ACROSS THE SIERRA DE LOS BAGUALES

It was already late in the day on January 28 when we said good-bye to Frank’s estancia. The peculiar basaltic peak Cerro Kachaik rising abruptly 2000 feet above the surrounding pampas and visible for a very considerable distance, was kept on our left and we headed for Laguna Tar, a lake bordered by extensive swamps. A small stream unites it with Lago San Martín, which in pre-glacial times had its outlet through the Tar depression towards the Atlantic coast. By dint of spur and whip the marshy places were passed, and, keeping higher up the slope south of Laguna Tar we avoided the swamps. We made a halt at Mr. Reeves’ new farm and stopped for the night. The small company were in very comfortable frame of mind in spite of the earthen floor and the chairs in the shape of old wooden boxes, once containing articles so inseparably associated with camp-life as Danish butter and condensed milk. And after the master of the house had found a motley company of old tin and china mugs, the grog had been mixed, and the gramophone—never wanting—starting on its waltz tunes, we could not help telling each other how well off we found ourselves. Suddenly the trotting of horses sounded through the night, and two horsemen came galloping up, welcomed by the barking of the dogs, unsaddled, came in, and got a wooden box each to sit on. I tell this only to show how small the world is. We sat looking askance at each other, one of the last arrived men and I, wondering, “Where have I seen that face before?” By-and-by the truth flashed upon us. He had been on board the cutter Chance, in which I had made a journey in the Falklands from Port Stanley to Port Louis, July 1902. That now, after six and a half years and in spite of my full beard, he was able to recognize me when we suddenly met in the heart of Patagonia I could never understand. One can never feel safe!

There was one drawback connected with our visits to people: we never got away in proper time the next morning. They must always make a spread for us of all they could produce, and never understood that we were in a hurry. What did an hour or two matter? The distance was so great. Thus it was here also; they did not let us off without a substantial breakfast.

Following a depression, we rose a thousand feet and then descended into the valley of Rio Shehuen. There was a basalt meseta in front of us, called M. del Viento, and we held a short council of war in order to decide upon the best way. According to the map, there ought to be a choice of two possible routes, and we chose the one which looked best, climbed about 1300 feet, descended into a shallow basin containing a couple of small lagoons without outlet, and finally rode up to the pass, a well-marked gap between black basalt peaks. It is only 3000 feet high. I saw how my comrades, who were a few steps ahead, started to cheer and wave their caps when they had reached the highest point. Within a minute I was at their side. Below was the large sheet of Lago Viedma, between the mountains behind it a corner of Lago Argentino, and far away to the south the long, jagged line of the Baguales Mountains. Behind these was our goal. The meseta slopes gradually towards Lake Viedma, the surface of which is only 825 feet above sea-level. In vain we looked for a camping-place on the slope. We wanted to avoid the détour to Rio Cangrejos; but nowhere was grass, water, or fuel, so we were forced to seek that river. The dogs kept up our spirits. They stopped and sniffed round a bush, where an unmistakable odour of skunk indicated the reason. It had happened often before, but generally they had to be contented with the smell. Here, however, the wretched little beast sat ready to defend the position, glaring defiantly at the enemy. Wise by experience, Prince was careful, but the innocent Pavo threw himself on the animal; quick as lightning it turned round and sent him a well-directed volley right in his face. He retired, rolled in the sand wild with rage, rushed at it again, but with the same result. Now Prince also advanced, and the two companions did not leave the battle-ground till the skunk was changed into a shapeless mass. All the afternoon they behaved as if they had lost their wits—they indeed tried to run away from themselves to get rid of the horrible smell, making us double up with laughter. Two days later they still perfumed the surroundings with the nauseous smell.

Rio Cangerjo has a canyon of the kind one does not discover till one is close to it. Down in the bottom nature was different altogether—any amount of fuel, rich grass, and clear water. Next day we passed the east end of Lago Viedma. One has a very fine view from there. The shape is still more regular than that of Lago Buenos Aires. Hardly can one imagine a greater difference between the two extremities of an Andine lake, and here one is able to observe it at a single glance. To the west a gigantic glacier comes down to the water between fantastic summits; to the east the low, sandy pampas stretches as far as one can see. We rode down to the shore to the waving fields of Stipa-grass, the long, silky brushes floating eastward on a fresh breeze. The further we came east and south the more barren was the ground, and during the whole trip we never saw a tract more bare than this. Large parts are almost desert-like. Save for some armadilloes the camp was quite inanimate.

Lago Viedma empties into Lago Argentino by means of a broad river, called Rio de la Leona, in whose valley we had hoped to find pasture for the horses, but were greatly disappointed. At two places we saw great piles of guanaco bones, of which the explanation was that the guanacos have certain places where they lie down to die.

We camped near the outlet. Our horses had hardly any grass, and we tried to keep an eye on them. After it had got dark Pagels went out and drove them down to the river, but nothing was of any use, for they wandered far and our start the next day was much delayed.

We followed the east shore of Rio Leona. At first the ground did not present any difficulties, but after a while the valley changed into one of the finest canyons in South Patagonia. Thanks to the paths made, first by guanacos and afterwards by horses, one is able to pass the barranca, though the utmost care is necessary. Besides, we were already prepared for what was to come, for Mr. Reeves, who knew the way, had told us that we should have to climb the barranca and continue at a higher altitude. We found a ravine where we could lead the horses, climbed high up, and came into a country the like of which we had never seen before. It is difficult to imagine anything more desolate and barren. In every direction a wilderness of hills, ridges, and ravines, all the landscape of a yellowish-grey colour, with nowhere a green blade or a drop of water. The air was oppressively hot; not one sound broke the absolute silence, not a living soul was seen or heard. Thus it must feel to travel on a planet where life has died out. One has to walk with great care, for the ground is full of small, scarcely visible cracks, which open below into large, funnel-shaped holes, probably formed by water in the spring. The horses were not accustomed to such pitfalls, and would have gone right down had we not looked well after them. We felt quite uneasy in this desert, and welcomed the murmur of the river and the fresh breeze with joy. In outward appearance the landscape reminds one of the famous “loess” in China, though geologically there is no resemblance.

The ground along by the river made us very tired, and with longing we looked for human dwellings, knowing that a German settler, Karl Fuhr, should live somewhere on the other side of the river. The river must be crossed in a boat, and as soon as we got sight of the house we made a signal-fire. When we came down to the river he met us and took us and the luggage across. The horses were left on the other side, the yegua with maneas on and one horse with a tether; thus we felt easy in spite of the bad grass. Carlos Fuhr is well known throughout Patagonia, and his yarns and adventures would fill a book. He was there at the time when fortresses were built to check the Indians, when the veil of fairy-tales still hung over Patagonia. He had tried a little of everywhere, but at last seemed to have settled for good. Especially is he known for one achievement: he wounded and captured Ascensio Brunel, the horse-thief and murderer, the “wild man” of Patagonia, who appeared when least expected and disappeared as suddenly as he came, the outlaw whose fame reaches from Nahuelhuapi to Ushuaia, who had frustrated the efforts of all Patagonian policemen. At our request Fuhr kindly promised to transport us across Rio Santa Cruz in his ferry-boat. Thus we saved both time and money, the road striking the river further east, where there is a boliche. The landlord has a ferry, but to go there would have necessitated a détour, and the man is known for keeping his guests under all sorts of excuses; he postpones the crossing and one has to pay high prices for accommodation.

We wanted to cross on the day of our arrival, but according to Fuhr it was blowing too hard; the horses would meet a head-wind and perhaps not be able to swim against it. On February 2 we got away. It was very long before we secured the horses, for the watch-horse had broken his rope and there was no trace of any of them. We searched in all directions, till at last we found them mixed up with other horses and the mare without maneas. The reason of all this confusion was love, in the shape of a stallion, who, for Tecla’s sake, had abandoned his harem. Down at the river Santa Cruz, the outlet of the Lakes Argentino and Viedma, we met two other parties waiting to cross with their tropillas. One of them was the inspector of police at Lago Argentino, the other a man from the Baker Company on his way to Punta Arenas with the last peons. Through Captain Steele he had heard about us, and now brought news from him. A steamer had called in Baker, Steele and the other men had gone away in her, and the farm was now empty, cattle and sheep running wild.

The small ferry runs on a thin steel cable, and only people and luggage are carried by it. The horses had to swim the distance of nearly 400 yards. They were driven in with loud shouts till they got out of their depth. It was a fine sight to see the three troops swimming in the strong current, which took them more and more out of their course, but at the same time we felt anxious. It is not uncommon that weaker horses are caught by the current and drowned, and we had hardly any experience of our horses as swimmers. With our glasses we followed them eagerly. Vingel was the first man home, then came Trumf and Isac. One after another came out, shook himself, and was all right. We felt relieved when they were all in safety. Now we crossed—the ferry driven by the current in every direction—caught our animals and bade farewell to our fellow passengers. They took the usual route south, but we set our course on the Baguales Mountains, south of the lake, where we pitched our camp that night. Quensel had now crossed his track of the summer before. In Mr. Cattle’s farm, not far from the shore, he had his headquarters for some time, and from there he undertook an interesting boat-trip which he relates in the next chapter. His memories of Estancia Cattle were so pleasant that he would not pass at a distance of some miles without shaking hands with his old friends; I myself very much wanted to visit Cerro Buenos Aires, while Halle and Pagels would continue up towards the pass over the mountains and camp by the last bushes for the sake of the fuel.

We saddled Flax and Johansson early in the morning and made west. It was a pleasure to set them at a gallop, for with the packhorses we had generally been confined to a walk or trot, and now found them as good as the horses we borrowed for our excursions round the settlements. The farm we now went to visit is pleasantly situated on the north slope of Cerro Buenos Aires between two forest-patches. The master of the house was not in, but we were welcomed by his partner, one of the most remarkable figures of the extensive gallery one is able to call to mind after a long journey. She was the Amazon of Patagonia, and I had heard of her before. When she comes walking towards you dressed like a man, with hair cut and pipe in mouth, nobody could tell that a woman, and an educated, intelligent English lady of a very good family, is before him. The equal of any man, she takes part in the daily work on the farm, throws her lasso like a gaucho, or digs in her garden, where there are cauliflowers as well as strawberries. I am afraid my reader may think her a disagreeable person only wanting to get herself talked about, and at a tea-party in Punta Arenas her very name is enough to call forth a cry of indignation. But do not form an opinion too hastily. Nobody comes to Cattle’s farm with an unfavourable preconceived opinion without leaving it with quite another, and, like myself, finding the woman gaucho a highly interesting and genial person. We have nothing to do, however, with her story—it is a romance as romantic as any. For the last seven years she had not left the farm.

According to our agreement we were to join the caravan on the 4th. We stopped for the night and made an excursion to Cerro Buenos Aires, where one gets a splendid view over the lake. Up there, on the stony slopes, a disaster long expected happened: my old boots refused to serve any more. I had long foreseen the catastrophe, but in vain tried to get a pair large enough. Most people in Patagonia seem to have small feet, and those who have not had no boots to spare. The result was that I had to leave Cattle without any and pass the Baguales range in a pair of slippers, which, however, is not as bad as it sounds, for one is able to ride most of the way. It was already late when we left the farm, and in a gallop we made for Rio Centinela—which we were to follow up to the pass. We looked for the tracks of our caravan in vain, although some passages along the river are so narrow that one has to ride in single file. It grew dark; still no trace of a camp. We kept high up along the barranca to get a better view, but the distance to the last calafate bushes was greater than we had thought, and it was already night before we saw the fire. Halle told us that two strange horses had joined the tropilla, and we resolved to let them help us across, should they still be there in the morning. They were, so we saddled them, and found them to be a pair of good horses. Both of them were marked, probably left behind by some traveller, and we let them go when we were on the other side. Sierra de los Baguales, named after the wild horses found there in old times—in other parts we had seen such, as well as wild cattle—makes a very irregular impression, thanks to the basaltic cover. The pass itself is very picturesque, with its mighty pillars and masses of stone in the shape of ruined castles and fortresses. The way along the Centinela valley cannot be called bad in comparison with what we were used to; there is indeed much boggy ground, but one can get round most of it. The caravan went ahead of me, for in spite of my soft slippers I crossed the pass on foot and secured a rich harvest of Alpine plants. Guanacos were plentiful and very tame, and our dogs were very energetic in hunting them, but without result, for the young were big enough to follow their parents.

We had crossed the wall between wild life and civilization. In front of us was the part of Chile called the Magellan Territories, South Patagonia, colonized throughout. Within a couple of days we should get into communication with the rest of the world; the post was waiting for us, and there is a telephone line to Punta Arenas. We had taken the decisive step. On the south side of the pass originates Rio Baguales, the valley which we followed till we came across a small calafate thicket, which afforded us some fuel.

The last camp! The hot asado over the last camp-fire, at least with the whole caravan. Certainly it was high time that this long journey came to an end, but we thought with regret of all the pleasant hours spent round the fire, and with unmixed satisfaction we looked back on the past months with their thousands of varied memories. For the last time we struck camp, followed the river another couple of miles, and came down on the slope of Cerro Contreras, where we soon found a road and where a strong smell of creosote met us, showing that a “dip” was in progress somewhere near by. We soon caught sight of the large iron shed, and rode into a well-kept farm where dipping was going on. It was one of the estancias belonging to the “Sociedad Esplotadora de Tierra del Fuego”; below I shall say something about its influence on the history of South Patagonia. We were very well received; the manager even lent me a pair of boots which were big enough. From here we could telephone to Cerro Castillo, the central estancia, where we spoke with Mr. Burbury, the chief there, whose acquaintance we had made at Punta Arenas. He welcomed us back and told us that a big mail lay waiting for us. We left Halle behind; fossiliferous layers had been reported in the neighbourhood, but no specialist had ever visited them. Quensel and I continued on to Cerro Castillo, the headquarters of the company. Never before had I found our progress so slow; the reins seemed to burn our fingers, and with joy we hailed the first glimpse of the big settlement, where we stayed in the manager’s quarters. Two boxes of letters and papers waited, for it was four months since we had any news, and far into the night we stayed up reading, surrounded by the mail spread out over table, chairs, and bed.

Before I go on to describe our excursions in South Patagonia some words on the history of its colonization might be appropriate here. After the foundation of Punta Arenas, in 1843, Chileans as well as strangers started to settle along the Straits, mostly for sheep-farming, but also to look for gold or other valuable metals. Many people in Chile did not believe much in the future of the colony, owing to the fact that the region was unknown to them and reported as being hardly habitable. However, civilization spread over the Brunswick Peninsula and into Tierra del Fuego, and finally the Ultima Esperanza district, which interests us more especially, was also populated. This was at the beginning of the nineties. At first the colonists settled down without paying any tributes or taxes and the land was apportioned by private agreement. In 1884 the Government assumed control and the first fixed lots were given on leasehold tenure. South Patagonia had already proved to be a land of the future where sheep-farming might become a source of wealth for many, and voices were soon heard arguing that the State should sell the land. Without being owner of the soil nobody would sink either money or labour in it, but a sort of sweating system was introduced in order to make the greatest possible amount of money in the shortest space of time. It was very long before the Government consented to listen to the complaints from the Straits of Magellan, and when at last something was done it was done in a manner hardly likely to satisfy the just demands of the farmers. In 1902 it was resolved to dispose of one million hectares by auction, but everything was done in such a hurry that many colonists had no time to arrange their business affairs, and the auction was to be held in—Santiago! The auction was postponed, and in 1903 part of the land was sold, divided into ninety-five lots. Only in the Ultima Esperanza district had everything remained as it was.

The first estancia there was started in 1893, and by the beginning of the next century there were a score of flourishing settlements, life and movement grew apace amongst the mixed English and Scotch population, and Punta Arenas increased rapidly. Then a decree was issued ordering a large piece of land to be put up for auction in Santiago on March 15, 1905. People were attacked by a veritable fever. In a few days’ time half a dozen companies had been formed with big capitals, and in order to save their homes the colonists formed themselves into one company, the “United Estancias of Ultima Esperanza.” At the auction there were wild scenes, enormous bids were made, and lots were sold at prices ten times their true value. The result was that most of the purchasers could not pay at the proper time—for the companies’ capitals existed mostly on paper—they lost their rights, and another date was fixed for another sale. Meanwhile the Sociedad Esplotadora, which owned large estates in Tierra del Fuego, appeared on the scene. With a big joint capital at its back it entered the field and acquired almost the whole district. The colonists had to surrender unconditionally and take what it pleased the company to pay them for houses and fixtures, the cosy homes were broken up and Cerro Castillo made the headquarters. The company now has about one million sheep. I can hardly believe that the revolution was favourable to Chile’s interests, and I daresay that is a rather ugly page in the history of a so-called democratic people. Men who knew Patagonia before and now say that the star of Ultima Esperanza sank when the all-mighty company became its master. Personally we owe much to its leading men, Mr. A. Cameron of Punta Arenas and Mr. T. Burbury of Cerro Castillo.