Pick from the Past
Natural History, March-April 1933
A Day in Patagonia
|Apprehensive sheep herders cautiously scouted out our camp and had to be persuaded that we are harmless and that we will even go so far as to pay cash for sheep to eat.|
This camp site is so much appreciated that it has recently been used by a band of Chilean robbers. Finding pickings too thin on their own side of the Cordillera, they crossed the mountains and wandered into Argentine Patagonia, finally settling down here, where they eked out a miserable existence for several months. When they could, they killed sheep from neighboring flocks, and when these were too well guarded, they caught guanacos with bolas or went hungry. The number of guanaco bones in their débris reveals the low estate to which they had fallen, for even the poorest Patagonians scorn to eat this stringy and ill-flavored meat. The neighbors did not appreciate the depredations of the Chileans on the flocks and finally reinforced an invitation to leave by appearing armed and en masse. The outcasts departed, but left a malodorous memory so that, when word got around that another party had settled at the spring, apprehensive sheep herders cautiously scouted out our camp and had to be persuaded that we are harmless and that we will even go so far as to pay cash for sheep to eat.
This morning as I come out of my tent several guanacos are drinking at their proper place. The leader, perched on a hummock near by, spies me and whinnies, setting his flock to ambling away over the cañadón rim. At the cook tent, Baliña has warm water ready for washing, a luxury which he considers very effete but on which I insist. Maté is ready and I drink it as the cook prepares breakfast.
Although it has never been successfully popularized outside of its native area, maté is used by literally millions of people every day and ranks with tea or coffee as one of the leading non-alcoholic beverages of the world. Its taste is distinctive, but remotely suggests that of tea, and it contains a stimulant, mattein, which is similar in properties to thein or caffein. Unlike tea or coffee it is also very mildly cathartic and it seems to be a valuable supplementary element in diet, for many people in South America never have vegetables, living on nothing but meat and maté, yet remain in perfect health. Having perforce to adopt the heavily carnivorous regimen of Patagonia, we also adopted maté drinking. The bitter taste is not pleasant at first, but becomes very agreeable with practice. Many Europeans in South America, particularly those who have an abiding fear of going native scorn the drink, and those affected South Americans who attempt to appear Europeanized also profess to dislike it, but it is dear to the heart of the people and its preparation and sale is one of the major industries of the region. Its detractors insist that its popularity is chiefly due to the fact that a native drinking maté feels no necessity to work of think.
I drink maté, then, while Baliña cooks and entertains me. He is an inexhaustible source of information, most of which is wholly incorrect. This morning he is in fine form, telling a long and rambling tale of a bandit hunt in this region. According to him, the desperate bandits eluded local posses, the army, the navy, and the air force, until they were finally captured by Baliña, single-handed, and brought to town begging for mercy.
Williams has joined us, and we breakfast on beefs of mutton, for beef or bife is not a particular kind of meat but a way of cooking it. Breakfast over, the cook does up a lunch of cold mutton (reserving another cut of mutton for dinner), and we get into our truck and drive off.
We jolt through the cañadón and a few miles from camp pass our nearest neighbors, members of a Boer colony that migrated from South Africa to Patagonia some years ago, to their intense regret. We are on a footing of aloof acquaintance rather than of friendship, as the old couple speak only a few words of English and Spanish, and the youngsters, although fairly fluent in Spanish, are distrustful and shy. They are not used to the company of other human beings. Most of the Boers here dislike the English (which was their principal reason for leaving South Africa after the Boer war) and despise their Latin neighbors. They cannot be classed as a friendly group in general, although some individuals were very gracious to us.
Beyond the corrugated-iron hovel of this poverty-stricken family, the trail winds steeply up the side of the cañadón to come out on the Pampa Pelada, the Peeled Pampa, so called because even in this desolately barren land it is famous for its lack of vegetation. As we travel over its perfectly flat surface, we startle numerous little bands of guanacos. We chase one guanaco with the car and find that his greatest running speed is about thirty-five miles per hour. He cannot keep up that rate for long,
We plunge into this wilderness, sliding and jumping down steep slopes of dazzling white volcanic ash, and painfully groping our way up the sides of ravines.
We soon come to the point on the cañadón rim above our present place of work, and as we fill our canteens from the truck s water tank and sling on our knapsacks, Williams and I engage in our daily debate over the scenery. Perhaps most of mankind could be divided into desert-people and water-people. Desert-people love vast, solitary expanses, the bright hues of desert rocks, and the delicate purples of distant mountains. They feel at home in fantastic, sportive landscapes, boldly lunar, carved from pale ash and black lava and contorted red or orange sandstone. There is something sympathetic to them in limitless space, in keen, clear air, in boldly savage and barren country. To water-people all this is abominable. They want a more fertile environment, one at the same time less expansive, less brutal, and more varied and dynamic: the seashore, placid lakes, and cool, tree-shaded streams.
Williams, unfortunately for him now, is a water-person. I am more of the desert-people, and I love the scene spread before us now: the great cañadón falling away at our feet to its distant depths, a maze of sharp ridges and of deeply dissected gullies where panthers lurk; the almost black mountains, scores of miles away, their peaks severed from earth by mirage and seeming to hang shivering in space; and the hard, blue dome of the air in which eagles wheel and soar.
We plunge into this wilderness, sliding and jumping down steep slopes of dazzling white volcanic ash, and painfully groping our way up the sides of ravines, until we come to the scene of our labors. La Oficina del Diablo,the Devils Officea local sheepherder called it one day when, to his amazement, he came upon us working there, and the name is as apt as any. It is a sort of natural amphitheater of Brobdingnagian proportions, almost completely devoid of vegetation, and excavated in the thick beds of volcanic ash. In the center rises a conical peak of the same ash, with streams of dark brown pebbles from the pampa above spilled down its sides, like a portion of vanilla ice-cream a quarter of a mile in diameter with a few tons of chocolate syrup poured over it.
The wind is blowing hard, as usual, and it fills eyes and hair and teeth with the knifelike fragments of ash and sends the dark pebbles blowing and clattering over the ground. But we are resigned, especially as we know that the slightest lull in the almost eternal wind will bring clouds of flies swirling around us. It is January, midsummer, and at the height of the short fly season.
Near the place where we have been working is the fresh carcass of a sheep with the breast torn out but otherwise untouched. Our hitherto unseen friend, a puma (or panther), has been around again. The big cat seems to like the Oficina del Diablo since we have been here and perhaps has left us the unused part of her kill as a token of esteem.
We set about working on the fossils we have already found, and hunting for new ones. I wish all the people who have asked me how we know where to dig for fossils could
|With water pouring over the ledge in a cataract, forming a veil between us and the outer world, we eat our lunch and roll cigarettes of rank, black, hairlike native tobacco.|
As I start on, my eye is caught by an object sticking out of the rock a few feet away. This is more like it! Here is a fragment of bone just beginning to be exposed by the constant erosion, and in it a tooth is showingit must belong to a jaw or skull, perhaps broken, perhaps complete, but in either event worth collecting, for it has teeth, and from them can be determined the species of extinct animal to which they belong. And so I start digging to get it out. You see, all of you whom I have in imagination placed on the Ice-cream Peak to watch, how easy it is to know where to dig for fossils! You simply dig where you know there is a fossil.
Later the bandaged block will be taken to Comodoro Rivadavia, Metropolis of Patagonia, and there packed with others in stout boxes and shipped by boat to Buenos Aires. In Buenos Aires, government officials will examine the boxes and give a permit to export them. Then they will start on the eighteen-day voyage to New York, where they will finally come to rest in the American Museum. A preparator will unpack the box and place the block on a temporary plaster bed. The bandages, paper, and surface shellac will be carefully taken off one side and the rock scraped and chiseled away from the bone, then the specimen will be turned over and the process repeated on the other side, finally freeing the bone and resurrecting it from the ash in which it was entombed ages before man came into existence. Cracks and missing fragments in the skull and jaws will be filled in with plaster and the completely prepared specimen shellacked again to preserve it from moisture.
Then the specimen will go from the laboratory to my office where I will measure it and study it, comparing it with any similar animals previously known. If it is new, I will give it a name and publish a description of it in the scientific publications of the Museum. Finally, two or three years after this day when we are collecting it and forty or fifty million years after the live animal roamed the plains of ancient Patagonia, work on the skull will be complete and it will be placed on exhibition in the Museum.
But all that lies in the future now, for we are still in Patagonia with months of field work ahead of us. While we have been working, clouds have rolled up from the west and the sky has become overcast. Suddenly rain begins to fall with stinging force. As uncovered or bandaged specimens may be seriously damaged by water, we hastily cover them, and crawl under a rock ledge near by where it is still fairly dry. With water pouring over the ledge in a cataract, forming a veil between us and the outer world, we eat our lunch and roll cigarettes of rank, black, hairlike native tobacco.
There has been an unusual amount of rain lately, and it seriously interferes with our work. It is extremely difficult to prospect for specimens on wet days, and impossible to collect them properly, so that rain brings work almost to a standstill. Fortunately the rain soaks into the ground almost at once and dries up quickly in the dry wind. This noon it is only a passing shower, and after lunch we are able to uncover the specimen again and go back to work.
Toward the end of the afternoon a man comes riding up on horseback. Although he is a Boer, like everyone who lives around cañadón Vaca, he is more acriollado, Argentinized, than most of his compatriots, and rides in native fashion, with only one stirrup which serves for mounting and is usually not used in riding. He has a native saddle, too, consisting of two cyclindrical leather pads, one on either side of the horse s sharp backbone, over which are piled several sheepskins and a soft, tanned piece of cool, porous carpincho hide. Such a saddle is very soft, but the posture required to ride it is most uncomfortable to one unaccustomed to it, like riding on a backless and armless, greatly overstuffed rocking-chair.
Although annoying to us, the rain has been very convenient to our visitor. For weeks he has been trying to catch our nocturnal prowler, the puma. Today the big cat was out during the rain and left tracks in the mud when she went back to her lair. Our visitor and another neighbor (and by neighbor,
While navigating without the compass, we had made almost a complete circle, and would not have gotten off the pampa safely at least until the storm had cleared, had we not had more faith in the instrument than in our own thoroughly disoriented sense of direction.
The hunter has one of the dead cubs slung over the horse s back, which surprises me as the horses I have known in North America would have hysterics at this. Our visitor assures me that most horses here would not like it, either, but that this horse has a phlegmatic Nordic temperament. After a short smoke and chat, the hunter goes on his way, happy that there are three fewer pumas to kill his sheep.
Before sunset the sky once more darkens and we decide to hit for home. As we climb laboriously up to the pampa, the rain again falls in torrents, and, soaked through and shivering, we reach the car. While we are starting, the rain changes to a drizzle and mist closes in so that we can see only a few feet in any direction. After running for half an hour, we have not come to an expected landmark on the almost featureless pampa, so we stop, walk away from the car to get out of its magnetic influence, and plot a new course with the compass. By repeating this process several times we finally reach the ravine down which we must go. While navigating without the compass, we had made almost a complete circle, and would not have gotten off the pampa safely at least until the storm cleared, had we not had more faith in the instrument than in our own thoroughly disoriented sense of direction.
We reach camp sometime after dark, feeling tired and bedraggled, but a few boiling hot matés revive us thoroughly and we are ready for our third heavy meal of mutton, this time in the form of estofado, boiled with numerous sorts of spices. The cook also has some fresh tortas fritas, of which we are very fond, not unlike American baking-powder biscuits but fried in deep fat (mutton grease, of course), like doughnuts.
After dinner I have to work on the expedition records. As each important specimen is found it is given a field number which is marked on it, or on its bandages, paper wrapping, etc. The number must then be entered in a notebook with full and exact data, the geological horizon, geographic locality, nature of the specimen, date, and name of the collector. Without such records the specimens would have very little scientific value. There are also many other things to do besides the actual collecting, both in the field and camp. Maps must be made, rock strata described and samples taken, geologic structures observed and recorded, cross sections of the fossil fields made with the exact levels of all specimens marked and a journal of the progress of the expedition kept up to date. Each night the information gathered in the field must be transferred from rough notes, written in wind and, often, rain, hastily and with numbed, clumsy fingers, into neater and more legible form in permanent notebooks, and observations and comments entered while they are freshly in mind.
This done, I happily roll up in my fur blanket and instantly fall asleep. The day is over.