THE WILDS OF
PATAGONIA
[Illustration: CARL SKOTTSBERG.]
THE WILDS OF
PATAGONIA
A NARRATIVE OF THE SWEDISH
EXPEDITION TO PATAGONIA
TIERRA DEL FUEGO AND THE
FALKLAND ISLANDS IN 1907-1909
BY
CARL SKOTTSBERG, D.SC., ETC.
LONDON
EDWARD ARNOLD
1911
_All rights reserved_
TO
SIR JOSEPH DALTON HOOKER
O.M., G.C.S.I., C.B., D.C.L., LL.D., F.R.S., ETC.
THE PIONEER AND THE
MASTER
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED IN PROFOUND
ADMIRATION
PREFACE
When, in January 1904, I had returned from taking part in the
Swedish Antarctic Expedition, and had begun to work out my notes and
collections, it happened to me, as it has happened to so many others
before, that every now and then questions cropped up which, for want of
material, had to be left unanswered. Gradually also quite new problems
presented themselves, and the thought of returning once more to some
of the countries I had visited soon arose. One of my companions from
the _Antarctic_, Dr. J. G. Andersson, had just the same experience, but
was kept in Sweden by his work as director of the Geological Survey.
Without knowing of my scheme, he had got two of our common friends,
T. Halle and P. Quensel, interested in our old field of operations in
South America, and one day, as we happened to be speaking of it, we
considered the possibility of planning a modest expedition, principally
for geological and botanical purposes. With a geological survey were
connected a number of geographical problems, such as the changes of the
land after the Ice Age; the formation and true nature of the Patagonian
Channels; the origin of the transverse Andine Valleys; the influence
of geology and plant-geography on the landscape, &c. The algological
investigations would also lead to the formation of zoological
collections, and besides, we thought that in the Patagonian Channels we
should have opportunities of making ethnographic studies.
In order to discuss our plans I arranged with Quensel and Halle that
they should meet me in Stockholm at the Geological Survey office, and
one evening was born the enterprise, afterwards called the “Swedish
Magellanic Expedition,” of which the author consented to undertake
the leadership, the members being: CARL SKOTTSBERG, born 1880, D.Sc.,
Lecturer at the University of Upsala; PERCY D. QUENSEL, born 1881,
B.Sc. (now Dr.), Upsala; and THORE G. HALLE, born 1884, B.Sc. (now
Dr.), Stockholm.
I devoted myself to botanical work, but also made most of the
insignificant zoological collections. The speciality of Mr. Halle was
the survey of fossiliferous deposits, and as a clever bryologist, he
assisted me in gathering mosses and other cryptogams. Mr. Quensel was
mainly occupied with studies of the eruptive rocks, the origin of
the Andes and the phenomena of glaciation. On many occasions the two
geologists collaborated.
But it is one thing to make up one’s mind to go to South America,
another to get money for such a purpose. The expedition cost about
23,000 Swedish crowns (£1280), and thanks to several funds, scientific
societies and private persons, we procured the necessary money without
great difficulty. Many useful articles in our equipment were presented
to us, and the Swedish Johnson Line in Stockholm gave us a free passage
on its steamers to and from Buenos Aires. To all those who assisted us,
I have tried to express our gratitude in the preface to the Swedish
edition of this book, and have explained how it would have been
absolutely impossible to make a journey which lasted nearly two years
at such small expense, had it not been for the unparalleled generosity
shown by Argentina and more especially by Chile--not that the Argentine
Government was less interested, but we spent most of the time in Chile.
I need not repeat this, nor my sincere thanks to the representatives of
Sweden. There is, however, one thing that I want specially to mention
on the occasion of my book being laid before English readers. We spent
part of the time in a British colony, the Falkland Islands, where
His Excellency the Governor, Mr. W. L. Allardyce, C.M.G., and Mrs.
Allardyce, both deeply interested in scientific work in general as also
in our personal welfare, did all they could to promote our success. We
are also greatly indebted to the Falkland Islands Company Ltd., to its
director in London, Mr. F. E. Cobb, as well as to its representatives
in Port Stanley, Mr. W. Harding, Mr. W. C. Girling and Lieutenant
Colonel A. Reid, D.S.O. (no longer in the Company’s service). We also
owe very much to numerous sheep-farmers, Mr. Allen of Darwin, Messrs.
Benney of Saunders Island, Mr. Bertrand of Roy Cove, Dr. Bolus (now in
Punta Arenas, then in Fox Bay), Mr. Felton of Westpoint Island, Dr.
Foley, of Darwin, Mr. Mathews of Port Howard, Mr. Miller of Hill Cove,
Mr. Packe of Port Louis, and many others, too numerous to mention.
In Chile as well as in Argentina we met and were assisted by a great
number of English people; we made good friends wherever we came, and
learnt to admire the English nation as the great civilising power of
the world.
It may not be considered unnecessary to mention, that during the whole
journey under most trying conditions, I and my comrades remained the
same good friends as we had been on leaving Sweden. Nothing is so well
calculated to try friendship as a wild life away from culture and from
other people. In this case friendship certainly stood the test.
C. S.
UPSALA, 1911
CONTENTS
PREFACE Page vii
CHAPTER I
THE COASTS OF THE FALKLAND ISLANDS
We leave Sweden: Visits to Buenos Aires and Montevideo: Arrive at the
Falkland Islands: Position: Port Stanley and its Social Life:
Communications: The Landscape round the Town: Cape Pembroke
Lighthouse and the Forest in the Sea: To the West Falklands: Wild
Cattle: The Falkland Fox: Adventure on Fox Island: Life on Remote
Islands: Roy Cove and the Tale of a Ship’s Adventure: Westpoint
Island: Tussock-grass: Bird Life: The Dead Forest Pp. 1-18
CHAPTER II
RIDING THROUGH THE FALKLANDS
Hill Cove, a Fine Settlement: Shepherds and their Life: Ascent of
Mount Adam: A Nocturnal Excursion: Saunders Island and a Page of
History: Valley of the Warrah River: A Dangerous Passage: Port
Howard: Across Country to Fox Bay: A miserable Christmas: Notes
on Geology: Lafonia and Port Darwin: A Ride to San Carlos: Return
Overland to Port Stanley: Port Louis and its History: Departure
Pp. 19-31
CHAPTER III
IN TIERRA DEL FUEGO
Punta Arenas: Babylonian Confusion: Preparations: Dawson Island and
the Salesian Mission Station: On the Shore of Lake Fagnano: Hardships
in the Azopardo Valley: The First Guanaco: We Pitch the Tents at
Fagnano: Pagels: The Betbeder Pass and Discoveries South of it: A
chilly awakening: Halle’s Excursion to Lake Deseado: Boat Trip
on Lake Fagnano: We Raise our Camp: A Difficult Embarking:
Back in Punta Arenas Pp. 32-61
CHAPTER IV
OTWAY WATER AND SKYRING WATER
Cape Froward: Jerome Channel: Patagonian Gold Fever: Along the
Shores of Otway: Notes on Vegetation: Fitzroy Channel: Storm:
A Solitary Hut: Traces of Indians: Excelsior and Glacier Sounds:
Gajardo Channel and a Perilous Boat Excursion: _Huemul_ Aground:
The Water of Skyring: Fossiliferous Beds: Another Tale of a Mine:
A Nocturnal Adventure: Saved Pp. 62-74
CHAPTER V
THE PATAGONIAN CHANNELS
Preparations: Captain Bordes: Our Indian Interpreter: The Magellan
Skärgård: On the Evangelistas Rocks: Unknown Waters: The Patagonian
Channels and their Nature: We meet the first Indians: Two
Tracks: The Penas Gulf: Baker Inlet: In the unknown Interior of
Peel Inlet: Back through Smyth Channel Pp. 75-90
CHAPTER VI
A DYING RACE
Our first Encounter with Aborigines: Appearance: Visit to an Indian
Camp: The Indian Wigwam: Food: Hunting and Weapons: Social
Customs: Treatment of the Women: Character: Nomadic Life:
Canoes: Travelling: Remarkable Portages: Language: Extermination:
Views of the Future Pp. 91-103
CHAPTER VII
CHILOÉ AND THE GULF OF CORCOVADO
Chiloé, Historical Retrospect: Ancud, the Capital: Schools: Power
of the Roman Catholic Church: The Chilotes and their Life: A Ride
to the Pacific Coast: Pudeto River: Primeval Forest of Chiloé: Castro:
Adventurous Voyage to Huafo Island: Forest Scenery: Wild Days:
To the Island of San Pedro in the Footsteps of Darwin: Quellon:
Corcovado, “el famoso”: The Yelcho Valley Pp. 104-124
CHAPTER VIII
IN THE HEART OF CHILE
To the Centre of Chile: Corral and Valdivia: Halle’s Surveys in the
Coal-mines of Arauco: Lota: Valparaiso: Santiago and its Swedish
Colony: Los Andes: The Uspallata Pass and the Transandine
Railway: Aconcagua: Baño del Inca: A Strange Descent: The
Great National Festival of Chile: To Port Montt Pp. 125-133
CHAPTER IX
ROBINSON CRUSOE’S ISLAND
The Islands of Juan Fernandez: Discovery and Position: First
Impression: Robinson’s “Look-out”: Wonderful Plant World: The Chonta
Palm: Marvellous Ferns: Extermination of a Unique Vegetation:
The Memorial Tablet of Alexander Selkirk, the real Robinson: The
History of the Sandal Tree: The last Sandal Tree: Robinson’s Grotto:
Bahia del Padre: Masafuera Island: Topography: Remarkable Plain:
Wild Goats: Marvellous Valleys: Our Scientific Results: The Future
of the Islands Pp. 134-148
CHAPTER X
ACROSS THE ANDES INTO ARGENTINA
Plans for the Return South: Notes on the Discoveries in Patagonia: The
Boundary Dispute between Chile and Argentina: We leave Port
Montt: Osorno and Calbuco Volcanoes: Lake Todos los Santos: On
the Glaciers of Mount Tronador: Across the Pass: Snowstorm:
Bariloche: Preparations for a Long Journey: Our Caravan and Equipment:
On Horseback Pp. 149-166
CHAPTER XI
THROUGH NORTHERN PATAGONIA
First Impression of the Pampas: Our First Camping-place: Norquinco:
Half the Caravan Disappears!: Inquiries: Across the River Chubut:
Life on the Lelej Farm: A Hearty Welcome: Ostriches and Guanacos:
Through the Nahuelpan Pass: 16th October Valley: Notes on Vegetation:
Along the Futaleufú River to the Chilean Boundary: South
Again: In the Valley of the River Carrenleufú: Another Bankrupt
Company and a Swedish Colonist Pp. 167-186
CHAPTER XII
THROUGH THE CORDILLERAS TO THE PACIFIC COAST
Salt Lagoons and Abundant Bird-life: The First “Meseta”: The Cisnes
Valley: Excursion to the Forest Region: Tuco-tuco and Patagonian
Deer: Senguerr River: No Water: Back in Chile: Lamb-marking:
The Coyaike Valley: The Aysen Company: To the Pacific Coast:
Luxuriant Rain-forest: Return to Aysen Pp. 187-197
CHAPTER XIII
LAKE BUENOS AIRES
The Swamp of Rio Mayo: Meseta Chalia, an Adventurous Passage: Floating
Soil and Tuco-tucos: A Dangerous Descent: The Puma: Valle
Koslowsky: A Singular Telegraph Office: The Landscape round Lake
Buenos Aires: In the Fenix Valley: Interesting Vegetation: Hunting
Young Guanacos: Patagonian Fur-trade: Armadillos: Ruckel’s
Peril: Difficulties in the Jeinemeni Valley: Ascent of the Mountain
ridge at Zeballos River Pp. 198-220
CHAPTER XIV
LAGO BELGRANO
The Zeballos Pass: Natural Features at Lake Pueyrredon: Troublesome
Ascent: In the Tarde Valley: Across to Belgrano River: Unexpected
Encounter with German Colonists: Our Sin against the Eighth
Commandment: Christmas: We Start on the Lake: Contrary Winds:
On the Lake Azara: Glorious Mountain Scenery: A Happy New Year!
We strike Camp Pp. 221-238
CHAPTER XV
LAKE SAN MARTÍN
Across the High Pampas: Crossing the Rivers Belgrano and Lista: The
Troublesome Tuco-tuco Rivulet: Through the Forest to Carbon
River: The Fósiles Pass, our Worst Day: Lake San Martín: Start
with a Berthon Boat: Head Wind: In the Northern Arm: The
Schoenmeyr Glacier: Imminent Peril: “Galley-slavery”: Farewell
to San Martin Pp. 239-257
CHAPTER XVI
ACROSS THE SIERRA DE LOS BAQUALES
The Swamps round Laguna Tar: An Unexpected Encounter: Pavo and
the Skunk: On the shores of Lake Viedma: Leona River and a Dead
Landscape: With Carlos Fuhr: The Ferry-boat on Santa Cruz River:
Visit to Cattle’s Farm: A Lady Gaucho: The Baguales Range: Back
to Civilisation!: Notes on the History of South Patagonia Pp. 258-271
CHAPTER XVII
LAGO ARGENTINO
Quensel’s Boat Journey in 1908: The Start and Equipment: Squally
Weather: Bismarck Glacier, a Splendid Sight: Large Icebergs: With
a Canvas Boat in the Ice: To the North Arm: Hell Gate: A Dangerous
Landing: A Narrow Escape: Upsala Glacier: Another Clean Shave:
Back again with Rich Results Pp. 272-277
CHAPTER XVIII
OUR JOURNEY TO PUNTA ARENAS
Estancia Payne: Importunate Foxes: Cerro Payne, Patagonia’s most
Beautiful Mountain: Quensel’s Excursion in 1907: Cerro Donoso:
A Bad Day and a Worse Night: Tame Deer: In the Payne Mountains:
The White Stag: A Picnic Party: My Excursion to the Inland Ice:
A Heavy March: Ultima Esperanza: The Eberhard Family: The
Maylodon Cave: A Night’s Ride: We part with our Horses: Arrival
at Punta Arenas Pp. 278-295
CHAPTER XIX
THE BEAGLE CHANNEL
Back in the Channels: The Brecknock Pass: Wonderful Glaciers: Lapataia
and Lake Acigami: The Mission in Douglas Bay: The Last Yahgans:
Notes on Geology: Ushuaia: Bridges’ Farm: Slogget Bay and Gold-digging
in Tierra del Fuego: Another Boundary Dispute: Return to
Punta Arenas and to Buenos Aires Pp. 296-313
CHAPTER XX
A WINTER TRIP TO SOUTH GEORGIA
We leave on Board the _Cachalote_: Severe Damage of Engines: Adrift on
the High Seas: Exciting Situation: The Engines Repaired: Bad
Night on the Coast: At Anchor again: Nature and Position of South
Georgia: Climate: Flora and Fauna: Winter’s Unexpected Arrival:
Along the Coast: Stormy Days: Whaling: A Singular 1st of May:
With Escort to Buenos Aires: Return to Sweden Pp. 314-329
INDEX P. 330
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_To face
page_
Carl Skottsberg _Frontispiece_
Percy D. Quensel 4
Thore G. Halle 4
Typical Landscape in East Falkland with quartzite ridge 10
Mollymawk Rookery, West Point Island 16
Penguin Rookery (Eudyptes), West Point Island 16
The Great Stone-run South of Port Louis, East Falkland 28
The Roads of Punta Arenas, South-wester blowing 32
Punta Arenas from the hills 32
Back from the Betbeder Pass 38
Indians at the Dawson Mission Station 38
The Betbeder Valley 52
Mount Svea, with glacier and moraines 52
The Bottom of Ventisqueros Sound 68
The Entrance of Excelsior Sound 72
Our Interpreter, Channels of Patagonia 78
Two Channel Indians 78
Peel Inlet, with great glaciers 90
Indian Camp, Sarmiento Channel 94
Chilote House 106
The Plaza in Ancud, Chiloé 106
The Famous Corcovado 116
Valdivia 126
Harbour at Valparaiso 126
Robinson’s “Lookout,” with commemorative tablet 140
View from top of Masafuera showing canyons 144
Robinson’s Grotto 144
Puerto Montt 158
Ready to start 158
Small Patagonian Sheep Farm 176
Patagonian Rain-forest 194
Fenix River 214
Valley of Antiguos River looking South 214
The Belgrano Pass, with giant basalt pillars 226
West Arm of Lake Belgrano 226
German Colonists, Lake Belgrano 234
Breakfast Table on Christmas Day, Lake Belgrano 234
View of Pampas, near Lake Argentino 262
Dead Landscape, East of Leona River 262
The Bismarck Glacier, Lake Argentino 274
The Upsala Glacier, Lake Argentino (the biggest in
Patagonia) 274
Icebergs and Canvas Boat, Lake Argentino 274
Last Hope Inlet 288
The “Neomylodon” Cave, Last Hope Inlet 292
The Beagle Channel, looking West 296
Ushuaia and Martial Mountains 304
Glacier in N.W. Arm of Beagle Channel 310
Panorama South-west side of Lake Acigami 312
“The Winter’s Bark,” Tierra del Fuego 312
The Norwegian Factory, South Georgia 316
A Meeting in South Georgia 316
Humpback Whale, upside down, South Georgia 324
Three Right Whales, South Georgia 324
MAPS
Map of South America _At end_
The Falkland Islands _Facing page_ 6
Otway and Skyring Waters ” ” 62
CHAPTER I
THE COASTS OF THE FALKLAND ISLANDS
The Swedish steamer _Princess Ingeborg_ left Gothenburg on September
10, 1907. Wind and sea favoured us, and, after a most agreeable
passage, which came like a strengthening, refreshing rest after all the
work of the preceding months, we arrived in Buenos Aires on October
7. The Swedish Minister, Mr. O. Gyldén, gave us a hearty welcome,
and informed us that the Argentine Republic had generously granted
us the help we had applied for. We had ample time to get a glimpse
of the surrounding country, but naturally preferred to confine our
attention chiefly to the scientific centres, to La Plata, Buenos Aires,
and Cordoba, where people always showed themselves interested in our
enterprise and helped us to make a good start.
In Montevideo the Swedish Consul, Mr. Rogberg, met us, and after a
short stay, which we thoroughly enjoyed, we began our voyage on the
P.S.N.C. liner _Oravia_.
The big steamer made its way over a calm and friendly sea that lay
glittering in the bright sunshine. For a couple of days we carried the
spring of favoured Uruguay with us, but on the very morning when we
expected to get our first glimpse of the Falklands a chill fog slowly
descended over the waters, and anxious passengers tried in vain to
get a sight of land. All at once, close by, the brown and yellow,
storm-beaten coast loomed up out of the heavy mist, and through furious
squalls and a deluge of rain the _Oravia_ steered between the Narrows
and anchored in the spacious, natural harbour of Stanley.
The first person to greet us was one of the staff of the Falkland
Islands Company, Lieut.-Colonel Alexander Reid, D.S.O., who had
served with the C.I.V.s during the last South African War. We shall
always remember him as one of the best friends our expedition met on
its long journey. Presently the acting Swedish Consul, Mr. Girling,
arrived on board, and soon afterwards we found ourselves comfortably
seated at afternoon tea in our new quarters. Once more the smoke
from the Falkland peat-fire filled my nostrils, recalling to memory
my old acquaintance with this peculiar land and its inhabitants--an
acquaintance that I was now to revive and to increase. We said good-bye
to Mr. Quensel for some time, as he was going straight on to Punta
Arenas, in order to make an expedition into the interior of South
Patagonia.
The Falkland group extends from S. Lat. 51° to 52° 30’ and from Long.
57° 40’ to 61° 25’ W., and consists of two large and a very great
number of small islands, which form a regular barrier against the ocean
waves. The coast-line is exceedingly broken; long, narrow, and winding
creeks penetrate far into the country, marking the course, as there are
many proofs to show, of old valleys now submerged under the level of
the sea.
On the east coast of East Falkland is situated the little town of
Port Stanley, with about 1000 inhabitants. Along the south shore of
the harbour and on the slope of a low ridge, which shuts out the view
of the ocean towards the south, long rows of houses are erected, for
the most part small cottages built of wood. They leave a very homely
impression, as their occupants have tried to transform their porches
into small conservatories, where the eye rests on bright colours--which
the soil itself absolutely refuses to reproduce.
Some buildings attracted our attention more than the rest. In the far
“West End” there is a conglomeration of houses, together constituting
the Government House, the residence of his Excellency the Governor.
Mr. W. L. Allardyce, C.M.G., now holds this position. He is a man
warmly interested in the material as well as the spiritual welfare of
his colony, and we fully recognized his appreciation of our scientific
work, which he tried to promote as far as lay in his power. He rules a
vast dominion. Some years ago Great Britain painted red another large
section of the globe, the colony now including, besides the Falklands
and South Georgia, the South Sandwich Islands, South Orkneys, South
Shetlands, and Graham’s Land. The result of this spread of British
power was far-reaching. The whaling industry having languished in
Norway, energetic whalers started in the South Atlantic and Antarctic
Seas, and numerous vessels hunt there every summer and pay their
tribute to the Falkland Government, which has thus increased its
revenue.
At the other end of the town lies a long white building, representing
the second power here--not _the people_, but the F.I.C.--the Falkland
Islands Company--a mighty institution. Only with the assistance of
its chief on the spot, Mr. W. Harding, were we able to carry out our
investigations in the most interesting part of East Falkland, or to
visit the western islands, where the company’s small schooners are the
sole available means of communication.
The third State power, the press, is closely connected with the Church,
as the name of the only paper, _The Falkland Islands Magazine and
Church Paper_, issued once a month, bears incontestable witness. Close
to the beach rises the cathedral; a proud title which is borne as a
matter of fact by a little stone chapel. The city of Stanley is the
headquarters of a bishop, but as his diocese includes almost the whole
of South America the islanders do not enjoy his presence for more than
a fortnight in the year. Naturally, the inhabitants are too numerous
to be of one faith. Both Roman Catholics and Baptists have their own
churches, but the relations between the different sects seem to be most
amicable, at least if one dare judge from a certain little scene that
has remained in my memory. A welcome was arranged for the bishop, and
on that occasion the faithful gave free scope to their talents, and a
Roman Catholic, whose intentions were excellent if his voice was poor,
appeared on the stage and sang a little song in honour of his lordship.
[Illustration: _Atelier Dahlgren, Upsala._
PERCY D. QUENSEL.]
[Illustration: _Wiklund, Stockholm. phot._
THORE G. HALLE.]
It is remarkable and almost touching to observe with what faithfulness
the 2300 Falklanders cling to the habits of the old country, from the
parlour with its polished stove, the china cats on the mantelpiece,
the breakfast of eggs and bacon, to the bedrooms without a fire. When
you have drawn the curtains and lit the lamp you can believe that you
are in a snug little house in a small English town. But take a look
out of doors, and you generally meet a howling west wind, a cold rain
beats on your face, and whichever way you turn you always see the same
dreary, desolate landscape. You must certainly be born in Northern
Europe, or you would lose heart in this forlorn corner of the world.
The centre of Stanley society is Government House, and picnics, dances,
and dinners follow hard upon each other. I can assure you that there is
plenty to amuse you in Stanley--that is, if you have the privilege of
being admitted to the “upper ten” (without a thousand!).
Life is much less easy for those who have been stranded on this
inhospitable coast, not of their own free will, but by a cruel
fate. Generally they seek refuge in one of the six small “hotels,”
where statistics show the consumption of whisky to be considerable.
Nevertheless, the police can go to bed early in Port Stanley, where the
peace is seldom broken.
Communication with England is kept up by the P.S.N.C. steamers, which
touch once a month on their outward and once on their homeward passage
from the west coast of Chile and Punta Arenas. Their visits put new
life into the little town; boxes and parcels bring dainties and the
latest fashions; the post-office is besieged; strangers come ashore
to have a look round and to buy illustrated post-cards. But the huge
black hull soon disappears, and the town sinks back into its usual
quiet. Now and again a sailing-vessel happens to come inside the
harbour--generally it is some damaged craft, which then often loses
its freedom. To repair it is too expensive, and so the F.I.C. buys the
whole thing, and the port makes an addition to its fine collection of
old hulks.
* * * * *
It is a day in early spring on the hills near Port Stanley. The heath
stretches yellow and dreary, the withered grass is beaten to the ground
by an irritating wind, from which you can find hardly any shelter.
Grey and broken quartzite ridges run through brown peat-bogs. Nowhere
is there a tree visible, scarcely a bush is to be seen; the islands
are absolutely destitute of timber, and the inhabitants use dried peat
for fuel. Here and there a little white flower has ventured to peep
out of the dead grass and stands shivering in the cold. Let us climb
one of the low peaks that rise a little above the surroundings, and
get a more extensive but not a finer view. Everywhere we see the same
sad picture; low ridges, undulating plains, winding brooks, where
boggy ground gleams with its dangerous bright green colour as if to
warn the horseman. Here and there glitters some little shallow pond. A
frightened flock of sheep hurries off, screaming seagulls hasten past,
slowly the turkey-buzzard soars away....
Such is often the impression you get on a short visit to the Falklands,
especially during the unfavourable season, and even a bright sunny
day can hardly give this scenery real charm. Grand it could never
be without the assistance of the sea, for here as in so many other
places in the world the roaring surf bestows a wild beauty upon the
black, inhospitable cliffs.
[Illustration: FALKLAND ISLANDS]
Expeditions on land
” by sea
We spent the first few days making excursions in the neighbourhood of
the town, and Mr. Halle went as far as Port Louis. Later on I shall
say more about that place. Before we leave this part of the island,
however, let me conduct the reader to a point not far from the city,
the lighthouse near Cape Pembroke, a spot that has always possessed a
strong attraction for me since the first time I visited it. One can get
there overland or by boat--let us choose the latter way this time! The
landing is interesting enough; the shore is rocky, and we steer through
foaming breakers towards a narrow gap. Every eye is watchful, every
hand ready. Across the opening a heavy chain is stretched, and when the
boat passes underneath a line is flung round it, the end being secured
round the middle bench of the boat; at the same moment another line is
thrown ashore, where a man stands ready to receive it. It is indeed
required; the surf rolling in hurls the boat forward with creaking
timbers and then draws it back again, so that the ropes are strained
like the strings of a violin. If you miss the chain your boat may be
crushed against the cliffs. This, indeed, _has_ happened, but I am glad
to say that I managed to get ashore without adventure, and at once went
to see that good fellow, the lighthouse-keeper, who was glad enough to
get some company in his loneliness. In truth, one would have to seek
far to find a more desolate place than this. After the destruction of
the tussock-grass the whole promontory was changed into a vast field
of drifting sand. Desolation whispers in the whistling sand that
beats on the windows; desolation howls in the gale round the black,
jagged rocks; desolation thunders in the everlasting breakers. But
one gets a certain feeling of security when within; the light carries
on its silent struggle with danger and darkness and the sand rattles
incessantly against the iron walls. The magnificent lamp is of the
“Lux” pattern, and a good old “Primus” is used to heat the burner. The
vigorous keeper, my friend Mr. Pearce, nurses his light as if it were a
baby; every part of its mechanism is perfectly clean and shining, and
he tells you with barely concealed pride that the electric flash from
the mail-steamer is but poor stuff in comparison with his own light. He
listens to every word when you tell him of foreign countries, and he
himself has rather specialized on the Antarctic regions, ever since the
time when the leader of the Scottish National Antarctic Expedition, Mr.
Bruce, was his guest.
When the sun rose I found plenty to do. At low tide there is a
precious world spread out on the dry rocks or in half-emptied pools.
The rocks are covered with seaweeds, green and reddish brown, of all
shades and colours; half dead from thirst, they await the arrival of
another tide which shall restore them to life. In the small ponds
or basins a variegated company dwells. A carpet of rose-coloured
calcareous algæ covers the rock, and here and there are patches of
other seaweeds, from the largest blade-like variety to the small,
elegant bushes, displaying the brightest scarlet or crimson, purple or
violet colouring. And what a life there is in these recesses! The most
splendid _actiniæ_--sea-anemones, as they are often called--stretch
their hundreds of arms; an innumerable horde of little crustaceæ dance
round and round, wild with delight; beautiful shells rest lazily in
safe nooks and crannies, while here and there little fishes that have
got left behind when the water receded dart to and fro in their anxiety
to escape their temporary prison.
Deeper down the gigantic _Durvilleas_ roll their bodies in the
foam--they are some feet broad and many feet long, and fastened on
the bare rock by means of a short thick stalk, and a disc just like
a horse’s hoof. Some of them farther out in the heaviest surf are
of another shape: they are divided into long, cylindrical segments,
which writhe like serpents in eternal struggle with the full force of
the sea. Below lies the forest of the ocean. It is formed of another
brown kelp, the arboreous _Lessonia_, with trunks many feet long and
as thick as a man’s thigh, carrying a crown of large yellowish-brown
leaves, just peeping above the water, and slowly swinging forwards
and backwards in the waves. It is a magnificent sight, this submerged
forest, with its rich bower, where fishes and all sorts of marine
animals swim, while a whole world of plants and creatures thrive in its
shadows. A pair of ducks glide along chattering and quacking, followed
by five dear little ducklings, who make their voyage of discovery to
the promised land under their parents’ wise direction. Clear as crystal
is the water, and the temptation to have a bathe is very strong indeed.
How one would enjoy climbing in those curious trees! No fear that the
branches may give way, for they are made to carry a greater weight
than ours. What a pity that the water is so cold--but a few degrees
above freezing-point!
Finally, let us gaze round farther away over the water. There is a
yellow or brownish band, that extends along the shores as far as we can
see. It is one of the most famous plants in the world, _Macrocystis_,
Nature’s own beacon. One might say that as a rule there is no dangerous
reef where that giant seaweed does not grow to warn the sailor. And how
beautiful it is, with its graceful branches softly moving to and fro
with the swell of the ocean!
We landed in Port Stanley on October 26, and it was long before we
found a schooner bound for an extended trip. But finally, on November
18, the _Lafonia_ hoisted the Swedish as well as the English colours
and steered out to the open, to work her way westward round the north
coast.
The outlines of the country are monotonous; only here and there a round
hill rises above the neighbouring plains, always making a good landmark.
The land has disappeared; we are outside the Falkland Sound which
separates the two large islands, and by-and-by we get sight of the
three hummocks on Pebble Island. We steer clear of the thousands of
dangerous reefs, and continue westward with a fresh N.N.W. and a heavy
sea that washes our little craft from bow to stern. The good wind keeps
fresh, and we pass the straits at Carcass Island, cross Byron Sound,
and have the good luck to reach Westpoint Passage with the rising tide,
which allows us to get through this difficult channel. The tidal
currents on the Falkland coast are perhaps the greatest danger to
sailing-vessels. They swirl through those innumerable narrow channels
which one is bound to get through, with the strength of up to six or
seven knots. A look on a chart is sufficient to persuade us that we
are navigating a very disagreeable coast. Hardly a year passes without
one or more of the small Stanley schooners leaving the town, never to
return.
[Illustration: TYPICAL LANDSCAPE IN EAST FALKLAND, WITH QUARTZITE
RIDGE.]
The scenery has changed a little. It is desolate as before, but
grander. The cliffs run down to the sea sheer as though cut by a knife,
while heavy breakers throw their foam high above them. On the inside of
the steep Rabbit Island, in King George’s Bay, the _Lafonia_ anchored,
but the next morning we continued our journey across the gulf, through
the critical East passage, and then through a long and winding sound to
the entrance of Port Philomel. Here we encountered a gale lasting four
and a half days. With the prevailing south-west wind it was out of the
question to get away. We were anchored only a few hundred yards off the
land, but the wind was so strong that it was with difficulty we managed
to get ashore. We wanted to march across the peninsula, in order to get
acquainted with one of the more inaccessible parts of the island. It is
a heavy job to march in the Falkland camp, up and down all the time,
through ravines, stone-runs, or swamps. Our fame as “foot-Indians” is
not small in Port Stanley, and we begin to understand why the people
regard a long walk in the camp as something rather eccentric.
We had just climbed a steep ridge when I thought I smelt something
familiar, and stopped to trace it. No doubt it must be cattle, which
seemed peculiar so far away from any settlement. But the smell got
stronger, and from the top of the ridge we caught sight of the
cause--some of the scanty remnants of the wild cattle, a small herd of
twenty, amongst them some calves and two bulls. They at once caught
sight of us, cows and calves fell back, and the bulls stopped in front
of them, ready for action. But we did not want to come any closer, and
thought it better to stop where we were and watch them. They were two
imposing beasts, very wild-looking, with enormous horns, long coarse
hair, and a tail with a tuft of respectable dimensions. Some minutes
passed; they slowly retired, but turned round at every second step in
order to send us a friendly look. We picked our way cautiously, for we
did not wish to run across them unawares, in which case they would have
charged us immediately. And as we were on foot and without any other
arms than a knife to dig up plants with, we were not exactly prepared
to enter on a struggle.
When the colonists in the middle of the last century came to the
islands these were well stocked with wild cattle, and we were told the
most exciting tales of hunting them with lasso and knife, but without
firearms. “That was grand sport,” said an old gentleman-pioneer. I do
not doubt this, but horse and rider lost their lives in more than one
encounter.
Finally the wind changed, and the question of how to get out through
the narrow passage arose. The current here, which makes about seven
knots, played with the ship for a while, but eventually we came safely
through it, and anchored again on the north side of Fox Island. Here,
however, no foxes live, the name being all that is left of the Falkland
fox. He was too tame; that was his worst fault. An old farmer on the
settlement in front of the island told me that he killed his last fox
in 1873, and shortly afterwards the animal was extinct. This is a pity,
as the species _Canis falklandicus_ has now disappeared for ever.
The glass had fallen for a second time, but our anxiety to visit Fox
Island was so great that not even the threatening Falkland weather
could keep us back. My intention was to look at and photograph the
largest land plant of all Falkland, the _Veronica elliptica_, or
Falkland box, which seems to reach its greatest dimensions just here.
I had just exposed a couple of plates when the first squall came with
a deluge of rain. We tried to get on board while there was time, and
made full speed for the landing-place; at 1 P.M. we were back there.
But it was too late. A fresh gale was blowing in the harbour: far out
the _Lafonia_ lay, rocking on her cables. I shall never forget the six
hours we spent on shore without shelter. At seven o’clock the wind fell
a little, enough to let the crew lower the lifeboat and come to fetch
us. Captain Osborne himself held the tiller, and though six oars worked
with the full strength of muscular arms they nearly failed to reach us.
We did not regret that place very much when we weighed anchor to visit
the outlying islands, Weddell, Beaver, and New Islands, each of which
is a small sheep-farm. I can hardly imagine people more shut out of
the world than their inhabitants. Years pass without their seeing any
strangers save the crew of the little schooner that comes once or
twice a year to bring provisions and carry away the wool. Here one
has to economise; for if one runs short of an article one remains so,
though there is always a spare supply of important things. We met
several full-grown persons who were born there and had never left
the place, and who thought Port Stanley something marvellous. This
explains the queer behaviour of a young lady of eighteen who ran away
and hid herself when we came, thus providing us with an altogether new
experience.
No scientists had visited the outlying islands, and people had told us
many remarkable things about the geology as well as the botany of the
place. But though these are typical of all parts of the West Falklands,
it was nevertheless worth something to be able to reduce such rumours
to their proper proportions.
It will be easily understood that it must be very difficult even on
the greater and richer settlements to reproduce the features of a snug
and sheltered home, where the natural conditions are so unpromising as
on the Falklands. When we steered into the narrow creek on the north
side of King George’s Bay, called Roy Cove, we were quite astonished
to find that place well worthy of being called habitable. The hills
are rather picturesque, and the comfortable little houses, embedded
in gorse-hedges now in full bloom, left a very favourable impression.
In the creek we made a discovery that caused us all to stare with
amazement. Here lay a large iron vessel, and we could not possibly
imagine what business it could have in such a remote corner. But the
enigma was soon solved: the French barque _Duc d’Aumale_ had sprung
a leak on the high seas, on her way to the west coast of America,
and though in another couple of hours she would have gone down to a
certainty, at the very last moment her captain managed to bring her
into Roy Cove with the aid of a chart. The ocean here has many tales
to tell: almost every point or reef is connected with some shipwreck;
innumerable are the ships that destruction has overtaken on this coast,
where no beacon or light announces danger.
We had got much information about West Point Island, and had resolved
to make a fairly long stay there if possible. When we anchored at the
settlement on the island, “Clifton Station,” on December 7, there was
no need for the owner’s (Mr. Arthur Felton) persuasions; we were only
too glad to abandon the _Lafonia_, which continued her voyage, and to
settle on shore. Mr. Felton approximates very nearly to my ideal of
a man. Ready to enjoy life and civilization when there is a chance,
he nevertheless lives in complete harmony with the wild camp life;
interested in his work, he tries all sorts of grasses for his sheep,
but is also--an exception to the general rule--intensely fond of nature
itself and gifted with such a remarkable capacity for observation that
many a naturalist by profession has reason to envy him. He knows every
beast or plant on his island, he loves and nurses them, quite convinced
that the human race can live at its ease without depriving living
things which do him no harm of any chance of existence. I have never
met anybody but him who tries to save one of the Falklands’ finest
adornments, the giant tussock-grass (_Poa flabellata_), which is nearly
extinct wherever there are sheep, much to the detriment of the coast’s
appearance.
[Illustration: MOLLYMAWK ROOKERY, WEST POINT ISLAND.
[Illustration: PENGUIN ROOKERY (EUDYPTES) WEST POINT ISLAND.]
Mr. Felton expressed the deepest interest in our work, and spared
neither trouble nor time to prove it; he took the greatest care that
we should get the best possible results from our visit to his kingdom,
which we left after a week, not without considerable regret, joining
unanimously in the praise that has been showered upon West Point
Island. An excursion across the island to the cliff with its steep
rocks and crevices is well worth making. Large grass-bogs cover the
slopes, where mollymawks (_Diomedea chlororhyncha_) have their rookery.
There are eggs in the nests, one of which is more than sufficient as a
breakfast dish. To obtain these one must lift the hen away by force;
quick as lightning she turns her head, opens her long beak, and shuts
it with a click, and finally tries to turn her crop inside out and
sprinkle the half-digested, stinking food on the intruders. On the
slope above the albatross’s dominion is a penguin rookery, where the
visitor may like to stop and look at those, perhaps the most comical of
all, animals chattering and screaming among the pink-coloured guano.
They belong to the “rock-hoppers” (_Eudyptes chrysocome_), and are
dark blue and white, with a number of yellow feathers on the side of
the head. The penguins depend completely on the water, and those of
West Point have a hard climb of over a hundred yards to the surf,
where they tumble about in a most neck-breaking fashion. Thousands
and thousands of small penguin feet have dug deep marks in the hard
rocks, climbing up and down, century after century. Quite struck with
the uncommon sight, we sat still to watch them, as they emerged out
of the breakers, jumped ashore, and started their fatiguing climb up
the cliff, carefully putting their little claws where their ancestors
through innumerable ages have put theirs, the road being so narrow and
difficult that the penguins willy-nilly must follow in each other’s
footsteps.
As I have already mentioned, the Falklands have no indigenous arboreous
vegetation. This was not always so. I am not alluding to distant
geological periods with a plant-world quite different from that of our
era, for even in the epoch in which we live there were forests in the
Falklands. With the deterioration of the climate that gave rise to the
ice-age large tracts of austral South America became covered with a
mighty ice-cap; hundreds of plants and animals died out or migrated to
the north. This did not take place on the Falklands. They experienced
the hard time in another manner, and there is no trace of a glaciation.
The weather became more chilly and wet, and the ground was so saturated
with moisture that it began to slide away downhill, carrying with it
blocks of all sizes and shapes. The forest disappeared, and certainly
a number of animals and plants. When the conditions grew better the
moving soil came to a standstill, the finer material, sand and clay,
was washed away into the sea, but heaps of blocks are left in evidence
of past times. These are the famous stone-runs or stone-rivers, that
will always rouse the interest of the stranger as well as the islander.
Everywhere these peculiar formations are met with, forming a network on
the slopes of the valleys or long grey streams of stones at the bottom.
They constitute an obstacle to traffic quite as insurmountable as the
swamps.
We had no idea before our arrival at West Point that there had been
forests on the islands during a period, geologically speaking, so
near our own. The rumour of heavy logs found in the ground had helped
to bring us there, though we had been disposed to attribute the find
to common driftwood. There was no doubt, however, that this was the
remains of an old forest of needle-trees, well covered by the old
sliding soil, and we had been lucky enough to make a discovery of the
greatest interest. Long afterwards “the kelper” spoke of nothing but
the old forest--the consciousness of the simple fact that there had
grown big trees on his island seemed to strengthen his pride.
Our time was up. The signal-fire flared, and on “the main” a man with
horses expected us. We were to experience a new phase of Falkland
life--life on horseback.