The wilds of Patagonia

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.

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.

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.