Across Patagonia

During the march we started up a male ostrich, which had about forty young ones under its care. Though we called our dogs back, nothing could restrain them, and they gave chase, killing one of the small ostriches before we could get up to them; the male bird and the others escaped. The flesh of the young ostrich is not very palatable, so we left the bird, taking only its legs, which make very nice handles for umbrellas and whips. On this day I'Aria again distinguished himself by losing the way, he having been entrusted by the other guides with the leadership on this occasion, as he was supposed to be better acquainted than any one with this particular region.

For quite two hours we followed him in all directions through an extensive beechwood thicket, in search of the springs we were to camp by that night; and when they were at last found, it was by Gregorio, and in quite another direction than the one in which I'Aria, with his usual pertinacious confidence, was taking us. He came in for a good deal of abuse from his colleagues, and a fair share of black looks from us, all of which he bore with the cheerful indifference which characterised him under all circumstances.

The present was to be our last camp among beeches, as we had now to strike across a perfectly woodless region, on our way to the point at which we intended entering the Cordilleras. These occasional patches of beeches are only to be found in the vicinity of the mountains; in the plains that stretch down to the coast nothing is to be met with in the way of fuel but "berberis" and a few other scrubby kinds of bushes. We therefore made the most of our present abundance of wood, and revelled in huge fires, in order to lay in a store of warm memories at least to carry with us into the bleak region we were about to enter. At dinner this day we tasted a novelty in the way of fowl, of such excellence that I cannot let the occasion pass without expatiating for a moment on its merits. In the daytime we had met with large flights of a bird which the natives call "chorlito," or "batatu," in species something between a golden plover and a woodcock. These birds come down to Patagonia in incredible numbers at this season, to feast on the ripe cranberries which grow everywhere in profusion, and on which the ostriches, ibis, and wild geese all feed and thrive. We had shot some of these "chorlitos," and they had been roasted for dinner on the spit, along with some snipe and wild duck we had brought with us from Gallegos. At dinner, however, they were at first rather neglected, as we had got rather tired of birds, having had so much of them at Laguna Blanca. Presently, however, dinner being finished, some one of our party, in a spirit of careless curiosity rather than from any desire to satisfy an already satiated appetite, pulled one of these chorlitos off the spit, and with a half-deprecating air took a bite of it. But when he had done so, the sudden alteration in his bearing from apathy to activity was a sight to see. The expression on his face, till then one of weary indifference, gave way to a look of intense astonishment, which finally became one of placid delight, as bit by bit the chorlito disappeared down his throat. Though he did not speak, his silent action spoke volumes of eloquent recommendation, and, as may be imagined, we were soon all engaged in eating chorlitos; for a time no sound being heard but the smacking of lips, the crunching of bones, and occasionally such exclamations as "Stunning!" "By Jove!" "Delicious!" etc. etc. The fact is, we had discovered what some Persian king offered half his kingdom for – a new emotion – for so seductively succulent, so exquisitely flavoured, so far beyond anything the gourmet might dream of in the sublimest flight of his imagination, is the flesh of the cranberry-fed chorlito, that the sensation it produces on the palate when tasted for the first time may, without hyperbole, be described as rising to the dignity of an emotion.

Unfortunately, as we travelled northward we seemed to leave the region of these birds, and only on this and two other occasions were we able to feast upon them.

We witnessed a phenomenon that night in the shape of a moon rainbow, and many were the conjectures as to whether it presaged good or bad weather. Rain is the one thing above all others calculated to make an open-air life unpleasant, and a fear of it being constantly present to our minds, nearly every evening meteorological speculations formed a staple topic of conversation for the whole camp. A great amount of weather wisdom was developed among us, and very soon a party spirit was imported into the question, our camp splitting into two sections – Optimists and Pessimists. Just before bedtime the sky would be conned, and the various weather indications eagerly discussed, often with some heat; and it was amusing to see how frequently the optimists would enlist as arguments in favour of their prophecies of fine weather, the very same phenomena of cloud or temperature on which, on the other hand, the pessimists grounded their equally confident prognostications of rain. On occasions when these discussions had been carried on with more than usual earnestness, should the rain suddenly begin to patter down on the tents in the middle of the night, one might often hear conversations like the following: —

Pessimist (in tone of triumph, evidently pleased that it was raining, as his antagonist was thereby confounded). "Well! who was right about the rain? I told you it was sure to come!"

Optimist (cheerily, and half implying that he believes it isn't raining at all). "It is not raining. Well, a drop or two, perhaps, but that's nothing; it will soon be over."

Pessimist (fervently praying that it may rain cats and dogs for the next twelve hours). "You will think it's something though, when you are swamped. (Confidently) It's bound to rain till morning."

Optimist (scornfully). "Rain till morning! Stuff! Why, it never rains long with a full moon" (or no moon, as may suit the case).

Pessimist (derisively). "That's exactly when it does rain. Didn't you know that?"

Optimist (pertinaciously). "Why, only yesterday you said yourself that one might be certain it would not rain long with a full moon, so there!"

Pessimist (conveniently forgetful). "I'm sure I never said anything of the kind."

Optimist gives vent to a sleepy but uncomplimentary ejaculation against people generally who don't know what they are talking about.

Pessimist retorts with drowsy ditto, whereupon follows silence, or silence broken by snores.

On this particular evening the halo was naturally a strong feature in the discussion, and much ingenious special pleading was employed on both sides to prove that its presence was an infallible indication of rain or no rain. This time the optimists gained a signal victory, as the night was fine throughout.

The next day was spent in shooting wild-fowl down by a big lake which lay about a couple of miles distant from the camp. I shot a great many lovely specimens of water-fowl, the like of which I had never seen before, and loaded my horse with a great quantity of geese, duck, and plover. Riding home quietly after my day's sport I started up a big ostrich, who rose from the ground not more than a couple of yards distant. How I longed for one of the greyhounds, and shouted loudly to François, whom I could descry in camp idly doing nothing, but he could not or would not hear. Galloping towards him, I hastily explained in which direction the ostrich had disappeared, and mounting his horse he went off in pursuit. An hour later he returned empty-handed. He had come across the ostrich and given chase, but the bird, taking to the beech woods, had disappeared therein, closely followed by the dogs. After a long and fruitless search for both, he had been obliged to return without his dogs to the camp. Doubtless, as he observed, they had managed to kill their prey, and were even then indulging in a heavy feed. His words were verified when, later on, the animals returned, presenting an undeniable appearance of having partaken of a large repast. Gregorio had been absent all day in search of guanaco, but as he had gone on foot and taken no dogs with him, he had been unable to secure the one or two which he had managed to wound. So, altogether, our attempts in the chase did not on this occasion flourish.

CHAPTER XII

A MONOTONOUS RIDE – A DREARY LANDSCAPE – SHORT FUEL RATIONS – THE CORDILLERAS – FEATURES OF PATAGONIAN SCENERY – HEAT AND GNATS – A PUMA AGAIN – "THE RAIN IS NEVER WEARY" – DAMPNESS, HUNGER, GLOOM – I'ARIA TO THE RESCUE – HIS INGENUITY.

After another day's sojourn at this encampment we resumed our journey. We took a good supply of fuel with us, as we were now entering on the barren, woodless region, during our transit over which we should have to rely solely on the provision we now made.

Leaving the beechwood behind us we rode up on to a plain, on whose edge we could distinguish what appeared to be a little black cloud. In reality it was a peak, or rather clump of peaks of the Cordilleras, at the foot of which we were one day to camp, and towards which for the next few days we directed our horses' heads.

This day's ride, and it was a long one, was by far more monotonous and dreary than any of the preceding ones. The immense plateau over which we rode for six or seven hours was remarkable for its gloom and barrenness, even in a region where all is sterility and dreariness. There was no sun, and the sky, lowering and dark, formed a fit counterpart to the plain, which stretched flatly away to the indistinct horizon, gray, mournful, and silent.

We could not help being affected by the aspect of the scenery around us, and I do not remember ever to have felt anything to equal the depression of spirits to which I, in common with all our party, fell a prey, and to whose influence even the guides succumbed.

For once they drove the troop along without enlivening their work with the customary cheery cries of "Iegua! Iegua! Mula! Mula!" etc., and the very bells of the Madrinas seemed to have a muffled, solemn sound, very unlike their usual lively jingle.

A single incident occurred during that day's march. A little guanaco, which had lost its mother somehow, seeing us coming, instead of running away, trotted trustingly towards us. Unfortunately our bloodthirsty dogs dashed out and threw it before we could get up to stop them. The poor thing got up again, however, and at first did not seem much hurt. It was the sweetest little creature imaginable, with soft silky fur, and bright, gentle eyes, and it thrust its nose against my cheek in a caressing manner, without the least sign of fear. I determined to carry it with me, in hopes that as it got bigger it would learn to keep with our troop, especially as the mare who had lost her filly at Laguna Blanca would have made an excellent foster-mother for it. But I hardly formed the idea when the little guanaco began to stagger about, and it became evident that it must have received some bite from the dogs which we had not noticed. On examining it this proved to be the case; indeed, in a few minutes its eyes glazed, and to my grief in a very short time it died, apparently without suffering. I would have given anything that it could have lived, as I am sure it would have become attached to me, and finally have found its way to England with us. Tame guanacos are often kept at Sandy Point, and their gentle ways and amiable dispositions make them charming pets.

We were thoroughly tired of our dull march when we at last arrived at a ravine where there were a few pools of water, and where we camped for the night. As we were on short fuel rations, the fire was allowed to go out directly after dinner, and we went to bed, now the only warm place.

Off again the next day, the clump of peaks mentioned above growing more distinct, but still terribly far, and no wood to be got till we reached them. Plains as usual studded with guanacos, but having no time to go out with our rifles, we had to confine ourselves to ostrich meat. Of these birds there was an abundance, and many an exciting run we had pursuing them. Wild-fowl were numerous too, but having eaten every imaginable species – geese, duck, teal, widgeon, snipe, Barbary duck, we were quite tired of them.

After another long march we camped in an open shelterless ravine, and then again pushed hurriedly on, our stock of fuel getting ominously low, towards the tantalising clump of peaks, which at the end of a long day's ride scarcely seemed to come any nearer. They were now beginning to disappear, as we descended into an immense basin which lay between us and them, and whose farther end was bound by a succession of plateaus, rising abruptly one over the other as it appeared to us, though, when we ultimately came up to them, we found the graduating ascent almost imperceptible.

After camping one night in a most disagreeable sandy region, where our food and clothes and furs all got impregnated with grit and dust, and where we burned our last stick, we again pushed on, with the unpleasant knowledge that that night we should possibly have to camp without a fire to warm ourselves and cook our food. The basin we were now crossing seemed interminable. We were to camp that night at the foot of the escarpment which bound its farther end, whence to the mountains was only one day's march. We were now out of sight of the latter again, but we were cheered by the comforting consciousness that each step was bringing us nearer to them.

Just as it was getting dark, after a weary day's ride, we reached a brawling mountain-stream, which swept along the base of an escarpment, and which we hailed as the first sign that we were at last approaching the Cordilleras. Fording it we pitched our camp in the long green grass, just under shelter of the escarpment. But before unsaddling, eager to see how near we had come to the clump of peaks which had so long been before our eyes, we rode up the escarpment, from the top of which we hoped to get a good view of the country westward.

Our expectations were not disappointed. There, seemingly not a mile away, rose up, compact and dark, not the huddled clump of peaks we had seen two days ago, but a mighty mountain chain, which lost itself westward in the gathering dusk of evening – standing like a mysterious barrier between the strange country we had just crossed and a possibly still stranger country beyond. The sun had long set, and the base of the mountains was wrapped in darkness, but their jagged fantastically-shaped crests stood clearly defined against the light which still glimmered in the sky, and here and there a snow-covered peak, higher than its comrades, still retained a faint roseate glow, which contrasted strangely with the gray gloom of all below.

For a long time after complete darkness had fallen over everything, I stood alone, giving myself up to the influence of the emotions the scene described awoke in me, and endeavouring, though vainly, to analyse the feeling which the majestic loneliness of Patagonian scenery always produced in my mind – a feeling which I can only compare – for it would be impossible for me to seize on any definite feature of the many vague sensations which compose it – to those called up by one of Beethoven's grand, severe, yet mysteriously soft sonatas.

I was awakened from my reverie by Francisco, who was wandering about trying to gather a few dry sticks for the fire. Fortunately he managed to collect enough to enable us to cook a tolerable dinner with; having eaten which, as usual, when we were fireless, we sought our couches as speedily as possible.

The morning broke with every sign of bad weather. The air was heavy and sultry, a hot dry wind blew over the plains, whirling up clouds of fine dust, and the mountain-chain was half-hidden by dark masses of clouds of threatening aspect. We saddled and packed up as hurriedly as possible, fervently hoping that the rain, which sooner or later we saw must come, would kindly hold over till we had reached our destination.

As we journeyed on, the sultriness grew more and more oppressive, and we were vexed by innumerable swarms of minute gnats, which got into our eyes and mouths, buzzed about us in a hopelessly persistent manner, and by no means allayed the state of irritation the combined influence of dust and heat had brought us into. A slight diversion presently occurred by the appearance of an animal whose claims to our polite and immediate attention were not to be denied. This was an enormous puma, who suddenly sprang up from the midst of our cavalcade, sending the mules and luggage horses stampeding away in all directions. True to its cowardly nature, the animal slouched hurriedly off, and disappeared down the side of a ravine. Quick as thought we pursued it, but fast as we galloped, not a trace of it was to be seen. At a short distance from where we stood eagerly searching for the vanished animal, I perceived a small bush growing, the only one for miles round, and to this I pointed as the probable place where the brute had sought a hiding-place. We lost no time in galloping towards the spot, and the terrified snorting of our horses when we drew near, assured us of the correctness of my surmise, and put us on our guard.

We caught sight of him, as he crouched with angry glowing eyes and an expression on his face which, on discovering that none of us carried a rifle, was the reverse of reassuring, especially as we knew from our guides that, for some reason or other, these Cordillera pumas are fiercer than their kindred of the plains, and often attack their assailants, – a piece of temerity the latter have never been known to be capable of.

Fortunately, at this moment, my husband came up with a gun, though indeed it was only loaded with small shot. Dismounting hastily he approached within eight or nine yards of the growling animal. Bang! bang! went his gun, and through the cloud of smoke we saw the puma jump up in the air and fall backwards on the bush. For a moment or two it rolled about in the throes of death, and then, with a last growl stretched itself slowly out, and lay still. Gregorio, who arrived at this moment, set to work at once, to remove its skin. The guides all declared it to be the biggest puma they had ever seen. The skin, which adorns the floor of the room where I am at present writing, measures exactly nine feet from the tip of the tail to the point of the nose. We then hurried on again, anxiously scanning the weather, which meanwhile had grown more and more threatening. The sultriness had increased so as to have become almost unbearable, and the swarms of gnats above alluded to had grown numerous in proportion. Before long a fearful thunderstorm burst over our heads, and for a short time the rain came down in sheets. Then a shift of the wind changed the temperature again. It became quite chilly, and the heavy rain resolved itself into a thick drizzling mist, which soon wetted us to the skin. For hours we rode in this comfortless plight, – wet, cold, and tired, and by no means cheered by the aspect of the country, the little we could see of which – most of it being hidden by the mist aforesaid – looking blacker and sadder than ever.

We were in hopes that at least before evening it would clear up, as the prospect of having to pitch our camp in the drizzling sleet was far from pleasant, but as it grew darker the fog increased in thickness, and soon we could hardly see fifty paces ahead of our horses' noses. How Gregorio managed to find the way, I don't know. At last it being, as near as I could judge, about sunset, we descended a very steep declivity, and came on to what appeared to be a ravine of the ordinary kind, where grass and underwood were apparently abundant. We halted at a semicircle of tall bushes, and set disconsolately to work to get up the tents. This by no means easy task being accomplished, we collected the provisions and cartridges together, and got them under shelter into the smaller of the two tents. Our rugs, furs, and coverings were wet through, so we carried them into the other tent and proceeded to wring them and lay them out to dry. This being done, we turned our attention towards making a fire, but the guides and everybody declared the attempt impossible, and indeed so it seemed, for there was not a dry twig or blade of grass to be found anywhere. Back we all crept into our damp tents, and prepared to dine as genially as we could off sardines and dry biscuit. But though we might choose to resign ourselves thus supinely to discomfort, old I'Aria, for his part, was by no means inclined to do so. Whilst the discussion as to the possibility of making a fire had been carried on, after listening a minute or two to the arguments which were being urged proving conclusively that nothing could be done towards it, he silently withdrew, and busied himself in setting up his own little tent, – a rather dilapidated one by the way, as, whenever he required something wherewith to patch up a rent in his curious garments, he was in the habit of supplying his want by cutting out a piece of the canvas of his "casa" (house) as he called it – an ingenious method of robbing Peter to pay Paul.

Meanwhile we had retired to our tents, and were beginning to arrange our furs preparatory to going to bed, when I heard some conversation going on between I'Aria, my husband, and Mr. B., the latter an inveterate maté drinker, and who, I must say, had been the only one at the council who had expressed himself hopefully as regarded the possibility of making a fire. Looking out of the tent I saw them all crouched under a bush, dripping wet, but earnestly engaged in some elaborate preparations for conquering damp and getting soaked wood to burn.

Finding they disregarded my friendly advice to save themselves the trouble of doing what could only be termed useless, I withdrew into my tent again. Half an hour later I could still hear them bravely battling against the inevitable, but presently Mr. B. went past my tent with a kettle in his hand. "The fire is burning, is it?" I called out ironically to him. "No, but it will very soon," he replied. "Meanwhile I am going to fill the kettle; would you like tea or coffee?" I answered something sarcastic, but sighed. I certainly would have given anything for a cup of hot tea. The hopeful expression of Mr. B.'s face had struck me, so, covering myself up in a cloak, I went up to where I'Aria was busy at work, to see if really there was any hope of his succeeding. I found he had stuck four little stakes in the ground, over which a cloth was drawn, under whose shelter he had built an elaborate structure of wooden matches, laid crosswise one over the other, so as to be handy when required; over these lay a small heap of fine twigs, as dry as could be procured, as well as some stout sticks, and finally several logs, which he informed me would soon be merrily blazing. Everything being ready, he applied a light to the matches, and as soon as they began to blaze, added the twigs, which in their turn, after a little doubtful spluttering, took fire, and presently – this was the critical moment – the sticks were laid on. For a time my worst fears seemed about to be realised, the sticks only smoked viciously, the matches had long burned away, and the twigs now began to glow doubtfully. But old I'Aria did not give in without a struggle. Kneeling down he tried gently to fan the fading glow with his breath. At times, as we anxiously watched it, it seemed to gain strength, at others it became reduced to a single spark. But patience conquered at last; the glow spread, the sticks began to blaze, and before long there was a good blazing fire, which brought every one from his tent, especially as, meantime, the rain had ceased, though a thick mist still hung over everything, making the darkness of the night still more intense. Kettles were put on to boil, maté, tea, coffee, imbibed, and Francisco prepared an excellent ostrich-fry, à la minute, discussing which, blessings were invoked on I'Aria's head, – to his perseverance these comforts being due. Supper over, we groped our way back to our tents, and, enveloped in a dense damp mist, went to sleep, not at all satisfied with the inhospitable greeting the Cordilleras had vouchsafed us.

CHAPTER XIII

A SURPRISE – A STRANGE SCENE – AN IDLE DAY – CALIFATÉ BERRIES – GUANACO-STALKING – A DILEMMA – MOSQUITOES – A GOOD SHOT.

The next morning I was pleasantly awakened by a bright ray of sunshine, which forced its way through the opening in my tent, leaving me little inclination to sleep any longer. I lost no time in getting up, and stepped out, anxious to see what kind of country we had got into under cover of the fog of the previous day.