The wilds of Patagonia

RIDING THROUGH THE FALKLANDS

On horseback we slowly advanced along the rough, stony northern slope of the long peninsula. Several hours passed. We came close to the house of our guide, an old, taciturn Scotsman, and stopped for a while at his invitation. At once his talkative wife, attired in her best Sunday clothes, served us with whatever the Falklands can produce of delicious dishes, and we were then ready for a fresh start. What would this country be like without horses? All people ride, and ride well; it is the only way of travelling in the camp, where roads are unknown. At first we found it marvellous with what agility the horses trotted along, climbing the steepest slopes, and struggling down places that appeared perilous enough to the inexperienced rider. Sometimes there is danger, but soon one does not think of it, for in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the horse is equal to the occasion. Hour after hour one rides in the comfortable wooden saddle without getting tired, thanks to the soft sheepskin. The wretched ground forces one to walk or trot, and the patches where one can gallop one’s horse are easily counted.

Our goal for the day was Hill Cove, one of the finest settlements. With its numerous, friendly-looking buildings and its beautiful gardens it produces an uncommonly agreeable impression. Widely known is the “forest” of Hill Cove. In a little depression a number of northern trees are planted, mostly Scotch fir, which, being well sheltered, seem to thrive very well. It was pure delight once more to hear the wind soughing in the heads of the trees.

We were received with the usual hospitality, and were provided with horses and guides, in spite of its being the busiest time of the year, when the sheep-shearing was on. Flock after flock was driven into a paddock, and from there to the shed, where the thick white wool was cut with clicking scissors, until one almost thought one heard the resultant heavy golden sovereigns jingling on the floor. Sheep-farming is a profitable industry, and many of the farmers are able every year to exchange the winter in the Falklands for England’s summer.

The total stock on a settlement is divided into flocks, each watched by a shepherd, often a Scotsman. He lives out in the camp, sometimes far away from other human dwellings, in his snug little house, with his family, his dogs, and with good pay; he can keep a couple of cows, grow potatoes and cabbages, and use as much peat as he needs for fuel. Certainly his life is hard enough in summer-time; there is lamb-marking, shearing, and finally dipping, and no thought of a rest; but with winter comes an easier life, when he works with his horse-gear or reads sixpenny books and illustrated papers. Now and then he takes a ride round his district, gives an eye to the sheep, and sees that fences and gates are in order. We made many friends amongst the shepherds, who brought us safe through the thousands of dangerous bogs, offered us a seat at their table, and gave us a bed without any thought of payment.

The land south of Hill Cove is mountainous, and a few hours’ ride brings us to the foot of Mount Adam, 2315 feet high, the highest mountain in the islands, and regarded as a very Mont Blanc by the islanders. As no scientific observations had been made there, we resolved to make an ascent. From Hill Cove we had to cross several ravines, but were able to ride up to the summit itself without inconvenience. Here we found the face of Nature very different from what we had been accustomed to! From the mountain-top we enjoyed a splendid view over half West Falkland, suggestive of Alpine landscape, certainly very tame, but still adorned by small snow-patches, a number of glittering mountain-lakes, and a few Alpine plants. Here were no sheep, but an expanse of virgin ground decked by the hand of Nature. And the weather! This wonderful everlasting April was very gracious to us all day long.

We did not intend to stay long in Hill Cove, for the schooner which was to take us to Stanley might be expected in Fox Bay before Christmas, and we had several interesting places to visit. Our start, however, was almost too precipitate. One of the brothers Benney from Saunders Island came to the farm, and in spite of not having more than an hour to make ourselves ready, we made up our minds to accept his invitation and visit his island. We trotted away, a party of four, in order to reach Rapid Point, where a boat was to meet us before nightfall. But we were indeed deceived. When we reached the beach it was already pitch-dark; but horses have cats’ eyes, and soon we had a fine signal-fire on a hill. After a while the reply flashed forth from the island, but when the boat came it proved too small to take us all, as Halle and I were not expected. As the tidal currents in the channel are very strong, we could not be sure of being fetched the same night. We were told, however, to wait for a signal—one flash meaning a disagreeable ride, two a boat journey to the island. The night was very chilly, but we made ourselves as comfortable as possible with a queer camp-fire of gigantic dry trunks of seaweed (Lessonia), and Mr. Benney found some tea and sugar in his “maletas” (valise; many Spanish words, especially referring to horse-gear, are still used in the islands), so we had nothing to complain of. Midnight came, still no message; but at last two flashes illumined the darkness, and after a while we heard the longed-for splash of oars. We set off, but as we could hardly see our hands before us, the current took us outside the reef between Rapid Point and the island. The breakers told us the truth, and using all our strength we managed to reach the reef, jumped into the water, and dragged the boat across. Before a neatly laid table and some fat mutton we soon forgot the adventures of the night.

Saunders Island is one of the few places on the Falklands to which historical reminiscences are attached. The discovery of the islands took place in 1592, though they may have been sighted even before 1520, but only in 1764 was the first colony founded by the French, who settled in Port Louis, on the East Falklands. The next year the English appeared at Port Egmont, and built their quarters a short distance from the actual settlement. But soon Spaniards from South America cast envious glances at the colony, and as the enemy was superior in numbers the fort at Port Egmont was given up. Old cannon-balls are still preserved, and several other relics such as the foundation-walls of the fortress, while traces of extensive gardens and ruins of the old settlement are still left. Later on the Spaniards left the place, colonisation proceeded once more, but only for a short time, and in 1774 the place was abandoned.

We had enjoyed Falkland summer weather for several days, but it was not long before it broke up. We were just on our way back to the mainland in a small yawl when the first squall came on us like lightning, and within half an hour the sea was so heavy that we were forced to turn back and had to cross in a small cutter. The narrow channel looked like a boiling cauldron, as the current ran against wind and sea; several times the cutter refused to answer the helm, but we managed at last to reach the mainland, where horses were once more awaiting us. The rain poured down, the ground was very difficult, wet and slippery, and progress very slow. We passed the natural ruin of Castle Hill, crossed five rivers, of which the last is the main river Warrah, the others its tributaries, and reached a shepherd’s house at nightfall. Horses from Port Howard met us here, and early the next morning we again found ourselves in the saddle. We wanted to survey the valley of Warrah River, which is one of the largest streams in West Falkland. At that time of the year, however, it carried but little water and we could cross without difficulty. We followed the barranca, which became steeper and steeper, necessitating our riding in single file, with the guide in front. Suddenly he stopped and shouted out a “Look out here!” Truly we could hardly see any signs of a path; a couple of hundred feet below wound the river, on our left a precipitous wall rose, and the narrow way was barred by huge blocks of stone. For an instant the horses seemed to hesitate, groped among the stones, got a foothold, took two or three unsteady steps, and scrambled past the obstacle. A slip, and horse and rider would have been precipitated into the river. “Rather a nasty place,” our man remarked, and neither of us found any reason to contradict him.

We followed the river down to the place where the tidal region commences, crossed it once more, struggled a while with the network of a stone-run, and turned towards Port Howard, whose interesting natural harbour I would ask the reader to study on the map. Once more we found ourselves in a large and comfortable settlement, where Mr. and Mrs. Mathews gave us a hearty welcome, always ready to put that question to us which we heard so often: “What can we do to make it comfortable for you and to help you to attain good scientific results?”

The bad weather continued; we made our excursions in storm and rain, walking about in oilskins. One day we made an ascent of Mount Maria, one of the highest mountains, and only a little lower than Mount Adam. But as the ground is uncommonly bad, the slope being one extensive network of stone-runs, we had to travel on foot. The rain poured down as we climbed along, and suddenly we found ourselves enveloped in a fog so dense and white that the view was shut off in all directions. It was certainly more by good luck than by good judgment that we walked straight on to the little cairn at the summit.

Our stay in Port Howard yielded very good results, and with regret we said good-bye to our hosts, jumped into the saddle, and headed for Fox Bay on the south coast. We were accompanied by the mail-carrier. After a long and tiresome ride we reached our goal. Here lives the doctor of West Falkland; on the occasion of our visit the position was held by Dr. Bolus, who received us with the utmost courtesy and kindness. This young doctor was a good all-round man, for besides his proper duties he fulfilled those of custom officer, policeman, postmaster, and public registrar. Being a spirited fellow who rides alone by day or night in any weather, he had many tales to tell of hazardous rides, when snow covered the dangerous bogs; how he reached the western sea-shore, jumped into an ice-clad boat, and struggled through storm and mist to one or other of the outlying islands, where a fellow creature lay wrestling with death.

Meanwhile the Lafonia lingered. We had already made ourselves familiar with the thought of celebrating Christmas Eve with Dr. Bolus and his wife—it did not cause any mental struggle, as we could hardly have been better off than in their cosy home—when on the afternoon of December 22 the schooner entered the narrow creek. It brought us our mail, and, from the consulate in Port Stanley, the news of King Oscar’s death. And down here, in a remote corner of the Falklands, two blue and yellow flags were hoisted, half-mast, on the doctor’s house and on the little schooner. The next morning the Lafonia weighed anchor. The wind was north-easterly, a rather uncommon occurrence, and with some misgivings we regarded the approaching Christmas Day. I believe that we never experienced anything like it. The small schooner rolled incessantly with a hard wind and heavy sea; we ran short of provisions, and there were no possibilities to raise our spirits.

Gnawing at the last mutton-bones, we arrived in Stanley in the evening of Boxing Day, but found the capital empty. In a deluge of rain horseraces took place outside the town, and of course all the inhabitants had placed themselves under their umbrellas. But we stayed at home and ate, quickly, but heartily. Thus Christmas passed, and 1907 was soon only a memory. We sat up to see the New Year in with some of our English friends, who did all they could to make us feel at home. And warmed by their friendship we almost forgot that we were far away from our homes and everything dear to us.

We did not intend to stop long in Stanley, as the time had come to survey East Falkland. We had done but little there, and the most interesting part was still left. As soon as a schooner was ready, Halle went to Port Darwin, in Choiseul Sound; I had to complete my studies in the vicinity of Stanley. The camp revelled in the beauty of summer—everything in this world is a matter of comparison!—and the life on the rocks round the lighthouse once more attracted me. But Halle sent a message telling of great geological discoveries, and on January 14 I went on board the Lafonia, which could thus hoist the Swedish colours alongside of the English once more. We came out through Port Williams all right, and also passed the tussock-islands, where the sea-lions lay snoring. From there we had a miserable run, having to beat all the way down, and did not arrive at Darwin until late the next day.

The south part of East Falkland, south of Wickham Heights, does not differ much from the rest of the island in appearance. With the exception of a very doubtful find on Speedwell Island, nothing indicated that layers younger than Devonian would occur on the islands. Halle’s discovery that the whole south part of East Falkland, generally called Lafonia, belongs to a younger period, viz., the Permo-carbonian, was thus of great interest, and in several places he made beautiful and valuable collections of the fossilised remains of plants (Glossopteris) which had once spread their shadow over the Falkland soil. Lafonia is owned by the Falkland Islands Company, and about 200,000 sheep graze on the undulating plains. We found here the largest pampas-like spots I ever saw in the islands, and enjoyed being able to travel at a fair speed. Otherwise the camp was more or less the same as usual—the same winding creeks, that appear in the middle of the country when you do not at all expect them, forcing you to make a long détour, the same streams slowly creeping through the treacherous peat, sometimes impassable, and always difficult to cross on horseback.

The coast, of course, is as charming as ever with its rich bird-life, flocks of many coloured geese (Chloëphaga), red-legged gulls (Larus Scoresbyi), flapping shags, and a long row of squeaking waders; and its cliffs with guano and white rocks, sculptured by the waves into fantastic forms and tunnels.

Darwin Harbour is the camp centre of the F.I.C. It is the next largest settlement, with about seventy or eighty inhabitants, and boasts of a good store, a school, and also a doctor.

When we had crossed Lafonia in all directions we wanted to pay a visit to the west coast. Several days of heavy rain had soaked the camp and delayed our start, but finally we were able to set out, accompanied by Dr. Foley, who kindly acted as our guide. We soon left the plains and reached the usual broken ground; the wind was biting cold, and now and then a wet squall paid us its attention. Suddenly a long creek appeared; it was Port Sussex. The tide was out, and our horses splashed across cheerfully, making deep imprints in the smooth mud. Carefully they climbed the stony barranca on the other side; as they were not shod they hated stony places, and peered to right and left in order to see if there was no chance of breaking out. The doctor had pointed out a rock high up on the grey quartzite ridge; that was our landmark. The ascent was troublesome; the ground had become covered by loose peat and the horses began to get tired. On the top of one of the ridges we met with a critical passage, for which the doctor had already prepared us; a place where the pure peat, brown and loose, was exposed. At the edge the horses stopped with firm resolution, and we could read in their faces a “No, sir, that’s enough.” We dismounted, grasped the long cabresta (halter-strap) and pulled away. Absolute refusal; we pulled each at his end, the horse and I, and the stronger won. Then the lashes hailed down on the back of the insubordinate creature, it took a desperate jump, lay kicking and struggling in the black mud, and finally gained firm ground. We had passed the crest of Wickham Heights, and rode down a series of slopes to San Carlos South, a farm where the doctor was to vaccinate some children. As soon as he was ready, we started again. Night was coming on, and we neared our goal, the San Carlos valley, where the largest river of East Falkland winds its way along, deep and rapid. On the other side sharp crests rise, and at their foot we sighted the settlement, San Carlos North, where we were received with the same kindness as ever. The next day we returned to Darwin. I was anxious to return to Stanley, but delayed my departure as long as possible, as I wanted to make an ascent of Mount Usborne, the highest mountain in East Falkland. But the rainy season would not come to an end, and finally I had to leave for the town. This time I took the route overland. I asked Halle if possible to climb the mountain and make some observations for me, and as he was able to fulfil his mission I had no reason to complain.

The track to Port Stanley follows the southern slope of Wickham Heights. It is one of the very worst in the islands (especially after a long rain like the one we had experienced), and near the town stone-runs appear with dangerous holes, covered by vegetation. We changed horses twice, and easily covered the distance, about sixty miles, in two days. Covered with mud and soaked to the skin, I rode into the town on February 1. Only twelve days were left till the day when the mail-steamer for Punta Arenas was due, and much work had still to be done. Amongst other things I would not willingly leave the islands without paying a visit to Port Louis, where J. G. Andersson and myself had lived some time during the winter of 1902. Port Louis is the classical ground of the Falklands. Here lie the ruins of the old settlement; here Charles Darwin strolled about; here J. D. Hooker collected materials for his famous “Flora Antarctica”; here the Challenger was anchored. All these memories crowd upon the mind of a naturalist of to-day and cast a halo round the brown, desolate heath.

Several historic ruins are left in Port Louis. Here in 1764 the first settlement was established by the French; a few years later Spain took possession of it, but probably withdrew the garrison before 1780. In 1820 the captain of a vessel took possession of the islands for the Government of Buenos Aires, but in 1833 a British man-of-war was sent to enforce England’s rights, and since 1843 the Falklands have been constituted a Crown colony. For further details I refer the reader to Darwin’s journals, as well as to a paper read by the present governor, Mr. W. L. Allardyce, C.M.G., at the meeting of the Royal Colonial Institute, March 22, 1910. During the last days of our stay in Port Stanley everybody was walking about rife with expectation. A man-of-war, H.M.S. Sappho, was due, and from the camp the young ladies came to the town prepared for a dance or a picnic. Some years ago a man-of-war used to be stationed in Stanley for several months every year, and opposite the town expensive constructions were made, a dock was built, and large coal-sheds erected. But hardly was it ready when the whole scheme was abandoned, even the stationed vessel being withdrawn, much to the grief of the Stanley girls.

At last the Sappho came, but by this time our period of rest had nearly elapsed. Halle returned from Darwin, we had to prepare our heavy luggage, and when the Oronsa let her sonorous voice be heard she found us ready. On February 12, a bright summer day, the barren coasts of the Falkland Islands disappeared from our sight—perhaps for ever.

The big steamer hastened westward, and soon the lights at the Magellan Straits twinkled in the twilight. As we approached Punta Arenas the sky shone bright red, and with the glasses we soon found out the reason: the forest south of the town was on fire; it made a mighty lighthouse that showed us the way to the roads, where we anchored at 1 A.M. on February 14.