Notes of a naturalist in South America

SMYTH’S CHANNEL.

It was impossible not to experience a sense of depression at the persistence of such unfriendly weather during the brief period of passing through a region of such exceptional interest, an opportunity, if once lost, never to be recovered. With corresponding eagerness the hope held out by a steady rise of the barometer was greeted, especially when I found that this continued up to ten p.m., and amounted since morning to a quarter of an inch. We were under way some time before daylight on June 9, and great was my delight when, going on deck, I found a cloudless sky and the Southern Cross standing high in the firmament.

It was a morning never to be forgotten. We rapidly made our way from amid the maze of smaller islands, and glided over the smooth water into a broad channel commanding a wide horizon, bounded a panorama of unique character. As the stars faded and daylight stole over the scene, fresh features of strangeness and beauty at each successive moment came into view, until at last the full glory of sunshine struck the highest point of Queen Adelaide Island, and a few moments later crowned the glistening summits of all the eminences that circled around. The mountainous outline of Queen Adelaide Island, on the right hand, which anywhere else would fix attention, was somewhat dwarfed by the superior attractions of the other objects in view. We had reached the point where Smyth’s Channel widens out into the western end of the Straits of Magellan, and right in front of us rose the fantastic outline of the Land of Desolation, as the early navigators styled the shores that bound the southern entrance to the Straits; and as we advanced it was possible to follow every detail of the outline, even to the bold summit of Cape Pillar, forty miles away to the westward. Marking as it does the entrance to the Straits from the South Pacific, that headland has drawn to it many an anxious gaze since steam navigation has made the passage of the Straits easy and safe, and thus avoids the hardship and delay of the inclement voyage round Cape Horn.

The coast nearest to us was at least as attractive as any other part of the panorama. The southern extremity of the continent is a strange medley of mountain and salt water, which can be explained only by the irregular action of elevatory forces not following a definite line of direction. Several of the narrow sounds that penetrate the coast are spread out inland into large salt-water lakes, and all the shores along which we coasted between Smyth’s Channel and Sandy Point belong to peninsulas projecting between fifty and one hundred miles from the continuous mainland of Patagonia. The outline is strangely varied. Bold snow-covered peaks alternate with lower rocky shores, and are divided by channels of dark blue water penetrating to an unknown distance into the interior. From amidst the higher summits flowed several large ice-streams, appearing, even from a distance, to be traversed by broad crevasses. I did not see any of these glaciers actually reach the sea, but one, whose lower end was masked by a projecting forest-clad headland, must have approached very near to the beach.

STRAITS OF MAGELLAN.

I have called the scene unique, and, in truth, I believe that nothing like it is to be found elsewhere in the world. The distant picture showing against the sky under the low rays of the winter sun is probably to be matched by some that arctic navigators bear in their memory; but here, below the zone of snow and ice, we had the striking contrast of shores covered by dense forest and clothed with luxuriant vegetation. Not much snow can have fallen, as up to a height of about twelve hundred feet above the sea, as far as the forest prevails, none met the eye. On the Norwegian coast, where one might be tempted to look for winter scenes somewhat of the same character, the forest is composed of coniferous trees, which have a very different aspect, and at the corresponding season they are, I imagine, usually so laden with snow that they can give little relief to the eye.

I was struck by the fact that, although we had travelled southward five and a half degrees of latitude (nearly four hundred English miles) since entering the Gulf of Peñas, the upper limit of the forest belt was so little depressed. I could not estimate the average depression at more than from two to three hundred feet.

As we advanced into the main channel, and were drawing near to the headland of Cape Tamar, where the Straits of Magellan are narrowed between that and the opposite coast of the Land of Desolation, we noticed that what seemed from a distance to be a mere film of vapour lying on the surface of the sea grew gradually thicker, rose to a height of about one hundred feet, and quite abruptly, in the space of two or three ship’s lengths, we lost the bright sky and the wonderful panorama, and were plunged in a fog that lasted through the greater part of the afternoon. The one constant characteristic of the climate of this region is its liability at all seasons to frequent and abrupt change, especially by day. It is, as I learned, a rare event when a day passes without one or two, or even more frequent, changes of the wind, bringing corresponding changes of temperature, rain, or snow, or clear sky; but, as a rule, the weather is less inconstant in winter than at other seasons. A short experience makes it easy to understand the extreme difficulty of navigation in the Straits for sailing ships, and the expediency of preferring the less inviting course of rounding Cape Horn.

BORYA BAY.

Several times during the day the fog cleared away for a while, and gave us grand views of the coast on either hand. That of the Land of Desolation especially attracted my attention. Captain Willsen pointed out to me, as we stood on the bridge, to which I had free access, the opening of a narrow sound which has lately been ascertained to penetrate entirely through what used to be considered a single island. The expressive name must, indeed, be abandoned, for, if I am not mistaken, the Land of Desolation of our maps is already known to consist of three, and may possibly form many more islands, divided from each other by very narrow channels. Our cautious commander resolved once again to anchor for the night, and selected for the purpose Borya Bay, a small sheltered cove some distance east of Port Gallant, a harbour often visited by the English surveying-expeditions. Daylight had departed when, about half-past five, we reached our anchorage; but the sky was again quite clear, and we enjoyed the weird effects of moonlight illumination. The scenery is very grand, and was more wintry in aspect than at any other point in our voyage. A mountain at the head of the cove rose steeply to a height of at least two thousand feet, and cast a dark shadow over the ship as we lay very near the shore. The shores were begirt with the usual belt of forest, but this did not extend far, and the declivities all around were clad with snow, which lay rather deep. It appeared to me that a rather large glacier descended to within a few hundred feet of the shore, but, seen by the imperfect light, I felt uncertain as to the fact. Since entering the Straits, I had noticed that on the steeper slopes facing the south, where the surface can receive but little sunshine at any season, the forest ascends but a short distance above the sea-level. Above that limit in such situations I observed only a scanty covering of bushes, and higher up the surface at this season appeared quite bare.

As Borya Bay is one of the customary haunts of the Fuegians, the steam-whistle was sounded on our arrival as an invitation to any natives who might be encamped there. This always suffices to attract them, with the hope of being able to gratify their universal craving for tobacco. The appeal was not answered, as the people were doubtless on the outer coasts, and we were not destined to see anything of the most miserable of all the races of man.

As the weather remained bright, the anchor was raised soon after midnight, and by one a.m. we were on our way, steering south-east, to round the southern extremity of the mainland of America. Awaking to the disappointment of having missed a view of one of the most interesting portions of the Straits, I hurried on deck, and found a new change in the aspect of the skies. The night had been cold, with a sharp frost; but in the morning, soon after daybreak, the air felt quite warm, with the thermometer marking 39° Fahr. A northerly breeze had set in, and as an inevitable result brought thick weather. I again noticed, however, that the barometer on these coasts seems to be very slightly affected by changes in the wind’s direction. It stood last night at 30·16 inches, and on the morning of the 10th, with a complete change of weather, had fallen only eight-hundredths of an inch.

MOUNT SARMIENTO.

The southern end of the continent is shaped like a broad wedge, whose apex is Cape Froward, laying in south latitude 53° 54′. We passed it early in the forenoon, giving the headland, which we saw dimly to the north, a broad berth, so that we about touched the 54th parallel. If we compare this with the climate of places in about the same latitude, as, for instance, with that of the Isle of Man, we are apt to consider the climate as severe; but we habitually forget how far the condition of Western Europe is affected by exceptional circumstances; and if we look elsewhere in the northern hemisphere, taking, for instance, the Labrador coast, the south of Kamschatka, or even the coast of British Columbia, we must admit that the Straits of Magellan afford no confirmation to the prevalent ideas respecting the greater cold of the climate of the southern hemisphere.

Soon after this turning-point of the voyage the sky partially cleared to the southward, and we were fortunate enough to enjoy one of the most impressive scenes that my memory has recorded. The broad sound that divides Clarence Island from the main island of Tierra del Fuego lay open before us, flanked on either hand by lofty snow-clad summits. In the background, set as in a frame, rose the magnificent peak of Mount Sarmiento, the Matterhorn of this region, springing, as it appeared, from the shore to a height of seven thousand feet.33 Sole sovereign of these antarctic solitudes, I know of no other peak that impresses the mind so deeply with the sense of wonder and awe. As seen from the north, the eastern and western faces are almost equally precipitous, and the broad top is jagged by sharp teeth, of which the two outermost, one to the east, the other to the west, present summits of apparently equal height. At a distance of about twenty-five miles the whole mass seemed to be coated with snow and ice, save where some sharp ridges and teeth of black rock stood out against the sky. I remained for some time utterly engrossed by the marvellous spectacle, and at last bethought myself of endeavouring to secure at least an outline of the scene; but before I could fetch a sketch-book, a fresh change in the weather partly obscured, and, a few minutes later, finally concealed from my eyes a picture that remains vividly impressed on my memory.

It was impossible not to speculate on the origin and past history of this remarkable peak. Admitting that there is evidence to show that the larger part of the rocks of this region are of volcanic origin, it appeared to me evident not only that Mount Sarmiento is not a volcanic cone, but that the rock of which it is composed is not of volcanic origin. Whether its real form be that of a tower, or that of a ridge with precipitous sides seen in profile, no volcanic rocks elsewhere in the world can retain slopes so nearly approaching to the vertical. It is, I believe, a portion of the original rock skeleton that formed the axis of the Andean chain during the long ages that preceded the great volcanic outbursts that have covered over the framework of the western side of South America. Like most peaks of a similar form, I am disposed to believe that in the course of gradual upheaval the flanks have been carved by marine action to the nearly vertical form which impresses the beholder. Although snow-covered mountains suffer a certain limited amount of denudation in the channels through which glaciers flow, there is reason to hold that they are far less subject to degradation than those which are not protected from the main agencies that wear away rocky surfaces. It is by alternations of temperature, by frost, and the action of running water, that rocks are rapidly eaten away, and from these a snow-covered mountain is to a great extent secured.

CHANGE OF SCENERY.

A few miles east of Cape Froward the coast of the mainland trends nearly due north for a distance of fully sixty miles, and a marked change is perceived in the aspect of the shores. Instead of the bold outlines to which our eyes had become accustomed, the coastline lay low, fringed with forest on the side of the mainland, which now lay to our west, and on the other hand showing bare flats, here and there flecked with fresh snow. The land on that side at first belonged to Dawson Island; but later in the day, as we approached our destination, the dreary flats formed part of Northern Tierra del Fuego.

ISOLATION OF SANDY POINT.

The weather was thick as we passed Port Famine, and there was little to attract attention until we drew near to Sandy Point, a place that was to me the more interesting as I intended to make it my home until the arrival of the next English steamer. The belt of forest rose over low swelling hills near the sea, and in the distance a loftier range, from two to three thousand feet in height, showed a nearly horizontal line against the cloudy sky. As we approached, several structures of painted wood became visible, and for the first time since we left Lota we beheld human dwellings. Sandy Point, known to the natives of South America by the equivalent name Punta Arenas, is certainly one of the most isolated of inhabited spots to be found in the world. Since the scramble for Africa has set in, it is, I suppose, only on the Australian coast that one would find any settlement so far removed from neighbours or rivals. On the side of Chili the nearest permanent habitations are in the island of Chiloe, fully seven hundred miles distant in a straight line, and considerably farther by the only practicable route. On the side of Argentaria there is a miserable attempt at a settlement at the mouth of the river Santa Cruz, where the Argentine Government has thought it expedient to hoist their flag in order to assert the rights of sovereignty of the Confederation over the dreary wastes of South-eastern Patagonia. This was described to me as a group of half a dozen wooden sheds, where a few disconsolate soldiers spend a weary time of exile from the genial climate of Buenos Ayres. By the sea route it is about four hundred miles from Sandy Point, but no direct communication between the two places is kept up. For all practical purposes, the nearest civilized neighbours to Sandy Point are the English colonists in the Falkland Islands, where, in spite of inhospitable soil and climate, some of our countrymen have managed to attain to tolerable prosperity, chiefly by sheep-farming. But with an interval of nearly five hundred miles of stormy ocean mutual intercourse is neither easy nor frequent.

CHAPTER V

Arrival at Sandy Point – Difficulties as to lodging – Story of the mutiny – Patagonian ladies – Agreeable society in the Straits of Magellan – Winter aspect of the flora – Patagonians and Fuegians – Habits of the South American ostrich – Waiting for the steamer – Departure – Climate of the Straits and of the southern hemisphere – Voyage to Monte Video – Saturnalia of children – City of Monte Video – Signor Bartolomeo Bossi; his explorations – Neighbourhood of the city – Uruguayan politics – River steamer – Excursion to Paisandu – Voyage on the Uruguay – Use of the telephone – Excursion to the camp – Aspect of the flora – Arrival at Buenos Ayres – Industrial Exhibition – Argentine forests – The cathedral of Buenos Ayres – Excursion to La Boca – Argentaria as a field for emigration.

The time had come for parting with my genial fellow-traveller, Mr. H – , with our excellent captain, and with the officers of the Rhamses, to all of whom I felt indebted for friendly aid in my pursuits; and on entering the boat that was to take me ashore I was introduced to the captain of the port, an important official of German origin. Of his various excellent qualities, the only one that I at first detected was a remarkable gift of taciturnity, rarely interrupted by a single monosyllable. I was aware that accommodation for strangers at Sandy Point is extremely limited, but I consoled myself with a belief that, if it came to the worst, the letter which I carried to the governor from the minister for foreign affairs at Santiago would help me through any preliminary difficulties. On reaching the shore, my luggage was without further question carried to a house close by, which is at this place the sole representative of a hotel. The accommodation available for strangers consists of a single room of fair dimensions, and this, as I soon learned, was occupied by a stranger. A glance at the multitudinous objects scattered about made me feel sure that the visitor must be a brother naturalist, but did not help me to solve the immediate difficulty. As I stood at the entrance, a dark-haired person, speaking pretty good English, proposed to take me to the house of the English vice-consul, and in his company I had the first view of the settlement of Sandy Point. As the ground rises very gently from the beach, few houses are seen from the sea, and the place is not so inconsiderable as it at first appears. Though rather to be counted as a village than as a town, it has the essential privilege of a Spanish city in the possession of a plaza, not yet quite surrounded by houses. The buildings are small, and nearly all built of wood painted outside.

ARRIVAL AT SANDY POINT.

The next piece of information received was unfavourable to my prospects. An Argentine corvette had reached Sandy Point a few days before, and the vice-consul had been invited, along with the governor and other notabilities, to a luncheon, which was likely to last for some time. I was fortunately provided with a note of introduction to Dr. Fenton, the medical officer of the settlement, which I now proceeded to deliver. Being somewhat unwell, he had not joined the marine entertainment, and I was at once cordially received. Not many minutes were needed to discover in my host a fellow-countryman, one of a family in the county of Sligo, with which I had some former acquaintance. Possessing in large measure the national virtue of hospitality, Dr. Fenton might have perhaps been satisfied with even a slighter claim; but, as it was, I from that time continued during my stay to receive from him the utmost kindness and attention. The first short conversation made me much better acquainted with the history of the settlement than I was before my arrival.

In 1843 the Chilian Government decided on establishing a penal settlement in the Straits of Magellan, and selected for its position Port Famine, which had been frequently visited by early navigators. After a few years’ experience that place was abandoned, and the settlement was transferred to Sandy Point. This was partly preferred on account of a deposit of lignite of inferior quality, which lies little more than a mile from the shore. A considerable number of convicts were maintained at the station, and as there was little risk of escape they were allowed considerable liberty. At length, in 1877, the injudicious severity of the governor of that day provoked a revolt among the convicts. They speedily overcame the keepers, and the officials and peaceable inhabitants had no resource left but to fly to the forest. The convicts proceeded to set fire to the houses. Dr. Fenton lost his house, furniture, and books, and, in addition, the record of ten years’ meteorological observations. By a fortunate accident, a Chilian war-vessel reached Sandy Point just when disorder was at its height; the insurgents were speedily overpowered, and several of the ringleaders executed. The weather was unusually mild, and the refugees, amongst whom were many ladies and young children, suffered less than might have been expected in such a climate. Nearly all the houses seen by me had been hastily erected since the outbreak, and, as was natural, were on a scale barely sufficing for the wants of the inmates.

STORY OF THE MUTINY.

I fully understood that no amount of hospitable intentions could enable Dr. Fenton to give me quarters in his house, and he assured me that the governor, Don Francisco Sampayo, was no less restricted as to accommodation. One resource, however, seemed available: the German consul, Herr Meidell, had returned for a visit to Europe, and it was thought that, on application to his partner, a room might certainly be obtained in his house. My dark-haired friend, who had reappeared on the scene, and who turned out to be a native of Gibraltar, kindly undertook to arrange the matter, and, after an early dinner at Dr. Fenton’s hospitable table, I proceeded with him to present my letter to the governor. The great man had not yet returned to shore, but I made the acquaintance of his wife, a delicate Peruvian lady, who sat, wrapped in a woollen shawl, in a room without a fire, of which the temperature must have been about 45° Fahr. On leaving the governor’s house, we again encountered my envoy, whose countenance at once proclaimed that he had failed in his mission. Mr. Meidell, being a cautious man, had locked up most of his furniture and household effects before going to Europe, and had left strict injunctions that no one was to enter the part of his house used as a private dwelling. As we stood consulting about further proceedings, a tall figure approached, and I learned that it belonged to the stranger who occupied the solitary room available for visitors to Sandy Point.

I speedily made the acquaintance of Signor Vinciguerra, one of the group of energetic young Italian naturalists whose head-quarters are at Genoa. He belonged to the expedition commanded by Lieutenant Bove of the Italian navy, and had remained at Sandy Point to investigate the zoology of the neighbouring coast, while his companions proceeded to Staten Island, or Isla de los Estados, at the eastern extremity of the Fuegian Archipelago. Community of pursuits and several mutual friends at once cemented cordial relations, and Signor Vinciguerra kindly undertook to make room for me in his rather restricted quarters. We proceeded to the house close by the landing-place, and I was in the act of arranging the matter with the landlord, when the British vice-consul appeared. He had overcome the scruples of Mr. Meidell’s partner, a mattress and some coverings had been found, a room was at my disposal, with a bed on the floor, and the lodging difficulty was solved.

Not without some regret at being separated from an agreeable companion, I accepted the offered quarters, and had the needful portion of my luggage carried to my temporary home. As the sun set before four o’clock, it was already dark before I was installed in my new quarters, and the evening was spent under the hospitable roof of Dr. Fenton, from whom I received much interesting information as to the region which he has made his home, and the indigenous population. On my way to his house I saw the first specimens of the Patagonian Indians, who at this season frequent the settlement to dispose of skins, chiefly guanaco and rhea, and indulge in their ruling passion for ardent spirits. Two ladies of large and stout build, attired in shabby and torn European dress, and both far gone in intoxication, were standing at a door of a shop or store, and indulging in loud talk for the entertainment of a circle of bystanders. The language was, I presume, their native dialect, with here and there a word of Spanish or English, and the subject seemed to be what with us would be called chaff, as their remarks elicited frequent peals of laughter. I was suddenly reminded of a drunken Irish basket-woman whose freaks had been the cause of mingled alarm and amusement in my early childhood.

PATAGONIAN LADIES.

During the day the streets of Punta Arenas were deep in mud, but as I went home at night, the sky was cloudless, a sharp frost had set in, and the mud was hard frozen. I had not before enjoyed so fine a view of the southern heavens. The cross was brilliant, nearly in the zenith, and I made out clearly the dark starless spaces that have been named the coal-sacks.