Notes of a naturalist in South America

One thought alone troubled me as I lay down in my berth to enjoy the first quiet night’s rest. If the weather should hold on as it now fared, there was but a slight prospect of enjoying the renowned scenery of the channels, or of making much acquaintance with the singular vegetation of this new region. It was therefore with intense relief and positive delight that I found, on sallying forth before sunrise, a clear sky and a moderate breeze from the south. Snow had fallen during the night, and was now hard frozen; and in the tent, where my plants had lain during the night, it was necessary to break off fragments of ice with numbed fingers before laying them in paper.

We weighed anchor about daybreak, and the 5th of June, my first day in the Channels, will ever remain as a bright spot in my memory. Wellington Island, which lay on our right, is over a hundred and fifty miles in length, a rough mountain range averaging apparently about three thousand feet in height, with a moderately uniform coast-line. On the other hand, the mainland presents a constantly varying outline, indented by numberless coves and several deep narrow sounds running far into the recesses of the Cordillera. In the intermediate channel crowds of islets, some rising to the size of mountains, some mere rocks peeping above the water, present an endless variety of form and outline. But what gives to the scenery a unique character is the wealth of vegetation that adorns this seemingly inclement region. From the water’s edge to a height which I estimated at fourteen hundred feet, the rugged slopes were covered with an unbroken mantle of evergreen trees and shrubs. Above that height the bare declivities were clothed with snow, mottled at first by projecting rocks, but evidently lying deep upon the higher ridges. I can find no language to give any impression of the marvellous variety of the scenes that followed in quick succession against the bright blue background of a cloudless sky, and lit up by a northern sun that illumined each new prospect as we advanced. At times one might have fancied one’s self on a great river in the interior of a continent, while a few minutes later, in the openings between the islands, the eye could range over miles of water to the mysterious recesses of the yet unexplored Cordillera of Patagonia, with occasional glimpses of snowy peaks at least twice the height of the summits near at hand. About two o’clock we reached the so-named English Narrows, where the only known navigable channel is scarcely a hundred yards in width between two islets bristling with rocks. The tide rushed through at the rate of a rapid river, and our captain displayed even more than his usual caution. Some ten men of the crew were posted astern with steering gear, in readiness to provide for the possible breakage of the chains from the steering-house. It seemed unlikely enough that such an accident should occur at that particular point, but there was no doubt that if it did a few seconds might send the ship upon the rocks.

THE ENGLISH NARROWS.

One of the advantages of a voyage through the Channels is that at all seasons the ship comes to anchor every night, and the traveller is not exposed to the mortification of passing the most beautiful scenes when he is unable to see them. When more thoroughly known, it is likely that among the numerous coves many more will be found to offer good anchorage; but few are now known, and the distance that can be run during the short winter days is not great. We were told that our halt for the night was to be at Eden Harbour, less than twenty miles south of the English Narrows, and to my great satisfaction we dropped anchor about 3.30 p.m., when there was still a full hour of daylight. Our good-natured captain put off dinner for an hour, and with all convenient speed I went ashore with Mr. H – and two officers of the ship.

Eden Harbour deserves its name. A perfectly sheltered cove, with excellent holding-ground, is enclosed by steep forest-clad slopes, culminating to the north in a lofty conical hill easily recognized by seamen. The narrow fringe between the forest and the beach is covered with a luxuriant growth of ferns and shrubby plants, many of them covered in summer with brilliant flowers, blooming in a solitude rarely broken by the passage of man. After scrambling over the rocks on the beach, the first thing that struck us was the curious nature of the ground under our feet. The surface was crisp and tolerably hard, but each step caused an undulation that made one feel as if walking on a thick carpet laid over a mass of sponge. Striking a blow with the pointed end of my ice-axe, it at once pierced through the frozen crust, and sank to the hilt over four feet into the semifluid mass beneath, formed of half-decomposed remains of vegetation.

At every step plants of this region, never before seen, filled me with increasing excitement. Several were found with very tolerable fruit, and there were even some remains of the flowers of Desfontainea spinosa and Mitraria coccinea. The latter beautiful shrub appears to have been hitherto known only from Chiloe and the Chonos Archipelago. In those islands it is described as a tall climber straggling among the branches of trees. Here I found it somewhat stunted, growing four or five feet high, with the habit of a small fuchsia. Neither of these is a true antarctic species. Like many Chilian plants, they are peculiar and much-modified members of tribes whose chief home is in tropical America. Everything else that I saw was characteristically antarctic. Three small coniferous trees peculiar to this region; a large-flowered berberry, with leaves like those of a holly, growing six or eight feet high, still showing remains of the flower; and two species of Pernettya, with berries like those of a bilberry, and which replace our Vaccinia in the southern hemisphere, were among the new forms that greeted me.

VEGETATION OF EDEN HARBOUR.

A few minutes’ stumbling over fallen timber brought us to the edge of the forest, and it was soon seen that, even if time allowed, it would be no easy matter to penetrate into it. The chief and only large tree was the evergreen beech (Fagus betuloides of botanists). This has a thick trunk, commonly three or four feet in diameter, but nowhere, I believe, attains any great height. Forty feet appeared to me the outside limit attained by any that I saw here or elsewhere. But perhaps the most striking, and to me unexpected, feature in the vegetation was the abundance and luxuriance of the ferns that inhabit these coasts. From out of the stiff frozen crust under our feet a profusion of delicate filmy ferns (Hymenophylla) grew to an unaccustomed size, including several quite distinct species; while here and there clumps of the stiff fronds of Lomaria magellanica, a couple of feet in height, showed an extraordinary contrast in form and habit. As Sir Joseph Hooker long ago remarked, the regular rigid crown of fronds issuing from a thick rhizome, when seen from a little distance, remind one forcibly of a Zamia. It was to me even more surprising to find here in great abundance a representative of a genus of ferns especially characteristic of the tropical zone. The Gleichenia of these coasts differs sufficiently to deserve a separate specific name, but in general appearance is strikingly like that which I afterwards saw growing in equal abundance in Brazil.

This continent, with its thousands of miles of unbroken coast-line, and its mountain backbone stretching from the equator to Fuegia, has offered extraordinary facilities for the diffusion of varied types of vegetation. As I have already remarked, some species of antarctic origin travel northward, and some others, now confined to the equatorial Andes, are most probably modified descendants from the same parent stock; while a small number of tropical types, after undergoing more or less modification, have found their way to the extreme southern extremity of the continent.

By a vigorous use of my ice-axe, which is an excellent weapon for a botanist, I succeeded in uprooting a good many plants from the icy crust in which they grew; but the minutes slipped quickly by, daylight was fading in this sheltered spot, shut out from the north and west by steep hills, and too soon came the call to return to the ship. On the beach I picked up the carapace of a crab – bright red and beset with sharp protuberances – evidently freshly feasted on by some rapacious animal. The whole of the body and the shell of the under part as well as the claws had disappeared, leaving nothing but the carapace, which I presume had been found too hard and indigestible. Darwin informs us that the sea-otter of this region feeds largely on this or some allied species of crab.

A RED CRAB.

The cold was sufficient to make the little stove in the saloon of the steamer very acceptable, but at no time throughout the voyage could be called severe. Between noon and three p.m. on the 5th of June the thermometer in the open air stood about 40° Fahr., and fell at night only two or three degrees below freezing-point. The barometer was high, gradually rising from 30 inches to 30·3, at which it stood on the following day. Everything promised settled weather, and it was therefore disappointing to find the sky completely covered when I went on deck early in the morning of the 6th. A light breeze from the north raised the temperature by a few degrees and brought the clouds. The scenery throughout the day was even of a grander character than before, and the absence of sunshine gave it a sterner aspect. At times, when passing the smaller islands, I was forcibly reminded of the upper lake of Killarney, the resemblance being much increased by the appearance of the smaller islets and rocks worn down and rounded by floating ice. On this and the following days I frequently looked out for evidences of ice-action on the rocky flanks of the mountains. These were at some points very perceptible up to a considerable height; but all that I could clearly make out appeared to be directed from south to north, and nearly or quite horizontal. I failed to trace any indication on the present surface of the descent in a westerly direction of great glaciers flowing from the interior towards the coast.

Before midday we passed opposite the opening of Eyre Sound, one of the most considerable of the numerous inlets that penetrate the mountains on the side of the mainland. This is said to extend for forty or fifty miles into the heart of the Cordillera, and it seems certain that one, or perhaps several, glaciers descend into the sound, as at all seasons masses of floating ice are drifted into the main channel. We did not see them at first, as the northerly breeze had carried them towards the southern side of the inlet; but before long we found ourselves in the thick of them, and for about a mile steamed slowly amongst floating masses of tolerably uniform dimensions, four or five feet in height out of the water, and from ten to fifteen feet in length. At a little distance they looked somewhat like a herd of animals grazing. Seen near at hand, the ice looked much weathered, and it may be inferred that the parent glacier reaches the sea somewhere near the head of the sound, and they had been exposed for a considerable time before reaching its mouth.

ORIGIN OF THE GLACIERS.

The existence of great glaciers descending to the sea-level on the west coast of South America, one of which lies so far north as the Gulf of Peñas, about 47° south latitude, is a necessary consequence of the rapid depression of the line of perpetual snow on the flanks of the Andes, as we follow the chain southward from Central Chili to the channels of Patagonia. The circumstance that permanent snow is not found lower than about fourteen thousand feet above the sea in latitude 34°, while only 8° farther south the limit is about six thousand feet above the sea-level, has been regarded as evidence of a great difference of climate between the northern and southern hemispheres, and more especially of exceptional conditions of temperature affecting this coast. It appears to me that all the facts are fully explained by the extraordinary increase of precipitation from the atmosphere, in the form of rain or snow, which occurs within the zone where the rapid depression of the snow-line is observed. So far as mean annual temperature of the coast is concerned, the diminution of heat in receding from the equator is less than the normal amount, being not quite 5° Fahr. for 7° of latitude between Valparaiso and Valdivia. But the annual rainfall at Valdivia is eight times, and at Ancud in Chiloe more than nine times, the amount that falls at Santiago. Allowing that the disproportion may be less great between the snowfall on the Cordillera in the respective latitudes of these places, we cannot estimate the increased fall about latitude 40° at less than four times the amount falling in Central Chili. When we further recollect that in the latter region the sky is generally clear in summer, and that the surface is exposed to the direct rays of a sun not far from vertical, while on the southern coast the sun is constantly veiled by heavy clouds, it is obvious that all the conditions are present that must depress the snow-line to an exceptional extent, and allow of those accumulations of snow that give birth to glaciers. When a comparison is drawn between South Chili and Norway, it must not be forgotten that at Bergen, where the Norwegian rainfall is said to be at its maximum, the annual amount is sixty-seven inches, or exactly one-half of that registered in Chiloe.

It is a confirmation of this view of the subject that in going southward from the parallel of 42° to Cape Froward in the Straits of Magellan, through 12° of latitude, while the fall of mean yearly temperature must be reckoned at 8° Fahr., the depression of the snow-line cannot exceed three thousand feet.32 Of course, we have no direct observations of rainfall in the Channels or on the west side of the Straits of Magellan, but there is no doubt that it diminishes considerably in going southward.

To the south of Eyre Sound the main channel opens to a width of four or five miles, and is little encumbered by rocky islets, so that we kept a direct course a little west of south, and in less than two hours reached the southern extremity of Wellington Island, and gained a view of the open sea through a broad strait which is known as the Gulf of Trinidad. Now that this has been well surveyed, it offers an opportunity for steamers bound southward that have missed the entrance to the Gulf of Peñas to enter from the Pacific, and take the course to the Straits of Magellan through the southern channels.

INTRICACY OF THE CHANNELS.

We had now accomplished the first stage in the voyage through the Channels. Many local names have been given to the various passages open to navigation on this singular coast; but, speaking broadly, the northern portion, between Wellington Island and the mainland, is called Messier’s Channel; the middle part, including a number of distinct openings between various islands, is known as the Sarmiento Channel; and the southern division, between Queen Adelaide Island and the continent, is Smyth’s Channel. Facing the Pacific to the south of Wellington Island are three of large size – Prince Henry Island, Madre de Dios, and Hanover Island, besides countless islets which beset the straits that divide these from each other; and the course followed by the steamers lies between the outer islands and another large one (Chatham Island) which here rose between us and the mainland.

In the afternoon the north wind freshened; as a result, the weather became very thick, and rain set in, which lasted throughout the night. Our intended quarters were in a cove called Tom Bay; but our cautious captain, with a due dislike to “dirty weather,” resolved to halt in a sheltered spot a few miles farther north, known as Henderson’s Inlet. Both these places afford excellent shelter, but the bottom is rocky, and ships are much exposed to lose their anchors. Although we arrived some time before sunset, the evening was so dark, and the general aspect of things so discouraging, that no one suggested an attempt to go ashore. Although we were quite near to land, I could make out very little of the outlines; and, indeed, of this middle portion of the voyage I have retained no distinct pictures in my memory.

It struck me as very singular that, with a moderately strong breeze from the north, the barometer should have stood so high, remaining through the day at about 30·3 inches, and marking at nine p.m. 30·28. The temperature, as was to be expected, was higher than on the previous day, being about 40° during the day, and not falling at night below 35°.

Although the morning showed some improvement in the appearance of the weather, the sky was gloomy when, after a little trouble in raising the anchor, we got under way early on the 7th of June. The clouds lifted occasionally during the day, and I enjoyed some brief glimpses of grand scenery; but the only distinct impression I retained was that of hopeless bewilderment in attempting to make out the positions of the endless labyrinth of islands through which we threaded our way. In spite of all that has been done, it seems as if there remained the work of many surveying expeditions to complete the exploration of these coasts. As to several of the eminences that lie on the eastern side of the channel, it is yet uncertain whether they are islands or peninsulas projecting from the mainland. It was announced that our next anchorage was to be at Puerto Bueno, there being no other suitable place for a considerable distance, and we were led to expect that we should probably find there some Fuegians, as the place is known to be one of their favourite haunts.

PUERTO BUENO.

We dropped anchor about half-past two, in a rather wide cove, or small bay, opening into the mainland a few miles south of Chatham Island. The shores are comparatively low, and enclosed by a dense forest of evergreen beech, which in most parts descends to the water’s edge. The place owes its good repute among mariners to the excellent holding-ground; but it did not appear to me as well sheltered as the other natural harbours that we visited, and as the bottom shelves very gradually, we lay fully a mile off the shore. Fortunately the weather had improved somewhat; a moderate breeze from the north brought slight drizzling rain, but gave no further trouble. A boat was soon ready alongside, and we pulled for the shore, with three of the ship’s officers armed with fowling-pieces, intended partly to impress the natives with due respect, but mainly designed for the waterbirds that abound along the shores of the inlet. We were correctly steered for the right spot, as, on scrambling ashore and crossing the belt of spongy ground between the water and the edge of the forest, we found evident tokens that the Fuegian encampment had not been long deserted. The broken remains of a rude canoe and fragments of basket-work were all that we could find, and we judged that a small party, perhaps no more than ten or a dozen, had left the place a few weeks before our arrival. These wretched Fuegians are said to go farther south, and to keep more to the exposed coasts during winter, because at that season animal life is there more abundant.

After exchanging sundry jokes about the general disappointment in failing to behold the wilde fräulein in their natural home, the party separated, two of the officers proceeding in the boat towards the upper part of the inlet in quest of water-fowl. For nearly an hour we heard the frequent discharge of their guns, and much ammunition must certainly have been expended; but when they returned their report was that the birds were too wild, and no addition was made to the ship’s larder.

The general character of the vegetation at Puerto Bueno was the same as that at Eden Harbour, but there were some indications of a slight increase in the severity of the climate. Mitraria coccinea and a few other representatives of the special flora of Chili were no longer to be found, while some antarctic types not before seen here first made their appearance. The most prominent of these was a bush from three to five feet high, in general appearance reminding one of rosemary, but at this season abundantly furnished with the plumed fruits characteristic of a composite. This plant, nearly allied to the genus Olearia, whose numerous species are confined to Australia, New Zealand, and the adjoining islands, is known to botanists as Chiliotrichium amelloides, and is one of the characteristic species of this region. It is plentiful in Fuegia and on the northern shores of the Straits of Magellan. Sir Joseph Hooker, in the “Flora Antarctica,” remarks that this is the nearest approach to a tree that is made by the meagre native vegetation of the Falkland Islands.

PATAGONIAN CONIFERS.

My attention had already been directed at Eden Harbour to the peculiar coniferous plants of this region, and I here found the same species in better condition. The most conspicuous, a small tree with stiff pointed leaves somewhat like an araucaria, here produced abundant fruit, which showed it to be a Podocarpus (P. nubigena of Lindley). Another shrub of the same family, but very different in appearance, is a species of Libocedrus, allied to the cypress of the Old World, which tolerates even the inclement climate of Hermite Island, near Cape Horn. The distribution of the various species of this genus is not a little perplexing to the botanical geographer. This and another species inhabit the west side of South America, two are found in New Zealand, one in the island of New Caledonia, one is peculiar to Southern China, and one to Japan, while an eighth species belongs to California. The most probable supposition is that the home of the common ancestor of the genus was in the circumpolar lands of the Antarctic Circle at a remote period when that region enjoyed a temperate climate; but the processes by which descendants from that stock reached such remote parts of the earth are not easily conjectured.

It was nearly dark when the unsuccessful sportsmen returned with the boat, and but for the ship’s lights we should have scarcely been able to make out her position. Some of the many stories of seamen cast away in this inclement region came into my mind during the short half-hour of our return, and, in the presence of the actual scenes and conditions, my impressions assumed a vividness that they had never acquired when “living at home at ease.”

In the evening I observed that the barometer had fallen considerably from the usually high point at which it stood up to the 6th, and throughout the night and the following day (June 8) it varied little from 29·9 inches. When we came on deck on the morning of the 8th, the uniform remark of the passengers was, “What a warm day!” We had become used to a temperature of about 40°, and a rise of 5° Fahr. gave the impression of a complete change of climate. It is curious how completely relative are the impressions of heat and cold on the human body, and how difficult it is, even for persons accustomed to compare their sensations with the instrument, to form a moderately good estimate of the actual temperature. We paid dearly, however, for any bodily comfort gained from the comparative warmth in the thick weather that prevailed during most of the day. We had some momentary views of grand scenery, but, as on the preceding day, these were fleeting, and I failed to carry away any definite pictures. It would appear that in such weather the navigation amid such a complete maze of islands and channels must be nearly impossible, but the various surveying-expeditions have placed landmarks, in the shape of wooden posts and crosses, that suffice to the practised eyes of seamen.

About ten a.m. we reached the end of the Sarmiento Channel, opposite to which the comparatively broad opening of Lord Nelson Strait, between Hanover Island and Queen Adelaide Island, leads westward to the Pacific, and before long entered on the third stage of our voyage, which is known as Smyth’s Channel. This name is used collectively for the labyrinth of passages lying among the smaller islands that fill the space between Queen Adelaide Island and the mainland of South-western Patagonia; but to distinguish the openings between separate islands various names have been given, with which no one not a navigator need burthen his memory. Perhaps the thick weather may have been the cause, but we all noticed the comparative rarity of all appearance of animal life on this and the previous day. A large whale passing near the ship gave the only occasion for a little momentary excitement. As we ran southward, and were daily approaching the winter solstice, the successive days became sensibly shorter, and it was already nearly dark when, soon after four p.m., we cast anchor in an opening between two low islands which is known as Mayne Channel.