The wilds of Patagonia

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.

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.

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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.

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.

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.

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.