From Miraflores on, the descent was continuous. Before penetrating into the forest, we skirted the mountain for a good many miles. The road, barely 4 or 5 feet in width, had been cut out of the rock, like the cornice of a temple. On the one side we had the bluff of the mountain, and on the other a precipice of hundreds, and even thousands, of feet in depth. The inclination at times was so steep that at a distance the line of the road on the mountain seemed almost vertical, and the file of mules with riders or with loads on their backs appeared like so many flies on a wall.

Up to the time that we reached Miraflores, we had followed what in Colombia are called, according to the loyal tradition still living on the lips, if not in the hearts, of the people, ‘royal roads,’ or caminos reales. These royal roads are paths along the mountain slopes, said to follow the old Indian trails, and the Indians had a peculiar way of selecting their paths or trails. They seem to have been impervious to fatigue, and Franklin’s adage, now accepted the world over, that time is money, did not obtain with them, for they had no money and abundant time. When an Indian wanted to cross a range of mountains, instead of selecting the lowest summit, he fixed his eye on the highest peak, and over it would wend his way. The explanation given is that thus he accomplished two ends—crossing the range and placing himself in a position to see the widest possible horizon. Be that as it may, the Spaniards who settled in the colonies accepted the precedent, and the result is a most wearisome and unpleasant one in the present day.

But if as far as Miraflores we had the so-called ‘royal roads,’ from thence on in an easterly direction towards the plain we lacked even these apologies for roads. From Miraflores towards the llanos, along the slope of the Cordilleras, extends an intricate forest in its primeval state. We had to fight our way through the under-brush amongst the trunks of the huge trees, and at times really battling for each foot that we advanced. However, our guides, who were expert cattle-drivers—large quantities of cattle being driven through these forests from the plains to the uplands—knew the forest so well that the obstacles were reduced to their minimum.

We rode in Indian file, the chief of the guides ahead of the line cutting with his cutlass, or machete, the branches and overhanging boughs, thorns, reeds, creepers, and the like, that might strike us in the face as we rode under them. Next to him followed two peones, who cleared the ground, if necessary, from fallen branches or stones against which our mules might stumble. At first this slow mode of travel was most interesting. The light scarcely filtered through the dense mass of leaves, so that we felt as if we stood constantly behind some cathedral stained-glass window. The air was full of the peculiar fragrance of tropical flowers and plants; the orchids swung high above our heads like lamps from the vaults of a temple, and the huge trunks of the trees, covered with creepers studded with multi-coloured flowers, appeared like the festooned columns of a temple on a feast-day.

However, there were certain drawbacks: the ground was so wet and spongy that the feet of the animals sank into it, and progress was accordingly very slow. Now and then we would come to a halt, owing to a huge boulder of rock or large trunk of a tree barring the passage absolutely. It was then necessary for the guides to seek the best way of overcoming the obstacle. Frequently we had to alight from our mules, as it was dangerous to ride them in many places. The guides and the muleteers walked on the uneven ground—now stony, and now slippery—with the agility of deer, sure-footed and unconscious of the difficulty. I had to invent a means of advancing: I placed myself between two of the guides, hooking one arm to a guide’s on each side, and thus, though frequently stumbling, I never fell, but it may be readily understood that this mode of progression was neither comfortable nor rapid.

Another inconvenience was found in the thorny bushes, prickly plants, and trees which it was dangerous to approach, such as the palo santo, so called because it is frequented by a kind of ant of that name, whose bite is most painful and induces a slight fever.

On the second day the guide who was ahead fired his gun, and, on our asking him for the cause, said:

‘Only a rattle-snake!’

As a matter of fact, he had killed a large specimen, said to be seven years old, as shown by the seven rattles that were taken from its tail. These things did not help to make the ride through the intricate forest more pleasant. We longed to see the open sky, which we could only discern through the veil or network of leaves and branches, and, by a phenomenon of sympathy between the lungs and the eyes, it seemed to us that we lacked air to breathe. Now and then we would come to a clearing, but we soon plunged again into the thick of it, and felt like wanderers gone astray in an interminable labyrinth or maze of tall trees, moist foliage, and tepid atmosphere.

The guides told us from the start that it would take from four to five days to reach the end of the forest. On the fifth day, towards noon, almost suddenly we came upon the open plain. Our hearts leaped for very joy, and we hailed the vast green motionless solitude, that extended far into the horizon before our eyes like a frozen sea, with a shout of joy. The trees of the forest stood as in battle-line in front of the endless plain; the sun darted its rays, which shimmered in the countless ribbons, some broader than others, of the silver streams sluggishly dragging their waves along the bosom of the unending prairie. Copses of moriches, an exceptionally graceful species of palm, dotted the plains in all directions. They seemed as though planted by the hand of man to hide behind them a castle, or some old feudal structure, which our imagination reared complete, full-fledged, with its walls, its roof, its turrets, and its legends. The site looked as if prepared for a large city about to be built, and waiting only for the arrival of its architects and inhabitants, even as the white page tarries for him that is to inscribe upon it a living and immortal thought.

To continue our journey on the llanos, the assistance of the guides was even more necessary than in the thick of the forest. To attempt travelling on the llanos without expert guides would be like seeking to cross the sea without a compass.

Once in the llanos, we came within a few hours to the hamlet of San Pedro, a cattle-trading station consisting of a few thatch-roofed houses, almost deserted except during the various weeks of the year specially fixed for traders and breeders to meet. Here we were at last at the end of the first stage of our journey. It was New Year’s Day. Behind us lay the maze of forest, the meandering trails and paths, the sheer mountains, the cold fertile plateau, the native city, and the dead year. Before us we had the unlimited plain, the wandering rivers, and there, beyond all, like a promise, tossing, heaving, roaring, the sea, vast, immeasurable, the open roadway to the shores of other lands, some of them free, some of them perhaps hospitable, all girdled by the ever-beating waves which now die moaning on the sands, now dash their fury into foam on the rocks of the shore.