LAKE BUENOS AIRES

During the first few hours we followed the Coyaike valley back the same way we had come, and then turned south in order to cross a ridge, separating us from the Mayo valley, which did not look very inviting. A disagreeable yellow-brown colour told us that we should find the crossing of it unpleasant. Generally we all used to ride after the troop, two just behind and one on each flank, but here we came to a passage where two of us had to keep ahead of the caravan and survey the camp, or we might be bogged without a warning. The swamps are very treacherous here, and sometimes we climbed a hill to get a view of the terrain. Now and then we tried to follow the track of a guanaco; this is, however, no particularly safe device, for where the light guanaco can pass a heavy horse might easily sink down. I rode Solo for the first time after his recovery. He sank up to his girths twice, and I had to throw myself off instantly and get him on safe ground again. Rio Mayo presents a good example of a very small brook offering serious difficulties. If a stream, running deep down in a sort of furrow with the peat projecting like a shelf above the water, is so broad that it cannot be jumped, it is anything but easy to get the horses across. It is not so bad if there is a firm bed, but in many cases the animal sinks deep down in loose mud and is lost. Also a bed of sand or gravel may be troublesome; even if one can urge the beast down it is much labour to get him up again, the peat everywhere giving way under his hoofs. It is of the utmost importance to find a suitable ford, even if it should cost you loss of time. Along a considerable distance of Rio Mayo we found only one place where we could cross this insignificant stream, and it took us half an hour’s hard labour before we had the horses safe on the other side. The main thing is to master the mare; the others will follow her—if they are not like Ruckel or Jeremias, who had wills of their own and nearly turned our hair grey.

The Mayo valley is said to be one of the last refuges for half-wild Tehuelches, living in their toldos in the ancient manner. We did not see any traces of them, but at a distance sighted a rancho, horses and cattle indicating that the valley was inhabited. We had no time to stop.

In front of us lay a great obstacle, a meseta raising its barrancas to a height of 4750 feet. There is a path cut through the forest west of this mountain, but it had not been used for a long time and was said to be almost impassable; the people in Aysen had advised us not to try it—they did not know anything of the meseta itself, but thought it would be easier to cross it. To ride round its east end is simple, but did not suit our plans. Meseta Chalía, named thus because the Rio Chalía originates on its west plateaus, consists of loose material and lacks the basaltic crust that made the table-mountains so dreaded. But we were soon to see that the difficulties were not less here.

A trying climb commenced, and leading the horses in zigzag we reached the edge of the plateau, extending in front of us level as a floor and covered with round stones like cobbles; it reminded us of the marketplace in a small town. For the most part there was no vegetation, only strips of a meagre heath of diddledee, strikingly recalling Alpine tundra. We waited some minutes to recover our breath, and then set out. Some few steps—what does this mean? The pavement, looking so firm and safe, will not bear us! Between the blocks, which fret the skin, the horses go down into a terrible viscous stuff: when the snow melted the soil had been saturated with water—it is what geologists call solifluction, though the soil does not move, the ground being fairly horizontal. Some snow-patches were still left; at their edge there was no bottom. It was desperate work. To ride was not to be thought of; we tramped and tramped, dragging our saddle-horses and whipping the others. We struggled to get on to the firm strips of heath where we could breathe a moment, which we really deserved, for the misery lasted several hours. Suddenly we found ourselves at the edge of a ravine, so steep that we had not observed it till we were close on it. Every small brook, fed by the snowdrifts, has cut a very deep canyon; the sides are clad with thickets of ñire, dense as a hawthorn hedge, and the bottom is filled up by wretched swamps. But we must go down it. The horses disappeared in the thick carpet, the loads were caught up by the branches, and we needed all our energy to assemble the caravan in the bottom of the ravine, where we found a very welcome camping-place. The next morning we first worked our way out of the canyon, and stood on the plateau again ready to recommence the fight. It grew still worse than the day before. Not even the patches of heath bore us; the horses strove to get there, only to find them occupied by the burrows of the tuco-tuco. Numerous ravines had to be crossed; we made a small détour higher up on the meseta, where we crossed the last, or rather first, rivulets on snow-bridges, at a height of 4600 feet. It was ridiculous to see the horses’ fright at the snow, hitherto only seen from some distance. They required both abuse and the whip, but eventually obeyed, and that was the principal thing.

Finally we stood at the end of the meseta. Three thousand feet below extended the Koslowsky valley, with inviting green meadows; on the other side was another meseta, and to our right was the main range of the Andes, blue and violet in the pale evening light. Now arose the question of getting down into the fine valley, which was more easily said than done. The slope fell away perilously near a right angle. It was furrowed by numerous rivulets, hidden under entangled ñire thickets. We prospected along the edge of the plateau, and, as nothing better could be seen, chose the least uninviting of the ravines. I daresay none of us will ever forget that descent. Hardly able to find foothold, the horses simply slid down the slopes; now and then one fell, but got on his feet again; another broke away, made desperate efforts to gallop up again, and then stopped without knowing what to do. I do not remember how many times we had to let go the horses, climb up on hands and knees, and drive down the much-cursed Ruckel, but I know he tried our patience to the utmost. Rather shaken, we and the horses eventually reached the bottom of the ravine. The slopes were clad with forest-growth and were very steep, and our only chance was to follow the dry, stony river-bed, where huge blocks sometimes barred the way. Thousands of trunks had rolled down from the sides, forming irregular barricades and stopping the march times innumerable. The horses lost their senses, rushed at the sides, dashed into blind alleys, turned round and tried to get back up the canyon. We divided the troop up, each of us taking charge of some animals. Step by step we advanced, giving encouraging shouts, and lashing and chasing fugitives, who baffled all our efforts to keep order. Here indeed was a good opportunity for Jeremias to distinguish himself, and to be sure he did not fail. Lagging behind for a second, he took advantage of an unguarded moment, turned aside, and climbed up through the forest with a speed and energy that he never showed otherwise, and disappeared. A special expedition was sent to fetch him down—and he got a well-deserved thrashing. I had always suspected that horses have not got much real intelligence, but after studying them in all sorts of situations I know that they have not.

By-and-by, when the slopes became less steep and the forest higher and less dense, we took refuge in it. One of us acted as guide, and with some patience one could get the yegua to follow; then it was the business of the drivers to keep the others together. With loud shouts of joy we greeted the open ground—though we could easily keep from laughing when we discovered that the tuco-tuco had taken possession of it. At some distance a large animal sprang to its feet, made some cat-like leaps, and was out of sight. Pagels said that it was a puma (Felis concolor), and very likely it was. The puma, here generally called “el león,” is the largest and most dangerous of the carnívora in Patagonia. He is very common, but seldom seen, keeping out of the way by day. He does not assault man unless wounded, but takes to his heels. However, he is the most dreaded enemy of the sheep, killing them not only for food, but also for the sport of it. Often he returns to his prey, and advantage is taken of that habit to poison the carcass with strychnine, and the next day may find the puma only a few yards from the lamb. To our surprise we did not at once find a camping-place with running water; several of the rivulets from the meseta disappeared in the swamps at its foot. But finally we found an idyllic little place, and were not long in off-saddling. Both we and the horses were longing for a rest. We had marched ten hours without stopping; and even if the distance did not much exceed twenty miles we did not feel ashamed of the result.

It proved necessary to give the horses a day’s rest. For us these days were no rest; generally they were employed in long excursions on foot. The flora of the Koslowsky valley is rich in species, the summer had now come, and a lot of plants, new to me, were in full flower.

We were without meat, and Quensel went to look for human dwellings, which were reported as existing in the valley, while Pagels took the Winchester and went to shoot something. In the evening we were all back in the camp, each with his prey. Quensel had met a mestizo, who led him to his rancho and gave him meat. Pagels returned with some small ducks and a hen eagle; she had some very welcome eggs inside her, which were delightful in the soup. We had had a very meagre diet the last few days, but now made up for the loss. Quensel had promised the people in the rancho that we would visit them when we crossed the valley. Their miserable hut, almost a veritable toldo, lay hidden in a valley—the small river joins Rio Huemules, which in its turn discharges into Aysen. The husband, José, was of mixed breed, half Chilean, half Araucanian; his wife was pure Indian and had been a real beauty. We sat down with the family; evidently we were expected, for when the lid was taken off the cauldron it was found to contain rice-gruel. As far as I know I never showed any predilection for this dish before, and to-day it seems peculiar that I then ate three platefuls with great gusto. So it was, however. José told us that there was quite a new and small settlement on the other side of the valley, and gave us directions for our march. After a while we came to a cottage, where half a dozen sheep-dogs rushed out barking frantically and calling out the inhabitant. He was an Englishman called Brookes, a very nice man, who had settled with about 2000 sheep and seemed to enjoy his life thoroughly. With him lived also a Dane, who was glad to find his native tongue for once understood. Brookes is one of the few camp-men I met who was interested in nature; he started to speak of the steppe flora, and showed me a couple of rare plants that he had in his garden. We wanted to get on after a short while, but the kind souls were so persistent and we found ourselves so comfortable that we resolved to stop for the night, the more so as the Dane, Espersen, offered to show us the best pass over to the next valley. In the evening Mr. Lundberg, from Kuopio, in Finland, came riding in, and invited us to visit his place further west in the valley, which we were sorry not to be able to do. His mother-tongue was Finnish; once he had also spoken some Swedish, but five-and-twenty years had made him forget both and he had never learnt a new language thoroughly. He was best acquainted with English. His case is not unique, I am sure.

The Koslowsky valley lies only a thousand feet above the sea and looks fertile. Probably it will be colonized before long. In this connection the following story from the boundary dispute may be told. According to the rule that water-divide = boundary, this valley would have gone to Chile as well as the Aysen district. But Argentina put forth the following impressive facts: it was already colonized (there was a scheme), one could point to the Casa Koslowsky (a wooden hut) on the map, and last, not least, there was a photo of the telegraph-line there—this telegraph-line I have myself seen on more than one Argentine map. At the house there are fourteen telegraph-posts, with a wire coming from nowhere and going nowhere; inside is apparatus that never spoke and piles of paper strips on the floor. By the award Argentina kept all the valuable part of the valley.

It was December 8 when, in company with Mr. Espersen, we started to cross the pass along the east slope of Meseta Guenguel and descend to the large depression where Lake Buenos Aires extends—the largest of the Patagonian lakes. It was an agreeable ride in bends and turns between the forest-patches. The rise was not so bad but that it permitted us to remain on horseback all the time, and at 3400 feet we reached our highest point; from there we beheld the vast expanse of the lake, with blue mountains behind. In the east the lake reaches the pampas; the western arms penetrate far into the mountains, as far as the edge of the inland ice, with a row of giant summits making one of the most magnificent pieces of scenery of Andine landscape, and culminating in the two peaks San Clemente and San Valentín, the latter with its 13,000 feet being the highest mountain in Patagonia. On the maps as well as in descriptions these mountains are often called volcanoes, but there is no foundation for such a designation; probably they are of the same nature as San Lorenzo, mentioned below.

Lake Buenos Aires has a surface area of about 800 square miles, thus being almost four times as large as the Boden lake. We were sorry not to have a boat, and had to keep along the shore. The lake empties in Rio Baker; as the reader will remember, we were close to its mouth in June. We camped early that day. Quensel and Pagels went to prepare the dinner and I got time to look at the vegetation. On the sandy banks near the river Fenix, where we had our camp, I found quite a number of species I did not know, of which several had just been described as from other parts of Patagonia. Halle continued his studies in the geology of the table-mountains; here he also found fossil plants.

When we got back Quensel had baked bread, and otherwise made extensive preparations for a feast; that is to say, he had boiled a potful of dried figs, all in order to impress our guest, who stayed for the night. I suspect that he had been used to far better kitchens than ours. The next morning we parted; he went back and we continued along the Fenix valley. It was as if midsummer had come at a bound. The air was oppressive, the sand burnt, the horses dripped with sweat, and every time we tracked a bend of the river the dogs plunged into the cold water to cool their sore feet. Rio Fenix winds in innumerable serpentines, bordered by a green fringe; now it leaves a level plateau free at the foot of the barranca, now it cuts so close into it that one must pass with caution.

We sit half dozing in the saddle, too warmly dressed for a day like this, when suddenly there is a stir. Now and then we have passed a small troop of guanacos, but not even the dogs had taken any interest in them. At once we discover that they have young ones amongst them; the dogs are after them and there is a wild hunt. At first the guanacos gain, the small ones straining every endeavour to keep up with the others, and they show a tremendous turn of speed. Now one falls behind, the gap between the small one and the fleeing herd widens; the dogs are there: now it is for us to interfere, or they will tear him to pieces and spoil the meat. It is a very pretty little thing, about a fortnight or three weeks old, with beautiful wool like yellowish red silk on the back and with a white belly. In triumph it is brought to the caravan and added to the load. If one can call the meat of full-grown guanaco very eatable, which I maintain is no exaggeration, that of the young must certainly be characterized as delicious; it tastes like the finest veal, and I refuse to tell how much we ate the first time we had it.

Only very occasionally is the guanaco killed for the sake of its meat; on the whole the older animals are seldom hunted, but the younger more often. Their skin is very much appreciated, and is used for the celebrated quillangos (mantles), which every traveller who passes Punta Arenas or any of the small ports on the Atlantic is able to procure. Even if he has not time to go on shore he may be pretty sure they will come on board; the deck is soon carpeted with products in the way of fur from Patagonia—guanaco and fox, puma and ostrich, and the valuable otter from the Channels. And every passenger steamer brings with it quite a collection of skins and imitation Indian curiosities, all sold at advanced prices for the occasion. A common guanaco mantle measures ten to eleven square feet, and is made of from thirteen to fifteen young animals. In Punta Arenas it costs fifty to eighty pesos, according to the exchange, for in reality one has to pay in English pounds and shillings. Another kind of mantle is made only from the soft skin of the head and legs of the full-grown guanaco; it requires a very great number of animals, and prices run high; I very seldom saw these offered for sale. The beginning of December is the season for the guanaco-hunters; they swarm in certain parts of the Andine pampas, and for the most part do a thriving business. We saw their fires on the north slope of the Fenix valley. I have heard there are some game-laws for guanacos and ostriches, but they are probably ignored, for it is hardly possible to maintain any effective control in the vast uninhabited territories.

Hardly had we begun to move again when the next “plucked and roasted pigeon flew into our mouths.” It was a small armadillo, a common Dasypus minutus. The small armoured ball rolled away, but did not reach its hole before we had it. After a while we caught another. These animals are delicious cooked and eaten cold, or roasted in their hard coats. He who has been lucky enough to try a pig roasted whole in a Scania parsonage can imagine what an armadillo is like. Small baskets made of varnished armadillo, with its tail in its mouth, are among the most common souvenirs brought from Argentina. These animals belong to an order that in ancient times played an important part. The surviving species are dwarfs in comparison with those which lived on the pampas during the Tertiary period, true giants, the armour of which is beautifully represented in the collection of the famous Museo de La Plata.

We had not come across armadillos till we came to the Fenix valley; later on we saw them at times, and they never had time to get clear, since we knew what they were good for. They live on locusts and other insects, and to judge from the contents of their stomachs there is no lack of such.

The midday sun became too hot for us, and especially for our horses; nowhere was there an inch of shade, but nevertheless we made a halt at the river, off-saddled, and took a rest. We wanted to make tea, but not being used to the great heat and drought, we were not cautious enough in making a fire. In less than a second the grass all round was all ablaze, and the fire rapidly spread with the wind, threatening our baggage, which was instantly taken out of reach of it, though not without some small losses. However, we had to isolate it without delay, and the coffee-pot, the cauldron, and Quensel’s waterproof hat sped to and fro from the river, while we at the same time tried to stamp out the flaming tussocks. After an hour’s work the danger, which might have had serious consequences, was nipped in the bud.

Further down the river we came upon a sort of peculiar bush-vegetation, well worth being studied, and we stayed there the next day. Accompanied by Halle, I strolled about all day, and went back loaded with specimens. The bushes, fine species of Lycium, Verbena, and others, were in full flower everywhere in the hot sand; beautiful yellow flowers of Alstrœmeria pygmæa peeped out, as well as small spiny cactus with large yellow, red, and white blossoms. I had to find out a method of conveying the prickly things with me, but they landed home in good condition. Between the tussocks many-coloured lizards scurried to and fro, black and yellow, brown with red and white markings or with a copper lustre—always making me think of Pagels, who entertained an inextinguishable passion for these animals. All of a sudden we would see him stop, jump from his horse, and pursue some speedy lizard, that often was caught in his cap, to be afterwards transferred to an old pickle-bottle he carried in his maletas. The bottle always leaked, and when he looked at his treasures Pagels always lamented: “Herr Doktor, jetzt gehen meine Eidechsen vollkommen kaputt!”

When Quensel and Pagels, who had been out doing geology and hunting, returned we all took a bath in the river. The hunting had yielded poor results; they had come across some guanacos, but the feet of the dogs were so damaged by the hot sand that not even the young could attract them. By the river were plenty of geese, and with regret we thought of our gun; with the Winchester we got only a scraggy gander.

At sunset it grew rapidly chilly, and the thermometer fell to freezing-point, 32° F., which did not prevent its running up next day to 86° F. in the shade again. We followed the river for some distance, and then took a short cut across the hilly country down to Lake Buenos Aires. Here we chanced among a veritable labyrinth of sand-dunes. We started to look for ostrich eggs, and succeeded in finding two; unfortunately they were addled. Such eggs! The only drawback is that it takes twenty minutes to boil them, and then they are but lightly boiled. The reason we did not follow the river was that it runs east for some miles before turning south, and finally west, emptying into the lake. It is a rather peculiar river. Just east of its bend another river, the Deseado, starts from a swamp, fed by occasional tributaries from the north; further down other streams join it, and now visible, now disappearing in the marshes, it runs across Patagonia and discharges into the Atlantic. The water-parting between Deseado and Fenix—i.e., between the Atlantic and the Pacific—is very insignificant. Rio Fenix has only just abandoned its old course to the Atlantic, and it was possible for Dr. Moreno to remove some of the morainic material and coax it back for a while. Even now it sometimes sends water to Rio Deseado.

At the east end of the lake there is almost a desert—dry, stony plains where the few plants look like monsters, to such a degree have they adapted themselves to an abnormal life. One is agreeably surprised when suddenly the canyon of Fenix river opens at one’s feet; there is luscious green grass; the horses betray delight at this sight, and it is easier than usual to drive them down the steep barranca. We made our camp not far from the outlet of the river, where traces of one of the encampments of the Boundary Commission still remained.

Our supply of meat was finished, the dogs had to live on their own fat—not much to speak of—and we made inroads upon our poor vegetables.

A cool breeze from the lake welcomed us as we rode out of the canyon to go round the east end of the big water, and the waves broke in over the shingle, which was adorned by large-flowered yellow œnotheras. I have seldom seen anything more inanimate than nature here. There was not a bird to be seen on the water, not an animal in the ravines running down to the shore from the south; here and there white guanaco bones gleamed in the bushes, but not a living thing was to be seen. We made a halt in the canyon of Rio Chilcas and camped. A rumour had spoken of fossils having been found there. Quensel and Halle were busy looking for them; I myself spent the time as usual, and Pagels tried to replenish our pantry, but he returned empty-handed, and supper was identical with breakfast—pancakes of wheat-flour and water!

On the north shore of the lake there is a small settlement that we did not see; otherwise the whole region is uninhabited, in spite of the good grass along Fenix and south of the lake, which lies only 712 feet above sea-level, for which reason the winters cannot be very severe. An abandoned rancho not far from the Chilcas valley showed that people have lived here for some time. The geologists’ efforts proved futile, which did not surprise them; the kind of rock was not promising for the discovery of fossil remains, and we resolved to leave the place and move our camp to Rio Jeinemeni, which we were to follow to a pass across the mountains. We left the lake, but enjoyed a last sight of it, following the shore at some distance, and higher up making for Rio de los Antiguos, which runs parallel with Rio Jeinemeni, and the canyon of which we should have to cross. We rested an hour near some lagoons, and in vain tried to get some birds—there were numbers of black-necked swans and ducks, but the swans kept far off from the shore and the ducks hid themselves in the reeds. At random we cut across a plateau to reach the river, and there we had a narrow escape. Arrived at the edge of the canyon, we saw the river whirling below, and the barranca was about 450 feet high. How were we to get down? A safe method would have been to follow the river down and cross it near the mouth, as we could see from the map that it must be more fordable there; however, this meant loss of time and did not suit us. We experienced the truth of the proverb “More haste less speed.” We rode to a point from where we got a view up the valley, but nowhere could we see a passage; all along the barranca fell away almost vertically. Just below our feet, however, was a sandy slope with some bushes, falling off at an angle of 45°; what came after we could not see, the rest of the barranca being too steep to be visible from where we were. But Pagels assured us that he could see a “very good place,” and we started to slide down. It went all right for a while, though it was, of course, some time before we got the horses to understand what a fine way we had found for them. Our delight was of short duration; after a few minutes we found ourselves at the top of a hard, nearly vertical sandstone wall without the slightest trace of vegetation. To turn back was out of the question. Fortunately the mountain here is furrowed by small streams during the spring floods, and there was nothing to be done but climb down one of the ravines, where stones and loose blocks, plunging down at the slightest touch, made the descent very risky. We had hard work to force the horses down the ravine. It was so narrow (the section was V-shaped) that we had to crawl in single file. Repeatedly a horse would dash at the sides; instantly he had to be driven back, or he went to certain death. Step by step they were literally whipped down, sliding and falling, stumbling on treacherous blocks; the whip brought them to their feet again, and one after the other landed safely in the thickets at the foot of the barranca. Pagels had remained behind to look for Ruckel, who on this day was carrying tent and provisions; he had refused to come with the other horses, and disappeared in the bushes to find his own private way down. Quensel and Halle climbed up to see what was going forward, but I found waiting tiresome, tied the horses, and climbed the wall following another ravine. I had come half-way when I stopped and shouted, but did not get any answer. I could see nothing; climbed down again and walked along the foot, and suddenly a dreadful sight met my eyes. Half-way up the wall, at the end of a small ravine ending abruptly, stood Ruckel, with his load hanging loose, his legs entangled in the ropes, trembling from head to foot, and without the most microscopical chance of getting up or down, to right or left. Straight above him on the slope were my comrades. How had he got there? He had fallen, tumbled down sideways with load and all, rolled about 90 feet, and was lucky to recover his foothold at the very last moment; another inch and he would have been dashed to pieces. Halle and Quensel had seen him fall, and hastened up to end his sufferings with a merciful bullet; to their immense surprise they found him standing upright. The small space where he was able to keep on his feet sloped down; at any moment his strength might give out and he would be precipitated down and probably killed, for below him the barranca sloped inward. There seemed nothing to be done. I climbed up till I stood under him; the ropes were cut and the things lowered down to me, and I carried them down. As far as we could see the beast was not much injured, and was only bleeding very little, so we of course wanted to save him. Just below him, to the left, a small ridge protruded; could we get him across it, there was a small ravine leading down. Lying on his stomach and clinging to the projections on the rock in a manner hardly believable, Pagels dug some steps in the sandstone with my sheath-knife, Ruckel regarding him immovable as the Sphinx. Pagels crept down, tugged at the cabresta—well, I hardly know what happened; some rapid steps half in the air, an instant he lay floundering and kicking with his belly across the ridge, then was dragged into the ravine and saved! Rubber must have gone to the construction of a good deal of his body, for the following morning he was not even lame. Ruckel had celebrated Lucia Day in his own original way, and now we could laugh at the adventure. When we looked at the barranca from below we could hardly believe that we had come down there. The affair had cost time, and we saw ourselves forced to camp at Rio Antiguos, where another unsuccessful shoot forced us to continue our pancake diet and the dogs to go with empty stomachs.

We were off early the next morning, for we wanted to cross the river when there was not so much water as later in the day. It was easier to climb out of the canyon than it had been to get into it, and so we went on to Rio Jeinemeni. This river is the frontier between Chile and Argentina. We thought the best way to the pass would be to follow the bank of the river, and therefore climbed down into the magnificent canyon. There was a stony strip of land along the water where we could ride, but owing to the innumerable turns one could not look ahead for more than a very short distance at a time. We had not been under way long before we had to alight and lead the horses. Now the barranca sent sharp ridges out in the water, where a false step would have been fatal; now we came across heaps of blocks and débris fallen down from the wall, now deep ravines, to get across which one almost needed trained circus horses; if one risked remaining in the saddle, one hardly escaped getting literally torn off by the tough ñire branches. We sent Pagels ahead to signal if any serious obstacle appeared. All of a sudden a barranca ran almost vertically down into the river, leaving a passage about two or three feet broad. Some bushes increased the difficulties. Steady! The mare looks at the water, but it does not seem very inviting. Then she throws a glance full of unsatisfied desire towards the sky, but 90° was evidently too much for her, and anxiously squinting at last she walks the right way, followed by the other party in single file. Suddenly full stop! Pagels has stopped to clear away some bushes; we shout to him to hurry up, but it is already too late. Jeremias has taken the lead. With firm resolution he turns right, crosses a branch of the river, and lands on a sandbank, where he stops looking more stupid than ever. Evidently the mare finds his idea brilliant, and plunges after him, and the other loose horses are not behindhand in following their example. We caught one of the packhorses before he had time to carry his evil plans into execution; but the other, Manasse, was already in the middle of the rapid stream, and with mixed feelings we saw the water washing his load. Fortunately he carried the cases. There was no time for cogitation; once out in the main branch Manasse would probably have perished. Pagels hastened after the fugitives and brought them back. It was a narrow escape; we might have lost valuable collections, journals, and note-books. The going was wretched, but we continued up the river till the barranca made further progress absolutely impossible. We climbed up about a thousand feet to try if it was not better up there. Pagels was sent ahead with the Winchester, and a deer really came within range; however, the distance was great, and though hit the animal did not drop, but rushed down the slope and fled into Chile—that is to say, he swam over the river, where he fell down dead. The dogs rushed after him, threw themselves into the water, the current took them, and they were hardly able to reach the shore. We did not know if there was any ford; at this hour of the day the river looked like boiling mud, and it was not without risk to try to wade it. However, Quensel, on Flax, the most reliable of our horses, offered to try, and Halle and I drove the troop to a suitable halting-place. Pagels stopped at the river to help Quensel. Half an hour passed, one hour—we began to get anxious and walked down the slope, and were glad indeed to meet them, Flax carrying a pair of substantial deer-steaks on the saddle. Quensel had got a bath in the river and had had a narrow escape; he declared that with any other horse he would not have been successful. “You will never see Pavo any more,” he added. We were very sorry at the loss of the dog, but at the same time glad that nothing worse had happened—and our sorrow did not last long, for whom did we see after a while, lumbering up the slope, but Pavo, exhausted and dripping with water.

It had grown late. Quensel’s clothes were soaked, and we resolved to camp on the spot, in spite of the fuel being very scarce and the water bad. We had to fetch it from a small pond so full of tiny crustaceans that it turned quite red when boiled. We had a great feast of venison, and both ourselves and the dogs enjoyed a hearty meal. We also found time to prospect for the next day, and saw that we must keep high above the river; it was a mistake ever to try the bottom of the canyon. We resumed at a height of from 2200 to 3000 feet; it turned out all right, and we camped at Rio Zeballos, at 3300 feet, the largest tributary to Jeinemeni, in the most inviting, dry, fragrant roble-forest. We had a cold night and there was thick ice in the coffee-pot when we rose. The horses enjoyed the fresh mountain pasturage, and Quensel and I employed the day in an excursion on foot up into the mountains. We soon found a guanaco-track that we could follow for more than a thousand feet. Now and then a guanaco was seen, and once we sat down and remained immovable, I with the camera. Making smaller and smaller circles, one approached, stopped now and then, gave a neigh and pricked up his ears. He felt some anxiety, but curiosity overcame it, and I snapped him from about a hundred feet. Later we tried the same manœuvre with a fat deer, but I wanted to get closer, and he was frightened and made off. Above the forests we climbed over rattling heaps of loose slates; numbers of charming Alpine plants were in flower among débris and snowfields, and from a crest of 5700 feet we had a splendid view: to the east the mighty basalt-covered meseta; to the north we cast a last glance at Lake Buenos Aires, where the smoke from the guanaco-hunters’ camp was still visible; to the west deep, forest-clad valleys and summits, not yet found on any map; to the south the Zeballos pass, our battlefield for the coming day. We felt monarchs up here, as if these immense Alps, the snowdrifts, flowers and noble animals were our property. Never is the sense of freedom greater than in the high mountain air with a good expanse of the earth below one’s feet. Down we went, faster than we had come up; we slid down the steep, loose heaps of stones, half ran through the mountain swamps where red-brown geese had their nests, and dived into the forest. Only Pavo was in the camp when we arrived there. Later Pagels arrived with some guanaco-meat; he had been on the meseta where our way led, and said that he had surveyed a beautiful track for the march. We received this not uncommon information with equanimity, born of long experience.