LAKE SAN MARTÍN
There are two different routes to follow from Lake Belgrano to the
South: one westerly, more inviting from some points of view leading
as it does through inaccessible parts of the cordillera, here called
Sierra de las Vacas, and one easterly along the rivers Belgrano and
Lista. But the high passes would probably be so deep in snow that we
perhaps should not get over; in any case they would require much time,
and time was valuable, as we did not know how long we should have to
stay at Lake San Martín. Further, the easterly way would probably give
better results for geology and botany, and this circumstance determined
us.
Over blooming pampas, where steep hills rising fifty to a hundred
metres above the level ground, and numerous lagoons make the scenery
rather pleasant, we rode down the cañadon of Rio Robles which we
followed down to Rio Belgrano, our old acquaintance of the time of our
march down to the lake. We crossed Rio Belgrano and then, with some
difficulty, because of the depth and the strong current, the two joint
rivers. Here my horse, Johansson, nearly succeeded in playing me a
bad trick. As I did not want to get wetter than was necessary I drew
my legs on his back, and probably touched him with one of the spurs;
anyhow, he got wild and tried to throw me off in the middle of the
stream. Certainly it would not have been very pleasant had he been able
to carry out his intention, as it was I only lost my rebenque (whip)
and got soaked to my waist, but the fresh pampas-wind soon dried my
clothes. We had just crossed this river and were trotting along again,
when, to our surprise, we discovered a caravan further down--but alas!
on the other side. We supposed that it was Captain Högberg, and were
very sorry indeed that we could not stop, but we had a long march
before nightfall and thought it would be too troublesome to cross
the river twice. Had we only been able to see the troop before we
crossed the temptation would have been too strong--one does not meet
compatriots every day in the uninhabited parts of Patagonia.
We had to search well before we found a camping-place that satisfied
our needs. Everywhere there was plenty of grass and water, but no
fuel. When we unsaddled our horses we discovered that Jeremias, whose
back had been bad for a long time, now looked terrible. We had thought
that after the rest at Lake Belgrano he would be able to carry his
load again, but his old swollen wounds had broken open and were full
of matter. His job from this day was to act as watch-horse in the
night--and during the marches to lead the troop astray and thus cause
our riding horses a lot of extra work.
The next day we continued along the valley of Rio Belgrano, until we
found a good pass where we could cross the ridge and descend into the
valley of the rather large river, Lista, which drains the Sierra de las
Vacas by means of numerous tributaries. At the point where we struck
the river it is divided into many branches, which constantly shift
their course over a bed of shingle. The last one was so deep that the
loads only just came clear of the water. The Lista Valley looks very
fertile. Unfortunately this region as well as that through which we
rode on the following day lies so high above sea level that the winter
is generally too severe for both sheep and cattle. An old abandoned
_rancho_ close to the Rio Ñires, where we camped on January 2 showed
that colonisation had been a failure. But why not make use of all this
fat grass above the sea as we do in Switzerland or in Scandinavia? The
system of mountain dairies, used only in the summer, will probably
reach Patagonia also in time.
The rivers Belgrano and Lista belong to the Atlantic system; they run
to Rio Chico, a river anything but small as the name denotes, which
empties in the same estuary as Rio Santa Cruz. A few miles south of
Rio Lista we passed the ridge which forms the water-parting, and set
our course for the valley of Rio Ñires. The name of this river did not
sound very promising, and I have never seen brushwood which was denser.
For long stretches the stream was not visible, and one had to search
for a place where one could get down and fill the pot with water.
The next river had a still more discouraging name: Arroyo Tucotuco.
And on the map the valley was marked as one extensive swamp. We walked
carefully along, crossed the sources where they emerge out of narrow
canyons and followed the valley south of the stream. It was indeed a
charming place; we had a small strip to keep on: a few steps to the
right and the horses sank down into a bottomless swamp, a few to the
left, and the ground was completely undermined by the tuco-tuco. Having
passed a small tributary, called Arroyo Potrancas on the Chilean map,
we soon met with dense forests. Only round the swampy brooks was there
a space of clear ground, but we soon got tired of groping our way and
turned at right angles into the forest. Abraham made the most energetic
attempts to carry away the trees--a horse never learns that his pack
makes him broader--and we had to be very watchful to release him, stuck
fast as he stood between two stems, with a most frightened expression
on his stupid face.
Suddenly the ground fell off at a very sharp angle; we stood at the
top of a forest-clad barranca, 300 feet high, that sloped abruptly
down into the valley. I was to lead one of the pack-horses, our old
friend Ruckel: he started to tremble as soon as he saw the steep place,
and nearly crushed me against a tree. We found that we had reached
our goal, the place where Rio Carbón joins Rio Mayer. We camped in a
high and lofty roble forest. Mr. Hatcher made his principal geological
studies in the Meseta east of Rio Carbón, and so the geologists were
very anxious to visit the place. However, our halt did not result in
much; it proved exceedingly difficult to identify Hatcher’s localities;
certainly we had no presentiment of the discoveries, still greater than
those made here before, which were in store for us.
When our caravan started again on January 5 we did not expect to cross
the pass over to the depression of Lake San Martín in one day. The maps
spoke of difficulties, and the distance was great. The first part was
not very difficult and at 12 A.M. we passed the last forest-patch and
made up our mind to push through. The river, which carried plenty of
water, had dug its course between vertical walls. To pass above the
barranca was impossible, for on one side it rose sheer for many hundred
feet; on the other was the basaltic meseta with a ground covered with
millions of blocks, impassable for horses or even mules. Thus we were
bound to keep in the bottom of the ravine, working our way with the
speed of a snail and climbing incessantly from one side of the river to
the other. Often cross ravines or protruding joints stopped us, and we
had to exert all our powers to drive the horses through such places,
where they one moment would climb the barranca and the next rush down
into the water. In spite of all we could not help laughing at the mare,
who tried to climb a vertical wall, but came down faster than she
expected. We came to ground covered with large, sharp-edged blocks: the
troop dispersed, the pack-horses stumbled and fell. Without hesitation
we let our horses loose, climbed up to fetch the others and managed to
drive them down to more even ground. Luckily enough none of them were
hurt.
The higher we rose the narrower grew the valley, and the snow increased
exceedingly towards the pass, and we came upon large drifts and bridges
which bore or broke just as it pleased them. When we reached the pass,
we had crossed the river twenty-seven times. The whole pass was
covered with snow--only on the steepest walls the withered rock lay
bare and yellow, without a trace of vegetation. The river wound between
vertical walls of ice and snow a few yards high. We rode in the bed
between them, until they met in an unbroken white cover, under which
the river disappeared. Across the snowfields we slowly approached the
south side of the pass. We were prepared for nice surprises in the
shape of floating soil, and I very much doubt if we shall ever forget
that afternoon in the Cañadon of Rio Fósiles. It is difficult to think
of a more terrifying scene. Everywhere high, steep walls with dirty
melting snow-patches, streams of clay, red-brown or blackish, and deep
down under our feet the river like a boiling mass of red mud. Not a
blade of grass--life seemed extinguished; only a single condor soars
comfortably among the peaks watching the little black points, which
struggle along, expecting every moment that a horse will get tired,
stumble and fall down into the abyss.
There were places where we stopped without knowing at first what to
do; sheer rock walls where we could see how the horses strained every
muscle not to lose their foothold, or loose floating soil, where they
sank down and fell. It often happened that danger was unsuspected;
the surface is dry, hard and full of crevices; one drives the troop
along and then, suddenly, all the horses are down in the mud. If we
had not helped Jakob in time he would have stopped where he was; the
clay dragged him down, he struggled for his life, but rolled round and
started to slide down with the thick reddish mud which slowly floated
away. We saved the Winchester which was tied to his saddle, took him
by the legs and turned him round while one pulled the cabresta and the
other whipped him, and finally we got him on firm ground again. Halle’s
look when he met his horse again was worth money. But he had not time
to worry. A discovery of an unknown rich fossil flora had been made
by him when he was away from the caravan, and this cast a gleam of
brightness over the unpleasant valley.
The hours passed and the horses became more and more difficult to
manage. To ride was impossible, and many times we met with passages
which the animals could hardly clear even with an empty saddle. We
followed the east side of the river, and by-and-by climbed out of the
Cañadon on to the plateau, where the patches of vegetation soon closed
together. The first, violet forest-patches were seen in the gloaming
but we could not reach them. Night fell and quite exhausted we threw
ourselves down by the first bushes, some “mata blanca” (_Chiliotrichum
diffusum_). We had been under way twelve hours without rest and over
the worst ground to be found in Patagonia. We were 3000 feet above sea
level and had covered a distance of twenty miles since the morning.
When we came the following morning to fetch the horses, almost all of
them had lain down, which had hardly ever happened before. We saddled
to ride to the first forest-patch, two hours’ march only, and there the
horses got a rest and we made our usual excursions. We had discussed
the possibility of stopping here some days, but Halle thought the find
so rich that he preferred to return to the place during our boat-trip.
Another reason for continuing the march was that we were short of
provisions; the last thirty-one figs were boiled with the last handful
of rice, and from the last remains of the bag of flour two small
loaves were made. Consequently we made a fresh start the following
day, January 7, in order to reach an estancia near Lake San Martín
which we had sighted from the pass. The descent was not difficult, but
the ground was such that it gave the horses much unnecessary work, a
confusion of hills and canyons impossible to prospect. We had just
come down a very steep barranca, when on a little green patch below we
caught sight of a man on horseback driving a small troop. “How far is
Frank’s farm from here?” “Only a couple of hours,” was the answer, we
should soon strike a track. At once we divided the last loaf--it must
not happen that we reached our goal with provisions to spare. We soon
found the track, which followed a peculiar winding canyon where the
air was still and the heat oppressive. Suddenly the view of the steppe
opened, there lay the well-known houses of corrugated iron, shining in
the bright sun. Our friend Mr. Frank met us, and the curtain fell on
the second act.
We had met Mr. Frank on several occasions and he had showed himself
much interested in our plans and wanted us to visit his farm in order
to make an excursion on the lake together. He is a German and lives
in Santiago during the winter. To reach his farm he has to take the
steamer through the Straits and up to San Julián; from there he
rides or drives up to the Cordillera. Some years ago he had a special
motor-car constructed to go between the farm and the coast, having
high wheels to pass the rivers. The result, however, was not very
brilliant--it took twice as much time with the motor-car as with the
bull-carts. But as the first experiment it is worth a page in the
history of Patagonian colonization.
Shearing was just finished, but an important piece of work had
still to be done before Mr. Frank and his people could be ready to
join us in the excursion. The sheep had to be dipped in order to
prevent the spread of “the scab,” a disease that of course has a very
disadvantageous effect on the quantity and value of the wool. They swim
through a channel filled with some disinfecting fluid, and a man stands
ready to give them a proper dip. Up they come again, snorting and
bleating soaked with the brown water.
We devoted our own energies to the boat. There was left over from the
time of the boundary commission a ruined cutter, built by Captain
Högberg; all loose things had been stolen and the remains were of no
use. But there were also two canvas-boats, which lay on the ground
close to Bahia de la Lancha, a cove not far from the farm itself. One
of them was very large, not collapsible and half-rotten, and we could
not think of using it. The other was of the same type that we had used
before in Tierra del Fuego, a first-class Berthon, but much longer than
ours, easily carrying eight persons. It had been transported there some
years earlier, but left on the beach and never launched. Wind and
weather had treated it badly; part of the wood was broken to pieces and
the canvas had numerous holes so that it was a job to repair it. But we
all helped and Pagels was very handy, as usual. On the 10th our work
was finished and lay shining in the sun with fresh paint and patches.
We were sorry not to be able to start at once. Certainly we had much to
do in the neighbourhood, and we saw day after day go by without getting
off. At last, on the 14th, they finished the dipping and then came the
preparation of provisions. For meat we only carried the carcasses of
two sheep; they would not last long, but we were sure to find something
to shoot. On the 15th we went down to the beach, Quensel, Frank,
myself, Pagels and two men from the farm. It blew hard, but we wanted
to be quite ready when the calm came.
Lake San Martín, which is 660 feet above sea level, has the most
peculiar shape of all the Cordilleran lakes. Its surface is 376 square
miles and is split up into several long and narrow arms, veritable
fresh-water fiords, penetrating far into the mountains. The most
westerly of the two north arms, here called only North Arm, is the
longest; the eastern we call the Mayer Arm. The North Arm turns to the
north-west near its end, and here we find the outlet of the Lake, the
big river Pascua, which empties into one of the branches of Baker Inlet
in the Pacific. From this latitude and down to Ultima Esperanza there
is no interruption in the inland ice; all the lakes south of San Martín
empty into the Atlantic, except the Payne lakes, which send their water
to Ultima Esperanza through Rio Serrano. The West and South Arms
penetrate furthest into the Cordillera, and in the latter the glaciers
come down to the water. The prevailing westerly gales drive the
icebergs out of the South Arm; most of them run ashore without getting
very far, but some are seen from the settlements. The temperature
of the water even in summer does not exceed six or seven degrees
centigrade. Rio Pascua not only carries the water of San Martín but
also of much more distant lakes. As the reader will remember we made
the acquaintance of Rio Mayer on the other side of the Fósiles pass,
where it comes from the canyon; after having received the rivulets
Ñires and Tuco-tuco this river makes a sharp turn to the south and
receives through Rio Nansen or Carrera the water from the lakes Nansen,
Azara and Belgrano, disappears for a second time in the mountains and
emerges in the arm of Lake San Martín.
Through the descriptions of the Boundary Commissions we know how
very difficult, not to say dangerous, it is to navigate on Lake San
Martín. The wind, which often rises to a gale, can make progress to
the westward impossible for weeks. We trusted to our luck--there was
nothing else to do till we were able to make a start. It calmed on the
16th; we rose hurriedly, hauled our boat down, launched it, stowed the
cargo in and got under way with our little Swedish flag in the bows.
Frank steered and the rest of us pulled the four oars--thus we had not
much chance of being lazy. Rio Fósiles has built a sandbank across the
East Arm, where we now were, and when the water is low it quite shuts
off the arm; we found a narrow passage and came through. We landed
for a while on the rocky shores of Chacabuco Peninsula to cook some
food and thence continued to the northern shore of the lake. We met a
heavy sea that broke all along the Fósiles delta, and after several
hours hard pull we landed for the night. A glance out of the sleeping
bag showed that we could not think of starting the following morning.
Over the lake blew a fresh westerly gale and only at 4 P.M. did we
resolve to try again. There was plenty of sea and we shipped some water
and soon water also came from above in the form of heavy rain, which
in a few moments soaked us to the skin. But it abated the violence of
the waves and we had to economize time so we went on till it was quite
dark. We were then close to the Cancha Rayada Peninsula, where a bay
with a little natural harbour appeared.
Storm again! We had a very nice camping-place with a shelter of some
rocks and surrounded by a dense brushwood of _Escallonias_, just in
full blossom with flowers from snow-white to a deep crimson. And we had
plenty to do. I myself climbed about on the rocks collecting; Quensel
studied the geology; and Frank shot ducks in the salt-lagoons. The
ground reminds one of the kind I have described above from the north
shore of Lake Pueyrredon.
We tried again on the 18th. As long as we had shelter under land it was
all right, but when we had to round a promontory the old game began
as before. From the north-west came a heavy swell from the lake, and
from the north-east as well, out of a large bay, the seas met together
over our poor little boat. The weather became squally, there was a
“smoke” of water on the port, on starboard and ahead, the regular swell
changed into a confusion of white furious sea, impossible to reckon
with, that seemed to come from every point of the compass; our fragile
craft--canvas and a wooden frame--was banged about, sometimes with such
violence that the oars jumped out of the rowlocks in spite of all our
efforts to keep them in. But the boat stood the trial in an amazing
manner. Of course it shipped some water--enough to soak us--but on the
whole it proved more seaworthy than we had expected. However, we had to
look for a harbour and found an inviting corner in the above-mentioned
bay which we named Bahia Cuchillo, in remembrance of my last knife that
I left there.
We kept a sharp look-out, and when the weather got better we started
again. The question now was how to cross the entrance of the Mayer Arm.
We made for the eastern headland, which dissolved into two small isles
when we came closer. The passage was critical enough, the waves came
from two directions and were as high as our boat could stand them. It
was a hard job and we felt very happy when we had reached the west head
safely, where we slept like logs.
Now we had left the pampas behind and the forest formed one continuous
cover on the shores. Had the water only been salt we could have
believed ourselves in the channels of West Patagonia.
We went out again in the old swell, and made a good start. But suddenly
a suspicious gust of wind came and then the gale began again. And
it came on properly this time; so that we passed some moments of
considerable anxiety. The gusts seemed to rush down perpendicular to
the water and whirled it up to a height of thirty feet, the spray
stood like a fog over the whole bay, and the atmosphere glittered with
hundreds of minute rainbows. It was beautiful--but what if we had come
into one of the tornadoes that danced along to our right and left? By
exerting every effort we managed to reach the innermost corner of the
bay and awaited the development of events. A torrential rain supplied
what still was wanted to make the weather quite ideal!
Ahead of us we had a peninsula, ending in a well-marked point, and when
the gale had abated a little, we pulled to it and even tried to get
round but were driven back and were glad to discover a small crevice
just big enough to hold the boat. We waited again; from the point we
could overlook the lake, but what we saw was not promising. Now and
then we climbed up to see if things were improving and finally resolved
to risk another struggle. I do not think we shall ever forget it. The
waves were big enough for a lifeboat, and our little nutshell quite
disappeared, but rose up again, climbed the watery ridge and won. But
we could not spare ourselves; we had to expend the very last ounce of
our strength and energy and still we could hardly note that we really
were advancing.
The view of the lake had been rather limited until now. A cry of
admiration was heard, when the west part appeared behind a cape,
exposing the gigantic glacier in all its extent near the mouth of the
Southern Arm. It was as if this sight spurred us to new efforts, and
over crests of white foam which generally shared their abundance with
us, we pulled towards the eastern head of the Northern Arm, where we
rested upon our oars an instant, ready to try a somewhat dangerous
experiment--to cross the arm. We had hardly left the shelter of the
point behind when some furious squalls attacked us with such ferocity
that we were driven back. We had been working for thirteen hours and
badly needed some rest.
Thus we stood at the entrance of the fiord, thirty-eight miles long,
whose end was our goal. To judge from the appearance of the coast-line,
the west-shore afforded some advantages and our first enterprise was to
cross the arm. Once again we met heavy seas from two directions, and it
cost us three hours very hard pulling to cover two and a half miles! We
searched a while till we found a place where we could tie the boat up
out of reach of the breakers. No smooth beach could we discover. Do not
believe, gentle reader, that the whole thing is very simple--that you
just land if something happens which makes it desirable or necessary.
It is not at all so easy. For long stretches the mountain sheers down
at a very sharp angle or even vertically from a height of several
hundred feet. And it is far from being the case that all sheltered
places are good. A canvas boat is as fragile as an egg, especially when
one is on a lake in the Cordilleras, without being able to get back
over land as we were now. A hole in the canvas, and farewell! With the
greatest care we chose the place to haul up the boat; the best being
on a beach of sand or fine shingle. Pagels, who was an old sailor,
regarded himself as an expert and responsible for all our lives, and
never forgot to shout “gerade auf dem Kiel” when we hauled up the boat,
and if we were not quick enough he abused us. If I got angry and told
him a bit of my mind he always said: “Sie wissen doch, Herr Doktor,
dass ich immer aufs Beste der Expedition arbeite.” And nobody doubted
that his intentions were the best in the world.
At last we had entered the Northern Arm. But our bad luck did not
leave us. The first day we made little more than a mile when we were
once more stopped by wind and sea, and with the experience we now had
of the boat it really required something to stop us. We lost a day
and a half waiting. True we knew that we were in Chile again. The
forest also had undergone some changes. Our old evergreens once more
played an important part; vast bushes of fuchsia and even the typical
rain-forest plant, _copihue_ (_Philesia buxifolia_), with its large
pink flowers had reappeared. At last we could make another move, but
our joy was short-lived and we had to camp again. It was a fine place,
that reminded us very much of the old camp near Rio Azopardo’s mouth.
The weather was bright, though windy, and the fiord covered with white
crests. It had cost us eight days to reach this point, and we could not
know how many more we should require to reach the end of the fiord.
Probably we should not gain much more in our scientific work than we
had done already. Our appetite, I am sorry to say, had increased
in proportion to our hardships, and there was little left of our
provisions. We made a trip into the forest to get meat, and shot a deer
and some ducklings.
However, it was with sore hearts we decided to turn round without
having reached our goal. It made us grumble, but there was no help
for it. In order to get our clothes dried, which we needed very
much, and to make a sail out of two old pieces of canvas, we stopped
the night where we were and went back on the 27th. We wanted some
recompense for the disappointment and probable loss we had sustained
and consequently sailed along into the Southern Arm to have a look at
the great glacier, which we named Ventisquero Schönmeyr. The northern
end of the ice-barrier, which is about two miles and a half long was
barred by icebergs, amongst which we pulled into a piece of open water.
Here a little episode, which proves that we had good luck sometimes,
took place. We wanted to get a snapshot of the boat in the ice, and to
that end I jumped ashore on a rock; the picture had a fine background
of icebergs from fifty to sixty feet high above the water. Hardly had
we got away from the unpleasant company, when the largest by which we
had lain the moment before lost its balance and capsized with a great
noise. Had we still been there the expedition would have come to a
quick and dramatic end. Further away we landed on the ice-barrier,
where it rested against a small mountain, either a peninsula or a small
island, half covered by ice. Quensel could study the blocks in the
moraine and thus get an idea of the principal rocks in the centre of
the Cordillera; the moraines carried no material from the surrounding
mountains. We camped for the night on a promontory a few hundred yards
from the glacier. The wind had died down, it was perfectly calm, and
the stars twinkled in a clear sky. Sometimes there came a thundering
noise from the great glacier. We went to sleep in unusually high
spirits--no more pulling! Now the west wind could blow as much as it
liked, but we could be lazy and do nothing but sail.
Try to imagine our surprise when we woke up to find it absolutely calm.
Well, we could pull for a little while, surely the wind would come.
And it came--easterly. For the first time we had an easterly wind,
always rare here. Our discontent over such topsy-turvy meteorological
conditions was as loud as it was natural. The head wind did not last
long, but it was followed by a dead calm. For two days it did not blow
the slightest puff till the very last moment we pulled--nine hours the
first, five the second and last day, and with unmingled satisfaction we
heard the keel grate on the bottom in the Boat Harbour. It was January
28 and we had gone eighty-one miles on the lake.
We needed a day to get fresh provisions, but were then ready to start
again. The horses had enjoyed three weeks’ complete rest, as Halle had
got horses from the farm for his excursions. He was ready with his
study of the geology of this region: the results belong to the most
important obtained during the expedition. When we rode away “Jeremias”
was left behind in the corral, neighing loudly. We abandoned him
because his back was so bad that it would take him a couple of weeks
to get well again; when he was loose he only disturbed the discipline
of our troop. But his despair at being separated from his comrades was
probably very real.