Through the first Antarctic night, 1898-1899

by Frederick Albert Cook

From time to time I left my bunk and paced the poop that I might better see the wide panorama under the varying shades of the night. There were marvellous changes in colour and in the general aspect of the land, with imperceptible changes of light. This I had noticed earlier in the day and it continued throughout the night; but of this I can hope to give only a crude outline, for the delicate shades of colour and the infinitesimal grades of light cannot be spread out with black and white under a quill. As the sun sank behind the hazy outline of the Cordilleras Mountains, over the Patagonian pampas, the grassy surface everywhere assumed a bright yellow tint, in harmony with the gold which is now scraped from the ground. The sandy cliffs which walled the shores were inky black on the north, and bright gray or brown on the south. The water retained its dark green hue until the semi-luminous, semi-liquid, purple of the long twilight flooded the whole scene. Then followed the short blackness of the night which again blended into an exquisite purple morning. As the sun rose over the cliff of Cape Virgins, the vast treeless plains were marked into sharp figures of brown and yellow and red. Hence these regions, like tastefully dressed women, have a special dress for every part of the day, and this garb changes the appearance of landmarks in such a manner that at times they are difficult of recognition. I will not force the parallel—but thus in one of the elements of beauty in this Strait, lies one of its greatest dangers to navigation.

We tipped our anchor in the morning and advanced to the mouth of the second narrows, where we anchored at 4 P.M., December 1st. Here we learned from the latest budget of the French coast-pilot that there was a French settlement, and from the Belgica a number of farm-houses were visible, which seemed to confirm the information. We accordingly prepared to pay the occupants a visit, and also to search the surrounding territory for specimens. Landing in the bend of Gregory Bay with a corps of scientific collectors, hunters and sailors, all of an adventurous turn of mind, we soon spread over the grassy pampas in every direction. Three of us who went to visit the farm-houses soon discovered that the coast-pilot’s information was not up to date. The Frenchmen in question had disappeared about ten years previous, and the entire region, practically everything within sight, belongs to a very wealthy Chilean sheep farmer, by the name of Menendez.

At the first farm-house we found a couple of Scotch shepherds who informed us that the main station of the farm was a few miles east, and to reach this they offered us horses. The Captain and I accepted and were soon mounted, but before we returned we had some regrets. The animals objected to their burdens from first to last, and I might add that we objected to their manners at once and for all times. Like all Patagonian horses, they are trained to take their direction by the throw of the reins, and not by the traction of the bit. If the rein is thrown against the left side of the neck, the horse goes to the right, and vice versa. It is hard to adopt the method at once without a certain amount of traction on the bit to which one is accustomed; but this lateral traction the pampa horses will not permit. If you will hold a tight rein you must hold it with equal tension on both sides, and hold it steadily, or the animal will stop at once, and perhaps with such suddenness as to make you test the hardness of the ground. The horse also has a motion and a gait which is absolutely peculiar to the pampas. These peculiarities soon drive chagrin to the heart of a northern horseman.

We galloped eastward in a beaten path close to the placid waters of Magellan Strait. To our left were a low series of hills—the Gregory Range—and behind these the sun had fallen, throwing its parting rays on the shore-line of Tierra del Fuego opposite, and over the distant Fuegian mountains. The novelty of the ride and the fascination of the scenery helped us to forget the bruises and accumulating pain—of which, however, we were forcibly reminded later. In an hour we reached our destination and had an opportunity to see, for the first time, one of the end-of-the-century wonders,—the re-discovery of Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego by the sheep farmers. Here were the men by whom, and the method by which, the hopeless sterility of the end of the continent has been turned into a field of industry with a farming profit perhaps equalled in no other part of the world.

A young man with a sporting air advanced from one of the buildings to meet us. He was Alexander Menendez, the chief of the place, and the son of the Cape Horn Vanderbilt. Spanish is the official language of this region, but neither the Captain nor I spoke it, and thus we were a little anxious to know the tongue in which we might interchange ideas. We could handle between us French, Flemish, English, German, and Eskimo, and we rather flattered ourselves that the man who could not converse with us in one of these tongues could have few ideas worthy of exchange. We had no need for anxiety, however, for our new host spoke English and German and some French, in addition to his national tongue. Indeed, English seems to be the general language of the sheep farmer. Mr. Menendez took us to his little home, a one-story wooden building, with three or four rooms. Our mission was hardly more than a formal visit, but pampa customs are such that one immediately enters into the inner life of the ranchmen from which it is difficult to separate quickly.

Here we found a sheep ranch in its youth, but its proportions were already such as to startle most North American farmers. Upon a treeless waste of 90,000 acres, spread out in easy undulations along the Magellanic waters, were 120,000 sheep. The climate and the grass are such that the animals require no shelter and no extra feeding, not even during the coldest winter months, and they are so nearly self-supporting that one shepherd manages a herd of 2,000 animals. When sheep thus thrive and multiply at next to no expense, and on ground which was first obtained for the asking and taxes, it is not difficult to understand the success of Patagonian farmers.

Indian Mission Huts.

Part of Punta Arenas.