The wilds of Patagonia

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.

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——

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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.

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!

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.