So little is known of Chili, a country of considerable extent in South
America, with a frontage to the Pacific, that latterly a distinguished
man of science, Dr Ried of Ratisbon, went on an expedition to explore
its physical character. From the notes which were sent by this
enlightened traveller to the secretary of the Zoological-mineralogical
Society of the above-named city, we are enabled to draw the following
account of the wild interior of the Chilian territory:--
The land along the coast is unusually high, the mountains on the
sea-board rising about 3000 feet above the water, for the greater part
at an angle of 60 to 70 degrees. In their height, there is hardly any
perceptible difference; the summits form long tracts of table-land,
very uneven, however, and broken up in all directions by chasms, and
the dried-up beds of cataracts and rapid rivers. For 400 leagues along
the coast, all is one dreary waste. The entrance to this table-land is
by the dry bed of a mountain torrent. Such channels, in which not a
drop of moisture has been found within the memory of tradition, are
everywhere to be seen actually ground away, and polished like the
finest marble by the action of water. At the foot of the mountains,
traces of the sea are discernible 100 or 150 feet higher up than at
present. Huge masses of rock, too, bear traces of having been
violently rent, where now there is never a storm.
The best entrance to the desert is from Cobija, where the ascent at
once begins, and continues for a distance of about three leagues,
including the dried-up bed of a torrent, formed in the steep surface
of rock. About fifteen leagues from the coast, and parallel with it,
a chain of higher mountains rises to a height of between 7000 and 8000
feet. From the summit of these--and it is no easy task to climb so
far--one is enabled to form a slight idea of the desert of Atacama. To
the east, you see the majestic Cordilleras, their bright peaks
glittering in the distance through a golden mist; while on the north,
south, and west, there is an unrelieved expanse without sign of life
or hope, but everywhere silence: and what a silence! It is not the
stillness of a summer night in the country, nor of a church, nor of a
sickroom: it is the silence of death! As you gaze on the scene before
you, you are oppressed--almost overwhelmed by its dreary sadness. No
insect hum is heard; not even a bird is seen in the still air; the
earth, and the atmosphere above it, is one vast region of death. The
only link which connects the traveller with humanity, is a long row of
the skeletons of mules and horses, which have here left their bones
for a guide across the desert. The dead animals lie like mummies,
dried and shrivelled; hair, eyes, muscles, all are there. Their
appearance presents a remarkable peculiarity. One might suppose, that
having been overtaken by death under similar circumstances, the last
struggle over, their inanimate bodies would be marked by no
characteristic and distinctive difference. But the case is otherwise.
Both mule and horse have sunk from hunger, thirst, and exhaustion; yet
the position of the two animals in their lifeless state is invariably
unlike. The horse lies outstretched, the hoof in a straight line with
the knee, the teeth half-closed--a picture of exhaustion and
resignation. The mule, on the contrary, has always the limbs drawn up,
as if from cramp; the knees are bent, and the hoofs drawn inward
towards the body; the head is thrown back, the mouth awry, and the
teeth firmly clenched. As they often lie side by side, this difference
is striking. Whence it arises, it is difficult to say; but it would
seem to denote, that the sufferings of the mule are more intense, and
its tenacity of life greater, than those of the horse.
After traversing a distance of twenty-seven leagues, we arrive at the
river. Travellers who are inured to fatigue, always make the journey
in one ride. Dr Ried accomplished the whole distance without once
dismounting. The stream is called Loa, and has its source in the snows
of the mountain-tops. In the neighbourhood of a small Indian village
called Chiuchiu, it is fed by a little volcanic stream, which contains
a large quantity of salt in a state of dissolution, besides copper,
arsenic, sulphur, and other matters. The quantity of the water is
increased by this supply, but its quality by no means improved; yet
the abominable mixture tastes on that spot like the choicest
champagne! The stream is not perceived till you stand on the very
edge. Its bed is between 300 and 400 yards broad, and is about 200 or
300 feet below the average surface of the table-land. The body of
water which forms this river is very inconsiderable, and becomes more
and more so as it nears the sea. Here Dr Reid saw some mosquitoes, as
well as a small lizard; but the presence of the quick, bright-eyed
creature in that dreary waste, rather added to the sense of
loneliness. Its very name, too (_Musca domestica_), seemed a mockery,
dwelling as it did in that vast solitude. In the water, no trace of
life was to be found. 'From the stream, which has its source in the
clouds,' writes Dr Ried to his friend, 'I took a bottleful, which I
send you to analyse, and in order that you may say you have seen water
from Atacama. I advise you, however, not to drink it.'
In the desert, it _never_ rains. At the foot of the Cordilleras--and
only at the foot--rain falls to a distance of about ten leagues
westward, but _never_ further; in Atacama, to a distance of about ten
leagues from the mountains; in Chili, to far beyond the coast.
Perhaps, however, the most extraordinary phenomenon of this strange
land, is the sudden change of temperature which takes place over the
whole desert. The heat at noon is oppressive--from 96 to 120 degrees
Fahrenheit; and this continues till four P.M., when it begins to
diminish. From ten A.M. till about sunset, there is a strong westerly
wind, blowing from the sea towards the Cordilleras. It is always
fierce, but sometimes so powerful, that it is impossible to advance
against it. When the sun is down, the wind likewise subsides, and till
nine or ten o'clock in the evening there is a perfect calm.
Sunset in these regions is a magnificent spectacle. The play of
colours in the heavens is quite indescribable. When the moon rises,
the same thing occurs. Opposite the orb, a huge pile of vapour rises
in shadowy forms, on which the light is thrown, producing the most
wonderful effects. In these chromatic displays, red is the colour that
predominates. Towards midnight, the wind begins to blow from the east,
at first gently, but icy cold, for it comes from the regions of
perpetual frost and snow. The radiation of heat from such an extensive
and almost glowing surface is naturally very great and rapid, and
after midnight it begins to freeze. An hour before sunrise, all
stagnant water is frozen over; and the thermometer falls sometimes to
28 degrees Fahrenheit--on an average it is at 32 degrees--to rise
again at noon to 90 degrees.