THROUGH NORTHERN PATAGONIA
During the first few days our march was not attended by any
difficulties, as we only followed the common track, here and there
visible over the pampas. On our right was the so-called Pre-Cordillera,
where outlines are softer and the snow-patches insignificant. Deep
ravines appear in the easily disintegrating tufas, and here dark
forest-groves extend, though not reaching down to where we were
travelling. Behind and in front of us lay the broken ground of the high
pampas with hills and ravines, towards the east the endless undulating
plains reaching far away to the Atlantic Ocean. The yellow sand gleams
between tufts of stiff steppe plants and scented spring flowers, red
or blue, yellow or white, now and then tempting me to alight to gather
specimens. Everywhere the blue-green hillocks of _Mulinum spinosum_
(an umbelliferous plant) appear, together with the stiff tussocks of
grasses, the most noticeable growths on the dry, sandy steppe. Almost
everything is prickly; the shrubs are armed to the teeth, the leaves of
the grass end in a sharp needle, breaking off at the slightest touch:
if one sits down carelessly one soon jumps up again, spiny like an
urchin, but with the important difference that the spines are turned
towards one’s own skin. Now and then a cactus is seen resting its
growth on the stony soil. On the hills and plateaus vegetation is more
scanty. It is almost a desert, red or yellow, strewn with sharp-edged
stones, with stunted plants in the cracks, such as are specially fitted
to endure the hardships of desert life; sometimes they look like a
tangle of spines, out of which some few brilliant flowers peep forth;
sometimes they are wrapped in a dense clothing of thick wool and have
roots disappearing in the very bowels of the earth, where there is
perhaps water to drink. The numerous spines are one of the nuisances of
the steppe. Another is the wind, often blowing hard for a long time and
enveloping us in a cloud of dust. But certainly we preferred this to
the eternal rains of the west coast.
Hours pass, the sun bakes us red or brown, the dust gathers in thicker
and thicker deposits. The bell on the mare tinkles, the hoofs rattle
on the hard ground. The horses, untrained as they are after a long
winter’s leisure, get less willing, one or other tries to pluck a
mouthful of the rough yellow grass. We must show more energy in driving
the troop, and Pagels is frequently heard shouting a “verdammtes
Kamel,” in a very bad case increasing his anger to a “heiliges
Kanonenrohr,” the strongest expression he is able to lay tongue to, and
surely a relic of his service in the navy. We welcome the small valley,
our first camping-place, where a tiny stream winds between thickets
of ñire. Patches of green grass attract the horses; we find a nice
and sheltered corner and unsaddle. One horse is chosen and tethered
to a long rope; the others are simply let loose, with the exception
of the mare, who is provided with _maneas_ round the front legs. So
one is more or less sure of finding the troop in the neighbourhood
the next morning. The first camp-fire crackles, the _maté_ makes its
round, and a real fat _asado_ of beef drips on the spit. Poor misguided
vegetarians would not thrive here; meat and meat again will probably
always be the staple food of the pampas. Here in Sweden we hardly know
what good meat is. I learnt to understand my Argentine friend from the
Antarctic voyage, José Sobral, who deliberately shook his head at the
stuff he was offered in Upsala. I think that then I tried to defend it,
but I have already withdrawn my defence.
The delicious steak whets our appetite, and from curiosity one soon
cuts into it to see if it has not got the right colour. A pack-saddle
or the sleeping-bag is our seat. A large piece of meat in one hand, the
big sheath-knife in the other--that’s the way to eat _asado_. A couple
of biscuits and a cup of cocoa end our meal--dinner and supper at the
same time. Generally we only fed twice a day, put a piece of biscuit or
cold meat, if there was any, in our pocket, and ate it during one of
the halts we were forced to make to give the horses a spell of rest.
They got thirsty and we wanted to stretch our legs.
Darkness falls over the expanses, the stars come out, and our camp-fire
more and more commands the surroundings. We gladly linger a while over
our pipes; it is the most pleasant hour of the day, and, if possible,
we want to prolong it. But there is a next day, and the thought of
this makes us look for a bed in the bushes, spread out the bag, make
a bundle of the clothes under the head, creep down, and enjoy the last
whiff of smoke. Ah, these nights under the open sky--it seems almost a
pity to sleep--now out in the open camp, where the barren sand gleams
between the grass and the ghostly silhouette of a single bush stands
against the sky, now under soughing trees, where the moonbeams seek a
way through the black foliage. Cross and Centaur wander the eternal
road, the murmur of the stream is conducive to sleep.... A ghostly cry
breaks the stillness, our dogs prick up their ears and bark: only a
hungry fox who has scented our pantry! From Pagels’ bag comes a “gute
Nacht,” one turns to find a comfortable position, and is soon at home
among the firs and red-painted houses in the land far away, which now
looks so marvellous to us. The night is clear and cold, and with great
satisfaction we greet the first sunbeams that creep from the ocean all
the way to the foot of the Andes. The day will get hot, and the thing
is to get off when the freshness of the morning still lies over the
land. First the morning toilet must be performed. The reader imagines,
I should think, how we enjoyed a good wash in the purling brook; alas!
we also imagined it, but it was seldom accomplished in reality. It did
not pay, for after half an hour’s ride one was as dirty again, and
we were more satisfied with occasional thorough cleanings on solemn
occasions. But there was _one_ paragraph in our codex of cleanliness
from which there was no exception: he who was to make bread must first
wash his hands.
Work was certainly not lacking in the morning. Collections and notes
had to be put in order, the breakfast prepared, and the horses driven
to the camp, caught, and saddled. Every day I had plants to press,
which I performed in a simple manner, for naturally the usual heavy
plant-presses were banished; but with two pieces of cardboard, a rope,
and old newspapers I got in the settlements I managed all right.
Breakfast consisted for the most part of porridge, meat, bread (when
we had any), and coffee. It was soon eaten, cups and plates washed,
the saucepan cleaned. This last job we took by turns; not even the
palatable scrapings could make it enjoyable.
The watch-horse was saddled; we must look for the others. In most cases
this did not give us much trouble, because when it was possible we
carefully chose good pasture. It was much worse to catch the horses.
With the ropes we made a corral, easy enough in the forest, but often
very tedious when out on the open pampas, where hardly a single
suitable bush could be discovered. Some of the animals were easy to
catch, but others tried our patience, hiding amongst their fellows or
breaking away. Finally the full number of six were tied and we started
to saddle. We always saddled our own horses, and soon got very expert
at handling all sorts of gear. The loads lay ready waiting, nothing was
forgotten, and the first camping-ground disappeared behind a hill.
We could soon distinguish our destination for the second day, a
single rust-brown peak, called Pico Quemado (The Burnt). Following
the Cordillera, the track went ceaselessly uphill and downhill. But
the monotony was broken when suddenly the load on one of the horses
loosened. We stopped and tried to catch him, but he bolted at once. The
load slipped round, terrible kicks struck the boxes, and our coffee-pot
soon was changed into a tragi-comic, completely useless utensil. “It
served you right, you ass!” Pagels said, when the beast at last lay
there, entangled in the rope. By-and-by we gained more experience,
though not a day elapsed when we had not to rearrange the loads. The
whole day we were ascending, it grew colder, and the wind freshened and
felt biting cold in spite of the northerly latitude. At 4900 feet we
reached the pass, and made downhill towards a small stream on the south
side of Pico Quemado.
Another day and we came across the first houses, a small settlement,
and in the evening stopped in front of a large wooden house in
Ñorquinco. Here the Chile-Argentina Company has established a branch.
The place is as typical of civilised Patagonia as we could wish: an
iron shed for the telegraph office, where floats a faded Argentine
flag, a _boliche_ with horse-gear, bunches of stirrups and spurs,
hanging from the roof, a pile of sheepskins thrown into a corner, heaps
of clothing, gaudy handkerchiefs, black, huge-brimmed hats, knives and
revolvers, long rows of tin boxes with multicoloured labels, and last,
but not least, the _cantina_--the bar with wine-barrels, shelves of
bottles in all the shifting colours of the rainbow, _pisco_ (a weak
Chilean brandy), æruginous Menta liqueur, Jamaica rum with its nigger
head, whisky and brandy, some champagne bottles and the wash-up tub,
where the glass is dipped an instant before it is offered to the next
customer. Outside at the traditional barrier some horses are tied,
waiting for their masters. And they will have to wait.... The dice are
thrown, laughter echoes within the walls. Swarthy individuals, pure
Indians dressed in poncho and wide trousers, pulled together at the
wrist, white socks, and a pair of slippers, Chileans, Argentiners, and
_gringos_ (strangers). A dirty policeman, dressed in the remains of
a uniform, hangs about the bar. Conversation stops for a moment when
we enter: evidently we do not look like everyday comers and they gaze
curiously at our cargo. The social tone is free and friendly here. You
suddenly find yourself a member of the party, a glass is thrust into
your hand, _Salud!_ to right and left, and then it is your turn to
order a “round.” If one has any idea of Patagonian customs, one takes
care not to refuse--it might cost one dear.
It was easy enough for us to get dinner and a bed, but we thought more
of our horses. Everywhere here the scanty grass was gone, and as there
were no paddocks we were anxious lest the horses should run away--a
starved horse strays until he finds something to eat.
At seven in the morning the policeman rode away to look for our troop,
and we awaited his return anxiously. And when he returned alone we
knew the truth: the horses had gone. There are many points on the
compass, but we must seek in all. Kind souls offered their services,
others confined themselves to discussing matters and made all sorts
of guesses. The inspector of police, who had arrived, declared that
the horses most probably had gone back to Bariloche, and we sent a
telegram there; others were inclined to suspect that thieves had had
a hand in it; one fellow looked at the inspector and whispered to me
that the police perhaps knew ... Well, it would not have been the first
time a thing like that had happened in the Cordillera. A number of
_peons_ (camp-labourers) were sent to look in different directions,
and we strolled far away over the hills, provided with glasses; we saw
some horses, but not ours. At noon, however, one of the men returned
with the mare and five horses, but the other five had strayed away. New
guests arrived in the evening; our horses were the favourite topic,
and if good advice had been able to do anything, certainly there was
plenty. We went to bed in a miserable state of mind. Five horses gone;
we could not buy others without getting into debt, and who knew if
anybody would be willing to give unknown strangers credit? And without
these horses, the caravan reduced to half, it would prove impossible to
carry out our scheme--an ignominious end to our bold hopes. The next
day we arranged a systematic search. Indian peons got the description
of the horses, and were promised a reward if they brought them back.
They intended to track them down. The horses were shod, it is true,
and therefore easy to distinguish from others, but the hardness of
the ground and the strong wind would make matters more difficult. We
resolved to continue our march with the rest of the caravan, leaving
Pagels behind to watch over our interests and make inquiries of people
all round in his beautiful Spanish. However, we had almost lost hope
of seeing our animals (some of them good horses) any more, and began to
believe that thieves had driven them out of the way on purpose, only
waiting for us to lose patience and leave the place--an old Patagonian
trick often employed with profit. We left Ñorquinco and followed a
cart-track, after a while turning to the west, through a very distinct
pass, a true _portezuelo_, leading down into the valley of Rio Chubut.
Large herds of cattle were grazing on the well-watered meadows, and,
hungry as they were, our horses would not have refused a good meal, but
time did not permit of this. Rio Chubut, one of the largest rivers of
Patagonia, is here only small, though sometimes so swollen that it is
difficult to cross. Now there was not much water, and we easily reached
the small _estancia_ Maytén, where we stopped for the night. Only the
wife of the _capataz_ (the “boss”) was at home, and at first she did
not seem very willing to welcome us, but after a while promised to
cook some food and let us sleep in the peons’ quarters. I do not blame
her, for the master of the home was away and we might have been a band
of rascals, a possibility not at all contradicted by our appearance.
A gentleman rider in Patagonia brings several servants, and if one
does any sort of work usually left to the peons this never evokes
admiration, but only sheer astonishment.
As on every _estancia_ one or two horses are tethered for the night, we
let ours go, and in the morning a peon promised to fetch them. He went
away all right; and came back after two hours--without the horses:
“he had not gone in the right direction,” he said. A traveller, a kind
fellow, who had spent the night with us, offered to fetch them himself,
and finally, at noon, they came. The peon _had_ been there, for a
_bozal_ that we had left on one of the pack-horses in order to catch
him with less trouble was gone. There was no time to look for it; it
was nearly one o’clock, and we had a ride of thirty-one miles in front
of us. Over easy ground we followed the Chubut river till it bent to
the east, and at nightfall reached the Lelej valley, where we soon
perceived a group of large buildings, indicating a big farm. It was the
headquarters of the “English-Argentine Land Company,” whose manager,
Mr. Preston, welcomed us in a very kind manner. Lelej is typical of a
large cattle-farm. In a low building of red brick--the ground is cheap,
so there is no reason to make houses of more than one storey--are the
lodgings, offices, shops, and stores; all round are various workshops,
such as a carpenter’s and a blacksmith’s shop, the house of the
“bosses,” and the plain _ranchos_ of the peons. In the vicinity one
does not look in vain for the piles of fuel, brought there from a long
distance, the great, ever-increasing heap of empty tin boxes, the
bulky, high-wheeled bullock-carts, and the rolls of wire. Round the
houses stretch smallish _potreros_, or paddocks, for the hundreds of
horses in daily use, and away over the hills the fences run straight as
an arrow.
[Illustration: SMALL PATAGONIAN SHEEP FARM.]
The peons are a peculiar class of people. Pure Indians or _mestizos_,
they are nearly all doomed to eternal bachelorhood; one can hardly
imagine a married peon. All day they spend on horseback, at night
they crawl in on the earthen floor round the cauldron with _puchero_
hanging down from the roof, feed, smoke a cigarette, take innumerable
cups of _maté_, then, wrapped in a blanket, they sleep on some rags in
a corner. Pleasures of life take the form of _maté_ and tobacco, and,
of course, spirit, when they can get it. Here is the home of a peon
to-day; to-morrow he does some foolish thing, takes too long a siesta,
perhaps, and is sent off. In five minutes he has packed together his
property, put them and himself on a horse, and has galloped away to
seek fortune elsewhere. Of course, he has horses, often a whole drove;
horses multiply and there is always pasture. But light come, light go;
an attracting “pub,” an unscrupulous publican, and after some days of
splendid intoxication he rides away on a borrowed horse. A peon who
saves his pay puts it all into his horse-trappings; one can see him
in his Sunday clothes with a small fortune of silver on the horse, an
ancient custom inherited from Tehuelche or Araucanian ancestors. It is
curious to think that not many years ago this vast land was the free
battlefield of the Indian, he who now is its most humble servant, whom
any stranger with a piece of land thinks it fitting to kick and insult,
always letting him understand that he belongs to an inferior race,
living at the intruder’s mercy. Sometimes it happens that he gains the
confidence of his master, is promoted to _capataz_ and gets his own
house; and should it happen that a girl finds her way out to the camp,
he may get a family also. A common peon she does not look at; there
are always persons of higher rank who are glad to take care of her.
Life in Lelej goes like clockwork. All the employees are Englishmen or
Scotchmen and have brought their customs to the new country. On the
stroke of half-past six they are sitting at breakfast, where every
passing gentleman may be sure of a seat and a mutton chop; the bread
is as English as one could wish, and luncheon or dinner arrives with
magnificent beef or roast mutton. And if one discovers a football or
golf clubs it is nothing astonishing. Lelej appeared to us a very well
managed enterprise, where people work ceaselessly.
The greatest difficulties these settlements in the Andes have to
contend with are the bad communications. Everything goes by cart to the
Atlantic coast, making journeys lasting weeks and months, under great
difficulties of finding water on the half desert-like plains. Great
railway schemes are now spoken of, or even started, and then Patagonia
will be able to show what she is capable of.
Lelej was the last telegraph station, and we were in continuous
communication with Ñorquinco. All hope seemed gone, as Pagels asked
permission to buy a new horse and join us; but I asked him to stop
another day, which proved to be a piece of luck. We had plenty of
work in the neighbourhood--made a ride up in the mountains, where
snow still lay in the forests, just dressed in the verdure of spring.
Quensel visited the flourishing Cholila valley in the west, and Halle
was busy collecting fossils. However, we worked with depressed
spirits. Certainly Mr. Preston had promised to guarantee us money if
we telegraphed to Buenos Aires for some; he had no horses to sell us
himself. Later it proved that it would have been very difficult to
get any. We did not want to get the expedition into debt, as it was
our pride to make an exception to the rule. November came, still no
news. Then, on November 2, like a sunbeam from an overclouded sky came
the following telegram: “Hay noticias de caballos perdidos; Señor
Pagels fué traerlos, seguirá viaje mañana,” or, “Lost horses traced;
Mr. Pagels gone to fetch them, continues his journey to-morrow.” The
title plainly showed that Pagels had understood how to inspire due
respect! It had been sent the day before, and we could expect him the
same day, and were almost ready to embrace the fugitives when they
appeared. Everything had nearly come to nought; Pagels had bought a
horse on credit, and had one foot in the stirrup, when an Indian came
on horseback and told him that he knew where the horses were. What a
big weight was off our minds!
Merry as before and with a complete caravan we started for the next
halting-place, two days off. Now and then we put up ostriches (_Rhea_),
which flew in all directions with stretched wings, chased by our dogs,
who could never overtake them; now and then a small herd of guanacos
passed, but they also left Prince and Pavo far behind. We had just
unsaddled for the night at the side of a small tributary to Chubut,
when on the other side of the water we saw the silhouettes of more than
a hundred guanacos against the evening sky. It would have been easy to
get a good bag, but as long as we were in communication with settled
parts we need not leave a settlement without a couple of fine steaks
added to the loads, and wild animals were safe from our bullets.
Guarded by the Esguel Mountains, a large plain stretched before us,
and far away we could see two high peaks, between which our way
would run, through the so-called Nahuelpan Pass. It is a narrow but
fertile valley, with small cornfields round the grey Indian _ranchos_,
shadowed by small groves of cedars. We were not quite sure of the way
to Clarke’s place, which we wanted to visit, and asked an Indian who
passed us; he told us that we had missed our way, and would have to go
back again, but also that if we continued through the pass we should
strike Underwood’s farm in “Colonia 16-de-Octubre.” Certainly we had
special reasons for seeing Clarke; Preston had sent letters to him, and
besides he was an educated man, a B.A. of an English university; but
the _détour_ would be too much for our animals, and we continued down
to Underwood, where we arrived after a march of thirty-four miles. The
neat little brick cottage lies embowered in a garden. Mr. Underwood
was away, but his wife welcomed us, and we soon felt at home. By a
happy chance Mr. Clarke came driving there the same night, bound on a
business journey through the valley, and thus we had the great pleasure
of making his acquaintance.
The “Valle 16-de-Octubre” is one of the most fertile and populous of
the transandine valleys. It is watered by Rio Corintos, further down
joining Rio Futaleufú, which empties into Lago Yelcho, in its turn
discharging by Rio Yelcho into the Pacific. We stood by the same river
where we had camped some months earlier, but the entire Cordillera was
between the two places. Here Chile had certainly wanted to emphasize
the principle that a water-divide was the natural frontier, but as the
valley had been colonized by Welshmen from Chubut (Trelew), Argentine
kept the whole valuable part of it. We wanted to give our horses a rest
and let them browse a few days, and Clarke came with us to look for a
farm where people would be willing to lend us horses for our excursions.
Shut in by magnificent mountain-chains, this valley is a real gem,
green with vast meadows, wheat-fields, and clover-fields, adorned by
nice country houses, where fruit-trees and berry-bushes, cauliflower
and lettuce were a delight to behold. We became quite homesick when we
rode through. At the schoolhouse we stopped. The children are taught in
Welsh, but most of the people we met also spoke English and Spanish.
We crossed Rio Corintos, where fat cows of English breeds grazed on
the banks, and made a halt at a farm of very modest aspect. The owner,
however, was a wealthy man. He was out marking colts, but his wife
asked us to off-saddle and come in, and welcomed us with a _maté_. Then
Don Antonio Miguens came. He received us very kindly indeed, promised
us horses, and proved a thorough gentleman. He is, besides, a very
original man.
On November 6 we rode further into the valley with fresh horses. At
the beginning we made good speed; then the valley narrowed and the
patches of beautiful cedar-forest, further east only growing in the
ravines, closed into a dense covering on the steep slopes down to the
broad river that rushed westward, embracing green islands. Ever since
the time when the valley was explored from the Pacific side a path
has been left, but it is anything but inviting, running up and down
over neck-breaking barrancas, through thickets and stony places. The
horses were used to this ground, and did not hesitate, but jumped over
the barricades of fallen forest giants. One had better not sleep in
the saddle, for one’s knees are in continual danger from trunks and
huge blocks. We met passages so intricate that we had to leave them
to the horse’s judgment--the only disaster that happened was that our
coffee-pot (the second!) suffered a fatal shock. However, by giving it
another kick we made it possible to use for the day. The vegetation
more and more showed signs of the rain-forest, our old friends the
beeches and myrtle-trees appeared again, and when we reached the
boundary-mark high up on the south bank of the river Chile welcomed us
with rain and fog.
With a sense of regret we parted with the valley and sought a way south
over very broken ground with dense brushwood here and there, making it
difficult to keep together. We were not at all sure of having chosen
the best way till we came in sight of Lake Rosario and the extensive
peat-bogs at its west end, where we passed it. Here Jeremias, one of
the pack-horses--thus named because he uttered strange, plaintive
sounds when being saddled--got a chance to prove his eminent
intelligence. We had suspected that he was not quite normal, and now
made certain. He caught sight of some horses on the other side of the
swamps, was seized by a sudden desire to make their acquaintance, and
in a rapid gallop flew down the slope. We followed him as fast as our
horses could carry us, but only arrived to see him sink down, kick in
desperation, and disappear to his belly. It was a wet swamp of the
worst kind, and we nearly lost him. At first all efforts proved futile,
the ground would not bear us, but we managed to unload him, and thus
saved both him and the load.
At a tributary of Rio Carrenleufú we camped for the night, and the next
morning made for the main river. We had some trouble with our horses,
as two of them had sore backs and could not be used. The least pressure
of a saddle might render them useless for weeks.
We tried to set a course straight for a settlement indicated on the
Argentine map. The ground was very poor, innumerable ravines filled
with thickets, and sometimes so wet that the horses had to wade in
loose black mud over their knees. It was more by good luck than good
management that we struck the house of Robert Day, where hospitality
indeed had its abode. Seldom do you find its laws so strictly kept
as in Patagonia. In the settlement of white men or the _rancho_ of
an Indian, everywhere you are received with open arms, and the best
there is is put on the table. Every effort is made to keep you there;
never is the house too limited or the table too small. We shall never
forget old Day, his jolly wife and swarm of children. The eldest sons
had built their own cottages at other places in the valley. Day is a
true pioneer of the old school, and in our Patagonian Baedeker we have
marked him with three stars. Originally, he, as well as so many others,
had come to look for the yellow metal, but finished in good time and
now has a rather flourishing farm. However, he complained of the
Government. On repeated occasions he had offered to buy the ground, but
never got a definite answer; he had lived there seventeen years, but
could not feel sure that he would not be chased away any day it pleased
the authorities.
Hitherto our direction had been more or less straight south, but
from Carrenleufú we bent eastward in order to visit the camp round
Rio Tecka, one of Chubut’s sources, and at the same time make the
acquaintance of one of the very few Swedes in Patagonia, Don Carlos
Flach, of the well-known Swedish noble family. In Valparaiso we were
told that he was manager on an _estancia_ belonging to the Cochamó
Company, named after Rio Cochamó, which discharges into the Reloncaví
Inlet not far from Puerto Montt. There a road has been made across to
the Pacific coast, but it is said to be passable only to riders. Only
one day’s march separated us from Pampa Chica, where the sought-for
_estancia_ should be, but the track is rather ill-famed because of
the extensive _pantanos_, and, according to Day, sometimes quite
impassable. The saddle-horses were happily brought over the bad places,
but of course Jeremias was bogged and caused us trouble and loss of
time. In the afternoon we came across a flock of the company’s sheep;
they were badly afflicted with scab, the wool hanging in tatters
all round them. Well hidden by the foot of a hill there was Flach’s
cottage, and the master of the house was not a little astonished when
three dusty riders greeted him in his own language. A merry encounter
it was, and he at once offered to let us share his small hut; the lodge
had burnt down some time previous to our arrival. The company seemed to
be of the Yelcho sort; it had gone into liquidation and was selling the
animals. Flach was about to leave, only waiting to get his money. He
was thinking of getting a piece of camp further south. Again our horses
could rest, for Flach lent us some for our excursions. The vegetation
was glorious here, and I had plenty to do from morning to evening.
It had proved more than necessary to get two more animals in order
to change the pack-horses, and this problem was solved in a most
unexpected manner. Flach presented us with one, which belonged to
nobody, but had been two years on the company’s camp. Of course he was
baptized Flax (Flach’s; untranslatable Swedish pun; Flax is = luck),
and turned out one of our very best horses. Besides, we bought a small
but good horse; under the name of Johansson he carried me at least
every second march-day during the rest of the time.
Of my horses I kept Solo, the largest of our animals, but the old
Manasse was degraded to a pack-horse. Quensel got Flax, Halle took
Jacob and gave Lazarus (a long time with a sore back, thus his name)
to Pagels, one of whose horses became a pack-horse. The new horses
learnt to keep with our troop by getting coupled with the mare the
first nights. This lady was not tame, and often annoyed us with her
impertinent looks and her obstinacy. To ride a mare is hardly thinkable
in Patagonia.
Thus we considered ourselves well off, bought more provisions, and on
November 15 left our new friend, whose small cottage soon disappeared
from sight behind the yellow hills.