Notes of a naturalist in South America

by John Ball

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.