This continent, with its thousands of miles of unbroken coast-line, and its mountain backbone stretching from the equator to Fuegia, has offered extraordinary facilities for the diffusion of varied types of vegetation. As I have already remarked, some species of antarctic origin travel northward, and some others, now confined to the equatorial Andes, are most probably modified descendants from the same parent stock; while a small number of tropical types, after undergoing more or less modification, have found their way to the extreme southern extremity of the continent.
By a vigorous use of my ice-axe, which is an excellent weapon for a botanist, I succeeded in uprooting a good many plants from the icy crust in which they grew; but the minutes slipped quickly by, daylight was fading in this sheltered spot, shut out from the north and west by steep hills, and too soon came the call to return to the ship. On the beach I picked up the carapace of a crab – bright red and beset with sharp protuberances – evidently freshly feasted on by some rapacious animal. The whole of the body and the shell of the under part as well as the claws had disappeared, leaving nothing but the carapace, which I presume had been found too hard and indigestible. Darwin informs us that the sea-otter of this region feeds largely on this or some allied species of crab.
A RED CRAB.
The cold was sufficient to make the little stove in the saloon of the steamer very acceptable, but at no time throughout the voyage could be called severe. Between noon and three p.m. on the 5th of June the thermometer in the open air stood about 40° Fahr., and fell at night only two or three degrees below freezing-point. The barometer was high, gradually rising from 30 inches to 30·3, at which it stood on the following day. Everything promised settled weather, and it was therefore disappointing to find the sky completely covered when I went on deck early in the morning of the 6th. A light breeze from the north raised the temperature by a few degrees and brought the clouds. The scenery throughout the day was even of a grander character than before, and the absence of sunshine gave it a sterner aspect. At times, when passing the smaller islands, I was forcibly reminded of the upper lake of Killarney, the resemblance being much increased by the appearance of the smaller islets and rocks worn down and rounded by floating ice. On this and the following days I frequently looked out for evidences of ice-action on the rocky flanks of the mountains. These were at some points very perceptible up to a considerable height; but all that I could clearly make out appeared to be directed from south to north, and nearly or quite horizontal. I failed to trace any indication on the present surface of the descent in a westerly direction of great glaciers flowing from the interior towards the coast.
Before midday we passed opposite the opening of Eyre Sound, one of the most considerable of the numerous inlets that penetrate the mountains on the side of the mainland. This is said to extend for forty or fifty miles into the heart of the Cordillera, and it seems certain that one, or perhaps several, glaciers descend into the sound, as at all seasons masses of floating ice are drifted into the main channel. We did not see them at first, as the northerly breeze had carried them towards the southern side of the inlet; but before long we found ourselves in the thick of them, and for about a mile steamed slowly amongst floating masses of tolerably uniform dimensions, four or five feet in height out of the water, and from ten to fifteen feet in length. At a little distance they looked somewhat like a herd of animals grazing. Seen near at hand, the ice looked much weathered, and it may be inferred that the parent glacier reaches the sea somewhere near the head of the sound, and they had been exposed for a considerable time before reaching its mouth.
ORIGIN OF THE GLACIERS.
The existence of great glaciers descending to the sea-level on the west coast of South America, one of which lies so far north as the Gulf of Peñas, about 47° south latitude, is a necessary consequence of the rapid depression of the line of perpetual snow on the flanks of the Andes, as we follow the chain southward from Central Chili to the channels of Patagonia. The circumstance that permanent snow is not found lower than about fourteen thousand feet above the sea in latitude 34°, while only 8° farther south the limit is about six thousand feet above the sea-level, has been regarded as evidence of a great difference of climate between the northern and southern hemispheres, and more especially of exceptional conditions of temperature affecting this coast. It appears to me that all the facts are fully explained by the extraordinary increase of precipitation from the atmosphere, in the form of rain or snow, which occurs within the zone where the rapid depression of the snow-line is observed. So far as mean annual temperature of the coast is concerned, the diminution of heat in receding from the equator is less than the normal amount, being not quite 5° Fahr. for 7° of latitude between Valparaiso and Valdivia. But the annual rainfall at Valdivia is eight times, and at Ancud in Chiloe more than nine times, the amount that falls at Santiago. Allowing that the disproportion may be less great between the snowfall on the Cordillera in the respective latitudes of these places, we cannot estimate the increased fall about latitude 40° at less than four times the amount falling in Central Chili. When we further recollect that in the latter region the sky is generally clear in summer, and that the surface is exposed to the direct rays of a sun not far from vertical, while on the southern coast the sun is constantly veiled by heavy clouds, it is obvious that all the conditions are present that must depress the snow-line to an exceptional extent, and allow of those accumulations of snow that give birth to glaciers. When a comparison is drawn between South Chili and Norway, it must not be forgotten that at Bergen, where the Norwegian rainfall is said to be at its maximum, the annual amount is sixty-seven inches, or exactly one-half of that registered in Chiloe.
It is a confirmation of this view of the subject that in going southward from the parallel of 42° to Cape Froward in the Straits of Magellan, through 12° of latitude, while the fall of mean yearly temperature must be reckoned at 8° Fahr., the depression of the snow-line cannot exceed three thousand feet.32 Of course, we have no direct observations of rainfall in the Channels or on the west side of the Straits of Magellan, but there is no doubt that it diminishes considerably in going southward.
To the south of Eyre Sound the main channel opens to a width of four or five miles, and is little encumbered by rocky islets, so that we kept a direct course a little west of south, and in less than two hours reached the southern extremity of Wellington Island, and gained a view of the open sea through a broad strait which is known as the Gulf of Trinidad. Now that this has been well surveyed, it offers an opportunity for steamers bound southward that have missed the entrance to the Gulf of Peñas to enter from the Pacific, and take the course to the Straits of Magellan through the southern channels.
INTRICACY OF THE CHANNELS.
We had now accomplished the first stage in the voyage through the Channels. Many local names have been given to the various passages open to navigation on this singular coast; but, speaking broadly, the northern portion, between Wellington Island and the mainland, is called Messier’s Channel; the middle part, including a number of distinct openings between various islands, is known as the Sarmiento Channel; and the southern division, between Queen Adelaide Island and the continent, is Smyth’s Channel. Facing the Pacific to the south of Wellington Island are three of large size – Prince Henry Island, Madre de Dios, and Hanover Island, besides countless islets which beset the straits that divide these from each other; and the course followed by the steamers lies between the outer islands and another large one (Chatham Island) which here rose between us and the mainland.
In the afternoon the north wind freshened; as a result, the weather became very thick, and rain set in, which lasted throughout the night. Our intended quarters were in a cove called Tom Bay; but our cautious captain, with a due dislike to “dirty weather,” resolved to halt in a sheltered spot a few miles farther north, known as Henderson’s Inlet. Both these places afford excellent shelter, but the bottom is rocky, and ships are much exposed to lose their anchors. Although we arrived some time before sunset, the evening was so dark, and the general aspect of things so discouraging, that no one suggested an attempt to go ashore. Although we were quite near to land, I could make out very little of the outlines; and, indeed, of this middle portion of the voyage I have retained no distinct pictures in my memory.
It struck me as very singular that, with a moderately strong breeze from the north, the barometer should have stood so high, remaining through the day at about 30·3 inches, and marking at nine p.m. 30·28. The temperature, as was to be expected, was higher than on the previous day, being about 40° during the day, and not falling at night below 35°.
Although the morning showed some improvement in the appearance of the weather, the sky was gloomy when, after a little trouble in raising the anchor, we got under way early on the 7th of June. The clouds lifted occasionally during the day, and I enjoyed some brief glimpses of grand scenery; but the only distinct impression I retained was that of hopeless bewilderment in attempting to make out the positions of the endless labyrinth of islands through which we threaded our way. In spite of all that has been done, it seems as if there remained the work of many surveying expeditions to complete the exploration of these coasts. As to several of the eminences that lie on the eastern side of the channel, it is yet uncertain whether they are islands or peninsulas projecting from the mainland. It was announced that our next anchorage was to be at Puerto Bueno, there being no other suitable place for a considerable distance, and we were led to expect that we should probably find there some Fuegians, as the place is known to be one of their favourite haunts.
PUERTO BUENO.
We dropped anchor about half-past two, in a rather wide cove, or small bay, opening into the mainland a few miles south of Chatham Island. The shores are comparatively low, and enclosed by a dense forest of evergreen beech, which in most parts descends to the water’s edge. The place owes its good repute among mariners to the excellent holding-ground; but it did not appear to me as well sheltered as the other natural harbours that we visited, and as the bottom shelves very gradually, we lay fully a mile off the shore. Fortunately the weather had improved somewhat; a moderate breeze from the north brought slight drizzling rain, but gave no further trouble. A boat was soon ready alongside, and we pulled for the shore, with three of the ship’s officers armed with fowling-pieces, intended partly to impress the natives with due respect, but mainly designed for the waterbirds that abound along the shores of the inlet. We were correctly steered for the right spot, as, on scrambling ashore and crossing the belt of spongy ground between the water and the edge of the forest, we found evident tokens that the Fuegian encampment had not been long deserted. The broken remains of a rude canoe and fragments of basket-work were all that we could find, and we judged that a small party, perhaps no more than ten or a dozen, had left the place a few weeks before our arrival. These wretched Fuegians are said to go farther south, and to keep more to the exposed coasts during winter, because at that season animal life is there more abundant.
After exchanging sundry jokes about the general disappointment in failing to behold the wilde fräulein in their natural home, the party separated, two of the officers proceeding in the boat towards the upper part of the inlet in quest of water-fowl. For nearly an hour we heard the frequent discharge of their guns, and much ammunition must certainly have been expended; but when they returned their report was that the birds were too wild, and no addition was made to the ship’s larder.
The general character of the vegetation at Puerto Bueno was the same as that at Eden Harbour, but there were some indications of a slight increase in the severity of the climate. Mitraria coccinea and a few other representatives of the special flora of Chili were no longer to be found, while some antarctic types not before seen here first made their appearance. The most prominent of these was a bush from three to five feet high, in general appearance reminding one of rosemary, but at this season abundantly furnished with the plumed fruits characteristic of a composite. This plant, nearly allied to the genus Olearia, whose numerous species are confined to Australia, New Zealand, and the adjoining islands, is known to botanists as Chiliotrichium amelloides, and is one of the characteristic species of this region. It is plentiful in Fuegia and on the northern shores of the Straits of Magellan. Sir Joseph Hooker, in the “Flora Antarctica,” remarks that this is the nearest approach to a tree that is made by the meagre native vegetation of the Falkland Islands.
PATAGONIAN CONIFERS.
My attention had already been directed at Eden Harbour to the peculiar coniferous plants of this region, and I here found the same species in better condition. The most conspicuous, a small tree with stiff pointed leaves somewhat like an araucaria, here produced abundant fruit, which showed it to be a Podocarpus (P. nubigena of Lindley). Another shrub of the same family, but very different in appearance, is a species of Libocedrus, allied to the cypress of the Old World, which tolerates even the inclement climate of Hermite Island, near Cape Horn. The distribution of the various species of this genus is not a little perplexing to the botanical geographer. This and another species inhabit the west side of South America, two are found in New Zealand, one in the island of New Caledonia, one is peculiar to Southern China, and one to Japan, while an eighth species belongs to California. The most probable supposition is that the home of the common ancestor of the genus was in the circumpolar lands of the Antarctic Circle at a remote period when that region enjoyed a temperate climate; but the processes by which descendants from that stock reached such remote parts of the earth are not easily conjectured.
It was nearly dark when the unsuccessful sportsmen returned with the boat, and but for the ship’s lights we should have scarcely been able to make out her position. Some of the many stories of seamen cast away in this inclement region came into my mind during the short half-hour of our return, and, in the presence of the actual scenes and conditions, my impressions assumed a vividness that they had never acquired when “living at home at ease.”
In the evening I observed that the barometer had fallen considerably from the usually high point at which it stood up to the 6th, and throughout the night and the following day (June 8) it varied little from 29·9 inches. When we came on deck on the morning of the 8th, the uniform remark of the passengers was, “What a warm day!” We had become used to a temperature of about 40°, and a rise of 5° Fahr. gave the impression of a complete change of climate. It is curious how completely relative are the impressions of heat and cold on the human body, and how difficult it is, even for persons accustomed to compare their sensations with the instrument, to form a moderately good estimate of the actual temperature. We paid dearly, however, for any bodily comfort gained from the comparative warmth in the thick weather that prevailed during most of the day. We had some momentary views of grand scenery, but, as on the preceding day, these were fleeting, and I failed to carry away any definite pictures. It would appear that in such weather the navigation amid such a complete maze of islands and channels must be nearly impossible, but the various surveying-expeditions have placed landmarks, in the shape of wooden posts and crosses, that suffice to the practised eyes of seamen.
About ten a.m. we reached the end of the Sarmiento Channel, opposite to which the comparatively broad opening of Lord Nelson Strait, between Hanover Island and Queen Adelaide Island, leads westward to the Pacific, and before long entered on the third stage of our voyage, which is known as Smyth’s Channel. This name is used collectively for the labyrinth of passages lying among the smaller islands that fill the space between Queen Adelaide Island and the mainland of South-western Patagonia; but to distinguish the openings between separate islands various names have been given, with which no one not a navigator need burthen his memory. Perhaps the thick weather may have been the cause, but we all noticed the comparative rarity of all appearance of animal life on this and the previous day. A large whale passing near the ship gave the only occasion for a little momentary excitement. As we ran southward, and were daily approaching the winter solstice, the successive days became sensibly shorter, and it was already nearly dark when, soon after four p.m., we cast anchor in an opening between two low islands which is known as Mayne Channel.
SMYTH’S CHANNEL.
It was impossible not to experience a sense of depression at the persistence of such unfriendly weather during the brief period of passing through a region of such exceptional interest, an opportunity, if once lost, never to be recovered. With corresponding eagerness the hope held out by a steady rise of the barometer was greeted, especially when I found that this continued up to ten p.m., and amounted since morning to a quarter of an inch. We were under way some time before daylight on June 9, and great was my delight when, going on deck, I found a cloudless sky and the Southern Cross standing high in the firmament.
It was a morning never to be forgotten. We rapidly made our way from amid the maze of smaller islands, and glided over the smooth water into a broad channel commanding a wide horizon, bounded a panorama of unique character. As the stars faded and daylight stole over the scene, fresh features of strangeness and beauty at each successive moment came into view, until at last the full glory of sunshine struck the highest point of Queen Adelaide Island, and a few moments later crowned the glistening summits of all the eminences that circled around. The mountainous outline of Queen Adelaide Island, on the right hand, which anywhere else would fix attention, was somewhat dwarfed by the superior attractions of the other objects in view. We had reached the point where Smyth’s Channel widens out into the western end of the Straits of Magellan, and right in front of us rose the fantastic outline of the Land of Desolation, as the early navigators styled the shores that bound the southern entrance to the Straits; and as we advanced it was possible to follow every detail of the outline, even to the bold summit of Cape Pillar, forty miles away to the westward. Marking as it does the entrance to the Straits from the South Pacific, that headland has drawn to it many an anxious gaze since steam navigation has made the passage of the Straits easy and safe, and thus avoids the hardship and delay of the inclement voyage round Cape Horn.
The coast nearest to us was at least as attractive as any other part of the panorama. The southern extremity of the continent is a strange medley of mountain and salt water, which can be explained only by the irregular action of elevatory forces not following a definite line of direction. Several of the narrow sounds that penetrate the coast are spread out inland into large salt-water lakes, and all the shores along which we coasted between Smyth’s Channel and Sandy Point belong to peninsulas projecting between fifty and one hundred miles from the continuous mainland of Patagonia. The outline is strangely varied. Bold snow-covered peaks alternate with lower rocky shores, and are divided by channels of dark blue water penetrating to an unknown distance into the interior. From amidst the higher summits flowed several large ice-streams, appearing, even from a distance, to be traversed by broad crevasses. I did not see any of these glaciers actually reach the sea, but one, whose lower end was masked by a projecting forest-clad headland, must have approached very near to the beach.
STRAITS OF MAGELLAN.
I have called the scene unique, and, in truth, I believe that nothing like it is to be found elsewhere in the world. The distant picture showing against the sky under the low rays of the winter sun is probably to be matched by some that arctic navigators bear in their memory; but here, below the zone of snow and ice, we had the striking contrast of shores covered by dense forest and clothed with luxuriant vegetation. Not much snow can have fallen, as up to a height of about twelve hundred feet above the sea, as far as the forest prevails, none met the eye. On the Norwegian coast, where one might be tempted to look for winter scenes somewhat of the same character, the forest is composed of coniferous trees, which have a very different aspect, and at the corresponding season they are, I imagine, usually so laden with snow that they can give little relief to the eye.
I was struck by the fact that, although we had travelled southward five and a half degrees of latitude (nearly four hundred English miles) since entering the Gulf of Peñas, the upper limit of the forest belt was so little depressed. I could not estimate the average depression at more than from two to three hundred feet.
As we advanced into the main channel, and were drawing near to the headland of Cape Tamar, where the Straits of Magellan are narrowed between that and the opposite coast of the Land of Desolation, we noticed that what seemed from a distance to be a mere film of vapour lying on the surface of the sea grew gradually thicker, rose to a height of about one hundred feet, and quite abruptly, in the space of two or three ship’s lengths, we lost the bright sky and the wonderful panorama, and were plunged in a fog that lasted through the greater part of the afternoon. The one constant characteristic of the climate of this region is its liability at all seasons to frequent and abrupt change, especially by day. It is, as I learned, a rare event when a day passes without one or two, or even more frequent, changes of the wind, bringing corresponding changes of temperature, rain, or snow, or clear sky; but, as a rule, the weather is less inconstant in winter than at other seasons. A short experience makes it easy to understand the extreme difficulty of navigation in the Straits for sailing ships, and the expediency of preferring the less inviting course of rounding Cape Horn.
BORYA BAY.
Several times during the day the fog cleared away for a while, and gave us grand views of the coast on either hand. That of the Land of Desolation especially attracted my attention. Captain Willsen pointed out to me, as we stood on the bridge, to which I had free access, the opening of a narrow sound which has lately been ascertained to penetrate entirely through what used to be considered a single island. The expressive name must, indeed, be abandoned, for, if I am not mistaken, the Land of Desolation of our maps is already known to consist of three, and may possibly form many more islands, divided from each other by very narrow channels. Our cautious commander resolved once again to anchor for the night, and selected for the purpose Borya Bay, a small sheltered cove some distance east of Port Gallant, a harbour often visited by the English surveying-expeditions. Daylight had departed when, about half-past five, we reached our anchorage; but the sky was again quite clear, and we enjoyed the weird effects of moonlight illumination. The scenery is very grand, and was more wintry in aspect than at any other point in our voyage. A mountain at the head of the cove rose steeply to a height of at least two thousand feet, and cast a dark shadow over the ship as we lay very near the shore. The shores were begirt with the usual belt of forest, but this did not extend far, and the declivities all around were clad with snow, which lay rather deep. It appeared to me that a rather large glacier descended to within a few hundred feet of the shore, but, seen by the imperfect light, I felt uncertain as to the fact. Since entering the Straits, I had noticed that on the steeper slopes facing the south, where the surface can receive but little sunshine at any season, the forest ascends but a short distance above the sea-level. Above that limit in such situations I observed only a scanty covering of bushes, and higher up the surface at this season appeared quite bare.
As Borya Bay is one of the customary haunts of the Fuegians, the steam-whistle was sounded on our arrival as an invitation to any natives who might be encamped there. This always suffices to attract them, with the hope of being able to gratify their universal craving for tobacco. The appeal was not answered, as the people were doubtless on the outer coasts, and we were not destined to see anything of the most miserable of all the races of man.
As the weather remained bright, the anchor was raised soon after midnight, and by one a.m. we were on our way, steering south-east, to round the southern extremity of the mainland of America. Awaking to the disappointment of having missed a view of one of the most interesting portions of the Straits, I hurried on deck, and found a new change in the aspect of the skies. The night had been cold, with a sharp frost; but in the morning, soon after daybreak, the air felt quite warm, with the thermometer marking 39° Fahr. A northerly breeze had set in, and as an inevitable result brought thick weather. I again noticed, however, that the barometer on these coasts seems to be very slightly affected by changes in the wind’s direction. It stood last night at 30·16 inches, and on the morning of the 10th, with a complete change of weather, had fallen only eight-hundredths of an inch.
MOUNT SARMIENTO.
The southern end of the continent is shaped like a broad wedge, whose apex is Cape Froward, laying in south latitude 53° 54′. We passed it early in the forenoon, giving the headland, which we saw dimly to the north, a broad berth, so that we about touched the 54th parallel. If we compare this with the climate of places in about the same latitude, as, for instance, with that of the Isle of Man, we are apt to consider the climate as severe; but we habitually forget how far the condition of Western Europe is affected by exceptional circumstances; and if we look elsewhere in the northern hemisphere, taking, for instance, the Labrador coast, the south of Kamschatka, or even the coast of British Columbia, we must admit that the Straits of Magellan afford no confirmation to the prevalent ideas respecting the greater cold of the climate of the southern hemisphere.
Soon after this turning-point of the voyage the sky partially cleared to the southward, and we were fortunate enough to enjoy one of the most impressive scenes that my memory has recorded. The broad sound that divides Clarence Island from the main island of Tierra del Fuego lay open before us, flanked on either hand by lofty snow-clad summits. In the background, set as in a frame, rose the magnificent peak of Mount Sarmiento, the Matterhorn of this region, springing, as it appeared, from the shore to a height of seven thousand feet.33 Sole sovereign of these antarctic solitudes, I know of no other peak that impresses the mind so deeply with the sense of wonder and awe. As seen from the north, the eastern and western faces are almost equally precipitous, and the broad top is jagged by sharp teeth, of which the two outermost, one to the east, the other to the west, present summits of apparently equal height. At a distance of about twenty-five miles the whole mass seemed to be coated with snow and ice, save where some sharp ridges and teeth of black rock stood out against the sky. I remained for some time utterly engrossed by the marvellous spectacle, and at last bethought myself of endeavouring to secure at least an outline of the scene; but before I could fetch a sketch-book, a fresh change in the weather partly obscured, and, a few minutes later, finally concealed from my eyes a picture that remains vividly impressed on my memory.
It was impossible not to speculate on the origin and past history of this remarkable peak. Admitting that there is evidence to show that the larger part of the rocks of this region are of volcanic origin, it appeared to me evident not only that Mount Sarmiento is not a volcanic cone, but that the rock of which it is composed is not of volcanic origin. Whether its real form be that of a tower, or that of a ridge with precipitous sides seen in profile, no volcanic rocks elsewhere in the world can retain slopes so nearly approaching to the vertical. It is, I believe, a portion of the original rock skeleton that formed the axis of the Andean chain during the long ages that preceded the great volcanic outbursts that have covered over the framework of the western side of South America. Like most peaks of a similar form, I am disposed to believe that in the course of gradual upheaval the flanks have been carved by marine action to the nearly vertical form which impresses the beholder. Although snow-covered mountains suffer a certain limited amount of denudation in the channels through which glaciers flow, there is reason to hold that they are far less subject to degradation than those which are not protected from the main agencies that wear away rocky surfaces. It is by alternations of temperature, by frost, and the action of running water, that rocks are rapidly eaten away, and from these a snow-covered mountain is to a great extent secured.