LAKE SAN MARTÍN

There are two different routes to follow from Lake Belgrano to the South: one westerly, more inviting from some points of view leading as it does through inaccessible parts of the cordillera, here called Sierra de las Vacas, and one easterly along the rivers Belgrano and Lista. But the high passes would probably be so deep in snow that we perhaps should not get over; in any case they would require much time, and time was valuable, as we did not know how long we should have to stay at Lake San Martín. Further, the easterly way would probably give better results for geology and botany, and this circumstance determined us.

Over blooming pampas, where steep hills rising fifty to a hundred metres above the level ground, and numerous lagoons make the scenery rather pleasant, we rode down the cañadon of Rio Robles which we followed down to Rio Belgrano, our old acquaintance of the time of our march down to the lake. We crossed Rio Belgrano and then, with some difficulty, because of the depth and the strong current, the two joint rivers. Here my horse, Johansson, nearly succeeded in playing me a bad trick. As I did not want to get wetter than was necessary I drew my legs on his back, and probably touched him with one of the spurs; anyhow, he got wild and tried to throw me off in the middle of the stream. Certainly it would not have been very pleasant had he been able to carry out his intention, as it was I only lost my rebenque (whip) and got soaked to my waist, but the fresh pampas-wind soon dried my clothes. We had just crossed this river and were trotting along again, when, to our surprise, we discovered a caravan further down—but alas! on the other side. We supposed that it was Captain Högberg, and were very sorry indeed that we could not stop, but we had a long march before nightfall and thought it would be too troublesome to cross the river twice. Had we only been able to see the troop before we crossed the temptation would have been too strong—one does not meet compatriots every day in the uninhabited parts of Patagonia.

We had to search well before we found a camping-place that satisfied our needs. Everywhere there was plenty of grass and water, but no fuel. When we unsaddled our horses we discovered that Jeremias, whose back had been bad for a long time, now looked terrible. We had thought that after the rest at Lake Belgrano he would be able to carry his load again, but his old swollen wounds had broken open and were full of matter. His job from this day was to act as watch-horse in the night—and during the marches to lead the troop astray and thus cause our riding horses a lot of extra work.

The next day we continued along the valley of Rio Belgrano, until we found a good pass where we could cross the ridge and descend into the valley of the rather large river, Lista, which drains the Sierra de las Vacas by means of numerous tributaries. At the point where we struck the river it is divided into many branches, which constantly shift their course over a bed of shingle. The last one was so deep that the loads only just came clear of the water. The Lista Valley looks very fertile. Unfortunately this region as well as that through which we rode on the following day lies so high above sea level that the winter is generally too severe for both sheep and cattle. An old abandoned rancho close to the Rio Ñires, where we camped on January 2 showed that colonisation had been a failure. But why not make use of all this fat grass above the sea as we do in Switzerland or in Scandinavia? The system of mountain dairies, used only in the summer, will probably reach Patagonia also in time.

The rivers Belgrano and Lista belong to the Atlantic system; they run to Rio Chico, a river anything but small as the name denotes, which empties in the same estuary as Rio Santa Cruz. A few miles south of Rio Lista we passed the ridge which forms the water-parting, and set our course for the valley of Rio Ñires. The name of this river did not sound very promising, and I have never seen brushwood which was denser. For long stretches the stream was not visible, and one had to search for a place where one could get down and fill the pot with water.

The next river had a still more discouraging name: Arroyo Tucotuco. And on the map the valley was marked as one extensive swamp. We walked carefully along, crossed the sources where they emerge out of narrow canyons and followed the valley south of the stream. It was indeed a charming place; we had a small strip to keep on: a few steps to the right and the horses sank down into a bottomless swamp, a few to the left, and the ground was completely undermined by the tuco-tuco. Having passed a small tributary, called Arroyo Potrancas on the Chilean map, we soon met with dense forests. Only round the swampy brooks was there a space of clear ground, but we soon got tired of groping our way and turned at right angles into the forest. Abraham made the most energetic attempts to carry away the trees—a horse never learns that his pack makes him broader—and we had to be very watchful to release him, stuck fast as he stood between two stems, with a most frightened expression on his stupid face.

Suddenly the ground fell off at a very sharp angle; we stood at the top of a forest-clad barranca, 300 feet high, that sloped abruptly down into the valley. I was to lead one of the pack-horses, our old friend Ruckel: he started to tremble as soon as he saw the steep place, and nearly crushed me against a tree. We found that we had reached our goal, the place where Rio Carbón joins Rio Mayer. We camped in a high and lofty roble forest. Mr. Hatcher made his principal geological studies in the Meseta east of Rio Carbón, and so the geologists were very anxious to visit the place. However, our halt did not result in much; it proved exceedingly difficult to identify Hatcher’s localities; certainly we had no presentiment of the discoveries, still greater than those made here before, which were in store for us.

When our caravan started again on January 5 we did not expect to cross the pass over to the depression of Lake San Martín in one day. The maps spoke of difficulties, and the distance was great. The first part was not very difficult and at 12 A.M. we passed the last forest-patch and made up our mind to push through. The river, which carried plenty of water, had dug its course between vertical walls. To pass above the barranca was impossible, for on one side it rose sheer for many hundred feet; on the other was the basaltic meseta with a ground covered with millions of blocks, impassable for horses or even mules. Thus we were bound to keep in the bottom of the ravine, working our way with the speed of a snail and climbing incessantly from one side of the river to the other. Often cross ravines or protruding joints stopped us, and we had to exert all our powers to drive the horses through such places, where they one moment would climb the barranca and the next rush down into the water. In spite of all we could not help laughing at the mare, who tried to climb a vertical wall, but came down faster than she expected. We came to ground covered with large, sharp-edged blocks: the troop dispersed, the pack-horses stumbled and fell. Without hesitation we let our horses loose, climbed up to fetch the others and managed to drive them down to more even ground. Luckily enough none of them were hurt.

The higher we rose the narrower grew the valley, and the snow increased exceedingly towards the pass, and we came upon large drifts and bridges which bore or broke just as it pleased them. When we reached the pass, we had crossed the river twenty-seven times. The whole pass was covered with snow—only on the steepest walls the withered rock lay bare and yellow, without a trace of vegetation. The river wound between vertical walls of ice and snow a few yards high. We rode in the bed between them, until they met in an unbroken white cover, under which the river disappeared. Across the snowfields we slowly approached the south side of the pass. We were prepared for nice surprises in the shape of floating soil, and I very much doubt if we shall ever forget that afternoon in the Cañadon of Rio Fósiles. It is difficult to think of a more terrifying scene. Everywhere high, steep walls with dirty melting snow-patches, streams of clay, red-brown or blackish, and deep down under our feet the river like a boiling mass of red mud. Not a blade of grass—life seemed extinguished; only a single condor soars comfortably among the peaks watching the little black points, which struggle along, expecting every moment that a horse will get tired, stumble and fall down into the abyss.

There were places where we stopped without knowing at first what to do; sheer rock walls where we could see how the horses strained every muscle not to lose their foothold, or loose floating soil, where they sank down and fell. It often happened that danger was unsuspected; the surface is dry, hard and full of crevices; one drives the troop along and then, suddenly, all the horses are down in the mud. If we had not helped Jakob in time he would have stopped where he was; the clay dragged him down, he struggled for his life, but rolled round and started to slide down with the thick reddish mud which slowly floated away. We saved the Winchester which was tied to his saddle, took him by the legs and turned him round while one pulled the cabresta and the other whipped him, and finally we got him on firm ground again. Halle’s look when he met his horse again was worth money. But he had not time to worry. A discovery of an unknown rich fossil flora had been made by him when he was away from the caravan, and this cast a gleam of brightness over the unpleasant valley.

The hours passed and the horses became more and more difficult to manage. To ride was impossible, and many times we met with passages which the animals could hardly clear even with an empty saddle. We followed the east side of the river, and by-and-by climbed out of the Cañadon on to the plateau, where the patches of vegetation soon closed together. The first, violet forest-patches were seen in the gloaming but we could not reach them. Night fell and quite exhausted we threw ourselves down by the first bushes, some “mata blanca” (Chiliotrichum diffusum). We had been under way twelve hours without rest and over the worst ground to be found in Patagonia. We were 3000 feet above sea level and had covered a distance of twenty miles since the morning.

When we came the following morning to fetch the horses, almost all of them had lain down, which had hardly ever happened before. We saddled to ride to the first forest-patch, two hours’ march only, and there the horses got a rest and we made our usual excursions. We had discussed the possibility of stopping here some days, but Halle thought the find so rich that he preferred to return to the place during our boat-trip. Another reason for continuing the march was that we were short of provisions; the last thirty-one figs were boiled with the last handful of rice, and from the last remains of the bag of flour two small loaves were made. Consequently we made a fresh start the following day, January 7, in order to reach an estancia near Lake San Martín which we had sighted from the pass. The descent was not difficult, but the ground was such that it gave the horses much unnecessary work, a confusion of hills and canyons impossible to prospect. We had just come down a very steep barranca, when on a little green patch below we caught sight of a man on horseback driving a small troop. “How far is Frank’s farm from here?” “Only a couple of hours,” was the answer, we should soon strike a track. At once we divided the last loaf—it must not happen that we reached our goal with provisions to spare. We soon found the track, which followed a peculiar winding canyon where the air was still and the heat oppressive. Suddenly the view of the steppe opened, there lay the well-known houses of corrugated iron, shining in the bright sun. Our friend Mr. Frank met us, and the curtain fell on the second act.

We had met Mr. Frank on several occasions and he had showed himself much interested in our plans and wanted us to visit his farm in order to make an excursion on the lake together. He is a German and lives in Santiago during the winter. To reach his farm he has to take the steamer through the Straits and up to San Julián; from there he rides or drives up to the Cordillera. Some years ago he had a special motor-car constructed to go between the farm and the coast, having high wheels to pass the rivers. The result, however, was not very brilliant—it took twice as much time with the motor-car as with the bull-carts. But as the first experiment it is worth a page in the history of Patagonian colonization.

Shearing was just finished, but an important piece of work had still to be done before Mr. Frank and his people could be ready to join us in the excursion. The sheep had to be dipped in order to prevent the spread of “the scab,” a disease that of course has a very disadvantageous effect on the quantity and value of the wool. They swim through a channel filled with some disinfecting fluid, and a man stands ready to give them a proper dip. Up they come again, snorting and bleating soaked with the brown water.

We devoted our own energies to the boat. There was left over from the time of the boundary commission a ruined cutter, built by Captain Högberg; all loose things had been stolen and the remains were of no use. But there were also two canvas-boats, which lay on the ground close to Bahia de la Lancha, a cove not far from the farm itself. One of them was very large, not collapsible and half-rotten, and we could not think of using it. The other was of the same type that we had used before in Tierra del Fuego, a first-class Berthon, but much longer than ours, easily carrying eight persons. It had been transported there some years earlier, but left on the beach and never launched. Wind and weather had treated it badly; part of the wood was broken to pieces and the canvas had numerous holes so that it was a job to repair it. But we all helped and Pagels was very handy, as usual. On the 10th our work was finished and lay shining in the sun with fresh paint and patches. We were sorry not to be able to start at once. Certainly we had much to do in the neighbourhood, and we saw day after day go by without getting off. At last, on the 14th, they finished the dipping and then came the preparation of provisions. For meat we only carried the carcasses of two sheep; they would not last long, but we were sure to find something to shoot. On the 15th we went down to the beach, Quensel, Frank, myself, Pagels and two men from the farm. It blew hard, but we wanted to be quite ready when the calm came.

Lake San Martín, which is 660 feet above sea level, has the most peculiar shape of all the Cordilleran lakes. Its surface is 376 square miles and is split up into several long and narrow arms, veritable fresh-water fiords, penetrating far into the mountains. The most westerly of the two north arms, here called only North Arm, is the longest; the eastern we call the Mayer Arm. The North Arm turns to the north-west near its end, and here we find the outlet of the Lake, the big river Pascua, which empties into one of the branches of Baker Inlet in the Pacific. From this latitude and down to Ultima Esperanza there is no interruption in the inland ice; all the lakes south of San Martín empty into the Atlantic, except the Payne lakes, which send their water to Ultima Esperanza through Rio Serrano. The West and South Arms penetrate furthest into the Cordillera, and in the latter the glaciers come down to the water. The prevailing westerly gales drive the icebergs out of the South Arm; most of them run ashore without getting very far, but some are seen from the settlements. The temperature of the water even in summer does not exceed six or seven degrees centigrade. Rio Pascua not only carries the water of San Martín but also of much more distant lakes. As the reader will remember we made the acquaintance of Rio Mayer on the other side of the Fósiles pass, where it comes from the canyon; after having received the rivulets Ñires and Tuco-tuco this river makes a sharp turn to the south and receives through Rio Nansen or Carrera the water from the lakes Nansen, Azara and Belgrano, disappears for a second time in the mountains and emerges in the arm of Lake San Martín.

Through the descriptions of the Boundary Commissions we know how very difficult, not to say dangerous, it is to navigate on Lake San Martín. The wind, which often rises to a gale, can make progress to the westward impossible for weeks. We trusted to our luck—there was nothing else to do till we were able to make a start. It calmed on the 16th; we rose hurriedly, hauled our boat down, launched it, stowed the cargo in and got under way with our little Swedish flag in the bows. Frank steered and the rest of us pulled the four oars—thus we had not much chance of being lazy. Rio Fósiles has built a sandbank across the East Arm, where we now were, and when the water is low it quite shuts off the arm; we found a narrow passage and came through. We landed for a while on the rocky shores of Chacabuco Peninsula to cook some food and thence continued to the northern shore of the lake. We met a heavy sea that broke all along the Fósiles delta, and after several hours hard pull we landed for the night. A glance out of the sleeping bag showed that we could not think of starting the following morning. Over the lake blew a fresh westerly gale and only at 4 P.M. did we resolve to try again. There was plenty of sea and we shipped some water and soon water also came from above in the form of heavy rain, which in a few moments soaked us to the skin. But it abated the violence of the waves and we had to economize time so we went on till it was quite dark. We were then close to the Cancha Rayada Peninsula, where a bay with a little natural harbour appeared.

Storm again! We had a very nice camping-place with a shelter of some rocks and surrounded by a dense brushwood of Escallonias, just in full blossom with flowers from snow-white to a deep crimson. And we had plenty to do. I myself climbed about on the rocks collecting; Quensel studied the geology; and Frank shot ducks in the salt-lagoons. The ground reminds one of the kind I have described above from the north shore of Lake Pueyrredon.

We tried again on the 18th. As long as we had shelter under land it was all right, but when we had to round a promontory the old game began as before. From the north-west came a heavy swell from the lake, and from the north-east as well, out of a large bay, the seas met together over our poor little boat. The weather became squally, there was a “smoke” of water on the port, on starboard and ahead, the regular swell changed into a confusion of white furious sea, impossible to reckon with, that seemed to come from every point of the compass; our fragile craft—canvas and a wooden frame—was banged about, sometimes with such violence that the oars jumped out of the rowlocks in spite of all our efforts to keep them in. But the boat stood the trial in an amazing manner. Of course it shipped some water—enough to soak us—but on the whole it proved more seaworthy than we had expected. However, we had to look for a harbour and found an inviting corner in the above-mentioned bay which we named Bahia Cuchillo, in remembrance of my last knife that I left there.

We kept a sharp look-out, and when the weather got better we started again. The question now was how to cross the entrance of the Mayer Arm. We made for the eastern headland, which dissolved into two small isles when we came closer. The passage was critical enough, the waves came from two directions and were as high as our boat could stand them. It was a hard job and we felt very happy when we had reached the west head safely, where we slept like logs.

Now we had left the pampas behind and the forest formed one continuous cover on the shores. Had the water only been salt we could have believed ourselves in the channels of West Patagonia.

We went out again in the old swell, and made a good start. But suddenly a suspicious gust of wind came and then the gale began again. And it came on properly this time; so that we passed some moments of considerable anxiety. The gusts seemed to rush down perpendicular to the water and whirled it up to a height of thirty feet, the spray stood like a fog over the whole bay, and the atmosphere glittered with hundreds of minute rainbows. It was beautiful—but what if we had come into one of the tornadoes that danced along to our right and left? By exerting every effort we managed to reach the innermost corner of the bay and awaited the development of events. A torrential rain supplied what still was wanted to make the weather quite ideal!

Ahead of us we had a peninsula, ending in a well-marked point, and when the gale had abated a little, we pulled to it and even tried to get round but were driven back and were glad to discover a small crevice just big enough to hold the boat. We waited again; from the point we could overlook the lake, but what we saw was not promising. Now and then we climbed up to see if things were improving and finally resolved to risk another struggle. I do not think we shall ever forget it. The waves were big enough for a lifeboat, and our little nutshell quite disappeared, but rose up again, climbed the watery ridge and won. But we could not spare ourselves; we had to expend the very last ounce of our strength and energy and still we could hardly note that we really were advancing.

The view of the lake had been rather limited until now. A cry of admiration was heard, when the west part appeared behind a cape, exposing the gigantic glacier in all its extent near the mouth of the Southern Arm. It was as if this sight spurred us to new efforts, and over crests of white foam which generally shared their abundance with us, we pulled towards the eastern head of the Northern Arm, where we rested upon our oars an instant, ready to try a somewhat dangerous experiment—to cross the arm. We had hardly left the shelter of the point behind when some furious squalls attacked us with such ferocity that we were driven back. We had been working for thirteen hours and badly needed some rest.

Thus we stood at the entrance of the fiord, thirty-eight miles long, whose end was our goal. To judge from the appearance of the coast-line, the west-shore afforded some advantages and our first enterprise was to cross the arm. Once again we met heavy seas from two directions, and it cost us three hours very hard pulling to cover two and a half miles! We searched a while till we found a place where we could tie the boat up out of reach of the breakers. No smooth beach could we discover. Do not believe, gentle reader, that the whole thing is very simple—that you just land if something happens which makes it desirable or necessary. It is not at all so easy. For long stretches the mountain sheers down at a very sharp angle or even vertically from a height of several hundred feet. And it is far from being the case that all sheltered places are good. A canvas boat is as fragile as an egg, especially when one is on a lake in the Cordilleras, without being able to get back over land as we were now. A hole in the canvas, and farewell! With the greatest care we chose the place to haul up the boat; the best being on a beach of sand or fine shingle. Pagels, who was an old sailor, regarded himself as an expert and responsible for all our lives, and never forgot to shout “gerade auf dem Kiel” when we hauled up the boat, and if we were not quick enough he abused us. If I got angry and told him a bit of my mind he always said: “Sie wissen doch, Herr Doktor, dass ich immer aufs Beste der Expedition arbeite.” And nobody doubted that his intentions were the best in the world.

At last we had entered the Northern Arm. But our bad luck did not leave us. The first day we made little more than a mile when we were once more stopped by wind and sea, and with the experience we now had of the boat it really required something to stop us. We lost a day and a half waiting. True we knew that we were in Chile again. The forest also had undergone some changes. Our old evergreens once more played an important part; vast bushes of fuchsia and even the typical rain-forest plant, copihue (Philesia buxifolia), with its large pink flowers had reappeared. At last we could make another move, but our joy was short-lived and we had to camp again. It was a fine place, that reminded us very much of the old camp near Rio Azopardo’s mouth. The weather was bright, though windy, and the fiord covered with white crests. It had cost us eight days to reach this point, and we could not know how many more we should require to reach the end of the fiord. Probably we should not gain much more in our scientific work than we had done already. Our appetite, I am sorry to say, had increased in proportion to our hardships, and there was little left of our provisions. We made a trip into the forest to get meat, and shot a deer and some ducklings.

However, it was with sore hearts we decided to turn round without having reached our goal. It made us grumble, but there was no help for it. In order to get our clothes dried, which we needed very much, and to make a sail out of two old pieces of canvas, we stopped the night where we were and went back on the 27th. We wanted some recompense for the disappointment and probable loss we had sustained and consequently sailed along into the Southern Arm to have a look at the great glacier, which we named Ventisquero Schönmeyr. The northern end of the ice-barrier, which is about two miles and a half long was barred by icebergs, amongst which we pulled into a piece of open water. Here a little episode, which proves that we had good luck sometimes, took place. We wanted to get a snapshot of the boat in the ice, and to that end I jumped ashore on a rock; the picture had a fine background of icebergs from fifty to sixty feet high above the water. Hardly had we got away from the unpleasant company, when the largest by which we had lain the moment before lost its balance and capsized with a great noise. Had we still been there the expedition would have come to a quick and dramatic end. Further away we landed on the ice-barrier, where it rested against a small mountain, either a peninsula or a small island, half covered by ice. Quensel could study the blocks in the moraine and thus get an idea of the principal rocks in the centre of the Cordillera; the moraines carried no material from the surrounding mountains. We camped for the night on a promontory a few hundred yards from the glacier. The wind had died down, it was perfectly calm, and the stars twinkled in a clear sky. Sometimes there came a thundering noise from the great glacier. We went to sleep in unusually high spirits—no more pulling! Now the west wind could blow as much as it liked, but we could be lazy and do nothing but sail.

Try to imagine our surprise when we woke up to find it absolutely calm. Well, we could pull for a little while, surely the wind would come. And it came—easterly. For the first time we had an easterly wind, always rare here. Our discontent over such topsy-turvy meteorological conditions was as loud as it was natural. The head wind did not last long, but it was followed by a dead calm. For two days it did not blow the slightest puff till the very last moment we pulled—nine hours the first, five the second and last day, and with unmingled satisfaction we heard the keel grate on the bottom in the Boat Harbour. It was January 28 and we had gone eighty-one miles on the lake.

We needed a day to get fresh provisions, but were then ready to start again. The horses had enjoyed three weeks’ complete rest, as Halle had got horses from the farm for his excursions. He was ready with his study of the geology of this region: the results belong to the most important obtained during the expedition. When we rode away “Jeremias” was left behind in the corral, neighing loudly. We abandoned him because his back was so bad that it would take him a couple of weeks to get well again; when he was loose he only disturbed the discipline of our troop. But his despair at being separated from his comrades was probably very real.