148 THROUGH THE HEART OF PATAGONIA 



On December lo I went out in the evening to shoot some- 

 thing for the pot. On the first ridge I came to I stalked and 

 killed a big guanaco buck, putting a bullet into his lungs. Then I 

 signalled to Barckhausen to come and help to cut him up. As I 

 waited there in the fading light, wondering at the desolation of 

 the place, a litde huemul buck came bounding along and " paid 

 the penalty," as the cricket reporters say. I had some trouble 

 to keep off the condors while I went to some distance to call 

 Barckhausen. 



Altogether the Gorge was not an inviting spot with its hot 

 marshy valleys and fat stinging flies. After sweating among the 

 boulders in the lower ground, if we climbed the barranca, the chill 

 wind from the Cordillera nipped our very bones. 



As I sat writing my diary during those days, diabolical-looking 

 insects with upturned tails used to crawl across the page. 



My desire to penetrate farther at that time seemed likely to be 

 fulfilled, as so far we had seen no warning smoke from the lake 

 direction. The chief difficulties hindering our advance were the 

 treacherous footing on the barrancas, which we were obliged to 

 scale very frequently, and the trouble with the horses both on 

 them and at the fords. 



Finally I decided to leave Barckhausen with the horses and to 

 walk on as long as food held out, for the boulders made riding 

 impossible. But next morning, just as I had fixed up my kit 

 preparatory to starting, a column of smoke began to arise some- 

 where in the direction of the lake. We fancied at first it was 

 Scrivenor, who had come back to rejoin us, and we hastened up 

 the cliff. But in that clear air distances are very deceptive, and 

 the smoke, which from the depth of the Gorge had looked so near> 

 turned out to be on the farther shore of Lake Buenos Aires. 

 Then we perceived there were two fires throwing up their smoke 

 in the morning sun— the " Come-at-once " signal. 



We did not loiter, but in a quarter of an hour were climbing 

 the barranca from our camp. The old game with the horses had 

 to be gone through again. We made our way straight down the 

 strip of tableland towards the lake, along the high sliding cliffs of 

 the river's canadon. It was a long ride, and as we went along the 



