The wilds of Patagonia

IN TIERRA DEL FUEGO

In front of us stretches the long, yellow, sandy sea-shore, with slender jetties running far out into the shallow water; in the background rises the land, with forest-clad ridges and hills. Between the forests and the sea extends Punta Arenas, the town of the Magellan territories, a good type of mushroom city with a startling story of development behind it. In the last ten years its population has greatly increased, and more than 12,000 people now have their home there—Chileans and Spaniards, Germans and Englishmen, Frenchmen and Italians, Swedes, Norwegians, Danes, Russians, Austrians—a babel of tongues. Pretentious stone buildings, interspersed with corrugated-iron houses, dozens of hotels and American bars, howling gramophones, the rattling of cocktails in the mixing—that is the first impression. We take up our quarters in the traditional retreat for Swedish scientists, the Kosmos Hotel, a low, white-plastered building on the sandy beach.

We now found ourselves under changed conditions and with a starting-point for our work where we knew nobody and where we had to do with authorities speaking a language not very familiar to us. I had almost expected that Quensel would be back from his survey of the interior of South Patagonia, but there was not even a message from him. Neither had we received any reply from the Chilean Government, and the entire future of our expedition would possibly depend upon their answer. So we started at once with short excursions in the neighbourhood; Halle found a vast field for work in the coal-mines in the narrow valley of Rio de las Minas. A few days after our arrival we had just returned home when our landlord, the ever kindly and good-humoured Brockow, told us that a Swedish gentleman had just arrived and wanted to make our acquaintance. Judge of my astonishment when we found him to be the highest representative of Sweden in Chile, Consul-General A. Löwenborg, who had employed a short period of leisure in running down to Punta Arenas in order to welcome us and render us assistance in our dealings with the authorities. I know that if I now tell him that we shall never be able to thank him sufficiently for all he did for our expedition during its work in South America, or for the hearty personal friendship he showed us, I do not say too much.

Now we could begin preparations for our first excursion in real earnest. The governor of the territory, Señor Chaigneau, received us with great courtesy, and Mr. Löwenborg brought the answer from the Government that the naval station in Punta Arenas had already received orders to do everything possible to promote our success. The chief, Rear-Admiral B. Rojas, put the small steamer Huemul at our disposal for the first voyage—to Admiralty Inlet, in Tierra del Fuego.

These preparations having been made, we completed our party. We were sitting at the dinner-table one evening when a wild, red-bearded camp-man entered the dining-room in the Kosmos; it was Quensel; and we instantly followed him out to the courtyard, where his servant for the summer, the German Albert Pagels, was busy unsaddling the horses. In the most glowing terms they gave us a brief description of their travels in the most remote part of the South Patagonian Alps, so prolific in results that from that moment I longed to go there myself, but entertained little or no hope of being able to do so, as this lay beyond our original scheme.

Now we could make ready. The horses were sent to a paddock, we bought hay, maize, and provisions, and looked over and completed our equipment; for once alone in a virgin country nothing could be procured. When I had discussed Pagels’ qualifications with Quensel, I engaged him for the trip, and asked him to bring another man with him, and as a result a fellow with the not particularly uncommon name of Müller joined our party.

Now follows a hurry and a scurry and a sorting of half-packed boxes! Is nothing forgotten? The Huemul is waiting at one of the jetties, the last nails are driven into the lids of our boxes, and finally the cart jolts over the bumpy streets of Punta Arenas. All of us work like niggers; bags of maize, bales of hay, and boxes of all shapes and sizes are taken on board. Now only the most difficult affair is left—the embarkation of the horses. We tried various devices, but at last found that the only way was to use the derrick on the jetty. A lifebelt of special construction was employed, and wild with terror the animals were hauled swinging and kicking high up in the air, to land safe and sound on deck. We felt easy when all four had been transferred, but there was not much left of the limited deck space.

As Punta Arenas is a town full of temptations, we went on board in the evening in order to be quite sure of getting off early the next morning. At daybreak, February 25, our vessel left the roadstead. Our first visit was to Dawson Island, where the Roman Catholic Salesian mission station has long been established. They have partly converted the land into a sheep-farm, with Indians as labourers. The station in Harris Bay is an imposing collection of buildings. We went on shore, and were very well received by the missionary, a stout and shining padre. He had already found time to send the boys to make themselves presentable, and they appeared in more or less queer dresses, but looking rather well-brought-up. Few of them were pure Indians: mostly they betrayed a rather mixed origin, a fact perhaps somewhat remarkable at a mission station! Under the guidance of the missionary we went round the place, inspecting the church bedecked with cheap finery, the school, the small saw-mill, and so on. Certainly they have seen to it that the hitherto empty life of the natives shall find a real object and meaning. One thing, however, is of little account—the Indians themselves. According to what the bishop in Punta Arenas, Monseñor Fagnano, told me, there are only forty-five in the station, most of them Onas, but there are also some Yahgans and Alookoloop. The number is gradually diminishing. It is the old story; the natives are subdued or won over, put into clothes, forced to live in houses, and turned into labourers; in some cases perhaps their life gets easier, but with the kind of civilization imposed on them, absurd and more than shallow, there follow diseases and a misery unknown before. What the naked Indians can stand is too much for Indians in European clothes; they pine away and die in “the true faith.” But perhaps there dwells in the depths of their expiring souls a question never uttered: “What have we done that we should be taken away from our land, that we should be exterminated from the face of earth?” How many of them there are who really consider themselves indemnified by the liberal and, alas! cheap promises of a place in the special heaven of the Church that “rescued” them I cannot tell. But how men can imagine that by putting people whose mental life has proved to be so little developed and so utterly different from our own on the seats in church and in school they can be got to grasp those intricate dogmas that have caused and still cause so much hatred and dissension amongst ourselves—that I confess myself unable to understand. I should, indeed, like to hear a religious dispute between a Lutheran and a Catholic Ona-Indian!

To-day there is much spoken and written about the necessity of preserving natural scenery, rare animals, &c., and all naturalists encourage the general tendency which has already evoked special laws in various States. But we seem to think more of remarkable animals than of human races. Could we not at least refrain from directly preventing the continued existence of interesting forms of Homo sapiens?

Most of the male inhabitants of Dawson Island were away working in the camp, and we only saw some sick or feeble ones, who were seated outside their doors making Indian curiosities, to be sold by the missionaries in Punta Arenas. In a special house the women were occupied in spinning. The camera was familiar to them all, and with the aid of the missionary I was able to take a group, but it was more difficult to obtain permission to snap them in the costume of Adam. However, I managed to take photographs of an old married couple of Alookoloop, but they anxiously asked me not to show them to anybody. Cuisc-shiku-toreluk-scisc, my good fellow, your brown skin still glistened under the miserable rags you wore, besmeared as it was with stinking grease, that called forth old remembrances! Have you then forgotten that you are baptized and call yourself Brasito and that it is strictly forbidden to practise such uncivilized customs?

I asked them in Spanish, a language their tongues convert into a scarcely intelligible lingo, how their lives pleased them and where they came from. “She comes from afar,” the husband says, pointing to his wife. “From the channels far west?” She nods assent, and adds: “There we were so many, so many, and now”—her voice expresses desperation and helplessness—“all dead, all dead!...”

But all round us in the forest dozens of images and pictures of saints bear witness to the triumph of Christian civilization.

A fresh breeze met us when we steamed out of the mission bay, and the Huemul rolled with might and main. Our horses had some very disagreeable hours; they were not far from falling overboard, or at least getting injured. After a short consultation we resolved to seek shelter from the rapidly increasing gale. There are very few harbours in Admiralty Inlet, and probably none better than Puerto Gomez, where we anchored; a true Fuegian cove, with the water-soaked virgin forest coming down to the water’s edge, with steep, wooded ridges all round and snowy peaks in the background. The autumn scarcely shows its presence here, only the grass on the beach is more yellow than usual, but the forest itself stands as fresh and green as ever, even if the few flowers are still fewer. That day the winter sent us its first warnings, and we awoke to a splendid though hardly welcome sight: the summits shining white, the ridges powdered with snow, and a light cover on the branches of the evergreens down by the beach. But the squalls grew less frequent, the sun spread broader and broader golden stripes over the bank of clouds, and once more we tried our fortune afloat. Halle and I inhaled this fresh atmosphere in deep draughts. The enviable Quensel had just come from Payne, but we who saw only dirty colours in the Falklands thoroughly enjoyed the black mountains, the white snow, and the bluish ice of the glaciers. Farther and farther into the deep fiord we steamed, the mountains closed round us on each side, and in the innermost corner, called Hope Bay on the Admiralty chart, a pretty place where deciduous-leaved forest patches shimmer in the first crimson of autumn, the Huemul anchored.

First we had to bring the horses ashore. Here luck helped us in a peculiar manner. Outside Dawson Island we found a lighter adrift, a runaway from Punta Arenas, and it came as though sent on purpose. The animals were lowered down from the davits, once more half dead with fright, but soon recovered when they found the good pasture along the shore. Our equipment was put in a heap on the shingle, and we set out to look for a comfortable camping-place, and soon found an inviting corner on the edge of the wood. Instantly we pitched our tents and hoisted our little Swedish flag. At the request of our friend Captain Mayer we returned on board, had our dinner with the officers, and slept there. Early on the 28th the Huemul steamed out of the bay, hooted us a good-bye, and was soon out of sight. We were left to ourselves for a month.

But we had not yet reached our goal. Towards the east we had to follow the valley of Rio Azopardo, and there, behind the woods, is the big lake, Lago Fagnano. The distance is only eight miles, but these few miles have a very bad reputation. Some remarks on explorations prior to our own might be mentioned here. The first proper description of the lake and its surroundings we owe to the well-known Boundary Commission of Chile and Argentina, which finished its work here in 1895, and had then erected a cairn at each edge of the lake to indicate the boundary-line; the members had also effected some boat-journeys and had constructed a map. The natural history still remained unknown, and the Swedish expedition in 1896 under O. Nordenskjöld resolved to pay a visit to the big lake. He and his companions had their encampment not very far from ours, and we found some traces left by them and others of the Boundary Commission; especially a wooden corral, which we put in order and used ourselves.

Nordenskjöld was only provided with food for a fortnight; he brought many people with him, and a rather big boat, intended for the navigation of the Rio Azopardo. This, however, proved impossible, and he was never able to make a camp on the lake. Accompanied by one man, he made an excursion on foot, crossed the valley of Rio Betbeder, and saw from the slope of a mountain, probably Cerro Verde, that a pass over the main ridge, called Sierra Valdivieso on the Chilean map, very likely existed. The pass itself can hardly have been visible from the spot where he stood. Of the nature of the lake this expedition has very little to tell: Nordenskjöld alone got close to it.

In October 1902 J. G. Andersson, well known as a member of the Swedish Antarctic Expedition and the leader of its winter-journeys, managed to reach the eastern end of the lake, using a road cut through the forest by the brothers Bridges of Harberton, a track that united their vast camp at the Beagle Channel with that on the Atlantic coast. He brought a small canvas boat and made some zoological collections from the lake, but everything got lost in the shipwreck of the Antarctic, in February 1903. Consequently we had an open field for work; but time was valuable, as the winter might come any day. I think that autumn is the best season for travelling in the interior of Tierra del Fuego; summer has dried the innumerable bogs and made them to some extent passable, and the rivers, that all come from the eternal ice and snow, do not carry as much water as they do earlier in the year.

We set to work without a moment’s delay. One of the officers on board the Huemul had told us that some of those indefatigable prospectors had left some sheep on a small island not far from our camp, and we sent Pagels there with our canvas boat (on the Berthon system), which was now launched for the first time. Müller was left at the tents, and we started on foot up the Azopardo valley in order to survey a suitable track for the horses. We only carried a couple of ship’s biscuits each for provisions. The first mile did not look very bad. It was, however, impossible to follow the bank of the river, as it is covered by an almost impenetrable brushwood of Nothofagus antarctica, one of the Antarctic beeches (ñire). We followed the slopes of a mountain-ridge south of the valley; sometimes the ground seemed very dry and firm, sometimes we had to walk knee-deep through red and greenish-white peat-moss. Now and then we came across a forest patch where we had a hard struggle with innumerable fallen trunks, marshy places, and thorny bushes. But we thought that an axe might open a way for horses, especially along the guanaco tracks. Arriving at the top of a hill, we stopped in mute admiration. There between steep mountain-chains we beheld for the first time Lago Fagnano in the far east, melting together with sky and mountains in a blue haze. It was still early in the day, and in spite of our meagre supply of provisions we resolved to continue our march down to the lake. And we had good luck. We were just climbing the barranca of Rio Mascarello when we discovered a guanaco not more than ninety feet from us, grazing in unconscious security. We had not been observed, and a ball from our Winchester sent it into eternity. The meat was certainly very welcome. We had counted on living upon game, and had only brought some preserved meat for excursions. The big steaks were greeted with applause; one piece we put in a knapsack for dinner, and the rest was fixed on a tree out of reach of foxes and birds.

The guanaco (Auchenia huanaco) is closely related to the lama. When with straightened neck it slowly turns its small, elegant head, pricks up its ears, scenting danger, it makes a very pleasing impression of something at the same time strong, swift, and graceful. The nose is grey, the back covered with a reddish-brown wool, the throat and belly white. The thighs are red-brown, the legs white. Smaller or larger herds wander about in Tierra del Fuego and Patagonia, mostly on the pampas, but also at the edge of the forest-zone on the slopes of the Cordillera, where green patches and rich Alpine meadows are their favourite grounds.

We had already passed several “pantanos” (peat-bogs), with red, swelling tussocks sharply contrasting with the dark-green forest patches, but we now came to that part of the valley where all the open spaces are filled with marshy ground. We could cross all right if we chose our way, but we at once realized that the horses would never follow our example. Here the forest gets still worse, the river runs close to the mountains, only leaving a very narrow space. To cut our way round bogs and forest higher up on the slope was not to be thought of, and further progress looked doubtful. But it was better here and there, and we felt hopeful till we came to the last mile. No horse would ever come through that; we should have to carry our own luggage.

We stood on the shore of Lago Fagnano. This fact did not elate us unduly; it was simple enough to walk there; but the thought that we had reached our longed-for lake on the same day as we landed afforded us some amusement. With gathered driftwood we made a good fire and dried our clothes. Fixed on a stick, the guanaco meat soon became a regular “asado” that tasted very good, with a biscuit and water from the lake. A few yards from the shore we found a suitable place for the night in a grove of Nothofagus betuloides (coiguë), the evergreen Antarctic beech, and beautiful Winter’s bark (Drimys Winteri), and we made our beds of fragrant branches round a roaring fire that sent showers of sparks through the dark night. The sky was clear and cold, but we maintained the fire and slept well for a while with the knapsack as pillow. We had not brought our sleeping-bags.

The ground was covered with hoar-frost when at dawn we crept out of our nest. After eating the last piece of biscuit we walked back to our camp, keeping a desultory look-out for new tracks for the horses. How inviting the camp looks on our return! the tents shining white at the forest’s edge, in the pots our dinner cooking with a cheerful sound, and at a little distance our horses grazing peacefully! Is there a truer sense of happiness and freedom than when the tent or the sky is your roof, the ground your bed, the camp-fire your hearth? In front of us, on the other side of the fiord, Mount Hope raises its jagged porphyritic mass, and icy crests peep forth behind it. The sun beams from a clear blue sky—it is still summer in Tierra del Fuego.

Pagels had not seen any sheep, but had shot some kelp-geese (Chloëphaga hybrida), which, however, are generally considered as inedible. We had not been able to find our store of guanaco again when we returned from the lake, so, untroubled by a belief in the omniscience of authorities, we prepared the disdained geese and ate heartily of the dish.

The first day of March was occupied by Halle and myself in a survey of the valley of Rio Fontaine, which discharges into Admiralty Inlet. Its nature closely resembles that of the Azopardo valley. Quensel and Pagels went to look for the guanaco meat and found it. In the evening we collected all the things to be brought up to the lake with the first transport, and at night everything was ready. One of the horses had been injured in landing, but the rest were saddled early the next morning, and the first caravan, under the direction of Quensel, soon disappeared among the hills. The next day Halle and I made an ascent of a mountain behind our camp. The worst part of a Fuegian mountain is the forest belt, but sometimes one may get help from the winding paths of the guanacos. Thence one wanders free and happy over meadows adorned with flowers or across slopes of rattling stones, where small herds of guanacos with elegant tails gallop away, neighing merrily. From a summit we had a very fine view of the lake and the surrounding landscape. As we were studying it through the glasses we discovered some black specks at the bottom of the valley—the caravan coming back—one, two, three men, one, two, three horses. Good! At once we hastened down to the camp, anxious to hear their experiences, in which truly the trip had been rich enough. The track surveyed by us was of little use—the dry ridges where we had walked so hopefully were covered by peat, hardened on the surface, but not strong enough to carry the weight of a horse. Each horse had nine times been bogged so badly that it had to be unloaded, dragged out of the peat, and loaded again—twenty-seven times altogether! After eight hours’ desperate effort a distance of four miles was covered, and the cargo had been deposited at the Mascarello river. Thus it was evident that we should have to carry all the luggage for the rest of the way. We hastily selected provisions for fifteen days, packed our 8-feet collapsible Berthon, and divided everything into two horse-loads, as one of the horses had proved unfit for transport of that sort. The rest was put together in a depot, and early on the 5th we struck camp.

We advanced slowly and without adventure till we had passed the first small tributary, when bad luck attended us. The horse with the boat and tents was badly bogged, capsized with his cargo, and lay groaning under the heavy load. To make matters worse, it happened on a steep slope, and we barely managed to save him from tumbling down into the river. Standing knee-deep in the loose peat, we unloaded him, turned him round, and got him on his feet again. He bled, but not very much. To give him the same load was impossible, as the ground grew worse still, but Müller and Pagels took the boat on their shoulders and continued the march. Now the horses had an easier march, but were of course bogged now and then. We dragged them across the worst places, one hauling at the cabresta, the two others walking by the side of the staggering animal supporting it. Nevertheless we got on, cheered the depot, and sent the horses back. I continued the way with our men, and we brought three loads up near to the lake. At nightfall we all gathered at Mascarello, and soon forgot our troubles round a mighty fire, although a treacherous trunk made me capsize the appetizing pea-soup, just as we were ready to devour it with the appetites of lions. Another spell of impatient waiting was spent in discussions of what the coming day might have in store for us. We all felt that now the real hardships were about to begin.

The loads were distributed in a very simple manner. Everybody took as much as he could carry, and a procession of five individuals started. Progress is not rapid, the steep riverbanks make our knees bend and our backs ache, the sun broils us, impudent flies torment us. The conversation is not very lively. Somebody throws his burden down, the others follow his example; we straighten our backs, wipe our brows with dirty shirtsleeves, and fall flat on the ground; mechanically we chew a biscuit or a piece of chocolate—there is no time for dinner. Up again, through the thickets, where thorny bushes scratch our faces and bare arms, where every minute the load is caught in the dense branches, where mouldering trunks trip us up; through the bogs, where the oozing surface makes walking heavy work, through the ravines, where we must stop to drink the pure, cold water that comes directly from the melting snow. What delight when we catch a glimpse of the lake! With a sigh of relief we throw off our burdens on the shore. Here we found the boat and the flour-bag left on the previous day, and we pulled round a cape and landed in a sheltered bay, called Expedition’s Cove. We walked back again to Mascarello in order to make an early start the next morning. Some things were left there as a reserve depot, the rest we took on our shoulders and trod the same old wretched way again. Thus our camp at the lake became a reality, our first destination was settled; the Swedish colours floated in the heart of Tierra del Fuego.

The tent door is wide open. In most cases the chilly mornings tempt us to enjoy the warm comfort of the sleeping-bag for another five minutes, but to-day it is not possible. Not a leaf moves. The lake lies shining like a mirror, only furrowed by a mated pair of patovapores (steamer-ducks or loggerheads, Tachyeres cinereus), that glide away chattering merrily. The mountains on either side rise clear and sharp against the sky, one behind the other like gigantic wings; close to us dark green with shades of red and violet, on the crests they gradually change into a bluish grey. In the background the rising sun over the water, a splendid white sun, promises us a magnificent day, sending us its greetings and illuminating every corner of our camp. Out from the bags, a speedy toilet, and as Pagels announces “Porridge is ready” we gather round the cauldron. Round the fireplace we put some big logs as sofas, make ourselves comfortable, and with often-repeated words of praise consume large quantities of oatmeal porridge and coffee with biscuits—and if three or four guanaco steaks should happen to go the same way, there is nothing to say against that. The work may be hard, but days like this make everything easy, mapping or geology or botany. The sunbeams play on the velvety moss-carpet, with infectious laughter the stream falls down the precipice. Can any but bright faces gather round the fire when twilight falls over Lake Fagnano? Fixed on a stick over the embers our asado is roasted, delicious enough to make one’s mouth water. The teapot sings, we light our pipes—this is the hour for stories. Pagels has an inexhaustible supply of stories from real life, for he has indeed seen a little of everything. What do you say to a fellow of thirty, who has been sailor in the German navy, boatswain, sealer, gold-digger, who has traversed half Patagonia on horseback, has smuggled troops into Central America, and assisted at the capture of Peking during the Boxer rebellion? He was indispensable on our boat-journeys, the type of Teutonic giant, used to all sorts of tricks on shore as well as on sea. Certainly he did not hide his light under a bushel. Sometimes he would make us half desperate with his patent dodges; he was always so absolutely sure that it wasn’t worth while to try any other method than his—that there could not exist a better! Müller, with his pale face fringed with a big black beard, was more timid, but when he loosened his tongue we soon found him to be a rather well-read man, who was up to date in many things, especially in politics. He had arrived from Brazil, shook his head at the Fuegian weather and pulled his cap over his ears. After dinner, just when we are ready to go to bed, he puts his private kettle on the fire and the yerba or maté makes the round. Night has come; Prince, the expedition dog, is asleep with a guanaco bone, and the last embers show us our way to the tent.

The first days we were very busy with detail-work in the vicinity of our cove. Halle made a map, Quensel studied the geology, and I myself made botanical excursions, tried the boat, and took soundings in the western corner of the lake. But we could not put off the excursion to the Betbeder passage over the mountains, to which I have alluded before, and on March 10 we started, Quensel, Pagels, and I. In our knapsacks we carried a pair of socks and provisions for four or five days; the sleeping-bags were tied to the sacks. After a hard climb up the slippery slopes, sometimes on our hands and knees, we reached a ridge, but the view to the main Cordillera was still shut off by several summits. To the left there was no way, to the right was a peak sloping sheer down to piles of sharp-edged slate-blocks. Pagels had hastened ahead, and shouted to us that he could see a way round the summit. With great care we groped round the precipitous wall, making use of fissures and narrow shelves that gave way under our weight, and after climbing some hundred feet more we finally reach the eternal snowfields at a height of about 3000 feet.

We stopped here a while in order to get an idea of our position and to make up our minds how to continue. The view was certainly splendid. All round us bright green Alpine meadows, black débris or white snow, below the small characteristic valley-basins, sometimes occupied by a small glacier or furrowed by icy brooks, surrounded by an emerald-green moss-carpet and the last flowers of autumn. If we compare the Alpine flora of Tierra del Fuego with, for instance, that of Europe, the former without doubt is left far behind, but nevertheless it has the same peculiar stamp, the same gay colours. Our looks sweep over the plateaus; not far from us our destination, Sierra Valdivieso, rises, and in the distance the summits of Darwin Mountains, one of the highest parts of Tierra del Fuego, shine like diamonds. Silence and desolation reign over this height; only a single guanaco neighs and takes to flight, and a condor majestically soars over our heads.

As to the direction in which we should find the pass the maps had misled us; we had made a long détour and the day’s labour had partly been thrown away. We were forced to climb down into the Betbeder valley and follow it up to the pass. Without hesitation we left the mountains and dived into the brushwood. I think that we shall not easily forget this expedition. The tough branches clung round legs and arms, and only after we had lost our patience did we really make any progress. The mountain-wall falls off nearly at right angles; when the hands grasped for the branches the legs touched the heads of other trees beneath, and more like monkeys than human beings, dirty and soaked, we reached the yellowish-brown bogs in the valley. We found a dry hillock with a nice carpet of diddledee (Empetrum rubrum), and spread out our sleeping-bags there.

The night was chilly, but we awoke to another fine day, and porridge and coffee soon put new life into us. The way was always more or less wretched; several streams with ice-cold water were crossed without ceremony: we emptied our boots, wrung our socks out, put them on again, and were all right. Some stretches were covered by tall forests of “roble” (down here Nothofagus pumilio). Several times we crossed the Rio Betbeder, making use of fallen trunks as natural bridges. By-and-by we climbed upwards with the valley, and soon beheld a beautiful mountain, called by us Cerro Svea; most interesting as differing widely in geological features from the surrounding country. The river disappeared in a deep gorge, but we struck it again, and were able to follow it with the eyes up to a glacier with beautiful edge moraines on Mount Svea, whence most of the water comes. We crossed the river for the last time, worked our way through the belt of brushwood, and found an open space big enough for our bags and comparatively dry. As we had three hours left before nightfall, Quensel and I at once climbed the ridge behind us in order to look for the pass. Being hard up for meat, we had brought the Winchester, and came across a small herd of guanacos at a height of about 2500 feet. They were too far off, and we started to stalk them; perhaps we should have been successful had not the mountain-fog, thick and impenetrable, come down upon us, and with it a snowstorm. From a crest at about 3300 feet we saw the herd hurry away down towards the valley on the other side of the pass. But we had also seen something else before the foggy wall shut out everything round us. Beneath our feet stretched an unknown valley, red, brown, and yellow like the Betbeder valley, and in numerous serpentines a river wound through the peat-bogs, coming from the glaciers on the south side of Mount Svea, while in a side valley we perceived a small mountain lake that discharged into the river. Then the curtain fell; violent snow-squalls forced us to return, and, groping in the débris, half blind with the snow, we came down to the fire with the night. Snow continued to fall, but supper tasted better than ever, and the flakes quickly melted in the hot cocoa. Later the sky cleared, Cross and Centaur glittered. “We’ll have a dry night,” we said, and crept into the bags.

It was a strange awakening. Certainly I had felt, half asleep, that the bag was growing heavier and that water was trickling in from the “pillow” (my coat and trousers), but I shook off the snow, pulled the hood tighter round my head and slept again. I jumped up on hearing Pagels’ “Aber, Herr Doktor,” and looked round. The landscape had changed. Certainly Mount Svea had been white and glistening before, but now—here was winter. All round us everything was white and clean. The sleeping-bag was covered two inches deep, more or less, our boots had disappeared, our clothes were soaked. It was not especially agreeable to put them on, but there was no help for it. The fire half dried us, and then we had breakfast.

The sky is blue, the sun is already melting the snow, no time must be lost. Pagels was sent to shoot a guanaco—Prince had not had anything to eat since we left Lake Fagnano. Quensel and I walked to the pass and down along the slopes of the new valley; the river we named Rio Rojas, after the admiral in Punta Arenas; it is the same river that discharges into Lake Acigami near the Beagle Channel. The new lake was named Laguna Löwenborg. Probably we were the first white men here. We have been told that in old times Indians used to cross the mountains from Azopardo to the Beagle Channel, but we do not know if this be true or not; if so, they would have used our pass, Paso de las Lagunas, as we call it. Its height above sea-level is about 2100 feet. It was a matter of some disappointment that we did not see the Beagle Channel. Pagels had followed the other side of the valley, climbed a peak, and saw from there two sheets of water. To judge from his description one of them was Yendagaia, the other the Beagle Channel itself. Moreover, he brought back the best pieces of two guanacos; and Prince could hardly walk back to the camp, so much had he devoured!

The weather had changed once more. It did not snow, but rained hard instead; however, we resolved to stop one day more, provided that the sky was clear enough. The next day opened with mist and rain, so we could do nothing but return. It did not matter much that the rain poured down; we were as wet as we could possibly be, and only the interior of our sleeping-bags was still dry. It was not easy to find a dry spot for the night’s camp, and still less easy to make a fire. But after an hour’s work we had a nice blaze. It rained all night and all the next day, but we went on. The forest seemed denser than ever, the streams were swollen and rapid, and we felt it a relief to wade through the open bogs along Rio Betbeder down to the lake. In the camp everything was in perfect order. Halle was ready to undertake the proposed trip across the mountains north of Fagnano and down to Lake Deseado; and accompanied by Müller he set out over the lake to a suitable starting-place. Pagels and I were busy preparing for a boat-trip, and early on the 16th we loaded the cargo. When everything was on board, the rifle, provisions, sounding-lines, nets, sleeping-bags, &c., we had so little room left for ourselves that we had to sit very uncomfortably. From the shore we had seen some small islands; we set our course for them, and found them interesting enough, as they showed beautiful traces of the glacial age in the form of moraines, erratic blocks, and polished stones. The direction of the morainic ridges and the origin of the blocks showed to a certainty that the ice had moved west-eastward here. Later in the day I found new proofs, and with regard to plant geography, a subject I desired to study more specially, I had a rare chance of following step by step the gradual change of evergreen into deciduous forest. At 3 P.M. we passed the remnants of a cairn with a tripod of rough sticks on the top of it: we were now in Argentina! Now and then an inquisitive guanaco looked at us from the forest’s edge, but soon withdrew, and flocks of screaming paroquets flew among the heads of the roble-trees. But no trace whatever of Ona Indians was to be seen. A small forest-clad island appeared to us a suitable camping-place, and at nightfall we landed with great care.

Good luck was almost necessary for us. Only for a few days in the month is Lake Fagnano calm; generally a fresh westerly breeze keeps up a heavy sea. The lake is about fifty-six miles long, and we had now covered one-fourth of that distance. Another nice day and we should have done our work.

Through the canvas and blanket I heard a soft murmur—only a little breeze—and we breakfasted with strong hopes for a good day. But we were greatly deceived. The wind increased, and when we finished our meal there were already white crests on the billows. The sky promised a gale, but as we did not want to be idle we pulled across to the shore, where we strolled about along the beach. We returned at the last moment and got some water in before we reached our island. I had plenty of time to survey our position. Seldom was the impression of virgin ground so strong as here. No guanacos ever come there; the grass is never grazed upon, but grows in enormous beds where one sinks down to the knees through piles of dry blades. Several plants that were quite familiar to me in other places here grew to a gigantic size and were hardly to be recognised. What a difference between this place and the Azopardo valley! We are in the zone of the roble: the dense, dark-green groves with the thick, water-soaked carpet of mosses and liverworts has disappeared; so has also “canelo,” or Winter’s bark, one of Flora’s most beautiful children in the far south. The forest is dry, the green colours bright; dry is the moss-carpet, and out of the thick layer of fallen leaves slender forest herbs peep forth. Our island is a little paradise, but nevertheless we want to take leave of it as soon as possible. All day passed, and all night it blew hard enough to make the big trees wave and groan; in the morning the sea ran as heavy as before. The situation became still less pleasant. The next day we expected Halle back, and he could not reach the tents without a boat. Our provisions were almost finished, and we found nothing to shoot. We looked for berries, and found “calafate” (Berberis buxifolia) and “chaura” (Pernettya mucronata); we had also some biscuits left.

Suddenly the wind died away. It was already late, 5 P.M., but we did not linger a moment, loaded the boat and left the island. Our little nutshell quite disappeared in the troughs of the waves. We could not go further east—probably the next day would bring us a strong head-wind on our return. We crossed the lake and were just close to the northern shore when we caught sight of a tiny column of smoke rising out of the forest—Indians, some of the last families still living the old life. However, we could not stop, but preferred to take advantage of the fine weather. The night was very dark; we made only one halt, at a place where Indians had had their camp long ago, as the guanaco bones gave evidence.

On our return we sounded and got our greatest depth, seventy fathoms, close to the island. A series of soundings show that the bottom slopes gradually to the east; the deepest part is probably west of the middle. Early in the morning we were back “home,” where Quensel and Prince received us. Halle had not shown any sign of return, but his signal came later in the day, and Pagels was sent with the boat to fetch him. He had penetrated to the mountains north of Lake Deseado; no natives were seen, but otherwise he had had a bad time. The comparisons Müller made between Brazil and Tierra del Fuego were not in favour of the last-mentioned country.

We had reason to be contented that we were all back, for the same day a storm came on, the end of which we hardly saw. The last excursions were done with the rain pouring down. The Huemul was expected on the 25th, and three days earlier we struck camp. The cargo was, of course, not so large; no provisions were left; and, besides, Pagels undertook to pull the boat with some less fragile things down Rio Azopardo, in spite of the rapids. Quensel had to follow alongside the river and give Pagels a hand with the landings. The rest of us divided what was left of our equipment and set out. I believe we never worked so hard before. I shall not try the reader’s patience with another detailed description: let it be sufficient to remark that the bogs were frightful after the severe rainfalls, that we were often stuck, while a never-ceasing rain increased the weight of our load at every minute. Soaked to the skin and without the possibility of getting dry clothes, we reached the depot at Mascarello, and after a while Pagels and Quensel also came in. They had managed their business well enough; only once the boat had struck a rock in one of the rapids and filled with water, and some things belonging to the cargo were carried away for ever by the current. But Pagels reached the shore before the little craft sank. They told us that the boat was on the shore at the foot of a barranca, where it would be impossible to pull through the cañon, as the place must be described as really dangerous. As the barranca was very steep they could not carry the boat without help, so we all went to the river, and found the place so steep that we had to slide down to the water, grasping the roots of the trees or whatever else we could get hold of. We transported everything past the rapids, and managed to fix the boat behind some bushes that kept it from falling into the river, and the other things were hidden as well as we could hide them. But evidently we had not been careful enough, for when our “sailors” returned the following day they missed several things, amongst them all our supply of meat; clearly the foxes had been there and done good business.

Halle and I made no haste, but waited till the rain had ceased a little, packed our cargo, and waded through the clay down the river. But there we stopped. Was this our old innocent Mascarello? A yellowish stream whirled along the stony, invisible bed! I tried to cross, but close to the shore the water reached high upon my thighs, so we could not venture with our heavy cargo in the rapid current. We waited a while, and divided the last piece of meat between us. Only a few handfuls of flour were left of the provisions, and I resolved to risk baking it in the frying-pan. I made proper dough with some baking-powder, greased the pan with the last dirty grease left, put a lid on, and covered it with hot cinders. We waited anxiously, but when I appeared with delicious bread my triumph was complete; it tasted excellent. In vain we surveyed the river down to its junction with Rio Azopardo; nowhere did we find a place where we could cross it, and we had to stop another night in our wet clothes. It rained all the time, but we were happy to get a cold morning, that made the water-level in these glacier streams sink rapidly. We crossed without delay, the rain ceased, and a fresh gale soon dried our clothes. We could hardly recognise our old place at Hope Bay. The forest was changed into a swamp, and the beautiful open space where we had pitched the tents was a lake; the taste of the water plainly showed that the sea too had penetrated hither during our absence. Luckily enough we had placed our depot above this unsuspected flood. We soon found a new place. Halle and I, who arrived first, at once set to work to pitch the tents, when suddenly a signal announced the arrival of the Huemul. The officers came ashore, anxious to get news; we could not promise to be ready that same day, there being still things left in the depot at Mascarello.

Quensel and Pagels arrived with the boat. Müller, who had fallen behind, and, according to his custom, also got lost, finally appeared, and we were gathered round the fire occupied in devouring the delicacies left in the depot when a message came from the Huemul telling us that she had damaged her engines and wanted to repair. As Hope Bay is anything but sheltered, she had to leave us once more, but the captain promised to be back on the 26th. He went to Puerto Gomez. We were very glad to get another day, as the horses only came half-way to Mascarello, and for the rest the things left there had to be carried.

In due time the Huemul arrived. Well-known, dark clouds appeared on the sky, and made us hurry up as much as possible. The horses had to swim, and two of them came on board quite exhausted. And we did not embark without adventure. We were just on our way to the ship with a large, heavy boat, the cargo being so bulky that only two oars could be used, when suddenly a heavy squall came on. We were ten minutes off from the vessel, but were driven back in spite of our energetic efforts, and almost before we knew it we were among the breakers on the shore. We had no choice; we jumped into the water, passed the things along, and pulled up the boat. On board they grew anxious and blew the whistle, but we could do nothing but wait. At last we took an opportunity between two squalls; standing in the water to our waists we loaded the boat, got out of the heavy surf, and came on board. But we were so delayed that we stopped the night where we were.

On March 27 we saluted Hope Bay and proceeded westward, but did not get out of the inlet. A head-wind and a heavy sea showed us that it would be too much for our poor horses, so we sought shelter once more in Puerto Gomez. Here a little scene happened that I often recall to memory and will not keep from my readers. In Punta Arenas the cabin-boy had smuggled on board some nasty stuff, I believe absinthe, which is strictly prohibited, and his friend the cook had got drunk. The captain tried and sentenced them without hesitation: they had to undress, and were thrown into the sea with a rope round the waist. In the ice-cold water they had an opportunity of repenting of their sins. This method was said to be as effective as it is simple.

From Puerto Gomez we went straight to Punta Arenas, where we arrived on the 28th, and at once started to prepare for the next trip.