The next morning, December 1st, we left Churruca with a fair wind, so that the engine was only needed at the beginning and end of the day; but the weather was drizzling and unpleasant, so that we could see little of Cape Pillar,[[4]] where the Magellan Straits enter the Pacific Ocean. Our own course was up the waterways between the western coast of Patagonia and the islands which lie off the coast. It is a route that is little taken, owing to the dangers of navigation. Not only is much of it uncharted and unsurveyed, but it is also unlighted, and its passage is excluded by the ordinary insurance terms of merchant ships; they consequently pass out at once into the open sea at Cape Pillar. We turned north at Smyth’s Channel, the first of these waterways, and made such good progress that, instead of anchoring as we had intended at Burgoyne’s Bay, we were able to reach Otter Bay. It is situated amid a mass of islands, and the sad vision of a ship with her back broken emphasised the need for caution. The general character of the Patagonian Channels is of the same nature as the Magellan Straits, but particularly beautiful views of the Andes are obtained to the eastward. The next day Mount Burney was an impressive spectacle, although only glimpses of the top could be obtained through fleeting mists; and the glistening heights of the Sarmiento Cordillera came out clear and strong. We anchored that night at Occasion Cove on Piazzi Island; and on Saturday, December 13th, had a twelve hours’ run, using the engine all the way. Here there was a succession of comparatively monotonous hills and mountains, so absolutely rounded by ice action as to give the impression of apple dumplings made for giants. The lines show always, as would be expected, that the ice-flow has been from the south. Later a ravine on Esperanza Island was particularly remarkable; its mysterious windings, which it would have been a joy to explore, were alternately hidden by driving cloud or radiant with gleams of sun. Glimpses up Peel Inlet gave pleasant views, and two snowy peaks on Hanover Island, unnamed as usual, were absorbing our attention when we turned into Latitude Cove.

On December 14th the landscape was absolutely grey and colourless, so that Guia Narrows were not seen to advantage. Later the channel was wider and the possibility of sailing debated, but abandoned in view of the head wind. We had been struck with the absence of life and fewness of birds, but we now saw some albatrosses. In slacking away the anchor preparatory to letting go in Tom Bay, in a depth stated to be seventeen fathoms, it hit an uncharted rock at eleven fathoms. It was still raining as we left Tom Bay, but when we turned up Brassey Pass, which lies off the regular channel, the clouds began to lift, and Hastings Fiord and Charrua Bay were grand beyond description. From time to time the mists rose for an instant, and revealed the immediate presence of reach beyond reach of wooded precipices; or a dark summit appeared without warning, towering overhead at so great a height that, severed by cloud from its base, it seemed scarcely to belong to the earth. Then as suddenly the whole panorama was cut off, and we were alone once more with a grey sea and sky.

FIG. 14.
CANOE CORDUROY PORTAGE BETWEEN PORT CHURRUCA AND MANA INLET.

FIG. 15.
PATAGONIAN WATERWAYS.
Showing water near the land smoothed by growing kelp.

As we approached Charrua, we caught sight among the trees on a neighbouring island of something which was both white and nebulous; it might, of course, be only an isolated wreath of mist, but after watching it for a while we came to the conclusion that it was undoubtedly a cloud of smoke. Our hopes of seeing Indians, which had grown faint, began to revive. As soon as we were anchored, orders were given that immediately after dinner the launch should be ready for us to inspect what we hoped might prove a camping-ground. This turned out to be unnecessary, as the neighbours made the first call. In an hour’s time S. came to inform me that two canoes were approaching full of natives “just like the picture-books,” whereon the anthropologists felt inclined to adapt the words of the immortal Snark-hunters and exclaim:

“We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days,

Seven days to the week I allow,

But an Indian on whom we might lovingly gaze