Our search for a wilderness — Reading Companion

tropical sun was sinking from view, our barefooted Spanish crew pulled up anchor from the muddy bottom of Port of Spain’s harbor. Slowly the sails filled, and the spray began to fly from the bow as we steered straight into the crimson path of the sunset. Behind us the lofty Trinidad ranges glowed softly; great velvety peaks and ridges, purpled by distance, gilded by the last rays of day. Then the twilight passed swiftly as if the sun had been quenched by the waters which covered its face; the mountains became merged into the darkness of the sky, and the city of busy life behind us melted into a linear constellation of twinkling lights.

We had chartered a little sloop of twenty-one tons, the “Josefa Jacinta” (_Ho-say’fah Hah-seen’tah_) manned by a captain, a cook and a crew of three. At her masthead flew the flag of Venezuela. With a month’s provisions in the hold and all the varied paraphernalia of a naturalist, we were headed for the northern part of the Orinoco delta in search of the primitive wilderness of which we had dreamed.

Jamaica, Colon, Savanilla, La Guayra had passed in quick succession, and we were surprised to find Trinidad the most modern and wide-awake of all. The well-appointed hotels, the trolleys, electric lights, museums, and newspapers of Port of Spain, the wireless station even now flashing its aërial messages from yonder peak,—all boded ill for our search for primeval conditions. Was there no spot left on earth, we wondered, which could truthfully be called an untrodden wilderness!—jungles untouched by axe or fire, where guns had not replaced bows and arrows; where the creatures of the wilderness were tame through unfamiliarity with human beings!

The Southern Cross rose and straightened its arms; the Pole Star hung low in the north. As the night wore on, an ugly sea arose and half buried our little craft in foam and spray. A cross-wind disputed our advance and the strong tide drove us out of our course. But our captain had navigated these waters for more than half a century, and we had no fears.

The following day was as wild as the night, and no living thing appeared in sky or sea, save a host of milky jelly-fish (_Stomolophus meleagris_). They kept below the surface, and seemed to suffer no damage from the roughness of the water. In an area of a square yard we counted twenty, and for hour after hour we passed through vast masses of them, extending to the farthest waves visible on either hand and as deep down as our eyes could penetrate—myriads upon myriads of these lowly beings, each vibrating with life, and yet unable to guide its course against the tide, or to do aught but pulsate slowly along.

Later in the day, although the water grew less rough, the whole company sank lower in the muddy depths—muddy, because the brown waters of the great Orinoco hold sway over all this gulf and scatter out at sea the sediment washed from the banks far inland.

Finally the storm passed and we saw a blue cloud to the north, hinting of the great mountain ranges of the Spanish Main. Ahead, a low green mist along the horizon told us we were nearing shore. This became more and more distinct until we could make out individual trees. By noon we had left the tumultuous waters of the Gulf of Paria, and were floating quietly on a broad stream between two majestic walls of green; we had entered our wilderness, and the silence and beauty of our reception seemed all the more vivid after the noise and turbulence of the wind and water behind us.

Our first impression was of a vast solitude. It was midday, and the tide was almost at its height. With limp sails we drifted silently onward, not a sound of life coming from the green depths about us. We skirted the mangroves along the south bank, moving more and more slowly, until at last we rested motionless on the water, between the blazing sky overhead and the muddy depths beneath. The tide had reached its highest, and, like the living creatures of the jungle, rested in the midday heat. The captain gave a gruff order in Spanish, and the anchor splashed into the water, dragging the chain after with a sudden roar and jangle which echoed from shore to shore—jarring the silence as would a shriek of pain in a cathedral.

A chatter came from the mangroves near at hand, and high up among the dense foliage we saw the first life of the continent—a wistful little human face gazing out at us, a capuchin monkey striving with wrinkled brows to make out what we were. At his call two others came and looked; then, as our sail came down with a rattle of halyards, the trio fled through the branches with all the speed which four hands and a tail could lend.

We spent the afternoon in getting our floating home ready for use. No more waves would be encountered, so everything was unlashed. Stereo-glasses, camera-plates, and ammunition were placed ready to hand; the galley stove was moved far forward, and a mosquito-proof tent of netting was erected under the tarpaulin in the stern.

The sun had sunk low in the west when we saw a long, narrow dug-out canoe coming downstream. An Indian woman and her baby were crouched in the bow, while in the stern a naked Indian paddled swiftly and silently. His skin shone like coppery bronze in the sunlight, his long black hair was bound back from his face by a thong of hide. In front of him rested a bow and arrows and a long fish-spear. Silently he approached and in silence he passed—unheeding our salutations.

One more beauty of this wild wonderland was vouchsafed us before night fell. We had been disappointed in the birds. Where were the myriads of water-fowl of which we had heard? We had seen nothing—not a single feather. But now the scene slowly changed. The tide was falling rapidly, swirling and eddying past the boat, and the roots of the mangroves began to protrude, their long stems shining black until the water dried from them. Mud-flats appeared, and suddenly, without warning, a living flame passed us—and we had seen our first Scarlet Ibis[27].[A]

Past the dark green background of mangrove foliage the magnificent bird flew swiftly—flaming with a brilliance which shamed any pigment of human art. Blood red, intensest vermilion, deepest scarlet—all fail to hint of the living color of the bird. Before we could recover from our delight a flock of twenty followed, flying close together, with bills and feet scarlet like the plumage. They swerved from their path and alighted on the mud close to the mangroves, and began feeding at once. Then a trio of snowy-white Egrets[32] with trailing plumes floated overhead; others appeared above the tops of the trees; a host of tiny Sandpipers skimmed the surface of the water and scurried over the flats. Great Cocoi Herons[31] swept majestically into view; Curlews and Plover[18] assembled in myriads, lining the mud-flats at the water’s edge, while here and there, like jets of flame against the mud, walked the vermilion Ibises. Terns[14] with great yellow bills flew about the sloop, and Skimmers[17] ploughed the surface of the tide in endless furrows. Macaws[61] began to pass, shrieking as they flew, two and two together—and then night closed quickly over all. From the zenith the sun had looked down upon a stream as quiet as death; it sank upon a scene full of the animation of a myriad forms of life.

As dusk settled down and hid the shore from our eyes, another sense was aroused, and to our ears came the sounds of night in these tropical jungles—a thousand cries, moans, crashes; all mysterious—unexplainable. In time we became so accustomed to them that we could distinguish repetitions and details, but this first night brought only a confused chorus of delightful mystery, now broken by a moment of silence, now rising to an awe-inspiring climax. One sound only remained clear in our memory, often repeated, now uttered in lower, now in higher tones—a terrible choking sigh. It might have been the last death gasp of some great monkey, or the pitiful utterance of hopelessness of a madman.

With the turn of the tide we raised anchor and drifted through the night—mile after mile for six hours, and then anchored again. And thus it was that we came to our wilderness.

Not until we had been in the mangrove jungle for many days did we begin to realize its vastness, its mystery, its primeval character. Just four hundred and ten years ago Christopher Columbus sailed through the gulf we had left and gazed on the dark forest in the heart of which we now were. Throughout the whole extent of the mangrove wilderness we found no hint that conditions were not as they were in 1498.

One of the most astonishing things about the mangrove forest is the apparent diversity of its plant life. Until one actually comes within reach of trunk and leaves it is impossible to believe that all this forest is composed of a single species of plant. The foliage of some of the trees is light, of others dark; here stands a clump of pale beechlike trunks, there a dark, rough-barked individual is seen. The manner of growth of the young and old trees is so different that a confusion of mingled trees, shrubs, and vines seems to confront one. But everywhere the mangrove reigns supreme. It is the only vegetable growth which can gain a footing in this world of salt water. In fact, it makes its own footing, entangling and holding mud and débris about its stems, and ever blindly reaching out dangling roots, like the legs of gigantic spiders.

Far out on the tip of a lofty branch a mangrove seed will germinate, before it falls assuming the appearance of a loaded club from eight to fifteen inches in length. One day it lets go and drops like a plummet into the soft mud, where it sticks upright. Soon the tide rises, and if there is too strong a current the young plant is swept away, to perish far out at sea; but if it can maintain its hold, roots soon spring out, and the ideal of the mangrove is realized, the purpose for which all this interesting phenomena is intended: the forest has gained a few yards, and mud and leaves will soon choke out the intervening water.

The mangroves have still another method of gaining new territory. Aërial roots are thrown out from branches high in air, swinging downward and outward with a curve which sometimes wins three or four yards ahead. Like hawsers thrown from a vessel to a wharf these roots clutch at the mud beneath, but where the current runs swiftly they swing and dangle in vain, until they have grown so heavy that they touch bottom some distance downstream. We made use of these dangling roots as anchors for our canoe, bending the elastic unattached end upward and springing it over the gunwale.

Throughout all this great region there is not a foot of solid ground. In one place we pushed a tall shoot some eight feet in height straight down through the mud, and it went out of sight. A man falling on this mud, out of reach of aid, would vanish as in a quick-sand. So the wild creatures of the mangroves must either swim, fly, or climb. No terrestrial beings can exist there. We once selected a favorable place, and for fifty yards made our way over the roots and branches before exhaustion and an impassable gap of mud and water stopped all progress. As never before we realized how safe from man are the denizens of these strange swamps. Monkeys fled swiftly before us, birds rose and flew overhead, while we painfully crept and pulled ourselves along over the slippery stems.

More wonderful even than the coral polyps are these mangroves, for by this plant alone all this region has been rescued from the sea and built up into land. In future years, as the mud banks become higher and are fertilized by the ever-falling leaves, other growths will appear, and finally the coast of the continent will be thus extended by many scores of miles of fertile soil.

A network of narrow channels stretches through this wilderness and allowed us to explore the far interior in our shallow curiara or dug-out. Thus we spent days and weeks in search of the creatures which lived in this land of a single tree, and here we learned how delightful the climate of such a region can be. Every night we slept under blankets, and during the day the temperature ranged from 66° at five and six o’clock in the morning to about 86° at noon, although we were within nine degrees of the equator.[B] One could paddle all day with more comfort than on a hot summer day in the north. By day mosquitoes were generally absent, and only a few biting flies reminded us of the “terrible insect scourges” of the tropics. Life was delightfully new and strange, with the spice of danger ever attendant upon the exploration of unknown lands.

The fishes attracted our attention from the first. When we came on deck before sunrise for a plunge, our little vessel would be surrounded by hosts of catfish (_Pseudaucheniplerus nodosus_) all, like our sloop, headed upstream against the tide. They would bite indifferently at bait, a bit of cloth, or a bare hook, and were delicious eating. On the bottom our hooks would sometimes be taken by great fierce-whiskered cats, bedecked with long streamers, which gave no end of trouble before they were quieted. They were pale yellow, and the head and back were encased in bone; Maestro—the cook—called them the crucifix fish, and later showed us why. On the under surface of the bony armor is a large cross with a halo about it just above the arms. The crew never caught one of these fish without making the sign of the cross in their right palm.

When the tide was half down the funniest of puff-fishes (_Calomesus psittacus_), or tambourines as the Captain called them, would take our bait. They were from three to five inches long, white below, and pale greenish above crossed by seven black bands, the first across the mouth and the seventh at the tip of the caudal fin. There was also a black patch at the base of the pectoral fins. The iris was bright lemon yellow. When gently scratched on the lower parts, or sometimes even when just lifted from the water they would swell up into a round ball. They were covered with short, stiff bristles which stood on end when the fish was inflated, and their comical appearance was increased by the four rodent-like incisor teeth in the front of the mouth. When thus inflated with air they were helpless for a time, and if thrown back, floated belly upward at the mercy of the wind and current, until they were able to collapse to normal size.

On one of our first excursions among the mangroves in our small canoe we made a most interesting discovery. Here and there, sprawled out on the mud-flats, were small crocodiles, and occasionally a large one would rush off into the water at our approach. Hugging the edge of the tide where the ripples lapped back and forth on the black ooze were many other living creatures. For a long time we could not make them out, but finally, drifting silently upon a whole school, we knew them for four-eyed fish (_Anableps anableps_)—strange creatures which we had hoped to see.

We came to a tiny bayou, shaped like a bottle, from which four Little Blue Herons[34] flew as we approached. We placed our dug-out corklike athwart the mouth and anchored with our crossed paddles. The air was warm, bees hummed about the tiny four-parted flowers of the mangroves, and a great blue morpho butterfly flapped past, mirrored in the water beneath. Then came tragedy—never far off in this land of superabundant life. A small clay-colored crocodile made a sudden rush at a ripple, and a quartet of four-eyes shot from the water in frantic fear. One was slower than the rest, and the fierce jaws of the diminutive reptile just grazed him. Another fell back downward in the ooze, and in a twinkling was caught and dragged into the depths. No wonder the poor little four-eyes are ever on the lookout for danger and spend most of their time where they merge with the ripples along the shore, when such enemies are on the watch for them!

A whir of wings sounded, and a Kingfisher[69] alighted within arm’s reach. But such a Kingfisher!—the veriest mite, clad in a robe of brilliant emerald and orange. So small was he that it seemed as if the tiniest of minnows must choke him. He seemed to be of the same opinion, for while we watched him he caught only the insects which passed him in mid-air or which were floating on the water.

By far the most numerous, and in their way the most interesting of the mangroves’ inhabitants, were the crabs. There were untold millions of them, all small, all active and keen of vision. If we sat quietly, they would appear from everywhere, peeping out like little gnomes from their perches on the mangroves, forever playing their noiseless little fiddles. These tiny tree-folk not only played, but danced. Let us picture a scene constantly enacted, so close to us that we could all but touch the performers. Two crabs approach each other, now fiddling vigorously, now waving their diminutive pincers back and forth over their heads as a ballet-dancer waves her arms. They move never in straight lines, but sideways, now running back a few steps, now forward, until at last they meet, and each grasping the other’s claws, raises them aloft, and then for five minutes they circle about in most ludicrous imitation of a waltz. All this usually takes place on the _lower_ surface of a mangrove trunk, the inverted position apparently making no less secure the footing of the little dancers. We could not decide whether this performance was in the nature of courtship or just pure play.

What we did discover concerning the lives of these crabs was full of interest. Hundreds of the smallest-sized ones lived in holes in the mud, and when the tide went down they came out and ran about—intent on some all-important business of their little existence. Another class of larger individuals had their holes near the roots of the mangroves, one (rarely two) good-sized crab apparently taking possession of each root. Here he disported himself, running up and down, from the water into the air with no change in speed, and here, strangest of all, he grew to resemble his home root. There was as great diversity among the roots as among the larger trunks—whitish, black, mottled, and all intervening shades. It was a fact, of which we had hundreds of daily proofs, that the crabs were so like their particular root that often we could not detect the quiescent crustacean when within a foot of our faces.

There was one group of five black roots forming a rough circle about a single mottled root. As we approached, a crab ran down each stalk into the water, and as we peered down and saw them go into their holes, we could at a glance tell the mottled crab from the five black ones. Even the roots which were as yet a foot or more above the bottom mud each had their occupant, which thus had to swim upward from his hole before he could grasp his swaying perch.