Another of the famous Alpinist's fascinating articles, describing his attempt to reach the hitherto untrodden summit of Mount Sarmiento, the highest peak in desolate Tierra del Fuego.

To the ordinary reader the name of Tierra del Fuego probably suggests a region about as remote and unfamiliar as any outside the Arctic regions. Yet the country, far away though it is, is not really difficult of access. The Straits of Magellan are daily traversed by ocean-going steamers, all of which stop at Sandy Point on the mainland, just opposite this forbidding island. Thousands of voyagers annually pass through the Straits and, if the weather is fine, behold the snowy mountains on the southern horizon; but very few stop by the way, and fewer still ever cross to the inhospitable shore opposite. Nothing more bleak and uninviting, indeed, can be imagined than the shores of Magellan's Straits. The weather is generally abominable. Rain falls in soaking torrents. The lower slopes and flats are covered with dense, reeking forests. Higher up comes the snow, which gradually looms forth in a pallid, death-like whiteness out of the heavy clouds, very different in aspect from the splendid brilliancy of Alpine snows, standing forth against radiant, sunlit skies. In fine summer weather Alpine snows attract a man upwards; their loveliness seems to invite a visit. It is far otherwise in the Fuegian archipelago. There the great range of Andes sinks into the ocean, its peaks become islands, and its valleys are straits or fjords. You must go by water to the foot of each mountain, and the navigation is difficult and often dangerous. Not far away is the raging ocean, everlastingly tortured by storm and tempest. A black cloud roof generally passes overhead, dragging skirts of hail, rain, or snow over the reeking earth. Never is the whole round of view clear. Now one region is blotted out and now another. If the sun shines for a little while it is soon obscured, and storm succeeds after a short interval.

To an explorer, nevertheless, this region has great attractions, owing to these very facts. There is so much to discover, the scenery is so unusual, and there is the possibility of adventure at every step. All is uncertain, and the way has almost to be felt. Moreover, if perchance a fine interval comes, the storm-riven, ice-sheathed landscape is so astounding, the effects of light in so dense and wet an atmosphere are so extraordinary, that it is impossible to resist their fascination. Add to all this the spice of danger which still remained when I was there, and perhaps still remains. The natives were distinctly hostile to the white man. They were few in number, an amphibious race living in booths, practically in the Stone Age so far as tools and weapons were concerned; not very dangerous foes, therefore, yet subtle, and delighted to slay a white man if they got the chance. They would overpower him in his sleep, or lie in wait for him in the dense forest, through which they can travel far faster than he can. Many a man has been killed by them with their stone or glass-pointed arrows, shot out of the dense bush from the distance of only a yard or two. When I was lying in a small launch off the foot of one of the mountains, in the blackest darkness of a stormy night, a canoe laden with such Indians crept silently up alongside in the shadow of overhanging trees. Had we not been on the alert they would have tried to rush our boat, but, finding that impossible, they as silently glided away; and no trace of them was anywhere discoverable when morning dawned, though no doubt they were hidden somewhere near at hand and kept us under close observation.

As we came into the maze of channels which surround and penetrate the mountains, though we saw no Indians, we were aware that our coming was noticed, because at different points columns of smoke arose into the air. It is thus that the savages communicate with one another. They have a smoke language, and news is passed quickly and silently from group to group. It was only when we landed and climbed to a high point overlooking the channels that we realized what was going on; for then we were able to observe the columns of smoke in a dozen or more different places—signals of our movements, spreading gradually over the archipelago from family to family of scattered Indians.

The great mountain in this part of the world is Mount Sarmiento. It is only seven thousand two hundred feet high, but its glaciers reach to the sea, so that it may be compared on an equality, from a climbing point of view, with Mont Blanc, if that be thought of as sunk into water up to the snow region. On clear days Sarmiento is visible to voyagers through Magellan's Straits. It is a glorious mountain, surrounded by many other noble peaks. In form it is of supreme beauty, and its surroundings are of the most romantic character. It was this peak, of course, that I desired to attempt, and I stopped at Sandy Point for that purpose. After much trouble I obtained the loan of a steam-launch for a few days, and set forth in the usual bad weather. We voyaged up various channels, between steep hillsides streaming with more waterfalls than, I think, can elsewhere exist in an equal area. In Cascade Reach, for instance, there are literally hundreds of them, succeeding one another every few yards.

After a day's steaming we reached the foot of our peak, and with much difficulty found a treacherous anchorage. There were clouds everywhere above and below, and wooded banks loomed dimly into view close at hand; but towards sunset there were signs of the weather clearing up. It was one of those slow midsummer sunsets of high latitudes, when the colour comes very gradually and fades equally slowly. At first only the icy base of the mountain was visible in the grey shadow of clouds, with the dark forest ring around it, and the calm, black water below. Presently a soft, pink light crept up the tumbled ruin of the glacier, higher and higher, as the mist dissolved, and revealed steep ice walls scarred by serrated ridges, and a great arête set with pinnacles of splintered rock. Some white points on the summit crest appeared, but a soft cloud floated just above them, enveloping the top. Suddenly—so suddenly that all who saw cried out—away above this cloud, surprisingly high, appeared a point of light, as it were a brightly glowing coal. The fiery glow crept down and down till we beheld the likeness of a great pillar of red fire. It was a tower of ice-crusted rock reflecting the bright afterglow of sunset. Regathered mists wrapped the glorious vision away even before it had begun to fade. We remained afloat on the calm water, wondering at the utter silence all around. Not a breath of air stirred, no stone fell, no avalanche slipped. The babbling glacier-torrent above alone broke the evening stillness.

Next day we landed to reconnoitre, and at two o'clock the following morning we set forth for our climb. We landed at the edge of a forest and had to force our way through it. The ground was a chaos of stones, the trees grew close together and were densely matted with other vegetation. The whole place was reeking wet and it was pitch-dark. We fought and tumbled our way through this hideous chaos as best we might, and in an hour or two got out on the other side, near the margin of a glacier. Here we could scramble along well enough over the moraine, and presently we had daylight to help us. Nothing was visible ahead; there was the ice-wall on one hand, rock-cliffs on the other. Presently it seemed better to climb the rocks, and we accordingly turned aside to scale them. They were not difficult, and we rose higher and higher, passing through another narrow belt of forest, where the trees grew in the chinks and crannies of a wall of rock polished by ice and precipitously steep. Above that came a floundering bog, and then at last a reasonable grass-slope that narrowed into a rock-ridge. The rock presently gave place in turn to snow, and led us on to the mass of the mountain.

The weather was now tolerably clear, though over all there hung a dark pall of cloud, through occasional holes in which shafts of solid-looking sunlight penetrated. Where we rested for breakfast we had a most striking view over desolate channels and still more desolate islands, a very labyrinth of waterways and mountain walls. We could see westwards to the ocean and northwards to the continent; the flat land of the northern part of Tierra del Fuego was at our feet.

Its great mountain backbone was behind us as we faced north. We looked along the face of it as along a wall, but all its crest was in the clouds. Looking down whence we had come we saw our boat like a little cork on the water. Also we could now look down into the water itself and discover the countless sunken rocks amongst which we had so casually navigated. There was one, only a short distance from our anchorage, close to which we must have steamed. These details, of course, are not charted; a navigator in such out-of-the-way places must take his luck.

From this point our way lay right up the great northern face of the peak, which is covered by an ice-cascade. This empties below into a huge glacier plateau or lake, which is drained by several glacier tongues, up one of which we had come. As we climbed on I kept looking round and gazing on the wonderful panorama, for it was obviously destined to be soon blotted out. Our way lay amongst huge seracs. Deep crevasses yawned all about, and occasionally we had to double back and forth to get ahead.

At last, however, we reached plainer going, traversing a steeper but less broken slope which led to the foot of a final pyramid of rock. But these rocks, unfortunately, we never actually reached, for the storm battalions from the north swept furiously down upon us, swallowing up the view before ever we reached the crest of the range whence we might have looked down into the dark hollow of Beagle Channel. The darkness in the north before the tempest fell upon us was truly appalling. As it advanced it seemed to devour the wintry world. The heavens appeared to be descending in solid masses, so thick were the skirts of snow and hail that the advancing cloud-phalanx trailed beneath it. The black islands, the leaden waters, the pallid snows, and the splintered ice-encrusted peaks disappeared in the blackness of the storm, which enveloped us also, almost before we had realized that it was at hand. A sudden wind shrieked and whirled round our heads; hail was flung into our faces, and all the elements began to rage together. The ice-plastered rocks were now easily accounted for; we resembled them ourselves in a very few minutes. All landmarks vanished; the drifted snow itself was no longer distinguishable from the snow-filled air.

To advance under these appalling conditions was impossible. The one thing to be done, and done at once, was to secure our retreat before it was too late. How we raced downwards! Not till we gained the lower glacier did snow give place to rain, which soaked us to the skin and overflowed in a steady stream out of our boots. We floundered in swamps, tumbled through brushwood, and at last gained the shore, almost dead beat with toil, yet delighting in what had been, after all, an exhilarating experience. A boat came off to fetch us, and we were soon on board our steamer. Thus we did not reach the actual summit of Mount Sarmiento—that remains virgin, for I could not wait to try it again. Whoever climbs it will accomplish a great feat and will have a splendid experience. Some years have already passed since my attempt, however, and I have not heard of another. I suppose the inhabitants of Sandy Point have more urgent interests to attend to.