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. [Illustration: A TYPICAL LANDSCAPE IN TIERRA DEL FUEGO, GIVING SOME IDEA OF THE AWFUL DESOLATION OF THE COUNTRY. _From a Photograph._]