LAGO BELGRANO

On December 17 we crossed Rio Zeballos and climbed the east side of the valley. Pagels was very proud of the route he had planned, but his self-importance began to diminish when we came to one swamp after the other and had to go round them. The small streams were numerous, and had, of course, cut deep ravines, over which we could hardly force a way between blocks and thickets; at one place we had to be very careful, but the horses managed it very well indeed. The ascent up to the pass was better than we had been used to, and we reached the highest point at 5000 feet. Large snowdrifts were still left, and the ground was very soft. Round the pass are several well-marked peaks looking like sentinels, one of them also bearing the name of Cerro Centinela. Our way down was longer and gave us more trouble than we had counted upon; we had been in the saddle ten hours before we saw the first few bushes and could obtain a little shelter behind some rocks at the bend of Rio Gio, close to the Chilean frontier. The weather had turned out stormy, and a strong wind blew, making it rather difficult to cook the dinner, while the rain pelted down as it can only pelt in Chile.

Our original plan for the summer had also included a visit to the estancia of the Baker Company, whereby we should get another section through the mountains; but in consideration of the little time we had and the scarcity of provisions we gave it up and rode straight south, seeking our way through the winding valleys down towards Lake Pueyrredon, where we camped in the last forest-patch on the slope of Cerro Principio. The dogs had just captured a fine young guanaco, and we made a big fire of ñire branches. The fire was indeed necessary, for it was cold and snowy.

The landscape north of Lake Pueyrredon is peculiar enough—an endless row of canyons cut down along old cracks, crossing each other in all directions or ending blind. Sometimes one could not see a hundred feet ahead, and one of us always had to ride in advance and survey the ground, otherwise the caravan would have found itself suddenly in a cul-de-sac. Often we passed half-dried or even dried-up salt-lagoons. Guanacos were plentiful, and from a side valley a hind with her young quizzed us, but soon disappeared when the dogs started in chase. On the shore of the lake were many geological features reminding one of the west coast of Sweden—the same round, ice-polished rocks with beautiful glacial striæ, showing that the basin of Pueyrredon-Posadas was once filled by an immense glacier. Seen from above these lakes present a very remarkable appearance. A narrow neck of land, where high sand-dunes are piled up by the frequent westerly gales, separates them; the more shallow Posadas looks bluish green, the Pueyrredon dark blue. According to the Argentine maps, Lake Posadas lies 367 feet, Lake Pueyrredon 364 feet above the sea-level; the former empties into the latter by means of a short, deep, rapid river, which in our journals is called Rio del Istmo. The outlet of Lake Pueyrredon is Rio Baker.

It is not possible to wade the river—that is to say, with packhorses. However, there is a ford outside the mouth in Lake Pueyrredon, where a sandbank has been formed over which the waves break heavily when there is a high sea. It runs in an irregular bend, and it is far from advisable to leave the horses to themselves in crossing. The evening we came to the ford it looked bad, for there had been a gale of wind all day and the surf was heavy, but we were not at all inclined to put off the passage. The soil is very barren here; there are some bushes and halophilous plants, but not much grass; we were afraid that the horses would wander all night, and could hardly imagine a worse place than this for looking for them. For safety’s sake we put maneas not only on the mare, but also on the roisterer Vingel, who often led her and the rest of the troop into forbidden ways, and then sat down round a big blaze of driftwood. We had found half a dozen duck’s eggs, and were greatly disappointed to find that they had been sat on; however, we could not bring ourselves to throw them away altogether, but took out the chicken and used the rest of the yolk in the pancakes. Don’t throw away an egg till the chicken has absorbed it all—it is always good for something.

The murmur from the sea increased at dawn, and when we had brought the horses down among the heaps of driftwood we saw that the surf was at least as bad as the day before. Nevertheless we made up our minds to try, leading the packhorses. Certainly they did not plunge into the water willingly, but were very frightened at the thunder of the breakers, and it cost us much trouble and the horses sore hides. Everything went off all right, though we of course got wet and the loads also received some showers. We had just waded in water, now we had to flounder in sand along the sides of the dunes; sometimes they were so steep that we preferred to plunge through the shallow reeds of Lake Posadas. The southern shore is very different from the northern. The mountain here rises straight out of the water to a giddy height as seen from below. One feels oppressed, shut in on a narrow, stony strip of land, where a stream coming from a deep canyon has split up into an extensive delta, and one even wonders how one shall get out again. There is only one answer: Climb!

Halle fell behind in order to survey the canyon, where different strata were well exposed, and the rest of us climbed 2200 feet in zigzag, and sometimes not only the horses were four-legged! On the plateau we halted and waited for Halle. Then we crawled along a very steep, stony ridge separated by a jagged crest from the valley of Rio Tarde, through a natural opening at 3600 feet coming down into this valley. The landscape was very desolate—yellowish-grey rocks cut by innumerable ravines not marked on the map, and much worse to cross than big valleys. The patches of vegetation were swampy, and it promised ill for the night, till suddenly, a couple of miles ahead, some forest-groves were seen—evidently the most easterly in this part of the country. They lay beside a tributary of Rio Tarde and we soon had a roof of foliage, dry leaves to sleep on, a grassy slope below for the horses, a bank of fossil oysters close to and snowy mountains all round. What more could we ask? Here was everything. Some rusty tins showed that the place had been used as a camp before; surely they had been left by the Argentine Boundary Commission, for one of them had contained preserved asparagus.

We stayed here one day in order to give the horses a chance to recruit their strength for the march across the next mountain-pass. As our next goal we set ourselves nothing less than Lago Belgrano itself, and indeed actually got off before eight o’ clock. Now the reader will think us a band of real sluggards, but I must protest against such an idea, for as a rule we never rose later than six o’clock unless we had gone to rest quite exhausted the night before, and very often it was only five o’clock when we crept out of our bags. But all the work that had to be done before we could spring into our saddles took much time. We had carefully studied the map and chose another route than the one followed by the engineers of the commission, to some extent shortening the distance. It was wild and desolate up here at a height of 5600 feet, gigantic basalt pillars lifted their hard black bodies on both sides, and large snowdrifts fed the boggy, sliding soil. The slopes, nearly without vegetation of any kind save some monstrous plants in the shape of compact balls, are coloured red, brown and grey, and Rio Belgrano rises like a red-brown mud-puddle. A chilly fog enveloped us and shut out the view; only the nearest mountain, the fine Cerro Belgrano (7500 feet) being visible, cutting the veil with its worn peaks. The pass fell abruptly on the other side making us hesitate for a moment. The river makes innumerable turns and bends, from all directions tributaries flow in; we saw no other way than to keep to the bottom, every five minutes crossing the river in order to take advantage of the narrow strips of muddy shore separating the barranca from the water. We made very slow progress, the horses were tired and often refused to cross the stream, but nevertheless we should have reached the lake if fate had not led us to arrange a great Christmas slaughter.

We wrote December 22 in our journals and had hardly a piece of meat in the pantry. We had just crossed the river and were about to round a hill, separating us from the Belgrano basin, when we caught sight of four deer, two bucks with their hinds steadily regarding us and shaking their little stumps of tail as they uttered their peculiar cooing note. We tied the dogs up and approached them with great caution. One of the bucks was badly wounded by a bullet, but nevertheless rushed down the slope at full speed, the other got a broken shoulder and did not move. We went up to him but he stood quite still looking at us with his large, intelligent eyes, the blood slowly dripping down on the flowers of the heath. We wanted to give him his coup de grâce, but in spite of one bullet in the head and one in the chest, he suddenly showed a spark of life and rushed down to the water. We let the dogs loose but instead of making for the wounded bucks they brought one of the hinds to bay at the river and Pavo buried his teeth in her throat. As a rule we only killed bucks, but of course had to kill the hind in this case. Now we had to look for the bucks. Pagels and I went down to the river where one of the bucks, wild with rage, lay struggling with Pavo, who had bitten him; we let the river carry him down to a place where it was possible to land him. It was resolved to camp close by, and a horse carried down the meat of this buck. Pagels and Quensel went to take charge of the rest. The buck still lived and butted round him; he hit Pagels and knocked the knife (my bowie-knife) out of his hand into the river, where it disappeared for ever. At nightfall we had finished the bloody work; we had two hundred pounds of good meat, more than sufficient for our stay at Lake Belgrano.

In the morning we rode down to the lake. The horses had very heavy loads, but the road was only nine and a half miles long and, with the exception of some swamps round the west arm of Rio Belgrano, easy enough. Just as we came down the last slope we discovered the tracks of shod horses. People here? Some expedition perhaps, looking for a camp? Now two parallel lines appear; there is no doubt that a cart-track leads down to the lake. And when the view opened out with the glasses we could make out a tent, horses and men. It was almost a disappointment—had civilization reached this last great tract of Patagonia? “And I, who hoped that we should celebrate Christmas by ourselves,” said Halle with a worried air.

The peninsula had been shut off by a fence and we proceeded through a gate, the “strangers” gathering in front of their tent. We alighted and walked to greet them. Their appearance plainly told us, that they were not children of the country, but “gringos,” and we asked them if they spoke English or German. “Wir sind deutsche Kolonisten, und Sie?” They gave us a hearty welcome, and our thoughts coincided in a “now we’ll celebrate Christmas.” By-and-by they told us about themselves and their enterprise. A newly formed company, called Sociedad Germano-Argentina, had got a concession of about 1200 square miles of land from Lake Posadas to Rio Chico, on condition that it brought colonists from Germany who promised to devote themselves to cattle-raising and agriculture. Two of our new friends had a share each and were out looking for a suitable piece of land in order to buy it. The manager, C. Högberg, a Swede and late captain of a ship, was only some days’ journey from there and was expected after Christmas. The Germans had not made up their minds as to where they wanted to settle in earnest, but thought of stopping for the winter on the lake, to see what the unfavourable season was like. It is a doubtful question whether this part of the country is fit for either of the purposes mentioned above. The lake is situated not less than 2570 feet above sea-level. The stony peninsula, connected with the mainland to the east by a very narrow neck of land, produces the impression of being barren and weather-worn. I can see but one great advantage: it does not need to be fenced in. Probably the winter is comparatively severe and the summer short with early night-frosts. I do not think the colonists will stay long here. The communication with the outer world goes over San Julian, a distance of 220 miles as the crow flies. The land round Lake Belgrano is certainly not especially good, and what it is that has fixed the attention of the colonists just upon that part I am unable to understand.

The Germans complained that they were short of meat, and we were glad to give them some of our ample supply. There were deer on the peninsula, but the Company wanted to spare them. In return for the meat they gave us white beans and lentils; we were very short of vegetables: the oatmeal was finished and our possibilities of making pancakes had become sadly limited. Of rice alone had we a sufficient supply.

Lago Belgrano has been the starting-point for the mapping out of several lakes, the acquaintance of which we shall soon make. The landscape belongs to the most beautiful in Patagonia, and I defy anybody to show me mountain scenery more varied and grand than that west of the Azara-Nansen basin. A very promising field for work attracted us thither.

Our first thought was to find a good camping-place, and as we intended to make a longer stay than usual, it had to be chosen with care. In the ñire forest on the east side of the peninsula we found one satisfying all our demands, cut some bushwood and fixed up our tent, above which the Swedish colours floated. One of our most important tasks was to make a boat journey and penetrate westward into the mountains. We knew that the boundary commission had left a canvas boat, and the Germans told us that there were two of them, a smaller and a larger, and indicated to us where we should look for them. Halle stopped at home, the rest of us went to find the boats. We had not gone far before we saw a blockhouse in a grove. In the Koslowsky valley we were told that the commission had spent a considerable time by the lake, and that various things were left there, among others preserved foods. The hut was shut up; but an opening in its hinder wall was only stopped with branches and one of them being loose it was the work of a second to get into it. I will specially emphasize that we were in the uninhabited mountains of Patagonia with failing provisions, so that the reader will be able to overlook what now happened. In one corner there was a barrel of wine, and four wooden boxes. Some instruments for making charts were fixed under the roof. That this had belonged to the last commission, which had put up the boundary marks, we did not doubt for one instant, and our hypothesis was strengthened when we opened the boxes and saw their contents: tinned provisions, also some luxuries, tobacco and any amount of cigarette papers, barometers and thermometers. One of the boxes contained nothing but Jamaica rum. We felt happy enough—this was indeed the hidden treasure of a fairy-tale. The Governments of both Chile and Argentina had promised us their help: I declared myself ready to take the responsibility for robbing the depot, and we picked out a selection of provisions, especially in view of the boat-trip, since we carried scarcely anything suitable for that purpose. Even the Christmas brandy, a bottle of rum, we let the Government present us. We made a list of the stolen goods to be sent to Buenos Aires, nailed up the boxes and effaced the traces of our visit. We found it unnecessary to tell the Germans about it. Possibly Captain Högberg, once a member of the commission, had the keys; but it was less probable that he had let the colonists into the secret.

We soon found the boats; one had been fixed under cover some distance from the shore, but it was so large that we could not think of using it. The other lay without any protection on the beach, it was a non-collapsible eight-foot, rather the worse for sun, wind and weather. Probably it had not been used for years. We tried it and found it leaked terribly. It was not easy for us to repair it, for we had no materials, but some grease in the joints and on the canvas made it serviceable enough, though the man in the stern was kept busy all the time baling out the water. Heavily laden with the “Christmas gifts” we returned to the tent. Halle was at home writing: we opened the door a little and threw in a tin: “Do you want some butter for Christmas?... or perhaps milk?... a piece of cheese doesn’t taste bad ... here, too, you have an ox-tongue.” And at last, shaking the bottle: “I think we’ll have some grog to celebrate the day.” I have seldom seen a person look so absolutely at a loss; he wouldn’t believe it, and it took him a long while to grasp the situation. It almost looked like a conjuring trick. The poor “extra” tins we had bought in Aysen quite faded into insignificance in comparison with all these new dainties; now we were prepared for the double festival on the Southern Hemisphere—Christmas and Midsummer’s Day at the same time.

The menu of the dinner on Christmas Eve was as follows:

Hors d’œuvre.
Coeur de cerf sauté avec des légumes.
Figues au riz avec du lait.
Thé.
Grog au rhum.

We were dangerously near gourmandising. I would not say that the discovery we made the next morning, viz., that the things we had taken could not belong to any boundary commission, but to the employees and engineers of the German colonizing company, helped to the digestion of the strange dishes. The date on one of the tins had revealed the truth—we had just committed burglary. However, it was done and could not be undone. I wrote a letter to Captain Högberg explaining matters and offering to pay for what we had stolen; in Punta Arenas I got an answer in which he declared himself happy to have been of assistance to some of his countrymen, and thus everything was all right. We still feel indebted to him.

Breakfast on Christmas Day wasn’t bad. What do you say to pancakes with gooseberry jam; the latter honestly acquired too, in Aysen, and coffee with bread. We had had a baking for Christmas. In the evening we accepted an invitation to visit the Germans. They were nearly as poorly off as ourselves, but had one thing that we could not even dream of—a barrel of wine, and round it we sat having a merry time. At night they came to have dinner with us. It was a proper Christmas, and during the night it even snowed in spite of its being midsummer. Probably this was a special attention paid to the Swedish visitors, who knew how to appreciate it. Then we had enough of feasting. All Christmas Day we had done no work. On Boxing Day we wanted to start our boat-trip, but it blew too hard in the morning and we had to wait till the afternoon before we could venture to set out. Carefully we packed the sleeping bags and provisions for some days and more carefully still we placed ourselves in the canvas boat, Quensel, Pagels and I. There was not much of the gunwale above water.

Opposite us, on the south shore, the mountain-scenery was splendid, reflected by the clear blue-green water; down below green slopes with brown patches of heath and yellow straps of sand, then a steep mountain wall with multi-coloured débris and yellow, red and violet tufa-layers; on the top of them a black jagged crest of slate, split up into crags, sharp as needles, where white snow still lingered here and there. We kept close inland, and reached the narrow West Arm; the current in the entrance is very strong. The evening was squally, and we soon had to land for the night. The morning arrived with a fresh breeze and the sea ran so high that we could not sit three in the boat, but Pagels pulled along the shore, Quensel and I walking on foot. It was not long before the wind increased and both we and the boat landed in a small bay. The great difficulty in navigation on Andine lakes is the persistent westerly wind blowing without cessation.

We had camped early in the day. From a hill we could see the depression of the lakes Azara-Nansen. They are completely shut in by snowy ridges, and the brooks keep their waters at a nearly constant temperature of some few centigrades above zero. The hour of liberty did not strike that day, and our spirits fell indeed when we rose with the same wretched weather. At noon the wind abated, and in the evening we went forward. Quensel and I walked as long as we could when Pagels took us on board and we landed happily at the short river, where a waterfall empties Lago Belgrano into Lago Azara. Here we had to carry the boat and things over the hills; the cascade has a fall of twenty-six feet in a distance of only 700 feet. We continued at once to the next beautiful lake, now smooth as a mirror. Wanting to get as far west as possible we turned off into the long narrow western branch, the mouth of which is very shallow and almost barred by thousands of big logs from the forests round the lake. Already in the west part of Lago Belgrano, the forest-patches closed to a thick covering, and all the slopes were quite hidden under a dense forest. We had to pass the entrance on foot, and Pagels was hardly able to get through with an empty boat into the calm water, which the reflections from the high mountains painted black-green. We did not mind the dark, but wanted to get on as long as it was calm, but hardly had we agreed to do so when the first puff of wind came rushing along, followed by others stronger and more and more frequent. In haste we had to seek the first landing-place we could find where it was possible to haul up the boat. In order to find a place to sleep in we groped along in the darkness and climbed up into a narrow crevice; sixty feet above the water we found a nice little shelf just big enough for the sleeping-bags. If one regards this place from below it is impossible to see that there is a camping-place in the middle of the very mountain-wall.

Now and then we woke up from sheer curiosity. Really, we thought, it is getting calm again. At 4 A.M. we got out, rolled up our bags and hastened off, in the lovely weather, every peak standing out distinct and towering against a cloudless sky. Not only the vegetation had undergone some changes. Quensel looked at the rocks now and then; we landed and he knocked off a piece; the backbone of the cordillera, the granites, appeared once more. After some hours pulling we reached the innermost corner, where we breakfasted on the sunny beach to the music of a small waterfall. We followed the stream up to its origin, a charming little lake without a name on the map, but by us called Laguna Joya (the gem). In order to profit by the day we made an ascent. The ground here is very uneven, up and down over mossy rocks and forest-covered ravines, but we made good speed and finally freeing ourselves from the last embrace of the twigs had the forest below us. Over rattling stones we climbed Cerro Aspero till we reached the foot of a large glacier covering the summit; only the sharpest peaks, from which the ice glides in frozen cascades, peeped forth. We have not seen many bits of scenery equal to the one seen from here. The camera clicked, but certainly gave no idea of the colours. South and west of us we had the high peaks close by, shutting out the view in these directions; but to the north like sparkling gems on a dark green cloth lie the lakes, a small sapphire-coloured corner of Lake Azara, the lakes Mogole and Peninsula showing the tints of amethyst and emerald. Beyond, summit after summit rises, in all directions with large glaciers giving birth to milk-white rivers winding through yellow moraines. Farthest north, majestic and commanding, Cerro San Lorenzo reigns over all, with its 11,000 feet, one of Patagonia’s highest mountains and so steep that one really wonders how the glaciers are able to cling to its sides. To the west the inland ice gently wraps its sheet over Cerro Blanco, shining like silver and gold in the strong noon-tide light. It is a long distance to San Lorenzo, but nevertheless we can see that its geology is different from the surrounding lower mountains. Probably all the highest summits, such as San Clemente and San Valentin are of the same laccolitic nature. At the foot of Cerro Blanco we catch sight of a small lake, not marked on the map and probably never before seen by anybody. We almost ran down, for we must make use of the fine weather. In haste we gobbled some food on the shore and said good-bye to Lago Azara. It was midnight when we reached Lago Belgrano. In the whirlpools below the cascade we were near to coming to grief, but Pagels’ seamanship saved the situation. In the morning we carried the boat across and were back in our own lake again. This time we took the way north of the peninsula, where the lake is rather narrow. To our surprise we found it so shallow that we could hardly pass, owing to Rio Lacteo carrying down masses of mud from the glaciers on San Lorenzo. Further east we got into deep water again and in the afternoon of December 30 were back in our camp. In the evening we had a notable visit from two Tehuelche Indians, for the time staying with the Germans. Silently they sat down before the fire, but when they had drunk a cup of cocoa, a beverage rather unknown to them, they loosened their tongues. They were brothers and indeed such a pair of fine fellows to look at that we could hardly conceive that they really belonged to the last remnants of a dying race. To see them mount a bucking, unsaddled horse, on which they sat like wax, was pure delight. We spoke to them about the route we had taken from Lago Pueyrredon there, but they did not at all approve of it. Why should people endure such hardships when they could gallop round those troublesome mountains? Our dinner was now ready, and we invited them to partake of it; they protested saying that they had just had theirs; but nevertheless two plates of beans and deer-steak went down. Bidding us farewell, the elder said: “We shall give you some veal, and it is very fat.” We thanked them and gratefully accepted the offer.

New Year’s Day had been fixed for the start. Halle had made long excursions to survey this region and had obtained very good results. On New Year’s Eve we stayed at home and worked hard to get ready; we had to make bread, write down our observations, pack the collections and, last but not least, mend our clothes, which by now were almost fit for a museum. Halle had struggled with his trousers a long time—finally they exhibited a mosaic so cunning that it might have done for a tailor’s trial piece. At sunset all was in order. The Germans had been kind enough to remind us that there was still some wine left, and soon we sat down in the old blockhouse, Swedes, Germans and Indians. It was cold, but we had a merry fire, and everybody was armed with a mighty tin mug of hot wine; we spoke of our homes and old songs were sung. When our watches showed midnight our revolvers rang out, the roof was lifted by our loud New-Year-Greetings, the dogs took up the cry and with a little ring-dance we welcomed 1909. The Tehuelche boys laughed till their beautiful white teeth shone.

New Year’s Day, 1909. We struck camp, the flag was lowered. Wild after the days of liberty the horses strained against the ropes of our corral. We halted at the camp of the Germans to bid farewell to the good fellows, and then we gave the horses a free rein, left the peninsula and rode up in a valley between the hills. Here we stopped one moment and turned round to give a last glance at this charming picture, to which many of our merriest Patagonian remembrances are attached. The surface of the lake disappears, the last peaks sink behind the hills, we are on the high pampas, where the flora shows all the beauty of midsummer. For a moment we gather round map and compass, get a direction, and at good speed the caravan trots over the steppe-plains.