The wilds of Patagonia

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.

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.