RIDING THROUGH THE FALKLANDS
On horseback we slowly advanced along the rough, stony northern slope
of the long peninsula. Several hours passed. We came close to the
house of our guide, an old, taciturn Scotsman, and stopped for a while
at his invitation. At once his talkative wife, attired in her best
Sunday clothes, served us with whatever the Falklands can produce of
delicious dishes, and we were then ready for a fresh start. What would
this country be like without horses? All people ride, and ride well;
it is the only way of travelling in the camp, where roads are unknown.
At first we found it marvellous with what agility the horses trotted
along, climbing the steepest slopes, and struggling down places that
appeared perilous enough to the inexperienced rider. Sometimes there is
danger, but soon one does not think of it, for in ninety-nine cases out
of a hundred the horse is equal to the occasion. Hour after hour one
rides in the comfortable wooden saddle without getting tired, thanks to
the soft sheepskin. The wretched ground forces one to walk or trot, and
the patches where one can gallop one’s horse are easily counted.
Our goal for the day was Hill Cove, one of the finest settlements. With
its numerous, friendly-looking buildings and its beautiful gardens
it produces an uncommonly agreeable impression. Widely known is the
“forest” of Hill Cove. In a little depression a number of northern
trees are planted, mostly Scotch fir, which, being well sheltered, seem
to thrive very well. It was pure delight once more to hear the wind
soughing in the heads of the trees.
We were received with the usual hospitality, and were provided with
horses and guides, in spite of its being the busiest time of the year,
when the sheep-shearing was on. Flock after flock was driven into a
paddock, and from there to the shed, where the thick white wool was
cut with clicking scissors, until one almost thought one heard the
resultant heavy golden sovereigns jingling on the floor. Sheep-farming
is a profitable industry, and many of the farmers are able every year
to exchange the winter in the Falklands for England’s summer.
The total stock on a settlement is divided into flocks, each watched
by a shepherd, often a Scotsman. He lives out in the camp, sometimes
far away from other human dwellings, in his snug little house, with
his family, his dogs, and with good pay; he can keep a couple of
cows, grow potatoes and cabbages, and use as much peat as he needs
for fuel. Certainly his life is hard enough in summer-time; there is
lamb-marking, shearing, and finally dipping, and no thought of a rest;
but with winter comes an easier life, when he works with his horse-gear
or reads sixpenny books and illustrated papers. Now and then he takes
a ride round his district, gives an eye to the sheep, and sees that
fences and gates are in order. We made many friends amongst the
shepherds, who brought us safe through the thousands of dangerous bogs,
offered us a seat at their table, and gave us a bed without any thought
of payment.
The land south of Hill Cove is mountainous, and a few hours’ ride
brings us to the foot of Mount Adam, 2315 feet high, the highest
mountain in the islands, and regarded as a very Mont Blanc by the
islanders. As no scientific observations had been made there, we
resolved to make an ascent. From Hill Cove we had to cross several
ravines, but were able to ride up to the summit itself without
inconvenience. Here we found the face of Nature very different from
what we had been accustomed to! From the mountain-top we enjoyed a
splendid view over half West Falkland, suggestive of Alpine landscape,
certainly very tame, but still adorned by small snow-patches, a number
of glittering mountain-lakes, and a few Alpine plants. Here were no
sheep, but an expanse of virgin ground decked by the hand of Nature.
And the weather! This wonderful everlasting April was very gracious to
us all day long.
We did not intend to stay long in Hill Cove, for the schooner which was
to take us to Stanley might be expected in Fox Bay before Christmas,
and we had several interesting places to visit. Our start, however, was
almost too precipitate. One of the brothers Benney from Saunders Island
came to the farm, and in spite of not having more than an hour to make
ourselves ready, we made up our minds to accept his invitation and
visit his island. We trotted away, a party of four, in order to reach
Rapid Point, where a boat was to meet us before nightfall. But we were
indeed deceived. When we reached the beach it was already pitch-dark;
but horses have cats’ eyes, and soon we had a fine signal-fire on a
hill. After a while the reply flashed forth from the island, but when
the boat came it proved too small to take us all, as Halle and I were
not expected. As the tidal currents in the channel are very strong,
we could not be sure of being fetched the same night. We were told,
however, to wait for a signal--one flash meaning a disagreeable ride,
two a boat journey to the island. The night was very chilly, but we
made ourselves as comfortable as possible with a queer camp-fire of
gigantic dry trunks of seaweed (_Lessonia_), and Mr. Benney found some
tea and sugar in his “maletas” (valise; many Spanish words, especially
referring to horse-gear, are still used in the islands), so we had
nothing to complain of. Midnight came, still no message; but at last
two flashes illumined the darkness, and after a while we heard the
longed-for splash of oars. We set off, but as we could hardly see our
hands before us, the current took us outside the reef between Rapid
Point and the island. The breakers told us the truth, and using all
our strength we managed to reach the reef, jumped into the water, and
dragged the boat across. Before a neatly laid table and some fat mutton
we soon forgot the adventures of the night.
Saunders Island is one of the few places on the Falklands to which
historical reminiscences are attached. The discovery of the islands
took place in 1592, though they may have been sighted even before 1520,
but only in 1764 was the first colony founded by the French, who
settled in Port Louis, on the East Falklands. The next year the English
appeared at Port Egmont, and built their quarters a short distance
from the actual settlement. But soon Spaniards from South America
cast envious glances at the colony, and as the enemy was superior in
numbers the fort at Port Egmont was given up. Old cannon-balls are
still preserved, and several other relics such as the foundation-walls
of the fortress, while traces of extensive gardens and ruins of the
old settlement are still left. Later on the Spaniards left the place,
colonisation proceeded once more, but only for a short time, and in
1774 the place was abandoned.
We had enjoyed Falkland summer weather for several days, but it was not
long before it broke up. We were just on our way back to the mainland
in a small yawl when the first squall came on us like lightning, and
within half an hour the sea was so heavy that we were forced to turn
back and had to cross in a small cutter. The narrow channel looked like
a boiling cauldron, as the current ran against wind and sea; several
times the cutter refused to answer the helm, but we managed at last
to reach the mainland, where horses were once more awaiting us. The
rain poured down, the ground was very difficult, wet and slippery,
and progress very slow. We passed the natural ruin of Castle Hill,
crossed five rivers, of which the last is the main river Warrah, the
others its tributaries, and reached a shepherd’s house at nightfall.
Horses from Port Howard met us here, and early the next morning we
again found ourselves in the saddle. We wanted to survey the valley
of Warrah River, which is one of the largest streams in West Falkland.
At that time of the year, however, it carried but little water and we
could cross without difficulty. We followed the barranca, which became
steeper and steeper, necessitating our riding in single file, with the
guide in front. Suddenly he stopped and shouted out a “Look out here!”
Truly we could hardly see any signs of a path; a couple of hundred
feet below wound the river, on our left a precipitous wall rose, and
the narrow way was barred by huge blocks of stone. For an instant the
horses seemed to hesitate, groped among the stones, got a foothold,
took two or three unsteady steps, and scrambled past the obstacle. A
slip, and horse and rider would have been precipitated into the river.
“Rather a nasty place,” our man remarked, and neither of us found any
reason to contradict him.
We followed the river down to the place where the tidal region
commences, crossed it once more, struggled a while with the network of
a stone-run, and turned towards Port Howard, whose interesting natural
harbour I would ask the reader to study on the map. Once more we found
ourselves in a large and comfortable settlement, where Mr. and Mrs.
Mathews gave us a hearty welcome, always ready to put that question to
us which we heard so often: “What can we do to make it comfortable for
you and to help you to attain good scientific results?”
The bad weather continued; we made our excursions in storm and rain,
walking about in oilskins. One day we made an ascent of Mount Maria,
one of the highest mountains, and only a little lower than Mount Adam.
But as the ground is uncommonly bad, the slope being one extensive
network of stone-runs, we had to travel on foot. The rain poured down
as we climbed along, and suddenly we found ourselves enveloped in a fog
so dense and white that the view was shut off in all directions. It
was certainly more by good luck than by good judgment that we walked
straight on to the little cairn at the summit.
Our stay in Port Howard yielded very good results, and with regret we
said good-bye to our hosts, jumped into the saddle, and headed for Fox
Bay on the south coast. We were accompanied by the mail-carrier. After
a long and tiresome ride we reached our goal. Here lives the doctor of
West Falkland; on the occasion of our visit the position was held by
Dr. Bolus, who received us with the utmost courtesy and kindness. This
young doctor was a good all-round man, for besides his proper duties he
fulfilled those of custom officer, policeman, postmaster, and public
registrar. Being a spirited fellow who rides alone by day or night in
any weather, he had many tales to tell of hazardous rides, when snow
covered the dangerous bogs; how he reached the western sea-shore,
jumped into an ice-clad boat, and struggled through storm and mist
to one or other of the outlying islands, where a fellow creature lay
wrestling with death.
Meanwhile the _Lafonia_ lingered. We had already made ourselves
familiar with the thought of celebrating Christmas Eve with Dr. Bolus
and his wife--it did not cause any mental struggle, as we could hardly
have been better off than in their cosy home--when on the afternoon of
December 22 the schooner entered the narrow creek. It brought us our
mail, and, from the consulate in Port Stanley, the news of King Oscar’s
death. And down here, in a remote corner of the Falklands, two blue
and yellow flags were hoisted, half-mast, on the doctor’s house and on
the little schooner. The next morning the _Lafonia_ weighed anchor.
The wind was north-easterly, a rather uncommon occurrence, and with
some misgivings we regarded the approaching Christmas Day. I believe
that we never experienced anything like it. The small schooner rolled
incessantly with a hard wind and heavy sea; we ran short of provisions,
and there were no possibilities to raise our spirits.
Gnawing at the last mutton-bones, we arrived in Stanley in the
evening of Boxing Day, but found the capital empty. In a deluge of
rain horseraces took place outside the town, and of course all the
inhabitants had placed themselves under their umbrellas. But we stayed
at home and ate, quickly, but heartily. Thus Christmas passed, and 1907
was soon only a memory. We sat up to see the New Year in with some of
our English friends, who did all they could to make us feel at home.
And warmed by their friendship we almost forgot that we were far away
from our homes and everything dear to us.
We did not intend to stop long in Stanley, as the time had come to
survey East Falkland. We had done but little there, and the most
interesting part was still left. As soon as a schooner was ready,
Halle went to Port Darwin, in Choiseul Sound; I had to complete my
studies in the vicinity of Stanley. The camp revelled in the beauty
of summer--everything in this world is a matter of comparison!--and
the life on the rocks round the lighthouse once more attracted me. But
Halle sent a message telling of great geological discoveries, and on
January 14 I went on board the _Lafonia_, which could thus hoist the
Swedish colours alongside of the English once more. We came out through
Port Williams all right, and also passed the tussock-islands, where the
sea-lions lay snoring. From there we had a miserable run, having to
beat all the way down, and did not arrive at Darwin until late the next
day.
The south part of East Falkland, south of Wickham Heights, does
not differ much from the rest of the island in appearance. With
the exception of a very doubtful find on Speedwell Island, nothing
indicated that layers younger than Devonian would occur on the
islands. Halle’s discovery that the whole south part of East Falkland,
generally called Lafonia, belongs to a younger period, viz., the
Permo-carbonian, was thus of great interest, and in several places he
made beautiful and valuable collections of the fossilised remains of
plants (_Glossopteris_) which had once spread their shadow over the
Falkland soil. Lafonia is owned by the Falkland Islands Company, and
about 200,000 sheep graze on the undulating plains. We found here the
largest pampas-like spots I ever saw in the islands, and enjoyed being
able to travel at a fair speed. Otherwise the camp was more or less the
same as usual--the same winding creeks, that appear in the middle of
the country when you do not at all expect them, forcing you to make a
long _détour_, the same streams slowly creeping through the treacherous
peat, sometimes impassable, and always difficult to cross on horseback.
The coast, of course, is as charming as ever with its rich bird-life,
flocks of many coloured geese (_Chloëphaga_), red-legged gulls (_Larus
Scoresbyi_), flapping shags, and a long row of squeaking waders; and
its cliffs with guano and white rocks, sculptured by the waves into
fantastic forms and tunnels.
Darwin Harbour is the camp centre of the F.I.C. It is the next largest
settlement, with about seventy or eighty inhabitants, and boasts of a
good store, a school, and also a doctor.
[Illustration: THE GREAT STONE-RUN SOUTH OF PORT LOUIS, EAST FALKLAND.]
When we had crossed Lafonia in all directions we wanted to pay a visit
to the west coast. Several days of heavy rain had soaked the camp and
delayed our start, but finally we were able to set out, accompanied
by Dr. Foley, who kindly acted as our guide. We soon left the plains
and reached the usual broken ground; the wind was biting cold, and now
and then a wet squall paid us its attention. Suddenly a long creek
appeared; it was Port Sussex. The tide was out, and our horses splashed
across cheerfully, making deep imprints in the smooth mud. Carefully
they climbed the stony barranca on the other side; as they were not
shod they hated stony places, and peered to right and left in order to
see if there was no chance of breaking out. The doctor had pointed out
a rock high up on the grey quartzite ridge; that was our landmark. The
ascent was troublesome; the ground had become covered by loose peat
and the horses began to get tired. On the top of one of the ridges we
met with a critical passage, for which the doctor had already prepared
us; a place where the pure peat, brown and loose, was exposed. At the
edge the horses stopped with firm resolution, and we could read in
their faces a “No, sir, that’s enough.” We dismounted, grasped the
long cabresta (halter-strap) and pulled away. Absolute refusal; we
pulled each at his end, the horse and I, and the stronger won. Then
the lashes hailed down on the back of the insubordinate creature, it
took a desperate jump, lay kicking and struggling in the black mud, and
finally gained firm ground. We had passed the crest of Wickham Heights,
and rode down a series of slopes to San Carlos South, a farm where the
doctor was to vaccinate some children. As soon as he was ready, we
started again. Night was coming on, and we neared our goal, the San
Carlos valley, where the largest river of East Falkland winds its way
along, deep and rapid. On the other side sharp crests rise, and at
their foot we sighted the settlement, San Carlos North, where we were
received with the same kindness as ever. The next day we returned to
Darwin. I was anxious to return to Stanley, but delayed my departure as
long as possible, as I wanted to make an ascent of Mount Usborne, the
highest mountain in East Falkland. But the rainy season would not come
to an end, and finally I had to leave for the town. This time I took
the route overland. I asked Halle if possible to climb the mountain and
make some observations for me, and as he was able to fulfil his mission
I had no reason to complain.
The track to Port Stanley follows the southern slope of Wickham
Heights. It is one of the very worst in the islands (especially after
a long rain like the one we had experienced), and near the town
stone-runs appear with dangerous holes, covered by vegetation. We
changed horses twice, and easily covered the distance, about sixty
miles, in two days. Covered with mud and soaked to the skin, I rode
into the town on February 1. Only twelve days were left till the day
when the mail-steamer for Punta Arenas was due, and much work had
still to be done. Amongst other things I would not willingly leave the
islands without paying a visit to Port Louis, where J. G. Andersson
and myself had lived some time during the winter of 1902. Port Louis
is the classical ground of the Falklands. Here lie the ruins of the
old settlement; here Charles Darwin strolled about; here J. D. Hooker
collected materials for his famous “Flora Antarctica”; here the
_Challenger_ was anchored. All these memories crowd upon the mind of a
naturalist of to-day and cast a halo round the brown, desolate heath.
Several historic ruins are left in Port Louis. Here in 1764 the first
settlement was established by the French; a few years later Spain took
possession of it, but probably withdrew the garrison before 1780. In
1820 the captain of a vessel took possession of the islands for the
Government of Buenos Aires, but in 1833 a British man-of-war was sent
to enforce England’s rights, and since 1843 the Falklands have been
constituted a Crown colony. For further details I refer the reader
to Darwin’s journals, as well as to a paper read by the present
governor, Mr. W. L. Allardyce, C.M.G., at the meeting of the Royal
Colonial Institute, March 22, 1910. During the last days of our stay
in Port Stanley everybody was walking about rife with expectation.
A man-of-war, H.M.S. _Sappho_, was due, and from the camp the young
ladies came to the town prepared for a dance or a picnic. Some years
ago a man-of-war used to be stationed in Stanley for several months
every year, and opposite the town expensive constructions were made, a
dock was built, and large coal-sheds erected. But hardly was it ready
when the whole scheme was abandoned, even the stationed vessel being
withdrawn, much to the grief of the Stanley girls.
At last the _Sappho_ came, but by this time our period of rest had
nearly elapsed. Halle returned from Darwin, we had to prepare our heavy
luggage, and when the _Oronsa_ let her sonorous voice be heard she
found us ready. On February 12, a bright summer day, the barren coasts
of the Falkland Islands disappeared from our sight--perhaps for ever.
The big steamer hastened westward, and soon the lights at the Magellan
Straits twinkled in the twilight. As we approached Punta Arenas the sky
shone bright red, and with the glasses we soon found out the reason:
the forest south of the town was on fire; it made a mighty lighthouse
that showed us the way to the roads, where we anchored at 1 A.M. on
February 14.