The wilds of Patagonia

CHILOÉ AND THE GULF OF CORCOVADO

In the year 1540 a Spanish navigator for the first time sighted the coast of Chiloé, but did not get very near the island. But though the discovery was not forgotten, it was thirteen years before the famous conqueror of Chile, Pedro de Valdivia, got an opportunity of sending another expedition. He sent Ulloa, who surveyed the coast with a couple of small craft, and discovered islands, harbours, and channels. The formal conquest dates from 1558, and, among many other events, is celebrated in Ercilla’s famous epic, “La Araucana.” The peaceful inhabitants met an evil fate. Without suspecting anything, they received the intruders kindly. But the Spaniards acted as they always did: the land was divided among the more prominent leaders, and the inhabitants made slaves. The island, which was before quite flourishing, and had a very ancient culture, and the population of which differed to its advantage from the martial Araucanians of the mainland in being very peaceful, soon ran to waste under the Spanish sway. The native race got commingled with the Spanish, and consequently grew poorer and more lazy; the intruders set bad examples and led vicious lives. Only one thing made rapid progress—the Catholic Church. According to a Chilean author, there were already thirty-six churches on Chiloé in 1612. But the population diminished, the inhabitants fled out of the country. Chiloé became truly Spanish. During the wars of independence it remained faithful for a long time; it was the bulwark of the Spaniards, and only in January 1826, when the republic was already several years old, did the last royal troops surrender. Long afterwards the inhabitants, more than half of them pure Spaniards or mestizos, remained royalists, and Darwin relates that they complained of not having a king, but a president who did not take any notice of them. They may have been right then, and still Chiloé has the reputation of being a remote corner; I heard more than one Chileno speak with disdain of the Chilotes. Remarkably enough the education of the people, if we dare judge from the capacity to read and write, is better than in the rest of Chile, where the chances are the same. I think this speaks in favour of the poor Chilotes. Trade and industry are not maintained as they deserve to be, and the attempt to colonize with foreign peoples, Germans, Scandinavians, and others, has not yielded any results worth mentioning.

I believe the pure huilliches are easily counted now, but their language will always live in the sonorous names of many places. In some places it is still spoken. Their blood is in the veins of all Chilotes, and the type has much of the Indian in its appearance and is easily recognized. Nowhere in Chile does one find conditions so primitive or habits so simple as on Chiloé and the adjacent islands.

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A very beautiful landscape meets us as the steamer stands in for the glittering bay of Ancud. It is a day of bright sunshine. To our right we have the peninsula Lacuy, with its virgin forests, to our left the low beach of Carelmapu, and right ahead the Chacao Channel opens its winding passage. Straight south the forest has been cleared away, a patch of light green shows up, and we discern the white houses of Ancud.

As soon as we had anchored boats swarmed round us and dark-skinned Chilotes tried to drown each other’s voices, offering us their treasures of delicious oysters and silvery fishes. All of them also were ready to make away with our luggage and with us too; several crews live by fleecing visitors who want to go on shore. We left in the steam-launch belonging to the captain of the port, who had sent it to fetch us, as well as our equipment. A considerable distance separated the steamer from the jetty, the bay being very shallow.

Ancud, the capital of the province, is a peculiar little town. It was founded in 1768 under the name of San Carlos de Ancud, and now numbers about 4000 inhabitants. I have seldom seen a place so absolutely lacking in any architectural beauty; most of the houses are low, wooden huts without a trace of style. The streets are rough and dirty, but fortunately not of the ordinary South American town plan—the chessboard—and crooked streets and small hills make a picturesque view. Round the harbour life is rather lively when the steamer is in; there are the business blocks, the small, ill-kept market-hall, the custom house, the port-master’s quarters, &c. The place is crowded with bare-legged Chilotes on horseback or on foot, not without the inevitable poncho, sometimes bright and new, of a striped pattern, sometimes like a worn-out rag on which generations have rubbed their feet. Further up in the town the streets are often empty, and on the outskirts swarm pigs, fowl, cats, and dogs, which seem to flourish in the luxuriant grass.

Above I said something of the general education of the Chilotes. Ancud has several schools, some of them private ones, and can boast of a lyceum. Its rector and professors showed us great kindness and hospitality. They try to be as up-to-date in their teaching as possible, but high above all their endeavours the cathedral rises with mighty proportions commanding the whole community. It is not quite finished yet; the tower is wanting, and will cost much money. I dare say it is absurd to erect a church here (and not the only one!) big enough to hold the faithful in several towns of the size of Ancud. But the Catholic church, led by an energetic bishop, is rich and powerful; there is a Jesuit college and seminary, monastery and nunnery, and all the east coast is so crowded with chapels that sometimes one is able to count half a dozen at a time. Some of them are useful as beacons. The male inhabitants in general are not very pleased with the over-abundant influence of the priests, but here as everywhere the weaker sex encourages it. The only newspaper, La cruz del sur, is conducted by the priests; it appears once a week, and is free from all news. The only number I read contained a biography of the Pope and a statistical account of Catholicism’s conquest of the world; amongst others Sweden was rapidly returning to the only saving faith, according to this authority! The cathedral is situated at the plaza, where are found other more noteworthy edifices—the house of the intendente (governor of the province), the bishop’s house, the fire-brigade, and the Jesuit college. With its broken and to some extent very original sculptures, its plantations full of weeds and its paths overgrown, the plaza gives the impression of decay.

Ancud has seen its best days. Those were when the devastation of the forests started, many years ago. Beautiful timber—alerce and cypress (Fitzroya patagonia and Libocedrus tetragona, two conifers), laurel (Laurelia aromatica), and luma (Myrtus luma)—was plentiful all round in the forest, the transport cost scarcely anything, ships came and went, the town prospered, there were wealthy men. This state of things did not last long; the coastal regions easy of access became exhausted, and it cost too much to draw profit from the interior, as means of communication were difficult. There is only one road worthy of the name, leading from Ancud to Castro, but it does not touch the central parts covered by impenetrable forests down to the west coast, where harbours are completely lacking and where the surf seldom permits a landing. Culture keeps to the north and east coasts, where the outlying islands act as a shelter and good harbours are frequent.

Before giving an account of our travels in these parts I wish to say some words by way of a brief description of the Chilote and his life. We made his acquaintance long before that of his country, because several of the sailors on board the Government steamers in Punta Arenas were Chilotes. We had learnt to know the small plump men as enterprising, intelligent, and light-hearted. It is not uncommon to hear Chileans from the mainland speak with disrespect of the Chilotes, whom they accuse of stupidity and indolence, lethargy, and love of dirtiness; many hardly consider them as fellow creatures; in any case, they consider them inferior to themselves. And the Chilotes answer by not wanting to be styled Chilenos—they are Chilotes, and nothing more. I dare say it is quite as good. You must not judge them till you know the conditions under which they live. Chiloé is covered by impenetrable primeval forests and soaked by deluges of rains; the annual rainfall amounts to from 78 to 100 inches or even more. Cultivation has not been able to clear more than a narrow strip along the coast; the forest almost refuses to burn, and how cut it down and get it away when there are no roads? To make a road is much too laborious an enterprise for the private individual, and once made it demands continual expenditure or at once it is changed into a bottomless ditch of tough clay. And I believe the Chilote has one big fault: he has little ambition. If he has his bit of shore, where some wheat and his principal food, potatoes, grow, some small horses, cows, and sheep, then he is contented—more than that, he is a rich man. What is barely enough to maintain life upon he is able to gain with a minimum of work. The sea gives him plenty; at low tide he gathers shellfish and sea-urchins, cochayuyo (Durvillea, a gigantic brown kelp), and luche (Ulva, a green alga), the oyster-banks provide a delicious dish, and there is any amount of fish. It is not at all surprising that he has little interest for agriculture. Modern methods are unknown to him; his plough is of pre-Columbian type. He boils his potatoes or roasts them, makes his soup of mutton or fowl, brews chicha from his small apples, and lives happy in the house of his ancestors. The roof is thatched and without a vent-hole for smoke, there is an earthen floor, and the windows often have no panes. Besides the members of the family, pigs are found within, and furniture is very scarce. Sometimes there is a separate cook-house of almost the shape of a round tent. Should the Chilote become ambitious or eager to save money, he seldom clears more ground to enlarge his estate, but leaves one element, the forest, and takes to the next, the sea. He is a born sailor; from childhood he has gone with his father in an open boat, made long journeys to look for fur-seals or valuable timber, especially alerce. He loves the sea, he travels all over the world, but is usually driven back to the old place, for his heart clings to the forest, the potatoes, and oysters of the big island of Chiloé.

It may be true that his character shows more than one defect, that he is too little ambitious, and often lives for the day without any higher aspirations; nevertheless a stranger who comes to his house is attracted by his kindly hospitality and childish mind, and, if he learns to know him in his proper element, cannot help admiring him. Who can match him in living in the dismal forest for weeks or months, working hard, and getting up as soaked with rain as he goes to sleep, walking mile after mile over the most terrible ground, finding a foothold on slippery logs with a heavy load, cutting his way through the bamboo-thickets, or navigating the rapid, dangerous rivers? And all without other provisions than some charqui (dried meat) and harina tostada (coarse, roasted oatmeal).

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The first days of our stay we made short excursions round Ancud and to the Lacuy Peninsula, in order to get acquainted with the natural features, which were in many respects new to us. I shall not trouble the reader with a detailed account of them, merely giving a brief description of a ride to the west coast, the only time we saw the open ocean here. One can hardly speak of a road; one simply follows the shore from the town, if possible at low tide. At high tide one has to grope one’s way in the water for some stretches, where glass-smooth rocks and hidden stones give horse and rider enough to think of. In one place progress is impossible; we strike on and follow a real road, winding across a steep hill down to the water again. From the top we had a splendid view over the bay, and forgot for one moment the miserable state of the road. It looks like a system of parallel ditches, where the mud reaches to the horse’s knees; the furrows are so narrow that now and then he has to plant a hoof on the slippery wall to keep his balance, and if he tries to walk on the ridge between them he slides down every second minute, bespattering you all over with dirt. We were glad to leave the hill behind, and galloped along the beach, where the rattling gravel flew whirling about the horses’ hoofs. A dull rush sang in our ears—the Pacific Ocean thundered towards us, rolling in over sandbanks and rocks. Snow-white guttered the sand-beach; one wave after the other rolled in, was broken into foam, and died at our feet.

It was Sunday and fine weather, many people were out for a walk, and various figures looked into the little inn where we sat waiting for our dinner. The landlord, a young and very good-looking fellow, spoke Spanish with a French accent; his French wife promised to do her best—she could always offer us oysters, bread and butter, and a glass of Chilean wine. By mere chance we heard that their name was Dreyfus, and soon got to know that the husband’s father, who lives in Ancud, was a cousin of the famous ex-prisoner of Devil’s Island. Another of our fresh acquaintances, who sat at dinner with us, told us that his business was to hunt whale in the old-fashioned manner, only using rowing-boats and hand-harpoons. One does not very often find that method in use in this age of whaling-steamers and shell-cannons. But if there was traffic on the roads, the bay, generally crowded with oyster-fishers, was the more empty. The oysters are small, but very delicious, and for ten pesos you get a good bagful. Every month millions of them are exported to Valparaiso; on arrival there they are not so good, but certainly much more expensive. When I told a Chilote how much we pay for oysters in Sweden he shook his head, laughed, and put on a very doubtful air.

We returned by moonlight; it was low tide, and without any obstacle we could gallop along over the wet, glistening beach, and were soon back in our modest quarters.

It is a laborious matter to penetrate into the virgin interior of Chiloé. As we were anxious to see the primeval forest we were glad to accept an invitation to visit a settlement on Rio Pudeto; the owner was to take us there on his steam-launch. The day fixed for the excursion came with fine weather. Opposite Chiloé, on the other side of the Gulf of Corcovado, the coast lay absolutely clear, presenting one of the most beautiful pictures I ever beheld. High above the dark belt of forest the long row of giant volcanoes, Osorno, Calbuco, Huequi, Yate, Minchinmahuida, raise their snow-clad crowns. The landscape round the mouth of Pudeto is also worthy of attention. The entrance is about half a mile wide; the shores are muddy, and large herds of flamingoes walk solemnly round poking with their beaks after food; when we approach they take to flight all together, sail away like a pink cloud, and alight again with flapping wings, which flash black and crimson.

The tides reach far up the river several miles inland, and at the entrance there is a current of some knots. It was with a favouring tide and at the speed of a racer that we approached the low wooden bridge across the broad water. The space between the pillars is small, and without a warning our noble craft was thrown against one of them; the gunwale got stove in, and there we lay as though nailed to the pier. There was no choice but to wait with patience till the current should turn. However, it is not so easy to be patient when one is half starved, and we had slipped away without any breakfast and carried no provisions. Not until the afternoon did we manage to get off, and steamed peacefully up the river, now a narrow channel of open water, winding between wide-stretching banks of reeds. In the twilight all details were soon obliterated, the sky glowed with the most beautiful colours, and a white fog settled down over the yellow swamps. It was pitch-dark when at last we groped our way to the half-built house, where a party of friendly grinning Chilotes took us in. Finally, at nine o’clock dinner was ready, but it consisted almost exclusively of potatoes. Never before in my life did I eat so much of this wholesome root. Chiloé and potatoes—these two ideas are indissolubly linked together in my mind. It is one of the native countries of Solanum tuberosum, and perhaps it is still possible to find wild specimens in the coast region. Large quantities are exported, and I daresay more than a hundred different varieties are cultivated on the island, each with a different name.

In a dark closet Halle and I got a bed each, but in spite of being tired we did not sleep much, for our bedfellows were far too numerous and too lively.

The next day we went into the forest. It was of the agreeable variety that one finds on sandy and comparatively dry soil. It was the middle of winter, but everything was fresh and green; nothing reminded us of death or rest; even flowers were to be seen. High above us the heads of the trees closed over, and a dull, half-mysterious light filtered through the dense foliage. What a difference between this forest and the one in the Patagonian Channels! Variety instead of monotony, trees of very large dimensions and of many kinds hitherto unknown to me filling the air with strong aromatic scent. Ferns of all sizes and shapes clothe the trunks, a large Rhodostachys bicolor (Bromeliacea) sits high up on the branches, and thick-stemmed creepers climb towards the sky, where bright-coloured bunches of flowers peep out of green clusters. In the brushwood below several old friends reappear, but also new ones, Berberis Darwinii and other armed enemies of the explorer, large miniature forests of bamboo (Chusquea colihue), with yellowish-green, polished stems. Out in the open we find the quila (Chusquea quila), tough, rough, and prickly, but for all its disagreeable characteristics an important winter food for cattle. All was silent but for the song of some smaller birds. In vain we hoped that the pretty little pudú, the deer of Chiloé, would turn up. In old times guanaco and huemul are said to have lived here, but they must have disappeared long ago.

We returned overland to Ancud, following the highway from Castro. The ill-famed weather was still nice, and round the dirty huts children and a motley company of animals swarmed. Never a border, a flower in the window or a curtain, nowhere an effort at making the home comfortable. The Chilote does not seem to have any appreciation of things of that sort. The nearer we came to the town the more people we met on the road: bullock-carts of the characteristic type, with wheels of one solid wooden block and a wooden shaft, toil their way slowly through the stiff clay; loaded with all sorts of parcels, an old woman comes riding on a small, shaggy horse; a white-bearded old fellow hobbles barefoot in the mud, tenderly embracing a bottle recently acquired in the town.

On our arrival we got important news: the Government steamer Valdivia was in! And smeared with clay high up on my thighs, and equipped in all the elegance characteristic of the tramp, I had to receive a visit from the commander, who presented himself to put the steamer at our disposal. In order to survey a larger stretch round the Corcovado Gulf we had asked the Government to help us; with the answer from Valparaiso in my hand I turned to Commodore K. Maldonado, well known for geographical explorations of the Chilean coasts. He was stationed in Puerto Montt, and had two steamers there for nautical surveying purposes. He answered immediately by sending us the Valdivia. The next morning, July 18, we steered out of the bay—by the way, a rather bad harbour—passed the whirlpools of Canal Chacao, and thence followed the west coast, where civilization has set its stamp everywhere. On the evening of the following day we arrived at Castro, and there we found the Toro before us. That was good luck, our first task being to find that steamer and go aboard her, because the Valdivia was not fit for the rather dangerous waters we were to visit. Our new steamer wanted a day to coal and provision, which gave us a good opportunity to have a look at the town, a title with which the place is honoured. Castro is, however, a historic place. Founded in 1567, it remained the capital of Chiloé until 1768, and has a big church and a convent to remind it of past, glorious days. Otherwise it makes a miserable impression, with its ruinous houses and wretched streets, where the wayfarer finds many dangerous pitfalls. I must recommend one of the night cafés. We entered on an earthen floor, sat down on a filthy bench by the traditional fire-pan, and a roughly used Chilote woman with a baby at the breast served us with some very doubtful, poisonous mixtures. Soon a rotund old woman came in, took a glass with us, and put life into the conversation. They knew, of course, who we were; gossip is not at all lacking in Castro.

Under the command of Captain J. E. Merino, the Toro left Castro on July 21, and after a short visit to Quellon we arrived at San Pedro Island, at the south-eastern corner of Chiloé. This place is not inhabited, but we found some Chilotes there busy cutting down big trees. Two of them came on board in the evening. The weather had been tolerably good, but showed signs of getting bad, and probably we should have stopped where we were, waiting till it had settled again, if the two Chilotes had not prophesied a fine day for our visit to the Isle of Huafo, far away out in the open sea.

It blew hard north when we left the cove and the rain poured down. Enormous waves rose high above the little steamer, which is smaller even than the Huemul; the wind increased, a fog came on, and after a short consultation we resolved to seek shelter in the only place available, the Huapiquilan Islands. Not one of the officers had ever visited these remote islands, and I daresay the occasion to make their acquaintance was not very well chosen—had there been any choice!

Without adventure we managed to get in between them, and found the necessary shelter from the storm, that now raged with full force. The next morning we still had a gale of wind, but not so bad as the day before, and we resolved to try to reach Huafo. Instantly a heavy sea met us, and as soon as we lost the shelter of land we got as much as we could stand. It was a grand sight. We were half drowned in floods of water, and the port lifeboat was very nearly carried away by a tremendous wave. We had hard work to stand upright on deck, clinging to the irons of the bridge. The gunwales were under water all the time; a lot of things on deck broke loose and danced round with the eddying waters. When we reached Samuel Cove, the only—and hardly useful—berth on the island, the wind had increased still more; later we were told that the anemometer on the lighthouse had indicated 114 feet per sec. It was high time for us to get shelter; but do not think that for this reason we got a calm night! The small, open bay is full of shoals, and there is no room to swing; but with two anchors down and a thick hawser round some big trees on the shore we slept tolerably well in spite of the considerable motion. Next day the storm continued, and we landed in the surf at the mouth of a stream, along which we wanted to penetrate into the virgin forest. Not very often have I seen such luxuriance in a temperate climate. Mosses appeared in incredible quantities, the ferns had stems of a man’s height, bamboo surrounded us in all directions. The foliage glittered with moisture, the moss-carpet was like a swamp, and we soon became drenched to the skin. Showers of rain or hail completed the situation.

On board the crew had been collecting sea-urchins, and at dinner we made a feast off these delicacies, which are highly appreciated in Chile. In the alimentary canal of the sea-urchin a rather large parasitic crustacean often takes up its quarters, thus leading a most comfortable life. This animal is considered extremely delicious, and is eaten alive and kicking. I ate one once, but never again! It had a horrible taste, and besides was really unpleasant to have to do with, being about an inch and a half broad.

The following day the weather had settled somewhat; we resolved to try the lighthouse, which is situated high up on a precipitous cliff. We brought provisions and the mail, which were landed in a nasty surf. Outside the sea was still very heavy, and we anchored in a shallow bay, where the motion would allow us to have our luncheon. From the ship we got sight of some white spots moving along the beach; they were wild dogs of a kind that has lived on this island for centuries. They are about the size of a setter, have long hair, and are dirty white in colour. They are very shy. Probably they live on birds and their eggs, but are said also to eat shellfish.

It was already three o’clock before we could weigh again in order to go back to Huapiquilan. The sky in the south-west looked threatening, but we hoped to get out, in spite of the big sea reducing our speed considerably. But before we had time to think the gale came rushing on, a raging wind with squalls of hail, wrapping us in an impenetrable haze. It was getting dark, the sky was black as soot, and with forced speed, as much as the boiler could stand, we made for the harbour. Then came a squall heavier than the rest, the Toro trembled under the frightful blow, giant hailstones whipped our face and made it hardly possible to keep our eyes open, darkness hid everything. Some thrilling seconds ensued. We were amidst the reefs—but the fog lifted for a moment, giving us time enough to rush through the narrow gap, the entrance to the berth. We were not five minutes too soon; night had overtaken us!

Between sunken rocks, over which the sea broke into pillars of foam, we headed for San Pedro again on July 27. I intended to make an excursion in the forest, and I made the captain and a young lieutenant come with me, promising them an experience that might prove new to them. I myself was prepared for whatever should come—for Darwin in his journals has erected an epitaph over San Pedro forest which is not likely to be misunderstood. We had to climb a very steep slope. The fallen trees do not decay very rapidly, but form immense barricades, especially round the numerous streams; as usual they are enveloped in a soaked moss-carpet, and mosses also hang down in long festoons from the branches and wash your face. We seldom put our feet on the ground, but climbed like monkeys from one trunk to the next, balancing over the abyss. Deep down, as deep as 20 feet below, we caught sight of a muddy, reddish clay, with which we now and then had to make closer acquaintance as a log suddenly broke and we were sent down headlong, only to gain the lofty path once more by creeping and crawling on hands and knees. A hatchet was kept going cutting the innumerable creepers which caught arms and legs, and our perseverance was put to a protracted test. Frequent squalls enlivened our adventures. The poor lieutenant had to be left behind quite exhausted; we rested a few minutes and found new strength in some cold meat and a piece of bread, and then took up the battle again. After a strenuous climb on our hands and knees we gained a ridge, whence I had hoped to get a good view of the island, but alas! there was another valley in front of us, and behind it the next ridge. My comrades were not very anxious to go any further, but as I insisted on it they followed. The valley swallowed us up, and we reached the other side, and came out of the high forest and into a new kind of vegetation, that is called by the natives tepual, a tremendous hedge. Every time we came to a clear space we had to stop to breathe. On the top of this ridge were extensive swamps with scattered cypresses (Libocedrus tetragona) with the tepú (Tepualia stipularis). We had gained a height of 1600 feet, more or less, snow was falling thickly, and it was late enough to make us turn back. Half unrecognizable under the mud, with scratched faces and hands and our clothes torn to rags, we reached the beach once more. The captain had hardly any trousers left—but certainly a naval officer’s uniform was not made for the forest of San Pedro.

In order to cross the gulf we first had to visit Quellon to coal. There is a sawmill there, and the company’s steamer was in. We found the captain to be a Swede, Mr. T. Landgren, who had also camped with Captain Merino on one of the Chilean men-of-war; he was one of the Swedes sent out at the request of the Chilean Government to serve as pilotos in the navy, which he had left to enter into private service. He was not a little astonished to meet countrymen here, and we rightly celebrated the occasion with a big dinner on board his vessel.

As Halle wanted to visit Queilen for geological investigations we also spent one day at that place. The small idyllic village, once called “the end of Christianity,” has a large wooden church and a square plaza, where fat pigs had made themselves comfortable in the green grass.

The last day of July came bright and frosty, the air was clear, and we crossed the gulf, steaming for Mount Corcovado, “el famoso,” as this old volcano is sometimes styled. Few summits are more imposing than this one, with its precipitous peak shining like snow-white enamel against the blue background. We wanted to land at the foot, but found this easier said than done. The beach falls off at a rather sharp angle and the surf is strong enough to play with the coarse shingle; in our little yawl we could not venture to approach. Fortunately a small river flows out close by, and as the sea did not break on the barrier at its mouth we went in with a rush on a wave and stepped on shore. The Toro looked for an anchorage here, but did not find any, and we had to steam up to the entrance of the large Yelcho river, where there is good shelter behind an island. The place was inhabited, a company for a combined sawmill industry and colonization enterprise having its headquarters there.

At the river some years ago a Chilean surveying party had its station, and a road was said to follow the shore inland. Of course we wanted to make use of this, and started early the next day in the settled belief of being able to walk on a road. After a while we found it, broad enough for a bullock-cart—but the joy did not last long. A few hundred yards and the noble highway dwindled suddenly into a narrow path, from which only the worst obstacles had been removed! The forest is so swampy that one cannot walk there during the rainy season, and therefore the road is plastered with logs sometimes right across, when you jump from one to the next, sometimes longitudinally, and then you have to balance—generally there is only one log. Some places were quite dreadful; the logs were gone, and we sank down knee-deep at once; others were transformed into bottomless lagoons where we had to stop to pick our way. But as the day passed we grew more skilful in keeping our balance than we had ever been in our lives before. At last the path disappeared in a bamboo thicket; probably nobody had been here for many years. We crawled through, found the path again, and went down to the river, which is one of the largest in West Patagonia. We returned in the twilight with a good lot of botanical collections, took the last barricade, and came down to the colony.

From Yelcho we went to the beautiful Reñihue Fiord, and thence returned to Castro, where my comrades stopped in order to ride to Ancud; forced by circumstances, I returned there without delay, and despatched the Toro. Few of our excursions have left such agreeable memories as this one with the naval officers, who were always ready to render every service possible. We took farewell of them as of old friends, soon found but never forgotten. On August 10 we went on board the Vestfold, passing Ancud on the way to Valparaiso.