Notes of a naturalist in South America

by John Ball

HEAVY SEAS OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC.

In the afternoon, as the sea was running very high, the captain set the ship’s head to the wind. We saw him but once, and perceived an anxious expression on his usually jovial countenance. It afterwards came out that he apprehended the continuance of the gale, in which case he might not have ventured to put the helm round so as to enter the Gulf of Peñas. At nightfall, however, the wind fell off, and by midnight the weather was nearly calm, though the ship gave us little rest from the ceaseless rolling. During all this time sounds that issued at intervals from the cabin of the Peruvian lady and her children showed that what was merely a bore to us was to them real misery. I have often asked myself whether there is something about a sea-voyage that develops our natural selfishness, or whether it is because one knows that the suffering is temporary and has no bad results, that one takes so little heed of the really grievous condition of travellers who are unable to bear the movement of the sea. A voyage with sea-sick passengers, especially in bad weather, when one is confined to the saloon, is a good deal like being lodged in one of the prisons of the Spanish inquisition while torture was freely applied to the unhappy victims; and yet persons who are not counted as hard-hearted seem to bear their position with perfect equanimity, if not with something of self-satisfaction.

The morning of the 4th of June was so dark that we supposed our watches to have gone astray. Of course, the days were rapidly growing shorter as we ran to the southward, but the dim light on this morning was explained when we sallied forth. The wind had veered round to the north, and in these latitudes that means a murky sky with leaden clouds above and damp foggy air below. The change, however, was opportune. We were steering about due south-east, entering the Gulf of Peñas, with the dim outline of Cape Tres Montes faintly seen on our larboard bow.

I have already alluded to the peculiar conformation of the south-western extremity of the South American continent, which, from the latitude of 40° south to the opening of the Straits of Magellan, a distance of about nine hundred miles, exhibits an almost continuous range of high land running parallel to the southern extremity of the great range of the Andes. At its northern end this western range, under the names Cordillera Pelada and Cordillera de la Costa, forms part of the mainland of Chili, being separated from the Andes by a broad belt of low country including several large lakes, those of Ranco and Llanquihue being each about a hundred miles in circuit. South of the Canal de Chacao the range is continued by the island of Chiloe and the Chonos Archipelago, and then by the great mountainous promontory whose southern extremity is Cape Tres Montes. Here occurs the widest breach in the continuity of the range, as the Gulf of Peñas is fully forty miles wide. To the southward commences the long range of mountainous islands that extend to the Straits of Magellan, between which and the mainland lie the famous channels of Western Patagonia. It is worthy of note that, corresponding to the elevation of this parallel western range, the height of the main chain of the Andes is notably diminished. Of the summits that have hitherto been measured south of latitude 42° only one—the Volcano de Chana—attains to a height of eight thousand feet, and there is reason to believe that numerous passes of little more than half that elevation connect the eastern and western slopes of the chain.

RANGE OF THE ANTARCTIC FLORA.

Another point of some interest is the northern extension of the so-called antarctic flora throughout the whole of the western range, many of the characteristic species being found on the Cordillera Pelada close to Valdivia, which does not, I believe, much exceed three thousand feet in height. It is true that a few antarctic species have been found in the higher region of the Andes as far north as the equator, just as a few northern forms have travelled southward by way of the Rocky Mountains and the highlands of Mexico and Central America; and Professor Fr. Philippi has lately shown that many southern forms, and even a few true antarctic types, extend to the hills of the desert region of Northern Chili, where the constant presence of fog supplies the necessary moisture.[32] The true northern limit, however, of the antarctic flora may be fixed at the Cordillera Pelada of Valdivia.

We crept on cautiously into the gulf, anxiously looking out for some safe landmark to secure an entrance into the northern end of Messier’s Channel. Soon after midday we descried a remarkable conical hill, which is happily placed so as to distinguish the true opening from the indentations of the rocky coast. As we advanced the air became thicker and colder, as drizzling rain set in; but the practised eyes of seamen are content with indications that convey no meaning to an ordinary landsman, and just as the night was closing in almost pitch dark, the rattle of the chain cable announced that we had come to anchor for the night in Hale Cove.

WILD CELERY.

The weather had become very cold. At two p.m. in the gulf the thermometer stood at 42°, and after nightfall it marked only a few degrees above freezing-point, so that, even in the saloon, we sat in our great coats, not at all enjoying the unaccustomed chilliness. All rejoiced, therefore, when the captain, having quite recovered his wonted cheerfulness, announced that a stove was to be set up forthwith in the saloon, and a tent erected on deck to give shelter from the weather. The stove was a small, somewhat rickety concern, and we fully understood that it would not have been safe to light it while the ship was labouring in the heavy seas outside; but it was especially welcome to me, as I was anxiously longing for the chance of getting my botanical paper thoroughly dry. As we enjoyed a cheerful dinner, two of the officers pushed off in one of the ship’s boats into the blackness that had closed around. After some time a large fire was seen blazing a few hundred yards from the ship, and, amid rain and sleet, we could descry from the deck some moving forms. They had succeeded, I know not how, in getting the damp timber into a blaze, and were good-naturedly employed in gathering whatever they could lay hands upon to contribute to my botanical collection. Not much could be expected under such conditions, but everything in this, to me, quite new region was full of interest. Dead branches covered with large lichens introduced me to one of the most characteristic features of the vegetation. The white fronds, four or five inches wide, and several feet in length, enliven the winter aspect of these shores, and possibly supply food to some of the wild animals. Among the plants which had been dragged up at random were several roots of the wild celery of the southern hemisphere. It is widely spread throughout the islands of the southern ocean, as well as on the shores of both coasts of Patagonia, and was described as a distinct species by Dupetit Thouars; but in truth, as Sir Joseph Hooker long ago remarked in the “Flora Antarctica,” there are no structural characters by which to distinguish it from the common wild celery of Europe, which is likewise essentially a maritime plant. Growing in a region where it is little exposed to sunshine, it has less of the strong characteristic smell of our wild plants, and the leaves may be eaten raw as salad, or boiled, which is not the case with our plant until the gardener, by heaping earth about the roots, diminishes the pungency of the smell and flavour.

One thought alone troubled me as I lay down in my berth to enjoy the first quiet night’s rest. If the weather should hold on as it now fared, there was but a slight prospect of enjoying the renowned scenery of the channels, or of making much acquaintance with the singular vegetation of this new region. It was therefore with intense relief and positive delight that I found, on sallying forth before sunrise, a clear sky and a moderate breeze from the south. Snow had fallen during the night, and was now hard frozen; and in the tent, where my plants had lain during the night, it was necessary to break off fragments of ice with numbed fingers before laying them in paper.