THROUGH NORTHERN PATAGONIA

During the first few days our march was not attended by any difficulties, as we only followed the common track, here and there visible over the pampas. On our right was the so-called Pre-Cordillera, where outlines are softer and the snow-patches insignificant. Deep ravines appear in the easily disintegrating tufas, and here dark forest-groves extend, though not reaching down to where we were travelling. Behind and in front of us lay the broken ground of the high pampas with hills and ravines, towards the east the endless undulating plains reaching far away to the Atlantic Ocean. The yellow sand gleams between tufts of stiff steppe plants and scented spring flowers, red or blue, yellow or white, now and then tempting me to alight to gather specimens. Everywhere the blue-green hillocks of Mulinum spinosum (an umbelliferous plant) appear, together with the stiff tussocks of grasses, the most noticeable growths on the dry, sandy steppe. Almost everything is prickly; the shrubs are armed to the teeth, the leaves of the grass end in a sharp needle, breaking off at the slightest touch: if one sits down carelessly one soon jumps up again, spiny like an urchin, but with the important difference that the spines are turned towards one’s own skin. Now and then a cactus is seen resting its growth on the stony soil. On the hills and plateaus vegetation is more scanty. It is almost a desert, red or yellow, strewn with sharp-edged stones, with stunted plants in the cracks, such as are specially fitted to endure the hardships of desert life; sometimes they look like a tangle of spines, out of which some few brilliant flowers peep forth; sometimes they are wrapped in a dense clothing of thick wool and have roots disappearing in the very bowels of the earth, where there is perhaps water to drink. The numerous spines are one of the nuisances of the steppe. Another is the wind, often blowing hard for a long time and enveloping us in a cloud of dust. But certainly we preferred this to the eternal rains of the west coast.

Hours pass, the sun bakes us red or brown, the dust gathers in thicker and thicker deposits. The bell on the mare tinkles, the hoofs rattle on the hard ground. The horses, untrained as they are after a long winter’s leisure, get less willing, one or other tries to pluck a mouthful of the rough yellow grass. We must show more energy in driving the troop, and Pagels is frequently heard shouting a “verdammtes Kamel,” in a very bad case increasing his anger to a “heiliges Kanonenrohr,” the strongest expression he is able to lay tongue to, and surely a relic of his service in the navy. We welcome the small valley, our first camping-place, where a tiny stream winds between thickets of ñire. Patches of green grass attract the horses; we find a nice and sheltered corner and unsaddle. One horse is chosen and tethered to a long rope; the others are simply let loose, with the exception of the mare, who is provided with maneas round the front legs. So one is more or less sure of finding the troop in the neighbourhood the next morning. The first camp-fire crackles, the maté makes its round, and a real fat asado of beef drips on the spit. Poor misguided vegetarians would not thrive here; meat and meat again will probably always be the staple food of the pampas. Here in Sweden we hardly know what good meat is. I learnt to understand my Argentine friend from the Antarctic voyage, José Sobral, who deliberately shook his head at the stuff he was offered in Upsala. I think that then I tried to defend it, but I have already withdrawn my defence.

The delicious steak whets our appetite, and from curiosity one soon cuts into it to see if it has not got the right colour. A pack-saddle or the sleeping-bag is our seat. A large piece of meat in one hand, the big sheath-knife in the other—that’s the way to eat asado. A couple of biscuits and a cup of cocoa end our meal—dinner and supper at the same time. Generally we only fed twice a day, put a piece of biscuit or cold meat, if there was any, in our pocket, and ate it during one of the halts we were forced to make to give the horses a spell of rest. They got thirsty and we wanted to stretch our legs.

Darkness falls over the expanses, the stars come out, and our camp-fire more and more commands the surroundings. We gladly linger a while over our pipes; it is the most pleasant hour of the day, and, if possible, we want to prolong it. But there is a next day, and the thought of this makes us look for a bed in the bushes, spread out the bag, make a bundle of the clothes under the head, creep down, and enjoy the last whiff of smoke. Ah, these nights under the open sky—it seems almost a pity to sleep—now out in the open camp, where the barren sand gleams between the grass and the ghostly silhouette of a single bush stands against the sky, now under soughing trees, where the moonbeams seek a way through the black foliage. Cross and Centaur wander the eternal road, the murmur of the stream is conducive to sleep.... A ghostly cry breaks the stillness, our dogs prick up their ears and bark: only a hungry fox who has scented our pantry! From Pagels’ bag comes a “gute Nacht,” one turns to find a comfortable position, and is soon at home among the firs and red-painted houses in the land far away, which now looks so marvellous to us. The night is clear and cold, and with great satisfaction we greet the first sunbeams that creep from the ocean all the way to the foot of the Andes. The day will get hot, and the thing is to get off when the freshness of the morning still lies over the land. First the morning toilet must be performed. The reader imagines, I should think, how we enjoyed a good wash in the purling brook; alas! we also imagined it, but it was seldom accomplished in reality. It did not pay, for after half an hour’s ride one was as dirty again, and we were more satisfied with occasional thorough cleanings on solemn occasions. But there was one paragraph in our codex of cleanliness from which there was no exception: he who was to make bread must first wash his hands.

Work was certainly not lacking in the morning. Collections and notes had to be put in order, the breakfast prepared, and the horses driven to the camp, caught, and saddled. Every day I had plants to press, which I performed in a simple manner, for naturally the usual heavy plant-presses were banished; but with two pieces of cardboard, a rope, and old newspapers I got in the settlements I managed all right. Breakfast consisted for the most part of porridge, meat, bread (when we had any), and coffee. It was soon eaten, cups and plates washed, the saucepan cleaned. This last job we took by turns; not even the palatable scrapings could make it enjoyable.

The watch-horse was saddled; we must look for the others. In most cases this did not give us much trouble, because when it was possible we carefully chose good pasture. It was much worse to catch the horses. With the ropes we made a corral, easy enough in the forest, but often very tedious when out on the open pampas, where hardly a single suitable bush could be discovered. Some of the animals were easy to catch, but others tried our patience, hiding amongst their fellows or breaking away. Finally the full number of six were tied and we started to saddle. We always saddled our own horses, and soon got very expert at handling all sorts of gear. The loads lay ready waiting, nothing was forgotten, and the first camping-ground disappeared behind a hill.

We could soon distinguish our destination for the second day, a single rust-brown peak, called Pico Quemado (The Burnt). Following the Cordillera, the track went ceaselessly uphill and downhill. But the monotony was broken when suddenly the load on one of the horses loosened. We stopped and tried to catch him, but he bolted at once. The load slipped round, terrible kicks struck the boxes, and our coffee-pot soon was changed into a tragi-comic, completely useless utensil. “It served you right, you ass!” Pagels said, when the beast at last lay there, entangled in the rope. By-and-by we gained more experience, though not a day elapsed when we had not to rearrange the loads. The whole day we were ascending, it grew colder, and the wind freshened and felt biting cold in spite of the northerly latitude. At 4900 feet we reached the pass, and made downhill towards a small stream on the south side of Pico Quemado.

Another day and we came across the first houses, a small settlement, and in the evening stopped in front of a large wooden house in Ñorquinco. Here the Chile-Argentina Company has established a branch. The place is as typical of civilised Patagonia as we could wish: an iron shed for the telegraph office, where floats a faded Argentine flag, a boliche with horse-gear, bunches of stirrups and spurs, hanging from the roof, a pile of sheepskins thrown into a corner, heaps of clothing, gaudy handkerchiefs, black, huge-brimmed hats, knives and revolvers, long rows of tin boxes with multicoloured labels, and last, but not least, the cantina—the bar with wine-barrels, shelves of bottles in all the shifting colours of the rainbow, pisco (a weak Chilean brandy), æruginous Menta liqueur, Jamaica rum with its nigger head, whisky and brandy, some champagne bottles and the wash-up tub, where the glass is dipped an instant before it is offered to the next customer. Outside at the traditional barrier some horses are tied, waiting for their masters. And they will have to wait.... The dice are thrown, laughter echoes within the walls. Swarthy individuals, pure Indians dressed in poncho and wide trousers, pulled together at the wrist, white socks, and a pair of slippers, Chileans, Argentiners, and gringos (strangers). A dirty policeman, dressed in the remains of a uniform, hangs about the bar. Conversation stops for a moment when we enter: evidently we do not look like everyday comers and they gaze curiously at our cargo. The social tone is free and friendly here. You suddenly find yourself a member of the party, a glass is thrust into your hand, Salud! to right and left, and then it is your turn to order a “round.” If one has any idea of Patagonian customs, one takes care not to refuse—it might cost one dear.

It was easy enough for us to get dinner and a bed, but we thought more of our horses. Everywhere here the scanty grass was gone, and as there were no paddocks we were anxious lest the horses should run away—a starved horse strays until he finds something to eat.

At seven in the morning the policeman rode away to look for our troop, and we awaited his return anxiously. And when he returned alone we knew the truth: the horses had gone. There are many points on the compass, but we must seek in all. Kind souls offered their services, others confined themselves to discussing matters and made all sorts of guesses. The inspector of police, who had arrived, declared that the horses most probably had gone back to Bariloche, and we sent a telegram there; others were inclined to suspect that thieves had had a hand in it; one fellow looked at the inspector and whispered to me that the police perhaps knew ... Well, it would not have been the first time a thing like that had happened in the Cordillera. A number of peons (camp-labourers) were sent to look in different directions, and we strolled far away over the hills, provided with glasses; we saw some horses, but not ours. At noon, however, one of the men returned with the mare and five horses, but the other five had strayed away. New guests arrived in the evening; our horses were the favourite topic, and if good advice had been able to do anything, certainly there was plenty. We went to bed in a miserable state of mind. Five horses gone; we could not buy others without getting into debt, and who knew if anybody would be willing to give unknown strangers credit? And without these horses, the caravan reduced to half, it would prove impossible to carry out our scheme—an ignominious end to our bold hopes. The next day we arranged a systematic search. Indian peons got the description of the horses, and were promised a reward if they brought them back. They intended to track them down. The horses were shod, it is true, and therefore easy to distinguish from others, but the hardness of the ground and the strong wind would make matters more difficult. We resolved to continue our march with the rest of the caravan, leaving Pagels behind to watch over our interests and make inquiries of people all round in his beautiful Spanish. However, we had almost lost hope of seeing our animals (some of them good horses) any more, and began to believe that thieves had driven them out of the way on purpose, only waiting for us to lose patience and leave the place—an old Patagonian trick often employed with profit. We left Ñorquinco and followed a cart-track, after a while turning to the west, through a very distinct pass, a true portezuelo, leading down into the valley of Rio Chubut. Large herds of cattle were grazing on the well-watered meadows, and, hungry as they were, our horses would not have refused a good meal, but time did not permit of this. Rio Chubut, one of the largest rivers of Patagonia, is here only small, though sometimes so swollen that it is difficult to cross. Now there was not much water, and we easily reached the small estancia Maytén, where we stopped for the night. Only the wife of the capataz (the “boss”) was at home, and at first she did not seem very willing to welcome us, but after a while promised to cook some food and let us sleep in the peons’ quarters. I do not blame her, for the master of the home was away and we might have been a band of rascals, a possibility not at all contradicted by our appearance. A gentleman rider in Patagonia brings several servants, and if one does any sort of work usually left to the peons this never evokes admiration, but only sheer astonishment.

As on every estancia one or two horses are tethered for the night, we let ours go, and in the morning a peon promised to fetch them. He went away all right; and came back after two hours—without the horses: “he had not gone in the right direction,” he said. A traveller, a kind fellow, who had spent the night with us, offered to fetch them himself, and finally, at noon, they came. The peon had been there, for a bozal that we had left on one of the pack-horses in order to catch him with less trouble was gone. There was no time to look for it; it was nearly one o’clock, and we had a ride of thirty-one miles in front of us. Over easy ground we followed the Chubut river till it bent to the east, and at nightfall reached the Lelej valley, where we soon perceived a group of large buildings, indicating a big farm. It was the headquarters of the “English-Argentine Land Company,” whose manager, Mr. Preston, welcomed us in a very kind manner. Lelej is typical of a large cattle-farm. In a low building of red brick—the ground is cheap, so there is no reason to make houses of more than one storey—are the lodgings, offices, shops, and stores; all round are various workshops, such as a carpenter’s and a blacksmith’s shop, the house of the “bosses,” and the plain ranchos of the peons. In the vicinity one does not look in vain for the piles of fuel, brought there from a long distance, the great, ever-increasing heap of empty tin boxes, the bulky, high-wheeled bullock-carts, and the rolls of wire. Round the houses stretch smallish potreros, or paddocks, for the hundreds of horses in daily use, and away over the hills the fences run straight as an arrow.

The peons are a peculiar class of people. Pure Indians or mestizos, they are nearly all doomed to eternal bachelorhood; one can hardly imagine a married peon. All day they spend on horseback, at night they crawl in on the earthen floor round the cauldron with puchero hanging down from the roof, feed, smoke a cigarette, take innumerable cups of maté, then, wrapped in a blanket, they sleep on some rags in a corner. Pleasures of life take the form of maté and tobacco, and, of course, spirit, when they can get it. Here is the home of a peon to-day; to-morrow he does some foolish thing, takes too long a siesta, perhaps, and is sent off. In five minutes he has packed together his property, put them and himself on a horse, and has galloped away to seek fortune elsewhere. Of course, he has horses, often a whole drove; horses multiply and there is always pasture. But light come, light go; an attracting “pub,” an unscrupulous publican, and after some days of splendid intoxication he rides away on a borrowed horse. A peon who saves his pay puts it all into his horse-trappings; one can see him in his Sunday clothes with a small fortune of silver on the horse, an ancient custom inherited from Tehuelche or Araucanian ancestors. It is curious to think that not many years ago this vast land was the free battlefield of the Indian, he who now is its most humble servant, whom any stranger with a piece of land thinks it fitting to kick and insult, always letting him understand that he belongs to an inferior race, living at the intruder’s mercy. Sometimes it happens that he gains the confidence of his master, is promoted to capataz and gets his own house; and should it happen that a girl finds her way out to the camp, he may get a family also. A common peon she does not look at; there are always persons of higher rank who are glad to take care of her.

Life in Lelej goes like clockwork. All the employees are Englishmen or Scotchmen and have brought their customs to the new country. On the stroke of half-past six they are sitting at breakfast, where every passing gentleman may be sure of a seat and a mutton chop; the bread is as English as one could wish, and luncheon or dinner arrives with magnificent beef or roast mutton. And if one discovers a football or golf clubs it is nothing astonishing. Lelej appeared to us a very well managed enterprise, where people work ceaselessly.

The greatest difficulties these settlements in the Andes have to contend with are the bad communications. Everything goes by cart to the Atlantic coast, making journeys lasting weeks and months, under great difficulties of finding water on the half desert-like plains. Great railway schemes are now spoken of, or even started, and then Patagonia will be able to show what she is capable of.

Lelej was the last telegraph station, and we were in continuous communication with Ñorquinco. All hope seemed gone, as Pagels asked permission to buy a new horse and join us; but I asked him to stop another day, which proved to be a piece of luck. We had plenty of work in the neighbourhood—made a ride up in the mountains, where snow still lay in the forests, just dressed in the verdure of spring. Quensel visited the flourishing Cholila valley in the west, and Halle was busy collecting fossils. However, we worked with depressed spirits. Certainly Mr. Preston had promised to guarantee us money if we telegraphed to Buenos Aires for some; he had no horses to sell us himself. Later it proved that it would have been very difficult to get any. We did not want to get the expedition into debt, as it was our pride to make an exception to the rule. November came, still no news. Then, on November 2, like a sunbeam from an overclouded sky came the following telegram: “Hay noticias de caballos perdidos; Señor Pagels fué traerlos, seguirá viaje mañana,” or, “Lost horses traced; Mr. Pagels gone to fetch them, continues his journey to-morrow.” The title plainly showed that Pagels had understood how to inspire due respect! It had been sent the day before, and we could expect him the same day, and were almost ready to embrace the fugitives when they appeared. Everything had nearly come to nought; Pagels had bought a horse on credit, and had one foot in the stirrup, when an Indian came on horseback and told him that he knew where the horses were. What a big weight was off our minds!

Merry as before and with a complete caravan we started for the next halting-place, two days off. Now and then we put up ostriches (Rhea), which flew in all directions with stretched wings, chased by our dogs, who could never overtake them; now and then a small herd of guanacos passed, but they also left Prince and Pavo far behind. We had just unsaddled for the night at the side of a small tributary to Chubut, when on the other side of the water we saw the silhouettes of more than a hundred guanacos against the evening sky. It would have been easy to get a good bag, but as long as we were in communication with settled parts we need not leave a settlement without a couple of fine steaks added to the loads, and wild animals were safe from our bullets.

Guarded by the Esguel Mountains, a large plain stretched before us, and far away we could see two high peaks, between which our way would run, through the so-called Nahuelpan Pass. It is a narrow but fertile valley, with small cornfields round the grey Indian ranchos, shadowed by small groves of cedars. We were not quite sure of the way to Clarke’s place, which we wanted to visit, and asked an Indian who passed us; he told us that we had missed our way, and would have to go back again, but also that if we continued through the pass we should strike Underwood’s farm in “Colonia 16-de-Octubre.” Certainly we had special reasons for seeing Clarke; Preston had sent letters to him, and besides he was an educated man, a B.A. of an English university; but the détour would be too much for our animals, and we continued down to Underwood, where we arrived after a march of thirty-four miles. The neat little brick cottage lies embowered in a garden. Mr. Underwood was away, but his wife welcomed us, and we soon felt at home. By a happy chance Mr. Clarke came driving there the same night, bound on a business journey through the valley, and thus we had the great pleasure of making his acquaintance.

The “Valle 16-de-Octubre” is one of the most fertile and populous of the transandine valleys. It is watered by Rio Corintos, further down joining Rio Futaleufú, which empties into Lago Yelcho, in its turn discharging by Rio Yelcho into the Pacific. We stood by the same river where we had camped some months earlier, but the entire Cordillera was between the two places. Here Chile had certainly wanted to emphasize the principle that a water-divide was the natural frontier, but as the valley had been colonized by Welshmen from Chubut (Trelew), Argentine kept the whole valuable part of it. We wanted to give our horses a rest and let them browse a few days, and Clarke came with us to look for a farm where people would be willing to lend us horses for our excursions.

Shut in by magnificent mountain-chains, this valley is a real gem, green with vast meadows, wheat-fields, and clover-fields, adorned by nice country houses, where fruit-trees and berry-bushes, cauliflower and lettuce were a delight to behold. We became quite homesick when we rode through. At the schoolhouse we stopped. The children are taught in Welsh, but most of the people we met also spoke English and Spanish. We crossed Rio Corintos, where fat cows of English breeds grazed on the banks, and made a halt at a farm of very modest aspect. The owner, however, was a wealthy man. He was out marking colts, but his wife asked us to off-saddle and come in, and welcomed us with a maté. Then Don Antonio Miguens came. He received us very kindly indeed, promised us horses, and proved a thorough gentleman. He is, besides, a very original man.

On November 6 we rode further into the valley with fresh horses. At the beginning we made good speed; then the valley narrowed and the patches of beautiful cedar-forest, further east only growing in the ravines, closed into a dense covering on the steep slopes down to the broad river that rushed westward, embracing green islands. Ever since the time when the valley was explored from the Pacific side a path has been left, but it is anything but inviting, running up and down over neck-breaking barrancas, through thickets and stony places. The horses were used to this ground, and did not hesitate, but jumped over the barricades of fallen forest giants. One had better not sleep in the saddle, for one’s knees are in continual danger from trunks and huge blocks. We met passages so intricate that we had to leave them to the horse’s judgment—the only disaster that happened was that our coffee-pot (the second!) suffered a fatal shock. However, by giving it another kick we made it possible to use for the day. The vegetation more and more showed signs of the rain-forest, our old friends the beeches and myrtle-trees appeared again, and when we reached the boundary-mark high up on the south bank of the river Chile welcomed us with rain and fog.

With a sense of regret we parted with the valley and sought a way south over very broken ground with dense brushwood here and there, making it difficult to keep together. We were not at all sure of having chosen the best way till we came in sight of Lake Rosario and the extensive peat-bogs at its west end, where we passed it. Here Jeremias, one of the pack-horses—thus named because he uttered strange, plaintive sounds when being saddled—got a chance to prove his eminent intelligence. We had suspected that he was not quite normal, and now made certain. He caught sight of some horses on the other side of the swamps, was seized by a sudden desire to make their acquaintance, and in a rapid gallop flew down the slope. We followed him as fast as our horses could carry us, but only arrived to see him sink down, kick in desperation, and disappear to his belly. It was a wet swamp of the worst kind, and we nearly lost him. At first all efforts proved futile, the ground would not bear us, but we managed to unload him, and thus saved both him and the load.

At a tributary of Rio Carrenleufú we camped for the night, and the next morning made for the main river. We had some trouble with our horses, as two of them had sore backs and could not be used. The least pressure of a saddle might render them useless for weeks.

We tried to set a course straight for a settlement indicated on the Argentine map. The ground was very poor, innumerable ravines filled with thickets, and sometimes so wet that the horses had to wade in loose black mud over their knees. It was more by good luck than good management that we struck the house of Robert Day, where hospitality indeed had its abode. Seldom do you find its laws so strictly kept as in Patagonia. In the settlement of white men or the rancho of an Indian, everywhere you are received with open arms, and the best there is is put on the table. Every effort is made to keep you there; never is the house too limited or the table too small. We shall never forget old Day, his jolly wife and swarm of children. The eldest sons had built their own cottages at other places in the valley. Day is a true pioneer of the old school, and in our Patagonian Baedeker we have marked him with three stars. Originally, he, as well as so many others, had come to look for the yellow metal, but finished in good time and now has a rather flourishing farm. However, he complained of the Government. On repeated occasions he had offered to buy the ground, but never got a definite answer; he had lived there seventeen years, but could not feel sure that he would not be chased away any day it pleased the authorities.

Hitherto our direction had been more or less straight south, but from Carrenleufú we bent eastward in order to visit the camp round Rio Tecka, one of Chubut’s sources, and at the same time make the acquaintance of one of the very few Swedes in Patagonia, Don Carlos Flach, of the well-known Swedish noble family. In Valparaiso we were told that he was manager on an estancia belonging to the Cochamó Company, named after Rio Cochamó, which discharges into the Reloncaví Inlet not far from Puerto Montt. There a road has been made across to the Pacific coast, but it is said to be passable only to riders. Only one day’s march separated us from Pampa Chica, where the sought-for estancia should be, but the track is rather ill-famed because of the extensive pantanos, and, according to Day, sometimes quite impassable. The saddle-horses were happily brought over the bad places, but of course Jeremias was bogged and caused us trouble and loss of time. In the afternoon we came across a flock of the company’s sheep; they were badly afflicted with scab, the wool hanging in tatters all round them. Well hidden by the foot of a hill there was Flach’s cottage, and the master of the house was not a little astonished when three dusty riders greeted him in his own language. A merry encounter it was, and he at once offered to let us share his small hut; the lodge had burnt down some time previous to our arrival. The company seemed to be of the Yelcho sort; it had gone into liquidation and was selling the animals. Flach was about to leave, only waiting to get his money. He was thinking of getting a piece of camp further south. Again our horses could rest, for Flach lent us some for our excursions. The vegetation was glorious here, and I had plenty to do from morning to evening.

It had proved more than necessary to get two more animals in order to change the pack-horses, and this problem was solved in a most unexpected manner. Flach presented us with one, which belonged to nobody, but had been two years on the company’s camp. Of course he was baptized Flax (Flach’s; untranslatable Swedish pun; Flax is = luck), and turned out one of our very best horses. Besides, we bought a small but good horse; under the name of Johansson he carried me at least every second march-day during the rest of the time.

Of my horses I kept Solo, the largest of our animals, but the old Manasse was degraded to a pack-horse. Quensel got Flax, Halle took Jacob and gave Lazarus (a long time with a sore back, thus his name) to Pagels, one of whose horses became a pack-horse. The new horses learnt to keep with our troop by getting coupled with the mare the first nights. This lady was not tame, and often annoyed us with her impertinent looks and her obstinacy. To ride a mare is hardly thinkable in Patagonia.

Thus we considered ourselves well off, bought more provisions, and on November 15 left our new friend, whose small cottage soon disappeared from sight behind the yellow hills.