In the Wilds of South America

by Leo E. Miller

The owner of the hut had gone away to look for a boat, and that night returned with one of ample size; but next morning a furious wind was blowing, so hunting was out of the question. The air was so filled with dust that one could not see anything more than a few yards away, and huge waves rolled in from the lake and tore hungrily at the sandy banks. These storms are very common during the winter months and blow up several times a week.

The third day of our visit was beautiful. We pushed the boat out of the tangle of sedges and made straight for the cattails. The birds were stirring, and flock after flock passed overhead. When we paddled quietly into the midst of the green islets, we seemed to enter a new world, filled with surprises and wonderful beyond description. The tall, graceful stems of the totoras swayed gently with the swell made by the passing boat, and cast long shadows in the narrow lanes of glassy water they enclosed. Coots and grebes, like shadows, paddled silently away and lost themselves among the reeds; ruddy ducks popped up here, there, and everywhere, stared a moment, and then dived again with a splash; they seemed to spend a good deal of their time under water, and the fishermen frequently caught them in gill-nets set along the bottom of the lake. The male ruddies were in fine plumage, with deep chestnut backs, white throat-patches, and bright-blue bills; they seldom tried to fly, and then skimmed the water for a few yards only; the ones we shot were so fat that it is hard to understand how they could fly at all. Occasionally we saw a giant grebe. From a distance it resembled a loon; they are fast swimmers and expert divers. Our boatman always begged us to shoot these birds, as the natives are very fond of the flesh and, also, the skin of the breast with its beautiful white, silky feathers, brings a good price in the feather markets. Needless to say, none was shot for this purpose.

Rice-fields at the foot of the Andes Mountains, Sarmientos.

Among the reeds flitted a wonderful little bird, known as the military flycatcher, or “bird of seven colors.” It is little larger than a wren, yellow underneath and green above, with the crest and under tail-coverts bright red; there are yellow stripes on the sides of the head and the cheeks are blue; the wings and tail are black. The bird is a sprightly little fellow, flitting and jumping about among the reeds in pursuit of small insects, and uttering its cheerful “cheeps” at frequent intervals; it gives a touch of color and dainty life to the sombre green of the vegetation, and to the reflections in the murky water below.

Presently we left the region of the totoras and emerged into the open lake. The surface was dotted with ducks, coots, and grebes—a squawking, diving, racing mass that defies description. We made right for the centre of action. The coots always waited until the boat was but a few yards away and then, after giving a few clucks, started to run and flop across the water, leaving a myriad of silvery, rippling paths in their wake, and making the marsh reverberate with the noise. Often this would frighten the ducks, and flocks would jump up all around in such vast numbers that we were lost in admiration watching the wonderful sight of the thousands of swishing, black forms hurtling into the wintry sky.

Our method of hunting was to paddle along slowly, squatting low in the boat until within range of a flock of ducks; then, by standing up suddenly, the flock would be frightened into taking wing, and the individuals we had selected could be picked off. We wanted birds in good plumage only, and this manner of hunting gave us the opportunity of selecting each individual separately. There were shovellers and cinnamon teal without number; the handsome males, in brightest plumage, were dashing around the inconspicuously colored females, swimming low and with bills flat on the water; usually there were not more than a dozen or fifteen in a party. Then there were scaups, tree-ducks, pintails, blackheads, and rosy-bills. The latter were wary; they always passed high above, in large flocks, and the rushing sound made by their wings could be heard a long distance away.

Dabbling in the mud-banks along the edge of the marsh were flocks of from four to thirty large white geese (Casa-roba). Black-necked swans, singly or in small groups, sailed about majestically. Of the two birds the geese were the more graceful, and by far the more beautiful. The swans were not very wild, but when the boat approached they began to utter shrill “kee-wee’s”; finally they would launch into the air with a great deal of flapping, beating the water with powerful strokes of the wings, and keeping up their cry all the while. When we neared a flock of geese, they began to patrol the water ahead, swimming back and forth, and eying us with suspicion; they swam well out of the water, with a graceful carriage of the head and neck, and uttered constant loud, penetrating cries that sounded like “honk-honk-queenk.” What is more thrilling than the clear, piercing challenge of this spirit of the wild? Wafted across the watery waste on the wings of a crisp autumn wind, it comes as a message from the regions of snow and ice—a foreboding of the bleak, dark days to follow. I never tired of hearing it, and lost more than one shot at a flock coming over from another direction because I was so interested in listening to the fascinating notes of other birds ahead of us. When they finally decided to take wing, they rose from the water quickly and gracefully, and flew at great speed, stringing out in various formations. They always went far away before again dropping down into the water.

We continued paddling through the centre of the open water to a large mud-flat in search of flamingoes. The natives called them choflos, and said that a great many came to this spot each day to feed on the small snails and other mollusks which abound in the shallow places. When still a good distance away we could make out what seemed to be a long row of old piles driven into the centre of the mud-flat. The water had become so shallow that the boat could not proceed, so there was nothing to do but wade, not an altogether pleasant experience, as it was bitter cold and sheets of thin ice floated about everywhere. When we moved, the flamingoes stood stock-still and looked at us; when we stood motionless they lowered their heads, dabbled in the mud, and walked about. From a distance they seemed to be of enormous size, and until we were near by they appeared coal-black. Finally they became restive, ran back and forth a few steps and then, beating the air with laborious strokes of the wings, flew away. Frequently, on other occasions, they circled around a few times before departing from the locality.

We returned to camp by way of the sedge marshes, although, on account of the bushes and shallow water, poling the boat through the tangle was hard work. In the tops of many of the bushes were immense nests, built of sticks and reed-stems; they apparently belonged to the giant coots, as many of these birds still used them for resting-places; also, nearly all of the platforms were piled with dead frogs which the coots had disembowelled. Our man said that during the months of December and January all the people living near the lagoons camp on the edge of the water and collect eggs; they gather immense numbers and take them to the markets of the neighboring towns to sell.