels a hand with the landings. The rest of us divided
what was left of our equipment and set out. I believe we never worked
so hard before. I shall not try the reader’s patience with another
detailed description: let it be sufficient to remark that the bogs
were frightful after the severe rainfalls, that we were often stuck,
while a never-ceasing rain increased the weight of our load at every
minute. Soaked to the skin and without the possibility of getting dry
clothes, we reached the depot at Mascarello, and after a while Pagels
and Quensel also came in. They had managed their business well enough;
only once the boat had struck a rock in one of the rapids and filled
with water, and some things belonging to the cargo were carried away
for ever by the current. But Pagels reached the shore before the little
craft sank. They told us that the boat was on the shore at the foot of
a barranca, where it would be impossible to pull through the cañon, as
the place must be described as really dangerous. As the barranca was
very steep they could not carry the boat without help, so we all went
to the river, and found the place so steep that we had to slide down to
the water, grasping the roots of the trees or whatever else we could
get hold of. We transported everything past the rapids, and managed
to fix the boat behind some bushes that kept it from falling into the
river, and the other things were hidden as well as we could hide them.
But evidently we had not been careful enough, for when our “sailors”
returned the following day they missed several things, amongst them
all our supply of meat; clearly the foxes had been there and done good
business.
Halle and I made no haste, but waited till the rain had ceased a
little, packed our cargo, and waded through the clay down the
river. But there we stopped. Was this our old innocent Mascarello? A
yellowish stream whirled along the stony, invisible bed! I tried to
cross, but close to the shore the water reached high upon my thighs,
so we could not venture with our heavy cargo in the rapid current. We
waited a while, and divided the last piece of meat between us. Only
a few handfuls of flour were left of the provisions, and I resolved
to risk baking it in the frying-pan. I made proper dough with some
baking-powder, greased the pan with the last dirty grease left, put a
lid on, and covered it with hot cinders. We waited anxiously, but when
I appeared with delicious bread my triumph was complete; it tasted
excellent. In vain we surveyed the river down to its junction with Rio
Azopardo; nowhere did we find a place where we could cross it, and we
had to stop another night in our wet clothes. It rained all the time,
but we were happy to get a cold morning, that made the water-level
in these glacier streams sink rapidly. We crossed without delay, the
rain ceased, and a fresh gale soon dried our clothes. We could hardly
recognise our old place at Hope Bay. The forest was changed into a
swamp, and the beautiful open space where we had pitched the tents was
a lake; the taste of the water plainly showed that the sea too had
penetrated hither during our absence. Luckily enough we had placed our
depot above this unsuspected flood. We soon found a new place. Halle
and I, who arrived first, at once set to work to pitch the tents, when
suddenly a signal announced the arrival of the _Huemul_. The officers
came ashore, anxious to get news; we could not promise to be ready
that same day, there being still things left in the depot at Mascarello.
Quensel and Pagels arrived with the boat. Müller, who had fallen
behind, and, according to his custom, also got lost, finally appeared,
and we were gathered round the fire occupied in devouring the
delicacies left in the depot when a message came from the _Huemul_
telling us that she had damaged her engines and wanted to repair. As
Hope Bay is anything but sheltered, she had to leave us once more, but
the captain promised to be back on the 26th. He went to Puerto Gomez.
We were very glad to get another day, as the horses only came half-way
to Mascarello, and for the rest the things left there had to be carried.
In due time the _Huemul_ arrived. Well-known, dark clouds appeared on
the sky, and made us hurry up as much as possible. The horses had to
swim, and two of them came on board quite exhausted. And we did not
embark without adventure. We were just on our way to the ship with a
large, heavy boat, the cargo being so bulky that only two oars could
be used, when suddenly a heavy squall came on. We were ten minutes
off from the vessel, but were driven back in spite of our energetic
efforts, and almost before we knew it we were among the breakers on
the shore. We had no choice; we jumped into the water, passed the
things along, and pulled up the boat. On board they grew anxious and
blew the whistle, but we could do nothing but wait. At last we took an
opportunity between two squalls; standing in the water to our waists we
loaded the boat, got out of the heavy surf, and came on board. But we
were so delayed that we stopped the night where we were.
On March 27 we saluted Hope Bay and proceeded westward, but did not
get out of the inlet. A head-wind and a heavy sea showed us that it
would be too much for our poor horses, so we sought shelter once more
in Puerto Gomez. Here a little scene happened that I often recall to
memory and will not keep from my readers. In Punta Arenas the cabin-boy
had smuggled on board some nasty stuff, I believe absinthe, which is
strictly prohibited, and his friend the cook had got drunk. The captain
tried and sentenced them without hesitation: they had to undress, and
were thrown into the sea with a rope round the waist. In the ice-cold
water they had an opportunity of repenting of their sins. This method
was said to be as effective as it is simple.
From Puerto Gomez we went straight to Punta Arenas, where we arrived on
the 28th, and at once started to prepare for the next trip.
CHAPTER IV
OTWAY WATER AND SKYRING WATER
During the Swedish South Polar Expedition of 1901-1903 the question of
surveying the great Otway and Skyring Waters also had been discussed,
but we could not proceed further. At that time the inner part of
Skyring was completely unknown, and, as it later became evident, a
geographical discovery of great importance was in store. Already,
before the outburst of the great Peruvian War (1879) the Chilean
Government had started a survey, but the war put a stop to all work
of that kind, and it happened that a long period elapsed before a new
investigation was undertaken. Not until 1902 did we get news from
Skyring. Then, however, Captain Ismael Gajardo discovered the channel
later named in his honour, a channel which unites Skyring Water with
a bay from the Magellan Straits, the Xaultegua Gulf. Thus the “white
spot” began to disappear, and in 1905 the Government published a new
Admiralty chart of Otway and Skyring. But many scientific problems
awaited solution, and, as far as we could, we wanted to contribute
towards it. I submitted a scheme to Admiral Rojas, and, having gained
his approval, we prepared for the new excursion. We were to use the
same vessel, the _Huemul_, commanded by L. Diaz Palacios, captain in
the navy. We engaged Pagels for this trip also. On April 11 we
steamed out into the Straits. As a period of storm had prevailed for
some days, we got a very heavy sea, which made the small ship roll in a
most perilous manner; the clinometer indicated 33°, and I believe one
seldom gets more. We remained on deck, enjoying the grand spectacle of
a turbulent sea. At nightfall we reached the San Isidro Lighthouse,
one of the very few down here. The morning was bright, and we weighed
anchor early, but had not proceeded many miles before the storm
recommenced. We could not venture to pass Cape Froward, but had to seek
a harbour, where we stopped all day. Cape Froward, or Forward, is the
southernmost point of the American continent. Here the heavy seas from
the strait and from Magdalena Channel meet, and here, too, is the limit
between the April weather of the east and the west’s rainy mist, dense
as a wall. The point also is of appropriate shape; it lies like a big
clenched fist. Next day we rounded the cape and entered Jerome Channel,
connecting Otway Water and the Straits. It is very grand scenery, and
if you look at the west shore you will believe that you are in the
Western Channels, with their high mountains, dark forest patches ending
in snowfields, fine cascades, and waters, black and deep, close to the
cliff.
[Illustration: OTWAY AND SKYRING WATERS.]
Our first station was Cutter Cove, where several years ago was found
copper ore in considerable quantities, to work which a company
was formed. Here we got a good idea of a rather tragic chapter of
Patagonian history. Prospectors and mining engineers, often without
the slightest right to such a title, collected like flies on a piece
of sugar. Every day new people had mining claims granted to them; the
deposits were described in glowing terms. At once people in America
or Europe formed companies, sometimes with a big joint capital. The
gold-fever raged, and it was taken for granted that immense riches
_must_ exist in Patagonia! Engines and machinery were bought, houses
built, and then the end came. For as soon as work was started one or
another disagreeable discovery was made: the quantity of ore was too
small, the quality inferior, or the methods unsuitable; and the company
failed! Speaking of claims, I cannot help telling the following story.
When we went to Admiralty Inlet, and the newspapers in Punta Arenas
reported the fact, a poor fellow who had once prospected for gold there
laid claim to a big piece of land, evidently dreading that we should
get sight of his sleeping millions. The day after our departure his
claims were published. Heaven knows what he had not found in the way of
valuable things down there, all carefully enumerated. We do not envy
him, however, for there was absolutely nothing there to speak of.
After having visited some places on the south side of Otway Water, we
crossed it in order to follow the north shore. The land here gradually
rises towards the interior of Riesco Island; the slopes are clad with
tall forests. In the south part it is covered by the evergreen trees
that by-and-by are mingled with the light green roble (_Nothofagus
pumilio_), which reigns alone for a short stretch. Where the water
narrows to Fitzroy Channel the country once more changes its nature,
and we are on the edge of the Patagonian pampa, where groves of _N.
antarctica_ form a brushwood. Of course these changes depend upon the
climatic conditions, especially the decreasing rainfall.
At several places we saw traces of habitation. In one little snug
harbour, surrounded by a beautiful forest, full of screaming paroquets,
and with the wild fuchsia (_F. magellanica_) still in bloom, was a
small abandoned saw-mill; at another place we saw human beings, who
fled as soon as they caught sight of us. They must have had some reason
to hide, and probably the uniforms of our naval officers frightened
them.
On April 16 we anchored at the entrance to Fitzroy Channel, connecting
Otway and Skyring. It is a very narrow, shallow, and crooked passage,
through which the tide rushes at a great speed. The passage entails
innumerable changes of direction, soundings, and great caution. The
shores are flat; we have entered the pampa zone, and find the outposts
of civilisation on both sides. Los Amigos, where we had the doubtful
pleasure of staying longer than we wished, can boast of two hotels,
stores, an American bar, and a billiard saloon. We had some work to do
there, as we made an interesting discovery of stratified clay from the
glacial age, but when we were ready to leave, Skyring was not at all
willing to welcome us, to judge from the south-westerly gale, which
caused us to drag anchor more than once. We made an attempt to enter
the open water, but encountered some heavy seas, that swept the whole
vessel and led us to turn back. You must not forget that the _Huemul_
only boasts 180 tons! Not until the 22nd could we repeat the attempt.
The waves still swept over the decks, but the north coast afforded some
shelter, and we cast anchor in Puerto Altamirano. We had gone westward
again and back to the forest. Here lives the pioneer who has penetrated
furthest west, a Frenchman, M. Guyon, in his lonely blockhouse. Here
he has lived several years with his wife and his children, some
hundreds of sheep, some cows and hens. The house looked poor, but
clean, and the mistress made some nice coffee and showed us all the
kindness she could, insisted on our taking the last raspberries in the
garden, and finally made us a present of a fine head of cauliflower.
Happy, contented people! We pressed their hands warmly when we said
“Good-night” to them and “Good-bye” to houses and people.
All traces of man have not disappeared, though they present themselves
in a different way. It is a bright morning when we come pulling towards
Isla Escarpada (_i.e._, the Precipitous Island) to look for a place to
land. And lo! the cliff opens, we glide into a charming cove, where
the waves break softly on the fine white sand, and on the shore is a
confusion of green Winter’s bark, rich in foliage, and high-stemmed
beeches, clothed with tiny mosses and thin, elegant hymenophyllums,
thickets of fuchsia and large-fronded ferns. In this peaceful paradise
stood the skeletons of two Indian huts; shells, bones of seals and
birds proved that they had been inhabited not long ago. Could we only
have called up the wretched brown figures, the picture would have been
complete. This encounter with natives’ work put us in a reflective
mood: here was a Nature, still virgin, with man as one of her numerous
beings, not as the absolute master, and here we stood, members of the
white race which makes all originality vanish under its hands.
The landscape in the west part of Skyring has a great deal in common
with the famous Patagonian Channels. Everywhere long, narrow inlets
penetrate far into the Cordilleras. Some of them are extremely
beautiful and exhibit the true fiord-nature, with the entrance barred
by a threshold and deep water inside; but the steamer cannot enter,
and one has to pull in in small yawls. For the most part the scenery
is perhaps more sombre than grand. Generally heavy clouds rest on the
black, splintered crests, so heavy that even the ice-fields lose their
whiteness; the reddish bogs and the deep, dark forest patches, which
cling to the steep cliffs and get thicker and closer towards the sea,
becoming a solid, impenetrable covering to everything down to the water
itself, make a solemn impression. You hardly hear a bird sing or an
insect hum. But even here Nature may smile; when the sun rises over
precipitous summits, that stand clear against the sky, and paints the
forest with light green bands and the snowfields with pink; or when
the midday light is reflected with the splendour of diamonds from the
glaciers, where caverns and cracks gleam with that magnificent blue
colour, varying from deep cobalt to light ultramarine. Then you also
notice all the more minute details in the forest, that you hardly
pay any attention to when the rain is pouring down and fog is on the
water. I do not speak as a botanist now, for I naturally found the
forest as interesting in the bad weather, and I had every reason to
rejoice at the results of my studies in Skyring. The geologists also
were contented; they got a natural section through the mountains, older
layers appearing as one proceeds westwards.
We still hoped to meet Indians. In many places we found abandoned huts,
but never the natives. We had heard of a passage made by Indians from
Excelsior Inlet to Obstruction Sound, and spent a day visiting it. The
inlet is barred and the ship had to stop outside. We found the way, but
I shall tell of it in another connection.
Estero de los Ventisqueros, the Glacier Inlet, is one of the longest
and most narrow, penetrating south-south-west far into the Muñoz
Gamero Peninsula. Its innermost part was hardly known, which gave us a
special reason for going there. The entrance is very narrow, and has
the character of a rapid stream. Up it we forced our way between stones
and heavy logs. The stream seemed to us somewhat strange, and we were
not surprised to find the water in the inlet fresh, a lake having been
formed where the tide played no part. Between imposing mountains, clad
with snow and glaciers, we pulled towards the end, round a point that
has shut off the interior, where was the gigantic glacier, stretching a
tongue out into the water, which is full of ice. The ice-wall is about
half a mile broad, and has a height of about 90 feet. We spent some
hours here collecting, and late in the evening came back on board very
pleased with our day and anxiously waiting for the next, when we were
to make the acquaintance of Gajardo Channel. The outer part produced
the same impression as the other inlets we had seen, but it gradually
became very narrow, and finally no passage could be found. We had
reached the place called Angostura de los Témpanos, or Icefloe Narrows,
where even rowing-boats can hardly pass. Here the tidal current rushes
through a narrow gorge over stones and reefs at a speed of up to eight
knots. Heaps of ice from the surrounding glaciers are brought to and
fro through the Narrows, and have given rise to its geographical name.
[Illustration: THE BOTTOM OF VENTISQUEROS SOUND.]
The _Huemul_ anchored close to the cliff, a boat was lowered, and we
set out to pull through; we had the tide against us, though not with
its full force, and hardly got away from the spot in spite of eight men
at the four oars. At great risk we got past the whirlpools round the
shallow places. Excitement could be read in all faces, and with loud
“hurrahs” we came out into calmer water. To our right a small inlet
opened, and as we rounded the point the sight of the glacier in the
background called forth renewed cheers. I think I have seen much ice
in all shapes and forms, but hardly anything that made so strong an
impression on me. In frozen cascades it comes through a narrow chasm,
broadens out again, and protrudes into the green, transparent water
with a tongue 100 feet high, crowned by millions of fantastic needles.
Hardly a fleck on it, but what a play of bright colours--Prussian blue,
ultramarine, and cobalt! In silence we rested on the oars, watching the
sight. There was a narrow crevice in the rock at the edge of the ice
where we could land; on one side we had the glacier, on the other the
high ice-clad cliff; huge pieces had fallen down where we now stood.
As the place looked dangerous, we hurried on with our observations; now
and again the big glacier discharged large pieces of ice, giving rise
to a swell, that made our position uncomfortable. Quensel got specimens
of the rocks. Halle and I found some Alpine plants that thrive at
sea-level, refreshed by the cool breath from the icy surroundings.
We had just left when with thunder a large ice-block plunged down into
the water, followed by a wave so great that an accident might easily
have happened had we remained there; the place was swept by water and
pieces of ice, and we had trouble enough to keep the boat clear from
the rock where we landed to watch the imposing spectacle. As we did
not want to stop with the ship near the Narrows, the anchorage being
miserable, we resolved to go back. Pulling along the cliff, where a
hanging glacier looked down on us from above, happily enough without
paying us any other attention, we arrived at the critical place, and
beheld a sight not particularly encouraging. Our calculations had
failed; the current had turned and rushed full speed in the opposite
direction, playing with the icefloes that were on their way to the
other side of the pass. We tried, but were caught by a whirlpool,
and were only saved by the efforts of the oarsmen from being crushed
against the rocks. We crossed and landed on the east side, and climbed
the rocks to look at the surroundings. On the other side it was not
possible to get along, on this we could certainly pass if we kept at
a height of 30 to 50 feet above the water; we should thus be able to
get down on the north side and signal to the ship. But the boat? We
could not leave it there. We had almost made up our minds to wait five
or six hours when Pagels made a suggestion: he thought it possible,
though dangerous, to climb along the precipice, dragging the boat by
the painter, which was rather long. Step by step we advanced. It was
not easy to find foothold; the tiniest shelf was taken advantage of;
our fingers grasped the smallest irregularities on the face of the
high, precipitous cliff. The boat seemed to cling to every irregularity
or projection; the current pressed it against the cliff with such force
that some of us had to jump into it, cutting our fingers in trying to
fend it off. We got past the worst rapids and gained a place where the
mountain sloped gradually down to the water. Another critical moment:
we all embarked, only Pagels, firmly squatted on his broad hams, pipe
in mouth, still grasped the painter. Ready with the oars! Pagels swung
the bow round, jumped into the boat, and at the same instant four oars
dipped and strained against the current. The least carelessness and the
boat would have been hurled back into the rapids again. A last effort,
making the oarsmen drip with sweat in spite of the cold weather, and we
were back on board.
It was too late to look for a new anchorage. We lay in a very
disagreeable and rather unsafe place, the bottom being rock and the
water deep close to the shore, where several shoals unexpectedly
appeared. Now and then a strong puff of wind came from the high
mountains, giving us a foretaste of the weather we should get. We
had hardly got on board when the ship went adrift; hastily we got
sufficient pressure in the boilers to heave up and anchor again. There
was not much repose on board that night. It was pitch-dark, the channel
narrow, the current strong, and the shore dangerous. The captain had
thrown himself on a sofa with his clothes on, and we were disturbed by
heavy boots tramping over our heads, and every ten minutes soundings
were taken in order to see if we were drifting. At 5 A.M. I heard the
noise of heavy squalls, and noticed that the vessel trembled in a
curious manner, as if she were aground. I fell asleep once more, but
woke up with the engines working at full speed and the hull shaking
terribly. I was right; we had dragged anchor and struck a flat rock,
not more than 100 feet from the shore. With the engines alone we made
no progress, but we tried a kedge with better result. Nothing serious
had happened, and in the grey dawn we steamed out of Gajardo Channel.
A few words on the peculiar hydrographic and biological conditions in
Skyring Water might be of some interest. As the narrow and shallow
Fitzroy and Gajardo Channels are its only connection with other water,
the tide is hardly noticeable, the difference being only some few
inches. From glaciers and rivers volumes of fresh water are discharged
into Skyring, and the result is brackish water. That the organic life
is influenced thereby is evident: the plant life is different, seaweeds
are miserable, no big kelp is found, and animal life is very poor.
[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE OF EXCELSIOR SOUND.]
In the central and east part of the large water several landings
were left, and we crossed from north to south and _vice versâ_ a number
of times. The country further east has nothing of the wild beauty
of the west, but is not less interesting. The tertiary layers were
surveyed by Halle at two places, Mina Magdalena and Mina Marta. On
the last-mentioned place you may see a Patagonian mining enterprise
in its last stage--ruined houses, rusty machinery strewn all over the
ground. The coal was no coal, which the “engineers” did not discover
till everything was ready for a start, but lignite, whose value may be
scientific, but hardly more. Halle found plenty of fossils.
When we came back to Los Amigos we wanted to make some additional
excursions in Otway Water, but unhappily there is a telephone line to
Punta Arenas, and the admiral requested us to return as soon as we
could.
This made us pass Jerome Channel at night; the captain did not like it,
but he had been asked to do it, if possible. We were not very pleased
at returning so soon. It was a fine evening; we had crossed Otway
Water, and the _Huemul_ made its way along the coast of the Jerome
Channel, where mountain and water merge into black darkness. We were
approaching the outlet, when the engine suddenly stopped. The current
is in our favour, thus giving us a moment’s breathing-space. What’s the
matter? The engineer does not know; something has gone wrong; he cannot
risk going any further. “But we shall drift ashore within a minute
or two,” the captain shouts; “we must continue.” Again we try, very
slowly; a noise of thunder is heard from the big cylinder, as if the
cap would burst. A conference is held. We cannot reach a safe harbour;
the nearest is Arauz Bay, but the water is dirty there, and it is not
sheltered from the prevailing wind. However, we try again, and being
outside the harbour a yawl is sent ahead to make soundings, and by
means of fire-signals the officer in it leads us to an anchorage.
The damage proved to be very serious. We had broken the shaft, and
there could be no thought of repairing it here; all we could do was to
keep it tight till we could reach Punta Arenas. Good luck had helped
us hitherto--had it happened half an hour earlier we might have lost
the ship--but we still wanted a good deal. The bay is open to the
south-west. If a gale comes now, when our fires are out--what can we
do? We _had_ good luck; all the time the rare north wind blew! After
working without a moment’s stop for thirty hours the clever engineer
declared all to be ready, and on the evening of May 4 we were back in
Punta Arenas again.
CHAPTER V
THE PATAGONIAN CHANNELS
The scheme proposed for the next excursion was a cruise in the
Patagonian Channels between the Magellan Straits and the Penas Gulf,
during which we wanted to pay more particular attention to the natives.
As Halle could expect little if any result from a trip in these parts,
it was resolved that he should take up his work elsewhere and meet us
in Ancud, on Chiloé, in the beginning of July. On May 9 he departed
for Rio Grande, in Tierra del Fuego, whence he brought back fine
collections of tertiary fossils. After his return to Punta Arenas he
travelled on horseback along the Brunswick Peninsula to the place where
Darwin long ago collected the first specimens of Magellan fossils.
Our expedition, however, got another member. On several occasions I had
discussed the Channel trip with one of our new friends, Captain José
Bordes, _piloto mayor_ in the Chilean navy, and intimately acquainted
with those parts and their population. He very much wanted to go with
us, but could not, of course, simply leave his service, and he proposed
that I should ask permission for him from the senior in command of the
navy, Vice-Admiral Montt, in Valparaiso. The latter readily granted
my request, and Bordes got a telegraphic order to take part in the
expedition.
But at first it seemed difficult to get a suitable vessel. Admiral
Rojas declared with a smile that the expedition had already accounted
for one ship, viz., the _Huemul_, and besides she would have been too
small and uncomfortable for an extended journey. Of the two other
vessels stationed at Punta Arenas, one was of no use to us, but the
other, the _Meteoro_, a twin-screw steamer of 650 tons, very well
fulfilled our requirements. Unfortunately, she was bound for a run
to San Felix Lighthouse, taking with her an engineer, sent by the
Government to effect the preparatory work for the proposed Marconi
installation between Valparaiso and Punta Arenas. All telegrams between
the Magellan territories and the rest of Chile have to pass Argentina,
an ordinary overland wire being an impossibility and a submarine cable
being considered too expensive. After her return to Punta Arenas,
the _Meteoro_ had to visit the Evangelistas lighthouse, and thus it
would be a long time before she could be at our disposal. Through
the kindness of the authorities the difficulties were surmounted; I
proposed that we should take part of the expedition to the Evangelistas
rocks, and from there proceed directly to the Channels, and the Admiral
assented. This was rather an advantage, for we won another station
which we had never hoped for. Still one small difficulty remained: we
wanted to get an interpreter, a Spanish-speaking Indian, but could not
get one in Punta Arenas. We had to put off this quest, and Bordes told
us he would try to persuade one or other of his Indian acquaintances in
the Straits to come with us.
On May 21 we left the sunshine behind and once more disappeared in the
rainy west. We anchored in Port Gallant, where Indians used to pass,
selling their otter-skins to an Austrian, who lives there, and has done
so for many years, with a native woman. Few Indians were there now, but
amongst them was a middle-aged woman, who knew Bordes very well and had
great confidence in him. At first she had strong apprehensions about
coming with us, and it required all Bordes’ eloquence to persuade her
to take the decisive step on to the deck of the _Meteoro_. I now have
the honour of introducing to my reader Mrs. Akichakwarrakwiltee--thus
she calls herself. Her mission name, Emilia, is more handy, though
not so euphonious. She became quite an indispensable assistant;
she persuaded her countrymen to come on board, explaining that the
instruments were not to torture them with, that we were no “Cristianos
malos”--evil Christians--which words are inseparably associated in
the mouth of a Channel Indian. Every evening I sat with her in the
laboratory, she always crouching on one of the plant-presses, trying
to teach me a little of her marvellous language, compared with which
both Irish and Scotch appear quite civilized tongues. Unfortunately,
her knowledge of Spanish was too superficial for grammatical studies,
and I had to be very patient to make her understand. A great drawback
was that in Spanish she always spoke of herself in the third person, as
children often do.
It was funny enough to study her in her new surroundings. She came on
board dressed in some queer rags and with naked legs, and we could
not help laughing when she walked about like a fine lady in a grey
gown trimmed with red velvet, and a green cape, over which her black
hair fell thick and wild. And in this dress she became a member of the
Swedish Magellan Expedition. At first she did not seem very pleased
with her new life, walked alone, silent, and almost ill-humoured,
but we soon gained her confidence, and she gradually became more
communicative. One night when, as usual, we were sitting up talking
I wormed some of her story out of her. She had been caught by the
missionaries and was brought to Dawson Island with her husband and
children. She had three of them, one so big, one so big, and the third
so--she measured with her hand above the deck--and “she was such a nice
little girl,” she added. But they lived in a “bad house”; all fell ill
and died, and she was left alone. How she managed to get away from
Dawson Island I do not know; anyhow I congratulated her. She did not
want to go back.
The _Meteoro_ heads west. More and more barren grows the landscape,
more and more dwarfed the forest, colder the storm and fog. We have
left the continuous coast and steam through the archipelago. Home,
sweet home! Hundreds and thousands of islands, skerries, rocks, with a
cluster of stunted trees on the lee side, smooth rocks with some grass
where only sea-birds breed. We have left the untidy slate and have
reached the granite zone, where the glacial epoch has created the same
skerry-nature as in Sweden. The more we look the stronger grows the
likeness; we dream ourselves far away, the beeches become Scotch
firs, the foreign sea-birds our common eiders and gulls....
[Illustration: OUR INTERPRETER, CHANNELS OF PATAGONIA.]
[Illustration: TWO CHANNEL INDIANS.]
We made for a harbour in the offing. With Bordes on board we could make
short cuts not marked in the charts, through interesting passages and
narrow channels not exceeding 300 feet broad, and in some places so
narrow that we almost touched the fringe of giant kelp (_Macrocystis_)
on each side, and anchored in Puerto Cuarenta Dias, the Forty Days’
Harbour--a name that holds a story: here a vessel is said to have
waited forty days before it could approach the Evangelistas rocks.
This perhaps is somewhat exaggerated--I dare not dispute it; anyhow, a
week’s waiting is not a rare occurrence. For us it was of the utmost
importance to land on the rock without delay, otherwise the whole
voyage through the channels might be a failure. No wonder that we
watched the daybreak on May 26 with great anxiety. We had enjoyed light
breezes from north and east, rare but all the more welcome for that,
and calculated that subsequently the regular westerly swell--nothing
less than the whole Pacific Ocean!--would have died down enough to make
landing possible.
Rain and a grey, thick sky and a water like lead met us as we swung out
through the last skerries and made for some black spots on the horizon.
These are the famous Evangelistas rocks. Through the glasses the
lighthouse can be seen. The motion of the sea is comparatively gentle,
and the occasion seems to be favourable; however, it is no child’s
play to land there. We pass the black Pan de Azucar (Sugar-loaf), and
the _Meteoro_ anchors in deep water between two high, black slate
rocks, one of them crowned by a small lighthouse. We went with the
first boat, steered by the steady hands of the boatswain over the soft
switchback of swell towards the point of the rock that is honoured
by the name of landing-place; were it not for the name nobody would
suspect it. The sea does not break there, but only plays with the boat.
One moment we are lifted high up, the gunwale scratching the rock,
the next the retiring wave bears the boat back deep down among the
giant kelp-masses, now for a second laid bare like innumerable slimy
serpents, that the capricious surf winds into graceful patterns. Eight
above our head rises a rough slate wall about 30 or 40 feet high, and
some men stand on the top of it, waving their hands--presumably they
are glad to see us. A rope hangs down in a long loop, by which means
the boat is kept in place, and we are told to use it as we climb.
Bordes is the first to try, old and used to it as he is. The main
thing is to mind one’s p’s and q’s: when a wave lifts the boat up to
the cliff one must jump, without losing a second, on to a shelf two or
three inches wide, slippery with green algæ--without the rope one could
hardly keep one’s footing. If you do not want the next wave to attack
you in the rear you had better look lively, climbing and crawling
with the assistance of projections and the rope: finally you are on
safe ground and have “gone on shore” on Evangelistas. We had but one
adventure. A young officer got a cold bath when he jumped, that was all.
The three lighthouse-keepers gave us a hearty welcome. No wonder; a
worse prison than theirs it is difficult to conceive. Even on a short
visit like ours one feels a certain oppression, as of a prisoner behind
a curtain waved by storm and rain. A high, for the most part quite
barren, rock, steep on all sides; the vegetation a swampy moss-peat,
giving way to the pressure of your feet; a small lighthouse, trembling
in the frightful gales which give these parts of the world their bad
reputation; day after day drowned in floods of rain mingled with the
sprinkle of the breakers; many miles from the nearest shore, hundreds
from civilization, from which a message is sent some few times every
year, when (always with difficulties and often with dangers) provisions
are landed--that is what life on Evangelistas is like! I should not
advise anybody with a melancholy turn of mind to settle there.
It was interesting to find the slates again so far west--on very few
places do they appear outside the granite zone. We had soon collected
specimens of the poor, miserable, and scanty plants and animals, but
it was long before all the stores had been landed. They were hoisted
up with a derrick, worked by hand, and consequently so slow that
people prefer the more hazardous ascent on their hands and knees.
It is curious to think how the iron supports, not to speak of all
the materials for the lighthouse, were ever landed. The story of the
lighthouse would be worth a special chapter.
Sitting on a bag, we allowed ourselves to be lowered by the tiny wire
down into the boat, that with great care was kept beneath us, 60 feet
below--a quick as well as a comfortable manner of getting away from the
island. On board the captain was more anxious than ever. The winter
days are short, the mist was not far off, and we must reach Cuarenta
Dias before nightfall. When at 3 P.M. we weighed anchor the fog was
already so dense that the islands were lost to sight within a few
minutes. The water here in the offing is very dirty; we tried to make
Cape King, but the current played us a trick and suddenly some nasty
black needles loomed out of the thick veil on the port side; we were
amidst the reefs--within the “danger-line.” The course was changed;
Bordes was persistent and we tried again; but night came on, and we
were forced to spend it running to and fro in the entrance of the
Magellan Straits, guided by the flashes from the wee lighthouse, that
has saved more than one Vessel from making nearer acquaintance with the
ill-famed Cape Pillar.
The next day we could start our work in the Queen Adelaide group,
where many detailed geographical observations are still waiting to be
made. We visited Pacheco Island and went out by Anita Channel--just at
the most difficult spot--when a fog, so thick and white that we could
not see the rocks close at hand, descended over the water. Of course
there is no danger of collision; nevertheless it caused some anxiety
among the officers. The fog vanished as quickly as it had come, and we
proceeded to Viel Channel, where for the first time we met the Indians
in their natural state. They were very shy, and refused to come on
board. We continued east, crossed Smyth Channel, and anchored in a
harbour called Puerto Ramirez, on the Muñoz Gamero Peninsula, the only
spot inhabited by white men between the Straits and the Gulf of Penas.
Several years ago, when Chile and Argentina were at odds with each
other, the former country made a coaling-station here, and some sheds
with coal are still left, guarded by two watchmen. Later on we had good
reason to bless this coal-store.
By the last day of May we were again under way, steaming northward
through the Channels. Few places in Patagonia are so famous as these
Channels, where the steamer plunges between black, steep walls,
crowned by snowy peaks reflected in the usually smooth water, where
the open sea is never sighted, where one need not be afraid of storm
or fog, when one has only to seek one of the numerous, charming little
harbours. One can travel from 53° to 48°, a distance of 5°, without
seeing the ocean! Where in the world is there anything like it? What
a pity that sunshine and a clear sky are of rare occurrence; for days
and weeks the rain does not cease, and a cold, wet fog rests over the
water. The Channels have been compared with the Norwegian fiords. As
far as the numerous inlets running east from the Channels into the
mountains are concerned, I think that this comparison is obvious,
even if we treat them from a geographical point of view. But in the
outer appearance there is a big difference. In Patagonia Death seems
to reign. The Channels are so silent; most of the sea-birds, such
as gulls, Cape pigeons, albatrosses, and others that give life to
the picture in the open sea have disappeared; so have the porpoises
which play merrily round the bows; only some kelp-geese, ducks, or
patovapores are still to be seen. But the forest is magnificent, in
spite of the utter silence prevailing there. My work took me there
every day, and every night I returned on board with a fresh stock of
experience and collections. Sometimes the beech--naturally always the
evergreen one--leaves room for yellow and reddish swamps, where the
only needle-tree of South Patagonia, _Libocedrus tetragona_, grows.
People here call it the cypress. Large ferns with arboreous growth
(_Blechnum magellanicum_) are noteworthy. As usual, flowers are rare,
but there is one, the southern “copihue,” _Philesia buxifolia_, which
flowers also during midwinter, that with its large pink bells is almost
unrivalled. To one thing the botanist has to accustom himself: to
return every day as soaked as is the forest itself.
In the Sarmiento Channel, the continuation of Smyth Channel, we met
several Indians; two canoes with their crews we took on board and
brought to Puerto Bueno, where we stayed two days. Between Chatham and
Hanover Islands, in a narrow place called Guia Narrows, we met another
canoe; a naked girl angrily repeated “Cristiano malo,” and the crew
could not be persuaded to come on board. Probably they had been badly
treated by some passing sailors.
The traffic in the Channels is very small nowadays. Almost all ships
prefer to take the open sea, where they may steam day and night, which
is hardly possible in the Channels, but one of the greatest pleasures
on a cruise round South America is lost thereby.
At about 51° we noticed a certain change in the vegetation. New trees
and bushes appeared, especially a curious needle-tree called _mañiú_
(in this case _Podocarpus nubigena_), and beautiful climbing plants
covered the trunks.
When passing Inocentes Channel one comes out into more open water,
but only for a very short distance; soon the high walls close in on
both sides again. Penguin Inlet was full of ice, and in Icy Reach we
met innumerable small ice-floes, probably from Eyre Inlet, one of the
unknown inlets on this coast. Not far from there, in Port Grappler,
we came across the largest party of Indians we saw. They had probably
had disagreeable experiences with white people--it is not uncommon for
unscrupulous people to try to obtain their only valuable possession,
the otter-skins, without giving them anything useful in return; they
sometimes ill-treat them, seduce their women, or rob them of their
children--but thanks to the energetic efforts of Emilia we got on
rather friendly terms with them, giving them what we had of spare
clothes, biscuits, tobacco, knives, matches, and other things highly
appreciated by them. On June 7 we reached the English Narrows, a very
narrow, =S=-shaped passage, where more than one vessel has struck. The
masts of one were still to be seen. In the eighties a German expedition
tried to find another passage--at that time the Kosmos steamers used to
frequent the Channels--and discovered quite a system of channels west
of the main track, but unfortunately they are interrupted by a place
much worse still, where the open sea rolls in, and which is so shallow
that breakers are often experienced, and one may have to wait several
days for a chance of crossing. We intended to run this way on our
return; now we proceeded further along the Messier Channel, and thus
reached our destination, the Gulf of Penas. Towards the east a large
system of inlets, Baker Inlet with its branches, penetrating far into
the mountains, opened, and there we turned in. For several days we had
discussed the coal question, and as the captain argued that we should
be unable to reach Punta Arenas we gave up the idea of going to the
mouth of Rio Baker, with the greater regret as we were not far from it.
In terrible squalls we passed Troya Channel and turned westward, when
we suddenly caught sight of a sailing-boat. We guessed it to be people
from the Baker Company, a Chilean enterprise, which has the leasehold
of large stretches round the river from the inlet to the Argentina
frontier. Of course we stopped at once, took the crew on board, and
towed their boat to a harbour.
Baker Inlet is a very wild-looking place. In consequence of its
west-easterly direction the gales rush through it with unrestrained
force, and the forest has been driven back into sheltered places, where
the company has cut down the big trees. In the coves one can find
scenery of charming beauty, where the slopes with woods, cascades, and
snow-patches are reflected in the smooth, icy-green water. When one
enters such a cove, coming from the windy barrenness of the channel,
one gets the same feeling as coming into a warm, comfortable room from
the snowstorm outside.
As we very much wanted to visit some of the channels outside the
Wellington Islands, we crossed Messier Channel on June 12 and passed
into Albatross Channel. Here every name on the chart indicates that
it was given by sons of _das grosse Vaterland_. The weather was
terrible, and we walked about wet and cold all day long, but otherwise
contented, as every day brought new features under our observation. On
account of the poor store of coal we had to abandon our plan of going
round Wellington Islands, but followed Fallos Channel only to the
mouth of Adalbert Channel, through which we came to the Messier again.
Again we passed the Narrows and took the shortest road through Chasm
Reach, where the echo plays at ball between precipitous walls with the
sound-waves from our whistle. One must not forget to look astern before
the steamer changes its course, for high up the ice-clad summits on
Wellington Island may be seen for a moment.
Still we had an important item of our programme left--the survey of
Peel Inlet; and as I strongly insisted on it the captain had to yield,
and promised to take some tons of coal on board in Muñoz Gamero, which
he had refused to do before. But the probable reason was that he was
in dread of every place not completely known, and walked about always
suspecting danger. Had we not had Bordes with us, who was the real
commander as soon as it was a question of some difficult enterprise,
it is more than uncertain whether we should have been able to do much
work. Certainly I could not force the commander to do anything he
declared dangerous to the safety of the vessel he was in charge of, and
as, unlike most naval officers, he did not take the slightest interest
in scientific work, he took refuge behind his responsibility as often
as he could.
Through Andrew Sound we went towards Pitt Channel. No harbour is known
here, and on the chart one anchorage is marked, in eleven fathoms
of water at the most easterly of the Kentish Islands. In vain we
looked for that anchorage; it was deep all round; and in spite of
the approaching darkness we had to continue our course. We sounded
close to the shore--sixty, forty, thirty fathoms; at last we anchored
in nineteen fathoms, but then the distance to the rocks was only a
hundred feet. We were completely without shelter, the anchorage was
bad, and a squall would result in our dragging our anchors. Before
daybreak we weighed and steamed through Pitt Channel into Peel Inlet.
The _Huemul_, which was here once, had indicated a sandbank on the
place where the inlet branches. We passed with plenty of water. As we
slowly glided into Peel Inlet and the last hiding-point lay behind us,
we became silent, struck dumb by the scenery. Perhaps we never saw any
more grand; it was quite wonderful. Furthest off, but nevertheless not
very far, rise the high crests of the Andes, with fantastic needles
and sharp-cut peaks, round which the continuous sheet of inland ice
has folded its dazzling mantle. Four broad streams of ice emerge from
it, embracing the violet-brown nunataks and joining in a gigantic
glacier with a front nearly two miles broad, one single expanse of blue
crevices and white crests. This all in a frame of evergreen forest and
reflected in transparent, glossy water where the image now and then is
blotted out by the ice-floes driven to and fro by the currents. Inland
ice, Alps with eternal snow, all the details of a glacier, slopes and
shores clad with a primeval forest, the crystalline fiord-water, the
drifting ice, and all this embraced in one single glance! That _is_
wonderful, I think.
We could the more enjoy the sight as we had discovered an unknown
harbour not far off, suitable in every way. Quensel and I pulled
through the ice, densely packed in certain places, to the glacier,
and the officers started to make a map of the harbour, which we named
Puerto Témpanos, _i.e._, the Port of Icefloes, as owing to the tide the
cove is filled with small pieces of ice twice a day.
We found ourselves in a world of ice, moraines, and muddy rivers, where
we got on capitally, and did not return before dark, very pleased with
the results, which included, amongst others, important observations
of the geology in the High Cordillera. The next day broke calm and
fine, but with a fog so thick that we could not see even the shore
of our little cove. In the afternoon work could be continued round
the harbour, which is fringed by a swampy forest of deciduous beech
(_Nothofagus antarctica_). Fortunately we got another clear day. The
last thing we did was to erect a tablet at the entrance of the harbour,
with this inscription: “Meteoro. Comisión sueco-chilena. 16 . VI .
1908.” I suppose it will be long before anybody finds it. As we came
out, the old Channel weather met us again with rain and a gale of
wind--but what did it matter? We had been successful with Peel Inlet
and our spirits were high!
Silence now reigned in Puerto Bueno. The huts stood empty like grinning
skeletons, their inhabitants gone on their everlasting wanderings.
Further south we came across some more families, and the last were seen
at Muñoz Gamero, where we made a short stay to take fresh supplies
of coal on board. In Smyth Channel we met two steamers, one of them
evoking great excitement--the Norwegian ship _Alm_, chartered by a
Punta Arenas firm to run between this place and Valparaiso. Halle was
on board on his way to Chiloé, and we waved a farewell to each other.
Fresh wind and a heavy sea, Cape pigeons and stormy petrels met us
when we came out into the Straits. Behind us lay the labyrinth, the
wonderland where we should never return.
We had some places left to visit before we could consider the excursion
finished. The lighthouse on Felix Island we visited on our way out, but
stopped once more to bring the mail to Punta Arenas. From there we went
to Woodsworth Bay to find a harbour. This place has been famous for
its waterfall ever since the time of the _Beagle_. There is no lack of
waterfalls in the Channels, as the rivers have no other resource but
to flow vertically, but this was beyond all we had seen. Dancing from
one narrow shelf to the next, from a height of nearly a thousand feet,
the water hurls itself into the sea, and the whole length of the jet is
visible at one time.
In Port Gallant we said good-bye to Emilia. I daresay she left us under
the impression that not all “cristianos” are “malos.” On a midwinter
night the _Meteoro_ anchored in the roads of Punta Arenas. We had no
time to spare there; on the 29th we went on board a Kosmos steamer that
took us to Corral, and there we immediately found another vessel bound
for Ancud, the capital of Chiloé.
[Illustration: PEEL INLET, WITH GREAT GLACIERS.]
CHAPTER VI
A DYING RACE
A keen wind whistles through the Channels, tears the stunted trees, and
now and then flings a grey shower as a contribution to the yellowish
bogs. On the tops of the mountains the winter snow shines against a
leaden sky. Then Emilia presses her flat nose still flatter against the
panes in the laboratory and says something which signifies “canoe.”
By means of the glasses we perceive a black spot far ahead--our first
encounter with the Indians is at hand. Darwin once said that a naked
savage in his own land is a sight never to be forgotten. It was not the
first we had seen, but the impression was never so strong.
The canoe we now met was typical from every point of view. Half-naked,
wild-looking figures are pulling out of time; in the stern an old
woman steers. Everywhere amongst the queer luggage--sticks and poles
of various shapes, old sealskins, piles of shells, and pieces of
blubber--barking dogs peep forth, and in the smoke from the fire,
always nursed in the middle of the boat, some rough-headed children
appear. Now they have caught sight of Emilia, with their dark eyes
wide open they quickly exchange ideas about this elegant lady who
steps about on deck with such an assurance of demeanour. She was sent
to negotiate. We were under the impression that a whole sermon would
be necessary to explain that we were not bad and did not want to rob
them of their children; at least a long while elapsed before they could
make up their minds to come on board. Not until now did we get an idea
of the contents of a canoe! Out came a dozen persons--men, women, and
children, the youngest carried on the back--accompanied by half a
score of dogs. They look round shyly, but at the same time with much
curiosity; some of them come on board after a certain hesitation. They
refuse to leave their canoe alone, but one of them stops to keep an eye
on us; certainly we are likely to steal the valuable contents. Only
think of the delicious half-rotten whale-blubber!
Let us make nearer acquaintance with this peculiar race. Round the
funnel, where it is warm, our guests have made themselves comfortable,
squatting on their hams. Truly it is a funny assembly, and one is
almost ready to ask if they really belong to the same species as we
do. The face is round, the distance between the cheek-bones being
remarkably great. The eyes have a dark and earnest expression, the nose
is flat and broad, the mouth often monstrously large, with thick lips.
The teeth of the younger members are white and beautiful; in the case
of the older members one often finds the front teeth missing--they
have gone in the process of one or other of the employments to which
they have been put. The skin is of a dirty yellowish-brown colour,
sometimes with a coppery tinge; the hair is very thick, coarse, and
jet-black. It is worn hanging loose over the shoulders, a square-cut
fringe hiding the forehead. Both sexes show a remarkable disproportion
between the upper body and the legs. The trunk is well developed, the
neck short and thick, the shoulders straight, and the arms long and
muscular. Often one finds real features of beauty, though the body is
often disfigured by an all too prominent abdomen. Their worst point
is thin, bent legs; want of exercise retards their development--the
Indian lives in his canoe and by his fire; he is always sitting, and
when he straightens his legs the skin folds over the kneecap. The men,
who are generally without any trace of a beard, are mostly of finer
stature than the women; they are considerably taller, their medium
height reaching 5 feet 1 inch, against 4 feet 8 inches in the case
of the women. The babies are rather lovely, with skin and hair of a
lighter colour and with eyes of that deep blue which is often observed
in kittens.
A visit to the camp gives us the best idea of Indian life. The beach is
covered with shells. The canoes have been hauled up on thin logs. A few
steps from the water, and we reach the huts, that harmonise so with the
surrounding forest that one does not see them until one gets close. The
forest gives shelter from at least one direction; on the rocks mussels
grow large and fat, and outside in the cove one can gather sea-urchins.
The inhabitants have gathered in front of their wigwams to greet us.
They were just “at table,” an occupation much in favour during the
daytime, or even at night. They have hastened to put on old garments,
such as shawls, pieces of blankets, torn jerseys, &c., or even the
original mantle of skins. This was once the only garment worn--a
square mantle of fur-seal or sea-otter, sometimes completed by a
fig-leaf of the same material, kept in place by strings made from
sinews. The head was always uncovered. With the visits of white men
modern clothes have become more or less common; but there is hardly an
Indian possessing a complete suit--one has a coat, another a pair of
trousers, most of them have the legs quite naked. Some wear ornaments,
necklaces of shells or on the breast a flat, polished piece of bone,
fixed on a neatly plaited string. Without protests they let us enter
the hut--some flexible sticks in a circle, bent together and fixed with
a tough, grass-like plant (_Marsippospermum grandiflorum_). Hardly is
the Indian able to stand upright under his roof, where the smoke from
the fire, which is fed with fresh green branches of evergreen beech,
may seek its way out at leisure. The wigwam is covered with grass,
fern-leaves, twigs of trees, or with sea-lion skins and old pieces of
clothes, all according to circumstances. The large skins are naturally
much appreciated; they are never left behind on a camping-place, as
are all the other materials used. The hut has one great advantage: it
is easily constructed, and that is the main thing for a nomadic tribe.
Once or twice we saw the skeleton of a hut brought along, which of
course saved trouble.
[Illustration: INDIAN CAMP, SARMIENTO CHANNEL.]
We gladly “took a seat” with them and accepted their food. They have
nice things to offer--large shellfish of various kinds, raw or roasted
on the cinders, just as you like. Conversation is kept up with the aid
of Emilia as interpreter: she is in her element, and appears to have
forgotten all her new civilisation, ready to jump in a canoe again
with naked legs amongst dogs, dirt, and rubbish. The shells crackle,
lips whisper. The natives have a phenomenal capacity for speaking
without producing a sound. They look very earnest, their lips move
quickly--nothing is heard. Suddenly the whole party starts to laugh
heartily; it is evident that somebody has made a sally, and there is no
doubt that we are the butt of their joke.
Mussels form the main part of their food. The big common _Mytilus_ are
simply plucked like fruit at low tide; the flat _Patella_ is loosened
with a short stick flattened like a chisel at one end. Sea-urchins are
caught with a long stick, cleft in four parts at the end. But besides
this they eat fish, meat, and blubber, or almost anything they can get
hold of. Their weapons are very simple; the most important are the
harpoons of bone, with one hook or with a long row of hooks like a saw
fixed in a handle. There seems to be plenty of otter in the Channels;
the skin is fine and valuable, and is the only object of barter
available. Seal is not to be got every day, but one can live well on a
big sea-lion for several days. And what delight when they come across
a stranded whale! Feasts are held as long as anything eatable is left;
from all directions the savages hasten up, eat till they are fit to
burst, and pull away with loaded canoes. Several of the Indians we
met had big quantities of whale-blubber. This does not contradict the
fact that the Indian only lives for the day and never thinks of saving
anything; he leads a wild life, with meat and blubber one day and
nothing the next.
Bows and arrows seem to have fallen out of use, which is the more
remarkable as nothing has replaced them. They are of the same shape
as those used by the Onas, but smaller. The arrows are made of yellow
berberis-wood, and have a neatly fashioned point of flint or glass; the
quiver is of seal- or otter-skin. Slings are sometimes used to kill
birds with, and the women are said to be clever in using them. Another
weapon also is found, but we made its acquaintance only once. It was
in Port Grappler. The natives had been on board, and had not shown
themselves amiably disposed towards us. The next day we went on shore
to see their camp. As we were on our way we saw the women and children
hurry away from the huts along a narrow path that disappeared in the
thick forest--such a retreat seems to have been constructed at every
camping-place--and the men gathered in front of the houses threatening
us with stones, sticks, and a kind of club, which at once awoke our
curiosity. They would not allow us to land before we had promised them
to leave a shot-gun we brought behind in the yawl; Emilia had hard work
to persuade them. At the same moment the clubs disappeared. In vain we
asked them, in vain we looked all round; they only shook their heads,
probably suspecting that we should deprive them of their arms and then
assault them. It was only after a long parley and rich presents of
biscuits and tobacco that one of them disappeared behind the hut and
returned with a club, which he gave us. In comparison with its length
(two feet) it is very heavy, and is made from the root of the tepú
(_Tepualia stipularis_).
The Channel Indians live in families and have no idea of a community.
Now and then some families keep together, probably those related
to each other, as, for instance, two brothers with their wives and
children. The largest party we saw, in Port Grappler, numbered thirty
members, who listened to an old grey-haired rascal, whose objection to
our anthropometrical instruments made him prohibit his subjects from
visiting our laboratory. But, as we later found out, the different
families here afterwards spread in various directions. As a rule, the
canoe Indian has only one wife, but it may happen that a man with
an old (how soon!) and ugly wife secures a younger one. Polygamy
is connected with the position of the woman. She is subject to her
husband’s will, she does the hard work. Hour after hour, with her baby
on her back, she sits pulling the boat in a tiring position; half a day
she wades in the ice-cold water to fill the baskets with mussels. The
household furniture is very plain: knives made from shells or stones,
sinews, bone-prickers, all kept in round wooden boxes, and baskets
plaited with a certain skill. How hard must it be in the circumstances
to give birth to the children, rear them, and teach them to struggle
for life with resources smaller, perhaps, than any other people on
the earth possess! We seldom saw more than two or three children in a
family; it is evident that mortality must be great among these naked
little beings, who are dragged about with their parents in any kind
of weather. Here, if ever one may study the survival of the fittest,
he who stands the test when young should be able to stand anything. I
do not think they ever reach any great age. The only one that looked
more than fifty was the above-mentioned _cacique_ in Port Grappler.
They have no idea whatever of their age. They do not count more than
to three; any number above is much or many. We need not be astonished
at their not getting old: in fact, they lead a life as hard as we can
conceive. An existence in constant cold, in eternal rain, which makes
it impossible to dry anything for weeks together, in icy water, in
storms and frequent dangers, and, finally, the intercourse with white
men, is not favourable to longevity.
That the dismal surroundings and the frightful struggle for existence
should put their stamp on the mental life is easily understood. There
rests a certain mournful melancholy over their souls; they are used to
fearing the dangerous elements, and white men, more dangerous still.
But, as true children of instinct, they forget all sorrows round the
crackling fire; when they have plenty to eat their eyes sparkle, they
have a merry time. Play seems to be foreign to them; not even the
children play, but look earnest as old people, as if they could already
behold all the terrors of the future in the dreary sky that lifts its
vault above their land. I have not seen any ceremonies; probably they
perform some, but refuse to before strangers. The Yahgan tribe was
not without them. They have no religious ideas, they do not worship
anything, but it is clear that they must fear powers of nature, which
they cannot explain. They also seem to have some sort of idea that dead
persons may hurt them; twice we saw natives carrying a small leather
pouch with hair from a dead person, and Emilia declared them to be
amulets. Anyhow their owners parted with them for a match-box.
Life makes the Channel Indian a nomad. He moves along the shores all
his life, year after year, from birth to death. However plain his
canoe may look, it is a masterpiece, if we take into consideration
that it is made with empty hands. Formerly the principal tool was the
fire. A tree was burnt at the foot till it crashed down, the log was
literally burnt down to a plank, and the charred wood gradually scraped
off with big sharp-edged shells or stone knives. Now axes are used,
but not every family has one. Then the plank is furnished with holes
along the edges, as the canoe must be bound together. The construction
is simple: one bottom board bent upwards in the bow and stern to form
the broad stem and the stern-post, which protrude above the sides,
made of two boards fixed to each other and to the bottom. They are
drawn together with the tough bast of the cypress or the stem of a
runner-plant (_Campsidium chilense_) and tightened with moss, fat, &c.;
nevertheless the canoe makes a lot of water, and the scoop of sealskin
is frequently needed. Some small sticks across the gunwales make the
thwarts, and it is ready--the treasure, the family fortune. Now and
then we saw oars of the primitive type, made in two pieces with the
blade fixed with bast on to the handle, but those who are well off and
possess a hatchet make them as we do. The oar to steer with is shorter
than the rest, and is handled with great ability by the women. Often
they travel into the open water; and the sea inside the Channels may
become heavy indeed for such a primitive craft, especially when, during
a move from one camp to another, it is heavily loaded. Once we took
two canoes on board, and the contents were emptied on the deck. In
spite of the dreadful stench, Quensel and I made a list of the things
contained in one of them: Three long oars, one short, handles for the
harpoons, hatchet (modern), basket of bark for fresh water, two boxes
with harpoon points, necklaces, sinews, prickers, &c., three small bags
of sealskin with the same contents as the boxes, a bag of whale-hide
with blubber, baskets, bailer of sealskin, a piece of slate to sharpen
knives, bundles of bast, sea-lion skins, heaps of shells, pieces of
blubber, various whalebones and baleens, bundles of _Marsippospermum_
and a painter, plaited of that same plant.
Nowadays the Channel Indians are distributed from the Magellan Straits
to the Gulf of Penas, over a distance of six degrees. Generally they
keep inside, but sometimes travel out in the opening, and are said to
use larger canoes for such journeys. We did not see any of this larger
kind, but in Port Gallant found a third construction made from a single
log. That sort is a product of late years. To the east the natives once
travelled as far as Useless Bay and Magdalena Channel; opposite our
camping-place in Admiralty Inlet we found the old huts. They are often
seen in Last Hope Inlet, and sometimes in Skyring Water. As I have told
above, we had heard of a road made by the natives from Obstruction
Sound to Skyring, and we spent a day during our Skyring expedition in
order to visit the place. Our yawl passed the bar at the entrance of
Excelsior Sound, and we soon reached its inner extremity, and seemed
surrounded everywhere by a wall of rocks and green foliage. At first we
looked in vain. There is no beach of sand or gravel; the water reaches
the very peat and the roots of the trees, and it was a mere chance that
we found the landing-place, so well is it hidden. The road follows a
narrow gorge, where a vault of green leaves closes above one’s head.
It is four hundred yards long, and laid with short sticks across, with
a distance of from three to six feet between them. At the other end we
found a lagoon with fresh water, and from a hill we saw another lagoon
separating us from Obstruction Sound. The sticks greatly facilitate the
transport of the heavy canoes. What the Indians find to do in Skyring
is not easy to tell. There are no shells or seals, and to judge from
their old huts they carry provisions with them. Formerly they probably
used to go there hunting guanacos, or more especially deer, and now
perhaps to beg at the settlements. Several other passes, “portages” as
they are sometimes called, are known in the Channels.
The Yahgan tribe, which inhabits Tierra del Fuego down to Cape Horn,
and the remnants of which are collected on a small mission station,
leads a life in every way corresponding to that of the Channel
tribe. Their canoe, however, is of a very different type. This is
not remarkable; much more so is it that their languages are entirely
different, not one word being the same, or even anything similar. It
was possible for me to discover this, but how explain the difference?
They cannot have had any great intercourse with each other, though
they must have met, as no natural boundaries separate them. In the
Patagonian Channels at least two different dialects are spoken; Emilia
could not quite understand the Grappler people, but those in Smyth
Channel spoke exactly as she did. The language can hardly be called
beautiful. In the ears of a white man it sounds like a mixture of
inarticulate, hoarse, and guttural sounds. The numerous consonants
piled upon each other are characteristic, the peculiar sh and ch
sounds, two kinds of r, and the impure vowels, which it is scarcely
possible to pronounce. Their vocabulary is deficient in words for
abstract things, but very rich in names of natural products, such
as plants, animals, and even such as are of no use. Since their
acquaintance with white people they have created many new words, such
as for steamer, knife, matches, &c. We were surprised to know that they
did not use the words for _man_ and _woman_ to indicate white people,
but had made quite new names for them.
Thus they have lived for thousands of years, have been born, eaten
mussels, endured hardships, and died. Soon no descendants will walk in
their footsteps; they will all die out. With every year their small
tribe melts. Perhaps a few hundreds are now left, but soon only the
fragments of canoes and skeletons of wigwams will bear witness to them.
They will die, but not because they have succumbed to a stronger race,
which is able to gain wealth, unknown to them, from their land. When
they have disappeared their vast land will remain deserted; it offers
means of life for nobody else. There we, the white men, are the weaker
race. But why, then, are they condemned to extermination?
Well, why did the Yahgans disappear? Nobody hungered for their
country--it was for the care of their souls. The mission gathered
them, took them away from their huts and canoes, set them to read the
Catechism and knit stockings. They languished and died. And in _this_
case the difficult problem, how the white intruder should treat the
savages, was simple enough: leave them alone; receive those who wish
it, absorb them if possible, but do not transplant them roughly to
a new soil. I believe there is a scheme to collect the rest of the
Channel Indians into the mission stations. Well, in this case it will
only hasten the inevitable end. It is dreadful to see how the white men
who passed through the Channels and regarded the natives as strange
animals, amusing to look at for a while, have been able to spread death
and destruction among these innocent children of nature. Syphilis and
phthisis especially ravage, and if we remember the influence of the
first-mentioned disease on the offspring it is easy to tell the future
result. The natives certainly have not the slightest idea of what a
contagious disease is.
Perhaps all assistance would come too late now. But if I had the power
I would erect a sort of central station where the poor fellows could
come for a doctor and for other help, but without giving them a chance
of a parasitic life of idleness. There is a small possibility that this
peculiar tribe, one of the very lowest on earth, may be saved from
total extermination. But who is the man to do it?
CHAPTER VII
CHILOÉ AND THE GULF OF CORCOVADO
In the year 1540 a Spanish navigator for the first time sighted the
coast of Chiloé, but did not get very near the island. But though
the discovery was not forgotten, it was thirteen years before the
famous conqueror of Chile, Pedro de Valdivia, got an opportunity of
sending another expedition. He sent Ulloa, who surveyed the coast
with a couple of small craft, and discovered islands, harbours, and
channels. The formal conquest dates from 1558, and, among many other
events, is celebrated in Ercilla’s famous epic, “La Araucana.” The
peaceful inhabitants met an evil fate. Without suspecting anything,
they received the intruders kindly. But the Spaniards acted as they
always did: the land was divided among the more prominent leaders,
and the inhabitants made slaves. The island, which was before quite
flourishing, and had a very ancient culture, and the population of
which differed to its advantage from the martial Araucanians of the
mainland in being very peaceful, soon ran to waste under the Spanish
sway. The native race got commingled with the Spanish, and consequently
grew poorer and more lazy; the intruders set bad examples and led
vicious lives. Only one thing made rapid progress--the Catholic Church.
According to a Chilean author, there were already thirty-six churches
on Chiloé in 1612. But the population diminished, the inhabitants fled
out of the country. Chiloé became truly Spanish. During the wars of
independence it remained faithful for a long time; it was the bulwark
of the Spaniards, and only in January 1826, when the republic was
already several years old, did the last royal troops surrender. Long
afterwards the inhabitants, more than half of them pure Spaniards or
_mestizos_, remained royalists, and Darwin relates that they complained
of not having a king, but a president who did not take any notice
of them. They may have been right then, and still Chiloé has the
reputation of being a remote corner; I heard more than one Chileno
speak with disdain of the Chilotes. Remarkably enough the education of
the people, if we dare judge from the capacity to read and write, is
better than in the rest of Chile, where the chances are the same. I
think this speaks in favour of the poor Chilotes. Trade and industry
are not maintained as they deserve to be, and the attempt to colonize
with foreign peoples, Germans, Scandinavians, and others, has not
yielded any results worth mentioning.
I believe the pure _huilliches_ are easily counted now, but their
language will always live in the sonorous names of many places. In some
places it is still spoken. Their blood is in the veins of all Chilotes,
and the type has much of the Indian in its appearance and is easily
recognized. Nowhere in Chile does one find conditions so primitive or
habits so simple as on Chiloé and the adjacent islands.
* * * * *
A very beautiful landscape meets us as the steamer stands in for the
glittering bay of Ancud. It is a day of bright sunshine. To our right
we have the peninsula Lacuy, with its virgin forests, to our left the
low beach of Carelmapu, and right ahead the Chacao Channel opens its
winding passage. Straight south the forest has been cleared away, a
patch of light green shows up, and we discern the white houses of Ancud.
As soon as we had anchored boats swarmed round us and dark-skinned
Chilotes tried to drown each other’s voices, offering us their
treasures of delicious oysters and silvery fishes. All of them also
were ready to make away with our luggage and with us too; several crews
live by fleecing visitors who want to go on shore. We left in the
steam-launch belonging to the captain of the port, who had sent it to
fetch us, as well as our equipment. A considerable distance separated
the steamer from the jetty, the bay being very shallow.
Ancud, the capital of the province, is a peculiar little town. It was
founded in 1768 under the name of San Carlos de Ancud, and now numbers
about 4000 inhabitants. I have seldom seen a place so absolutely
lacking in any architectural beauty; most of the houses are low,
wooden huts without a trace of style. The streets are rough and dirty,
but fortunately not of the ordinary South American town plan--the
chessboard--and crooked streets and small hills make a picturesque
view. Round the harbour life is rather lively when the steamer is in;
there are the business blocks, the small, ill-kept market-hall, the
custom house, the port-master’s quarters, &c. The place is crowded
with bare-legged Chilotes on horseback or on foot, not without the
inevitable _poncho_, sometimes bright and new, of a striped pattern,
sometimes like a worn-out rag on which generations have rubbed their
feet. Further up in the town the streets are often empty, and on the
outskirts swarm pigs, fowl, cats, and dogs, which seem to flourish in
the luxuriant grass.
[Illustration: CHILOTE HOUSE.]
[Illustration: THE PLAZA IN ANCUD, CHILOÉ.]
Above I said something of the general education of the Chilotes.
Ancud has several schools, some of them private ones, and can boast
of a lyceum. Its rector and professors showed us great kindness
and hospitality. They try to be as up-to-date in their teaching as
possible, but high above all their endeavours the cathedral rises with
mighty proportions commanding the whole community. It is not quite
finished yet; the tower is wanting, and will cost much money. I dare
say it is absurd to erect a church here (and not the only one!) big
enough to hold the faithful in several towns of the size of Ancud. But
the Catholic church, led by an energetic bishop, is rich and powerful;
there is a Jesuit college and seminary, monastery and nunnery, and all
the east coast is so crowded with chapels that sometimes one is able to
count half a dozen at a time. Some of them are useful as beacons. The
male inhabitants in general are not very pleased with the over-abundant
influence of the priests, but here as everywhere the weaker sex
encourages it. The only newspaper, _La cruz del sur_, is conducted by
the priests; it appears once a week, and is free from all news. The
only number I read contained a biography of the Pope and a statistical
account of Catholicism’s conquest of the world; amongst others Sweden
was rapidly returning to the only saving faith, according to this
authority! The cathedral is situated at the _plaza_, where are found
other more noteworthy edifices--the house of the _intendente_ (governor
of the province), the bishop’s house, the fire-brigade, and the Jesuit
college. With its broken and to some extent very original sculptures,
its plantations full of weeds and its paths overgrown, the _plaza_
gives the impression of decay.
Ancud has seen its best days. Those were when the devastation of the
forests started, many years ago. Beautiful timber--alerce and cypress
(_Fitzroya patagonia_ and _Libocedrus tetragona_, two conifers), laurel
(_Laurelia aromatica_), and luma (_Myrtus luma_)--was plentiful all
round in the forest, the transport cost scarcely anything, ships came
and went, the town prospered, there were wealthy men. This state of
things did not last long; the coastal regions easy of access became
exhausted, and it cost too much to draw profit from the interior, as
means of communication were difficult. There is only one road worthy
of the name, leading from Ancud to Castro, but it does not touch the
central parts covered by impenetrable forests down to the west coast,
where harbours are completely lacking and where the surf seldom permits
a landing. Culture keeps to the north and east coasts, where the
outlying islands act as a shelter and good harbours are frequent.
Before giving an account of our travels in these parts I wish to
say some words by way of a brief description of the Chilote and
his life. We made his acquaintance long before that of his country,
because several of the sailors on board the Government steamers in
Punta Arenas were Chilotes. We had learnt to know the small plump men
as enterprising, intelligent, and light-hearted. It is not uncommon
to hear Chileans from the mainland speak with disrespect of the
Chilotes, whom they accuse of stupidity and indolence, lethargy, and
love of dirtiness; many hardly consider them as fellow creatures; in
any case, they consider them inferior to themselves. And the Chilotes
answer by not wanting to be styled _Chilenos_--they are Chilotes,
and nothing more. I dare say it is quite as good. You must not judge
them till you know the conditions under which they live. Chiloé is
covered by impenetrable primeval forests and soaked by deluges of
rains; the annual rainfall amounts to from 78 to 100 inches or even
more. Cultivation has not been able to clear more than a narrow strip
along the coast; the forest almost refuses to burn, and how cut it
down and get it away when there are no roads? To make a road is much
too laborious an enterprise for the private individual, and once made
it demands continual expenditure or at once it is changed into a
bottomless ditch of tough clay. And I believe the Chilote has one big
fault: he has little ambition. If he has his bit of shore, where some
wheat and his principal food, potatoes, grow, some small horses, cows,
and sheep, then he is contented--more than that, he is a rich man.
What is barely enough to maintain life upon he is able to gain with
a minimum of work. The sea gives him plenty; at low tide he gathers
shellfish and sea-urchins, cochayuyo (_Durvillea_, a gigantic brown
kelp), and luche (_Ulva_, a green alga), the oyster-banks provide a
delicious dish, and there is any amount of fish. It is not at all
surprising that he has little interest for agriculture. Modern methods
are unknown to him; his plough is of pre-Columbian type. He boils
his potatoes or roasts them, makes his soup of mutton or fowl, brews
_chicha_ from his small apples, and lives happy in the house of his
ancestors. The roof is thatched and without a vent-hole for smoke,
there is an earthen floor, and the windows often have no panes. Besides
the members of the family, pigs are found within, and furniture is very
scarce. Sometimes there is a separate cook-house of almost the shape
of a round tent. Should the Chilote become ambitious or eager to save
money, he seldom clears more ground to enlarge his estate, but leaves
one element, the forest, and takes to the next, the sea. He is a born
sailor; from childhood he has gone with his father in an open boat,
made long journeys to look for fur-seals or valuable timber, especially
alerce. He loves the sea, he travels all over the world, but is usually
driven back to the old place, for his heart clings to the forest, the
potatoes, and oysters of the big island of Chiloé.
It may be true that his character shows more than one defect, that
he is too little ambitious, and often lives for the day without any
higher aspirations; nevertheless a stranger who comes to his house
is attracted by his kindly hospitality and childish mind, and, if he
learns to know him in his proper element, cannot help admiring him.
Who can match him in living in the dismal forest for weeks or months,
working hard, and getting up as soaked with rain as he goes to sleep,
walking mile after mile over the most terrible ground, finding a
foothold on slippery logs with a heavy load, cutting his way through
the bamboo-thickets, or navigating the rapid, dangerous rivers? And all
without other provisions than some _charqui_ (dried meat) and _harina
tostada_ (coarse, roasted oatmeal).
* * * * *
The first days of our stay we made short excursions round Ancud and
to the Lacuy Peninsula, in order to get acquainted with the natural
features, which were in many respects new to us. I shall not trouble
the reader with a detailed account of them, merely giving a brief
description of a ride to the west coast, the only time we saw the open
ocean here. One can hardly speak of a road; one simply follows the
shore from the town, if possible at low tide. At high tide one has to
grope one’s way in the water for some stretches, where glass-smooth
rocks and hidden stones give horse and rider enough to think of. In
one place progress is impossible; we strike on and follow a real
road, winding across a steep hill down to the water again. From the
top we had a splendid view over the bay, and forgot for one moment
the miserable state of the road. It looks like a system of parallel
ditches, where the mud reaches to the horse’s knees; the furrows are so
narrow that now and then he has to plant a hoof on the slippery wall to
keep his balance, and if he tries to walk on the ridge between them he
slides down every second minute, bespattering you all over with dirt.
We were glad to leave the hill behind, and galloped along the beach,
where the rattling gravel flew whirling about the horses’ hoofs. A dull
rush sang in our ears--the Pacific Ocean thundered towards us, rolling
in over sandbanks and rocks. Snow-white guttered the sand-beach; one
wave after the other rolled in, was broken into foam, and died at our
feet.
It was Sunday and fine weather, many people were out for a walk,
and various figures looked into the little inn where we sat waiting
for our dinner. The landlord, a young and very good-looking fellow,
spoke Spanish with a French accent; his French wife promised to do
her best--she could always offer us oysters, bread and butter, and a
glass of Chilean wine. By mere chance we heard that their name was
Dreyfus, and soon got to know that the husband’s father, who lives
in Ancud, was a cousin of the famous ex-prisoner of Devil’s Island.
Another of our fresh acquaintances, who sat at dinner with us, told us
that his business was to hunt whale in the old-fashioned manner, only
using rowing-boats and hand-harpoons. One does not very often find
that method in use in this age of whaling-steamers and shell-cannons.
But if there was traffic on the roads, the bay, generally crowded
with oyster-fishers, was the more empty. The oysters are small, but
very delicious, and for ten pesos you get a good bagful. Every month
millions of them are exported to Valparaiso; on arrival there they are
not so good, but certainly much more expensive. When I told a Chilote
how much we pay for oysters in Sweden he shook his head, laughed, and
put on a very doubtful air.
We returned by moonlight; it was low tide, and without any obstacle we
could gallop along over the wet, glistening beach, and were soon back
in our modest quarters.
It is a laborious matter to penetrate into the virgin interior of
Chiloé. As we were anxious to see the primeval forest we were glad to
accept an invitation to visit a settlement on Rio Pudeto; the owner was
to take us there on his steam-launch. The day fixed for the excursion
came with fine weather. Opposite Chiloé, on the other side of the Gulf
of Corcovado, the coast lay absolutely clear, presenting one of the
most beautiful pictures I ever beheld. High above the dark belt of
forest the long row of giant volcanoes, Osorno, Calbuco, Huequi, Yate,
Minchinmahuida, raise their snow-clad crowns. The landscape round the
mouth of Pudeto is also worthy of attention. The entrance is about half
a mile wide; the shores are muddy, and large herds of flamingoes walk
solemnly round poking with their beaks after food; when we approach
they take to flight all together, sail away like a pink cloud, and
alight again with flapping wings, which flash black and crimson.
The tides reach far up the river several miles inland, and at the
entrance there is a current of some knots. It was with a favouring
tide and at the speed of a racer that we approached the low wooden
bridge across the broad water. The space between the pillars is small,
and without a warning our noble craft was thrown against one of them;
the gunwale got stove in, and there we lay as though nailed to the
pier. There was no choice but to wait with patience till the current
should turn. However, it is not so easy to be patient when one is half
starved, and we had slipped away without any breakfast and carried
no provisions. Not until the afternoon did we manage to get off, and
steamed peacefully up the river, now a narrow channel of open water,
winding between wide-stretching banks of reeds. In the twilight all
details were soon obliterated, the sky glowed with the most beautiful
colours, and a white fog settled down over the yellow swamps. It was
pitch-dark when at last we groped our way to the half-built house,
where a party of friendly grinning Chilotes took us in. Finally, at
nine o’clock dinner was ready, but it consisted almost exclusively of
potatoes. Never before in my life did I eat so much of this wholesome
root. Chiloé and potatoes--these two ideas are indissolubly linked
together in my mind. It is one of the native countries of _Solanum
tuberosum_, and perhaps it is still possible to find wild specimens in
the coast region. Large quantities are exported, and I daresay more
than a hundred different varieties are cultivated on the island, each
with a different name.
In a dark closet Halle and I got a bed each, but in spite of being
tired we did not sleep much, for our bedfellows were far too numerous
and too lively.
The next day we went into the forest. It was of the agreeable variety
that one finds on sandy and comparatively dry soil. It was the middle
of winter, but everything was fresh and green; nothing reminded us
of death or rest; even flowers were to be seen. High above us the
heads of the trees closed over, and a dull, half-mysterious light
filtered through the dense foliage. What a difference between this
forest and the one in the Patagonian Channels! Variety instead of
monotony, trees of very large dimensions and of many kinds hitherto
unknown to me filling the air with strong aromatic scent. Ferns of all
sizes and shapes clothe the trunks, a large _Rhodostachys bicolor_
(_Bromeliacea_) sits high up on the branches, and thick-stemmed
creepers climb towards the sky, where bright-coloured bunches of
flowers peep out of green clusters. In the brushwood below several old
friends reappear, but also new ones, _Berberis Darwinii_ and other
armed enemies of the explorer, large miniature forests of bamboo
(_Chusquea colihue_), with yellowish-green, polished stems. Out in the
open we find the _quila_ (_Chusquea quila_), tough, rough, and prickly,
but for all its disagreeable characteristics an important winter food
for cattle. All was silent but for the song of some smaller birds. In
vain we hoped that the pretty little _pudú_, the deer of Chiloé, would
turn up. In old times guanaco and huemul are said to have lived here,
but they must have disappeared long ago.
We returned overland to Ancud, following the highway from Castro. The
ill-famed weather was still nice, and round the dirty huts children and
a motley company of animals swarmed. Never a border, a flower in the
window or a curtain, nowhere an effort at making the home comfortable.
The Chilote does not seem to have any appreciation of things of that
sort. The nearer we came to the town the more people we met on the
road: bullock-carts of the characteristic type, with wheels of one
solid wooden block and a wooden shaft, toil their way slowly through
the stiff clay; loaded with all sorts of parcels, an old woman comes
riding on a small, shaggy horse; a white-bearded old fellow hobbles
barefoot in the mud, tenderly embracing a bottle recently acquired in
the town.
On our arrival we got important news: the Government steamer _Valdivia_
was in! And smeared with clay high up on my thighs, and equipped in
all the elegance characteristic of the tramp, I had to receive a visit
from the commander, who presented himself to put the steamer at our
disposal. In order to survey a larger stretch round the Corcovado
Gulf we had asked the Government to help us; with the answer from
Valparaiso in my hand I turned to Commodore K. Maldonado, well known
for geographical explorations of the Chilean coasts. He was stationed
in Puerto Montt, and had two steamers there for nautical surveying
purposes. He answered immediately by sending us the _Valdivia_. The
next morning, July 18, we steered out of the bay--by the way, a rather
bad harbour--passed the whirlpools of Canal Chacao, and thence followed
the west coast, where civilization has set its stamp everywhere. On the
evening of the following day we arrived at Castro, and there we found
the _Toro_ before us. That was good luck, our first task being to find
that steamer and go aboard her, because the _Valdivia_ was not fit for
the rather dangerous waters we were to visit. Our new steamer wanted a
day to coal and provision, which gave us a good opportunity to have a
look at the town, a title with which the place is honoured. Castro
is, however, a historic place. Founded in 1567, it remained the capital
of Chiloé until 1768, and has a big church and a convent to remind it
of past, glorious days. Otherwise it makes a miserable impression,
with its ruinous houses and wretched streets, where the wayfarer finds
many dangerous pitfalls. I must recommend one of the night _cafés_.
We entered on an earthen floor, sat down on a filthy bench by the
traditional fire-pan, and a roughly used Chilote woman with a baby at
the breast served us with some very doubtful, poisonous mixtures. Soon
a rotund old woman came in, took a glass with us, and put life into the
conversation. They knew, of course, who we were; gossip is not at all
lacking in Castro.
[Illustration: THE FAMOUS CORCOVADO.]
Under the command of Captain J. E. Merino, the _Toro_ left Castro on
July 21, and after a short visit to Quellon we arrived at San Pedro
Island, at the south-eastern corner of Chiloé. This place is not
inhabited, but we found some Chilotes there busy cutting down big
trees. Two of them came on board in the evening. The weather had been
tolerably good, but showed signs of getting bad, and probably we should
have stopped where we were, waiting till it had settled again, if the
two Chilotes had not prophesied a fine day for our visit to the Isle of
Huafo, far away out in the open sea.
It blew hard north when we left the cove and the rain poured down.
Enormous waves rose high above the little steamer, which is smaller
even than the _Huemul_; the wind increased, a fog came on, and after
a short consultation we resolved to seek shelter in the only place
available, the Huapiquilan Islands. Not one of the officers had ever
visited these remote islands, and I daresay the occasion to make their
acquaintance was not very well chosen--had there been any choice!
Without adventure we managed to get in between them, and found the
necessary shelter from the storm, that now raged with full force. The
next morning we still had a gale of wind, but not so bad as the day
before, and we resolved to try to reach Huafo. Instantly a heavy sea
met us, and as soon as we lost the shelter of land we got as much as
we could stand. It was a grand sight. We were half drowned in floods
of water, and the port lifeboat was very nearly carried away by a
tremendous wave. We had hard work to stand upright on deck, clinging to
the irons of the bridge. The gunwales were under water all the time;
a lot of things on deck broke loose and danced round with the eddying
waters. When we reached Samuel Cove, the only--and hardly useful--berth
on the island, the wind had increased still more; later we were told
that the anemometer on the lighthouse had indicated 114 feet per sec.
It was high time for us to get shelter; but do not think that for this
reason we got a calm night! The small, open bay is full of shoals, and
there is no room to swing; but with two anchors down and a thick hawser
round some big trees on the shore we slept tolerably well in spite of
the considerable motion. Next day the storm continued, and we landed in
the surf at the mouth of a stream, along which we wanted to penetrate
into the virgin forest. Not very often have I seen such luxuriance
in a temperate climate. Mosses appeared in incredible quantities,
the ferns had stems of a man’s height, bamboo surrounded us in all
directions. The foliage glittered with moisture, the moss-carpet was
like a swamp, and we soon became drenched to the skin. Showers of rain
or hail completed the situation.
On board the crew had been collecting sea-urchins, and at dinner
we made a feast off these delicacies, which are highly appreciated
in Chile. In the alimentary canal of the sea-urchin a rather large
parasitic crustacean often takes up its quarters, thus leading a most
comfortable life. This animal is considered extremely delicious, and
is eaten alive and kicking. I ate one once, but never again! It had a
horrible taste, and besides was really unpleasant to have to do with,
being about an inch and a half broad.
The following day the weather had settled somewhat; we resolved to try
the lighthouse, which is situated high up on a precipitous cliff. We
brought provisions and the mail, which were landed in a nasty surf.
Outside the sea was still very heavy, and we anchored in a shallow bay,
where the motion would allow us to have our luncheon. From the ship we
got sight of some white spots moving along the beach; they were wild
dogs of a kind that has lived on this island for centuries. They are
about the size of a setter, have long hair, and are dirty white in
colour. They are very shy. Probably they live on birds and their eggs,
but are said also to eat shellfish.
It was already three o’clock before we could weigh again in order to
go back to Huapiquilan. The sky in the south-west looked threatening,
but we hoped to get out, in spite of the big sea reducing our speed
considerably. But before we had time to think the gale came rushing
on, a raging wind with squalls of hail, wrapping us in an impenetrable
haze. It was getting dark, the sky was black as soot, and with forced
speed, as much as the boiler could stand, we made for the harbour.
Then came a squall heavier than the rest, the _Toro_ trembled under
the frightful blow, giant hailstones whipped our face and made it
hardly possible to keep our eyes open, darkness hid everything. Some
thrilling seconds ensued. We were amidst the reefs--but the fog lifted
for a moment, giving us time enough to rush through the narrow gap, the
entrance to the berth. We were not five minutes too soon; night had
overtaken us!
Between sunken rocks, over which the sea broke into pillars of foam, we
headed for San Pedro again on July 27. I intended to make an excursion
in the forest, and I made the captain and a young lieutenant come
with me, promising them an experience that might prove new to them.
I myself was prepared for whatever should come--for Darwin in his
journals has erected an epitaph over San Pedro forest which is not
likely to be misunderstood. We had to climb a very steep slope. The
fallen trees do not decay very rapidly, but form immense barricades,
especially round the numerous streams; as usual they are enveloped in
a soaked moss-carpet, and mosses also hang down in long festoons from
the branches and wash your face. We seldom put our feet on the ground,
but climbed like monkeys from one trunk to the next, balancing over
the abyss. Deep down, as deep as 20 feet below, we caught sight of a
muddy, reddish clay, with which we now and then had to make closer
acquaintance as a log suddenly broke and we were sent down headlong,
only to gain the lofty path once more by creeping and crawling on
hands and knees. A hatchet was kept going cutting the innumerable
creepers which caught arms and legs, and our perseverance was put to a
protracted test. Frequent squalls enlivened our adventures. The poor
lieutenant had to be left behind quite exhausted; we rested a few
minutes and found new strength in some cold meat and a piece of bread,
and then took up the battle again. After a strenuous climb on our hands
and knees we gained a ridge, whence I had hoped to get a good view of
the island, but alas! there was another valley in front of us, and
behind it the next ridge. My comrades were not very anxious to go any
further, but as I insisted on it they followed. The valley swallowed us
up, and we reached the other side, and came out of the high forest and
into a new kind of vegetation, that is called by the natives _tepual_,
a tremendous hedge. Every time we came to a clear space we had to
stop to breathe. On the top of this ridge were extensive swamps with
scattered cypresses (_Libocedrus tetragona_) with the _tepú_ (_Tepualia
stipularis_). We had gained a height of 1600 feet, more or less, snow
was falling thickly, and it was late enough to make us turn back. Half
unrecognizable under the mud, with scratched faces and hands and our
clothes torn to rags, we reached the beach once more. The captain had
hardly any trousers left--but certainly a naval officer’s uniform was
not made for the forest of San Pedro.
In order to cross the gulf we first had to visit Quellon to coal.
There is a sawmill there, and the company’s steamer was in. We found
the captain to be a Swede, Mr. T. Landgren, who had also camped with
Captain Merino on one of the Chilean men-of-war; he was one of the
Swedes sent out at the request of the Chilean Government to serve as
_pilotos_ in the navy, which he had left to enter into private service.
He was not a little astonished to meet countrymen here, and we rightly
celebrated the occasion with a big dinner on board his vessel.
As Halle wanted to visit Queilen for geological investigations we also
spent one day at that place. The small idyllic village, once called
“the end of Christianity,” has a large wooden church and a square
_plaza_, where fat pigs had made themselves comfortable in the green
grass.
The last day of July came bright and frosty, the air was clear, and we
crossed the gulf, steaming for Mount Corcovado, “el famoso,” as this
old volcano is sometimes styled. Few summits are more imposing than
this one, with its precipitous peak shining like snow-white enamel
against the blue background. We wanted to land at the foot, but found
this easier said than done. The beach falls off at a rather sharp angle
and the surf is strong enough to play with the coarse shingle; in our
little yawl we could not venture to approach. Fortunately a small
river flows out close by, and as the sea did not break on the barrier
at its mouth we went in with a rush on a wave and stepped on shore.
The _Toro_ looked for an anchorage here, but did not find any, and we
had to steam up to the entrance of the large Yelcho river, where there
is good shelter behind an island. The place was inhabited, a company
for a combined sawmill industry and colonization enterprise having its
headquarters there.
At the river some years ago a Chilean surveying party had its station,
and a road was said to follow the shore inland. Of course we wanted
to make use of this, and started early the next day in the settled
belief of being able to walk on a road. After a while we found it,
broad enough for a bullock-cart--but the joy did not last long. A few
hundred yards and the noble highway dwindled suddenly into a narrow
path, from which only the worst obstacles had been removed! The forest
is so swampy that one cannot walk there during the rainy season, and
therefore the road is plastered with logs sometimes right across, when
you jump from one to the next, sometimes longitudinally, and then you
have to balance--generally there is only _one_ log. Some places were
quite dreadful; the logs were gone, and we sank down knee-deep at once;
others were transformed into bottomless lagoons where we had to stop
to pick our way. But as the day passed we grew more skilful in keeping
our balance than we had ever been in our lives before. At last the path
disappeared in a bamboo thicket; probably nobody had been here for many
years. We crawled through, found the path again, and went down to the
river, which is one of the largest in West Patagonia. We returned in
the twilight with a good lot of botanical collections, took the last
barricade, and came down to the colony.
From Yelcho we went to the beautiful Reñihue Fiord, and thence returned
to Castro, where my comrades stopped in order to ride to Ancud; forced
by circumstances, I returned there without delay, and despatched the
_Toro_. Few of our excursions have left such agreeable memories as
this one with the naval officers, who were always ready to render
every service possible. We took farewell of them as of old friends,
soon found but never forgotten. On August 10 we went on board the
_Vestfold_, passing Ancud on the way to Valparaiso.
CHAPTER VIII
IN THE HEART OF CHILE
During the following weeks we got an opportunity of seeing quite new
features of Chile. Hitherto we had almost exclusively travelled in
parts where civilization had not reached or was quite new--the big
island of Chiloé excepted; but the difference between the poor places
there and the towns we now visited was certainly enormous.
The more important towns are generally situated on the coast or very
near it, and sometimes so close that only a few hours’ journey by
steamer separates them. Most of them do not offer much of interest to
a travelling European; they do not afford any historical memories or
examples of art and architecture, and they are not the right places if
one wishes to see Chilean customs. On board the _Vestfold_ we passed
several towns. Already elsewhere I have mentioned that we visited
Valdivia, with its port, Corral. The last-named little town has a very
picturesque situation, and can boast of some ruins of the Spanish
fortress. Industry is beginning to flourish; a Norwegian whaling
company has a station there, and a French syndicate was just building
large electric furnaces to melt down the Chilean iron ores. Valdivia,
situated at some distance from the coast, on the Calle-calle river,
is a German town. Everywhere you met German faces, German signboards
and placards alongside the Spanish. There is a large German school, a
church and various _Vereine_, large shoe-factories, and, of course,
breweries. It gives an impression of a rapidly increasing community.
After the great fire last year a large part of the town will be rebuilt
on a much grander scale than before. But Valdivia is especially
famous for its streets. Situated in one of the rainiest parts of
Chile, surrounded by luxuriant forests, the town literally drips with
moisture, and the streets have hardly passed the state of the forest
soil. One can only cross at certain places, where wooden causeways are
laid, and we saw the horses wade up to their bellies in the mud, the
wheels of the carts almost disappearing.
In Coronel our expedition divided again. Halle was kindly taken care of
by the Swedish Vice-Consul, Mr. G. Granfelt, and during the following
weeks dedicated himself to a geological survey of the interesting
coal-mines in the province of Arauco; he made his headquarters in
Coronel, Lota, and Lebu, and obtained very valuable results. Certainly
all of us took the chance of visiting the famous park in Lota. This,
as well as a part of the town itself and the coal-mines, are the
property of the family Cousiño. Unfortunately, the park is not as
well kept as it used to be, and is also spoilt by a palace with four
façades in four different styles, and by dozens of spurious statues of
a very suspiciously German origin. From Lota, Quensel and I went to
Concepción, a larger town of pure European stamp, and from there by
electric tramway to its port, Talcahuano, the naval port of Chile,
and the only good harbour north of Chiloé. There we went on board the
_Vestfold_ once more. On August 14 Valparaiso spread out over the
narrow beach, and, climbing high up on the many hills behind, lay
before us, and between the hundreds of steamers and sailing-vessels we
were conducted to an anchorage.
[Illustration: VALDIVIA.]
[Illustration: HARBOUR AT VALPARAISO.]
The principal reason for our visit here was that we intended to make an
excursion to the Juan Fernandez Islands, which we accomplished between
August 20 and 31. We had prepared it long before, and Captain Löwenborg
pleaded our case so well that Admiral Montt put at our disposal the
large and comfortable transport vessel the _Casma_. Before the trip
was undertaken, and also after our return, we found ample time to see
both Valparaiso and Santiago, with their scientific institutes, and
also to make a couple of longer excursions. In 1906, the year of the
great earthquake, Valparaiso was on every one’s tongue. Two years had
elapsed since that tremendous catastrophe, but numerous traces were
still left, especially as the authorities have seized the opportunity
partly to re-plan the town, which somewhat delayed the rebuilding of
waste streets. Everywhere, even in the blocks that had suffered but
little, one could discover filled-up cracks in the walls. In Valparaiso
several Swedes live, but only in Santiago could one speak of a real
Swedish colony. It counts some very prominent members. I need only
mention a couple of the most able officers in the army, Colonel Ekdahl
and Lieutenant-Colonel Schönmeyr, or the director of gymnastics, Mr. J.
Billing, late lieutenant in the Swedish army. The reception given to
us by our countrymen in Santiago will always remain one of the most
agreeable memories of our journey.
Santiago is famous for its situation at the foot of the Andes. I
daresay there is nothing in the world like its racecourse, with snowy
peaks and crests many thousand feet high as decoration. I am afraid,
however, that the fine view does not account for the enormous number of
people there.
Nature in Central Chile is truly different from all we had seen before
of that country. The climate is warm and dry, even on the coast; only
in the valleys of the coast cordillera is there forest, formed by a
number of fine trees, most of which I had not met with before. On the
plateaus and ridges the reddish soil shines through, and with its
peculiar plants, amongst them the large pillar-cactus (_Cereus_), it
gives the impression of a semi-desert. One ought to see, as we did,
these parts in springtime, when beautiful lilies, orchids, &c., adorn
the earth. With the approach of summer they go to sleep.
Between Valparaiso and Santiago one passes one of the sources of wealth
in Chile, the central valley between the two mountain ranges--vast
prairies, thousands of cattle and large vineyards everywhere. Through
the kindness of the Transandino Railway Company we visited the
much-spoken-of tunnel joining Chile and Argentina, and at the same
time a grand mountain district. The railway starts from the small
town Los Andes. Here we have a typical Chilean country town, with low
white, pink, or light blue buildings of one storey, mostly not very
well kept, long brown earthen walls, broken and picturesque--how
well the flowering peach-trees stand out against the dark clay! The
sun scorches, there are clouds of thick brown dust over the streets,
covering the willows and their opening buds, marring the finery of
the horsemen. It is _dia de fiesta_, the birthday of the Holy Virgin;
dark-faced Don Juans, with trappings and enormous spurs of silver,
embroidered leggings and many-coloured, homespun poncho, gallop towards
the garlanded triumphal arches forming a walk up to the church. Evening
steals upon Los Andes, life dozes off, only now and then the faint
notes of a guitar reach us. The sun sinks, the mountains glow in the
last beams, then the outlines fade away, snow-patches and bare rock
melt together into a blue haze and darken to deep night. The moon
rises, drowning the peach-blossom in floods of silver, everything dusty
and ugly disappears in the soft lustre. But a strenuous day is in store
for us, and we are forced regretfully to go to sleep.
The train winds up the valley of Aconcagua, lined with gay groves,
adorned by many flowers; the river sinks deeper and deeper, the air
grows thin, pure, and cool. The rack commences, higher and higher we
rise. In Juncal our special train was stopped. The line was ready for
another nine and a half miles, but as work was going on in two of
the thirteen tunnels on this stretch we had to mount the mules kept
in readiness for us. Besides the guide, Mr. Curtis, whom the company
had sent with us, we got an additional member for our party, the
police-sergeant in Juncal; the road was not considered safe just then,
and the police wanted to be at hand in case anything should happen.
We rose in an eternal zigzag line; in all directions we enjoyed grand
scenery, but Nature was still in the grip of winter. At some distance
we passed Laguna del Inca, one of the most beautiful mountain lakes I
ever saw, and late in the evening we arrived at the entrance of the
tunnel, Caracoles, where we were invited to dinner by the English
engineer; we had a merry time, and from the gramophone horn Melba and
Caruso competed for our favour.
Each of us got on a pair of rubber boots and had a lamp to carry, and
we splashed into the tunnel, where work was going on day and night,
and where we got an idea of how a tunnel is made. The total length,
1·9 miles, was evidently not very considerable, but the loose quality
of the rock made work very difficult. At the time of our visit a thick
wall still separated the two republics; last year, however, the first
train passed under the enormous mass of the Andes. We were glad to get
out into the cold night air once more, and sit down and enjoy some
whisky and a pipe of tobacco.
Life among the labourers and the scum of mankind seeking its way
across the Uspallata pass is rather wild. A few weeks before our
arrival eleven men left Caracoles to cross to the Argentine side.
They never got there. They appeared, however, when the snow melted;
for every spring, when the road across is put in order, the bodies
of those who have disappeared during the winter are found, frozen to
ice, partly robbed of their clothes, sometimes with the pockets turned
inside out--murdered, robbed, and simply left. The soil of that pass
is literally soaked with the blood of the victims of assassins and
highwaymen.
When traffic is open it is no risk for the railway passengers to
cross. More than 30 feet of snow have been recorded near the pass, and
during the winter the railway has not hitherto been used. Traffic had
not begun, the road lay partly under snow and ice, but with a guide
as excellent as ours we did not hesitate to cross. We had a splendid
morning on September 10. The ground was frozen hard, the ice jingled
like broken glass under the hoofs of our mules. With uncommon agility
they passed the most dangerous places, of which there was no lack. The
sergeant made a halt at a small stone house he wanted to inspect, took
his carbine with the air of an official, and entered, but was soon
back, there being no traces of the rascals he was looking for. The thin
air made us feel a slight pressure across the temples, but otherwise
it did not affect us. We reached the pass, _la cumbre_, on a height
of 13,000 feet, thus having a good deal of our globe under our feet.
Some few steps from us is the gigantic statue of Christ, erected as
a monument to the eternal peace between the two republics, but not a
living soul, not a blade of grass, only rock and snow.
With legs stiff, so that the loose sand whirled round them, our mules
slide down the most westerly slopes of Argentina, and we reached Las
Cuevas, the entrance to the tunnel on the Argentine side. From there
we continued our ride and passed the valley where Aconcagua, hitherto
regarded as the highest mountain in America, makes the background.
Huascarán is now said to compete for the honour, but as the proofs are
not sufficient we took off our caps and bowed to his Alpine majesty.
In Baño del Inca, where one has to cross the famous natural bridge, we
tried the sulphur baths; no doubt we were the very first visitors that
year. We turned round and slept in Las Cuevas, and the next morning Mr.
Curtis and I crossed to Chile again, Quensel waiting till the next day.
Our journey from Caracoles to Los Andes was rather original; with fine
disdain for the train, we used a trolley. Down we went, sometimes at
a breakneck speed, but the intense feeling of freedom made us forget
the risk. The line for long stretches runs on narrow shelves, cut in
the steep mountain-sides; derailment would mean instantaneous death.
Further down we were very nearly run over by a train, and just had time
to throw ourselves and the trolley off the rail. Situations rapidly
change in this world: in the morning we experienced a temperature of
several degrees below freezing-point on the high crests of the desolate
Cordillera; at night that same day we were enjoying the tepid air
between the park trees in a big city.
From another excursion to the coast at Zapallar, north of Valparaiso,
I returned just in time to take part in the great national feast, from
September 18 to 20, the anniversary of the Declaration of Independence,
1810. It is a real people’s feast, celebrated with the same enthusiasm
by all classes of society. Aristocracy has its processions, _Te Deum_,
races, and military parades, the people dance _la cueca_ and drink
_chicha_ in the parks all night long. I could not deny that the
air itself was really filled with a feeling of festivity, the whole
country being decorated with banners of all colours, garlands, and
triumphal arches, while on the railway the engines were adorned with
green leaves, flowers, and flags, and everywhere were heard patriotic
speeches and the playing of bands. And for three whole days no one who
is not forced to does any work.
When Halle had finished his work he joined us in Santiago, and,
using the great central railway, running longitudinally through the
Valle Central, we went to Valdivia once more. In Corral we took a
passenger steamer; it was the _Teno_, with a Swede, Mr. Boklund, as
captain--another late _piloto_, who had left the navy after some years’
service. Again we visited Ancud, said good-bye to all our friends
there, took on board our equipment, and crossed the gulf to Puerto
Montt, where we were now going to prepare the expedition overland
through the whole of Patagonia.
CHAPTER IX
ROBINSON CRUSOE’S ISLAND
Far out in the Pacific Ocean, 360 nautical miles west of Valparaiso,
lies a small island, called Juan Fernandez, or Masatierra (_i.e._,
Nearer Land); another 96 miles further out we find a second rocky
islet, bearing the name of Masafuera (= Further Away); and at the
west end of Masatierra a much smaller islet, Santa Clara, rises out
of the breakers. These three islands together form the Juan Fernandez
group. From the first moment I got to know anything about the nature
and plant-life of this highly remarkable place and saw a photograph
of Masatierra, I had longed to go there--without any hope whatever
of getting nearer to it than dreaming of that scientist’s paradise.
When, in 1907, I left Sweden on my second long journey I had not the
slightest idea that one year later I should in fact land on Juan
Fernandez. Through the valuable assistance of the Chilean authorities
we had been able to save much time, new schemes arose, and the idea
of being able to realize my dream of bygone days made my heart beat
with expectation. Negotiations were opened, with the result already
mentioned above.
The _Casma_ was a good vessel of 4000 tons and very spacious; saloons
and cabins were large and comfortable. Her commander was Captain F.
Dublé, of the Chilean navy; we shall never forget his kindness and the
courtesy of his officers.
At daybreak on August 22 a sailor came into my cabin to announce that
Masatierra had been sighted. We came on the bridge in haste, anxious
to behold the wonderland. At a distance it looked like any other wild,
storm-beaten, rocky island, and I cannot say that this impression
weakened as we approached. The sky-high peaks, the valleys with
their precipitous slopes, the breakers rolling in on broken cliffs,
everything gave an almost repulsive impression of desolation. However,
it soon greatly modified as we came into the open harbour, Cumberland
Bay, where bright green patches showed up on the slopes interspersed
with patches of the naked red soil, where dark forests stretched
high up in the valleys and over the ridges, and where a cluster of
small wooden huts, here and there with a piece of garden, showed that
here also the human race had found means of subsistence, perhaps of
happiness.
We set our foot on the shore of a legendary island. Dear reader, do
you remember how the wonderful fortunes and adventures of Robinson
Crusoe interested you, when you were a small boy or girl and went to
the infant school? Did you not dream that it rained drops “large as
pigeon’s eggs,” or that you discovered on the sandy sea-shore those
footprints making your blood curdle with terror? How the tale of
Robinson excited the imagination at the same time that it taught us so
many useful things!
Perhaps many of us would feel disappointment when landed on Robinson’s
island. Where is the tropical luxuriance, where are the parrots,
monkeys, and tortoises, where the descendants of Friday’s people?
Well, certainly Defoe let fancy run away with him; he has adorned his
island with all the richness of the tropics, and makes his hero land
there under the most dramatic circumstances. But I myself did not think
of the difference between truth and fiction; the former seemed to me
wonderful enough, and I was seized by a feeling of pure joy when I
thought that I was really here, walking about on that soil, and able to
live through the favourite book of early childhood again.
Masatierra is a steep, rocky island, with an area of only 38 square
miles. When you are down at the harbour the chances for excursions
seem rather limited, for the slopes rise high and steep all round. In
reality one stands on the bottom of an old volcano, surrounded by its
semicircular wall, out of which some parts, such as the precipitous
Pico Central and the Yunque (certainly deserving its name, “The
Anvil”), rise more distinctly. The last one, with a height of 3040
feet, is the highest summit. Thanks to some narrow paths, running in
zigzag, it is possible to get out of the crater and cross the ridges,
and thus reach the bays on both sides. Many slopes, however, are not
possible to climb, and the name of one of the crests, Salsipuedes,
which means “try to get out if you can,” reminds one of this.
The spot to which the stranger first makes his way is Portezuelo de
Villagra, a sharp gap in the southern ridge, where Robinson is said
to have climbed to look out over the ocean. Following the dirty roads
between the houses, we ascend slowly till we come to the many-coloured,
steep slopes of volcanic tufas and the path disappears in a thicket of
maqui. The maqui (_Aristotelia_) has been imported from the continent
in late years, and this disagreeable tree is now spreading rapidly,
threatening the original vegetation with annihilation. However, it does
not reach very far, and we soon got rid of it. We now start to climb
the steep mountain-wall, where the path winds along in a very sharp
zigzag; one can sometimes jump down directly into one path from the
next above it.
It is time to have a look at the peculiar natural features round us.
From a botanical point of view Juan Fernandez is one of the world’s
most famous places. It is often the case that islands lying far away
from the great continents exhibit a marvellous animal and plant life,
containing genera and species not found elsewhere--endemic, as they are
called; in this respect Juan Fernandez is perhaps only surpassed by the
Sandwich Islands. About 65 per cent. of the total number of vascular
plants (phanerogams and ferns) are confined to that small group of
isles. It is as if one had been carried back to past geological
periods, as if one walked about in a living museum, crowded with rare
specimens. So many wonderful plants are brought together here on a
small area that one must touch them to realize that one does not dream.
Especially worthy of attention are the small, sparingly branched
trees with long, thin, more or less erect naked branches crowned by a
rosette of large, thin leaves. For the most part they are members of
the composite order, but other orders also have representatives. It is
besides a remarkable fact that this type of organization is found also
on other oceanic islands--the Canary Isles, for instance. The flora
is without doubt very old, of a tertiary origin or older, and must
have come from the South American continent, but for several reasons
disappeared to a great extent on the mainland. The ice age cannot have
had any influence of importance on Juan Fernandez.
In the narrow gorges (_quebradas_) that we pass there is a dense and
impenetrable primeval forest. It looks black-green, thanks to the dark
foliage of the endemic myrtle-tree, which we found in bud and flower
in spite of the early date of our visit. Above the other trees rises
the masterpiece of creation, _la chonta_, the endemic palm (_Juania
australis_). It is impossible not to caress the smooth green stem
as one tries to get a sight of its majestic head of large pinnate
leaves. Glorious it is, a true _princeps_ of the vegetable kingdom,
noble from top to root. Unfortunately it is only too popular. It is
persecuted with saw and hatchet, every ship brings away trunks and
young plants, and it has already been exterminated from all places
easy of access. The top is used as cabbage, the trunk is carved into
beautiful walking-sticks, and the young plants are put in the gardens
on the coast--in spite of the fact that we have sufficient proofs that
the chonta cannot grow on the mainland. In 1895 Professor Johow, of
Santiago, the most prominent specialist in the flora, proposed to the
authorities to protect the tree in question, and I was told that there
exists a law on the subject. However, nobody seems to take any notice
of such a trifle.
Creeping or winding plants are hardly met with, with the exception of
a few ferns. Arboreous ferns, together with chonta and sandal-wood,
have made the islands well known to non-scientists also. The fern flora
is really very rich; there are all types of growth, from the mighty
fern-trees, reminding one of mountain forests in the tropics, to the
wonderful members of genera such as _Hymenophyllum_ and _Trichomanes_,
thin as tissue-paper, or the creeper species adorning the trunks of the
trees. The ferns also, especially the arboreous, are the objects of a
reckless war of extermination; and our fellow travellers on the _Casma_
were not better than their predecessors, though I expostulated with
them on the matter every day. It hurt me to see one boat-load after the
other of precious plants taken on board the steamer, most of them only
to be wasted.
We have arrived at the _portezuelo_, or Selkirk’s Lookout, as this
picturesque spot is sometimes called. The trees are very low, or have
been replaced by strange shrubs mingled with the curious _pangue_
(_Gunnera peltæta_), and forming a very entangled mass. On a vertical
mountain-wall is the tablet erected in honour of the true Robinson, the
Scotch sailor Alexander Selkirk. The inscription runs as follows:
IN MEMORY OF
ALEXANDER SELKIRK,
Mariner,
A native of Largo in the county of
Fife, Scotland.
Who lived on this island in complete
solitude, for four years
and four months.
He was landed from the Cinque
Ports galley, 96 tons, 16 guns, a.d.
1704, and was taken off in the
Duke, privateer, 12th Feb. 1709.
He died lieutenant of H.M.S. Weymouth,
a.d. 1723, aged 47 years.
This tablet is erected
near Selkirk’s lookout by
Commodore Powell and the
officers of H.M.S. Topaze, a.d. 1868.
This is the historical basis of Defoe’s work. It may look somewhat
meagre, but one can understand that poor Selkirk had to work to
preserve his life. What a mental trial, not to hear a word spoken by
another, not to see a human soul for four years and four months! Thus
his fate was pretty adventurous even if told without embellishment. On
the other hand, he left his ship at his own request, discontented with
the life on board. Besides, he might have chosen a worse place. The
climate is very mild, it rains just enough, snow or frost is unknown. A
few plants are edible, and the goats, which were much more numerous in
Selkirk’s time than they are now, provided him with fresh meat.
[Illustration: ROBINSON’S LOOKOUT, WITH COMMEMORATIVE TABLET.]
Through a walk lined with marvellous trees and precious ferns we pass
the natural gate and are on the south side of the island. Down it goes,
almost as precipitous as on the other side. We have a magnificent view
of the coast and Santa Clara, where a tremendous surf roars. Soon we
came out of the forest, and continued on to the barren slopes near
the sea. The vegetation here is more like that of a steppe, with short
grass and some heath-plants; only along the streams is there a bright
green strip, a mosaic of gigantic pangue-leaves. And we bent the thick
stalks at the side and drank to the health of Masatierra and Robinson
and the whole world. There is only one way back, the way we had come;
it was getting dark and we hurried on through showers of rain; large
drops splashed on the heads of the rosette-trees, the soil emitted
strong, peculiar scents. The last part of the way we slid down in the
slippery clay.
Above I happened to mention the sandal-wood. The discovery of this
kind of wood, famous since the days of Solomon, on Juan Fernandez most
surely attracted notice. We have no reports of it previous to 1624,
when, according to Burney, L’Heremite reported sandal-trees in great
number. According to another authority ships used to visit the place
as early as 1664 to bring the valuable wood to the coast, where it was
highly appreciated. One did not think of preserving anything; a hundred
years later it was hardly possible to find a living tree, and in the
beginning of last century it was regarded as extinct. No botanist had
ever seen the leaves or flowers. Suddenly F. Philippi in Santiago got
some fresh twigs brought to him in 1888; he found them to belong to
the genus _Santalum_; the species being new, it received the name of
_S. fernandezianum_. The general interest in the tree was increased,
but nobody told where the branches came from; a living tree was still
unknown, Only in 1892 did Johow get news of one; a colonist had found
it in Puerto Ingles, high up in the valley. He was the first botanist
who saw this plant. It is easily understood that I was anxious to
become the second. How many people had looked for other specimens! All
their efforts were fruitless; as far as we knew Johow’s tree was the
very last. If it were still there!
The man who brought Johow to the spot still lived, and after we had
explained our purely scientific interest he promised to send his son
with us. It would have been more than uncertain for us alone to look
for a single tree in a valley clad with virgin forest.
It is possible to climb across the ridge that separates Cumberland
Bay from the English Harbour, but we preferred to go there with a
well-manned boat. The landing is, as in most places on the islands,
performed with some risk; one must jump just at the right moment, and
there has to be a good crew in the yawl, or the boat would be thrown
on the rocks and capsized. Perhaps I ought to mention that the place
in question only has the _name_ of a harbour. We walked up the valley
and made an ascent of the western side; the place is so steep that one
is forced to grasp the trees and shrubs to get a foothold. Our guide
stopped, looked round for a minute, down a few hundred yards, and we
had reached our destination. The last sandal-tree. Absolutely the last
descendant of _Santalum fernandezianum_. It is so queer to stand at the
death-bed of a species; probably we were the last scientists who saw
it living. We look at the old tree with a religious respect, touch the
stem and the firm, dark green leaves--it is not only an individual, it
is a species that is dying. It cannot last very long. There is only one
little branch left fresh and green; the others are dead. We cut a piece
to get specimens of the peculiar red, strongly scented wood. A photo
was taken, I made some observations on the place, and we said good-bye.
Should I happen to go there once more I shall not see the sandal-tree;
it will be dead and its body cut up into precious pieces--curiosities
taken away by every stranger.
In the evening we gathered in the cavern near the shore, Robinson’s
Grotto, as it is generally called. Maybe that Selkirk slept here
a couple of nights; we know that he did not take up his permanent
quarters in this place. The officers from the _Casma_ met us here,
bringing some dinner for us. How excellent it tasted in the spirit of
poetry lent by Robinson’s Grotto, after what in my journals is entitled
“the day of the sandal-tree”!
Early in the morning of August 26 we left Cumberland Bay, passed the
magnificent coast cliffs, especially noteworthy at Cape Salinas,
continued to the south-western promontory of the island, and anchored
in Bahia del Padre. All this coast is more or less difficult of
approach, and only in fine weather can one effect a landing. We had
enjoyed several days of calm, and were pretty sure of success. One of
the colonists, a Frenchman, accompanied us, bringing with him a small
flat-bottomed boat; without this a landing would not have been safe,
as the water is very shallow close to the cliff, where one has to
jump ashore. There is always a heavy surf. The excursion, as usual,
was a miniature Alpine tour. Round the coast grow fine seaweeds, and
there was a rich animal life, so that the result of our work turned
out very well. At nightfall we weighed anchor and made for Masafuera,
finding ourselves outside Quebrada de las Casas, the only anchorage,
at daybreak. Everybody on board looked forward to this visit with some
excitement; the shore there is a steep slope, with large boulders and a
heavy surf; several days may pass without a landing being possible, and
in any case one must be prepared to get wet. We had very good luck.
The topography of Masafuera is more peculiar still than that of
Masatierra. Its area is less--34 square miles--but the height is more
than double, for the summit rises to 6500 feet. Its shape is that of
a regular cone. The top is situated in the south-western quarter; the
north-western is occupied by a plateau, 3000 to 4500 feet high. Towards
the east a series of narrow gorges radiate like the ribs of a fan, of
which Quebrada de las Casas is the largest and the only one inhabited.
From our beach we had seen some houses; we did not take any notice
of them, but started to climb the mountain-side without delay. After
having crossed several forest-clad ravines, we found ourselves on the
plateau; the forest does not extend so far. Quensel had brought his
Winchester, and soon got a chance to shoot a fine buck. Wild goats were
numerous here.
[Illustration: VIEW FROM TOP OF MASAFUERA, SHOWING CANYONS.]
[Illustration: ROBINSON’S GROTTO.]
The most common tree here is a kind of myrtle; it only grows on this
island, and here takes the place of the myrtle of Masatierra. We thus
found the same state of things as Darwin so splendidly described on
the Galapagos Islands. The vegetation above the forest is of a very
remarkable appearance--ferns and more ferns everywhere, groves of
fern-trees, and a carpet of smaller species.
We had crossed the island and stood above the precipice. In the most
breakneck places goats climb with ease, leaving man behind. Below
our feet is a bank of clouds hiding the sea; only the roar from the
breakers reaches us. Suddenly the veil is torn asunder by a puff of
wind, and then, right below--the depth of the abyss is 4000 feet--lies
the ocean. Through the rents in the clouds we can see the white foam
dancing in across a sandbank, where some wreckage shows the fate of
a vessel that came too close. It is a striking sight of Nature’s
greatness, that stirs the soul and is engraved for ever in the memory.
Time and place are forgotten; but the sun sinks and it becomes
necessary to return to our ship.
As the weather continued good the _Casma_ could stop without risk--the
place is open to all winds--and I spent the next day making excursions
in two of the gorges, and Quensel walked round the island to the west
coast. The valleys are truly most remarkable, cut deep down 300 to
600 feet, and perhaps not more than 30 to 50 feet broad in the inner
part, with sheer walls, sometimes nearly parallel. One walks in a
natural alley, high above is a strip of the sky, and the subdued light
illuminates the green carpet on the rocky walls. Here and there a tree
is rooted in a cleft, but unfortunately frustrates every attempt to get
a specimen; large rosettes of light green pangue gleam on the narrow
shelves; the stream, nearly filling up the bottom of the valley,
chatters merrily, now and then forming a miniature waterfall. Yesterday
we saw the grand, to-day the pretty side of Masafuera scenery. Over
the desolate expanse eagles soar looking for prey; down here the
humming-birds shoot from flower to flower, flashing with metallic
splendour as they twist and turn. Calmness and peace reign; not a
breath of wind stirs the elegant runners of the ferns.
The next morning we were back in Cumberland Bay and made some short
excursions; unfortunately we could not stop longer, but had to go back
to Valparaiso. The voyage across causes much apprehension, as one can
get a heavy sea broadside on, but we did not feel much of it. On August
31 we were back again after a most interesting trip, which also gave
some very good results--among other things I discovered some plants on
the top of Masafuera well known in the south of Chile, but not to be
expected out here.
The Spanish navigator Juan Fernandez discovered the islands in 1563,
and was their first colonist. As we have seen, it was not long before
ships used to call for sandal-wood, and in the seventeenth century
Spain erected a small fortress in order to shut out the numerous
English buccaneers who had their headquarters in Cumberland Bay. An
earthquake in 1751 brought the fort and the small town also built there
to an untimely end. But the ruins are still left. Later the island was
used as a penal settlement; near the harbour are some caverns where the
prisoners lived. In our times the islands were opened to colonization.
On Masatierra a number of families lived, and a fishing company had
stations on both islands. Sheep, cattle, and horses ran about, greatly
to the damage of the vegetation. From an agricultural point of view
Masafuera--and perhaps also Masatierra--is of no importance. For the
development of Chile it is not of the slightest value that this strip
of land should be cultivated. The fishing industry is of much greater
account, especially the catching of lobsters. The giant Juan Fernandez
lobster (_Palinurus frontalis_), sometimes from 2 to 3 feet long, does
not live on the main coast of Chile, but is the more appreciated there.
On the occasion of our visit it was worth sixty cents when delivered
by the fishermen to the company; their agents get three pesos in
Valparaiso, and when it reached the table of the big restaurants it
fetched ten or even fifteen pesos for big specimens (at that time one
peso was about eightpence). I daresay the fishing was not managed in a
satisfactory way or it would have been a profitable industry; we were
told that the company was about to abandon the place. Because of the
quite unnecessary colonization the future of Masatierra, as seen from
a scientific point of view, looks very dark. But some time ago a still
greater danger threatened Masafuera. During our visit to Chile the
Government made preparations to establish another penal settlement on
that island. An official commission had been sent there, looked at the
place, and reported it as very fit for the purpose. Among the various
descriptions of labour to be imposed on the prisoners forest-cutting
was mentioned--the practically worthless, scientifically irreplaceable
endemic trees would be exterminated in the most brutal manner! The
least one can demand, now that the prison is an accomplished fact, is
that the members of that commission should spend the rest of their
lives on the island. Their sin is great enough to justify this.
It is evident that the preservation of natural beauty will appear a
strange idea to a people like the Chileans, who first of all must think
of the material development of their country, of the education of the
people, and other important questions; they have not been able yet to
give science the high place it occupies in the countries of the Old
World. But in this case there is no time to lose. The Juan Fernandez
Islands are of international interest; their destruction means
irreparable loss to the whole realm of science. The order of the day
ought to be: Away with the colonists! I can hardly imagine a more ideal
place for a biological station than this--the queen of an ocean. And at
the same time as plants and animals were being protected a profitable
fishing industry could be established, many times surpassing in value
agriculture or cattle-breeding. Several times I have pointed out these
facts to the great public, but all in vain. I daresay a true Chilean
does not know what love of Nature means. Perhaps he cannot help it, he
was born like that; nevertheless it is a pity.
Since this was written I have had news from Chile that the penal
settlement has not turned out very well and that the place is to be
abandoned. But do not believe that the island will be left alone. There
is another scheme: they are thinking of breeding sheep and cattle for
the wants of the army--a most noble pasturage they will get. Is it
possible? After what I have seen, anything is possible.
CHAPTER X
ACROSS THE ANDES INTO ARGENTINA
Before we undertook the journey to the Patagonian Channels we had
resolved to move our field of work to a more northerly latitude during
the rest of the winter, and I have already described the excursions
made between July and September 1908. Naturally we had also discussed
how we were to return south again, and the idea of proceeding
overland--_i.e._, going on horseback from Lake Nahuelhuapi to Punta
Arenas--had also suggested itself. We did not conceal from ourselves
that it would be a risky enterprise. When we left Sweden we were by
no means prepared for such an eventuality, and therefore had not even
studied what had been written describing that part of the country. This
lack could in part be supplied, but not completely, and we did not miss
any chance of getting information about Patagonia from persons who had
personal experience. As to the equipment suitable, the way of arranging
a caravan, and the technical side of the matter, Quensel had gained
very useful experience from his strenuous summer round Payne and Lake
Argentino. The financial difficulty was the worst to get over. We were
told we could not start with less than fifty horses--and I daresay
this was no exaggeration from a South American point of view. But we
could not dream of any such number; our money would not permit of our
buying more than ten or twelve altogether. Anyhow, we made up our minds
to risk it, hoping that by marching at moderate speed and resting the
horses every third or fourth day we should manage with the smaller
number. By the kindness of the Argentine and Chilean Governments, we
had received complete sets of the maps of the Boundary Commission,
and had had ample time to study them in all details. Unlike our
predecessors, we regarded guides as unnecessary; with a map and a good
compass one should certainly be able to get along everywhere, letting
common sense determine the details of the march. In general, fixed,
scientific ideas must lead us, and the usefulness of _vaqueanos_,
guides, who can never read a map, would most probably turn out to be
illusory. On the other hand it was necessary to get hold of a good and
strong all-round man to accompany us the whole time, as we did not want
always to be tied by all the regular daily routine work. It is not easy
here to light upon reliable people for such a purpose, and one ought
not to take anybody into one’s service without strong recommendations
from trustworthy persons. When we left Punta Arenas we had told Pagels
that we should perhaps send for him later on, and we never had cause to
regret that at last we resolved to do so. I telegraphed to him to join
our party in Puerto Montt or at Nahuelhuapi, and he declared himself
willing to come.
Briefly our plan ran as follows: We were to cross the Perez-Rosales
pass to Nahuelhuapi, and there complete our equipment, buy horses, &c.
Our way at first would lead along the mountain across the high pampas,
then run between the main range and the mesetas, across the transandine
valleys and close to the east end of the large lakes; on some of
them boat excursions would be undertaken. Everywhere we would avail
ourselves of all possible chances of penetrating westward into the
mountains. Our scientific purpose was to gain a series of geological
and phytogeographical observations along the mountains, as well as on
some sections across them to the Pacific Ocean. Before I invite the
reader to follow us across the frontier to the neighbouring republic, I
shall make some few remarks on the more important surveys made in the
interior of Patagonia.
The shipwreck of Camarga in the Magellan Straits in 1540, as well as
the unhappy result of Sarmiento’s colonizing enterprise in 1584, gave
birth to all sorts of stories. It was said that survivors of these
disasters had wandered into the interior of Patagonia, where they had
found immense treasures and established a settlement, which by-and-by
had developed into a flourishing city, mentioned in the tales as “la
Ciudad de los Césares,” the Town of the Emperors. No grounds whatever
for such a supposition existed, but that, of course, did not hinder
the place from becoming the chief attraction for a large number of
expeditions, which tried to penetrate into the mysteries of Patagonia,
and succeeded in doing so during the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries. Now and again a rumour cropped up of the enchanted city,
where the natives had prohibited the white men from going back to their
own countries, and even to-day there are ignorant people who still
believe it. I myself have met one fellow who was sure of the existence
of such a city--and he was an educated man.
In 1621 Captain Flores de León started with an expedition from Calbuco
(near Port Montt). He discovered the Perez-Rosales pass and reached
Nahuelhuapi, where he encountered numerous savage Indians. And probably
he is not the only one who made that journey at so early a date. Soon
the Jesuit mission on Chiloé tried to effect communication with the
east side of the Cordillera, and on one of his journeys Father Mascardi
founded a station on the shore of Nahuelhuapi in 1670. Under changing
fortunes it existed until 1717, when the Puelche Indians completely
destroyed it.
Investigations now ceased for a time, but at the end of the eighteenth
century we find new brave pioneers setting out, and in the south the
first expedition penetrated far inland. Antonio de Viedma in 1782
marched from San Julián, on the Atlantic coast, across the pampas to
the foot of the mountains, where he discovered the big lake now named
after him. We must skip some years to find any dates worthy of mention
in this brief summary. The glorious expeditions of the _Adventure_
and the _Beagle_, well known to all English readers, opened a new era
of modern scientific investigations, and Captain Fitzroy, accompanied
by Charles Darwin, in 1834 pulled up the Santa Cruz river. From the
point at which they were forced to return they beheld the depression
where Lake Argentino is situated; but not until 1867 was this big lake
discovered by the English engineer H. Gardiner.
R. A. Philippi, C. Fonck, and others in the fifties started to explore
the regions of Llanquihue and Nahuelhuapi, and in 1862 William Cox, an
ancestor of the Swedo-Chilean family Schönmeyr, made a famous journey
to Nahuelhuapi and went down the rapids of Rio Limay, till he got
shipwrecked and was made prisoner by the Indians. We owe him a debt
of gratitude for a great deal of information about the natives. Later
Captain G. Musters made prolonged journeys through the land of the
Tehuelches and rescued the knowledge of their habits and customs from
oblivion. However, large “white patches” still remained along the foot
of the Cordilleras.
The man who has gained the greatest merit for their exploration is Dr.
F. P. Moreno, late director of the museum in La Plata. In my opinion
his travels well match most of those made in our days, and if his name
is not so well known in Europe the fault is ours, not his. In the years
1875 to 1880 he crossed Patagonia in all directions, often amidst
great dangers; more than once he nearly lost his life. He and his
companions were the first to reach Nahuelhuapi from the east; together
with Moyano he discovered Rio de la Leona, the outlet of Lago Viedma in
Lago Argentino, and also the great Lake San Martín. Later he became the
leading spirit of the Argentine Boundary Commission, when a piece of
geographical work almost without parallel was performed. In 1880 Moyano
made an expedition from Santa Cruz along the valley of Rio Chico, and
thence to the north, and he was the first white man who beheld the vast
surface of Lake Buenos Aires. Another prominent Argentine explorer was
R. Lista.
Long before these important events, Argentina as well as Chile had
begun to think of expansion, Argentina towards Patagonia, the cramped
Chile through the transandine valleys out over the east slopes of the
mountains. Thus a boundary dispute arose, carried on with great heat
by both parties. It was deemed to have been brought to an end by the
treaty of 1881, which settled that the Cordillera should constitute
the boundary, and thus the ground for dispute seemed to be removed.
Commissions were established to regulate the matter, but soon all
negotiations were broken off; a new controversy had arisen. It was
found that for long distances the water-parting did not coincide
with the highest mountain-ridges, but lay east of it, and the
Chileans considered that the water-divide ought to be the frontier,
the Argentines that only the highest peaks and crests would make a
just and natural boundary. The question was of great importance,
as the dispute involved the fertile subandine valleys, which with
every reason were considered a good field for future colonization.
However, matters could not be settled as long as the region was not
mapped, and in the nineties a fine piece of work was accomplished,
in which several Scandinavians also took part as cartographers.
The Argentine exploration resulted in a large work, accompanied by
splendid photographs and numerous maps. We could see now how much was
still left to be discovered: large lake-basins, such as Fontana-La
Plata, Belgrano-Azara-Nansen, Pueyrredon (Cochrane)-Posadas, the last
one as late as in 1898. Sometimes naturalists also accompanied the
expeditions. From the Chilean side efforts were made to start from
the fiords on the Pacific coast and penetrate up the rivers through
the mountains to the sources--enterprises associated with tremendous
difficulties. Dr. Steffen, the well-known geographer, surveyed the
river systems of Puelo-Manso, Palena-Carrenleufú, Cisnes, Aysen and
Baker, Dr. Krüger those of Reñihue and the numerous lakes east of it,
Yelcho-Futaleufú and Corcovado. The data having been gathered, the
question was submitted to the award of King Edward VII., in order to
prevent a terrible war. The King sent a commission under the command
of Colonel Sir Thomas Holdich, and in November 1902 the decision was
published and the boundary was settled. After this combined work was
undertaken to erect the marks, new geographical results being gained.
The Chilean Government published a work in several parts with numerous
maps, and the keystone was laid in 1908, when the Argentine description
of the demarcations appeared.
Private expeditions had also operated in Patagonia during this time.
Dr. Hatcher with the Princeton University Expedition occupied himself
in the interior of South Patagonia, discovered Rio Mayer, the outlet of
the Belgrano system, and did important geological work. The geologists
Hauthal and Roth made extensive surveys, the former principally in
the southernmost part of the country, also visited by the Swedish
expedition of 1896-97. In 1903 Mr. A. Thesleff, a Finnish gentleman,
crossed Patagonia in order to look for land fit for cultivation;
with him went the Swedish botanist P. Dusén, who brought home large
collections from the region between Santa Cruz and the lakes San Martín
and Viedma. Many smaller journeys are worthy of notice, but I must
confine myself to those already mentioned. There was still, however, a
vast field for scientific work.
The winter was coming to an end. In the forests round Reloncaví the
trees opened their flower-buds; in Puerto Montt we enjoyed the first
real spring days. We were now more busy than ever, the question being
to choose a complete but light equipment, and to pack the rest and the
winter collections and send all together to Punta Arenas. Our modest
resources were severely strained buying horse-gear, clothes, and a lot
of small things.
The last nails were driven into the boxes, which were sent down to
a shed to wait for the next steamer, and with a ridiculously small
amount of luggage we started for Puerto Varas at the Lago Llanquihue
on October 6. One is able to drive there very comfortably, for we had
not yet said good-bye to civilization, and were ordinary passengers.
A German-Chilean company, the leaders being Germans, called Compañía
comercial y ganadera Chile-Argentina, owns land on both sides of the
mountains, and has established regular traffic between Port Montt and
Bariloche at Nahuelhuapi. A route like this in Europe would certainly
be crowded with tourists, and prove a real gold-mine. But the everyday
Chilean has not got his eyes open to the beauty of his country; seldom
does he travel for pleasure in South America. And when a foreigner
has his holidays he goes to Europe, where he will hardly find anything
so magnificent as the journey from Chile to Argentina across the
Perez-Rosales pass.
In the evening our carriage stopped in front of the Hotel Llanquihue
in Puerto Varas. On the road we had passed the half-completed
railway joining Puerto Montt to the town of Osorno, and thus with
the longitudinal main trunk. There is peace and comfort in that
small summer place, Puerto Varas, where numerous families spend the
favourable season on the shores of the large lake. We have good luck,
the sun rises on a splendid day, and the small steamer takes us over
a lake like a mirror, between the two famous giant volcanoes Osorno
and Calbuco, which raise their shining white heads one on each side of
the east end of Llanquihue. What a contrast to the landscape farther
west, with pastures and cultivated fields between the grooves! German
colonists have changed the province of Llanquihue into a land literally
flowing with milk and honey, for butter and honey are valuable articles
of export. The honey has a rather peculiar taste, but the bees have to
collect it from plants very different from those we can offer them.
From an æsthetic point of view Osorno is an ideal volcano. The cone,
7403 feet high, is very regular, and covered with a cap of eternal
snow. It is a long time since it showed any signs of life--the last
eruption must be that described in his usual fascinating manner by
Darwin, who was lucky enough to witness it. Calbuco is more than 1600
feet lower, and has not the same regular shape, but is still active.
With the glasses we could see tiny puffs of white smoke between the
snowdrifts on the jagged crest; old Vulcan still has one of his forges
there, and one day or other he will blow his biggest bellows again!
Then the industrious people will tremble; mud-streams will again drench
their fields, again the cattle will wade in the burning hot ashes with
hanging tongues--as some years ago, when the sky became dark far away
in Ancud in the middle of the day.
We land at the foot of Osorno. One of the old lava streams comes down
there, a picture of devastation, where vegetation still struggles to
give some life to the stony desert. Horses are ready, we mount and
gallop across the neck of land to the next lake, Todos los Santos,
and go on board a small steam-launch. Calbuco now lies behind. This
lake has been called one of the most beautiful in the world. Perhaps
this is an exaggeration--I have not seen enough to judge--but it is
certainly magnificent. Over its mountains, virgin forests, and dark
blue water there is a peculiar charm; it is an enchanted lake if there
be one in this world. What a play of light and shadow on its surface,
what colours when the sun is painting the peaks with gold and crimson,
throwing longer and longer shadows over the calm water! Slowly the rosy
gleam fades away: last of all Osorno is seen glowing, flashing a while
in the last beams, and then lies blue-white and cold. Night has come,
forest and water melt together in the shadow of the mountains, but on
the peaks the moon casts its light. Osorno is wonderful in its silver
cap. As we advance new, fantastic peaks appear; we turn with the
lake, catch a glimpse of Tronador, and land in Peulla.
[Illustration: PUERTO MONTT.]
[Illustration: READY TO START.]
The day had filled our minds with delight, but the body had been
neglected, and we were glad to see a laid table again, not having had
anything since the early breakfast.
The manager of the company in Peulla, Mr. Roth, proved of great help in
realising our plans. The next day he arranged an excursion to Tronador,
the Thunderer, a mountain 11,382 feet high, partly covered by five
glaciers, making a noise that gave its name to the mountain. With good
horses we rode through the beautiful forest to Casa Pangue, at the foot
of the Andes, where one makes the ascent to the pass. Here mules more
suited to the ground were waiting. Along the stony bed of a glacier
stream we slowly approached a large glacier, coming down right into the
forest--a remarkable sight. The morning had been very fine, but we knew
that rain could not be far off, and just as we had tied up the animals
in the dwarf forest the first drops came, followed by a proper Chilean
storm. We climbed across the huge moraines on to the ice-border itself,
which is somewhat curious. All the lower part is covered by sand and
gravel, and the glacier advances so very slowly that vegetation has
time to take possession of it. There are small groves of dwarf trees,
some getting not less than twenty or thirty years old before they are
carried down to destruction. One may walk in the soft carpet of mosses
and scrub without suspecting anything; suddenly a crack opens, showing
the sheer ice, blue and cold. This is not unique, but I never met with
anything like it before. By-and-by the rain, which increased to a
veritable deluge, drove us from the place. The horsemen who arrived in
Casa Pangue that night were in rather a miserable condition. There was
literally not a dry thread on our bodies. We made a fire, undressed,
and changed the place into a fine exhibition of dripping rags. Wrapped
in blankets, we whiled away the time before nightfall with a game of
cards, and our dark-eyed hostess made us a nice _cazuela_. The next
morning we returned to Peulla, and made excursions round it. The
forests here still bear a marked resemblance to those on Chiloé. On
October 10 we rode to Casa Pangue and got mules for the march across
the pass, which is only 3300 feet high. It had been a favourable
winter, and the road, climbing zigzag up the steep, forest-clad slope,
seemed good enough on horseback. The traffic with the bullock-carts
had not been opened yet. The difference in vegetation attracted our
attention; the numerous leaf-trees became fewer, needle-trees more and
more frequent. In the pass extensive snowdrifts were still left. For
a short distance we rode on level ground, passed the boundary mark,
and came down into the deep grave where Laguna Fria is situated. Its
icy green glacier water looks cold indeed, and it needs sunshine and
fine weather if the shores, at the foot of perpendicular cliffs, many
hundred yards high, are not to produce a gloomy or even terrifying
impression. We pulled across and walked over the isthmus separating
Laguna Fria and Nahuelhuapi, following a road in the forest down to
Puerto Blest. One need not walk on foot; a car drawn by a bullock and
running on wooden rails brings luggage and passengers down to the
“hotel.” How easily we had reached the famous lake in comparison with
the pioneers who risked their lives only to behold its blue water!
It has been compared with the lakes in the Alps, but who knows if
Nahuelhuapi does not bear away the palm? It has so many different
aspects: far to the west it washes the foot of the Andes, in narrow
inlets reflecting the dark forests of alerce and cedro, thickly wooded
isles making the scenery more varied; in the east it opens into the
endless widths of the pampas, the mountains are left behind, the
forests have dissolved into groves and patches.
In Puerto Blest we counted on getting one day for excursions, and on
the next we expected the steamer from Bariloche. It had, however,
started to blow hard, and no steamer came, but a storm, first with
rain and then with snow and cold; winter made its expiring efforts,
the shores were dressed in white, all the forest lay powdered with
snow. We were shut in in a miserable room, where a red-hot stove made
life almost insupportable. We could not complain, however, for in our
bedroom the thermometer refused to rise above freezing-point; thus we
got a tolerable daily average! One day passed; two, three, during which
the gale raged with unabated strength, making the house tremble at each
gust. Finally on the 15th the sun showed its glorious face again. There
was still a good breeze, but as it was an ordinary boat-day we could be
sure that every effort would be made to fetch us. In the afternoon the
small steamer arrived after a rough voyage. The day had yet another
surprise in store for us: when the bullock-cart from Laguna Fria came
rolling down the slope Pagels was enthroned on the top of the load, and
after him came our old dog Prince lumbering along. An extra mail-day
brought letters and papers from Punta Arenas. Now all of us were
assembled, Pagels had performed the commissions we had given him with
exactitude, and we could go to bed and sleep a couple of hours--not
more, for long before the sun gilded the surface of Nahuelhuapi we
slipped out of the bosom of the Cordillera, to start a new kind of
life, and for the future march with this gigantic fold of the earth’s
crust to the west, whither we had been used to look out over the
endless ocean. The small town, or rather village, Bariloche, was the
destination of our steamer, and at the same time the starting-point for
our long ride. We tried to make ourselves comfortable in the small,
dirty inn, and began our preparations without delay. Pagels occupied
himself making saddle- and provision-bags, while we had some excursions
to make.
Bariloche is situated on the edge of the forest region. West of it are
big cedar-forests (_Libocedrus chilensis_), in the east a yellowish
steppe. Several mountains exhibiting interesting geological features
were easy to reach from there, and as we did not want to encumber our
caravan with heavy collections at the very start, Quensel and Halle
made an excursion south for a couple of days. I myself went round the
lake, ferried across Rio Limay, and stayed two days with an American
gentleman, Mr. Jones. He has a big cattle-ranch, with a stock of
several thousand head, his special business being to breed mules,
which fetch double the price of an ordinary horse. We had already
solved our most important question, the horse problem, and were the
happy owners of a small _tropilla_ of ten animals and a mare, the
_yegua madrina_, without whom no troop keeps together. They were rather
small, and looked like skeletons after the winter. Eight of them were
saddle-horses; each of us got two and the two others were to carry our
baggage. Generally the horses in Patagonia are not shod, but as we were
going to spend most of the time in the mountains we were forced to shoe
them. Horses are cheap in Patagonia; in the spring prices seem to be
higher, and we paid sixty dollars each--about £5 6_s._
Our equipment was very simple indeed. We had no suits other than those
we wore, and they were already old and shabby. The expedition also took
one common pair of reserve trousers. Of underwear each of us had two
shifts, but of socks we had a more ample supply. Most of the clothes,
some necessary handbooks, perishable provisions, ammunition, a number
of small, strong bottles of formaline or spirits, some instruments
such as aneroids, thermometers, compasses, &c., films for the camera,
a 3½ by 4¾ ins. Kodak, notebooks, journals, and other small things
were packed in two small waterproof English leather boxes, specially
constructed to be attached to a pack-saddle. We only carried one
rifle, a Winchester of small calibre. We had had serious intentions of
bringing also a shot-gun, but it disappeared in one of our numerous
flittings before we reached our starting-point--firearms are always
welcome in Patagonia, and I am pretty sure it is in use somewhere.
Overcoats or cloaks we had none, but tied a poncho behind the saddle.
Neither did we use riding-boots, only leggings or puttees--certainly
to be preferred when one has to walk much. The two chests made one
horse-load, at the top of which our coffee-pot was tied. The second
load consisted of a small tent for two, very seldom used, but sometimes
necessary to protect our equipment, a bag of provisions, and a small
bag containing our kitchen requisites, which were of aluminium. The
sleeping-bags, a simple blanket-bag with canvas covers, were used as
underlayers for the loads, which were thereby prevented from galling
the horses’ sides. The load was fixed with a strong rope after Pagels’
patent method--very practical but certainly not without intricate
sailor’s knots; woe to him who tried, if only in the slightest degree,
to deviate from the approved arrangement: Pagels at once told him the
truth. Every load was of about 150 lbs.--quite sufficient if one takes
into consideration that the pack-horses had to work all march-days,
the saddle-horses only every second day. Besides our own weight, they
carried also the _maletas_, containing various articles of apparel,
camera, plant-press, &c., and there also the collections made during a
march were stowed away. Perhaps I ought also to say some words about
our horse-gear. The pack-saddles were almost new; they had only been
used for Quensel’s travels, and were of the common South American type.
Our saddles made a varied show: one English, one half English, half
Chilean, one of the Falkland pattern, and one Argentine _recado_. The
rest of the harness was pure Patagonian, _bozal_ and _cabresta_, always
carried in the hand with the reins; the stirrup had the usual leather
protection, the whip was a common _rebenque_.
The provisions were of the most simple kind. They were calculated for
one month only--during which we certainly counted on the renowned
Patagonian hospitality--and consisted of the following articles: ship’s
biscuits, flour, rice, oatmeal, coffee, tea, cocoa, _maté_, dried
fruit, sugar, salt, and fat. Luxuries such as butter, condensed milk,
&c., were, of course, not to be thought of. A concentrated pea-soup,
called Knorr’s “Erbsenwurst,” we carried a supply of for the whole
journey, as well as plug tobacco.
October 23 dawned with radiant pampas weather. For the first time
we saddled, and it took us a good while to get ready, and not until
half-past eleven could the caravan start. The solemn time had come,
and, driving our troop in front of us, with good speed we left
Bariloche, where people had only tried to fleece us. Before us a free
life attracted us, full of privations but far away from cash-books and
bills; with deep breaths we filled our lungs with the fresh pampas air,
bringing with it an undefinable sense of happiness and freedom.
A group of Bariloche people had gathered to see our start. I daresay
no one believed that we should get very far with our few horses, and
no doubt they laughed at our dream of reaching Punta Arenas. Never did
such a small caravan start in Patagonia on such a long and difficult
journey, never before had one reached its far-off destination with
all the horses in even better condition than at the start. But we had
burnt our boats; there was no return; we must succeed with the scanty
resources we had at our disposal.
In the very last moment our expedition got another member, a shaggy
dog. He had made Prince’s acquaintance in Bariloche and came lumbering
with us. In vain we made the most energetic efforts to chase him away;
he hung on, and followed us all the time under the name of Pavo. And
then we took our faithful friend with us to Sweden, where he gained
citizenship only by royal grace, for Argentina at that time was
declared to be infected with rabies.
CHAPTER XI
THROUGH NORTHERN PATAGONIA
During the first few days our march was not attended by any
difficulties, as we only followed the common track, here and there
visible over the pampas. On our right was the so-called Pre-Cordillera,
where outlines are softer and the snow-patches insignificant. Deep
ravines appear in the easily disintegrating tufas, and here dark
forest-groves extend, though not reaching down to where we were
travelling. Behind and in front of us lay the broken ground of the high
pampas with hills and ravines, towards the east the endless undulating
plains reaching far away to the Atlantic Ocean. The yellow sand gleams
between tufts of stiff steppe plants and scented spring flowers, red
or blue, yellow or white, now and then tempting me to alight to gather
specimens. Everywhere the blue-green hillocks of _Mulinum spinosum_
(an umbelliferous plant) appear, together with the stiff tussocks of
grasses, the most noticeable growths on the dry, sandy steppe. Almost
everything is prickly; the shrubs are armed to the teeth, the leaves of
the grass end in a sharp needle, breaking off at the slightest touch:
if one sits down carelessly one soon jumps up again, spiny like an
urchin, but with the important difference that the spines are turned
towards one’s own skin. Now and then a cactus is seen resting its
growth on the stony soil. On the hills and plateaus vegetation is more
scanty. It is almost a desert, red or yellow, strewn with sharp-edged
stones, with stunted plants in the cracks, such as are specially fitted
to endure the hardships of desert life; sometimes they look like a
tangle of spines, out of which some few brilliant flowers peep forth;
sometimes they are wrapped in a dense clothing of thick wool and have
roots disappearing in the very bowels of the earth, where there is
perhaps water to drink. The numerous spines are one of the nuisances of
the steppe. Another is the wind, often blowing hard for a long time and
enveloping us in a cloud of dust. But certainly we preferred this to
the eternal rains of the west coast.
Hours pass, the sun bakes us red or brown, the dust gathers in thicker
and thicker deposits. The bell on the mare tinkles, the hoofs rattle
on the hard ground. The horses, untrained as they are after a long
winter’s leisure, get less willing, one or other tries to pluck a
mouthful of the rough yellow grass. We must show more energy in driving
the troop, and Pagels is frequently heard shouting a “verdammtes
Kamel,” in a very bad case increasing his anger to a “heiliges
Kanonenrohr,” the strongest expression he is able to lay tongue to, and
surely a relic of his service in the navy. We welcome the small valley,
our first camping-place, where a tiny stream winds between thickets
of ñire. Patches of green grass attract the horses; we find a nice
and sheltered corner and unsaddle. One horse is chosen and tethered
to a long rope; the others are simply let loose, with the exception
of the mare, who is provided with _maneas_ round the front legs. So
one is more or less sure of finding the troop in the neighbourhood
the next morning. The first camp-fire crackles, the _maté_ makes its
round, and a real fat _asado_ of beef drips on the spit. Poor misguided
vegetarians would not thrive here; meat and meat again will probably
always be the staple food of the pampas. Here in Sweden we hardly know
what good meat is. I learnt to understand my Argentine friend from the
Antarctic voyage, José Sobral, who deliberately shook his head at the
stuff he was offered in Upsala. I think that then I tried to defend it,
but I have already withdrawn my defence.
The delicious steak whets our appetite, and from curiosity one soon
cuts into it to see if it has not got the right colour. A pack-saddle
or the sleeping-bag is our seat. A large piece of meat in one hand, the
big sheath-knife in the other--that’s the way to eat _asado_. A couple
of biscuits and a cup of cocoa end our meal--dinner and supper at the
same time. Generally we only fed twice a day, put a piece of biscuit or
cold meat, if there was any, in our pocket, and ate it during one of
the halts we were forced to make to give the horses a spell of rest.
They got thirsty and we wanted to stretch our legs.
Darkness falls over the expanses, the stars come out, and our camp-fire
more and more commands the surroundings. We gladly linger a while over
our pipes; it is the most pleasant hour of the day, and, if possible,
we want to prolong it. But there is a next day, and the thought of
this makes us look for a bed in the bushes, spread out the bag, make
a bundle of the clothes under the head, creep down, and enjoy the last
whiff of smoke. Ah, these nights under the open sky--it seems almost a
pity to sleep--now out in the open camp, where the barren sand gleams
between the grass and the ghostly silhouette of a single bush stands
against the sky, now under soughing trees, where the moonbeams seek a
way through the black foliage. Cross and Centaur wander the eternal
road, the murmur of the stream is conducive to sleep.... A ghostly cry
breaks the stillness, our dogs prick up their ears and bark: only a
hungry fox who has scented our pantry! From Pagels’ bag comes a “gute
Nacht,” one turns to find a comfortable position, and is soon at home
among the firs and red-painted houses in the land far away, which now
looks so marvellous to us. The night is clear and cold, and with great
satisfaction we greet the first sunbeams that creep from the ocean all
the way to the foot of the Andes. The day will get hot, and the thing
is to get off when the freshness of the morning still lies over the
land. First the morning toilet must be performed. The reader imagines,
I should think, how we enjoyed a good wash in the purling brook; alas!
we also imagined it, but it was seldom accomplished in reality. It did
not pay, for after half an hour’s ride one was as dirty again, and
we were more satisfied with occasional thorough cleanings on solemn
occasions. But there was _one_ paragraph in our codex of cleanliness
from which there was no exception: he who was to make bread must first
wash his hands.
Work was certainly not lacking in the morning. Collections and notes
had to be put in order, the breakfast prepared, and the horses driven
to the camp, caught, and saddled. Every day I had plants to press,
which I performed in a simple manner, for naturally the usual heavy
plant-presses were banished; but with two pieces of cardboard, a rope,
and old newspapers I got in the settlements I managed all right.
Breakfast consisted for the most part of porridge, meat, bread (when
we had any), and coffee. It was soon eaten, cups and plates washed,
the saucepan cleaned. This last job we took by turns; not even the
palatable scrapings could make it enjoyable.
The watch-horse was saddled; we must look for the others. In most cases
this did not give us much trouble, because when it was possible we
carefully chose good pasture. It was much worse to catch the horses.
With the ropes we made a corral, easy enough in the forest, but often
very tedious when out on the open pampas, where hardly a single
suitable bush could be discovered. Some of the animals were easy to
catch, but others tried our patience, hiding amongst their fellows or
breaking away. Finally the full number of six were tied and we started
to saddle. We always saddled our own horses, and soon got very expert
at handling all sorts of gear. The loads lay ready waiting, nothing was
forgotten, and the first camping-ground disappeared behind a hill.
We could soon distinguish our destination for the second day, a
single rust-brown peak, called Pico Quemado (The Burnt). Following
the Cordillera, the track went ceaselessly uphill and downhill. But
the monotony was broken when suddenly the load on one of the horses
loosened. We stopped and tried to catch him, but he bolted at once. The
load slipped round, terrible kicks struck the boxes, and our coffee-pot
soon was changed into a tragi-comic, completely useless utensil. “It
served you right, you ass!” Pagels said, when the beast at last lay
there, entangled in the rope. By-and-by we gained more experience,
though not a day elapsed when we had not to rearrange the loads. The
whole day we were ascending, it grew colder, and the wind freshened and
felt biting cold in spite of the northerly latitude. At 4900 feet we
reached the pass, and made downhill towards a small stream on the south
side of Pico Quemado.
Another day and we came across the first houses, a small settlement,
and in the evening stopped in front of a large wooden house in
Ñorquinco. Here the Chile-Argentina Company has established a branch.
The place is as typical of civilised Patagonia as we could wish: an
iron shed for the telegraph office, where floats a faded Argentine
flag, a _boliche_ with horse-gear, bunches of stirrups and spurs,
hanging from the roof, a pile of sheepskins thrown into a corner, heaps
of clothing, gaudy handkerchiefs, black, huge-brimmed hats, knives and
revolvers, long rows of tin boxes with multicoloured labels, and last,
but not least, the _cantina_--the bar with wine-barrels, shelves of
bottles in all the shifting colours of the rainbow, _pisco_ (a weak
Chilean brandy), æruginous Menta liqueur, Jamaica rum with its nigger
head, whisky and brandy, some champagne bottles and the wash-up tub,
where the glass is dipped an instant before it is offered to the next
customer. Outside at the traditional barrier some horses are tied,
waiting for their masters. And they will have to wait.... The dice are
thrown, laughter echoes within the walls. Swarthy individuals, pure
Indians dressed in poncho and wide trousers, pulled together at the
wrist, white socks, and a pair of slippers, Chileans, Argentiners, and
_gringos_ (strangers). A dirty policeman, dressed in the remains of
a uniform, hangs about the bar. Conversation stops for a moment when
we enter: evidently we do not look like everyday comers and they gaze
curiously at our cargo. The social tone is free and friendly here. You
suddenly find yourself a member of the party, a glass is thrust into
your hand, _Salud!_ to right and left, and then it is your turn to
order a “round.” If one has any idea of Patagonian customs, one takes
care not to refuse--it might cost one dear.
It was easy enough for us to get dinner and a bed, but we thought more
of our horses. Everywhere here the scanty grass was gone, and as there
were no paddocks we were anxious lest the horses should run away--a
starved horse strays until he finds something to eat.
At seven in the morning the policeman rode away to look for our troop,
and we awaited his return anxiously. And when he returned alone we
knew the truth: the horses had gone. There are many points on the
compass, but we must seek in all. Kind souls offered their services,
others confined themselves to discussing matters and made all sorts
of guesses. The inspector of police, who had arrived, declared that
the horses most probably had gone back to Bariloche, and we sent a
telegram there; others were inclined to suspect that thieves had had
a hand in it; one fellow looked at the inspector and whispered to me
that the police perhaps knew ... Well, it would not have been the first
time a thing like that had happened in the Cordillera. A number of
_peons_ (camp-labourers) were sent to look in different directions,
and we strolled far away over the hills, provided with glasses; we saw
some horses, but not ours. At noon, however, one of the men returned
with the mare and five horses, but the other five had strayed away. New
guests arrived in the evening; our horses were the favourite topic,
and if good advice had been able to do anything, certainly there was
plenty. We went to bed in a miserable state of mind. Five horses gone;
we could not buy others without getting into debt, and who knew if
anybody would be willing to give unknown strangers credit? And without
these horses, the caravan reduced to half, it would prove impossible to
carry out our scheme--an ignominious end to our bold hopes. The next
day we arranged a systematic search. Indian peons got the description
of the horses, and were promised a reward if they brought them back.
They intended to track them down. The horses were shod, it is true,
and therefore easy to distinguish from others, but the hardness of
the ground and the strong wind would make matters more difficult. We
resolved to continue our march with the rest of the caravan, leaving
Pagels behind to watch over our interests and make inquiries of people
all round in his beautiful Spanish. However, we had almost lost hope
of seeing our animals (some of them good horses) any more, and began to
believe that thieves had driven them out of the way on purpose, only
waiting for us to lose patience and leave the place--an old Patagonian
trick often employed with profit. We left Ñorquinco and followed a
cart-track, after a while turning to the west, through a very distinct
pass, a true _portezuelo_, leading down into the valley of Rio Chubut.
Large herds of cattle were grazing on the well-watered meadows, and,
hungry as they were, our horses would not have refused a good meal, but
time did not permit of this. Rio Chubut, one of the largest rivers of
Patagonia, is here only small, though sometimes so swollen that it is
difficult to cross. Now there was not much water, and we easily reached
the small _estancia_ Maytén, where we stopped for the night. Only the
wife of the _capataz_ (the “boss”) was at home, and at first she did
not seem very willing to welcome us, but after a while promised to
cook some food and let us sleep in the peons’ quarters. I do not blame
her, for the master of the home was away and we might have been a band
of rascals, a possibility not at all contradicted by our appearance.
A gentleman rider in Patagonia brings several servants, and if one
does any sort of work usually left to the peons this never evokes
admiration, but only sheer astonishment.
As on every _estancia_ one or two horses are tethered for the night, we
let ours go, and in the morning a peon promised to fetch them. He went
away all right; and came back after two hours--without the horses:
“he had not gone in the right direction,” he said. A traveller, a kind
fellow, who had spent the night with us, offered to fetch them himself,
and finally, at noon, they came. The peon _had_ been there, for a
_bozal_ that we had left on one of the pack-horses in order to catch
him with less trouble was gone. There was no time to look for it; it
was nearly one o’clock, and we had a ride of thirty-one miles in front
of us. Over easy ground we followed the Chubut river till it bent to
the east, and at nightfall reached the Lelej valley, where we soon
perceived a group of large buildings, indicating a big farm. It was the
headquarters of the “English-Argentine Land Company,” whose manager,
Mr. Preston, welcomed us in a very kind manner. Lelej is typical of a
large cattle-farm. In a low building of red brick--the ground is cheap,
so there is no reason to make houses of more than one storey--are the
lodgings, offices, shops, and stores; all round are various workshops,
such as a carpenter’s and a blacksmith’s shop, the house of the
“bosses,” and the plain _ranchos_ of the peons. In the vicinity one
does not look in vain for the piles of fuel, brought there from a long
distance, the great, ever-increasing heap of empty tin boxes, the
bulky, high-wheeled bullock-carts, and the rolls of wire. Round the
houses stretch smallish _potreros_, or paddocks, for the hundreds of
horses in daily use, and away over the hills the fences run straight as
an arrow.
[Illustration: SMALL PATAGONIAN SHEEP FARM.]
The peons are a peculiar class of people. Pure Indians or _mestizos_,
they are nearly all doomed to eternal bachelorhood; one can hardly
imagine a married peon. All day they spend on horseback, at night
they crawl in on the earthen floor round the cauldron with _puchero_
hanging down from the roof, feed, smoke a cigarette, take innumerable
cups of _maté_, then, wrapped in a blanket, they sleep on some rags in
a corner. Pleasures of life take the form of _maté_ and tobacco, and,
of course, spirit, when they can get it. Here is the home of a peon
to-day; to-morrow he does some foolish thing, takes too long a siesta,
perhaps, and is sent off. In five minutes he has packed together his
property, put them and himself on a horse, and has galloped away to
seek fortune elsewhere. Of course, he has horses, often a whole drove;
horses multiply and there is always pasture. But light come, light go;
an attracting “pub,” an unscrupulous publican, and after some days of
splendid intoxication he rides away on a borrowed horse. A peon who
saves his pay puts it all into his horse-trappings; one can see him
in his Sunday clothes with a small fortune of silver on the horse, an
ancient custom inherited from Tehuelche or Araucanian ancestors. It is
curious to think that not many years ago this vast land was the free
battlefield of the Indian, he who now is its most humble servant, whom
any stranger with a piece of land thinks it fitting to kick and insult,
always letting him understand that he belongs to an inferior race,
living at the intruder’s mercy. Sometimes it happens that he gains the
confidence of his master, is promoted to _capataz_ and gets his own
house; and should it happen that a girl finds her way out to the camp,
he may get a family also. A common peon she does not look at; there
are always persons of higher rank who are glad to take care of her.
Life in Lelej goes like clockwork. All the employees are Englishmen or
Scotchmen and have brought their customs to the new country. On the
stroke of half-past six they are sitting at breakfast, where every
passing gentleman may be sure of a seat and a mutton chop; the bread
is as English as one could wish, and luncheon or dinner arrives with
magnificent beef or roast mutton. And if one discovers a football or
golf clubs it is nothing astonishing. Lelej appeared to us a very well
managed enterprise, where people work ceaselessly.
The greatest difficulties these settlements in the Andes have to
contend with are the bad communications. Everything goes by cart to the
Atlantic coast, making journeys lasting weeks and months, under great
difficulties of finding water on the half desert-like plains. Great
railway schemes are now spoken of, or even started, and then Patagonia
will be able to show what she is capable of.
Lelej was the last telegraph station, and we were in continuous
communication with Ñorquinco. All hope seemed gone, as Pagels asked
permission to buy a new horse and join us; but I asked him to stop
another day, which proved to be a piece of luck. We had plenty of
work in the neighbourhood--made a ride up in the mountains, where
snow still lay in the forests, just dressed in the verdure of spring.
Quensel visited the flourishing Cholila valley in the west, and Halle
was busy collecting fossils. However, we worked with depressed
spirits. Certainly Mr. Preston had promised to guarantee us money if
we telegraphed to Buenos Aires for some; he had no horses to sell us
himself. Later it proved that it would have been very difficult to
get any. We did not want to get the expedition into debt, as it was
our pride to make an exception to the rule. November came, still no
news. Then, on November 2, like a sunbeam from an overclouded sky came
the following telegram: “Hay noticias de caballos perdidos; Señor
Pagels fué traerlos, seguirá viaje mañana,” or, “Lost horses traced;
Mr. Pagels gone to fetch them, continues his journey to-morrow.” The
title plainly showed that Pagels had understood how to inspire due
respect! It had been sent the day before, and we could expect him the
same day, and were almost ready to embrace the fugitives when they
appeared. Everything had nearly come to nought; Pagels had bought a
horse on credit, and had one foot in the stirrup, when an Indian came
on horseback and told him that he knew where the horses were. What a
big weight was off our minds!
Merry as before and with a complete caravan we started for the next
halting-place, two days off. Now and then we put up ostriches (_Rhea_),
which flew in all directions with stretched wings, chased by our dogs,
who could never overtake them; now and then a small herd of guanacos
passed, but they also left Prince and Pavo far behind. We had just
unsaddled for the night at the side of a small tributary to Chubut,
when on the other side of the water we saw the silhouettes of more than
a hundred guanacos against the evening sky. It would have been easy to
get a good bag, but as long as we were in communication with settled
parts we need not leave a settlement without a couple of fine steaks
added to the loads, and wild animals were safe from our bullets.
Guarded by the Esguel Mountains, a large plain stretched before us,
and far away we could see two high peaks, between which our way
would run, through the so-called Nahuelpan Pass. It is a narrow but
fertile valley, with small cornfields round the grey Indian _ranchos_,
shadowed by small groves of cedars. We were not quite sure of the way
to Clarke’s place, which we wanted to visit, and asked an Indian who
passed us; he told us that we had missed our way, and would have to go
back again, but also that if we continued through the pass we should
strike Underwood’s farm in “Colonia 16-de-Octubre.” Certainly we had
special reasons for seeing Clarke; Preston had sent letters to him, and
besides he was an educated man, a B.A. of an English university; but
the _détour_ would be too much for our animals, and we continued down
to Underwood, where we arrived after a march of thirty-four miles. The
neat little brick cottage lies embowered in a garden. Mr. Underwood
was away, but his wife welcomed us, and we soon felt at home. By a
happy chance Mr. Clarke came driving there the same night, bound on a
business journey through the valley, and thus we had the great pleasure
of making his acquaintance.
The “Valle 16-de-Octubre” is one of the most fertile and populous of
the transandine valleys. It is watered by Rio Corintos, further down
joining Rio Futaleufú, which empties into Lago Yelcho, in its turn
discharging by Rio Yelcho into the Pacific. We stood by the same river
where we had camped some months earlier, but the entire Cordillera was
between the two places. Here Chile had certainly wanted to emphasize
the principle that a water-divide was the natural frontier, but as the
valley had been colonized by Welshmen from Chubut (Trelew), Argentine
kept the whole valuable part of it. We wanted to give our horses a rest
and let them browse a few days, and Clarke came with us to look for a
farm where people would be willing to lend us horses for our excursions.
Shut in by magnificent mountain-chains, this valley is a real gem,
green with vast meadows, wheat-fields, and clover-fields, adorned by
nice country houses, where fruit-trees and berry-bushes, cauliflower
and lettuce were a delight to behold. We became quite homesick when we
rode through. At the schoolhouse we stopped. The children are taught in
Welsh, but most of the people we met also spoke English and Spanish.
We crossed Rio Corintos, where fat cows of English breeds grazed on
the banks, and made a halt at a farm of very modest aspect. The owner,
however, was a wealthy man. He was out marking colts, but his wife
asked us to off-saddle and come in, and welcomed us with a _maté_. Then
Don Antonio Miguens came. He received us very kindly indeed, promised
us horses, and proved a thorough gentleman. He is, besides, a very
original man.
On November 6 we rode further into the valley with fresh horses. At
the beginning we made good speed; then the valley narrowed and the
patches of beautiful cedar-forest, further east only growing in the
ravines, closed into a dense covering on the steep slopes down to the
broad river that rushed westward, embracing green islands. Ever since
the time when the valley was explored from the Pacific side a path
has been left, but it is anything but inviting, running up and down
over neck-breaking barrancas, through thickets and stony places. The
horses were used to this ground, and did not hesitate, but jumped over
the barricades of fallen forest giants. One had better not sleep in
the saddle, for one’s knees are in continual danger from trunks and
huge blocks. We met passages so intricate that we had to leave them
to the horse’s judgment--the only disaster that happened was that our
coffee-pot (the second!) suffered a fatal shock. However, by giving it
another kick we made it possible to use for the day. The vegetation
more and more showed signs of the rain-forest, our old friends the
beeches and myrtle-trees appeared again, and when we reached the
boundary-mark high up on the south bank of the river Chile welcomed us
with rain and fog.
With a sense of regret we parted with the valley and sought a way south
over very broken ground with dense brushwood here and there, making it
difficult to keep together. We were not at all sure of having chosen
the best way till we came in sight of Lake Rosario and the extensive
peat-bogs at its west end, where we passed it. Here Jeremias, one of
the pack-horses--thus named because he uttered strange, plaintive
sounds when being saddled--got a chance to prove his eminent
intelligence. We had suspected that he was not quite normal, and now
made certain. He caught sight of some horses on the other side of the
swamps, was seized by a sudden desire to make their acquaintance, and
in a rapid gallop flew down the slope. We followed him as fast as our
horses could carry us, but only arrived to see him sink down, kick in
desperation, and disappear to his belly. It was a wet swamp of the
worst kind, and we nearly lost him. At first all efforts proved futile,
the ground would not bear us, but we managed to unload him, and thus
saved both him and the load.
At a tributary of Rio Carrenleufú we camped for the night, and the next
morning made for the main river. We had some trouble with our horses,
as two of them had sore backs and could not be used. The least pressure
of a saddle might render them useless for weeks.
We tried to set a course straight for a settlement indicated on the
Argentine map. The ground was very poor, innumerable ravines filled
with thickets, and sometimes so wet that the horses had to wade in
loose black mud over their knees. It was more by good luck than good
management that we struck the house of Robert Day, where hospitality
indeed had its abode. Seldom do you find its laws so strictly kept
as in Patagonia. In the settlement of white men or the _rancho_ of
an Indian, everywhere you are received with open arms, and the best
there is is put on the table. Every effort is made to keep you there;
never is the house too limited or the table too small. We shall never
forget old Day, his jolly wife and swarm of children. The eldest sons
had built their own cottages at other places in the valley. Day is a
true pioneer of the old school, and in our Patagonian Baedeker we have
marked him with three stars. Originally, he, as well as so many others,
had come to look for the yellow metal, but finished in good time and
now has a rather flourishing farm. However, he complained of the
Government. On repeated occasions he had offered to buy the ground, but
never got a definite answer; he had lived there seventeen years, but
could not feel sure that he would not be chased away any day it pleased
the authorities.
Hitherto our direction had been more or less straight south, but
from Carrenleufú we bent eastward in order to visit the camp round
Rio Tecka, one of Chubut’s sources, and at the same time make the
acquaintance of one of the very few Swedes in Patagonia, Don Carlos
Flach, of the well-known Swedish noble family. In Valparaiso we were
told that he was manager on an _estancia_ belonging to the Cochamó
Company, named after Rio Cochamó, which discharges into the Reloncaví
Inlet not far from Puerto Montt. There a road has been made across to
the Pacific coast, but it is said to be passable only to riders. Only
one day’s march separated us from Pampa Chica, where the sought-for
_estancia_ should be, but the track is rather ill-famed because of
the extensive _pantanos_, and, according to Day, sometimes quite
impassable. The saddle-horses were happily brought over the bad places,
but of course Jeremias was bogged and caused us trouble and loss of
time. In the afternoon we came across a flock of the company’s sheep;
they were badly afflicted with scab, the wool hanging in tatters
all round them. Well hidden by the foot of a hill there was Flach’s
cottage, and the master of the house was not a little astonished when
three dusty riders greeted him in his own language. A merry encounter
it was, and he at once offered to let us share his small hut; the lodge
had burnt down some time previous to our arrival. The company seemed to
be of the Yelcho sort; it had gone into liquidation and was selling the
animals. Flach was about to leave, only waiting to get his money. He
was thinking of getting a piece of camp further south. Again our horses
could rest, for Flach lent us some for our excursions. The vegetation
was glorious here, and I had plenty to do from morning to evening.
It had proved more than necessary to get two more animals in order
to change the pack-horses, and this problem was solved in a most
unexpected manner. Flach presented us with one, which belonged to
nobody, but had been two years on the company’s camp. Of course he was
baptized Flax (Flach’s; untranslatable Swedish pun; Flax is = luck),
and turned out one of our very best horses. Besides, we bought a small
but good horse; under the name of Johansson he carried me at least
every second march-day during the rest of the time.
Of my horses I kept Solo, the largest of our animals, but the old
Manasse was degraded to a pack-horse. Quensel got Flax, Halle took
Jacob and gave Lazarus (a long time with a sore back, thus his name)
to Pagels, one of whose horses became a pack-horse. The new horses
learnt to keep with our troop by getting coupled with the mare the
first nights. This lady was not tame, and often annoyed us with her
impertinent looks and her obstinacy. To ride a mare is hardly thinkable
in Patagonia.
Thus we considered ourselves well off, bought more provisions, and on
November 15 left our new friend, whose small cottage soon disappeared
from sight behind the yellow hills.
CHAPTER XII
THROUGH THE CORDILLERAS TO THE PACIFIC COAST
The pampas visited during the following days showed us a new feature of
Patagonian camp, the want of water and fuel, which makes the journeys
from the settlements to the coast somewhat difficult. Had we not found
some wood left from a cartload once sent by Flach, we should have been
confined to very dry food. The water was not of the best, full of
innumerable small animals, larvæ and crustaceans, but boiled it did not
taste bad; besides, there was more nourishment in it than there would
have been otherwise. There was no lack of small lagoons, but they are
all without an outlet, and round their edge is a thick white crust of
salt. The water is bitter as gall. In spite of that one likes to stop
there a while to enjoy the spectacle offered by thousands of beautiful
water-birds. Large flocks of bright flamingoes walk about in the mud,
hundreds of black-necked swans glide round their large nests, resting
in the bulrushes; nearer to the edges moorhen and many waders have
their quarters; large fat geese walk round cackling on the shore, and
small ducks run through the channels in the salt-powdered reeds. Every
find of eggs is welcomed for our kitchen.
In the valley of Rio Pico we again met people; German settlers brought
in by a company to drive sheep and cattle-farm. They also wanted to try
agriculture, and had a nice garden already. As usual, we were received
exceedingly well, and my journal says that we slept on mattresses--a
rare pleasure.
Before us lay a _meseta_, a table-mountain built up of loose deposits,
which we had to cross. The _mesetas_ are characteristic of the
rand-zone of the Andes; further south they have a cover of basalt,
making it difficult or even impossible to cross them with horses. This
plateau did not offer any difficulties, but, instead of that, features
of great interest, which also made progress slow. We ascended to a
height of about 3300 feet, and went down into the Frias or Cisnes
valley. The large Frias river originates far east of the mountains, but
nevertheless discharges into the Pacific Ocean, and here for a stretch
Chile’s proposal for the boundary was approved at the award. The piece
of land is of slight importance; only in the eastern part is there good
grass; proceeding westward, one soon gets into impenetrable virgin
forests.
At first we looked in vain for any trace of people; we did not know
where the _estancia_ was, and it was almost dark, when, at a distance
of about two miles, we sighted the well-known houses, proving the
existence of another customer of the “Corrugated Iron Company,
Limited.” The company in the Frias valley, as others in Chilean
Patagonia, has got leasehold for a number of years; after that time the
land is disposed of by auction; and it is considered that the company
should be able to give the best tender. One of the conditions for the
concession is that a road is made through the mountains to the Pacific
Coast, in order to provide communication with the rest of Chile. At the
present all transport goes to the Atlantic, and only Argentine money
is used. The company has not started the work with the road yet, and
nobody knows if it will ever be able to bring it to an end before its
time has elapsed. The cost is tremendous.
The director was not at home, but his manager, an Englishman from
South Africa, showed us great hospitality. In his company we made an
excursion far into the valley, where the open ground comes to an end
and the roble forest replaces it. We here met one of the most notable
Patagonian mammals, the small tuco-tuco (_Ctenomys magellanicus_), a
lovely gnawer, somewhat recalling the lemming. It lives on the roots
of plants and digs labyrinths of tunnels, completely undermining
the soil. Without suspecting anything you come along at a canter;
suddenly the horse goes through with his front legs. You had better
proceed cautiously or you will easily get your horse hurt. Sometimes
it is not possible to avoid the tuco-tuco ground. We had to cross the
river several times before we came to the forest-belt; here for the
first time I saw the Andine deer, the huemul (_Furcifer chilensis_),
in company with the condor supporter in Chile’s coat-of-arms. Like
other deer the huemul is of elegant appearance; its colour is light
brown with white on the belly. The horns are no remarkable trophy;
generally they only have four points. Fifty years ago the huemul was
regarded as a rare animal; there was even a time when he was almost
as mythological as the unicorn or the griffin; but from the Boundary
Commission we learnt that he is common in the dry forest-belt east
of the Andes. There his well-marked paths cross each other in all
directions, running from the mountain-meadows down to the streams in
the valleys. This day I regarded him only as a friend of nature does,
but later we welcomed him in order to see his life’s blood. However, we
never killed for the sport of it.
We were just back in the farm and it was getting dark when we heard
the sounds of an approaching caravan, which soon arrived--horsemen, a
troop, and the high-wheeled pampas carriage. It was the director, Mr.
Brand, who had arrived from the coast. He brought his wife and a baby
one month old with him; they had been shaken a fortnight on the rough
camp, but did not look any the worse for that. Mr. Brand seemed very
enthusiastic in his work, but told the rather amusing story that the
company’s directors in London are so despotic that he dared not shear
a sheep without asking permission by telegraph! Concerning the future,
he did not hide from himself that it looked dark for the moment, but
better days might, of course, be in store. Many a time as one is
looking out over the fertile subandine valleys one is ready to listen
to those optimists who prophesy a splendid future. They please your
eye--well-watered meadows, streams of great horse-power, forests with
good timber, and the Cordillera with all its grandeur. The lack of
communications, however, is the great drawback, causing the ruin of
people, especially if they have to clear roads to Chile!
Our way south was closed by the mountains round the Lakes Fontana and
La Plata, and we found it better to make a _détour_ round the foot of
the mountains out on the open pampas, which truly was not in accordance
with our principles. At the pass over the Senguerr river, the outlet of
the above-mentioned lakes, a German has established a combined store
and public-house. Further down the river live some colonists. It looked
as if Rio Senguerr had devoured all the water of the neighbourhood.
Under a broiling Sunday sun we rode into the mountains, but nowhere a
drop of running water--one lagoon after the other, so white that one
tasted the salt far off, green grass and nice flowers, but not the
characteristic fringe of brushwood indicating a murmuring brook. This
day we came across the largest herd of guanacos we ever saw, not less
than four or five hundred, a magnificent sight.
We had now spent a couple of days in Argentina. Again we arrived in
Chile, but that did not help us, for we had to ride thirty-four miles
before we found water. Down in a valley a dark band of foliage wound;
out of it the white skeletons of dead trees stood gaunt and lone,
promising us a regular camp-fire. Round the east basin of Rio Aysen
with its numerous tributaries Chile has drawn its frontier-line. Again
we were among forests and mountains, and the open spaces which are
not a result of man’s labour are easily counted. Our way led into the
valley of Rio Ñirehuao, where well-developed terraces on the sides
attracted our attention, and on November 25 we reached the first
_estancia_ belonging to Compañía Industrial del Rio Aysen, where a kind
Scotchman offered us such dainties as we had forgotten the existence
of--milk, butter, bread, all fresh. Very soon we got to know that we
were back in the forest region. Spoilt by dry and sunny weather, we
did not like to experience cold or rain or snow. To the east the sky
was clear over the steppe, to the west a rainy fog rested heavily on
the forest-clad ridges. In a snowstorm we left this place in order to
ride down to the main _estancia_. The company has made a road between
the two places, which, considering the difficulties, cannot be called
bad at all. We met a party of shepherds employed in lamb-marking. Ewes
and lambs had been driven together into large flocks; there was a
bleating in all sorts of keys. The lambs are driven into one paddock,
the mothers into another. The small, kicking beasts are caught, and
off comes the tail and the ear is bitten through! If it be a ram
he is castrated: a cut, and the testicles are hauled out with the
teeth--certainly not a very agreeable, but nevertheless a practical
method. Then the poor creatures are let loose, and rush in among the
ewes with wild jumps, making a sorry music looking for their mothers.
The route winds over a _meseta_, reaches a height of about 3000 feet,
and drops again into the Coyaike valley: the river is one of Rio
Aysen’s tributaries. It rained hard when we rode through the high roble
forest; the farther west we came the worse was the road, in some places
hardly passable. For long stretches it was plastered with sticks,
giving our horses much trouble and bringing them innumerable lashes.
Some of the rebellious ones took their own way through the thickets
and gave us extra work. Here and there the forest had been burnt, and
sheep ran about among the black skeletons. Pavo, who, according to his
custom, regarded sheep exactly as guanacos, soon got his hide well
tanned; it was not very pleasant to come as guests to a farm with a dog
who would worry sheep.
The sun burst forth; from a hill we beheld the Aysen valley at our
feet; here and there a bend of the river was visible between thick
foliage, which glittered from the rain; about eight miles further down
we saw the houses of Coyaike bajo, our destination, and in the evening
of November 26 we made our entry there. It was the biggest place we
had seen since Bariloche; the houses are arranged in two lines with a
broad street between them, and Flax as well as Johansson, who had never
seen anything so imposing, visibly protested against such an excess of
civilization. The head of the place, Mr. Dun, was not at home, but he
had written to his people, evidently asking them to treat us well, for
they did so, promising to put people and horses at our disposal, so
that our own animals got a week which they sorely needed to gorge upon
fat grass and heal their backs.
Here, amidst the wildest wilderness, on all sides surrounded by virgin
forests and mountains, was a small piece of old England--English
language, food, and customs. Many a spare hour we spent in Mr.
Stewart’s cosy home, where he and his old wife vied with each other
in taking care of us, offering us all sorts of dainties, almost too
sharply contrasting with our plain diet.
Our principal task here was to ride down to the Pacific, using the
road made by the company. We borrowed a troop of big, strong horses, a
mule for the cargo, and a small, fat Chilote boy. Pagels had to stop
behind, well occupied with mending and darning our damaged property.
At a cost of 350,000 pesos the company has constructed a road of
fifty-one miles down to the mouth of Rio Aysen, unlike even the worst
road you may find in the United Kingdom. We must not expect too much,
however, for the difficulties here are enormous. Across or round narrow
abysses, climbing zigzag, through stony, rushing waters, on narrow
bridges over the precipices, thus runs the first and best part of
it. Then come the steep granite barrancas along the river, where the
road has been blasted in the shape of a shelf in the wall. It makes a
turn and crosses the Baguales ridge. Here is the boundary between the
easier roble forest and the evergreen one, which I have introduced to
the reader on several occasions. Once more we entered the kingdom of
eternal rain. On both sides the forest stands, dense as a wall, with
bamboo thickets and creepers high up in trees, and the limited space
left is filled by half-rotten trunks. A never-ceasing rain completes
the picture. The poncho is heavy as lead with water, and our boots are
filled slowly but surely. Now and then our steeds shake off the water,
and then fall into their old _tempo_ again. The road is terrible.
The horses wade knee-deep through a tough clay or a loose black
mud, where one never knows how deep it is to the bottom and where the
entangled roots trip them up. Now and then, often for half a mile or
so, the road is plastered with sticks; here one does not sink down, but
it is slippery as glass instead, and we are filled with admiration of
the surefootedness of the horses. On downward slopes it felt like it
might feel riding down a staircase, an experience I never had.
[Illustration: PATAGONIAN RAIN-FOREST.]
We halted at Rio Mañiuales--thus named because there are large
quantities of mañiú (in this case _Saxegothea conspicua_) on its
banks. It is the largest tributary, and Halle and I resolved to stop
there; Quensel ferried across it and continued down to the coast. With
dripping clothes we sat down by the hearth in the small cottage where
the ferryman lives, and soon his three little girls gathered round us,
curiously looking at the travellers from a far country. Their mother
offered us a cup of tea and told us about the monotonous life in the
forest. Sometimes the rain makes the road impassable and one is cut off
from the rest of the world, sometimes the river rises, causing serious
inundations: last spring it had carried away one of the ferries and
threatened the house with disaster. She was very proud of her husband,
who was away for the day, and showed us his medal with three clasps
from the South African War. For once the climate gave up its bad ways
and we got a comparatively fine day with only a few showers. The air
was filled with the strong scent of _laurel_ (_Laurelia serrata_, order
_Monimiaceæ_) and _arrayán_ (_Myrceugenia apiculata_, a myrtle-tree),
the _corcolén_ (_Azara lanceolata_, order _Flacourtiaceæ_) was
completely covered with golden mimosa balls, the _ciruelillo_
(_Embothrium coccineum_, order _Proteaceæ_) was on fire with clusters
of crimson flowers. Yellow violets, fine orchids, mimulus, and
calceolarias adorned the soil. At the river the bamboo (_Chusquea
colihue_) showed a luxuriance I did not see in any other place--about
30 feet high, and so thick that it could be used for building purposes.
One would hardly believe that it is only two or three days’ journey to
the dry steppe.
Quensel returned after a boat-trip to Puerto Chacabuco, with greetings
from “el Pacifico,” and now we all went back. We had reached our
goal, had made a botanical as well as geological section through the
mountains, and the following days were spent in detailed studies of
certain interesting places. On our return, just as we were about to
climb the slopes of the Baguales hill, we heard shouting from above,
and slowly a caravan of bullock-carts came down the sharp turns of
the road. As one sees these monstrous carts with their three or four
pairs of oxen one understands what it costs to keep a forest road in
order. We had to wait till they had passed. Progress is not rapid; they
need three days for the trip. Now and then we met Chilotes occupied in
repairing the road after the devastations of the spring flood.
In Coyaike we bought provisions for the next part of our journey.
Hitherto we had met people now and then and found great assistance, but
between Aysen and Lake San Martín, where we intended to make our next
stay, we could hardly count on meeting any inhabitants after the first
days of march. We thus had to carry with us everything except meat, and
the load was almost heavier than at our first start. The provisions,
calculated to last thirty days, consisted of about the same variety as
before. However, we could get neither oatmeal nor biscuits, but had to
bring a flour-bag. The result was that bread was of rare occurrence on
our table. It took too much time to make it; pancakes were easier made;
besides, it was good to have something to long for and to celebrate
feast-days with.
From Puerto Montt we had sent a box by steamer to Aysen; there was
paper for drying plants, spirits, formaline, &c. We left two boxes of
collections in care of the company to be forwarded to Punta Arenas;
only in this way was it possible to make more extensive collections. We
had already sent one box from Lelej and another from Valle Frias, and
we hoped to find them all on our arrival.
On December 3 our caravan started again. On account of the rest and
the good grass our horses were very fresh, and with greater speed than
usual we disappeared between the forest-groves, followed by the waving
of the Aysen people.
CHAPTER XIII
LAKE BUENOS AIRES
During the first few hours we followed the Coyaike valley back the
same way we had come, and then turned south in order to cross a ridge,
separating us from the Mayo valley, which did not look very inviting.
A disagreeable yellow-brown colour told us that we should find the
crossing of it unpleasant. Generally we all used to ride after the
troop, two just behind and one on each flank, but here we came to a
passage where two of us had to keep ahead of the caravan and survey
the camp, or we might be bogged without a warning. The swamps are very
treacherous here, and sometimes we climbed a hill to get a view of the
terrain. Now and then we tried to follow the track of a guanaco; this
is, however, no particularly safe device, for where the light guanaco
can pass a heavy horse might easily sink down. I rode Solo for the
first time after his recovery. He sank up to his girths twice, and I
had to throw myself off instantly and get him on safe ground again. Rio
Mayo presents a good example of a very small brook offering serious
difficulties. If a stream, running deep down in a sort of furrow with
the peat projecting like a shelf above the water, is so broad that it
cannot be jumped, it is anything but easy to get the horses across. It
is not so bad if there is a firm bed, but in many cases the animal
sinks deep down in loose mud and is lost. Also a bed of sand or gravel
may be troublesome; even if one can urge the beast down it is much
labour to get him up again, the peat everywhere giving way under his
hoofs. It is of the utmost importance to find a suitable ford, even if
it should cost you loss of time. Along a considerable distance of Rio
Mayo we found only one place where we could cross this insignificant
stream, and it took us half an hour’s hard labour before we had the
horses safe on the other side. The main thing is to master the mare;
the others will follow her--if they are not like Ruckel or Jeremias,
who had wills of their own and nearly turned our hair grey.
The Mayo valley is said to be one of the last refuges for half-wild
Tehuelches, living in their _toldos_ in the ancient manner. We did not
see any traces of them, but at a distance sighted a _rancho_, horses
and cattle indicating that the valley was inhabited. We had no time to
stop.
In front of us lay a great obstacle, a _meseta_ raising its barrancas
to a height of 4750 feet. There is a path cut through the forest west
of this mountain, but it had not been used for a long time and was said
to be almost impassable; the people in Aysen had advised us not to try
it--they did not know anything of the _meseta_ itself, but thought it
would be easier to cross it. To ride round its east end is simple,
but did not suit our plans. Meseta Chalía, named thus because the Rio
Chalía originates on its west plateaus, consists of loose material and
lacks the basaltic crust that made the table-mountains so dreaded. But
we were soon to see that the difficulties were not less here.
A trying climb commenced, and leading the horses in zigzag we reached
the edge of the plateau, extending in front of us level as a floor
and covered with round stones like cobbles; it reminded us of the
marketplace in a small town. For the most part there was no vegetation,
only strips of a meagre heath of diddledee, strikingly recalling Alpine
tundra. We waited some minutes to recover our breath, and then set out.
Some few steps--what does this mean? The pavement, looking so firm and
safe, will not bear us! Between the blocks, which fret the skin, the
horses go down into a terrible viscous stuff: when the snow melted
the soil had been saturated with water--it is what geologists call
solifluction, though the soil does not move, the ground being fairly
horizontal. Some snow-patches were still left; at their edge there was
no bottom. It was desperate work. To ride was not to be thought of;
we tramped and tramped, dragging our saddle-horses and whipping the
others. We struggled to get on to the firm strips of heath where we
could breathe a moment, which we really deserved, for the misery lasted
several hours. Suddenly we found ourselves at the edge of a ravine,
so steep that we had not observed it till we were close on it. Every
small brook, fed by the snowdrifts, has cut a very deep canyon; the
sides are clad with thickets of ñire, dense as a hawthorn hedge, and
the bottom is filled up by wretched swamps. But we must go down it. The
horses disappeared in the thick carpet, the loads were caught up by the
branches, and we needed all our energy to assemble the caravan in the
bottom of the ravine, where we found a very welcome camping-place. The
next morning we first worked our way out of the canyon, and stood on
the plateau again ready to recommence the fight. It grew still worse
than the day before. Not even the patches of heath bore us; the horses
strove to get there, only to find them occupied by the burrows of the
tuco-tuco. Numerous ravines had to be crossed; we made a small _détour_
higher up on the _meseta_, where we crossed the last, or rather first,
rivulets on snow-bridges, at a height of 4600 feet. It was ridiculous
to see the horses’ fright at the snow, hitherto only seen from some
distance. They required both abuse and the whip, but eventually obeyed,
and that was the principal thing.
Finally we stood at the end of the _meseta_. Three thousand feet below
extended the Koslowsky valley, with inviting green meadows; on the
other side was another _meseta_, and to our right was the main range
of the Andes, blue and violet in the pale evening light. Now arose the
question of getting down into the fine valley, which was more easily
said than done. The slope fell away perilously near a right angle.
It was furrowed by numerous rivulets, hidden under entangled ñire
thickets. We prospected along the edge of the plateau, and, as nothing
better could be seen, chose the least uninviting of the ravines. I
daresay none of us will ever forget that descent. Hardly able to find
foothold, the horses simply slid down the slopes; now and then one
fell, but got on his feet again; another broke away, made desperate
efforts to gallop up again, and then stopped without knowing what
to do. I do not remember how many times we had to let go the horses,
climb up on hands and knees, and drive down the much-cursed Ruckel,
but I know he tried our patience to the utmost. Rather shaken, we and
the horses eventually reached the bottom of the ravine. The slopes
were clad with forest-growth and were very steep, and our only chance
was to follow the dry, stony river-bed, where huge blocks sometimes
barred the way. Thousands of trunks had rolled down from the sides,
forming irregular barricades and stopping the march times innumerable.
The horses lost their senses, rushed at the sides, dashed into blind
alleys, turned round and tried to get back up the canyon. We divided
the troop up, each of us taking charge of some animals. Step by step
we advanced, giving encouraging shouts, and lashing and chasing
fugitives, who baffled all our efforts to keep order. Here indeed was
a good opportunity for Jeremias to distinguish himself, and to be
sure he did not fail. Lagging behind for a second, he took advantage
of an unguarded moment, turned aside, and climbed up through the
forest with a speed and energy that he never showed otherwise, and
disappeared. A special expedition was sent to fetch him down--and he
got a well-deserved thrashing. I had always suspected that horses have
not got much real intelligence, but after studying them in all sorts of
situations I _know_ that they have not.
By-and-by, when the slopes became less steep and the forest higher and
less dense, we took refuge in it. One of us acted as guide, and with
some patience one could get the _yegua_ to follow; then it was the
business of the drivers to keep the others together. With loud shouts
of joy we greeted the open ground--though we _could_ easily keep from
laughing when we discovered that the tuco-tuco had taken possession
of it. At some distance a large animal sprang to its feet, made some
cat-like leaps, and was out of sight. Pagels said that it was a puma
(_Felis concolor_), and very likely it was. The puma, here generally
called “el león,” is the largest and most dangerous of the carnívora in
Patagonia. He is very common, but seldom seen, keeping out of the way
by day. He does not assault man unless wounded, but takes to his heels.
However, he is the most dreaded enemy of the sheep, killing them not
only for food, but also for the sport of it. Often he returns to his
prey, and advantage is taken of that habit to poison the carcass with
strychnine, and the next day may find the puma only a few yards from
the lamb. To our surprise we did not at once find a camping-place with
running water; several of the rivulets from the _meseta_ disappeared in
the swamps at its foot. But finally we found an idyllic little place,
and were not long in off-saddling. Both we and the horses were longing
for a rest. We had marched ten hours without stopping; and even if the
distance did not much exceed twenty miles we did not feel ashamed of
the result.
It proved necessary to give the horses a day’s rest. For us these days
were no rest; generally they were employed in long excursions on foot.
The flora of the Koslowsky valley is rich in species, the summer had
now come, and a lot of plants, new to me, were in full flower.
We were without meat, and Quensel went to look for human dwellings,
which were reported as existing in the valley, while Pagels took the
Winchester and went to shoot something. In the evening we were all back
in the camp, each with his prey. Quensel had met a _mestizo_, who led
him to his _rancho_ and gave him meat. Pagels returned with some small
ducks and a hen eagle; she had some very welcome eggs inside her, which
were delightful in the soup. We had had a very meagre diet the last few
days, but now made up for the loss. Quensel had promised the people in
the _rancho_ that we would visit them when we crossed the valley. Their
miserable hut, almost a veritable _toldo_, lay hidden in a valley--the
small river joins Rio Huemules, which in its turn discharges into
Aysen. The husband, José, was of mixed breed, half Chilean, half
Araucanian; his wife was pure Indian and had been a real beauty. We
sat down with the family; evidently we were expected, for when the
lid was taken off the cauldron it was found to contain rice-gruel. As
far as I know I never showed any predilection for this dish before,
and to-day it seems peculiar that I then ate three platefuls with
great gusto. So it was, however. José told us that there was quite a
new and small settlement on the other side of the valley, and gave us
directions for our march. After a while we came to a cottage, where
half a dozen sheep-dogs rushed out barking frantically and calling
out the inhabitant. He was an Englishman called Brookes, a very nice
man, who had settled with about 2000 sheep and seemed to enjoy his
life thoroughly. With him lived also a Dane, who was glad to find his
native tongue for once understood. Brookes is one of the few camp-men
I met who was interested in nature; he started to speak of the steppe
flora, and showed me a couple of rare plants that he had in his garden.
We wanted to get on after a short while, but the kind souls were so
persistent and we found ourselves so comfortable that we resolved to
stop for the night, the more so as the Dane, Espersen, offered to show
us the best pass over to the next valley. In the evening Mr. Lundberg,
from Kuopio, in Finland, came riding in, and invited us to visit his
place further west in the valley, which we were sorry not to be able
to do. His mother-tongue was Finnish; once he had also spoken some
Swedish, but five-and-twenty years had made him forget both and he had
never learnt a new language thoroughly. He was best acquainted with
English. His case is not unique, I am sure.
The Koslowsky valley lies only a thousand feet above the sea and looks
fertile. Probably it will be colonized before long. In this connection
the following story from the boundary dispute may be told. According
to the rule that water-divide = boundary, this valley would have gone
to Chile as well as the Aysen district. But Argentina put forth the
following impressive facts: it was already colonized (there was a
scheme), one could point to the Casa Koslowsky (a wooden hut) on the
map, and last, not least, there was a photo of the telegraph-line
there--this telegraph-line I have myself seen on more than one
Argentine map. At the house there are fourteen telegraph-posts, with
a wire coming from nowhere and going nowhere; inside is apparatus
that never spoke and piles of paper strips on the floor. By the award
Argentina kept all the valuable part of the valley.
It was December 8 when, in company with Mr. Espersen, we started to
cross the pass along the east slope of Meseta Guenguel and descend
to the large depression where Lake Buenos Aires extends--the largest
of the Patagonian lakes. It was an agreeable ride in bends and turns
between the forest-patches. The rise was not so bad but that it
permitted us to remain on horseback all the time, and at 3400 feet we
reached our highest point; from there we beheld the vast expanse of
the lake, with blue mountains behind. In the east the lake reaches
the pampas; the western arms penetrate far into the mountains, as far
as the edge of the inland ice, with a row of giant summits making
one of the most magnificent pieces of scenery of Andine landscape,
and culminating in the two peaks San Clemente and San Valentín, the
latter with its 13,000 feet being the highest mountain in Patagonia. On
the maps as well as in descriptions these mountains are often called
volcanoes, but there is no foundation for such a designation; probably
they are of the same nature as San Lorenzo, mentioned below.
Lake Buenos Aires has a surface area of about 800 square miles, thus
being almost four times as large as the Boden lake. We were sorry not
to have a boat, and had to keep along the shore. The lake empties in
Rio Baker; as the reader will remember, we were close to its mouth in
June. We camped early that day. Quensel and Pagels went to prepare the
dinner and I got time to look at the vegetation. On the sandy banks
near the river Fenix, where we had our camp, I found quite a number
of species I did not know, of which several had just been described
as from other parts of Patagonia. Halle continued his studies in the
geology of the table-mountains; here he also found fossil plants.
When we got back Quensel had baked bread, and otherwise made extensive
preparations for a feast; that is to say, he had boiled a potful of
dried figs, all in order to impress our guest, who stayed for the
night. I suspect that he had been used to far better kitchens than
ours. The next morning we parted; he went back and we continued along
the Fenix valley. It was as if midsummer had come at a bound. The air
was oppressive, the sand burnt, the horses dripped with sweat, and
every time we tracked a bend of the river the dogs plunged into the
cold water to cool their sore feet. Rio Fenix winds in innumerable
serpentines, bordered by a green fringe; now it leaves a level plateau
free at the foot of the barranca, now it cuts so close into it that one
must pass with caution.
We sit half dozing in the saddle, too warmly dressed for a day like
this, when suddenly there is a stir. Now and then we have passed a
small troop of guanacos, but not even the dogs had taken any interest
in them. At once we discover that they have young ones amongst them;
the dogs are after them and there is a wild hunt. At first the guanacos
gain, the small ones straining every endeavour to keep up with the
others, and they show a tremendous turn of speed. Now one falls
behind, the gap between the small one and the fleeing herd widens; the
dogs are there: now it is for us to interfere, or they will tear him
to pieces and spoil the meat. It is a very pretty little thing, about
a fortnight or three weeks old, with beautiful wool like yellowish
red silk on the back and with a white belly. In triumph it is brought
to the caravan and added to the load. If one can call the meat of
full-grown guanaco very eatable, which I maintain is no exaggeration,
that of the young must certainly be characterized as delicious; it
tastes like the finest veal, and I refuse to tell how much we ate the
first time we had it.
Only very occasionally is the guanaco killed for the sake of its meat;
on the whole the older animals are seldom hunted, but the younger
more often. Their skin is very much appreciated, and is used for the
celebrated _quillangos_ (mantles), which every traveller who passes
Punta Arenas or any of the small ports on the Atlantic is able to
procure. Even if he has not time to go on shore he may be pretty sure
they will come on board; the deck is soon carpeted with products in the
way of fur from Patagonia--guanaco and fox, puma and ostrich, and the
valuable otter from the Channels. And every passenger steamer brings
with it quite a collection of skins and imitation Indian curiosities,
all sold at advanced prices for the occasion. A common guanaco mantle
measures ten to eleven square feet, and is made of from thirteen to
fifteen young animals. In Punta Arenas it costs fifty to eighty pesos,
according to the exchange, for in reality one has to pay in English
pounds and shillings. Another kind of mantle is made only from the
soft skin of the head and legs of the full-grown guanaco; it requires
a very great number of animals, and prices run high; I very seldom saw
these offered for sale. The beginning of December is the season for
the guanaco-hunters; they swarm in certain parts of the Andine pampas,
and for the most part do a thriving business. We saw their fires on
the north slope of the Fenix valley. I have heard there are some
game-laws for guanacos and ostriches, but they are probably ignored,
for it is hardly possible to maintain any effective control in the vast
uninhabited territories.
Hardly had we begun to move again when the next “plucked and roasted
pigeon flew into our mouths.” It was a small armadillo, a common
_Dasypus minutus_. The small armoured ball rolled away, but did not
reach its hole before we had it. After a while we caught another.
These animals are delicious cooked and eaten cold, or roasted in their
hard coats. He who has been lucky enough to try a pig roasted whole
in a Scania parsonage can imagine what an armadillo is like. Small
baskets made of varnished armadillo, with its tail in its mouth, are
among the most common souvenirs brought from Argentina. These animals
belong to an order that in ancient times played an important part. The
surviving species are dwarfs in comparison with those which lived on
the pampas during the Tertiary period, true giants, the armour of which
is beautifully represented in the collection of the famous Museo de La
Plata.
We had not come across armadillos till we came to the Fenix valley;
later on we saw them at times, and they never had time to get clear,
since we knew what they were good for. They live on locusts and other
insects, and to judge from the contents of their stomachs there is no
lack of such.
The midday sun became too hot for us, and especially for our horses;
nowhere was there an inch of shade, but nevertheless we made a halt at
the river, off-saddled, and took a rest. We wanted to make tea, but
not being used to the great heat and drought, we were not cautious
enough in making a fire. In less than a second the grass all round was
all ablaze, and the fire rapidly spread with the wind, threatening
our baggage, which was instantly taken out of reach of it, though not
without some small losses. However, we had to isolate it without delay,
and the coffee-pot, the cauldron, and Quensel’s waterproof hat sped to
and fro from the river, while we at the same time tried to stamp out
the flaming tussocks. After an hour’s work the danger, which might have
had serious consequences, was nipped in the bud.
Further down the river we came upon a sort of peculiar bush-vegetation,
well worth being studied, and we stayed there the next day. Accompanied
by Halle, I strolled about all day, and went back loaded with
specimens. The bushes, fine species of _Lycium_, _Verbena_, and others,
were in full flower everywhere in the hot sand; beautiful yellow
flowers of _Alstrœmeria pygmæa_ peeped out, as well as small spiny
cactus with large yellow, red, and white blossoms. I had to find out a
method of conveying the prickly things with me, but they landed home in
good condition. Between the tussocks many-coloured lizards scurried to
and fro, black and yellow, brown with red and white markings or with
a copper lustre--always making me think of Pagels, who entertained an
inextinguishable passion for these animals. All of a sudden we would
see him stop, jump from his horse, and pursue some speedy lizard, that
often was caught in his cap, to be afterwards transferred to an old
pickle-bottle he carried in his _maletas_. The bottle always leaked,
and when he looked at his treasures Pagels always lamented: “Herr
Doktor, jetzt gehen meine Eidechsen _vollkommen_ kaputt!”
When Quensel and Pagels, who had been out doing geology and hunting,
returned we all took a bath in the river. The hunting had yielded poor
results; they had come across some guanacos, but the feet of the dogs
were so damaged by the hot sand that not even the young could attract
them. By the river were plenty of geese, and with regret we thought of
our gun; with the Winchester we got only a scraggy gander.
At sunset it grew rapidly chilly, and the thermometer fell to
freezing-point, 32° F., which did not prevent its running up next day
to 86° F. in the shade again. We followed the river for some distance,
and then took a short cut across the hilly country down to Lake Buenos
Aires. Here we chanced among a veritable labyrinth of sand-dunes.
We started to look for ostrich eggs, and succeeded in finding two;
unfortunately they were addled. Such eggs! The only drawback is that
it takes twenty minutes to boil them, and then they are but lightly
boiled. The reason we did not follow the river was that it runs east
for some miles before turning south, and finally west, emptying
into the lake. It is a rather peculiar river. Just east of its bend
another river, the Deseado, starts from a swamp, fed by occasional
tributaries from the north; further down other streams join it, and
now visible, now disappearing in the marshes, it runs across Patagonia
and discharges into the Atlantic. The water-parting between Deseado
and Fenix--_i.e._, between the Atlantic and the Pacific--is very
insignificant. Rio Fenix has only just abandoned its old course to the
Atlantic, and it was possible for Dr. Moreno to remove some of the
morainic material and coax it back for a while. Even now it sometimes
sends water to Rio Deseado.
At the east end of the lake there is almost a desert--dry, stony plains
where the few plants look like monsters, to such a degree have they
adapted themselves to an abnormal life. One is agreeably surprised
when suddenly the canyon of Fenix river opens at one’s feet; there is
luscious green grass; the horses betray delight at this sight, and it
is easier than usual to drive them down the steep barranca. We made our
camp not far from the outlet of the river, where traces of one of the
encampments of the Boundary Commission still remained.
Our supply of meat was finished, the dogs had to live on their own
fat--not much to speak of--and we made inroads upon our poor vegetables.
A cool breeze from the lake welcomed us as we rode out of the canyon to
go round the east end of the big water, and the waves broke in over the
shingle, which was adorned by large-flowered yellow œnotheras. I have
seldom seen anything more inanimate than nature here. There was not a
bird to be seen on the water, not an animal in the ravines running down
to the shore from the south; here and there white guanaco bones gleamed
in the bushes, but not a living thing was to be seen. We made a halt in
the canyon of Rio Chilcas and camped. A rumour had spoken of fossils
having been found there. Quensel and Halle were busy looking for them;
I myself spent the time as usual, and Pagels tried to replenish our
pantry, but he returned empty-handed, and supper was identical with
breakfast--pancakes of wheat-flour and water!
[Illustration: FENIX RIVER.]
[Illustration: VALLEY OF ANTIGUOS RIVER LOOKING SOUTH.]
On the north shore of the lake there is a small settlement that we did
not see; otherwise the whole region is uninhabited, in spite of the
good grass along Fenix and south of the lake, which lies only 712 feet
above sea-level, for which reason the winters cannot be very severe. An
abandoned _rancho_ not far from the Chilcas valley showed that people
have lived here for some time. The geologists’ efforts proved futile,
which did not surprise them; the kind of rock was not promising for
the discovery of fossil remains, and we resolved to leave the place
and move our camp to Rio Jeinemeni, which we were to follow to a pass
across the mountains. We left the lake, but enjoyed a last sight of it,
following the shore at some distance, and higher up making for Rio de
los Antiguos, which runs parallel with Rio Jeinemeni, and the canyon
of which we should have to cross. We rested an hour near some lagoons,
and in vain tried to get some birds--there were numbers of black-necked
swans and ducks, but the swans kept far off from the shore and the
ducks hid themselves in the reeds. At random we cut across a plateau
to reach the river, and there we had a narrow escape. Arrived at the
edge of the canyon, we saw the river whirling below, and the barranca
was about 450 feet high. How were we to get down? A safe method would
have been to follow the river down and cross it near the mouth, as we
could see from the map that it must be more fordable there; however,
this meant loss of time and did not suit us. We experienced the truth
of the proverb “More haste less speed.” We rode to a point from where
we got a view up the valley, but nowhere could we see a passage; all
along the barranca fell away almost vertically. Just below our feet,
however, was a sandy slope with some bushes, falling off at an angle
of 45°; what came after we could not see, the rest of the barranca
being too steep to be visible from where we were. But Pagels assured us
that he could see a “very good place,” and we started to slide down.
It went all right for a while, though it was, of course, some time
before we got the horses to understand what a fine way we had found
for them. Our delight was of short duration; after a few minutes we
found ourselves at the top of a hard, nearly vertical sandstone wall
without the slightest trace of vegetation. To turn back was out of the
question. Fortunately the mountain here is furrowed by small streams
during the spring floods, and there was nothing to be done but climb
down one of the ravines, where stones and loose blocks, plunging down
at the slightest touch, made the descent very risky. We had hard work
to force the horses down the ravine. It was so narrow (the section was
=V=-shaped) that we had to crawl in single file. Repeatedly a horse
would dash at the sides; instantly he had to be driven back, or he
went to certain death. Step by step they were literally whipped down,
sliding and falling, stumbling on treacherous blocks; the whip brought
them to their feet again, and one after the other landed safely in
the thickets at the foot of the barranca. Pagels had remained behind
to look for Ruckel, who on this day was carrying tent and provisions;
he had refused to come with the other horses, and disappeared in the
bushes to find his own private way down. Quensel and Halle climbed
up to see what was going forward, but I found waiting tiresome, tied
the horses, and climbed the wall following another ravine. I had come
half-way when I stopped and shouted, but did not get any answer. I
could see nothing; climbed down again and walked along the foot, and
suddenly a dreadful sight met my eyes. Half-way up the wall, at the
end of a small ravine ending abruptly, stood Ruckel, with his load
hanging loose, his legs entangled in the ropes, trembling from head to
foot, and without the most microscopical chance of getting up or down,
to right or left. Straight above him on the slope were my comrades.
How had he got there? He had fallen, tumbled down sideways with load
and all, rolled about 90 feet, and was lucky to recover his foothold
at the very last moment; another inch and he would have been dashed
to pieces. Halle and Quensel had seen him fall, and hastened up to
end his sufferings with a merciful bullet; to their immense surprise
they found him standing upright. The small space where he was able to
keep on his feet sloped down; at any moment his strength might give
out and he would be precipitated down and probably killed, for below
him the barranca sloped _inward_. There seemed nothing to be done. I
climbed up till I stood under him; the ropes were cut and the things
lowered down to me, and I carried them down. As far as we could see
the beast was not much injured, and was only bleeding very little, so
we of course wanted to save him. Just below him, to the left, a small
ridge protruded; could we get him across it, there was a small ravine
leading down. Lying on his stomach and clinging to the projections on
the rock in a manner hardly believable, Pagels dug some steps in the
sandstone with my sheath-knife, Ruckel regarding him immovable as the
Sphinx. Pagels crept down, tugged at the _cabresta_--well, I hardly
know what happened; some rapid steps half in the air, an instant he
lay floundering and kicking with his belly across the ridge, then
was dragged into the ravine and saved! Rubber must have gone to the
construction of a good deal of his body, for the following morning he
was not even lame. Ruckel had celebrated Lucia Day in his own original
way, and now we could laugh at the adventure. When we looked at the
barranca from below we could hardly believe that we had come down
there. The affair had cost time, and we saw ourselves forced to camp at
Rio Antiguos, where another unsuccessful shoot forced us to continue
our pancake diet and the dogs to go with empty stomachs.
We were off early the next morning, for we wanted to cross the river
when there was not so much water as later in the day. It was easier
to climb out of the canyon than it had been to get into it, and so we
went on to Rio Jeinemeni. This river is the frontier between Chile and
Argentina. We thought the best way to the pass would be to follow the
bank of the river, and therefore climbed down into the magnificent
canyon. There was a stony strip of land along the water where we could
ride, but owing to the innumerable turns one could not look ahead for
more than a very short distance at a time. We had not been under way
long before we had to alight and lead the horses. Now the barranca
sent sharp ridges out in the water, where a false step would have been
fatal; now we came across heaps of blocks and _débris_ fallen down
from the wall, now deep ravines, to get across which one almost needed
trained circus horses; if one risked remaining in the saddle, one
hardly escaped getting literally torn off by the tough ñire branches.
We sent Pagels ahead to signal if any serious obstacle appeared. All
of a sudden a barranca ran almost vertically down into the river,
leaving a passage about two or three feet broad. Some bushes increased
the difficulties. Steady! The mare looks at the water, but it does
not seem very inviting. Then she throws a glance full of unsatisfied
desire towards the sky, but 90° was evidently too much for her, and
anxiously squinting at last she walks the right way, followed by the
other party in single file. Suddenly full stop! Pagels has stopped to
clear away some bushes; we shout to him to hurry up, but it is already
too late. Jeremias has taken the lead. With firm resolution he turns
right, crosses a branch of the river, and lands on a sandbank, where
he stops looking more stupid than ever. Evidently the mare finds his
idea brilliant, and plunges after him, and the other loose horses
are not behindhand in following their example. We caught one of the
packhorses before he had time to carry his evil plans into execution;
but the other, Manasse, was already in the middle of the rapid stream,
and with mixed feelings we saw the water washing his load. Fortunately
he carried the cases. There was no time for cogitation; once out in the
main branch Manasse would probably have perished. Pagels hastened after
the fugitives and brought them back. It was a narrow escape; we might
have lost valuable collections, journals, and note-books. The going was
wretched, but we continued up the river till the barranca made further
progress absolutely impossible. We climbed up about a thousand feet
to try if it was not better up there. Pagels was sent ahead with the
Winchester, and a deer really came within range; however, the distance
was great, and though hit the animal did not drop, but rushed down the
slope and fled into Chile--that is to say, he swam over the river,
where he fell down dead. The dogs rushed after him, threw themselves
into the water, the current took them, and they were hardly able to
reach the shore. We did not know if there was any ford; at this hour
of the day the river looked like boiling mud, and it was not without
risk to try to wade it. However, Quensel, on Flax, the most reliable
of our horses, offered to try, and Halle and I drove the troop to a
suitable halting-place. Pagels stopped at the river to help Quensel.
Half an hour passed, one hour--we began to get anxious and walked down
the slope, and were glad indeed to meet them, Flax carrying a pair of
substantial deer-steaks on the saddle. Quensel had got a bath in the
river and had had a narrow escape; he declared that with any other
horse he would not have been successful. “You will never see Pavo any
more,” he added. We were very sorry at the loss of the dog, but at the
same time glad that nothing worse had happened--and our sorrow did not
last long, for whom did we see after a while, lumbering up the slope,
but Pavo, exhausted and dripping with water.
It had grown late. Quensel’s clothes were soaked, and we resolved to
camp on the spot, in spite of the fuel being very scarce and the water
bad. We had to fetch it from a small pond so full of tiny crustaceans
that it turned quite red when boiled. We had a great feast of venison,
and both ourselves and the dogs enjoyed a hearty meal. We also found
time to prospect for the next day, and saw that we must keep high above
the river; it was a mistake ever to try the bottom of the canyon. We
resumed at a height of from 2200 to 3000 feet; it turned out all right,
and we camped at Rio Zeballos, at 3300 feet, the largest tributary to
Jeinemeni, in the most inviting, dry, fragrant roble-forest. We had a
cold night and there was thick ice in the coffee-pot when we rose. The
horses enjoyed the fresh mountain pasturage, and Quensel and I employed
the day in an excursion on foot up into the mountains. We soon found
a guanaco-track that we could follow for more than a thousand feet.
Now and then a guanaco was seen, and once we sat down and remained
immovable, I with the camera. Making smaller and smaller circles, one
approached, stopped now and then, gave a neigh and pricked up his ears.
He felt some anxiety, but curiosity overcame it, and I snapped him from
about a hundred feet. Later we tried the same manœuvre with a fat deer,
but I wanted to get closer, and he was frightened and made off. Above
the forests we climbed over rattling heaps of loose slates; numbers of
charming Alpine plants were in flower among _débris_ and snowfields,
and from a crest of 5700 feet we had a splendid view: to the east the
mighty basalt-covered _meseta_; to the north we cast a last glance at
Lake Buenos Aires, where the smoke from the guanaco-hunters’ camp was
still visible; to the west deep, forest-clad valleys and summits, not
yet found on any map; to the south the Zeballos pass, our battlefield
for the coming day. We felt monarchs up here, as if these immense Alps,
the snowdrifts, flowers and noble animals were our property. Never is
the sense of freedom greater than in the high mountain air with a good
expanse of the earth below one’s feet. Down we went, faster than we
had come up; we slid down the steep, loose heaps of stones, half ran
through the mountain swamps where red-brown geese had their nests,
and dived into the forest. Only Pavo was in the camp when we arrived
there. Later Pagels arrived with some guanaco-meat; he had been on the
_meseta_ where our way led, and said that he had surveyed a beautiful
track for the march. We received this not uncommon information with
equanimity, born of long experience.
CHAPTER XIV
LAGO BELGRANO
On December 17 we crossed Rio Zeballos and climbed the east side of
the valley. Pagels was very proud of the route he had planned, but his
self-importance began to diminish when we came to one swamp after the
other and had to go round them. The small streams were numerous, and
had, of course, cut deep ravines, over which we could hardly force
a way between blocks and thickets; at one place we had to be very
careful, but the horses managed it very well indeed. The ascent up
to the pass was better than we had been used to, and we reached the
highest point at 5000 feet. Large snowdrifts were still left, and the
ground was very soft. Round the pass are several well-marked peaks
looking like sentinels, one of them also bearing the name of Cerro
Centinela. Our way down was longer and gave us more trouble than we had
counted upon; we had been in the saddle ten hours before we saw the
first few bushes and could obtain a little shelter behind some rocks
at the bend of Rio Gio, close to the Chilean frontier. The weather had
turned out stormy, and a strong wind blew, making it rather difficult
to cook the dinner, while the rain pelted down as it can only pelt in
Chile.
Our original plan for the summer had also included a visit to the
_estancia_ of the Baker Company, whereby we should get another section
through the mountains; but in consideration of the little time we
had and the scarcity of provisions we gave it up and rode straight
south, seeking our way through the winding valleys down towards Lake
Pueyrredon, where we camped in the last forest-patch on the slope of
Cerro Principio. The dogs had just captured a fine young guanaco, and
we made a big fire of ñire branches. The fire was indeed necessary, for
it was cold and snowy.
The landscape north of Lake Pueyrredon is peculiar enough--an endless
row of canyons cut down along old cracks, crossing each other in all
directions or ending blind. Sometimes one could not see a hundred feet
ahead, and one of us always had to ride in advance and survey the
ground, otherwise the caravan would have found itself suddenly in a
cul-de-sac. Often we passed half-dried or even dried-up salt-lagoons.
Guanacos were plentiful, and from a side valley a hind with her young
quizzed us, but soon disappeared when the dogs started in chase. On
the shore of the lake were many geological features reminding one of
the west coast of Sweden--the same round, ice-polished rocks with
beautiful glacial striæ, showing that the basin of Pueyrredon-Posadas
was once filled by an immense glacier. Seen from above these lakes
present a very remarkable appearance. A narrow neck of land, where
high sand-dunes are piled up by the frequent westerly gales, separates
them; the more shallow Posadas looks bluish green, the Pueyrredon dark
blue. According to the Argentine maps, Lake Posadas lies 367 feet, Lake
Pueyrredon 364 feet above the sea-level; the former empties into the
latter by means of a short, deep, rapid river, which in our journals is
called Rio del Istmo. The outlet of Lake Pueyrredon is Rio Baker.
It is not possible to wade the river--that is to say, with packhorses.
However, there is a ford outside the mouth in Lake Pueyrredon, where
a sandbank has been formed over which the waves break heavily when
there is a high sea. It runs in an irregular bend, and it is far from
advisable to leave the horses to themselves in crossing. The evening we
came to the ford it looked bad, for there had been a gale of wind all
day and the surf was heavy, but we were not at all inclined to put off
the passage. The soil is very barren here; there are some bushes and
halophilous plants, but not much grass; we were afraid that the horses
would wander all night, and could hardly imagine a worse place than
this for looking for them. For safety’s sake we put _maneas_ not only
on the mare, but also on the roisterer Vingel, who often led her and
the rest of the troop into forbidden ways, and then sat down round a
big blaze of driftwood. We had found half a dozen duck’s eggs, and were
greatly disappointed to find that they had been sat on; however, we
could not bring ourselves to throw them away altogether, but took out
the chicken and used the rest of the yolk in the pancakes. Don’t throw
away an egg till the chicken has absorbed it all--it is always good for
something.
The murmur from the sea increased at dawn, and when we had brought
the horses down among the heaps of driftwood we saw that the surf
was at least as bad as the day before. Nevertheless we made up our
minds to try, leading the packhorses. Certainly they did not plunge
into the water willingly, but were very frightened at the thunder of
the breakers, and it cost us much trouble and the horses sore hides.
Everything went off all right, though we of course got wet and the
loads also received some showers. We had just waded in water, now we
had to flounder in sand along the sides of the dunes; sometimes they
were so steep that we preferred to plunge through the shallow reeds of
Lake Posadas. The southern shore is very different from the northern.
The mountain here rises straight out of the water to a giddy height as
seen from below. One feels oppressed, shut in on a narrow, stony strip
of land, where a stream coming from a deep canyon has split up into
an extensive delta, and one even wonders how one shall get out again.
There is only one answer: Climb!
Halle fell behind in order to survey the canyon, where different strata
were well exposed, and the rest of us climbed 2200 feet in zigzag,
and sometimes not only the horses were four-legged! On the plateau we
halted and waited for Halle. Then we crawled along a very steep, stony
ridge separated by a jagged crest from the valley of Rio Tarde, through
a natural opening at 3600 feet coming down into this valley. The
landscape was very desolate--yellowish-grey rocks cut by innumerable
ravines not marked on the map, and much worse to cross than big
valleys. The patches of vegetation were swampy, and it promised ill for
the night, till suddenly, a couple of miles ahead, some forest-groves
were seen--evidently the most easterly in this part of the country.
They lay beside a tributary of Rio Tarde and we soon had a roof of
foliage, dry leaves to sleep on, a grassy slope below for the horses,
a bank of fossil oysters close to and snowy mountains all round. What
more could we ask? Here was everything. Some rusty tins showed that the
place had been used as a camp before; surely they had been left by the
Argentine Boundary Commission, for one of them had contained preserved
asparagus.
We stayed here one day in order to give the horses a chance to recruit
their strength for the march across the next mountain-pass. As our
next goal we set ourselves nothing less than Lago Belgrano itself, and
indeed actually got off before eight o’ clock. Now the reader will
think us a band of real sluggards, but I must protest against such an
idea, for as a rule we never rose later than six o’clock unless we had
gone to rest quite exhausted the night before, and very often it was
only five o’clock when we crept out of our bags. But all the work that
had to be done before we could spring into our saddles took much time.
We had carefully studied the map and chose another route than the one
followed by the engineers of the commission, to some extent shortening
the distance. It was wild and desolate up here at a height of 5600
feet, gigantic basalt pillars lifted their hard black bodies on both
sides, and large snowdrifts fed the boggy, sliding soil. The slopes,
nearly without vegetation of any kind save some monstrous plants in
the shape of compact balls, are coloured red, brown and grey, and Rio
Belgrano rises like a red-brown mud-puddle. A chilly fog enveloped
us and shut out the view; only the nearest mountain, the fine Cerro
Belgrano (7500 feet) being visible, cutting the veil with its worn
peaks. The pass fell abruptly on the other side making us hesitate
for a moment. The river makes innumerable turns and bends, from all
directions tributaries flow in; we saw no other way than to keep to
the bottom, every five minutes crossing the river in order to take
advantage of the narrow strips of muddy shore separating the barranca
from the water. We made very slow progress, the horses were tired and
often refused to cross the stream, but nevertheless we should have
reached the lake if fate had not led us to arrange a great Christmas
slaughter.
[Illustration: THE BELGRANO PASS, WITH GIANT BASALT PILLARS.]
[Illustration: WEST ARM OF LAKE BELGRANO.]
We wrote December 22 in our journals and had hardly a piece of meat in
the pantry. We had just crossed the river and were about to round a
hill, separating us from the Belgrano basin, when we caught sight of
four deer, two bucks with their hinds steadily regarding us and shaking
their little stumps of tail as they uttered their peculiar cooing note.
We tied the dogs up and approached them with great caution. One of
the bucks was badly wounded by a bullet, but nevertheless rushed down
the slope at full speed, the other got a broken shoulder and did not
move. We went up to him but he stood quite still looking at us with his
large, intelligent eyes, the blood slowly dripping down on the flowers
of the heath. We wanted to give him his _coup de grâce_, but in spite
of one bullet in the head and one in the chest, he suddenly showed a
spark of life and rushed down to the water. We let the dogs loose but
instead of making for the wounded bucks they brought one of the
hinds to bay at the river and Pavo buried his teeth in her throat. As a
rule we only killed bucks, but of course had to kill the hind in this
case. Now we had to look for the bucks. Pagels and I went down to the
river where one of the bucks, wild with rage, lay struggling with Pavo,
who had bitten him; we let the river carry him down to a place where
it was possible to land him. It was resolved to camp close by, and a
horse carried down the meat of this buck. Pagels and Quensel went to
take charge of the rest. The buck still lived and butted round him; he
hit Pagels and knocked the knife (my bowie-knife) out of his hand into
the river, where it disappeared for ever. At nightfall we had finished
the bloody work; we had two hundred pounds of good meat, more than
sufficient for our stay at Lake Belgrano.
In the morning we rode down to the lake. The horses had very heavy
loads, but the road was only nine and a half miles long and, with
the exception of some swamps round the west arm of Rio Belgrano,
easy enough. Just as we came down the last slope we discovered the
tracks of shod horses. People here? Some expedition perhaps, looking
for a camp? Now two parallel lines appear; there is no doubt that a
cart-track leads down to the lake. And when the view opened out with
the glasses we could make out a tent, horses and men. It was almost
a disappointment--had civilization reached this last great tract of
Patagonia? “And I, who hoped that we should celebrate Christmas by
ourselves,” said Halle with a worried air.
The peninsula had been shut off by a fence and we proceeded through a
gate, the “strangers” gathering in front of their tent. We alighted
and walked to greet them. Their appearance plainly told us, that
they were not children of the country, but “gringos,” and we asked
them if they spoke English or German. “Wir sind deutsche Kolonisten,
und Sie?” They gave us a hearty welcome, and our thoughts coincided
in a “now we’ll celebrate Christmas.” By-and-by they told us about
themselves and their enterprise. A newly formed company, called
Sociedad Germano-Argentina, had got a concession of about 1200 square
miles of land from Lake Posadas to Rio Chico, on condition that it
brought colonists from Germany who promised to devote themselves to
cattle-raising and agriculture. Two of our new friends had a share each
and were out looking for a suitable piece of land in order to buy it.
The manager, C. Högberg, a Swede and late captain of a ship, was only
some days’ journey from there and was expected after Christmas. The
Germans had not made up their minds as to where they wanted to settle
in earnest, but thought of stopping for the winter on the lake, to
see what the unfavourable season was like. It is a doubtful question
whether this part of the country is fit for either of the purposes
mentioned above. The lake is situated not less than 2570 feet above
sea-level. The stony peninsula, connected with the mainland to the east
by a very narrow neck of land, produces the impression of being barren
and weather-worn. I can see but one great advantage: it does not need
to be fenced in. Probably the winter is comparatively severe and the
summer short with early night-frosts. I do not think the colonists
will stay long here. The communication with the outer world goes over
San Julian, a distance of 220 miles as the crow flies. The land round
Lake Belgrano is certainly not especially good, and what it is that has
fixed the attention of the colonists just upon that part I am unable to
understand.
The Germans complained that they were short of meat, and we were
glad to give them some of our ample supply. There were deer on the
peninsula, but the Company wanted to spare them. In return for the meat
they gave us white beans and lentils; we were very short of vegetables:
the oatmeal was finished and our possibilities of making pancakes had
become sadly limited. Of rice alone had we a sufficient supply.
Lago Belgrano has been the starting-point for the mapping out of
several lakes, the acquaintance of which we shall soon make. The
landscape belongs to the most beautiful in Patagonia, and I defy
anybody to show me mountain scenery more varied and grand than that
west of the Azara-Nansen basin. A very promising field for work
attracted us thither.
Our first thought was to find a good camping-place, and as we intended
to make a longer stay than usual, it had to be chosen with care. In the
ñire forest on the east side of the peninsula we found one satisfying
all our demands, cut some bushwood and fixed up our tent, above which
the Swedish colours floated. One of our most important tasks was to
make a boat journey and penetrate westward into the mountains. We knew
that the boundary commission had left a canvas boat, and the Germans
told us that there were two of them, a smaller and a larger, and
indicated to us where we should look for them. Halle stopped at home,
the rest of us went to find the boats. We had not gone far before we
saw a blockhouse in a grove. In the Koslowsky valley we were told that
the commission had spent a considerable time by the lake, and that
various things were left there, among others preserved foods. The hut
was shut up; but an opening in its hinder wall was only stopped with
branches and one of them being loose it was the work of a second to get
into it. I will specially emphasize that we were in the uninhabited
mountains of Patagonia with failing provisions, so that the reader will
be able to overlook what now happened. In one corner there was a barrel
of wine, and four wooden boxes. Some instruments for making charts were
fixed under the roof. That this had belonged to the last commission,
which had put up the boundary marks, we did not doubt for one instant,
and our hypothesis was strengthened when we opened the boxes and saw
their contents: tinned provisions, also some luxuries, tobacco and any
amount of cigarette papers, barometers and thermometers. One of the
boxes contained nothing but Jamaica rum. We felt happy enough--this
was indeed the hidden treasure of a fairy-tale. The Governments of
both Chile and Argentina had promised us their help: I declared myself
ready to take the responsibility for robbing the depot, and we picked
out a selection of provisions, especially in view of the boat-trip,
since we carried scarcely anything suitable for that purpose. Even the
Christmas brandy, a bottle of rum, we let the Government present us. We
made a list of the stolen goods to be sent to Buenos Aires, nailed up
the boxes and effaced the traces of our visit. We found it unnecessary
to tell the Germans about it. Possibly Captain Högberg, once a member
of the commission, had the keys; but it was less probable that he had
let the colonists into the secret.
We soon found the boats; one had been fixed under cover some distance
from the shore, but it was so large that we could not think of using
it. The other lay without any protection on the beach, it was a
non-collapsible eight-foot, rather the worse for sun, wind and weather.
Probably it had not been used for years. We tried it and found it
leaked terribly. It was not easy for us to repair it, for we had no
materials, but some grease in the joints and on the canvas made it
serviceable enough, though the man in the stern was kept busy all the
time baling out the water. Heavily laden with the “Christmas gifts” we
returned to the tent. Halle was at home writing: we opened the door a
little and threw in a tin: “Do you want some butter for Christmas?...
or perhaps milk?... a piece of cheese doesn’t taste bad ... here, too,
you have an ox-tongue.” And at last, shaking the bottle: “I think we’ll
have some grog to celebrate the day.” I have seldom seen a person look
so absolutely at a loss; he wouldn’t believe it, and it took him a
long while to grasp the situation. It almost looked like a conjuring
trick. The poor “extra” tins we had bought in Aysen quite faded into
insignificance in comparison with all these new dainties; now we were
prepared for the double festival on the Southern Hemisphere--Christmas
and Midsummer’s Day at the same time.
The menu of the dinner on Christmas Eve was as follows:
Hors d’œuvre.
Coeur de cerf sauté avec des légumes.
Figues au riz avec du lait.
Thé.
Grog au rhum.
We were dangerously near gourmandising. I would not say that the
discovery we made the next morning, viz., that the things we had taken
could not belong to any boundary commission, but to the employees and
engineers of the German colonizing company, helped to the digestion
of the strange dishes. The date on one of the tins had revealed the
truth--we had just committed burglary. However, it was done and could
not be undone. I wrote a letter to Captain Högberg explaining matters
and offering to pay for what we had stolen; in Punta Arenas I got an
answer in which he declared himself happy to have been of assistance
to some of his countrymen, and thus everything was all right. We still
feel indebted to him.
Breakfast on Christmas Day wasn’t bad. What do you say to pancakes
with gooseberry jam; the latter honestly acquired too, in Aysen, and
coffee with bread. We had had a baking for Christmas. In the evening we
accepted an invitation to visit the Germans. They were nearly as poorly
off as ourselves, but had one thing that we could not even dream of--a
barrel of wine, and round it we sat having a merry time. At night they
came to have dinner with us. It was a proper Christmas, and during the
night it even snowed in spite of its being midsummer. Probably this
was a special attention paid to the Swedish visitors, who knew how to
appreciate it. Then we had enough of feasting. All Christmas Day we
had done no work. On Boxing Day we wanted to start our boat-trip, but
it blew too hard in the morning and we had to wait till the afternoon
before we could venture to set out. Carefully we packed the sleeping
bags and provisions for some days and more carefully still we placed
ourselves in the canvas boat, Quensel, Pagels and I. There was not much
of the gunwale above water.
Opposite us, on the south shore, the mountain-scenery was splendid,
reflected by the clear blue-green water; down below green slopes
with brown patches of heath and yellow straps of sand, then a steep
mountain wall with multi-coloured _débris_ and yellow, red and violet
tufa-layers; on the top of them a black jagged crest of slate, split
up into crags, sharp as needles, where white snow still lingered here
and there. We kept close inland, and reached the narrow West Arm; the
current in the entrance is very strong. The evening was squally, and we
soon had to land for the night. The morning arrived with a fresh breeze
and the sea ran so high that we could not sit three in the boat, but
Pagels pulled along the shore, Quensel and I walking on foot. It was
not long before the wind increased and both we and the boat landed in a
small bay. The great difficulty in navigation on Andine lakes is the
persistent westerly wind blowing without cessation.
We had camped early in the day. From a hill we could see the depression
of the lakes Azara-Nansen. They are completely shut in by snowy ridges,
and the brooks keep their waters at a nearly constant temperature of
some few centigrades above zero. The hour of liberty did not strike
that day, and our spirits fell indeed when we rose with the same
wretched weather. At noon the wind abated, and in the evening we went
forward. Quensel and I walked as long as we could when Pagels took us
on board and we landed happily at the short river, where a waterfall
empties Lago Belgrano into Lago Azara. Here we had to carry the boat
and things over the hills; the cascade has a fall of twenty-six feet in
a distance of only 700 feet. We continued at once to the next beautiful
lake, now smooth as a mirror. Wanting to get as far west as possible
we turned off into the long narrow western branch, the mouth of which
is very shallow and almost barred by thousands of big logs from the
forests round the lake. Already in the west part of Lago Belgrano, the
forest-patches closed to a thick covering, and all the slopes were
quite hidden under a dense forest. We had to pass the entrance on foot,
and Pagels was hardly able to get through with an empty boat into the
calm water, which the reflections from the high mountains painted
black-green. We did not mind the dark, but wanted to get on as long as
it was calm, but hardly had we agreed to do so when the first puff of
wind came rushing along, followed by others stronger and more and more
frequent. In haste we had to seek the first landing-place we could
find where it was possible to haul up the boat. In order to find a
place to sleep in we groped along in the darkness and climbed up into
a narrow crevice; sixty feet above the water we found a nice little
shelf just big enough for the sleeping-bags. If one regards this place
from below it is impossible to see that there is a camping-place in the
middle of the very mountain-wall.
[Illustration: GERMAN COLONISTS, LAKE BELGRANO.]
[Illustration: BREAKFAST TABLE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. LAKE BELGRANO.]
Now and then we woke up from sheer curiosity. Really, we thought, it
is getting calm again. At 4 A.M. we got out, rolled up our bags and
hastened off, in the lovely weather, every peak standing out distinct
and towering against a cloudless sky. Not only the vegetation had
undergone some changes. Quensel looked at the rocks now and then; we
landed and he knocked off a piece; the backbone of the cordillera,
the granites, appeared once more. After some hours pulling we reached
the innermost corner, where we breakfasted on the sunny beach to
the music of a small waterfall. We followed the stream up to its
origin, a charming little lake without a name on the map, but by us
called Laguna Joya (the gem). In order to profit by the day we made
an ascent. The ground here is very uneven, up and down over mossy
rocks and forest-covered ravines, but we made good speed and finally
freeing ourselves from the last embrace of the twigs had the forest
below us. Over rattling stones we climbed Cerro Aspero till we reached
the foot of a large glacier covering the summit; only the sharpest
peaks, from which the ice glides in frozen cascades, peeped forth. We
have not seen many bits of scenery equal to the one seen from here.
The camera clicked, but certainly gave no idea of the colours. South
and west of us we had the high peaks close by, shutting out the view
in these directions; but to the north like sparkling gems on a dark
green cloth lie the lakes, a small sapphire-coloured corner of Lake
Azara, the lakes Mogole and Peninsula showing the tints of amethyst
and emerald. Beyond, summit after summit rises, in all directions with
large glaciers giving birth to milk-white rivers winding through yellow
moraines. Farthest north, majestic and commanding, Cerro San Lorenzo
reigns over all, with its 11,000 feet, one of Patagonia’s highest
mountains and so steep that one really wonders how the glaciers are
able to cling to its sides. To the west the inland ice gently wraps its
sheet over Cerro Blanco, shining like silver and gold in the strong
noon-tide light. It is a long distance to San Lorenzo, but nevertheless
we can see that its geology is different from the surrounding lower
mountains. Probably all the highest summits, such as San Clemente
and San Valentin are of the same laccolitic nature. At the foot of
Cerro Blanco we catch sight of a small lake, not marked on the map
and probably never before seen by anybody. We almost ran down, for we
must make use of the fine weather. In haste we gobbled some food on
the shore and said good-bye to Lago Azara. It was midnight when we
reached Lago Belgrano. In the whirlpools below the cascade we were
near to coming to grief, but Pagels’ seamanship saved the situation.
In the morning we carried the boat across and were back in our own
lake again. This time we took the way north of the peninsula, where
the lake is rather narrow. To our surprise we found it so shallow that
we could hardly pass, owing to Rio Lacteo carrying down masses of mud
from the glaciers on San Lorenzo. Further east we got into deep water
again and in the afternoon of December 30 were back in our camp. In
the evening we had a notable visit from two Tehuelche Indians, for the
time staying with the Germans. Silently they sat down before the fire,
but when they had drunk a cup of cocoa, a beverage rather unknown to
them, they loosened their tongues. They were brothers and indeed such
a pair of fine fellows to look at that we could hardly conceive that
they really belonged to the last remnants of a dying race. To see
them mount a bucking, unsaddled horse, on which they sat like wax,
was pure delight. We spoke to them about the route we had taken from
Lago Pueyrredon there, but they did not at all approve of it. Why
should people endure such hardships when they could gallop round those
troublesome mountains? Our dinner was now ready, and we invited them to
partake of it; they protested saying that they had just had theirs; but
nevertheless two plates of beans and deer-steak went down. Bidding us
farewell, the elder said: “We shall give you some veal, and it is very
fat.” We thanked them and gratefully accepted the offer.
New Year’s Day had been fixed for the start. Halle had made long
excursions to survey this region and had obtained very good results. On
New Year’s Eve we stayed at home and worked hard to get ready; we had
to make bread, write down our observations, pack the collections and,
last but not least, mend our clothes, which by now were almost fit for
a museum. Halle had struggled with his trousers a long time--finally
they exhibited a mosaic so cunning that it might have done for a
tailor’s trial piece. At sunset all was in order. The Germans had been
kind enough to remind us that there was still some wine left, and soon
we sat down in the old blockhouse, Swedes, Germans and Indians. It was
cold, but we had a merry fire, and everybody was armed with a mighty
tin mug of hot wine; we spoke of our homes and old songs were sung.
When our watches showed midnight our revolvers rang out, the roof was
lifted by our loud New-Year-Greetings, the dogs took up the cry and
with a little ring-dance we welcomed 1909. The Tehuelche boys laughed
till their beautiful white teeth shone.
New Year’s Day, 1909. We struck camp, the flag was lowered. Wild
after the days of liberty the horses strained against the ropes of
our corral. We halted at the camp of the Germans to bid farewell to
the good fellows, and then we gave the horses a free rein, left the
peninsula and rode up in a valley between the hills. Here we stopped
one moment and turned round to give a last glance at this charming
picture, to which many of our merriest Patagonian remembrances are
attached. The surface of the lake disappears, the last peaks sink
behind the hills, we are on the high pampas, where the flora shows
all the beauty of midsummer. For a moment we gather round map and
compass, get a direction, and at good speed the caravan trots over the
steppe-plains.
CHAPTER XV
LAKE SAN MARTÍN
There are two different routes to follow from Lake Belgrano to the
South: one westerly, more inviting from some points of view leading
as it does through inaccessible parts of the cordillera, here called
Sierra de las Vacas, and one easterly along the rivers Belgrano and
Lista. But the high passes would probably be so deep in snow that we
perhaps should not get over; in any case they would require much time,
and time was valuable, as we did not know how long we should have to
stay at Lake San Martín. Further, the easterly way would probably give
better results for geology and botany, and this circumstance determined
us.
Over blooming pampas, where steep hills rising fifty to a hundred
metres above the level ground, and numerous lagoons make the scenery
rather pleasant, we rode down the cañadon of Rio Robles which we
followed down to Rio Belgrano, our old acquaintance of the time of our
march down to the lake. We crossed Rio Belgrano and then, with some
difficulty, because of the depth and the strong current, the two joint
rivers. Here my horse, Johansson, nearly succeeded in playing me a
bad trick. As I did not want to get wetter than was necessary I drew
my legs on his back, and probably touched him with one of the spurs;
anyhow, he got wild and tried to throw me off in the middle of the
stream. Certainly it would not have been very pleasant had he been able
to carry out his intention, as it was I only lost my rebenque (whip)
and got soaked to my waist, but the fresh pampas-wind soon dried my
clothes. We had just crossed this river and were trotting along again,
when, to our surprise, we discovered a caravan further down--but alas!
on the other side. We supposed that it was Captain Högberg, and were
very sorry indeed that we could not stop, but we had a long march
before nightfall and thought it would be too troublesome to cross
the river twice. Had we only been able to see the troop before we
crossed the temptation would have been too strong--one does not meet
compatriots every day in the uninhabited parts of Patagonia.
We had to search well before we found a camping-place that satisfied
our needs. Everywhere there was plenty of grass and water, but no
fuel. When we unsaddled our horses we discovered that Jeremias, whose
back had been bad for a long time, now looked terrible. We had thought
that after the rest at Lake Belgrano he would be able to carry his
load again, but his old swollen wounds had broken open and were full
of matter. His job from this day was to act as watch-horse in the
night--and during the marches to lead the troop astray and thus cause
our riding horses a lot of extra work.
The next day we continued along the valley of Rio Belgrano, until we
found a good pass where we could cross the ridge and descend into the
valley of the rather large river, Lista, which drains the Sierra de las
Vacas by means of numerous tributaries. At the point where we struck
the river it is divided into many branches, which constantly shift
their course over a bed of shingle. The last one was so deep that the
loads only just came clear of the water. The Lista Valley looks very
fertile. Unfortunately this region as well as that through which we
rode on the following day lies so high above sea level that the winter
is generally too severe for both sheep and cattle. An old abandoned
_rancho_ close to the Rio Ñires, where we camped on January 2 showed
that colonisation had been a failure. But why not make use of all this
fat grass above the sea as we do in Switzerland or in Scandinavia? The
system of mountain dairies, used only in the summer, will probably
reach Patagonia also in time.
The rivers Belgrano and Lista belong to the Atlantic system; they run
to Rio Chico, a river anything but small as the name denotes, which
empties in the same estuary as Rio Santa Cruz. A few miles south of
Rio Lista we passed the ridge which forms the water-parting, and set
our course for the valley of Rio Ñires. The name of this river did not
sound very promising, and I have never seen brushwood which was denser.
For long stretches the stream was not visible, and one had to search
for a place where one could get down and fill the pot with water.
The next river had a still more discouraging name: Arroyo Tucotuco.
And on the map the valley was marked as one extensive swamp. We walked
carefully along, crossed the sources where they emerge out of narrow
canyons and followed the valley south of the stream. It was indeed a
charming place; we had a small strip to keep on: a few steps to the
right and the horses sank down into a bottomless swamp, a few to the
left, and the ground was completely undermined by the tuco-tuco. Having
passed a small tributary, called Arroyo Potrancas on the Chilean map,
we soon met with dense forests. Only round the swampy brooks was there
a space of clear ground, but we soon got tired of groping our way and
turned at right angles into the forest. Abraham made the most energetic
attempts to carry away the trees--a horse never learns that his pack
makes him broader--and we had to be very watchful to release him, stuck
fast as he stood between two stems, with a most frightened expression
on his stupid face.
Suddenly the ground fell off at a very sharp angle; we stood at the
top of a forest-clad barranca, 300 feet high, that sloped abruptly
down into the valley. I was to lead one of the pack-horses, our old
friend Ruckel: he started to tremble as soon as he saw the steep place,
and nearly crushed me against a tree. We found that we had reached
our goal, the place where Rio Carbón joins Rio Mayer. We camped in a
high and lofty roble forest. Mr. Hatcher made his principal geological
studies in the Meseta east of Rio Carbón, and so the geologists were
very anxious to visit the place. However, our halt did not result in
much; it proved exceedingly difficult to identify Hatcher’s localities;
certainly we had no presentiment of the discoveries, still greater than
those made here before, which were in store for us.
When our caravan started again on January 5 we did not expect to cross
the pass over to the depression of Lake San Martín in one day. The maps
spoke of difficulties, and the distance was great. The first part was
not very difficult and at 12 A.M. we passed the last forest-patch and
made up our mind to push through. The river, which carried plenty of
water, had dug its course between vertical walls. To pass above the
barranca was impossible, for on one side it rose sheer for many hundred
feet; on the other was the basaltic meseta with a ground covered with
millions of blocks, impassable for horses or even mules. Thus we were
bound to keep in the bottom of the ravine, working our way with the
speed of a snail and climbing incessantly from one side of the river to
the other. Often cross ravines or protruding joints stopped us, and we
had to exert all our powers to drive the horses through such places,
where they one moment would climb the barranca and the next rush down
into the water. In spite of all we could not help laughing at the mare,
who tried to climb a vertical wall, but came down faster than she
expected. We came to ground covered with large, sharp-edged blocks: the
troop dispersed, the pack-horses stumbled and fell. Without hesitation
we let our horses loose, climbed up to fetch the others and managed to
drive them down to more even ground. Luckily enough none of them were
hurt.
The higher we rose the narrower grew the valley, and the snow increased
exceedingly towards the pass, and we came upon large drifts and bridges
which bore or broke just as it pleased them. When we reached the pass,
we had crossed the river twenty-seven times. The whole pass was
covered with snow--only on the steepest walls the withered rock lay
bare and yellow, without a trace of vegetation. The river wound between
vertical walls of ice and snow a few yards high. We rode in the bed
between them, until they met in an unbroken white cover, under which
the river disappeared. Across the snowfields we slowly approached the
south side of the pass. We were prepared for nice surprises in the
shape of floating soil, and I very much doubt if we shall ever forget
that afternoon in the Cañadon of Rio Fósiles. It is difficult to think
of a more terrifying scene. Everywhere high, steep walls with dirty
melting snow-patches, streams of clay, red-brown or blackish, and deep
down under our feet the river like a boiling mass of red mud. Not a
blade of grass--life seemed extinguished; only a single condor soars
comfortably among the peaks watching the little black points, which
struggle along, expecting every moment that a horse will get tired,
stumble and fall down into the abyss.
There were places where we stopped without knowing at first what to
do; sheer rock walls where we could see how the horses strained every
muscle not to lose their foothold, or loose floating soil, where they
sank down and fell. It often happened that danger was unsuspected;
the surface is dry, hard and full of crevices; one drives the troop
along and then, suddenly, all the horses are down in the mud. If we
had not helped Jakob in time he would have stopped where he was; the
clay dragged him down, he struggled for his life, but rolled round and
started to slide down with the thick reddish mud which slowly floated
away. We saved the Winchester which was tied to his saddle, took him
by the legs and turned him round while one pulled the cabresta and the
other whipped him, and finally we got him on firm ground again. Halle’s
look when he met his horse again was worth money. But he had not time
to worry. A discovery of an unknown rich fossil flora had been made
by him when he was away from the caravan, and this cast a gleam of
brightness over the unpleasant valley.
The hours passed and the horses became more and more difficult to
manage. To ride was impossible, and many times we met with passages
which the animals could hardly clear even with an empty saddle. We
followed the east side of the river, and by-and-by climbed out of the
Cañadon on to the plateau, where the patches of vegetation soon closed
together. The first, violet forest-patches were seen in the gloaming
but we could not reach them. Night fell and quite exhausted we threw
ourselves down by the first bushes, some “mata blanca” (_Chiliotrichum
diffusum_). We had been under way twelve hours without rest and over
the worst ground to be found in Patagonia. We were 3000 feet above sea
level and had covered a distance of twenty miles since the morning.
When we came the following morning to fetch the horses, almost all of
them had lain down, which had hardly ever happened before. We saddled
to ride to the first forest-patch, two hours’ march only, and there the
horses got a rest and we made our usual excursions. We had discussed
the possibility of stopping here some days, but Halle thought the find
so rich that he preferred to return to the place during our boat-trip.
Another reason for continuing the march was that we were short of
provisions; the last thirty-one figs were boiled with the last handful
of rice, and from the last remains of the bag of flour two small
loaves were made. Consequently we made a fresh start the following
day, January 7, in order to reach an estancia near Lake San Martín
which we had sighted from the pass. The descent was not difficult, but
the ground was such that it gave the horses much unnecessary work, a
confusion of hills and canyons impossible to prospect. We had just
come down a very steep barranca, when on a little green patch below we
caught sight of a man on horseback driving a small troop. “How far is
Frank’s farm from here?” “Only a couple of hours,” was the answer, we
should soon strike a track. At once we divided the last loaf--it must
not happen that we reached our goal with provisions to spare. We soon
found the track, which followed a peculiar winding canyon where the
air was still and the heat oppressive. Suddenly the view of the steppe
opened, there lay the well-known houses of corrugated iron, shining in
the bright sun. Our friend Mr. Frank met us, and the curtain fell on
the second act.
We had met Mr. Frank on several occasions and he had showed himself
much interested in our plans and wanted us to visit his farm in order
to make an excursion on the lake together. He is a German and lives
in Santiago during the winter. To reach his farm he has to take the
steamer through the Straits and up to San Julián; from there he
rides or drives up to the Cordillera. Some years ago he had a special
motor-car constructed to go between the farm and the coast, having
high wheels to pass the rivers. The result, however, was not very
brilliant--it took twice as much time with the motor-car as with the
bull-carts. But as the first experiment it is worth a page in the
history of Patagonian colonization.
Shearing was just finished, but an important piece of work had
still to be done before Mr. Frank and his people could be ready to
join us in the excursion. The sheep had to be dipped in order to
prevent the spread of “the scab,” a disease that of course has a very
disadvantageous effect on the quantity and value of the wool. They swim
through a channel filled with some disinfecting fluid, and a man stands
ready to give them a proper dip. Up they come again, snorting and
bleating soaked with the brown water.
We devoted our own energies to the boat. There was left over from the
time of the boundary commission a ruined cutter, built by Captain
Högberg; all loose things had been stolen and the remains were of no
use. But there were also two canvas-boats, which lay on the ground
close to Bahia de la Lancha, a cove not far from the farm itself. One
of them was very large, not collapsible and half-rotten, and we could
not think of using it. The other was of the same type that we had used
before in Tierra del Fuego, a first-class Berthon, but much longer than
ours, easily carrying eight persons. It had been transported there some
years earlier, but left on the beach and never launched. Wind and
weather had treated it badly; part of the wood was broken to pieces and
the canvas had numerous holes so that it was a job to repair it. But we
all helped and Pagels was very handy, as usual. On the 10th our work
was finished and lay shining in the sun with fresh paint and patches.
We were sorry not to be able to start at once. Certainly we had much to
do in the neighbourhood, and we saw day after day go by without getting
off. At last, on the 14th, they finished the dipping and then came the
preparation of provisions. For meat we only carried the carcasses of
two sheep; they would not last long, but we were sure to find something
to shoot. On the 15th we went down to the beach, Quensel, Frank,
myself, Pagels and two men from the farm. It blew hard, but we wanted
to be quite ready when the calm came.
Lake San Martín, which is 660 feet above sea level, has the most
peculiar shape of all the Cordilleran lakes. Its surface is 376 square
miles and is split up into several long and narrow arms, veritable
fresh-water fiords, penetrating far into the mountains. The most
westerly of the two north arms, here called only North Arm, is the
longest; the eastern we call the Mayer Arm. The North Arm turns to the
north-west near its end, and here we find the outlet of the Lake, the
big river Pascua, which empties into one of the branches of Baker Inlet
in the Pacific. From this latitude and down to Ultima Esperanza there
is no interruption in the inland ice; all the lakes south of San Martín
empty into the Atlantic, except the Payne lakes, which send their water
to Ultima Esperanza through Rio Serrano. The West and South Arms
penetrate furthest into the Cordillera, and in the latter the glaciers
come down to the water. The prevailing westerly gales drive the
icebergs out of the South Arm; most of them run ashore without getting
very far, but some are seen from the settlements. The temperature
of the water even in summer does not exceed six or seven degrees
centigrade. Rio Pascua not only carries the water of San Martín but
also of much more distant lakes. As the reader will remember we made
the acquaintance of Rio Mayer on the other side of the Fósiles pass,
where it comes from the canyon; after having received the rivulets
Ñires and Tuco-tuco this river makes a sharp turn to the south and
receives through Rio Nansen or Carrera the water from the lakes Nansen,
Azara and Belgrano, disappears for a second time in the mountains and
emerges in the arm of Lake San Martín.
Through the descriptions of the Boundary Commissions we know how
very difficult, not to say dangerous, it is to navigate on Lake San
Martín. The wind, which often rises to a gale, can make progress to
the westward impossible for weeks. We trusted to our luck--there was
nothing else to do till we were able to make a start. It calmed on the
16th; we rose hurriedly, hauled our boat down, launched it, stowed the
cargo in and got under way with our little Swedish flag in the bows.
Frank steered and the rest of us pulled the four oars--thus we had not
much chance of being lazy. Rio Fósiles has built a sandbank across the
East Arm, where we now were, and when the water is low it quite shuts
off the arm; we found a narrow passage and came through. We landed
for a while on the rocky shores of Chacabuco Peninsula to cook some
food and thence continued to the northern shore of the lake. We met a
heavy sea that broke all along the Fósiles delta, and after several
hours hard pull we landed for the night. A glance out of the sleeping
bag showed that we could not think of starting the following morning.
Over the lake blew a fresh westerly gale and only at 4 P.M. did we
resolve to try again. There was plenty of sea and we shipped some water
and soon water also came from above in the form of heavy rain, which
in a few moments soaked us to the skin. But it abated the violence of
the waves and we had to economize time so we went on till it was quite
dark. We were then close to the Cancha Rayada Peninsula, where a bay
with a little natural harbour appeared.
Storm again! We had a very nice camping-place with a shelter of some
rocks and surrounded by a dense brushwood of _Escallonias_, just in
full blossom with flowers from snow-white to a deep crimson. And we had
plenty to do. I myself climbed about on the rocks collecting; Quensel
studied the geology; and Frank shot ducks in the salt-lagoons. The
ground reminds one of the kind I have described above from the north
shore of Lake Pueyrredon.
We tried again on the 18th. As long as we had shelter under land it was
all right, but when we had to round a promontory the old game began
as before. From the north-west came a heavy swell from the lake, and
from the north-east as well, out of a large bay, the seas met together
over our poor little boat. The weather became squally, there was a
“smoke” of water on the port, on starboard and ahead, the regular swell
changed into a confusion of white furious sea, impossible to reckon
with, that seemed to come from every point of the compass; our fragile
craft--canvas and a wooden frame--was banged about, sometimes with such
violence that the oars jumped out of the rowlocks in spite of all our
efforts to keep them in. But the boat stood the trial in an amazing
manner. Of course it shipped some water--enough to soak us--but on the
whole it proved more seaworthy than we had expected. However, we had to
look for a harbour and found an inviting corner in the above-mentioned
bay which we named Bahia Cuchillo, in remembrance of my last knife that
I left there.
We kept a sharp look-out, and when the weather got better we started
again. The question now was how to cross the entrance of the Mayer Arm.
We made for the eastern headland, which dissolved into two small isles
when we came closer. The passage was critical enough, the waves came
from two directions and were as high as our boat could stand them. It
was a hard job and we felt very happy when we had reached the west head
safely, where we slept like logs.
Now we had left the pampas behind and the forest formed one continuous
cover on the shores. Had the water only been salt we could have
believed ourselves in the channels of West Patagonia.
We went out again in the old swell, and made a good start. But suddenly
a suspicious gust of wind came and then the gale began again. And
it came on properly this time; so that we passed some moments of
considerable anxiety. The gusts seemed to rush down perpendicular to
the water and whirled it up to a height of thirty feet, the spray
stood like a fog over the whole bay, and the atmosphere glittered with
hundreds of minute rainbows. It was beautiful--but what if we had come
into one of the tornadoes that danced along to our right and left? By
exerting every effort we managed to reach the innermost corner of the
bay and awaited the development of events. A torrential rain supplied
what still was wanted to make the weather quite ideal!
Ahead of us we had a peninsula, ending in a well-marked point, and when
the gale had abated a little, we pulled to it and even tried to get
round but were driven back and were glad to discover a small crevice
just big enough to hold the boat. We waited again; from the point we
could overlook the lake, but what we saw was not promising. Now and
then we climbed up to see if things were improving and finally resolved
to risk another struggle. I do not think we shall ever forget it. The
waves were big enough for a lifeboat, and our little nutshell quite
disappeared, but rose up again, climbed the watery ridge and won. But
we could not spare ourselves; we had to expend the very last ounce of
our strength and energy and still we could hardly note that we really
were advancing.
The view of the lake had been rather limited until now. A cry of
admiration was heard, when the west part appeared behind a cape,
exposing the gigantic glacier in all its extent near the mouth of the
Southern Arm. It was as if this sight spurred us to new efforts, and
over crests of white foam which generally shared their abundance with
us, we pulled towards the eastern head of the Northern Arm, where we
rested upon our oars an instant, ready to try a somewhat dangerous
experiment--to cross the arm. We had hardly left the shelter of the
point behind when some furious squalls attacked us with such ferocity
that we were driven back. We had been working for thirteen hours and
badly needed some rest.
Thus we stood at the entrance of the fiord, thirty-eight miles long,
whose end was our goal. To judge from the appearance of the coast-line,
the west-shore afforded some advantages and our first enterprise was to
cross the arm. Once again we met heavy seas from two directions, and it
cost us three hours very hard pulling to cover two and a half miles! We
searched a while till we found a place where we could tie the boat up
out of reach of the breakers. No smooth beach could we discover. Do not
believe, gentle reader, that the whole thing is very simple--that you
just land if something happens which makes it desirable or necessary.
It is not at all so easy. For long stretches the mountain sheers down
at a very sharp angle or even vertically from a height of several
hundred feet. And it is far from being the case that all sheltered
places are good. A canvas boat is as fragile as an egg, especially when
one is on a lake in the Cordilleras, without being able to get back
over land as we were now. A hole in the canvas, and farewell! With the
greatest care we chose the place to haul up the boat; the best being
on a beach of sand or fine shingle. Pagels, who was an old sailor,
regarded himself as an expert and responsible for all our lives, and
never forgot to shout “gerade auf dem Kiel” when we hauled up the boat,
and if we were not quick enough he abused us. If I got angry and told
him a bit of my mind he always said: “Sie wissen doch, Herr Doktor,
dass ich immer aufs Beste der Expedition arbeite.” And nobody doubted
that his intentions were the best in the world.
At last we had entered the Northern Arm. But our bad luck did not
leave us. The first day we made little more than a mile when we were
once more stopped by wind and sea, and with the experience we now had
of the boat it really required something to stop us. We lost a day
and a half waiting. True we knew that we were in Chile again. The
forest also had undergone some changes. Our old evergreens once more
played an important part; vast bushes of fuchsia and even the typical
rain-forest plant, _copihue_ (_Philesia buxifolia_), with its large
pink flowers had reappeared. At last we could make another move, but
our joy was short-lived and we had to camp again. It was a fine place,
that reminded us very much of the old camp near Rio Azopardo’s mouth.
The weather was bright, though windy, and the fiord covered with white
crests. It had cost us eight days to reach this point, and we could not
know how many more we should require to reach the end of the fiord.
Probably we should not gain much more in our scientific work than we
had done already. Our appetite, I am sorry to say, had increased
in proportion to our hardships, and there was little left of our
provisions. We made a trip into the forest to get meat, and shot a deer
and some ducklings.
However, it was with sore hearts we decided to turn round without
having reached our goal. It made us grumble, but there was no help
for it. In order to get our clothes dried, which we needed very
much, and to make a sail out of two old pieces of canvas, we stopped
the night where we were and went back on the 27th. We wanted some
recompense for the disappointment and probable loss we had sustained
and consequently sailed along into the Southern Arm to have a look at
the great glacier, which we named Ventisquero Schönmeyr. The northern
end of the ice-barrier, which is about two miles and a half long was
barred by icebergs, amongst which we pulled into a piece of open water.
Here a little episode, which proves that we had good luck sometimes,
took place. We wanted to get a snapshot of the boat in the ice, and to
that end I jumped ashore on a rock; the picture had a fine background
of icebergs from fifty to sixty feet high above the water. Hardly had
we got away from the unpleasant company, when the largest by which we
had lain the moment before lost its balance and capsized with a great
noise. Had we still been there the expedition would have come to a
quick and dramatic end. Further away we landed on the ice-barrier,
where it rested against a small mountain, either a peninsula or a small
island, half covered by ice. Quensel could study the blocks in the
moraine and thus get an idea of the principal rocks in the centre of
the Cordillera; the moraines carried no material from the surrounding
mountains. We camped for the night on a promontory a few hundred yards
from the glacier. The wind had died down, it was perfectly calm, and
the stars twinkled in a clear sky. Sometimes there came a thundering
noise from the great glacier. We went to sleep in unusually high
spirits--no more pulling! Now the west wind could blow as much as it
liked, but we could be lazy and do nothing but sail.
Try to imagine our surprise when we woke up to find it absolutely calm.
Well, we could pull for a little while, surely the wind would come.
And it came--easterly. For the first time we had an easterly wind,
always rare here. Our discontent over such topsy-turvy meteorological
conditions was as loud as it was natural. The head wind did not last
long, but it was followed by a dead calm. For two days it did not blow
the slightest puff till the very last moment we pulled--nine hours the
first, five the second and last day, and with unmingled satisfaction we
heard the keel grate on the bottom in the Boat Harbour. It was January
28 and we had gone eighty-one miles on the lake.
We needed a day to get fresh provisions, but were then ready to start
again. The horses had enjoyed three weeks’ complete rest, as Halle had
got horses from the farm for his excursions. He was ready with his
study of the geology of this region: the results belong to the most
important obtained during the expedition. When we rode away “Jeremias”
was left behind in the corral, neighing loudly. We abandoned him
because his back was so bad that it would take him a couple of weeks
to get well again; when he was loose he only disturbed the discipline
of our troop. But his despair at being separated from his comrades was
probably very real.
CHAPTER XVI
ACROSS THE SIERRA DE LOS BAGUALES
It was already late in the day on January 28 when we said good-bye to
Frank’s _estancia_. The peculiar basaltic peak Cerro Kachaik rising
abruptly 2000 feet above the surrounding pampas and visible for a
very considerable distance, was kept on our left and we headed for
Laguna Tar, a lake bordered by extensive swamps. A small stream unites
it with Lago San Martín, which in pre-glacial times had its outlet
through the Tar depression towards the Atlantic coast. By dint of
spur and whip the marshy places were passed, and, keeping higher up
the slope south of Laguna Tar we avoided the swamps. We made a halt
at Mr. Reeves’ new farm and stopped for the night. The small company
were in very comfortable frame of mind in spite of the earthen floor
and the chairs in the shape of old wooden boxes, once containing
articles so inseparably associated with camp-life as Danish butter and
condensed milk. And after the master of the house had found a motley
company of old tin and china mugs, the grog had been mixed, and the
gramophone--never wanting--starting on its waltz tunes, we could not
help telling each other how well off we found ourselves. Suddenly the
trotting of horses sounded through the night, and two horsemen came
galloping up, welcomed by the barking of the dogs, unsaddled, came
in, and got a wooden box each to sit on. I tell this only to show
how small the world is. We sat looking askance at each other, one of
the last arrived men and I, wondering, “Where have I seen that face
before?” By-and-by the truth flashed upon us. He had been on board the
cutter _Chance_, in which I had made a journey in the Falklands from
Port Stanley to Port Louis, July 1902. That now, after six and a half
years and in spite of my full beard, he was able to recognize me when
we suddenly met in the heart of Patagonia I could never understand. One
can never feel safe!
There was one drawback connected with our visits to people: we never
got away in proper time the next morning. They must always make a
spread for us of all they could produce, and never understood that
we were in a hurry. What did an hour or two matter? The distance was
so great. Thus it was here also; they did not let us off without a
substantial breakfast.
Following a depression, we rose a thousand feet and then descended into
the valley of Rio Shehuen. There was a basalt _meseta_ in front of us,
called M. del Viento, and we held a short council of war in order to
decide upon the best way. According to the map, there ought to be a
choice of two possible routes, and we chose the one which looked best,
climbed about 1300 feet, descended into a shallow basin containing a
couple of small lagoons without outlet, and finally rode up to the
pass, a well-marked gap between black basalt peaks. It is only 3000
feet high. I saw how my comrades, who were a few steps ahead, started
to cheer and wave their caps when they had reached the highest point.
Within a minute I was at their side. Below was the large sheet of Lago
Viedma, between the mountains behind it a corner of Lago Argentino, and
far away to the south the long, jagged line of the Baguales Mountains.
Behind these was our goal. The _meseta_ slopes gradually towards Lake
Viedma, the surface of which is only 825 feet above sea-level. In vain
we looked for a camping-place on the slope. We wanted to avoid the
_détour_ to Rio Cangrejos; but nowhere was grass, water, or fuel, so
we were forced to seek that river. The dogs kept up our spirits. They
stopped and sniffed round a bush, where an unmistakable odour of skunk
indicated the reason. It had happened often before, but generally they
had to be contented with the smell. Here, however, the wretched little
beast sat ready to defend the position, glaring defiantly at the enemy.
Wise by experience, Prince was careful, but the innocent Pavo threw
himself on the animal; quick as lightning it turned round and sent him
a well-directed volley right in his face. He retired, rolled in the
sand wild with rage, rushed at it again, but with the same result.
Now Prince also advanced, and the two companions did not leave the
battle-ground till the skunk was changed into a shapeless mass. All
the afternoon they behaved as if they had lost their wits--they indeed
tried to run away from themselves to get rid of the horrible smell,
making us double up with laughter. Two days later they still perfumed
the surroundings with the nauseous smell.
Rio Cangerjo has a canyon of the kind one does not discover till one
is close to it. Down in the bottom nature was different altogether--any
amount of fuel, rich grass, and clear water. Next day we passed the
east end of Lago Viedma. One has a very fine view from there. The shape
is still more regular than that of Lago Buenos Aires. Hardly can one
imagine a greater difference between the two extremities of an Andine
lake, and here one is able to observe it at a single glance. To the
west a gigantic glacier comes down to the water between fantastic
summits; to the east the low, sandy pampas stretches as far as one can
see. We rode down to the shore to the waving fields of _Stipa_-grass,
the long, silky brushes floating eastward on a fresh breeze. The
further we came east and south the more barren was the ground, and
during the whole trip we never saw a tract more bare than this. Large
parts are almost desert-like. Save for some armadilloes the camp was
quite inanimate.
Lago Viedma empties into Lago Argentino by means of a broad river,
called Rio de la Leona, in whose valley we had hoped to find pasture
for the horses, but were greatly disappointed. At two places we saw
great piles of guanaco bones, of which the explanation was that the
guanacos have certain places where they lie down to die.
We camped near the outlet. Our horses had hardly any grass, and we
tried to keep an eye on them. After it had got dark Pagels went out
and drove them down to the river, but nothing was of any use, for they
wandered far and our start the next day was much delayed.
We followed the east shore of Rio Leona. At first the ground did not
present any difficulties, but after a while the valley changed into one
of the finest canyons in South Patagonia. Thanks to the paths made,
first by guanacos and afterwards by horses, one is able to pass the
barranca, though the utmost care is necessary. Besides, we were already
prepared for what was to come, for Mr. Reeves, who knew the way, had
told us that we should have to climb the barranca and continue at a
higher altitude. We found a ravine where we could lead the horses,
climbed high up, and came into a country the like of which we had never
seen before. It is difficult to imagine anything more desolate and
barren. In every direction a wilderness of hills, ridges, and ravines,
all the landscape of a yellowish-grey colour, with nowhere a green
blade or a drop of water. The air was oppressively hot; not one sound
broke the absolute silence, not a living soul was seen or heard. Thus
it must feel to travel on a planet where life has died out. One has to
walk with great care, for the ground is full of small, scarcely visible
cracks, which open below into large, funnel-shaped holes, probably
formed by water in the spring. The horses were not accustomed to such
pitfalls, and would have gone right down had we not looked well after
them. We felt quite uneasy in this desert, and welcomed the murmur
of the river and the fresh breeze with joy. In outward appearance
the landscape reminds one of the famous “loess” in China, though
geologically there is no resemblance.
[Illustration: VIEW OF PAMPAS NEAR LAKE ARGENTINO.]
[Illustration: DEAD LANDSCAPE, EAST OF LEONA RIVER.]
The ground along by the river made us very tired, and with longing we
looked for human dwellings, knowing that a German settler, Karl Fuhr,
should live somewhere on the other side of the river. The river
must be crossed in a boat, and as soon as we got sight of the house we
made a signal-fire. When we came down to the river he met us and took
us and the luggage across. The horses were left on the other side, the
_yegua_ with _maneas_ on and one horse with a tether; thus we felt
easy in spite of the bad grass. Carlos Fuhr is well known throughout
Patagonia, and his yarns and adventures would fill a book. He was there
at the time when fortresses were built to check the Indians, when the
veil of fairy-tales still hung over Patagonia. He had tried a little of
everywhere, but at last seemed to have settled for good. Especially is
he known for one achievement: he wounded and captured Ascensio Brunel,
the horse-thief and murderer, the “wild man” of Patagonia, who appeared
when least expected and disappeared as suddenly as he came, the outlaw
whose fame reaches from Nahuelhuapi to Ushuaia, who had frustrated
the efforts of all Patagonian policemen. At our request Fuhr kindly
promised to transport us across Rio Santa Cruz in his ferry-boat. Thus
we saved both time and money, the road striking the river further east,
where there is a _boliche_. The landlord has a ferry, but to go there
would have necessitated a _détour_, and the man is known for keeping
his guests under all sorts of excuses; he postpones the crossing and
one has to pay high prices for accommodation.
We wanted to cross on the day of our arrival, but according to Fuhr it
was blowing too hard; the horses would meet a head-wind and perhaps
not be able to swim against it. On February 2 we got away. It was
very long before we secured the horses, for the watch-horse had broken
his rope and there was no trace of any of them. We searched in all
directions, till at last we found them mixed up with other horses and
the mare without _maneas_. The reason of all this confusion was love,
in the shape of a stallion, who, for Tecla’s sake, had abandoned his
harem. Down at the river Santa Cruz, the outlet of the Lakes Argentino
and Viedma, we met two other parties waiting to cross with their
_tropillas_. One of them was the inspector of police at Lago Argentino,
the other a man from the Baker Company on his way to Punta Arenas with
the last peons. Through Captain Steele he had heard about us, and now
brought news from him. A steamer had called in Baker, Steele and the
other men had gone away in her, and the farm was now empty, cattle and
sheep running wild.
The small ferry runs on a thin steel cable, and only people and luggage
are carried by it. The horses had to swim the distance of nearly 400
yards. They were driven in with loud shouts till they got out of their
depth. It was a fine sight to see the three troops swimming in the
strong current, which took them more and more out of their course, but
at the same time we felt anxious. It is not uncommon that weaker horses
are caught by the current and drowned, and we had hardly any experience
of our horses as swimmers. With our glasses we followed them eagerly.
Vingel was the first man home, then came Trumf and Isac. One after
another came out, shook himself, and was all right. We felt relieved
when they were all in safety. Now we crossed--the ferry driven by the
current in every direction--caught our animals and bade farewell to
our fellow passengers. They took the usual route south, but we set our
course on the Baguales Mountains, south of the lake, where we pitched
our camp that night. Quensel had now crossed his track of the summer
before. In Mr. Cattle’s farm, not far from the shore, he had his
headquarters for some time, and from there he undertook an interesting
boat-trip which he relates in the next chapter. His memories of
Estancia Cattle were so pleasant that he would not pass at a distance
of some miles without shaking hands with his old friends; I myself very
much wanted to visit Cerro Buenos Aires, while Halle and Pagels would
continue up towards the pass over the mountains and camp by the last
bushes for the sake of the fuel.
We saddled Flax and Johansson early in the morning and made west. It
was a pleasure to set them at a gallop, for with the packhorses we had
generally been confined to a walk or trot, and now found them as good
as the horses we borrowed for our excursions round the settlements.
The farm we now went to visit is pleasantly situated on the north
slope of Cerro Buenos Aires between two forest-patches. The master of
the house was not in, but we were welcomed by his partner, one of the
most remarkable figures of the extensive gallery one is able to call
to mind after a long journey. She was the Amazon of Patagonia, and I
had heard of her before. When she comes walking towards you dressed
like a man, with hair cut and pipe in mouth, nobody could tell that
a woman, and an educated, intelligent English lady of a very good
family, is before him. The equal of any man, she takes part in the
daily work on the farm, throws her lasso like a _gaucho_, or digs in
her garden, where there are cauliflowers as well as strawberries. I am
afraid my reader may think her a disagreeable person only wanting to
get herself talked about, and at a tea-party in Punta Arenas her very
name is enough to call forth a cry of indignation. But do not form an
opinion too hastily. Nobody comes to Cattle’s farm with an unfavourable
preconceived opinion without leaving it with quite another, and, like
myself, finding the woman _gaucho_ a highly interesting and genial
person. We have nothing to do, however, with her story--it is a romance
as romantic as any. For the last seven years she had not left the farm.
According to our agreement we were to join the caravan on the 4th. We
stopped for the night and made an excursion to Cerro Buenos Aires,
where one gets a splendid view over the lake. Up there, on the stony
slopes, a disaster long expected happened: my old boots refused to
serve any more. I had long foreseen the catastrophe, but in vain tried
to get a pair large enough. Most people in Patagonia seem to have small
feet, and those who have not had no boots to spare. The result was
that I had to leave Cattle without any and pass the Baguales range in
a pair of slippers, which, however, is not as bad as it sounds, for
one is able to ride most of the way. It was already late when we left
the farm, and in a gallop we made for Rio Centinela--which we were to
follow up to the pass. We looked for the tracks of our caravan in
vain, although some passages along the river are so narrow that one has
to ride in single file. It grew dark; still no trace of a camp. We kept
high up along the barranca to get a better view, but the distance to
the last calafate bushes was greater than we had thought, and it was
already night before we saw the fire. Halle told us that two strange
horses had joined the _tropilla_, and we resolved to let them help us
across, should they still be there in the morning. They were, so we
saddled them, and found them to be a pair of good horses. Both of them
were marked, probably left behind by some traveller, and we let them
go when we were on the other side. Sierra de los Baguales, named after
the wild horses found there in old times--in other parts we had seen
such, as well as wild cattle--makes a very irregular impression, thanks
to the basaltic cover. The pass itself is very picturesque, with its
mighty pillars and masses of stone in the shape of ruined castles and
fortresses. The way along the Centinela valley cannot be called bad
in comparison with what we were used to; there is indeed much boggy
ground, but one can get round most of it. The caravan went ahead of me,
for in spite of my soft slippers I crossed the pass on foot and secured
a rich harvest of Alpine plants. Guanacos were plentiful and very tame,
and our dogs were very energetic in hunting them, but without result,
for the young were big enough to follow their parents.
We had crossed the wall between wild life and civilization. In front
of us was the part of Chile called the Magellan Territories, South
Patagonia, colonized throughout. Within a couple of days we should get
into communication with the rest of the world; the post was waiting for
us, and there is a telephone line to Punta Arenas. We had taken the
decisive step. On the south side of the pass originates Rio Baguales,
the valley which we followed till we came across a small calafate
thicket, which afforded us some fuel.
The last camp! The hot _asado_ over the last camp-fire, at least with
the whole caravan. Certainly it was high time that this long journey
came to an end, but we thought with regret of all the pleasant hours
spent round the fire, and with unmixed satisfaction we looked back on
the past months with their thousands of varied memories. For the last
time we struck camp, followed the river another couple of miles, and
came down on the slope of Cerro Contreras, where we soon found a road
and where a strong smell of creosote met us, showing that a “dip” was
in progress somewhere near by. We soon caught sight of the large iron
shed, and rode into a well-kept farm where dipping was going on. It
was one of the _estancias_ belonging to the “Sociedad Esplotadora de
Tierra del Fuego”; below I shall say something about its influence
on the history of South Patagonia. We were very well received; the
manager even lent me a pair of boots which were big enough. From here
we could telephone to Cerro Castillo, the central _estancia_, where
we spoke with Mr. Burbury, the chief there, whose acquaintance we had
made at Punta Arenas. He welcomed us back and told us that a big mail
lay waiting for us. We left Halle behind; fossiliferous layers had been
reported in the neighbourhood, but no specialist had ever visited
them. Quensel and I continued on to Cerro Castillo, the headquarters of
the company. Never before had I found our progress so slow; the reins
seemed to burn our fingers, and with joy we hailed the first glimpse
of the big settlement, where we stayed in the manager’s quarters. Two
boxes of letters and papers waited, for it was four months since we had
any news, and far into the night we stayed up reading, surrounded by
the mail spread out over table, chairs, and bed.
Before I go on to describe our excursions in South Patagonia some words
on the history of its colonization might be appropriate here. After
the foundation of Punta Arenas, in 1843, Chileans as well as strangers
started to settle along the Straits, mostly for sheep-farming, but also
to look for gold or other valuable metals. Many people in Chile did
not believe much in the future of the colony, owing to the fact that
the region was unknown to them and reported as being hardly habitable.
However, civilization spread over the Brunswick Peninsula and into
Tierra del Fuego, and finally the Ultima Esperanza district, which
interests us more especially, was also populated. This was at the
beginning of the nineties. At first the colonists settled down without
paying any tributes or taxes and the land was apportioned by private
agreement. In 1884 the Government assumed control and the first fixed
lots were given on leasehold tenure. South Patagonia had already proved
to be a land of the future where sheep-farming might become a source
of wealth for many, and voices were soon heard arguing that the State
should sell the land. Without being owner of the soil nobody would
sink either money or labour in it, but a sort of sweating system was
introduced in order to make the greatest possible amount of money in
the shortest space of time. It was very long before the Government
consented to listen to the complaints from the Straits of Magellan, and
when at last something was done it was done in a manner hardly likely
to satisfy the just demands of the farmers. In 1902 it was resolved to
dispose of one million hectares by auction, but everything was done in
such a hurry that many colonists had no time to arrange their business
affairs, and the auction was to be held in--Santiago! The auction
was postponed, and in 1903 part of the land was sold, divided into
ninety-five lots. Only in the Ultima Esperanza district had everything
remained as it was.
The first _estancia_ there was started in 1893, and by the beginning
of the next century there were a score of flourishing settlements,
life and movement grew apace amongst the mixed English and Scotch
population, and Punta Arenas increased rapidly. Then a decree was
issued ordering a large piece of land to be put up for auction in
Santiago on March 15, 1905. People were attacked by a veritable
fever. In a few days’ time half a dozen companies had been formed
with big capitals, and in order to save their homes the colonists
formed themselves into one company, the “United Estancias of Ultima
Esperanza.” At the auction there were wild scenes, enormous bids were
made, and lots were sold at prices ten times their true value. The
result was that most of the purchasers could not pay at the proper
time--for the companies’ capitals existed mostly on paper--they lost
their rights, and another date was fixed for another sale. Meanwhile
the Sociedad Esplotadora, which owned large estates in Tierra del
Fuego, appeared on the scene. With a big joint capital at its back it
entered the field and acquired almost the whole district. The colonists
had to surrender unconditionally and take what it pleased the company
to pay them for houses and fixtures, the cosy homes were broken up and
Cerro Castillo made the headquarters. The company now has about one
million sheep. I can hardly believe that the revolution was favourable
to Chile’s interests, and I daresay that is a rather ugly page in the
history of a so-called democratic people. Men who knew Patagonia before
and now say that the star of Ultima Esperanza sank when the all-mighty
company became its master. Personally we owe much to its leading men,
Mr. A. Cameron of Punta Arenas and Mr. T. Burbury of Cerro Castillo.
CHAPTER XVII
LAGO ARGENTINO
Thanks to the kindness of Quensel, I am able to give some details of
his interesting and perilous voyagings on Lago Argentino. This big lake
has the typical Andine character; its western branches run far into the
mountains and receive extensive glaciers from the inland ice. Quensel
went on horseback to the end of the south arm and to Lago Frio, but in
order to continue his work to the most westerly part he had to take
to the water. There was in Cattle’s farm an old canvas boat, rather
dilapidated but still usable, of the same pattern used by us on Lago
Belgrano. Here follows Quensel’s narrative:
“At sunrise on January 13 (1908) we finally got away, after having
waited two days on the shore for calm weather. From the very first
moment Æolus was not very gracious to us. A surface like a mirror and
a blazing sun encouraged us to set out on the lake, but we had just
gone so far that it was too late to turn back when the first black line
appeared announcing a gale of wind, closely followed by a white line of
foam, and the water was flung more than thirty or forty feet into the
air. To pull against one of these squalls was impossible, and the best
thing to do would have been to land, but often there were steep cliffs
all round and the only chance was to turn the stern against the sea,
which threatened to crush the small, heavily laden boat. But Pagels had
not sailed round the globe for nothing; his skill served us in good
stead, and everything turned out all right, though more than once we
had a narrow escape.
“Our first destination was the Bismarck Glacier in the Southern Arm,
which we reached in two days. Half-way we had met some big icebergs
and were prepared for what was to come. They measured about a hundred
feet above the water. The glacier in question was first visited and
described by Professor Hauthal, and is of special interest. From the
inland ice it protrudes more than a mile out into the water; the height
of its front wall, crowned by innumerable pillars and needles of pure
ice, varies between sixty and a hundred feet. In front of it was a
broad belt of drift-ice, but we navigated carefully through the ‘pack,’
which gives the branch its name, Brazo de los Témpanos.
“We camped on the south side of the glacier and spent the following
days in studying the ice. What makes the Bismarck Glacier so remarkable
is that, in contrast to all other glaciers in South Patagonia that I
have seen, it is advancing rather rapidly. Without exception the others
withdraw, sometimes indeed so fast that the vegetation is not able to
follow, so that there is a sharp limit where the ice stood before. But
this one forces its way through the high forest on both sides, crushing
everything in its way; I saw trees, still green, that had been knocked
down by the ice, and under the very edge shrubs still alive peeped
forth. We were able to reach the southern end of this fiord. I walked
on foot to Lago Frio and climbed a mountain. Below, in a southerly
direction, was Lago Dickson nestling among green woods; in the west
were Mount Stokes and the glaciers from the inland cover, the largest
dividing into two branches, one extending to Lago Dickson, the other to
Lago Frio. Thus I stood on the water-parting between Lago Argentino and
the Payne region, between the Atlantic and the Pacific--the water from
one and the same glacier seeking such different ways.
“We left the southern fiord in order to get into the northern. The
entrance is narrow, but inside it widens into quite a system of inlets,
of which different maps give different ideas. A narrow gap called
Hell Gate is the entrance; outside we waited one day before we could
venture in, and late in the afternoon of January 31 we got through.
Everything indicated that we should have a calm night, so we resolved
to row as long as we could. Hour after hour passed. Above in the
twilight hung the tremendous cliffs, sometimes as high as 3000 feet;
in the half-light summer night we could just make out the few places
where we could seek refuge in case of a sudden storm. At midnight the
moon rose, the larger icebergs shone with a ghostly glimmer, their
fantastic outlines assuming the most marvellous shapes. With frequent
changes we made good speed. We knew that the storm was only gathering
its strength, and our object must be to take advantage of every minute.
At 3 A.M. we caught sight of a big glacier glowing with a certain
peculiar light as if it were luminous. Nothing is more difficult than
to judge the distance to a glacier or an iceberg in the darkness.
One believes oneself to be close to a piece of ice, or even turns aside
to avoid a collision--and there is half an hour’s pull to it!
[Illustration: THE BISMARCK GLACIER, LAKE ARGENTINO.]
[Illustration: THE UPSALA GLACIER, LAKE ARGENTINO.
(The biggest in Patagonia.)]
[Illustration: ICEBERGS AND CANVAS BOAT, LAKE ARGENTINO.]
“At dawn we landed on a low promontory, where the fiord divides into
three branches, each of them ending in a glacier. Large masses of
ice were adrift here--one could very well imagine one was in a polar
country. The next day we wanted to pull into the southern branch. Tired
as we were after the strenuous night, we overslept ourselves, and the
sun was high when we were ready for a fresh start. The clouds had begun
to chase each other across the sky, portending wind. Hastily we loaded
the boat and set out, but in a couple of hours the first gust came,
and a strong swell from the bottom of the inlet showed us that it was
blowing hard in there already. We followed the eastern shore; it was
steep and inaccessible, and a heavy sea broke on the rocks. There was
no time for long consultations. We chose a place where a shelf ran out
into the water, pulled to it, and I jumped ashore ready to hold the
boat. It was an anxious moment. Up to my knees in water, I managed
to hold it; pots and pans and sleeping-bags, cameras and haunches of
venison were hurled up on to the shelf. We bore our craft out of reach
of the waves and were safe. But not a moment too soon, for five minutes
later we should not have been able to land there.
“We had now time to examine our refuge more closely. The small ledge
was overgrown with shrubs; above rose a precipitous wall. The ten
square yards served our purpose, and with the teapot and the frying-pan
over the fire we spent a comfortable night in our prison. We tried
again the next day, but in vain, and I resolved to go back and devote
my energies to the north glacier and the big mountains round it. At
nightfall two days later we landed on a beach with high forest in the
background and a row of large icefloes outside. The glacier itself was
hidden by a promontory. The following night we had a most remarkable
experience, that might have had very serious consequences. As usual we
had pulled our boat high up on the shore, sixty feet from the water
and ten or twelve feet above the level of the lake. Wishing to get
away at sunrise, we went to bed early. At dawn I was roused by Pagels,
who stood in the tent door, ripping out with a fine flow of strong
language: ‘Himmel! Herrgott! Sakrament! Donnerwetter noch ein Mal!’ it
came without a pause. I sprang up to see what had happened, supposing
that a fox had made off with some of our geese, a trick Mr. Reynard had
played us before. But the sight I beheld drove me to complete Pagel’s
morning prayer in fluent Swedish. The broad strip of beach where we
had landed had disappeared, innumerable small icefloes floated round
almost to our tent; our boat was gone--on the spot where it had been
left a small, deep blue iceberg was aground. Where was the boat? What
had happened? How were we to reach human habitations again? These
questions whirled through my brain at the very first moment. To two of
them there was no answer--what about the last? The future looked dark
enough--a march of four or five days across the unknown Alps north of
the lake was not a very encouraging prospect. But we had good luck.
We found the boat 800 yards further down, stuck fast between two
huge blocks. And later we learnt the explanation of the catastrophe.
In front of the glacier was a barrier about three miles long and one
and a half broad; large icebergs were piled on each other, and the
interstices were filled up with smaller pieces of ice. It looked
like a field of screw-ice in the Arctic sea. We understood that the
glacier had discharged all this ice during the night; it dammed up the
inlet, making the water in the narrow place rise nearly fourteen feet.
Gradually it recovered its usual level. The gigantic glacier with the
ice-barrier presented a splendid sight. I have called it the Upsala
Glacier; it is the largest I have seen in Patagonia, the front wall
attaining a length of not less than eight or nine miles. The wall was
a hundred feet high, more or less. On the flanks magnificent granite
mountains rose; in the background there was a marked depression, for
‘Ventisquero Upsala’ comes directly from the inland ice. During an
excursion on foot up in a side valley I gained my northernmost point.
With regret I had to go back and commence my return journey. The boat
being heavier than ever, we had an adventurous run through Hell Gate.
Pagels ran before the wind as far as he could, and I had my hands full
baling with my hat, the most capacious baler I could find.”
After two days Quensel was back in Cattle’s farm, and from there
went to Ultima Esperanza, whence he made a trip to the Balmaceda
Channel. His arrival in Punta Arenas, where he joined the rest of the
expedition, has already been related.
CHAPTER XVIII
OUR JOURNEY TO PUNTA ARENAS
On February 8 Quensel went to visit Mr. Ferrier, of Estancia Payne. I
had to stay till I had gone through my collections, which badly needed
attention. The cook, a Malay, was very fond of looking at my herbarium,
but wondered why I made so much fuss over plants good for nothing,
either for food or for medicine. I doubt whether I was able to explain
the reason of my interest, and probably I left with him the remembrance
of a more or less crazy fellow. I had also to write some letters and
telegrams, which Mr. Burbury took with him to Punta Arenas. On the 9th
I was ready, and rode away west accompanied by Pagels and a packhorse.
The road led through the well-fenced camps of the company. Some rounded
mountains with groves of roble forest gave the first idea of the Andes.
We passed some buildings; it was the late Estancia Kark, one of the
first in this part, but now, of course, abandoned. The same sight met
us at Tweedie. Lago Toro lay open to our eyes, a typical Alpine lake,
surrounded by high mountains. It disappeared behind Cerro Toro, but
another lake spread out instead, and we followed it for a couple of
miles. This was Lago Sarmiento, remarkable as the largest Andine basin
without an outlet. Considerable deposits of calcareous tufas are found
on the shores. We halted at a house, but as nobody was at home we only
let the horses take a mouthful of grass and continued our march. The
road had come to an end, and was succeeded by a narrow path, winding
over the hilly, forest-clad country. At once the view opened out; there
was a lagoon embedded in green woods, and we saw a small hut--our
destination. I have hardly ever seen so many foxes as on this day, and
never any so impudent. They sat down calmly on the roadside and stared
at us, or ran about among the flocks of sheep. All were of the small
kind (_Canis Azaræ_).
There was nobody at home here either. Some dogs ran round, and one had
been shut in in the room, where we could not get. We had no provisions
and looked all round in the kitchen to find something eatable. A piece
of very dry bread and some coffee was all we found, and outside in a
tree was the flesh of an old mare. Pagels did not conceal his disdain,
but I told him to fry some horse-steak, and after he had seen me start
with a good appetite he was not slow to follow my example. In Patagonia
horse-flesh has a much worse reputation than with us.
All the day we had seen the Payne Mountain. I had heard much of it,
and Quensel had described the impressions he got in very enthusiastic
terms. And though I thought myself to be very _blasé_, when I beheld
Payne for the first time free from clouds I stopped, looked, and
never got tired of looking. And at the same moment I knew that from
Nahuelhuapi to Cape Horn, from the Pacific to the pampas, there is
but _one_ Payne. It looks like one of those geographical diagrams
where, in order to save space, the height-scale has been overdone
in proportion to the scale of miles. A beautiful array of peaks,
one higher and more abrupt than the other, where the interesting
geological structure may be understood by anybody, the main part being
a light grey granite, the peaks black slates, and the limit between
the different rocks very sharp. The king is Payne Oeste (West Payne),
whose summit of 10,650 feet is covered with ice, and perhaps the most
magnificent part is Tres Torres (Three Towers), three enormous pillars
rising 2600 feet above the surrounding glaciers. The secret of Payne’s
beauty is partly all this, but mainly that it rises abrupt and isolated
from the low pampas without any marked junctions with the rest of the
range. One is not gradually prepared for what is to come, but suddenly
has these 10,000 feet of rock close at hand, with no hills or lower
mountains to be climbed first.
The next morning we continued, following a narrow horse-track cut by
Mr. Ferrier. The ground is so broken that the path in more than one
place makes riding too hard work for the horses. We had an adventure
with our packhorse, who took the opportunity of running away when we
were busy watering our horses. After a wild chase he was captured. At
Rio Payne, a large river draining this district, we found a boat; the
horses swam, and after another mile’s ride we reached Estancia Payne.
At the auction of land it was purchased by a young Englishman, the
first to settle there, Mr. Walter Ferrier, who now welcomed us.
Here I will insert a brief description of some excursions undertaken
by Quensel during the summer of 1907. On November 16 he left Ultima
Esperanza with Pagels, and spent some time with Mr. Burbury in Cerro
Castillo. From there he went to Ferrier’s place. He has written about
his travels in a Swedish journal, and I now give a summary of his
description.
“With Estancia Ferrier as headquarters I made a series of excursions
into the mountains and to the glaciers. From the top of the first high
mountain I climbed, Cerro Donoso, I had a fine view over the mountain
range, and as none of the higher summits had been climbed before, I
got a chance of completing our knowledge of the geography of these
parts. To the west was the edge of the inland ice; gently inclining, it
extends as far as eye can reach, at first interspersed with _nunatahks_
rising like steep black islands; further west even the steepest peaks
are ice-clad. Split up into numerous glaciers, the ice comes round into
all the valleys. In the vast moraines I had a good field for work, for
from the stones brought down it was possible to form an opinion as to
the structure of the mountains under the ice-cover. An ascent in these
parts is a different thing from one in Scandinavia or in Switzerland.
The obstacles are first the swamps round the foot, then an almost
impenetrable forest-belt. Once above the forest it is generally not
difficult to reach a considerable height. The scenery from one of the
mountains is well worth the trouble of the climb. Eastwards the endless
pampas, in the west the Andes in all their splendour, and between the
hundred smaller and larger lakes--everything the result of the great
Ice Age!
“From Ferrier’s farm I also went to Payne, a mountain differing widely
from the rest even in its outlines; even a non-geologist can guess that
special forces have been at work in its creation. The lower part is
nearly white, a light granitic rock crowned by a cap of black slates.
In fact we have here the ideal laccolite. On eruption the glowing magma
did not break up through the crust, but only pressed up the slate like
a vault. The way to Payne was for the most part difficult. We started
with three horses and tents and provisions for a week, but after the
first day had to leave the tent and everything not absolutely necessary
behind. Our route followed the south edge; the forest grew worse,
step by step we struggled with prickly berberis thickets. After six
hours’ hard work we had advanced a distance of hardly two miles, and
the horses, not used to this kind of work, refused to continue. Our
position was not an enviable one; it would cost us at least four hours
to get back to a place where there was any grass for the horses, and
hardly more than a mile ahead we saw open ground. But the thickets grew
worse still; we were shut in by a steep mountain-wall on one side and a
small lake on the other. This last, unknown before and named by us Lago
Skottsberg, now became our refuge. We resolved to take to the water,
and this proved possible. Once brought down, the horses were able to
wade along the shore most of the way; only twice were we forced to
unsaddle them and let them swim. The small, beautiful lake is visited
by terrible tornadoes, which drive its waters into columns 300 feet
high.
“At last we reached a camping-place with good pasture, and round the
fire we soon forgot all our troubles. But the night brought others.
Hardly had we crept into our sleeping-bags and gone to sleep when snow
began to fall. Only after some hours did I realize that I lay shivering
with cold in a pool of water, which was trickling in from the top.
The rest of the night was not very comfortable. When we rose we found
several inches of snow on the ground. In spite of the difficulties, our
survey of Payne yielded very good results, uniting a highly interesting
scientific work with a visit to a splendid mountain district.
“Our route the next day led first through a beautiful forest, easy to
march in, where deer now and then looked at us curiously from behind
the trees. Once we suddenly came across a whole family, peacefully
grazing in a small depression. They did not show any sign of fright,
and we sat down to light our pipes, waiting to see how they would
behave. One after the other they now came to look at us; advanced till
they were eight or ten steps off, went round us, and then walked off
with an expression of sheer amazement. A fine buck came so close that
the smoke from my pipe reached his nostrils; he shook his head and
turned aside, evidently not appreciating the tobacco. To kill these
animals, save to appease our hunger, would not have been possible for
me; they were much too confiding. But our way led us higher, and now,
suddenly, the aspect of nature changed. We had reached the edge of the
forest; below lay a deep canyon, its upper part filled with a glacier.
We descended and followed the ice up the valley, and now stood in the
heart of Payne so to speak. All round precipitous walls rose, the
narrow valley by which we had come had disappeared behind a protruding
piece of rock; nowhere was an exit visible. One stands as in a hollow
mountain; the interior is worn away, the outer cover is partly left.
This peculiar circumstance is explained by the geology; the interior
consists of the readily crumbling granite, the cover of the more
durable and resisting slates. All the day a never-ceasing cannonade
saluted us; masses of ice tumbled down the precipices all round,
and were welded together on the next ledge to form a new glacier,
slowly advancing till a new barranca caused a repetition of the same
phenomenon. On our return some days later to my great astonishment
I caught sight of a snow-white deer, which rapidly disappeared into
the forest. The following days I crossed the place in all directions
without finding any trace of it. Without doubt it was an albino variety
of the common huemul, but as I had never heard of anything like it I
very much wanted to get hold of the remarkable beast.
“After I had finished my work round Payne I moved my camp northward.
Our way led west and north of the charming Lago Sarmiento, a lake eight
and a half miles long, lacking superficial outlet of any sort; only
some insignificant streams empty into it. The water, clear as crystal,
deep blue and brackish, the constant temperature, great depth, and the
large deposits of calcareous tufas indicate that forces other than the
ordinary ones of nature played a part when it was formed. Together with
some alkaline and carbonated wells in the vicinity, it exhibits the
last remnants of a post-volcanic action that followed upon the outburst
of the immense eruptive masses in the neighbourhood.
“On Christmas Eve I came to a shepherd’s house, and stayed there to
give my horses a rest.”
From there Quensel crossed the Baguales range, using a pass situated
west of the one by which we came down, went to Cattle’s place, and made
the boat journey on Lago Argentino already described.
* * * * *
When I arrived at Ferrier’s _estancia_ Quensel was ready to leave;
he intended to go straight to Ultima Esperanza to complete some
observations of the previous summer. Ferrier was just expecting
visitors, a large party from Otway station, and followed Quensel
expecting to meet them on the way. Thus I was left quite alone in the
house. I was suffering from a bout of influenza and went to bed early.
But my rest was soon disturbed, for hardly had I put out the light
when somebody knocked at the door: the whole picnic party was there,
ladies, gentlemen, and children, greatly astonished at not finding Mr.
Ferrier at home! He had evidently passed them in the brushwood, and I
had to take charge of them. There was no cook, as Ferrier prepared his
food himself, so as soon as I could I got some clothes on, went out in
the kitchen, and arranged a quick supper for eight persons. All the
blankets and pillows of the house were collected, and gradually all
settled down. The next day, however, after breakfast, Ferrier returned
and I was relieved.
With some provisions in our _maletas_ Pagels and I started on the 13th
in order to penetrate as far west as we could. Ferrier had lent us
fresh horses, and after a fine gallop across his estates we came down
to Rio de Grey (Rio Blanco), the outlet of Lago de Grey, incorrectly
called Lago Hauthal on the Argentine maps. With the assistance of a
Swede, Mr. Hülphers, in Patagonia known as “Klondyke-Hans,” Ferrier
had made a hang-bridge across the deep and rapid river. We carried
our things across, swam the horses, and got into the saddle again,
following the river till we came within sight of the lake. Between
the trees we saw some fine icebergs, coming from the glacier in the
north-western end. Close to the south end empties a river, bearing no
name on the maps; we called it Rio del Hielo, or the Icy River, for it
comes from the inland ice.
It was a laborious ride. At first the mountains left a narrow space,
overgrown with shrub-wood along by the water. We pushed through, often
leading the horses; but the barranca rose higher and higher, heaps of
blocks barred the way, the horses injured themselves and bled, which I
did not at all like, as they were not mine. The forest became closer
and closer, the thickets of _leña dura_ (_Maytenus magellanica_) so
dense that we hardly saw the horses, which we dragged along by the
_cabresta_. With slabs we built a road across the last pile of stones,
and I felt relieved when we had the animals safe on the other side.
Once more the ground became more even; a beautiful roble forest with
a carpet of grass appeared; but after we had passed it we found the
way barred for horses. The mountain ran out into the water, which here
forms some rapids, and we made up our minds to camp and continue on
foot the next day. We climbed part of the obstacle, and came on to
broken ground, woody ravines alternating with small open spaces covered
with grass-tussocks. The evergreen beech became more and more frequent.
After a march of several hours we came to an even, gravelly plain, over
which Rio del Hielo winds, and here the scenery was most imposing. The
river flows from three different tongues of the inland ice. Opposite
us was the _nunatahk_ called Cerro Zapato, further north the perfectly
white Cerro Blanco, and in a north-easterly direction the Payne
Mountain shows quite a new aspect. We followed one of the rivers up to
the edge of the ice, for with our equipment we could not get further.
I think it would be possible to cut across here to the Pacific. The
distance as the crow flies to Peel Inlet cannot much exceed eighteen
miles, but the ice is full of crevices.
After twelve hours’ hard walk we were back at the starting-point, and
spent a second night there. I had reached my goal and we could return.
Down at Rio de Grey we had a passage of arms with the horses, who
refused to swim; Pagels’ horse broke the _cabresta_ and ran away from
him, but was captured again. I have seldom looked so shabby as when
we came back to the settlement. My old faithful rags that had hung on
since Bariloche and were old then were now at their last gasp. But a
pair of Ferrier’s old trousers enabled me to leave his place dressed
like a gentleman. His visitors had gone, he was left by himself, and
I stayed with him another two days; then I had to go back to Cerro
Castillo. Here I found letters from Halle, who had passed by there some
days earlier on his way to Ultima Esperanza, and the next day I went
there with the rest of our _tropilla_.
Now one really knew one was in the civilized part of Patagonia--a broad
cart-road, fringed with telephone poles, regarded with mistrust by our
horses; here and there neat houses. We met many waggons and riders, but
fortunately the locomotive of the company with its two big trailers
stood still as we passed. Even then the mare nearly had a fit when
she saw the monster. It was Saturday, and more than one traveller had
already started to celebrate the holiday. We had just sat down by the
roadside to rest when a swarthy figure came along, stopped and handed
us a bottle, and did not leave us until we had taken two respectable
pulls. After a while another fellow with another bottle appeared. We
left the main track, the forest became finer and more lofty, and in
the afternoon we arrived in Puerto Consuelo. Here Hermann Eberhard was
waiting for us with his motor-boat, and we speedily ran up the narrow
inlet to his villa. It is the cosiest place in Patagonia. Generally
people do not take much trouble with their dwellings, and the stranger
is astonished when he gets into Eberhard’s house and finds himself
surrounded by all sorts of European comforts.
[Illustration: LAST HOPE INLET.]
The name Eberhard is famous in Patagonia. It was to a virgin land that
Eberhard senior, late captain of the port in Port Stanley, came in
1893 to try his fortune. We made his acquaintance in Punta Arenas in
February 1908. Deeply interested in natural science he opened his home
to all the explorers who came to these parts; Quensel also had been
his guest. When we came back from the Channels in June we heard of his
sudden and unexpected death. His son follows in his footsteps, and
all who know him hope that the plot to deprive him of his camp will
fail. On the occasion of the great auction in 1905, Captain Eberhard
turned to the Government claiming that an exception for his piece
of land ought to be made as he had explored the country and was the
first colonist there. The Government proposed to the congress that he
should get permission to buy his ground privately. In January 1906 this
proposal passed the Senate, but the House of Deputies had not taken up
the question yet. Therefore young Eberhard felt the ground anything but
safe under him. Quensel and he had just returned from the boat journey;
they had run into Worsley Sound and discovered two unknown inlets
called Resi and Gesa; they also brought back a sketch-map.
What especially has drawn scientists to Ultima Esperanza is the famous
“Mylodon” cave, situated in a barranca some few miles from Puerto
Consuelo. Here, fifteen years ago, Captain Eberhard found a most
remarkable skin with small round bones embedded in the hide and covered
by long coarse yellowish brown hair. It hung on his farm more than a
year, nobody suspecting its immense scientific value--travellers cut
off a piece as a souvenir, and O. Nordenskjöld also brought a piece to
Sweden. Great was the astonishment when it was found that the skin had
belonged to a giant sloth, and all sorts of rumours that this animal
was still living in Patagonia were set going. At the same time the
attention of the scientific world was drawn to the find, and in 1899
Mr. E. Nordenskiöld went there to make excavations. A fine collection
of bones and other remains of the big sloth, a _Glossotherium_, and
many other animals, was brought together; in the upper strata he even
found traces that a pre-historic human race had lived in the grotto.
Close upon this Professor Hauthal of La Plata made an exploration of
the great cavern, and in spite of the Glossotherium occurring only in
the lowest stratum, he and his collaborators came to the conclusion
that the sloth had probably been contemporaneous with man, and even
domesticated by him, for in one corner of the cavern a big deposit of
dung, suggesting a stable, was found. However, none of the persons who
studied the place or the deposits believed that the animal was still
living in Patagonia, which did not prevent a big English newspaper
from sending an expedition under a young man, Mr. H. Pritchard, in
order to capture a living specimen for the Zoo. This was in 1900. I do
not expect the results of the expedition were commensurable with the
expenses. There is much work left in the cavern. The floor is partly
covered with a barrier of huge blocks which have fallen down from the
roof since the deposits were formed; by removing them the layers must
be found quite undisturbed. It is impossible to get an idea of the
stratification in the remainder, for all sorts of people have been
there digging without any method collecting curiosities which are sold
in Punta Arenas. Our scheme did not embrace a new survey of the place,
which is likely to cost much money and require considerable time.
Naturally I would not leave Patagonia without having seen the famous
cavern, and consequently we rode there. It cannot fail to produce a
deep impression: the refuge of extinct animals and human beings. It is
about eighty feet high and extends nearly 500 yards into the mountain.
Large stalactites hang down from the roof. The very first glance shows
how everything has been turned upside down by the reckless diggers. The
so-called stable is still visible, and it is easy to get fine specimens
of dung. There was also plenty of hair belonging to the curious beast,
the Glossotherium. After we had seen enough of the great cavern we
walked along the barranca on the look-out for new discoveries. A
shepherd has told Mr. Eberhard, that he had found a second cavern but
refused to give any details, waiting to dig out curiosities and sell
them without partners. The forest is dense and we had to seek a while
before we found the entrance hidden under the trees. This cavern also
is very beautiful though only half the size of the original one. It was
evident that the shepherd had done some digging there, but probably
without result for the soil does not seem to contain anything at all.
However it is necessary to make proper investigations.
Before returning we visited another cave, a narrow crevice, where
we had to crawl in on our stomachs. There was not much air, just
sufficient for our piece of candle. Eberhard had found a funny locust
in there living in the darkness. Neither eyes nor bright colours are
of use to it; it is half blind and nearly colourless. As soon as we
had got a number we crawled out again, not without trouble, for the
stalactites got hold of our clothes like giant claws. The nature round
Ultima Esperanza has a certain stamp of Northern Europe and I do not
at all wonder that Europeans thrive better there than in other places.
I myself got very fond of the place and deeply regretted that lack of
time did not permit us a longer stay than a day and a half.
On February 22 we said farewell, and after some hours’ ride passed
the Argentine frontier, going on to Meyer’s estancia on Rio Turbio,
where we had been invited to spend the night. Large heaps of empty
champagne-bottles adorn the place, showing that sheep-farming in
Patagonia is a profitable industry. We found Halle here. He was pleased
with his time spent and nothing prevented us from riding directly
to Punta Arenas, only three days’ journey. The road bends over a
monotonous barren plain, over which a single basaltic mountain, Morro
Chico, rises. It was dark when we reached the small hotel; we did not
get much sleep, for the customers made a terrible noise all night. At
eight o’clock we were in the saddle again. All along the track lay dead
horses; here and there a fox was celebrating a feast, but our dogs soon
laid him alongside the carrion. We halted at Laguna Blanca, another
lake without an outlet, in order to get some food, but were soon off
again for we had a long march before us. We had resolved to make a
small _détour_ from the straight track and visit Otway Station, where
we had been invited by the Saunders family whom I met at Ferrier’s
farm, as the reader no doubt remembers. We thought of leaving our
horses there and even hoped that Mr. Saunders, a representative of a
very substantial company, would buy them.
[Illustration: THE “NEOMYLODON” CAVE, LAST HOPE INLET.]
Fortunately it was not too dark for us to find the side-path to the
farm, which we expected soon to strike. The horses were tired, and
to our surprise hour after hour went by without any trace of human
dwellings. We alighted and led the animals, trying to follow an
indistinct cart-track. We got on all right for a while, but lost it in
the drifting sand on the shore of Otway Water, which we now saw again
or at least heard, for it was pitch dark. At random we groped our way
when suddenly we heard a dog bark. Good! where there is a dog there are
also people. Led by the sound we found the place--a dog tied to a pole;
we shouted but got no answer. Later we found out that some men working
at a fence had a tent there. Probably they were frightened and dared
not answer; it is impossible that they did not hear us.
There we were. It was so dark that we could not see five yards: we
spread over the ground signalling to each other with matches and
finally found another cart-track. We mounted and made another move but
suddenly the horses stopped; we alighted looking for the reason--a
fence cut straight across the road. That was a funny road; there was
no gate and we followed the fence in the direction we considered to
be the best. It turned at a right angle and there we struck a proper
road running south. We had almost given up all hope of finding Otway
Station, believing that we had passed it at some distance, and we
did not know where the road led to. Then I thought I saw a house; my
imagination provided it with doors and windows, I saw a light--and was
greatly disappointed when it was reduced to a big piece of rock. I lit
a match and looked at my watch; it was the witching hour of midnight.
Our surprise and joy were great when half an hour later a real light
was seen; we set our horses going and reached Otway Station. We had
gone exactly the route we ought, but were mistaken in the distance. We
were almost ashamed to knock at the door at this late hour, but needs
must and in Patagonia the stranger is excused; he may come at the
strangest hours of the day--or night. One of the young ladies came down
and made a cup of cocoa, and as soon as we could we slipped into bed,
for I will not deny that we were pretty tired.
February 21 was a day of great satisfaction: Mr. Saunders did not
really want any horses, but nevertheless bought them and paid well.
A great anxiety was thus removed, especially we were pleased to know
our horses were in good hands. They had carried us across swamps and
streams, over mountain-passes, where stony ground, snowfields and
floating soil succeeded each other; up barrancas, where the least
false step would have proved fatal, and we had grown to like them and
even parted with them with regret. Quite sad I saddled Solo for the
last time. Our riding horses turned with a neigh to their comrades;
they must carry us the last few miles to Punta Arenas from where they
were sent back to join the tropilla. After a nice canter we were down
on Cabeza del Mar, a bay that once communicated with Otway Water.
From the head of the bay the road cuts down to the Magellan Straits
following along the water to the town. It became more and more lively
on the road; the number of public houses increased rapidly, and in
the twilight we rode into Punta Arenas, where our country horses had
much to think about. We went straight to the Swedish Consulate and
stopped below its windows. It was some time before people recognized
the bearded highwaymen. The last act was played out; for the last time
we unsaddled. “Where do you come from?” people asked us. And as we
answered “from Lago Nahuelhuapi” they thought we were joking with them.
But it was true.
The distance from Bariloche to Punta Arenas is 1358 miles, covered
in fifty-six march-days, which gives a daily average of 24·25 miles.
Counting excursions the total distance amounts to 1640 miles.
CHAPTER XIX
THE BEAGLE CHANNEL
In Punta Arenas everything looked the same. Times were still bad though
somewhat better than in the preceding winter when paper money was worth
nothing--the peso was then down to sevenpence instead of eighteen; now
it varied between nine and ten. The great fluctuation in the value of
Chilean money is of course a great drawback to commercial development;
one never knows from day to day how much one has, and the first look in
the morning paper is at “el cambio,” printed on the first page in large
type. Not a few persons speculate in money, and more than one fortune
has been made only by buying and selling notes. I believe the market
has become more steady now.
[Illustration: THE BEAGLE CHANNEL LOOKING WEST.]
[Illustration: USHUAIA AND MARTIAL MOUNTAINS.]
[Illustration: GLACIER IN N.W. ARM OF BEAGLE CHANNEL.]
Long in advance we had made preparations for our last expedition, the
visit to the Beagle Channel. “El apostadero naval,” the naval station,
had a new chief, for Mr. Rojas had been pensioned and was succeeded
by Rear-Admiral F. Valenzuela. He had got orders from Valparaiso and
received us with great kindness, offering us the small but convenient
steamer _Porvenir_ for the trip. The Government had purchased it during
the winter, when, owing to the bad times, more than one Punta Arenas
ship changed owner. The officers started at once to equip the vessel.
The town was in a state of rejoicing. It was a carnival time and
festive processions passed through the windy streets, but I think it
was a hard job to raise carnival-spirits on the shores of Magellan
Straits. Dancing saloons had been rigged up for the occasion, and were
filled all night long. We had no time, however, for things of that
sort. We had to go through all the luggage sent from Puerto Montt in
October; another equipment had to be got together and I was running
all day long between the ports, the telegraph-office and the Argentine
consulate to arrange an important piece of business, the transport of
ourselves and our luggage from Punta Arenas to Buenos Aires. There is
regular communication between the latter place and Ushuaia. One of
the steamers, however, had just run ashore on the Atlantic coast, the
other, _Primero de Mayo_, had just passed on her way south, and the
Argentine Consul, Mr. Margueirat, told us that her commander had orders
to take us on board if this would suit us. But she ought to be back in
Punta Arenas long before we had finished our exploration in the Beagle
Channel and we had to leave without knowing anything for certain. I
wired to Buenos Aires asking if there would be any other possible ship
besides the _Primero de Mayo_, but could not wait for the answer.
The summer had been uncommonly dry, it was difficult to get water, and
not until March 3 did the _Porvenir_ get her supply. In the evening we
went on board, and before sunrise were under way towards the Magdalena
Channel. The commander was Mr. P. Acevedo, captain in the navy, an able
officer and good companion. In a short time we got into the familiar
old fog again. It is said in the tale of creation, that the water in
the air was separated from the water on the earth but in the west of
Tierra del Fuego one is inclined to believe that the separation never
was completed, so difficult is it to see where the sea ends and the
sky begins. On clear days the magnificent Mt. Sarmiento, the highest
peak in Tierra del Fuego, shines like a gigantic beacon visible far
north of Punta Arenas on Elisabeth Island at a distance of ninety-six
nautical miles. We anchored the first night in Puerto Barrow, and
found time to go on shore; I had never visited this part of Tierra del
Fuego before. At dawn we weighed anchor. The weather was not nice, but
not bad, and in any case good enough to clear the sometimes critical
passage round the Brecknock peninsula. For a while one gets a broadside
from the Pacific, which for a small steamer may be dangerous. We had
vivid recollections of the Swedish expedition in 1896, whose journey
in the _Condor_ was nearly disastrous owing as far as I can gather to
the carelessness or ignorance of the officers. The open passage with
its black, storm-beaten rocks and reefs produces a terrifying and
desolate impression. The whole business only lasted a couple of hours
and then we came into smooth water again. We had just entered the
Brecknock Sound, when we met the _Primero de Mayo_ on her way to Punta
Arenas--far too early for us; we saluted her with the flag, continued
through Whaleboat Sound and anchored in Puerto Fortuna on the north
coast of Londonderry Island.
We had heard much of the beauty of the Western Beagle Channel; but
it almost surpassed our expectations. It is mainly the same sort of
country as we had seen before with steep shores covered with evergreen
forests or bogs and with snow-clad crests and summits. But down here
a new and important feature is added, the glaciers. In the Patagonian
Channels it is only in the inlets penetrating into the main range
of the Andes that the glaciers come down into the sea. But in the
west part of the Beagle Channel nearly every valley is occupied by a
blue stream of ice coming down through the forest and causing that
contrast between the eternal ice and eternal green extolled by Darwin
and all travellers after him. Not only are the larger valleys that
run down into the sea thus ice-filled but any small depression on a
mountain-side has become a refuge for a wee tongue of ice.
As we wanted to see a little more of the glaciers we went into a bay
called Glacier Sound. Probably no ship was ever in here, for the
depth was unknown. We sounded, but the water suddenly shallowed so
that we ran aground on the loose clay. Of course we got off again.
Unfortunately the way to the glacier was barred by closely packed
drift-ice, so we soon left the place and went to spend the night in
Romanche Bay. We had now reached the most magnificent part of the
Beagle Channel, the Northwest Arm, where glacier follows upon glacier.
Opposite Romanche Bay there is one especially worthy of attention. Blue
as only ice can be, it floats out over the mountain ledge, sending
a vertical tongue down into the water; from the edge higher up the
river rushes out of its vault, at once forming a waterfall playing with
the miniature ice-floes. The conditions at the Darwin glacier further
east were very favourable, making it easy to study the moraines as
well as the vegetation round the ice border. Nature itself had come
to our help. The ice does not extend down to the water, but ends in
the forest. Some years ago the river changed its course owing to some
accidental damming-up; the obstacle disappearing, it returned to its
old bed again and left the new one free of access. It formed quite a
natural road across the forest and we could walk up to the ice very
comfortably. The distance from the ice-border to the first stunted
trees is about ten feet.
After a short visit to Yendagaia, we anchored in Lapataia, a place
well known to me, where I had spent some time with Dr. K. Andersson in
1902. The saw-mill was still there, but the old manager had gone long
ago. It was Sunday and work was stopped, but we met the new boss and
asked him to lend us a boat, for Quensel and I intended to pull across
Lago Acigami or Roca, as the lake north of Lapataia is called. We saw
at once that he was a stranger in the country, and we chose English to
speak with him; however Quensel and I exchanged some remarks in Swedish
and at once he joined in telling us that he also was a Swede, by name
Lundberg. Another Scandinavian, a Norwegian, also worked in the small
saw-mill.
The next morning we pulled up a rapid stream, the outlet of Lago
Acigami. Without warning one is out on the bosom of the lake, hitherto
hidden behind dense foliage. The eastern shore slopes gradually and is
covered with dense forests down to the water, into which the trees dip
their branches. The western shore is very different, rising abruptly
like an immense wall of stone with snow-patches in all crevices to a
very considerable height; the highest peaks, nearly 4000 feet, cast
their dark shadow over the whole lake. It was rather strange after an
absence of six and a half years to plough the waters of Lago Acigami
once more--once more to catch sight of the pretty points where we
rested upon the oars to breathe. Probably I shall not come back for the
third time....
The boundary between Argentina and Chile crosses this lake, cuts
straight down to the Beagle Channel, following it to the Atlantic.
In the morning we started in Argentina and landed in Chile at the
other end of the lake. Here we had a hasty meal, standing, or even
running about to get clear of the innumerable mosquitoes. The
Acigami-depression is continued by a broad valley of exactly the same
nature as the Betbeder Valley, traversed by a river. The bottom is
impassable on account of the swamps and we worked our way through
the forest alongside it till we reached a point from where we could
overlook the neighbourhood. We made out that we were in the Rojas
Valley, whose river we had discovered the previous year, and thus had
reached our goal. The same night we were back on board.
To judge from the big mussel-banks Lapataia was once a main resort
for the Yahgan tribe. Halle made some excavations and found some
bone-prickers.
The next day we continued eastward. We saw Ushuaia at some distance,
but left it behind and went into the passage between the Navarin and
Hoste Islands, the Murray Narrows. We knew that the English mission
station formerly installed in Tekenika Bay had been moved to a place
opposite this, and found it in Douglas Bay. There is no shelter here
from the prevailing wind, but otherwise Nature is prettier than in the
old place. A heavy sea was running, but soon a small yawl came from
the station pulled by two Indians and in the person in the stern I
recognized the English missionary, Mr. Williams, whose acquaintance I
had made in Tekenika in 1902. He was greatly astonished at seeing one
of the fellows from the _Antarctic_ once more. We followed him ashore.
What an agreeable contrast between this place and Dawson Island.
Here the last remnants of the Yahgan tribe are collected, numbering
a hundred and seventy. Is it possible that only seventy-five years
ago their fires blazed all along the Beagle Channel and round the
archipelago of Cape Horn? They have been extinguished for ever. But
before all the Yahgans gathered on the stations the French Cape Horn
expedition spent one year in Orange Bay; quite a colony of Indians
stayed with them and were studied from every point of view. I must
also mention the valuable observations on their habits and language
made by the late Thomas Bridges of Ushuaia, through which we possess
a fairly complete account of this people. In Douglas Bay they are
very well treated and get permission to make long excursions hunting
and fishing. Mr. Williams is a practical man, whose enthusiasm for
preaching the gospel has not led him astray, and the Indians seem to
have confidence in him. He speaks their language fluently--well, this
might be considered a matter of course, though the Salesian padre on
Dawson Island hardly knew a word of it. We had to leave Mr. Williams’
pleasant home helter-skelter--for suddenly a south-west gale came on
and it was all we could do to get back on board. We had to weigh anchor
at once and seek shelter under Hoste Island, where we anchored in Allen
Gardiner Bay, on the same spot where the lamented _Antarctic_ lay in
1902. There were hardly any traces of the mission station, for all the
houses had been moved to the new place.
Here Halle had an important task to fulfil. Dr. J. G. Anderson had
found fossilized wood and shells embedded before the folding of the
Fuegian Cordillera took place; thus an investigation of the fossils
would give certain indications as to the age of the mountain chain.
The collections were lost in the _Antarctic_, and we had come there
to get new ones. Halle was left there with a tent, a boat, provisions
and two men. We on the _Porvenir_ went south. We were interested to
visit the old station in Orange Bay; the commemorative pyramid with
its marble plates was left intact and a few steps from there was one
of the pillars of the magnetical observatory. At night two boats of
Indians came; they asked us to take them to the Wollaston Islands. They
were abundantly supplied with provisions, flour, sugar, &c., and had
also brought a rifle. We went there the next morning. The southernmost
of these Islands is Hoorn Island with the famous cape. The forest is
limited to small groves and thickets and the vegetation much reminded
me of what I had seen in certain places on the West Falklands. We
only landed at two places and then crossed again to Packsaddle Bay,
as Quensel wanted to study some of the localities where the French
expedition had been. When we came back to Tekenina we found that Halle
had got comrades, several Yahgans, who had made a hut of sticks and
bundles of grass. They were on their way to the mission, but could not
help stopping, curious to see what the white men were doing. One of the
sailors from the _Porvenir_ had shown a rifle to them, which made them
come to Halle assuring him of their exceptionally friendly sentiments.
He was pleased with his results, and in the afternoon of March 13 we
went to Ushuaia. The capital of Tierra del Fuego has a very pretty
situation on the channel at the foot of the Martial Mountains and
everywhere surrounded by roble forests. The harbour is formed by the
woodless peninsula, where the houses that once belonged to Mr. Thomas
Bridges’ mission station are still left.
Ushuaia is of importance as the Argentine deportation-station. When I
was here in 1902 the deported were just building a new prison, which
was finished now long ago. The chief, Major Herrera, came on board and
welcomed us in the name of the Governor; he and the judge were the
only officials left, for all the rest had gone to Buenos Aires in the
_Primero de Mayo_.
During the seven years that had gone by since my first visit the place
had been greatly developed. A new street behind the strand “Avenue”
and several buildings, above all a new police station, had been added,
but the Government House looked as shabby as ever and the jetty was
even more ramshackle than before. Street lamps and policemen had
increased in number and my old friends looked well and had grown fat,
which proves that the prison gives sustenance also to its employees.
It was indeed funny now and then to meet a face, half forgotten in the
mists of past years. Naturally there was a very hearty welcome, and we
gathered in Club Ushuaia--another step towards culture--and drank a
toast to the merry and unexpected encounter.
We had not much to do here, but I wanted to return to a place where I
made some fine collections in 1902, and Halle went to look for ancient
shore-lines, indicating a post-glacial upheaval of the land. Nature in
this part of the Beagle Channel is rather different from that further
west. The total amount of rainfall is much smaller and the evergreen
beach has nearly disappeared altogether. The mountains get lower, the
Martial range is the last prominent part, where a miniature glacier may
be found at a great height; the highest summit, Mt. Olivia, 4350 feet,
attracts attention through its peculiar form. We made an excursion to
a little stream coming from the foot of this mountain; in the forest
it forms a small waterfall; round it grow some fine evergreen beeches
and there is an uncommonly rich cryptogamic vegetation. But then we had
no reason to stop in Ushuaia, so we continued on the 15th under loud
protests from the inhabitants who wanted to keep us there.
We stopped some hours outside Gable Island, where Halle went on shore
to collect quaternary fossils in the barrancas; the material gathered
by J. G. Andersson had shared the fate of the Tekenika collections. We
anchored in Harberton Harbour, where once more I found myself among
old friends. Harberton is the only important farm on the Channel. When
Argentina founded Ushuaia the English mission pined away, and when
Thomas Bridges left his place, the Government gave him a piece of land
at Harberton, where he and his sons have created a model establishment
evoking the admiration of every visitor. Old Bridges had long been dead
and only his son Willie was left in Harberton; his brothers had moved
to a new farm on the Atlantic Coast, to which they had made a road past
Lago Fagnano. In 1902 we saw many Ona Indians in Harberton; now only
a few were there, as most of them had gone to the new farm, which is
developing rapidly; soon it will be possible to keep a stock of 100,000
sheep there.
A few years ago the Onas were the absolute masters of Tierra del Fuego,
where they had vast hunting-grounds. Most certainly they are a branch
of the Tehuelche people--but prolonged isolation and the lack of boats
in which to cross the Straits have gradually changed their habits and
language. Their tall forms and good-looking faces remind one much of
the Tehuelches of Patagonia.
If we consider how much this people has been in contact with white men,
it is strange that they have not been properly studied until recent
years. The Salesian mission has a station at Rio Grande, but there are
very few Indians. Some live on Dawson Island, some families live in
the forest north of Lago Fagnano, but the rest are probably scattered
over the land south of Rio Grande. Not a few work on Bridges’ farm. We
were told that Modesto who went with J. G. Andersson to Lago Fagnano
and then with both of us to Gable Island had been promoted “Capataz” of
the carts. Also Anikin was alive and lived as shepherd out in the camp.
The brothers Bridges never put any constraint upon the natives. They
simply received them, gave them work and of course tried to eradicate
bad customs, but never kept them against their will or tried to convert
them. The result has been mutual satisfaction. Messrs. Bridges had
cheap labourers and the natives felt happy with some regular work.
Their number is said to be slowly increasing at present--a glorious
exception to the rule.
Originally we intended to spend much more time in Tierra del Fuego
studying the Indians. But we had been informed that the well-known
anthropologist and ethnographer, Professor Lehmann-Nietsche of La
Plata, had made extensive studies and Mr. Bridges told me that an
American, Mr. Furlong, had visited him and made observations on the
natives. Thus we had reason to shorten our stay in these parts.
Among the interesting information I got from Mr. Bridges there is one
thing especially worthy of notice. This was the story of a fourth
Indian tribe, hitherto not known to me. It was called _Hush_, and
lived along the Straits of Le Maire. Probably it was a branch of
the Ona people, perhaps originally a mixture of Ona and Yahgan, but
had a language different from either of theirs and lived mainly on
shell-fish and seal, wandering along the beach. Canoes were not used.
There is no pure Hush left. In Harberton I saw an old man looking
more like a Yahgan; his mother was of the Yahgan tribe. He had been
married to a Hush woman, the last of her race, and was a widower; he
had two unmarried daughters. They are the last of a small people that
disappears without leaving any traces behind. We know nothing of their
habits or of their language. Probably the Fuegians Darwin found in Good
Success Bay belonged to this people.
We left Quensel in Harberton and continued east in spite of a falling
barometer in order to try a landing in Slogget Bay. This place also
had been visited by J. G. Andersson and is of importance for the
determination of the age of the Cordillera. After having passed the
woody Picton Island, we came out into open water. We got a gale of
wind, and turned back to land on Picton, but had not gone far before
the weather looked better again, so we started to run our old course.
Slogget Bay is quite open to winds from south and east which often
make landing impossible. Inside the point we saw a good landing-place,
where two men soon appeared. We hurriedly got hold of some necessary
things and rowed on shore. The two fellows were the only people left
of the gold-digging company; one of them was in charge of the place
and invited us to come to his house. We had an hour’s hard walk along
the broken rocks covered by decaying seaweed, spreading a nauseous
smell. The establishment looked very imposing: numerous buildings in
two lines; near the mouth of a stream stood a large dredge; but no
work was going on. The men were left to look after the place and keep
the machinery from rusting. Still they did not know if the company was
going to continue the work or not.
Gold has been found in many places in Tierra del Fuego. Nearly all
rivers carry some though only in small quantities; and in several
places in the loose coastal barranca the precious metal has been found.
At such places at first very rich finds were made, but no one thought
that these might be the result of the sea’s carrying down and washing
the sand for thousands of years and thus would not believe that after
the first rich harvest had been gathered, it would become much more
difficult to get anything. The gold fever broke out, hundreds of people
hastened there. In the parts where we were just now it was Slogget Bay
and Lennox Island that attracted special attention. The gold deposits
had been discovered by a certain engineer, Popper, famous in the
history of Tierra del Fuego, a real _conquistador_ on a small scale.
At first people washed by hand and the yield was good. But the future
was not quite so golden. One company after the other was formed and
expensive machinery purchased. This was the end of it all; the best
finds had already been made and worked and the result was not even
sufficient to pay the expenses. How many companies were formed I do not
know, but in Punta Arenas alone there were thirty. During our visit
to Patagonia the newspapers almost every day contained the report of
some “Sociedad aurifera” winding-up--only in name was it “aurifera.”
When we left Punta Arenas to go home people had still some belief in
the establishment of Lennox Island, and the descriptions we got from
some shareholders sounded very promising. One thing we understood that
quite as much money had been spent in fine dwelling-houses, electric
light, hot and cold water in all bedrooms, &c.--as in Cutter Cove,
which I am not inclined to consider a good omen for the future. The man
in charge of Slogget, Mr. Dafonte, could tell beautiful stories of the
administration of that company.
We started at once to look for the fossiliferous deposits, which
we found just east of the bay, near a solitary rock rising like a
fantastic obelisk out of the water some fifty yards from the shore.
It is very narrow at the base and gradually widens upwards. There is
a marine flora the like of which I had not seen since we were on the
Falklands, and I secured a very rich harvest. Both Halle and I were
very pleased with our visit, and I am sure that Mr. Dafonte enjoyed
the change offered by strangers’ company. We returned to Harberton on
the 17th to fetch Quensel and spend the night there. How comfortable I
found myself in this truly English family! The conversation was about
old times, when the old _Antarctic_ was at anchor in the bay, and I had
to tell all I knew about my comrades and promise to convey greetings to
them all. I said good-bye to Harberton with great regret, and it would
be a matter of great satisfaction to go there again.
In order to return the kindness of the Argentiners we went to Ushuaia
and gave a dinner on board. The best of spirits prevailed in spite of
the dispute between the two republics over the boundary farthest south,
not settled by the Award. The Argentine experts had found out that the
Beagle Channel as a boundary was all right, but the question was: where
does the channel go to the extreme east? north or south of the Picton
and New Islands? They insist that it goes south of these islands which
should thus belong to Argentina.
When we left Ushuaia we had the most lovely weather, bringing out
all the splendours of the Northwest Arm. Even Halle who is a great
enthusiast for the Pampas expressed his admiration. The last night was
spent in Puerto Edwards, a typical Fuegian cove on the south coast of
the Brecknock peninsula. Without any adventure we rounded it, cast a
last glance on the channel scenery that had become so familiar to us,
and for the last time beheld the menacing silhouette of Cape Froward.
Late in the evening, on March 20, we were back again in Punta Arenas.
Again I had to find out means of getting to Buenos Aires in the
cheapest manner possible with all our bulky luggage. I went to the
Argentine Consul, who told me that he had just purchased a steamer
for his Government, and after some time it would proceed to Buenos
Aires to be delivered to the authorities. I wired to the Minister of
Marine and got his permission to use the steamer. But all this would
have been quite unnecessary had I only got the telegrams waiting for
me on my arrival. I got them the next day. There was an answer from
the Argentine Government saying that, as there was no steamer running
from Punta Arenas, cabins on the first Kosmos steamer passing were put
gratuitously at our disposal. Of course we were very grateful for this
new proof of Argentine generosity. Our luggage was brought up by the
above-mentioned steamer, which carried nothing else.
On the 25th we went on board the fine steamer, the _Thessalia_, and
in the most agreeable weather and company we left Punta Arenas for
good, the town of iron-houses, gramophones and cocktails, but also of
strenuous work and commercial industry. It was not without regret we
saw it disappear. How much friendship, sympathy and assistance had we
not met with there. To the very last moment the Consul, Mr. Manns,
whose home was always open to us, helped us in every way, and thanks to
him and all the others, too numerous to mention, we could look back on
a Magellanic Expedition brought to a happy end. On the 30th we arrived
in Montevideo, where the Consul, Mr. Rogberg, came on board to welcome
us and took us round the town once more. The next morning we were in
Buenos Aires.
* * * * *
Already before we left Sweden Halle had made up a scheme to visit Rio
Grande do Sul in Brazil before going back, in order to study certain
deposits belonging to the _Glossopteris_-series that had been the
object of his special attention during the journey.
[Illustration: PANORAMA SOUTH-WEST SIDE OF LAKE ACIGAMI. TIERRA DEL
FUEGO.]
[Illustration: “THE WINTER’S BARK.” TIERRA DEL FUEGO.]
I had planned another trip for Quensel and myself, a voyage to South
Georgia, the remote island on the verge of the Antarctic Sea. I knew
this island well enough, but had important reasons for a second visit,
and Quensel very much wanted to see this supposed outpost of the
Andes. Anyhow, it is closely connected with the region we had just left.
When in December 1903 the members of the _Antarctic_ Expedition
returned to Buenos Aires, rescued by the Argentine ship, the _Uruguay_,
Captain Larsen who had got news of the Norwegian law against whaling
was able to interest some people there to make a try south and later
the “Compañia Argentina de Pesca” started. With the permission of Great
Britain the company built a station on South Georgia and commenced
work in 1905. We had generously been granted passages on one of the
company’s vessels. The s.s. _Cachalote_ was ready to sail when we came
to Buenos Aires, and on April 2 we again left the metropolis of South
America and the civilized world.
CHAPTER XX
A WINTER TRIP TO SOUTH GEORGIA
Again we are alone with sky and sea. The future looks bright, we lie
flat on the deck in the sun enjoying our siesta, a company of five,
we two, Captain Esbensen, his wife and brother-in-law, all three
Norwegians.
Like the quiet flow of a river the first days went by. Then, suddenly
the engines stopped. There was much wondering and asking of questions.
We had certainly noticed that they had begun to make some unusual
noise, but did not think much of it. A closer investigation supplied no
explanation; they were set going again, but the noise increased more
and more. Again they were taken to pieces, but it was impossible to
discover whence the mysterious sound could proceed. By a mere chance
the fault was found. One of the cranks was loose on the shaft and we
could not continue until such a serious fault had been put right. The
engineers shook their heads and set to work without delay. Disabled,
we lay adrift, but the weather kept fine. Far off a full-rigged vessel
passed at a good speed--how we did envy her! Two bolts from opposite
sides were driven through the crank and into the shaft, but this work
which took a whole day proved futile. The engine worked silently some
few minutes, then the bolts were driven out by the rotation and we had
to stop again. A new dodge was tried; a bolt of steel being driven
right through crank and shaft and clenched at both ends. The weather
had changed and we knew that we had gone south. The north-west wind
was blowing very fresh; there was a high sea running and we might get
a gale at any moment. On deck the crew was busy rigging yards on the
short masts and making sails out of old tarpaulins so that we might
get some way on the boat. Those who had nothing to do fished for
albatrosses with a hook baited with a piece of meat. The repairs took
a day and a half, but the bolt, one inch in diameter, held for one
night only and then was literally cut into three pieces. There was now
only the slight hope left that we could make a still thicker bolt and
also replace the axle-journal, filling in the semicircular notches in
crank and shaft, with a new one. If this did not hold, we could do
nothing more. We could not get enough sail on to steer against wind and
sea. Where would currents and waves bear us? Certainly not to South
Georgia--we were already making jokes about our visit to Cape Town or
to Australia. But long before that the sea would probably smash up the
ship and drown us all!
Eager expectation could be read in all faces when the engines were once
more set going. We were already at April 10 and ought to have been at
our destination. Every five minutes we went to listen but no strange
tunes were heard.
The storm came. Long enough had it threatened us. It was Easter Eve;
and we took turns in balancing a big tureen in which the eggs for the
traditional toddy were beaten up. Why should we abandon a good custom
merely because of being on board a sick ship in the South Atlantic? The
night was very uncomfortable. Our berths were situated just above the
screw, which was revolving more in the air than in the water, and it
was only because I was used to things of that sort that I was able to
sleep. In the morning our yard hung naked, for the wind had robbed us
of four of our five small sails. More than ever was it necessary that
the engine should hold, and we did not venture to go at more than half
speed. It felt like being on slippery ice and our anxiety increased
when the fog came and with it the fear of icebergs, which according to
the captain’s experiences might turn up at any moment.
[Illustration: THE NORWEGIAN FACTORY, SOUTH GEORGIA.]
[Illustration: SKOTTSBERG. LARSEN. ANDERSSON.
A MEETING IN SOUTH GEORGIA.]
Again the engines started to be noisy, the above-mentioned axle-journal
threatened to creep out of position and had repeatedly to be driven
in again. Should we reach our destination? Finally, on the 15th,
the island came in sight. We had longed for it as if it were the
Promised Land itself, and there it lay, the lonely isle, shining
white, shimmering through the grey fogs! It proved impossible to reach
Cumberland Bay the same day and we had to spend another pitch-dark
night on an angry sea and with a wretched on-shore wind. The fear of
drifting ashore made us work out from the coast, which soon disappeared
in a blinding snow-storm. The easterly wind died, but we got a gale
from the north-west instead, and in the morning made the pleasant
discovery that we had driven past Cumberland Bay. We also understood
by our course that we had passed across the dangerous Nansen-reef,
where the _Fridtjof Nansen_ struck some years ago and went down
like a stone, nine people losing their lives. A mere chance had saved
us from sharing their fate. The wind was too stormy to permit of our
beating up against it, and not until the next day did we see land
again. The points grew familiar to me, and in bright sunshine we
passed Mt. Duse and turned into the cove. It was seven years since--I
remembered a virgin Pot Harbour with luxuriant tussock-grass and
roaring sea-elephants. There is the point where we found the big pots
and the old boat; a small observatory now stands there. Now the harbour
lies quite open to the eyes. A strong smell of whale-oil mingles with
the stink of the numerous carcasses on the shore where thousands of
screaming gulls and cape-pigeons have an everlasting feast. Some
buildings are seen on the shore at the foot of an abrupt mountain-wall;
they are half hidden by boats, coal-heaps and oil-barrels; people are
running to and fro, funnels smoke, a whistle gives a hoarse prolonged
note----
* * * * *
South Georgia which is of about the size of the Swedish Island Gotland,
extends between 54° and 55° S. lat. and 36° and 38° W. long. A look at
a map of the world readily suggests the idea that the island is part of
a sunken mountain-fold, running from the Andes over South Georgia, the
South Sandwiches and Orkneys, to Graham Land. The geological survey to
a certain degree confirms this opinion, but the great depths between
the different links in this broken chain are difficult to explain.
South Georgia is a much folded steep mountain-ridge, running north-west
to south-east and cut by deep inlets on both sides. Its height probably
exceeds 6500 feet though only very few summits have been measured
with exactitude. The impression of the island is wild, but grand: the
mountains are very steep, the summits sometimes have a rather fantastic
shape and everywhere eternal ice and snow stand out against the black
slates. The interior is more or less covered by a mantle of ice, the
flap of which hangs down into the valleys, often reaching the water in
the innermost corner of an inlet. Their mouths are the oases in South
Georgia, where the plant-world thrives and animals have found means of
existence.
It cannot be expected that a land with the nature of South Georgia
should have a mild climate. The variations in temperature are very
slight; in the summer it is some centigrades above, in the winter
some centigrades below zero--the average being a little lower than in
the Falklands--and unsettled weather is the most prominent climatic
feature here also, for the sunshine may be interrupted by a snow-storm,
regardless of whether it is summer or winter. The strong south-westerly
gales are terrible, nor are the local hurricanes less terrifying,
rushing down the glaciers almost without a warning and threshing the
water into a thick white smoke looking like fog at a distance. The
annual fall of snow and rain is large. During the winter snow mostly
falls, sometimes forming a continuous covering thick enough to hide
even the tussock-grass. This is the same fine plant that we met with in
the Falklands, but in South Georgia it everywhere puts its mark on the
coastal region; on the shingles there is a nice and uniform covering,
but on the steep slopes it grows patchwise and shows great gaps where
it looks as if it had slid down and landed in disorder on the debris
below. The tussock-grass must take the place of both trees and bushes
in South Georgia. It ends rather suddenly inland and is replaced by a
scanty meadow-or grass-tundra, where some insignificant flowers are
also seen. The cryptogamic plants play a more prominent part and are
of great interest, as many of them have only been found here. South
Georgia is the Juan Fernandez of mosses.
The flora of the sea is also very remarkable and indeed it was this
that made me undertake a second expedition to the remote island. Most
people are more attracted by animal life. The place of honour is held
by the sea-elephant (_Macrorhinus leoninus_). It is the largest seal
living, a plump, yellow-brown creature anything up to twenty feet long;
only the old males reach this length, the females being much smaller
and more slender. The name refers to the faculty of the male of blowing
his nose into a short trunk when angry. This remarkable animal, of
a distinctly ancient type, is confined to some islands in the south
and has greatly decreased in number. It will probably prove necessary
for the English authorities to forbid hunting him on South Georgia. I
was told that American sealers do a good deal of poaching on the west
side of the island. Other kinds of seals are also found, especially
the sea-leopard (_Ogmorhinus leptonyx_); but the southern fur-seal
(_Arctocephalus australis_) seems to be extinct here. Bird life is
abundant. Most of the species are oceanic; cape-pigeons and petrels
have their nests round the black peaks, and on small “tussock-islands”
the largest bird of the oceans, the big albatross (_Diomedea exulans_)
breeds. Two species of penguins have small rookeries, amongst them the
king-penguin, hardly less magnificent than his imperial cousin of the
Antarctic. But one is still more attracted by the small land-birds, the
edible teal duck (_Querquedula Eatoni_) and the small titlark (_Anthus
antarcticus_), remarkably enough endemic in the island, merrily hopping
about round the streams.
In a short while we were moored alongside the quay. Larsen’s stout
figure appeared; I had heard that after his visit to the South Sandwich
Islands, he had been taken seriously ill. Now he looked himself again,
and we slapped each other’s backs properly. In the dwelling-house
another old acquaintance received me, the cook of the _Antarctic_,
Axel Andersson, who stayed in his kitchen, day in and day out, during
the long severe winter on Paulet Island in biting cold, half choked by
the nauseous smoke from the blubber. A remarkable encounter indeed;
three old comrades re-united after seven years on one of the places
where they had camped together. The place had changed more than we; I
hardly knew Pot Harbour with its shores spoilt and its air polluted.
With great satisfaction we found the low land to be free of snow, and
the first excursion gave good results. Judge of our surprise when the
winter suddenly arrived! It snowed day and night, and did not stop
until the ground was covered by snow, two feet deep, under which the
plants remained out of reach. We comforted ourselves with the fervent
hope that the snow would melt within a few days, and I started to work
on the seaweeds, for here the snow could not hinder me. The results
obtained gave me reason to be contented with the journey, in spite
of the prophecy of mild weather never coming true, for it was not a
passing snow-storm, but the long winter that had come in earnest. It is
obvious that Quensel could hardly make any geological observations, but
there was no help for it. Our good luck had at last abandoned us.
Larsen was kind enough to put a steamer, originally purchased to tow
whales with, at our disposal for a trip round the fiords, but we put
it off as long as we could hope to get suitable weather. Waiting,
however, seemed hopeless and we set out. On April 24 the _Undine_ left
Pot Harbour--seven years earlier, also in Cumberland Bay the Swedish
Antarctic Expedition had celebrated the deed of the _Vega_. It was the
first fine day since our arrival. The island lay there, radiant in all
its Antarctic beauty, with every summit clear and sharp. We steered
out to the sea and then followed the coast for some distance, making
a visit to the so-called Strömnaes fiord. There were three whaling
steamers belonging to a Tönsberg Company, laid up for the winter.
Larsen’s company was all but alone on the island at that date, and the
only one with a land station by means of which it is possible to make
far more out of the whales than by floating boilers. They all come
from Norway to spend the favourable season. According to Larsen there
is already to be noticed a certain decrease in the number of whales,
and by-and-by the Governor of the Falklands will have to regulate the
whaling in some manner or the Colony will lose an important part of its
income. Whalers have now reached the Antarctic Islands also and there
are stations on the South Orkneys and also on Deception Island, the
famous old crater.
We continued north along the coast, passed the entrances of several
fiords and entered the Bay of Isles. The fine weather was gone again,
an easterly gale and snow and fog came after us at a gallop, and we
anchored at the very last moment before an impenetrable mist had hidden
land and water from us. Had not Captain Angell been so familiar with
all corners here, the night would have been rather unpleasant. The
_Undine_, which is built on very elegant lines and makes good speed,
was once Queen Victoria of England’s pleasure-yacht; in her declining
years she still bears evidence of having seen better days. The large
saloons and cabins with their real mahogany fittings tell us that we
are not on board a common tug.
The bad weather continued, but we were able to spend the next day on
shore. At night the wind increased, and in the morning we had terrible
weather with a mixture of rain, snow, and hail. However, we resolved to
set out and came out in the heavy sea round Cape Buller. Just before
nightfall we ran into a shallow bay, called by the Norwegian whalers
Rightwhale Cove. The wind grew more and more squally, a menacing bank
of leaden clouds gathered in a westerly direction and the night was
indeed anything but pleasant. We had two anchors out and the engines
ready, but every now and then the captain went on deck to have a look
at the situation, for the hurricane was so terrible and the strains
on the chains so violent, that every moment we expected to see them
break. In the morning the same conditions prevailed, and it was hardly
possible to stand on deck. Through the white foam we heard the roaring
of the sea-elephants in the tussock, but could not see them nor get the
least glimpse of land, in spite of being so near. Now and then came
a sharp and sudden snow-squall. It was a pity that we had not got an
anemometer; the iron-rail round the bridge was bent by the pressure
of the canvas, which perhaps gives an idea of the velocity of the
wind. Down in the saloon we read or played cards and looked at the
barographer, the index of which jumped a couple of millimetres at a
time. In the evening the weather improved and we had a tolerably calm
night. But alas! our time was up; we expected that the _Cachalote_
would be ready to leave and with sore hearts we had to abandon our
schemes of visiting the west coast. Settled good weather could not be
expected, so although another snowstorm came on we left the harbour,
and made for the station. The fog was so dense that after half an hour
we had lost every landmark and wondered how we should find our way
back. Then, as if by magic, the fog lay behind us like a wall and we
were out in the sunshine. We found ourselves outside Strömnaes Bay and
were soon back in Pot Harbour.
During our absence the three small steamers had been out fishing and
got several whales, two of them right whales (_Balaena australis_),
but once more the cutting-up decks were empty and it looked as if we
should leave South Georgia without having seen whale-fishing. The
weather was still miserable and the _Cachalote_ had soon taken in her
cargo. But then prospects lightened. On the last of April the steamers
were out again and came back in the night with one right whale and some
humpbacks, and at once we made up our minds to go with one of them
as many whales were reported forty miles from the coast. Hurriedly
we took our oilskins and climbed on board, and the next moment the
_Karl_ started. She is a modern whaler, built of steel and specially
constructed for the purpose; in comparison with her size (about 150
tons), the engines and winches may be described as very powerful. In
the bows is the short, thick gun; it is loaded, and the point of the
harpoon, where the shell is, protrudes from the mouth. From there a
strong hawser goes down into the hull, where innumerable fathoms lie
neatly coiled ready to run out.
From the mast-head single whales are seen blowing, but it is not
worth while going after them, if one is sure that there is a school
further out. Now we catch sight of one of the other steamers. With the
glasses we see that her line is taut; evidently there is a fish on the
hook, and soon we are amidst the school. Monsters dive up everywhere,
swimming in long files, blowing and snorting, a little more of the fat
shining back is seen, for an instant the “hump” is above water and then
the beast disappears. They come and go all round, not the least
disturbed by our presence; the water is thick with their food, small
crustaceans and other marine organisms, and they are not inclined to
leave their good feeding-grounds, for they do not understand that the
“steel-whales” are armed to the teeth and are only waiting for a chance
to spread death and destruction among them.
[Illustration: HUMPBACK WHALE, UPSIDE DOWN, SOUTH GEORGIA.]
[Illustration: THREE RIGHT WHALES. SOUTH GEORGIA.]
Now we open the ball. The small, bearded “gunner,” who is also captain
of the ship, takes up his position behind the gun. Three big humpbacks
come swimming obliquely towards us: “Stop ... hard port ... slow
ahead!” With a steady hand he sights and fires the gun--shell and
harpoon are buried in the shining back--a sudden jerk and the rope
runs out at a tremendous speed! As he dives the whale sends a cloud of
blood from his nostrils; then a dull report is heard, the shell has
burst, and soon he rises to the surface dead. As the shot is fired the
fuse of the shell takes fire and burns, casting the sparks backwards
for four seconds; then a spark reaches the charge, which instantly
explodes and kills the whale, if the shot is a good one. Naturally it
is important that the shell does not explode too early. The animal is
hauled in under the bows; a chain is fixed round the caudal fin and the
beast is hauled up to the gunwhale. The rope of the harpoon is cut and
so are the big wings of the fin, for they would check the ship’s speed
too much. A mark is put at the edge of the fin indicating that only
_one_ harpoon has been used; the harpooner sets his private mark, the
chain is fixed properly, the tail lowered, and we are ready for another
shot. Meanwhile we have been able to follow the movements of the other
steamer on the battle-field, and this is not less interesting. They
have got another whale, but did not manage him and he is swimming at
quite a fair speed towing the vessel behind him. They disappear in the
fog, and come out again after a while. The beast has still got strength
left and, snorting blood, he joins two others and tries to keep up with
them, but at last tires, is hauled within range and a second harpoon
finishes him on the spot.
We set to work again and got another whale before dark. With a nice
fish on each bow we turn back. Both are humpback whales (_Megaptera_);
we have seen both blue and fin-whales, but were not equipped with
ropes strong enough to hold them. They are not generally killed by
one harpoon, but often run out the line to the end and set off at a
tremendous speed, mad with rage. It sometimes happens that one must cut
the line after a wild chase of several hours.
The day’s catch is worth about £160, but had we got out sooner the sum
would have been double. There are days when all the steamers come in
with four whales each; that means money, and the harpooner has reason
to be satisfied, too, as for every full-grown humpback he gets ten
crowns extra; if it is a right whale he puts one hundred crowns in his
pocket. But a good right whale is worth five or six hundred pounds.
This species is nearly related to the big Balaena of the north. Its
great value lies in the baleens which are from six to eight feet long.
Night has come and we must try to find the station. The snow-fog is
very thick, the moonlight cannot penetrate it. We have two whales to
tow and progress is slow. Sometimes we lie down on a sofa, trying to
sleep, but soon curiosity drives us out again to look at the weather.
It is still snowing, and pitch dark--better to sleep, if we can, in
spite of the heavy rolling.
I wake up as the engines stop and go out on deck to look. We are close
on the shore, a mountain wall rises over our heads and all round there
are masses of kelp. The captain does not know where we are, but after
a while he realises that we have come too far south. We back out again
and change our course, old landmarks appear, well-known snow-patches,
and soon we are back in Pot Harbour which is asleep in the silent
winter-night. It is 3.30 A.M. when we plunge into the snowdrifts to
reach the house. Who knows if we should have gone to bed earlier had we
been in Upsala. Yesterday it was May 1.[1] And a rather original one
too!
[Footnote 1: At the Swedish universities May 1 is a day of great
feasting and rejoicing.]
The whales are moored round buoys and jetties. Most of them belly-up,
showing the long, peculiar furrows. Some are so filled with gases that
they look like balloons ready to burst. Now comes the slicing and
stripping. Tail first they are winched up on to the cutting-up stage,
where some men provided with long-handled knives, are ready to receive
them. First the curious crustaceans--which live in their houses on
the whale, profiting from his rich hunting-ground--must be plucked
off; they are fine large colonies of Balanids, leading a very easy and
comfortable life. Slice after slice of blubber is cut off, the fat
round the intestines and the tongue are also taken, as well as the
gigantic cheek-bones. The meat is edible if not very delicious. The
blubber is sent to a machine which cuts it into thin slices, and then
it is carried into the big tanks, where it is boiled down to oil for
twenty-four hours. The cheekbones are sawn up and put into a closed
tank, where steam under high pressure is sent in; the water is drawn
off and the oil collected. The baleens are treated in a special house.
They are well washed in a small stream, are scraped and brushed, dried,
polished and packed into bags.
On May 4 the _Cachalote_ was ready--as ready as she could get. The
engineers had done all they could, but any day the new bolt might
give, and Larsen dared not send the steamer alone to Buenos Aires, but
let the _Undine_ accompany her. It was a long journey as we had bad
weather at first. It was very pleasant to stand on the bridge looking
at the _Undine_, for she rolled so heavily that we sometimes could see
the keel. Quensel had not felt very comfortable in the stern of the
_Cachalote_ and preferred to go by the other steamer, where he got a
berth amidship, but nothing could make us leave our old vessel with her
excellent kitchen. The table of the _Undine_ was very simple. One day
we killed a fat goose and by means of signal-flags the passengers of
the _Undine_ were invited to come on board and have dinner with us. In
order to annoy them we also signalled the word “goose.” Come they could
not, for it was impossible to put a boat off. They answered us very
impolitely!
After some days the engines began to give trouble and we tried to get
a hawser on board the _Undine_, but failed owing to the heavy sea.
She was to tow us when repairing. The next afternoon we repeated the
experiment with better success. On May 14 land was seen, and the day
after we were moored in the Boca, one of Buenos Aires suburbs, and I
dare say all of us felt pleased that the somewhat adventurous passage
had come to a happy conclusion.
In Buenos Aires we had to wait some time before there was a Swedish
steamer. Halle came back from his journey; he had not been troubled
by snow or storm, and was pleased with everything. On May 23 we went
on board the _Crown Princess Victoria_, belonging to the Johnson
Line. We had a delightful run and shall always remember the captain,
Mr. Camp, the officers and crew, with feelings of deep gratitude. It
was agreeable to get a good rest under a tropical sun after so much
hard work. But better than anything we had experienced in our various
travels, was the perfume of the young birch trees from the Scandinavian
skerries, which came in sight on June 21. On that same day we arrived
in Christiania, and by different routes the members of the expedition
hastened to their homes in Sweden.
INDEX
Acevedo, Captain P., 297
Acigami, Lake, 300;
boat excursion on, 301;
high summits west of, 301
Aconcagua, Mount, 132;
river journey along, 129
Adalbert Channel, passing through, 87
Adam, Mount, ascent of, 21
Admiralty Inlet, nature of, 38
Albatross Channel, passing through, 87
Albatrosses, fishing of, 315
Alerce, 108
Allardyce, W. L., ix. 3, 31
Allen, A. L., x.
Allen Gardiner Bay, visit to, 303
_Alm_, steamer, 90
_Alstrœmeria_, 210
Ancud, aspect of, 106;
cathedral, 108;
harbour, 106;
plaza, 108;
schools, 107
Andersson, A., 320
Andersson, J. G., vii. 40, 303, 306, 307, 308
Andersson, K., 300
Andrew Sound, visit to, 87
Anita Channel, narrow passage in, 82
Antarctic Expedition, 40
_Anthus antarcticus_, 320
Antiguos River, adventurous descent to, 216
Arauco district, geological survey in, 126
Arauz Bay, seeking refuge in, 74
_Arctocephalus australis_, 320
Argentino, Lake, boat excursion on, 272;
icebergs, 277;
storms, 275, 276
_Aristotelia magui_, 137
Armadillo, 209
Arrayán, 195
Asado, 43, 169
Aspero, Mount, ascent of, 235
_Auchenia huanaco_, 42
Aysen Valley, 193;
excursion to the Pacific, 194;
roads, 193, 194
Azara, Lake, boat excursion on, 234
_Azara lanceolata_, 195
Azopardo River, camping at, 39;
canvas boat on, 57
Azopardo Valley, 41
Baguales Mountains, South Patagonia, crossing of, 267
Baguales Range, Aysen Valley, crossing of, 194
Bahia del Padre, visit to, 143
Baker Company, 86
Baker Inlet, visit to, 86
Baker, River, crossing of, 239;
sources, 225
_Balæna australis_, 324
Balanids on whales, 327
Baleens, treatment of, 328
Bamboo, 115, 196
Bariloche, visit to, 162;
departure from, 165
Barrow Cove, visit to, 298
Bay of Isles, visit to, 322
Beagle Channel, ancient shore-lines in, 305;
glaciers, 299;
nature of east part, 305;
of west part, 299, 311
Belgrano, Lake, camping on, 229;
boat excursion, 233;
nature of, 233;
shallow part, 237
Benney, Messrs., x. 21
_Berberís buxifolia_, 56;
_Darwinii_, 115
Berthon boats, excursions with, 41, 45, 247
Bertrand, R., x.
Betbeder Valley, survey of, 40, 51
Billing, J., 127
Bismarck Glacier, remarkable nature of, 273
Blanco, Mount, 236 (west of Lake Belgrano); 287 (west of Payne)
_Blechnum magellanicum_, 84
Boklund, Mr., 133
Bolus, Mr., x. 25
Bordes, J., 75, 77, 79, 87
Brand, Mr., 190
Brecknock Passage, 298
Bridges, Th., 302
Bridges, W., 40, 306
Brockow, C., 33
Brookes, Mr., 205
Brunel, A., 263
Bueno, Point, 89;
Indians in, 84
Buenos Aires, Lake, visit to, 206;
Mount, ascent of, 266
Buller, Cape, 322
Burbury, T., 268, 271, 278
Cabeza del Mar, nature of, 295
_Cachalote_, steamer, 313;
damage to, 314
“Calafate,” 56
Calbuco, volcano, 158
Cameron, A., 271
Camp, V., 329
_Campsidium chilense_, 99
“Canelo,” 56
Cangrejo River, camping at, 260
_Canis Azaræ_, 279;
_falklandicus_, 13
Caracoles, railway station, 130
Carbón River, valley of, 243
_Casma_, steamer, 134
Castillo farm, visit to, 268
Castro, appearance and history of, 117
Cattle, Mr., 265
Centinela, Mount, 221;
valley of, 267
_Cereus_, 128
Chacao Channel, 106
Chaigneau, F., 33
Chalía River, sources of, 199
Challenger Expedition, 30
“Charqui” (dried meat), 111
Chasm Reach, echo in, 87
“Chaura,” 56
“Chicha,” 110
Chilcas River, camping at, 213
Chile, central valley of, 128;
longitudinal railway, 133;
national feast, 132
Chilean money, fluctuation of, 296
_Chiliotrichum diffusum_, 245
Chiloé, bullock-carts, 115;
Catholic church, 107;
culture of potatoes, 114;
excursions on horseback, 111;
flamingos, 113;
forests, 115;
history, 104;
life in, 110;
nature, 109;
oysters, 112;
roads, 108, 111, 115;
valuable timber, 108;
whaling, 112
Chilotes, character of, 109
_Chloëphaga_, 28, 44
Chubut River, crossing of, 175
_Chusquea colihue_, 115;
_quila_, 115
“Ciruelillo,” 196
Cisnes Valley, excursion into, 188
Ciudad de los Césares, 151
Clarke, Mr., 180
Cobb, F. E., ix.
Cochamó Company, 184
Cochayuyo, 110
_Colihue_, 115, 196
Compañía, Argentina de Pesca, 313;
comercial y Ganadera Chile-Argentina, 156, 172;
industrial del Rio Aysen, 193
Concepcion, visit to, 126
Condor, 50, 244
_Condor_, steamer, 298
Consuelo Harbour, visit to, 288
Contreras, Mount, 268
“Copihue,” 84, 254
_Corcolén_, 195
Corcovado Gulf, volcanoes, 113, 122;
Mount Corcovado, landing at, 123
Corintos River, crossing of, 181
Coronel, visit to, 126
Corral, visit to, 125
Cox, G., 153
Coyaike bajo, visit to, 193
_Crown Princess Victoria_, steamer, returning on, 329
_Ctenomys magellanicus_, 189
Cuarenta Dias Harbour, visit to, 79
Cumberland Bay, 317
Curtis, Mr., 129
Cutter Cove, visit to, 63
Cypress, 84
Dafonte, Mr., 310
Darwin, Ch., 30, 75, 105, 120, 144, 152, 299, 308
Darwin Glacier, 300;
Harbour, 28
_Dasypus minutus_, 209
Dawson Island, visit to mission station, 35
Day, R., 183
Deseado, Lake, excursion to, 37;
River, nature of, 212
Diaz Palacios, Lake, 62
_Diomedea chlororhyncha_, 16;
_exulans_, 320
Donoso, Mount, ascent of, 281
Douglas Bay, visit to mission station, 302
Dreyfus, Mr., 112
_Drimys Winteri_, 43
_Duc d’Aumale_, sailing vessel, 15
Dun, Mr., 193
_Durvillea_, 9, 110
Dusén, P., 156
Eberhard, H., 288, 291
Edwards, Port, 311
Ekdahl, G., 127
_Embothrium coccineum_, 196
_Empetrum rubrum_, 51
English-Argentine Land Company, 176
English Harbour, landing in, 142
English Narrows, 85
_Escallonia_, 250
Escarpada Island, old Indian camp on, 66
Esguel Mountains, 180
Espersen, Mr., 205
_Eudyptes chrysocome_, 16;
remarkable track of, 17
Evangelistas Islands, landing on, 80;
nature of, 81
Excelsior Sound, Indian portage in, 101
Fagnano, Lake, appearance of, 42;
arrival at, 43;
boat trip on, 54;
camp at, 47;
depth of, 57;
history of exploration, 34;
return from, 58;
road past, 306
Falkland Islands, albatross rookery, 16;
alpine plants, 21;
bishop, 4;
boggy ground, 29;
climate, 5, 21, 23;
climate during Ice Age, 17;
fossil forest, 18;
foxes, 13;
history, 22, 30;
lack of trees, 6, 17;
marine life, 8, 9;
mountainous district, 21;
nature, 6, 10;
origin of stone-runs, 18;
outlying islands, 13, 14;
penguin rookery, 16;
position, 2;
riding in, 19, 24, 27, 30;
sheepfarming, 20;
shepherds, 20;
tidal currents, 11, 12, 22;
tussock grass, 7, 16;
wild cattle, 12
Falkland Island Company, 4
Fallos Channel, 87
_Felis concolor_, 203
Felix Lighthouse, 90
Felton, A., x. 15
Fenix River, 207;
vegetation at, 210;
water-divide of, 212
Ferrier, W., 280, 285, 286
Fitzroy’s excursion in Patagonia, 152
Fitzroy Channel, 65
_Fitzroya Patagonica_, 108
Flach, C., 185
Foley, Ch., x. 28
Fonck, C., 153
Fontaine River, survey of valley, 44
Fósiles River, floating soil at sources, 244;
geological discoveries at, 245;
mountain pass, 245
Fortuna, Port, 298
Fox Bay, visit to, 25
Frank, S., 246
Fria, Laguna, 160
Frias Valley, excursion into, 188
Frio, Lago, 274
Froward, Cape, 63, 311
_Fuchsia magellanica_, 65
Fuhr, K., 263
_Furcifer chilensis_, 189
Furlong, Ch., 307
Gable Island, fossils on, 306
Gajardo Channel, survey in, 69, 70
Gajardo, T., 62
Galapagos Islands, 144
Gallant, Port, Indians in, 77
Gardiner, H., 152
Gesa Inlet, discovery of, 289
Gio River, camping at, 221
Girling, W. C., ix. 2
Glacier Sound, 299
_Glossopteris_, 27, 312
_Glossotherium_, 290
Gomez, Port, visits to, 38, 61
Granfelt, G., 126
Grappler, Port, Indians in, 84, 85
de Grey, Lake and River, 286
Guanaco, 42, 52, 208;
curiosity of, 220;
large herds, 179, 191;
tracks, 41, 45, 219
Guia Narrows, Indians in, 84
_Gunnera peltata_, 139
Guyon, Mr., 66
Gyldén, O., 1
Halle, J. G., viii.
Harberton Harbour, visit to, 306, 310
Harding, W., ix. 4, 27
“Harina tostada,” 111
Hatcher Expedition, 155, 242
Hauthal, R., 155, 273
Herrera, Mr., 304
Hielo, River, 286;
sources of, 287
Hill Cove, settlement in, 19
Hogberg, C., 240, 247
Holdich, Sir J., 155
Hooker, Sir J. D., 30
Hope Bay, camping in, 38, 59
Hoste Island, 303
Howard, Port, 24
Huafo Island, excursion to, 118;
forests on, 119;
gales, 118, 120;
wild dogs, 119
Huapiguilan Islands, 118, 120
Huemul, first encounter, 189;
hunting, 218, 226;
tameness, 220, 283
_Huemul_, steamer, 33, 60, 62, 65;
aground, 72;
damaged, 73
Huilliches, 105
Hülphers, H., 286
Hush Indians, 307
_Hymenophyllum_, 66, 139
Icy Reach, drifting ice in, 85
Inca Lake, 130
Indians of Patagonian Channels, appearance, 92;
food, 95;
future, 103;
garments, 94;
habits, 93, 94;
industry, 94, 97;
language, 102;
polygamy, 97;
portages, 101;
travels, 99, 100;
weapons, 96
Indian canoe, construction of, 91, 99
Indian interpreter, 77
Inocentes Channel, 85
Jeinemeni Valley, difficult passage, 217
Jerome Channel, nature of, 63;
nightly passage, 73
Johow, F., 139
Jones, Mr., 162
Joya, Lake, 235
Juan Fernandez Islands, arrival at, 135;
first appearance, 135;
history of discovery, 146;
lobsters, 147;
magui, 137;
palm trees, 138;
remarkable flora, 137;
sandal tree, 141;
situation, 134
_Juania australis_, 138
Juncal, railway station, 129
Kachaik, Mount, aspect of, 258
_Karl_, steamer, hunting whales on, 324
Kelpgeese, 44
Kentish Islands, 88
King, Cape, 82
Koslowsky Valley, 201
Krüger, P., 155
Laccolites in the Andes, 236, 282
Lacteo River, 237
Lafonia, district, nature of, 27
_Lafonia_, schooner, 10, 13, 25, 27
Landgren, T., 122
Lapataia, visit to, 300
Larson, C. A., 313, 320, 321
_Larus Scoresbyi_, 28
Las Cuevas, railway station, 131
Laurel, 108, 195
_Laurelia serrata_, 195
Lebu, 126
Lehmann-Nietsche, R., 307
Lelej, English farm, 176, 178
Leña dura, 286
León, F., 152
Leona River, 261;
bare landscape near, 262
_Lessonia_, 19, 22
_Libocedrus chilensis_, 162;
_tetragona_, 84, 108, 121
Lista, R., 154
Lista Valley, aspect of, 241
Llanguihue Province, colonisation in, 157
Los Amigos, stay at, 65
Los Andes, visit to, 128, 132
Lota, famous pack in, 126
Löwenborg, A., 33, 129
Löwenborg Lake, 53
Luche, 110
Luma, 108
Lundberg, Mr. (Koslowsky Valley), 205
Lundberg, Mr. (Lapataia), 300
_Macrocystis_, 10, 79
_Macrorhinus leoninus_, 319
Maldonado, R., 116
Mañiú, 84, 195
Mañiuales River, excursion to, 195
Margueirat, F., 297
Maria, Mount, ascent of, 24
_Marsippospermum grandiflorum_, 94
Martial Mountains, aspect of, 305
Masafuera Island, ascent of, 144;
flora, 144, 146;
future, 148;
penal settlement, 147;
topography, 144, 146;
wild goats, 144
Masatierra Island, topography of, 136, 138
Mascardi, Father, mission journeys of, 152
Mascarello River, 42;
camping at, 46
Mata Blanca, 245
Maté, 49
Mathews, Mr., x. 24
Mayer, Mr., 39
Mayer River, 242
Mayo River, boggy ground along, 199
Maytén, farm, 175
_Maytenus magellanica_, 286
_Megaptera_, 326
Merino, J. E., 117
Meseta Chalia, difficult crossing of, 199
Meseta Guenguel, pass across, 206
Meseta del Viento, crossing, 259
Messier Channel, 85
_Meteoro_, steamer, 76
Miguens, A., 181
Miller, Mr., x.
Mogole, Lake, 236
Montt, J., 75, 127
Moreno, F. P., 153, 212
Morro Chico, stopping at, 292
Moyano, Mr., 153
_Mulinum spinosum_, 167
Müller, F., 49, 54
Murray Narrows, 302
Musters, G., 153
Mylodon Cave, visit to, 289, 291
_Myrcengenia apiculata_, 195
_Myrtus luma_, 108
Nahuelhuapi, Lake, 161
Navarin Island, 302
Ñire, 41
Ñirehuao Valley, excursions in, 191
Ñires River, camping at, 241
Nordenskiöld, E., 290
Nordenskjöld, O., 40, 289
Ñorquinco, last telegraph office, 172
_Nothofagus antarctica_, 41, 65, 89;
_betuloides_, 43;
_pumilio_, 51, 64
Obstruction Sound, Indian road to, 101
_Ogmorhinus leptonyx_, 319
Olivia, Mount, 305
Ona Indians, 306
Orange Bay, visit to, 308
_Oravia_, steamer, 1, 2
_Oronsa_, steamer, 31
Osborne, Mr., 13
Osorno volcano, 157
Otway Station, visit to, 293
Otway Water, nature of, 64
Pacheco Island, 82
Packe, V., x.
Packsaddle Bay, visit to, 304
Pagels, A., 34, 62, 150, 162
_Palinurus frontalis_, 147
Pampa Chica, stay at, 184
Pascua River, 249
Patagonia, alpine flora, 220;
boundary dispute, 154;
camping in, 169, 170;
cedars, 162;
dryness of, 187;
equipment for voyage in, 163;
forests in, 182, 195, 234;
foxes, tameness of, 279;
fur trade, 208;
history of discoveries, 151, 154;
horses, 163;
hospitality, 184;
journey planned, 150;
lamb-marking, 192;
life of peons, 177;
ostriches, 179;
rapid changes of temperature, 211;
salt-lagoons, 18;
solifluction, 200;
swamps, 198;
table-mountains, 188;
thefts of horses, 174;
water-birds, 187, 213;
vegetation of pampas, 107, 182, 203
Patagonian Channels, animal life in, 83;
forests, 84;
glaciers, 299;
latitudinal changes of vegetation, 84;
meeting Indians in, 82, 84, 85;
nature, 83;
scenery, 78;
traffic, 84;
weather, 79, 83;
western passage, 85
Patagonian skerries, nature of, 79
Payne, Mount, ascent of, 282;
aspect of, 280;
geology, 282, 284
Pearce, J., 8
Peel Inlet, survey in, 88;
possibility of crossing inland ice to, 287
Pembroke lighthouse, 7, 8
Penas Gulf, visit to, 85
Peninsula, Lake, 236
Perez-Rosales Pass, crossing of, 160
_Pernettya mucronata_, 56
Peulla, arrival in, 159;
forests round, 161
Pico River, visit to German settlement, 188
Pillar cactus, 128
Pitt Channel, bad anchorage in, 87
_Philesia buxifolia_, 84, 254
Philippi, F., 141
Philippi, R. A., 153
Philomel, Port, 11
_Poa flabellata_, 16
_Podocarpus nubigena_, 84
Poncho, 107, 129, 164
Popper, J., 309
Port Egmont, old settlement in, 22
Port Louis, 30
Port Stanley, life in, 3
_Porvenir_, steamer, 296
Posadas, Lake, visit to, 222, 224
Pot Harbour, changes in, 317
Potrancas, rivulet, 242
Preston, Mr., 176
Primero de Mayo, 297
_Princess Ingeborg_, leave Sweden on, 1
Principio, Mount, camping at, 222
Pudeto River, voyage up, 113
Pudú, 115
Puerto Blest, 160;
snowstorm in, 161
Puerto Montt, departure from, 156
Puerto Varas, 157
Pueyrredon, Lake, visit to, 222
Puma, 203
Punta Arenas, 32, 199, 312
Quebrada de las Casas, 144
Queen Adelaide group, 82
Quellon, visit to, 122
Quemado, Mount, camping at, 177
Quensel, P. D., viii.
_Querquedula Eatoni_, 320
Quila, 115
Quillango, 208
Ramirez, Chilean settlement, 83
Reeves, Mr., 259, 262
Reid, A., ix. 2
Resi Inlet, discovery of, 289
_Rhea_, 179
_Rhodostachys bicolor_, 115
Rio Grande, excursion to, 75
Robinson Crusoe, 135
Robinson’s Grotto, 143
Roble, 56, 64
Robles River, crossing of, 239
Roca, Lake, boat excursion on, 301
Rogberg, C., 1, 312
Rojas, B., 33, 62, 296
Rojas River, discovery of, 53
Romanche Bay, visit to, 299
Rosario, Lake, dangerous swamps near, 182
Roth, C., 159
Roth, S., 155
Roy Cove, settlement in, 15
Samuel Cove, visit to, 118
San Carlos, excursion to settlements, 29
San Clementi, Mount, 206
San Lorenzo, Mount, 236
San Martin, Lake, boat excursion on, 249;
glaciers, 253, 255;
icebergs, 249, 255;
terrible squalls, 250, 252
San Pedro Island, 117;
primeval forest, 120
San Valentin, Mount, 206
Santa Cruz River, crossing of, 264
_Santalum fernandezianum_, description of last specimen, 142
Santiago, Swedish colony in, 127
H.M.S. _Sappho_, arrival of, 31
Sarmiento Channel, 84
Sarmiento, Lake, remarkable nature of, 284
Sarmiento, Mount, 298
Saunders Island, visit to, 22
Saunders, Mr., 293
_Saxegothea conspicua_, 195
Schönmeyr, A., 127
Schönmeyr glacier, 255
Sea-elephant, 319, 323
Sea-leopard, 319
Selkirk, A., 139;
commemoration tablet to, 140
Senguerr River, crossing of, 191
Sheep-dip, 247, 268
Shehuen, valley of, 259
Sixteenth October Valley, 180;
rain-forests in, 182;
Welsh Colony, 181
Skottsberg, C., viii.
Skottsberg, Lake, visit to, 283
Skunk, 260
Skyring Water, coal mines, 73;
colonists, 66;
fossils, 73;
gales, 65;
glaciers, 67, 68;
history of discovery, 62;
hydrography, 72;
nature of, 67;
travels of Indians, 66, 68
Slogget Bay, gold-digging in, 309;
fossils in, 308;
marine flora, 310
Smyth Channel, 84
Sociedad Esplotadora de Tierra del Fuego, 268, 271
_Solanum tuberosum_, 114
South Georgia, arrival in, 317;
climate, 318;
hunting whales, 325;
hurricanes, 323;
nature of, 318;
vegetation, 319;
voyage to, 314;
whaling industry, 313, 321
South Patagonia, gold-digging in, 64;
history of colonies, 269, 289
Steffen, H., 155
Stewart, Mr., 193
_Stipa_, 261
Svea, Mount, visit to, 51
_Tachyeres cinereus_, 47
Talkahuano, naval port, 126
Tar, Lake, swamps round, 258
Tecka River, 184
Tehuelches, 199, 237
Témpanos Narrows, strong tidal currents, 69
Témpanos, Port, discovery of, 89
Tepú, _Tepualia stipularis_, 96, 121
Thesleff, A., 155
_Thessalia_, steamer, 312
Tierra del Fuego, alpine flora, 50;
arrival at, 38;
bird life, 44, 47, 55;
boundary dispute, 311;
camp life, 48;
equinoctial gales, 57;
forests, 55;
gold prospecting, 309;
mission station, 35;
mountain scenery, 45, 49;
peat bogs, 42, 45;
tertiary fossils, 75;
weather, 43, 52, 55
Todos los Santos, Lake, 158
_Toro_, steamer, 117, 124
Transandino railway, 128;
great tunnel, 130;
wild life among labourers, 130
_Trichomanes_, 139
Tronador, Mount, excursion to, 160;
glaciers with vegetation on, 160
Tropilla, 163
Troya Channel, 86
Tuco-tuco, 189
Tuco-tuco, rivulet, 241
Turbis River, 292
Ulloa, F., 104
Ultima Esperanza, visit to, 288;
boat excursion from, 289;
great caverns near, 291, 292
_Ulva_, 110
Underwood’s farm, stay in, 180
_Undine_, steamer, 321
Upsala glacier, survey near, 277
Usborne, Mount, ascent of, 29
Ushuaia, visit to, 304, 311
Uspallata Pass, crossing of, 130;
statue of Christ in, 131
Vacas Mountains, 241
Valdivia, visit to, 126
Valdivia, P., 104
_Valdivia_, steamer, 116
Valdivieso Mountains, 40;
discovery of pass across, 53
Valenzuela, F., 296
Valparaiso, visit to, 127
Ventisqueros Inlet, survey in, 68
_Verbena_, 210
Verde, Mount, 40
_Veronica elliptica_, 13
_Vestfold_, steamer, 124, 127
Viedma, Lake, visit to, 261
Viel Channel, first encounter with channel Indians, 82
Warrah River, excursion in valley of, 23, 24
Westpoint Island, nature of, 15
Whales, blue, 326;
fin, 326;
humpback, 326;
right, 324;
whale-oil, 327
Whaleboat Sound, 298
Whaling steamers, 324
Wickham Heights, 29
Winter’s Bark, 43, 56, 66
Wollaston Islands, vegetation of, 304
Woodsworth Bay, beautiful waterfall in, 90
Worsley Sound, 289
Yahgan Indians, disappearance of, 101;
encounter with, 302, 303;
mussel-banks of, 301
_Yegua Madrina_, 163
Yelcho River, excursion in valley of, 123
Yerba, 49
Zapallar, visit to, 132
Zapato, Mount, 287
Zeballos River, camping at, 219;
mountain scenery east of, 220
PRINTED BY
BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD
TAVISTOCK STREET COVENT GARDEN
LONDON
[Illustration: MAP OF SOUTH AMERICA SOUTH OF 41°
SHOWING THE ROUTE OF Dᴿ SKOTTSBERG’S EXPEDITION
SCALE 1:3000000]
Telegrams: 41 and 43 Maddox Street,
“Scholarly, London.” Bond Street, London, W.
Telephone:
No. 1833 Mayfair. _September, 1911._
Mr. Edward Arnold’s
LIST OF NEW BOOKS,
Autumn, 1911.
MEMOIRS AND LETTERS OF THE
RIGHT HON. SIR ROBERT MORIER,
G.C.B.,
FROM 1826-1876.
Edited by His Daughter, Mrs. ROSSLYN WEMYSS
_In Two Volumes. With Portraits. Demy 8vo._ =32s. net.=
These two volumes of the Memoirs and Letters of a very eminent
diplomatist are of intense value, not only from a literary, but also
from an historical point of view, containing as they do a most graphic
and lucid description of the various events that went to make up the
history of Germany from 1853 to 1876. The matters that led to the
War of Schleswig-Holstein are dealt with in a vivid and interesting
fashion, and with a clarity which will enable the reader to understand
many points that have hitherto seemed obscure. The story of the
struggle for supremacy in Germany, and for German Unity, and of the
Franco-German War, is set forth impartially and without prejudice by
one who witnessed critical events from the inside.
Subjects of the most vital interest--as, for instance, the war scare of
1875, the spread of European Liberalism, etc.--are dealt with by
Sir Robert Morier in his correspondence in a style which must appeal to
anyone at all interested in the European history of the past century.
The distinguished diplomatist’s views upon the Foreign Office, the
Emperor William I., and Bismarck, are given in a series of letters to
various correspondents all over the world, among whom we may mention
Jowett, Sir Louis Mallet, Lady Derby, and the Emperor Frederick.
The friends and acquaintances of Sir Robert Morier’s youth--Froude,
Tennyson, and other eminent contemporaries--are portrayed with a
skilful pen.
NUTS AND CHESTNUTS.
By the Hon. L. A. TOLLEMACHE,
AUTHOR OF “OLD AND ODD MEMORIES.”
_One Volume. Crown 8vo._ =2s. 6d. net.=
A MEMOIR OF
EDWARD CHARLES WICKHAM,
DEAN OF LINCOLN, AND FORMERLY HEAD-MASTER
OF WELLINGTON COLLEGE.
By Canon LONSDALE RAGG,
RECTOR OF TICKENCOTE.
AUTHOR OF “DANTE AND HIS ITALY,” “THE BOOK OF BOOKS,” ETC.
_With Illustrations. One Volume._ =7s. 6d. net.=
The interest of a life is not necessarily proportioned to its share
of dramatic incident and adventure. Edward Charles Wickham was
essentially a scholar and a student rather than a man of action: his
life was almost exclusively academic--at Winchester, at New College,
at Wellington College, and finally in the Deanery at Lincoln. But it
was far from being in any sense a stagnant one. Wherever he went he
bore with him the inspiration of a born reformer, combined with an
enlightened reverence for the past like that which made his illustrious
father-in-law, Mr. W. E. Gladstone, a thorough-going Conservative in
certain departments. In accordance with what would certainly have been
the Dean’s own wish, the Memoir has been kept within strictly modest
limits, and a sparing use has been made of letters; but the record is
enriched by reminiscences contributed by not a few of Wickham’s former
associates, colleagues, and pupils. Mr. A. O. Prickard supplies an
appreciation of Wickham’s contribution to Scholarship, and Dr. Lock an
appreciation of his University Preaching. Dr. Wickham’s singular gifts
as a preacher are too well known to call for mention. Specimens of a
few of his most notable sermons are given in an Appendix.
HANDLEY CROSS;
OR,
MR. JORROCKS’S HUNT.
Illustrated by CECIL ALDIN.
_In Two Volumes, with 24 Coloured Plates and about 100 Black-and-White
Illustrations in the Text. The Ordinary Edition will be Royal 8vo.,
handsomely bound._ =21s. net.=
_Also a limited Edition de Luxe of 250 copies only for the British
Empire, each Copy Numbered and Signed by the Artist._ =£3 3s. net.=
This is a complete edition of Surtees’ glorious work, illustrated by
the one artist of the day who is pre-eminently fitted to do justice
to it. The tale of the immortal Jorrocks and his Hunt is to-day
the most popular classic work on fox-hunting, and Mr. Cecil Aldin
is unquestionably the most popular sporting artist. He has entered
heart and soul into the spirit of the work, and the excellence of his
pictures proves that they were inspired by enthusiasm for his subject.
The period is one that Mr. Aldin has made peculiarly his own, and while
preserving the traditional representation of the characters, he has
been able to give full play to his powers of depicting old-fashioned
country scenes both indoors and in the open, especially, of course,
those in the hunting-field. His strikingly original style brings out
the full flavour of the famous book.
THE HORSE:
Its Origin and Development, combined with Stable Practice.
By Colonel R. F. MEYSEY-THOMPSON,
AUTHOR OF “A HUNTING CATECHISM,” “REMINISCENCES OF CAMP, COURSE, AND
CHASE,” ETC.
_With Illustrations. One Volume. Demy 8vo._ =15s. net.=
This work covers a large field of remarkable interest to all lovers of
the horse. It is full of valuable matter, combined with sound advice.
The volume commences with the horse in its earliest shape, and traces
briefly its development down to the present time. Each breed has a
special chapter devoted to it which has been submitted to the best
known authorities in each department; and, amongst others, it may be
mentioned that Lady Anne Blunt has kindly criticized the chapter
upon Arabian Horses, while Mr. Hermon Biddell has done the same for
Suffolk Punches, Mr. Walter Winans that on American Trotting Horses,
and Mr. Alfred Withers has overlooked the account of Carriage Horses;
in this way it is hoped the work may be regarded as authoritative on
these subjects. The latter half of the book deals with Stable Practice,
Simple Ailments and how to treat them, Breeding, Riding, Driving,
Race-Riding, and Training Horses for the race-course and for hunting.
Colonel Meysey-Thompson has had a lifetime’s experience in all these
subjects, and is admirably qualified to deal with them.
THE PACIFICATION OF BURMA.
By Sir CHARLES CROSTHWAITE, K.C.S.I.,
CHIEF COMMISSIONER OF BURMA, 1887-1890; MEMBER OF THE COUNCIL OF INDIA,
ETC.
_With Maps and Illustrations. One Volume. Demy 8vo._ =16s. net.=
Sir Charles Crosthwaite succeeded the late Sir Charles Bernard as Chief
Commissioner of Burma when that officer was compelled by sickness to
leave the Province in March, 1887. From that date until December,
1890, he administered Burma, and he had every opportunity, therefore,
of knowing what was done. The measures by which, in four years and in
a country which has been described by a soldier as “one vast military
obstacle,” order and law were established, are narrated. After the
military measures, without which no attempt at a Civil Government would
have been possible, the constitution of the Indian military police and
the establishment on a legal basis of the indigenous village system
were the chief means of restoring peace. These measures are explained,
and the way in which order was gradually evolved out of confusion is
told. Separate chapters deal with the Shan States, with the wild Chins
on the West between Burma and Bengal, with the Kachins about Mogaung on
the North, and the Red Karrus on the South-East.
MY ADVENTURES IN THE CONGO.
By MARGUERITE ROBY.
_With Numerous Illustrations and a Map. One Volume. Demy 8vo._ =12s.
6d. net.=
This is a book that casts an entirely new light on the vexed question
of Belgian rule in the Congo. The authoress travelled alone with
black porters for hundreds of miles through the very districts in the
Congo where the alleged Belgian atrocities have been taking place, and
the results of her observations, as here set forth, put a somewhat
startling complexion upon some views of the situation that have been
commonly accepted hitherto.
Although the conclusions drawn by Mrs. Roby from her travels in Central
Africa are such as to set all truly patriotic Britons thinking, this
book is no mere political tract. On the contrary, it is a stirring
human document, in which humour, pathos, adventure, and indomitable
pluck stand out from every page.
The devotion of “Thomas,” the authoress’s black boy, who stood by her
when everyone else had deserted her, and to whom on more than one
occasion she owed her life; her desperate straits amongst mutinous
porters who sought to kill her; her days and nights of raging fever,
alone and delirious in the Bush; her big-game exploits; her experiences
with savages who had never before clapped eyes on a white woman; these
and innumerable other incidents combine to make this one of the most
remarkable books ever penned by traveller.
The emotions of a lifetime are crowded into this record of a
six-months’ trek through Darkest Africa.
A feature that makes the book still more fascinating is the series of
splendid photographs taken by the authoress and her black boy during
their hazardous journey.
THE WILDS OF PATAGONIA.
A Narrative of the Swedish Expedition to Patagonia,
Tierra del Fuego, and the Falkland Islands
in 1907-1909.
By CARL SKOTTSBERG, D.Sc., etc.
_With Illustrations and Maps. One Volume. Demy 8vo._ =15s. net.=
Three years after his return from the great Swedish Antarctic
expedition in which he played so prominent a part, Dr. Carl Skottsberg,
the distinguished naturalist and botanist, set forth once more, with
two eminent fellow-scientists, Dr. Quensel and Dr. Halle, to explore
the territories of Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego, of which so little
is known to the outside world. This “Swedish Magellanic Expedition,”
as it was called, not only resulted in many valuable biological,
botanical, and geological discoveries, but was also the means of
supplying Dr. Skottsberg with the material upon which he has founded
his book, “The Wilds of Patagonia.” Full of interest and excitement
are the graphic accounts which the author gives in this volume of
the various expeditions made by him in the Falkland Islands, of the
hardships he endured in the unknown interior of Tierra del Fuego, of
his constant exposure to wind and weather in the heart of Chile, of his
visit to Robinson Crusoe’s romantic island, and his journeys across the
Andes and through the Cordilleras. Dr. Skottsberg writes with humour
as well as charm, and while the descriptions of his various adventures
and misadventures are amusing as well as thrilling, his pen-pictures
of South American scenery are striking and vivid. This book should
appeal especially to the naturalist and the traveller, but cannot fail
to prove a source of pleasure and interest to the general reader. Its
attractive character is further enhanced by a number of illustrations
from photographs taken by the author in the course of his travels.
BRITISH AND GERMAN EAST
AFRICA.
Their Economic and Commercial Relations.
By Dr. H. BRODE,
AUTHOR OF “TIPPOO TIB.”
_With a Map. One Volume, Demy 8vo._ =7s. 6d. net.=
In this book Dr. Brode graphically describes the growth and
development of British and German territories in East Africa, gives
most interesting details as to the trade of the country, the shipping
and railway services, etc., and discusses the question of native
taxation and the position of native labour. He deals at length with
the agricultural position of East Africa, its natural products and
resources, the education of its aboriginal inhabitants, and many other
matters of paramount importance. The comparison which Dr. Brode draws
between the administration and commercial methods and arrangements of
Germany and Great Britain respectively is of the greatest possible
interest to British readers, and the tables of statistics with which he
supplements his arguments must prove of enormous value to all who seek
for information on the subject of East Africa.
THE KING’S CARAVAN.
Across Australia in a Waggon.
By E. J. BRADY.
_With Illustrations and Map. One Volume. Demy 8vo._ =12s. 6d. net.=
After attaining eminence in the musical and cricket worlds, Australia
seems to be rapidly coming to the front in literature. The _Sydney
Bulletin_ has for some time been the centre of a group of young
Australian-born writers who bid fair to do their country great service
by revealing its charms to the world at large through the medium of
both poetry and prose. One of the strongest among them is Mr. Brady,
whose volume announced above is the outcome of an adventurous driving
tour he made a few years ago. Starting from Sydney in a light waggon,
he made his way gradually to Townsville in the north of Queensland.
The route he took--parallel with the coast, but for the most part some
way inland--enabled him to visit all the places of importance on the
way, and to study the conditions of life under great variations of
climate. The result of his observations, given with much dry humour and
interspersed with interesting yarns, will be a revelation to English
readers, and probably very largely so to Australians. The trip was not
without its dangers, for the veneer of civilization is in parts still
somewhat thin, while there were also tornados, snakes, alligators, and
the peculiarly Australian terror of getting lost.
FROM PILLAR TO POST.
By Lieut.-Colonel H. C. LOWTHER, D.S.O., M.V.O.,
SCOTS GUARDS.
_With Illustrations. One Volume. Demy 8vo._ =15s. net.=
Colonel Lowther is already well known as a soldier and a diplomatist.
He has held a commission in the Scots Guards for over twenty years, has
served with distinction in the last South African War, and has held
an important appointment in the Intelligence Department of the War
Office. In 1905 he accompanied the Diplomatic Mission to Fez, and for
the next four years filled the responsible position of Military Attaché
at Paris, Madrid, and Lisbon. Colonel Lowther, who is a brother of the
present Speaker of the House of Commons, has recently been appointed
Military Secretary to H.R.H. The Duke of Connaught, who is shortly to
take up his duties as Governor-General of Canada. In his volume of
personal reminiscences, “From Pillar to Post,” Colonel Lowther shows
himself not only as a soldier and a diplomat, but also as an explorer,
a world-wide traveller, and a sportsman, possessing great powers of
observation, a facile and gifted pen, and a keen sense of humour.
In a light and breezy style he describes his travels all over the
world--from Crete to Morocco, from Ceylon to East Africa. He narrates
his experiences of cattle-ranching in America and of lion-hunting in
Somaliland, and gives a most interesting account of his adventures
in times of peace and war, on active service in South Africa, and on
manœuvres at home. The volume is illustrated throughout by original
photographs taken by the author.
MY LIFE STORY.
By EMILY, SHAREEFA OF WAZAN.
_With Illustrations. One Volume, Demy 8vo._ =12s. 6d. net.=
Some forty years ago there was a considerable stir in European circles
in Morocco, and in London as well, when the news was published that a
young Englishwoman was about to marry the Grand Shareef of Wazan, who
is the Ecclesiastical Head of Morocco. There was a violent discussion
in the London Press, many people going so far as to protest against the
intended marriage. Now, in 1911, the Grand Shareef is no more, but his
widow is still living in Morocco, and, at the request of their many
friends in Europe and America, has set down the story of her life. It
may be safely said that her experiences have not been paralleled by any
European woman, and that she has been brought face to face with the
intimate seclusion of the Moorish woman’s life, even while maintaining
her original faith. The story of her life has been edited by Mr. S. L.
Bensusan, and Mr. R. B. Cunninghame Graham has written a preface. The
book is dedicated by permission to Princess Henry of Battenberg, and
will contain many original illustrations.
PERU OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY.
By PERCY F. MARTIN,
AUTHOR OF “MEXICO OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY,” ETC.
_With 32 pages of Illustrations and a Map. One Volume. Demy 8vo._ =15s.
net.=
Of all the South American Republics, perhaps Peru ranks as the most
interesting, not only on account of its romantic history and the
extremely picturesque nature of its people, but because its future is,
by general consent of those travellers who have sufficiently studied
the subject, one of the most brilliant and likely to prove one of the
most permanent.
Of the many volumes upon Peru which have been issued from time to
time, the economic student has sought in vain for a complete account
of the Republic’s commercial and industrial conditions, and thus a new
work from the pen of an acknowledged authority upon this part of South
America will be especially welcome.
Herein will be found a careful, well-considered, and painstaking
account of the Republic’s present condition and future prospects. The
writer has studied the country very closely and very carefully; and it
was generally admitted in Peru at the time of his visit last year that
he actually travelled more extensively throughout the State, and looked
more deeply and critically into its economic resources, than any author
who had latterly visited it.
The result is a volume literally crammed with valuable first-hand
information about the leading industries. The many different railways
are described fully. The copper, gold, and other mines are carefully
dealt with. The sugar, guano, rubber, oil, and cotton industries are
faithfully depicted and frequently illustrated, and new mercantile
prospects of every description are foreshadowed.
SALVADOR OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY.
By PERCY F. MARTIN,
AUTHOR OF “MEXICO OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY,” ETC.
_With 32 pages of Illustrations and a Map. One Volume. Demy 8vo._ =15s.
net.=
Of late months the smaller Latin-American States--those forming
what is known geographically as “Central America”--have attracted a
great amount of attention, principally owing to the attempt made by
the United States to force an alliance, commercial and financial,
with them. Hitherto not a single book has been written regarding the
most important, because most settled and most progressive, of these
States--Salvador--and the present volume will therefore meet with
more than ordinary attention. This work is from the pen of Mr. Percy
F. Martin, F.R.G.S., the author of several well-known publications,
most of which (at least those devoted to Argentina and Mexico) have
received the _cachet_ of “standard works” upon their particular
subjects. Mr. Martin has probably seen more of Latin-America than any
living writer; and he has made this particular portion of the world his
careful and special study. “Salvador of the Twentieth Century” will
afford a complete description of the Republic; will show its gradual
emancipation from the thraldom of the Spanish yoke; its early struggles
against annexation by more powerful neighbours; its commercial
accomplishments and possibilities--in fact, it will afford a thorough
insight into a little-known but extremely interesting land with vast
potentialities.
Mr. Martin, who travelled extensively throughout the Republic, and was
accorded every facility by the Government for making his enquiries
and investigations untrammelled by official interference, has shown
us in these pages an unexpectedly impressive and attractive picture
of Central American life and progress, which, being assisted by a
number of capital illustrations, should prove a welcome addition to
Latin-American literature.
ROUGHING IT IN SOUTHERN INDIA.
By Mrs. M. A. HANDLEY.
_With Numerous Illustrations. One Volume. Demy 8vo._
12s. 6d. net.
“Roughing it in Southern India” is just what its name implies--a book
of travel, but with such a refreshingly picknicky air about it as
lifts it quite out of the common rut of such books. The work is an
account of the writer’s journeyings with her husband through the wilder
forest tracts of Coimbatore, the Wynâd, and Malabar--vast districts,
each of them--in the course of his duties as an officer of the Madras
Woods and Forests Department; it relates a story of adventure and
novel experience in pursuance of work and _shikar_ with all the
incidental predicaments and obstacles. It describes encounters, sought
and unsought, with wild animals; dealings with quaint jungle-people;
excitements of travel along bad roads and no roads; difficulties in
great variety, all of which had to be got through and over somehow. The
manner in which these difficulties are portrayed gives a vivid human
interest to every page, the whole being sketched in with an enviable
lightness of touch, and clearly shows that _nerve_ without _nerves_ is
indispensable to make such a day-after-day life as is here depicted
possible, to say nothing of enjoyable. To a person hampered with nerves
it could be no better than a series of nightmares.
The book gives one a pleasant feeling that the day has gone by when
Englishmen in India thought it fine to speak slightingly of, and even
to, natives as “niggers”--a manner of speech as ignorant as it is
insulting.
THE LIFE OF A TIGER.
By S. EARDLEY-WILMOT,
AUTHOR OF “FOREST LIFE AND SPORT IN INDIA.”
_With nearly 150 Original Illustrations. One Volume. Medium 8vo._
7s. 6d. net.
In his popular work, “Forest Life and Sport in India,” published last
autumn, Mr. Eardley-Wilmot devoted a chapter to the habits of tigers.
This, however, by no means exhausted his material, but it aroused much
interest in an enthralling subject and paved the way for the present
volume. The author has cast his work in the form of a life-history
of an individual tiger from birth until, owing to the inroads of
civilization into his ancient preserves, he becomes a man-eater and is
finally shot. It would be difficult to over-emphasise the fascination
of this tale, which not only records the _vie intime_ of the tiger
family, but introduces the whole life of the jungle in a series of
vivid and kaleidoscopic pictures. The attractions of the book are
enhanced by about 150 thumb-nail sketches by the author’s daughter, as
well as by reproductions of some of Mrs. Eardley-Wilmot’s charming and
artistic photographs.
THE SPORT OF SHOOTING.
By OWEN JONES,
AUTHOR OF “TEN YEARS OF GAME-KEEPING,” ETC.
_With Illustrations. One Volume. Demy 8vo._ =10s. 6d. net.=
This is an informative volume of absorbing interest and utility to the
ever-increasing army of shooting-men, and to those many others who
cherish an innate hankering after shot-gun sport. While the seasoned
sportsman cannot fail to glean many a useful idea, the chief object
of the book is to cater sympathetically (at the same time avoiding
technical phraseology) for the beginner, whether he be an eager
youngster or one whose opportunities have come with riper years--to
put him from the first on the right track, and save him the endless
disappointments of unguided inexperience. It explains those perplexing
questions which undermine confidence and account for disheartening
failures, puts him in the way of meeting each difficulty as it comes,
assists him in laying out his money to good advantage, in buying a gun,
cartridges, or dog: taking a shoot, engaging a keeper, and managing
them both: or in distributing appropriate tips. Thus, perceiving the
why and wherefore of this or that all-important detail of the ropes
of shooting, he will be resourceful, self-reliant, and independent
of others for the goodness of his sport; find abundance of healthy
recreation in the making of a modest bag; by his own wise woodcraft
cancel mere deficiencies of marksmanship; and last, but not least,
whether as guest or host, add tenfold to his own enjoyment and that of
his companions.
THE ROMANCE OF THE HOLY LAND.
By Dr. CHARLES LEACH, M.P.
_With Numerous Illustrations. Large Crown 8vo._ =7s. 6d. net.=
Avoiding technical terms and scientific descriptions, the author has
produced a volume that should be welcomed by men and women in every
country who have even a remote interest in the Bible and the land in
which it was produced.
The writer has made nine visits to Palestine during the last twenty
years, and has delivered lectures upon it in many of the large towns of
England. He takes the reader on a tour to the Holy Land, and travels
with him to the principal places of Biblical interest. He describes
many of the chief towns in such terms that the reader not only sees
them as they are to-day, but can picture them as they were in the
far-off first century. He describes the manners and customs of the
people, the physical features of the country, the rivers and lakes of
Palestine, and some of the remarkable historic events which have made
the land famous throughout the world.
Those who have been to the Holy Land will welcome this book, whilst
those who have not been so fortunate will profit greatly from its pages.
THE GRAVEN PALM.
A Manual of the Science of Palmistry.
By Mrs. ROBINSON.
_With about 250 Original Illustrations. Medium 8vo._ =10s. 6d. net.=
This work is the result of nearly twenty years’ practical experience,
and the careful examination of many thousands of hands. The
illustrations are drawn by Mrs. Robinson herself, and are in every case
taken from hands which she has herself read. The great majority of the
lines given are entirely original--_i.e._, are not to be found in any
known work upon the Science of Palmistry.
This book will enable those who study it to read character correctly
from the shapes of the hands and the comparative lengths of fingers
and phalanges; to understand the values of the different mounts, as
bearing upon the character and life; and, by the full and comprehensive
delineation of the six principal and the many chance lines upon the
hand, to understand and read correctly the events of their own past and
future, as given by the lines on the Mount of Venus in particular, and
also in a minor degree by the lines of fate, fortune, and health.
There are also at the end of the book several photographs of the hands
of well-known and celebrated people.
SOCIETY SKETCHES IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.
By NORMAN PEARSON,
AUTHOR OF “SOME PROBLEMS OF EXISTENCE.”
_With Photogravure Portraits. One Volume. Demy 8vo._ =12s. 6d. net.=
This book deals with some features and figures of the eighteenth
century which have hitherto escaped any detailed treatment, and with
certain aspects of familiar persons which have been unduly overlooked.
The Virtuosi who founded the Royal Society, but also called into
existence a host of scientific quacks and charlatans; the Scowrers, and
their successors the Mohocks, who infested the streets of London at the
beginning of the eighteenth, and the Highwaymen who survived into the
nineteenth century, are discussed in its pages. An essay is devoted to
the fashionable Wits of the period, and another throws new light upon
the inner history of the Macaronis. Tradition represents these as mere
brainless fops, but the author shows that this reproach belongs rather
to their later imitators than to the Macaronis of 1764.
Governor Pitt, grandfather of the first Lord Chatham, the brilliant
scapegrace “Etheldreda” (third Viscountess Townshend), the “Mad
Duchess” of Queensberry, and that clever oddity Soame Jenyns, also
find a place in the book, while new aspects of even such well-known
characters as Horace Walpole and Hannah More are revealed in “The
Serious Side of a Worldly Man,” and “The Lighter Side of a Serious
Woman.”
CAMEO BOOK-STAMPS.
By CYRIL DAVENPORT, F.S.A.,
SUPERINTENDENT OF BOOKBINDING IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM.
_With about 150 Illustrations from Original Drawings by the Author._
_The First Edition will be limited to 500 Copies only. In One Volume._
_Super-Royal 8vo._ =21s. net.=
Bookbinding stamps of different kinds have already been much written
about, especially heraldic ones, but cameo stamps, although they have
now and then been mentioned, have up to the present received no special
recognition. They are in low relief, like medals, and are generally
left ungilded and uncoloured.
These stamps--the larger and more important of which are illustrated
in this book--form, in fact, a very important division of the subject
of decorative bookbinding, and, unlike most of the other kinds of
book decoration, they rarely can be satisfactorily photographed. Mr.
Davenport’s drawings, however, are singularly accurate copies of their
originals, and will undoubtedly prove of the utmost value both to
book-collectors and dealers in books.
Some of the stamps shown are well known--those English ones, for
instance, showing the Tudor Rose, and the coat-of-arms of Henry VIII.;
but others are not so common. The English stamps of St. George and
of St. Michael are very fine indeed. The beautiful French stamps of
the vision of the Emperor Augustus, and the very interesting Italian
stamps of Horatius Codes and of Marcus Curtius, will doubtless come
as a revelation to many, and so with the “Canevari” stamp of Apollo,
although it is better known to connoisseurs.
The large series of German stamps, mostly on pigskin, is of great
importance; there are several excellent portraits of Luther and of
Melanchthon, and quaint stamps of Lot and his daughters, Judith and
Holofernes, Jonah and the Whale, and many delicately cut stamps of
incidents in the life of Christ and of the Virgin Mary.
All these stamps, of which there are about 150, are beautifully
and truthfully copied from the originals, and with each is a short
description. At the end is a full and most useful index. Every
inscription, whether in Greek, Latin, or German, is translated, and
every initial noted and indexed.
The book will be invaluable to every librarian--in fact, necessary--and
it will add much to the interest of every book, whether in morocco,
calf, or pigskin, that bears upon it one of the stamps illustrated.
A LITTLE HISTORY OF MUSIC.
By ANNETTE HULLAH.
_With Numerous Illustrations. One Volume. Medium 8vo._ =5s.=
This is a history of music written in a simple way for young people.
After a chapter on aboriginal songs and dance-tunes, and another on
the music of ancient nations, the Romans lead us into early Britain,
and so to the first Christian chants. Then we have mediæval monks
and scholars arranging scales. Minstrels and troubadours, with the
stories of their time, bring us to the Elizabethian age of masque and
madrigal. How Florentine genius developed these into the first operas
and oratorios completes the next century. Then we come to a period of
fine players and fine instruments, of Corelli and Tartini, of Amati
and Stradivarius, of harpsichordists like Scarlatti, and of German
organists long since eclipsed by the light of Bach. What he, and the
other great composers since his day, did for music fills up the rest of
the chapters and takes the record down to our own time. There are many
legends and anecdotes in the book, and illustrations of quaint musical
instruments of old days.
THE FRAMEWORK OF HOME RULE.
By ERSKINE CHILDERS,
AUTHOR OF “WAR AND THE ARME BLANCHE,” “THE RIDDLE OF THE SANDS,” ETC.
_One Volume. Demy 8vo._ =10s. 6d. net.=
A study of the Irish question, mainly from the Imperial standpoint.
First sketching the history of Ireland in close conjunction with that
of the lost American Colonies and the present self-governing Dominions,
the author shows that the same forms of misgovernment arising from
similar conditions have always led to the same mischievous results, and
that their only remedy, when applied in time, has been Home Rule. He
then reviews the present state of Ireland, describing the extraordinary
anomalies of the semi-colonial government. Full attention is given
also to the brighter side of Irish life. But the author points out the
deep marks of arrested development, and the need for self-reliance and
self-development under a responsible Irish Government.
With regard to the form Home Rule should take, the author devotes
special attention to the vital questions of finance and Irish
representation at Westminster, as well as to guarantees for an Ulster
minority, executive power, police, judges, and numerous other points of
secondary importance.
The aim is to supply not only a reasoned defence of Home Rule, but
a practical up-to-date guide to the legislative settlement of the
question.
PROS AND CONS OF POLITICAL PROBLEMS.
By Sir J. D. REES, K.C.I.E.
_One Volume._ =7s. 6d. net.=
In this book Sir J. D. Rees, K.C.I.E., ex.-M.P., surveys the more
important political problems at present before the nation from the
points of view of both great parties in the State. The following
subjects are dealt with: Imperial Organization, Defence, Foreign
Policy, Indian and Colonial Problems, Trade Relations and Tariff
Reform, Suffrage, Home Rule, Education, Disestablishment, Finance,
Socialism, Labour Questions, Land Reform, and the Constitutional
Problems at present before the country. To each great question a
chapter is devoted which gives the reader a concise survey of the
points at issue and a summary of the position at the present day, and
to every chapter are appended the arguments for and against: in the
hope that the reader in a few pages may find a guide to the reasons
upon which political parties base their case. The utility of the work
to the student and politician will be enhanced by the bibliographical
notes at the end of each chapter, which indicate the scope of the works
recommended, so that the reader may be able to follow up his study of
any political question. The information has been compressed into a
volume of handy size so as to be of use to speakers and politicians.
It is not, however, merely a work of reference--although an excellent
index and the sub-division of the chapters make reference easy--but is
intended to be read.
ECONOMICS FOR BEGINNERS.
By GEORGE W. GOUGH, M.A.,
SOMETIME EXHIBITIONER OF BALLIOL COLLEGE.
_One Volume. Crown 8vo._ =3s. 6d. net.=
The need of a short textbook of economics which teachers can place
in the hands of pupils who are starting the subject with a view to
preparing for the more elementary parts of the higher examinations in
it, is well known, and Mr. Gough’s little volume is an attempt to meet
it. The _core_ of this vast subject, if the expression may be used,
is fully and simply treated in accordance with authoritative opinion.
Hence the beginner who means to continue his studies will be put in a
position to read one or more of the larger manuals with advantage. As
appendices there will be given a guide to further reading, a selection
of typical questions--for the answers to which the text of the book
will be found to furnish materials and hints--and a short selection
of statistics illustrating modern economic conditions in the United
Kingdom. It is, further, the author’s hope that the book will be useful
to older students interested in social problems, and that they will
find in it the elements of the economic principles bearing on their
solution.
THE GREAT PLATEAU OF NORTHERN RHODESIA.
By CULLEN GOULDSBURY AND HERBERT SHEANE,
OF THE BRITISH SOUTH AFRICA COMPANY’S SERVICE.
With Preface by Sir ALFRED SHARPE, K.C.M.G., C.B.
_With 40 pages of Illustrations and a Map. One Volume. Demy 8vo._ =16s.
net.=
This book has been written about the Tanganyika Plateau of Northern
Rhodesia, which--though some fifty thousand square miles in extent--is
still practically unknown, since it has not yet been penetrated, or its
resources tapped by the Cape to Cairo Railway.
Apart from its abundant natural resources, the excellent climate of the
Plateau and its high altitude (from 4,000 to 6,000 feet) render it as
healthy and suitable for white colonization as the far-famed Highlands
of British East Africa.
The book is divided into two parts, European and Ethnographic. The
Ethnographic Section is dealt with by Mr. Sheane, who, during the past
ten years, has made a special study of language and native customs upon
the Tanganyika Plateau.
The needs of prospective settlers and ranchers are fully discussed, and
information for sportsmen and travellers is supplied in two chapters
dealing with elephant-hunting and the species and habits of game, big
and small, to be found upon the Plateau.
Lastly, the Native chapters should prove of value, not only to
anthropologists, but also to that increasing body of readers who are
interested in the problems of native life and of native law and custom
in Central Africa.
HINTS TO SPEAKERS AND PLAYERS.
By ROSINA FILIPPI.
_One Volume. Crown 8vo._ =3s. 6d. net.=
Miss Rosina Filippi is an actress well known to, and deservedly popular
with, the playgoing public of Great Britain. The excellent work she has
done in teaching the younger members of her profession has evoked the
admiration of her colleagues who recognize her claims to a front place
on the English stage which she has long adorned. She has, indeed, won
a deservedly high reputation as a teacher of dramatic art, and many
are the students who have profited by her instruction and owe their
success to her ripe experience. “Hints to Speakers and Players” is,
as its name implies, a guide or handbook to all who desire to attain
proficiency in the art of speaking or acting. In this work the author
offers invaluable advice upon such subjects as Elocution, Diction,
Gesticulation, Ranting, etc., not only to would-be actors, but also to
Members of Parliament, orators, clergymen, and all who may be called
upon to deliver speeches on the political platform, in the pulpit, or
at the dinner-table. Her facile pen ranges over the wide field of her
experience and deals in a light but informing fashion with a hundred
matters that must inevitably prove interesting to all who are compelled
to raise their voices in public.
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND LIFE OF FATHER TYRRELL.
By MAUD PETRE.
_In Two Volumes. Demy 8vo., cloth._ =21s. net.=
The first volume, which is autobiographical, will cover the period
from George Tyrrell’s birth in 1861 to the year 1885, including an
account of his family, his childhood, schooldays, and youth in Dublin;
his conversion from Agnosticism, through a phase of High Church
Protestantism to Catholicism; his experiences in Cyprus and Malta,
where he lived as a probationer before entering the Society of Jesus;
his early life as a Jesuit, with his novitiate and first studies in
scholastic philosophy and Thomism. This autobiography, written in 1901,
ends just before the death of his mother, and was not carried any
farther. It is edited with notes and supplements to each chapter by M.
D. Petre.
The second volume, which takes up the story where the first ends,
deals chiefly with the storm and stress period of his later years.
Large use is made of his own notes, and of his letters, of which a
great number have been lent by correspondents of all shades of thought.
Various documents of importance figure in this later volume, in which
the editor aims at making the history as complete and objective as
possible. Incidentally some account is given of the general movement
of thought, which has been loosely described as “modernism,” but the
chief aim of the writer will be to describe the part which Father
Tyrrell himself played in this movement, and the successive stages of
his mental development as he brought his scholastic training to bear on
the modern problems that confronted him. The work ends with his death
on July 15, 1909, and the events immediately subsequent to his death.
The date of publication is uncertain, but will be announced as soon as
possible.
THE PARTING OF THE WAYS.
Essays on Judaism and Christian Origins.
By GRADUATES OF JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
Edited by Dr. F. J. FOAKES-JACKSON.
With an Introduction by the Very Rev. W. R. INGE, D.D., DEAN OF ST.
PAUL’S.
_One Volume. Demy 8vo._ =10s. 6d. net.=
Several volumes of Theological Essays have appeared from the two
ancient Universities, but none hitherto by members of a single college.
Jesus College, Cambridge, has, however, had exceptional opportunities
for encouraging the study of Divinity, owing to the fact that of recent
years it has numbered two Lady Margaret Professors among the fellows,
and has been generously endowed by the late Lord Justice Kay, who
founded scholarships for post-graduate study in Theology.
The object of these essays is to trace the origin of Christianity
from Judaism, and its development till the final parting of the two
religions. With the exception of the Introduction and Essays I.
and III., all the writers have taken their degrees quite recently,
and though they have obtained high honours at the University, the
volume must be judged as a young men’s book. As such it may prove the
more interesting as illustrating the ideas of some of our younger
theologians. The essays are not the product of any school, but
represent all shades of thought in the Church of England, whilst one is
written by a Nonconformist, and another by a Jewish scholar. All the
essayists have, however, been the pupils of the editor, and most have
come under the influence of the Dean of St. Paul’s.
HOW TO DEAL WITH MEN.
By the Rev. PETER GREEN, M.A.,
RECTOR OF ST. PHILIP’S, SALFORD, AND CANON OF MANCHESTER.
AUTHOR OF “HOW TO DEAL WITH LADS,” ETC.
_One Volume. Crown 8vo._ =2s. 6d. net.=
Beginning with chapters on the nature of work among men, and the
special needs of the present time, and on the type of man required
for success in this kind of work, the author goes on to treat in
detail such subjects as the Men’s Bible-Class; the various methods for
promoting its success; the different kinds of work which should spring
out of the work of the class; and some of the commoner dangers to be
watched and guarded against. Following the chapters on the Bible-Class
and its developments, come chapters on social and recreative work,
such as that of the Men’s Club and the minor clubs in connection with
it, temperance benefit societies, and social and parochial work for
men. The second part of the book is devoted to a detailed treatment
of personal work with individual men. Methods with men troubled with
religious doubt, or with other intellectual difficulties, and methods
of dealing with various moral problems, are carefully and fully
discussed.
THE FAITH OF AN AVERAGE MAN.
By the Rev. CHARLES H. S. MATTHEWS, M.A.,
AUTHOR OF “A PARSON IN THE AUSTRALIAN BUSH,” ETC.
_One Volume. Crown 8vo._ =3s. 6d. net.=
The author is profoundly convinced that on the one hand the endless
restlessness of modern life is a witness to man’s need of a vital
faith, and on the other that the continued vitality of the historic
Church of England is in itself a proof of her power to meet this
fundamental need of men. The position he occupies, and would in this
book commend to others, may best be described as a kind of progressive
Catholicism, a true _via media_ between an exclusive Protestantism on
the one hand, which seems to him to be founded on a view of the Bible
no longer tenable, and an equally exclusive Catholicism on the other,
which in its turn seems to be founded on a no less untenable view of
the Church. It is the author’s hope that his appeal may be read, not
only by laymen, but also by the younger clergy.
THE CHURCH AND MODERN PROBLEMS.
By the Rev. C. F. GARBETT, M.A.,
VICAR OF PORTSEA.
_One Volume. Crown 8vo._ =3s. 6d. net.=
An interesting volume, composed of addresses mainly delivered in the
course of the author’s ordinary parochial work during the last two
years. They are all united by the attempt to state the attitude of
the Church to some of the many modern problems of religious thought
and action. Among these are Modernism, Rationalism, Agnosticism, the
Higher Criticism, Inspiration, the Reunion of Christendom, Divorce,
Temperance Reform, and Socialism. The attitude of the Church to all
these tremendous intellectual, moral, and social problems is briefly
argued and discussed with tact and ability.
THE MIND OF ST. PAUL:
As Illustrated by his Second Epistle to the Corinthians.
By Canon H. L. GOUDGE, D.D.
PRINCIPAL OF ELY THEOLOGICAL COLLEGE.
_One Volume. Crown 8vo._ =2s. 6d. net.=
A GOODLY FELLOWSHIP
Thoughts in Verse and Prose from many Sources.
Collected by ROSE E. SELFE.
With a Preface by His Grace the ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY.
_One Volume. Small 8vo._ =2s. 6d. net.=
This small religious anthology has been compiled in the hope that
the various suggestions and counsels, the voices of praise and
aspiration, and the poets’ visions of the past, present, and future
may come through the windows of the soul, which are open to receive
them with comfort, encouragement, and inspiration. The passages are
grouped under the following headings: Religion in Childhood, Our Human
Life, Sorrow and Suffering, On Prayer, Aspiration and Communion, The
Incarnate Christ, Christian Seasons, Old Age, Death and After. But
there are no hard and fast divisions, and many of the extracts might be
appropriately classed under two or more of these headings. More than
seventy authors have been laid under contribution, including some as
widely separated in time as Boethius, Thomas Traherne, William Law,
Christina Rossetti, the present Dean of St. Paul’s (Dr. W. R. Inge),
and Mr. G. K. Chesterton.
_New and Cheaper Edition._
SCOTTISH GARDENS.
By the Right Hon. Sir HERBERT MAXWELL, Bart.
_With 32 Coloured Plates from Pastel Drawings especially done for this
work by_
Miss M. G. W. WILSON,
MEMBER OF THE PASTEL SOCIETY AND OF THE SCOTTISH SOCIETY OF ARTISTS
_New Edition. Medium 8vo._ =7s. 6d. net.=
It was not originally intended that this charming work, of which both
the Edition de Luxe and the ordinary Edition were sold out two months
after publication, should be reprinted. So persistent, however, have
been the inquiries for it that it has been decided to re-issue it in a
cheaper edition, but with all the original plates. The success of the
book in the first instance may be attributed both to the attractiveness
of the subject and to the harmonious combination of artistic and
literary skill which characterized it, and these features will in no
sense be modified in the new edition.
_A New Edition Revised._
A BOOK ABOUT ROSES.
By the late Very Rev. S. REYNOLDS HOLE,
DEAN OF ROCHESTER.
_With Coloured Plates. Crown 8vo._ =3s. 6d.=
This edition contains the Dean’s latest corrections of his famous
book, a new chapter on “Progress” up to the present time by Dr. Alfred
Williams, Member of Committee of the National Rose Society, and a
full and up-to-date list of roses compiled and classified by the same
competent hand.
NEW FICTION.
TANTE.
By ANNE DOUGLAS SEDGWICK
(Mrs. Basil de Sélincourt),
AUTHOR OF “FRANKLIN KANE,” “VALÉRIE UPTON,” ETC.
_One Volume. Crown 8vo._ =6s.=
A deeply interesting book, which, it is believed, will be considered by
far the most powerful work the author has accomplished. It is a long
story, but the interest never flags, and the plot culminates in an
exceedingly dramatic way.
THE BRACKNELS.
By FORREST REID.
_One Volume. Crown 8vo._ =6s.=
This is an interesting novel describing the fortunes of an Irish
family, into the midst of which comes Mr. Rusk, a young English tutor.
Each member of the family is well and distinctly portrayed, and there
is an under-current of mysticism of a distinctly uncanny tendency.
Denis, a boy of sixteen, the pupil of Mr. Rusk, is a particularly
charming figure, who contrasts sharply with some of the other members
of the Bracknel family.
A ROMANCE OF THE SIMPLE.
By MARY J. H. SKRINE.
AUTHOR OF “A STEPSON OF THE SOIL.”
6s.
MORE GHOST STORIES.
By Dr. M. R. JAMES,
PROVOST OF KING’S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
AUTHOR OF “GHOST STORIES OF AN ANTIQUARY,” ETC.
_Medium 8vo._ =6s.=
THE MOTTO OF MRS. McLANE.
The Story of an American Farm.
By SHIRLEY CARSON.
_One Volume. Crown 8vo._ =3s. 6d.=
A very clever piece of character drawing; the scene is laid in a
Western American farm, where the McLane family have been settled for a
considerable number of years. Life on the farm at various seasons is
painted in vivid and attractive colours, but the feature of the story
is the shrewd homely wit of Mrs. McLane and her neighbours. Their
conversations remind one of the success of “Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage
Patch,” and are so clever and spontaneous that they cannot fail to be
thoroughly enjoyed by all readers.
LOVE IN BLACK.
By Sir H. HESKETH BELL, K.C.M.G.,
GOVERNOR OF NORTHERN NIGERIA.
_One Volume. Medium 8vo._ =6s.=
This volume contains a number of sketches of native life in West
Africa, in the garb of fiction. No one has had better opportunities
than the author of penetrating the veil of mystery and fetish that
enshrouds the inner life of the native, and no one has drawn their
characters with a more sympathetic and romantic hand. The titles of
the sketches give some idea of the contents of the volume. Among them
are “The Fetish Mountain of Krobo,” “The Yam Custom,” “The Tale of a
Tail-Girl,” “His Highness Prince Kwakoo,” “On Her Majesty’s Service,”
“A Woman of Ashanti.”
STEAM TURBINE DESIGN:
With Especial Reference to the Reaction Type.
By JOHN MORROW, M.Sc., D.Eng.,
LECTURER IN ENGINEERING, ARMSTRONG COLLEGE, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE.
_Demy 8vo. Fully illustrated with 150 Diagrams and 9 Folding Plates._
Since the days of Watt no greater revolution has taken place in steam
machinery than the advent of the turbine. In the face of the greatest
difficulties it was introduced by the Hon. Sir Charles A. Parsons
both for marine and electrical work, and with the success of the s.s.
_Lusitania_ and _Mauretania_ the public for the first time realized
that it had come to stay. Many books, both of description and theory,
have been written on the steam turbine, yet up to the present few have
been devoted definitely to its design. In the present volume Dr. Morrow
gives a clear explanation of the principles and practice of turbine
design and construction as followed out in the drawing-office and
engineering workshop.
LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43 MADDOX STREET, W.
Transcriber's Notes:
Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Perceived typographical errors have been changed.
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