At Retiro station in Buenos Aires one takes the tri-weekly transcontinental train for the ride across the continent. “B. A. P.” upon the coaches stands for Buenos Aires and Pacific, which is the line that carries the traveller to the limits of Argentine territory. The gong strikes, the Argentinians who have gathered to see their friends away on this long journey wave their adieus and the train slowly pulls out without the clanging of an engine bell, with which these British locomotives are not provided. The passengers are all leisurely in their preparations for the journey, and one will seldom see the spectacle of a woman grabbing a box in one hand and a struggling child in the other and rushing frantically for her car. There is usually plenty of room, and whether there is or not the passenger takes his own time.

The trains on this line are very comfortable, although one misses the luxurious Pullmans of the United States. All the passenger coaches are compartment sleepers, and one diner is attached. There is no smoking or observation car, so that the solitary traveller oftentimes finds it lonesome, but smoking is permitted everywhere except in the dining-car, where gentlemen are requested not to smoke “when the seÑoras are present.” Some of the passengers gather in the diner after the tables have been cleared and talk or play games. The diner has good service and the only trouble is to keep the dust out of your food. A good meal of several courses is furnished in this comedor for two Argentine pesos. All of the diners of course have a bar, so that no one need to go thirsty, whatever his needs or demands may be.

The passengers on this train are always a mixed crowd. One will find tourists from many countries, English or German engineers, Chilean business men, Argentine estancieros, half-breed gauchos in their picturesque trappings, etc., etc. A half-dozen languages will greet one’s ears in the corridors. This feature is, however, one of the pleasures of such a trip. One will begin to speculate about his fellow passengers, and then as he meets them he will learn how far his conjectures come true. He will also learn that this is one of the meeting places of the four quarters of the globe.

One of the chief discomforts in riding across these plains is the dust which sifts in through the windows and doors at times until it is almost stifling. Then again a baby pampero may come up and blow almost with the force of a hurricane. A Kansas blizzard is hardly equal to it in force and velocity. The dust at times comes in such clouds that it makes difficult work for the section-hands, for it must be removed from the track. I have heard stories of the real, simon-pure pampero, which comes up from the Patagonia plains, blowing cars off the track, and the propelling of cars by means of a sail hoisted up on the car. One thing is sure, it is decidedly unpleasant and will so fill your mouth with dust that you feel you are continually chewing sand.

The real pampero generally follows a drouth and is preceded by a few days of extreme heat. At last a cloud appears on the pampas which looks like a great woolly ball set in a frame of gold. The dust of the road begins to fly and whirl about in little eddies. Bird and beast seek shelter and the people may be seen scurrying in every direction. Millions of insects scud past in the clouds of fine dust. The lightning flashes in sheets and forks, and the thunder seems to shake the very earth. Then comes the welcome rain, not in drops but in sheets, and mingled with it hailstones big as nuts. A few minutes after the rain ceases and the sun shines in a tranquil, cloudless sky. The atmosphere is so transparent that one can see almost incredible distances. The people breathe in deep draughts of the delicious air, the blood circulates freely and one feels as though he had renewed his lease on life.

One could scarcely imagine an easier country through which to build a railroad than across these pampas. Not only is it level but a shallow excavation gives a solid road-bed which needs little ballast. The work has mostly been done by Italian gangs who are employed by contractors. One can see their camps in many places. They live in small “A” tents and a car fitted out as commissary wagon is labelled the provideria. It is really a small department store on wheels, where almost anything can be purchased at reasonable prices.

The line from Buenos Aires to Mendoza, six hundred and fifty-five miles in length, is built on the broad gauge so common in Argentina. For several hundred miles after leaving Buenos Aires the country is as level as a barn floor, and the train traverses fertile fields in which wheat, corn and grazing lands alternate. One will pass through corn fields miles in length and then wheat fields still larger; and following these the alfalfa pasture will extend clear to the horizon, with immense herds of cattle dotting it until, in the distance, where earth and sky meet, the largest animals appear as mere specks on the landscape.

One is impressed with the great agricultural resources of Argentina, for only a small portion of this part of the republic is uncultivated. All of it is owned in large estancias that are measured by the square league, which comprises almost six thousand acres. The man with only one square league is a small farmer, and many of the estancias measure ten square leagues, or even more. Statistics show that among the one hundred thousand reported landowners there is an average holding of six square miles. The locusts are a terrible curse for the farmer, and they were very bad last season. I saw millions of them in crossing the pampas. It costs these ranch men thousands of dollars each year to fight this scourge of locusts, and as yet no permanent remedy has been discovered.

The road runs nearly due west. An insane asylum called “The Open Door” is passed about forty miles out from the metropolis. A number of Camp towns, such as Mercedes, Chacabuco and Vedia, are passed, but none of them are attractive places. At the latter place the province of Santa FÉ is entered, and a number of small towns are passed before the province of Cordoba is reached. Several branch lines shoot off to the south, which are feeders thus thrust out for freight, and branches of other lines run in from the north. Villa Mercedes, four hundred and thirty-two miles from Buenos Aires, is the first large town. The land has begun to rise and this town is sixteen hundred feet above sea level, although the aspect is still that of plains. It is situated on the Rio Quinto, and is a place of perhaps ten thousand people. This used to be the terminus of this line until it absorbed the Great Western a few years ago, which continued the westward route. It is one of the concentration camps for the instruction of conscripts drafted into the artillery regiments.

The broad pampas are perhaps not so lonely as they seem, for there is generally an abundance of bird life. Flamingoes haunt the lagoons, and long-tailed hawks sit like silent sentinels on the fence posts. The largest bird is the ostrich, of which there are tens of thousands scattered over these broad leagues, which have not yet been broken up by agriculture. In the entire republic it is estimated that there are more than four hundred thousand ostriches. They will feed among the stock, but the agriculturist soon makes them disappear. These long-necked and long-legged birds form a very pretty addition to the landscape. The South American ostrich is smaller than the South African species, and its feathers are not nearly so valuable. They are extremely abundant, however, and bring in a pleasing revenue for the farmer. The feather gatherers bargain with the estanciero to pay him so much for each bird found and picked on his estancia. Many of the ostriches are very tame, for the owners do not allow them to be hunted, but they roam at will, easily getting over the low fences that hedge in the fields. In some places the South African ostriches have been introduced and are raised for the commercial value of their plumes.

The next place of importance is San Luis, capital of the province of that name, at a still higher elevation. The dead level aspect has now changed to gentle undulations. The long gray shadows on the horizon are the peaks of the Andes, at a distance of one hundred and fifty miles. In this city there has recently been located an observatory by the Carnegie Institution of Washington. The purpose of this observatory is to observe the motion of all stars of the seventh magnitude in the southern heavens, and several American scientists are in charge of the work. A few miles beyond San Luis is an artesian well two thousand feet deep, which was sunk by the government and yields an immense supply of water. The pampa grass now stands in clumps and bare spots become more frequent. The railroad changes its direction time and again instead of taking a bee-line for some distant point. The stony character of the soil increases, but at last a land of vines and tall poplars is entered, and it is not long until the train rolls into the station at Mendoza.

“Hotel Grande.”

This was the instruction I gave to my cab driver at the station in Mendoza after my baggage had been deposited in the vehicle by a portero.

“No hay,” he answered, meaning that there was no such hotel.

I then told him to take me to the best hotel in the city. When we arrived at the hotel selected by him I saw an imposing building on the opposite side of the plaza with “Hotel Grande” upon it in large letters, and instructed my Jehu to drive me over to it. The secret of the matter is that the other hotel paid the driver a peso for each guest. There is only one good thing to be said about the cabs in Mendoza, and that is, the fares are cheap—if you know the established rates. A few years ago a tramway company laid tracks and began operations. Enraged at this intrusion upon their rights the cab owners began a war of fares. They lowered their charges to the level of the rates of the tram line, and announced that they would carry passengers to their very doors for the same price as the street car line would deposit them at the nearest corner, which might be blocks away. The deserted and abandoned rails which one may see in a few places proclaim the glorious victory of the cab owners. Although the fares have advanced somewhat since the abandonment of the street railroad they are still remarkably low.

Mendoza is one of the most picturesque cities in Argentina. It is an oasis in the midst of a stony desert. There is hardly a drier climate in the world, and, where the rainfall alone is depended upon, nothing will grow. Lying at the very foot of the lofty Andes range, it is the westernmost city of the republic. The streets are quite wide and the buildings are almost without exception of one story. The reason for this is the earthquake. The greatest disaster of that kind happened in 1861, and the inhabitants have been haunted ever since by fear of a return of such a holocaust. The tremors which occasionally occur are a constant reminder of the dangers; and the ruins of the great cathedral, whose walls crashed down upon the crowd of supplicants who had gathered within for protection, still stand as a warning. Reports vary greatly concerning that disaster. The most generally credited figures are that of a population of twenty thousand no less than twelve thousand met with death. It is difficult to believe, in the face of similar modern disasters, that any such proportion of fatalities occurred either from the earthquake, the fires that followed or the lawlessness which prevailed in the confusion of the next few days. It is said that many fell victims to the assassin’s knife when they were trying to escape with their few earthly belongings. The new houses have all been built of mud bricks with an extra amount of straw or cane mixed in, and the one-storied walls are made very thick. The result is an elasticity that is considerable of a safeguard against the earth’s tremblings.

The old ruined town lies about a mile from the new town and is a mass of ruins, scarcely a single house remaining intact. There is something sadly depressing about these heaps of fallen stones, broken arches and sightless windows—relics of the old Spanish-Moorish architecture. The old city covered about two hundred acres and contained seven churches and three convents. The first shocks levelled almost every building to the ground. They are a place of frequent pilgrimage and one may still find burning candles in nooks and corners, placed there by devout relatives of those who were hurled unshriven into the beyond. Surely purgatory cannot long retain the souls of those who were overtaken by death while at worship, even though they were unprepared to leave this world.

The centre of the town is the broad Avenue de San Martin, the alameda, with its double row of trees and the stream of water that runs on either side of the roadway. Were it not for this shade and the running water, the streets of Mendoza would be pretty hot in the middle of the day. Down this wide, cobblestoned street the Mendozians have their corso, or carriage drive, and one will see victorias with bells on the tongue wedged in with two-wheeled country carts, and all other kinds of vehicles. Happy farmers and the distinguished citizens of Mendoza mingle together on this occasion. There is a certain kind of provincial good humour about this little city so near the lonely Andes. Small boys armed with buckets on long poles dip the water from the canals and fling it across the thoroughfare. On Monday morning, or following a fiesta, this battle with the dust is conducted by a lot of shame-faced men who are not volunteers or employees of the city, but are working out a fine for the previous day’s debauch. The city also possesses a very pretty park besides a number of plazas. There is considerable street life in the city, and the cafÉs afford evidence of this, for they are wont to spread their tables far out under the trees in this genial climate.

Mendoza is not a temperance resort, for it is a great wine centre. This is the country of the grape, and it is this fruit that has brought wealth to Mendoza. All about the city are vineyards and meadows, and the outlines of the farms are marked by rows upon rows of graceful poplars. Millions of those poplars have beautified this country, which at one time was a barren waste, and would still be so were it not that man has harnessed the streams formed from the melting snows which rush down from the snow-clad peaks. Irrigation was first established by the Spaniards several hundred years ago, but it has been extended and systematized by the grape growers in recent years. Dams have been built across the rivers and the waters forced through artificial channels, until now there are more than twelve hundred miles of these channels, which water a district of approximately one thousand square miles.

As soon as you leave the city you will see the grapevines growing. Some are trained upon a low prop, as in France or Germany, others climb a staff and look like hops, while many vines creep up the poplar trees and stretch their tendrils across to the next tree, so that the tree trunks are all connected and form a cool, vine-covered lane for hundreds of rods. The vines are thus trained to form cool drives for the owners, and they are especially seductive when the great bunches of ripe fruit hang just high enough out of reach to be tantalizing. Little canals trickle here, there and everywhere among the fields of vines, and thus keep the roots ever moist. The prosperity of Mendoza is bound up in these tiny little streams, which give life to the grape, the onion and potato, for it seldom rains here. The day of my visit the sky became overcast with dark, foreboding clouds, as though a terrific storm was threatening. I hesitated to venture forth. The landlord said, “It looks this way nearly every day but it never rains.” I found out this statement was true and that rain is a rare event.

The development of the wine industry in the Mendoza district has been almost phenomenal. The greater part of the wine produced is not of a high quality, so that it appeals only to the masses and not to the connoisseur. The wealthier classes are satisfied with nothing less than the finest of European wines and champagnes. The quality of the grapes produced is of the finest, and the very best European varieties have been imported. The profits in some years are almost fabulous, for a few acres will bring in a handsome return. Some of the wine-manufacturing establishments are quite large and produce great quantities of that liquor so popular in all Spanish countries. The presses, vats, casks and everything in them is of the latest design. One will find wines leaving these establishments with Bordeaux, Burgundy, Moselle and Muscatel labels. It is shipped in both cask and bottle, and one will see high ox-carts and cumbersome wagons loaded with large casks on their way to the railroad station on almost any road leading to Mendoza. Thousands of tons of the grapes are shipped each year in the fruit form, for it is a peculiarly luscious growth and the bunches attain enormous size. Other fruits have been found to grow equally well at Mendoza and fruit canning is becoming quite an industry there. Peaches, pears and plums grow to good size and of good flavour, while apples, quinces and cherries do very well. The fruit culture is spread over a wide area of country and the culture is rapidly increasing. It is the boast of the Argentinian that the country is capable of producing every conceivable species of fruit, and it is not an idle boast. If the same care was taken that they give that industry in California they could flood the markets of Europe with their fruits. The general trouble is that the trees grow so easily that they are practically unaided, so that the fruit is oftentimes full of flaws and will not pass for prime quality in the markets. Grapes are about the only fruit to which scientific methods of culture have as yet been applied.

At Mendoza a change is made to the less comfortable narrow-gauge train, which conveys the traveller through the fastnesses of the Andes. The mountains are now plainly visible and the snow peaks can easily be distinguished from the dark background. The route leads first through grape and peach orchards, but these soon give place to the cactus and scrub growth which cling to the foothills. The Mendoza River, fed by the melting snows, tumbles along on its way down from the mountains and is crossed and recrossed many times. An occasional station is a somewhat forlorn outpost of human life. It consists principally of a water-tank and pile of fuel. The sole occupants visible are usually a woman, some children and a few goats, for the master of the house is probably at work. The solitudes are broken only by the shrill whistle of the locomotive. One enters a land of torrents, chasms, precipices and other freaky outbursts of nature.

At a distance of about one hundred miles from Mendoza is the Puente del Inca, Bridge of the Incas, one of the famous natural bridges of the world, and near it are some mineral springs and a hotel. This bridge is of limestone formation, the span being about one hundred and fifty feet in length, with a width of one hundred and twenty feet, and is about sixty feet above the Mendoza River, which flows beneath. There are many legends and tales which are told about this curious bridge, so named because it is said to have been on an old trail used by those ancient people.

A little further on is the station of Las Cuevas, the last stop in Argentine territory and the entrance to the tunnel under the mountain. The elevation at this place is in excess of ten thousand feet. There is a certain weird fascination about this spot so high up and seemingly so remote from all the hustle and bustle of the twentieth century. It is a place of contrariety. The contrast between light and shade and the different colours is very marked. There is no delicate and gentle shading of tints. There may be a black wall surmounted by the clear white snow; near by will be other rock walls, pinnacles or spires of green, violet, pink, blue or yellow. It is as though nature had set up a great kaleidoscope between the sun and the bulwark of rocks in order to flood this valley with colour.

When I crossed the Andes it was just a few weeks before the tunnel was opened to traffic. In early days this intervening distance between railhead was covered on foot or in the saddle. Later came the broad, white-covered four-horse coaches which conveyed our party. Five hundred horses and mules, many carriages and baggage wagons and a considerable force of men were maintained for this service. Four times the air-line distance is covered in reaching the highest point on either side. Extra riders with a hitch rope to assist a stalled vehicle follow the carriages. The manager, who was an American, and his guards, took short cuts and appeared in the most unexpected places. Scrambling, twisting and turning, the cavalcade mounted higher and higher, and the air became so cold that a heavy wrap felt comfortable. The air was wonderfully clear, and the distant mountain peaks were clearly outlined against the turquoise blue of the heavens. As the long line of carriages winding their way up the zigzag trail neared the summit, a sharp turn in the road suddenly revealed a striking statue outlined against the sky, and a feeling almost of awe fell upon us. While the carriages were stopped for the driver to examine the harness preparatory to the descent, the passengers gazed in silent admiration upon this monument. Lofty peaks lifted up their weird masses of black basaltic rock and dazzling snow into the clear blue of the Andean sky, among which were Aconcagua and Tupungato, which were clearly visible if one had a sharp and quick eye.

“Sooner shall these mountains crumble into dust than the people of Argentina and Chile break the peace to which they have pledged themselves at the feet of Christ the Redeemer.”

This is the inscription that appears on one of the tablets placed on the monument known as “The Christ of the Andes.” I know of no other monument, except the statue of Liberty enlightening the World, in the New York harbour, that is so imposing or impressive as this colossal statue, which is placed on a gigantic column in a pass almost thirteen thousand feet above the level of the sea. The silence and grandeur on all sides make it doubly impressive. The figure of Christ is twenty-six feet in height. In one hand it holds a cross, while the other is extended in a blessing, and as if uttering the one magic word “peace.” It was erected as a symbol of perpetual peace between the two nations, and was cast in bronze from the melted cannon of the two nations. Its location is on the international boundary line, which had just been established by arbitration, after war between these two countries seemed inevitable. A boundary standard has been set up right near it with the word “Chile” on one side and “Argentina” on the other. When this monument was dedicated, on the 13th of March, 1904, more than three thousand persons witnessed the ceremonies in this wild region. The appalling silence was broken by the roar of cannon and the music of bands. After these sounds had died away in the distance, there came the words of the Bishop of Ancud: “Not only to Argentina and Chile do we dedicate this monument, but to the world, that from this it may learn the lesson of universal peace.” Now that the railroad is completed these sturdy little animals have made their last trip, and fewer people will gaze upon this striking monument. The peon with a mail bag strapped on his back has tramped his way for the last time down the rocky trail in the winter snows. El Christo stands among the lonely crags, deserted, isolated and storm-swept, but ever with a noble dignity befitting the character.

The Chilean terminus of the tunnel is at Caracoles. From here another railroad of metre gauge, called the Trasandino Chileno, carries the traveller to the station of Los Andes. It has been found necessary to construct snow-sheds in many places in order to protect the track from snow-slides, which are likely to occur in August and September. From Los Andes to Valparaiso the route is over the Chilean State Railroad, which is of standard gauge, and passes through some rich and fertile valleys on its way towards the Pacific.

The scenery on the Chilean side is grandly picturesque and affords some magnificent views of mountain scenery. There are one hundred and eighteen bridges, an average of more than two bridges to the mile, from Caracoles to Los Andes. At El Portillo is the rock-bordered Inca Lake, on whose surface is reflected the mountains which slope abruptly into its waters. Masses of rock seem poised on ledges ready to project themselves down into the valleys with destruction in their path. One of the most wonderful sights is a narrow gorge, very deep, which forms the bed of a swift stream. At one place the overhanging rocks nearly meet, and this is called the Salto del Soldado, the Soldier’s Leap. It received this name because it is said that, during the early struggles for independence, a Chilean soldier, pursued by the enemy, escaped by leaping his horse over this chasm. How true the tale is I do not know, but it is a striking freak of nature, and is plainly visible from the train. There are in all one hundred and forty miles of the sublime in nature on the transandine railways, which will compare with any mountain railroad in the world, although the most sublime part, hitherto crossed by wagons or mules, will not be visible from the international express.

The Cordilleras of the Andes are formed of three distinct ranges running north and south. The western range forms the watershed and is the boundary line between Argentina and Chile, while the central range contains the highest peaks, Aconcagua, Mercedario and Tupungato. The eastern range is divided from the central one by a wide plain or plateau, several miles broad, known as the Uspallata, which is some six thousand feet above sea level and is one hundred and fifty miles long from Mendoza north. Without lakes or trees, this plain is one of the most desolate and uninteresting spots imaginable, but the varied colouring of the stratification is marvellous. This lower range conceals the higher peaks from view as one approaches from the Argentine side.

As one proceeds from Mendoza the upper valley begins to close in and the track pierces the main range of the Cordilleras between walls of porphyry and granite. To the north one gets at last a glimpse of Aconcagua some twenty-three thousand and eighty feet above sea level, and higher than any peak outside of the Himalayas. It is more than ninety miles from the Pacific and can be seen on a clear day from Valparaiso, for its lofty head is lifted up above its neighbours. It is on the Argentine side, and all the melted ice and snow from its slopes pours down over the pampas of that country. It is surrounded by winding valleys, by rugged and precipitous spurs and ridges which are difficult of access. One of the best views is from the Puente del Inca where the Horcones Valley opens out into the Cuevas Valley. It has been termed a volcano, but there are no signs of a crater and few traces of scoriÆ. To the north of Aconcagua lies the Mercaderio, over twenty-two thousand feet, and to the south Tupungato, just a few feet lower. On the Chilean side, near the Cumbre, is Juncal (19,500 feet), and near it are the peaks of Pollera, Navarro, Maipo and the great volcano of San JosÉ.

The most striking aspect of these Andean solitudes is their terribly bleak and desolate appearance. Trees there are none, but only a few shrubs and blades of grass growing in the clefts of rocks here and there; nothing but a huge expanse of yellow sand and stone, with peaks rising on every hand whose extraordinary stratification presents many-coloured hues which are almost bewildering to the eye. Great torrents flow down their sides whose waters are of a dull, brackish colour. These are exceedingly rapid and full of dangerous holes, so that the fording of them is perilous. The line of perpetual snow is about seventeen thousand feet, although this varies. In the spring there is a very curious phenomenon at times on the glaciers and snow slopes. It consists of huge fields composed of cones, or pyramids, of frozen snow, some four or five feet high, placed close beside each other. These cones are called the nieve penitente, or penitent snow, because of its semblance to the cowled Penitent Friars. This effect is caused by the combined action of the sun and wind upon the frozen masses.

Aconcagua is distant about a dozen miles from the Inca or Cuevas. The weather, however, is uncertain even in summer, and a terrible wind usually prevails after sunrise. These render exploration work difficult and even dangerous. In the winter the snowfall is excessive. In the summer there is no snowfall and the wind blows the dust from the desert-like valleys in stifling clouds, which are oftentimes almost unendurable. Storms which are almost blizzards spring up as by magic on the high altitudes. The lightning is especially vivid and dangerous.

The pass of the Cumbre is one of the most dangerous passes because of its fearful storms. Every few miles there are the dome-shaped casuchas, which have been built for shelter, with their doorways perched up high above the ground as a precaution against being snowed under. In one of the most dangerous parts is a little graveyard by the roadside, with numerous little wooden crosses in various stages of decay which bear eloquent testimony to the toll which has been demanded by the storm king.

The arrieros, or mule drivers, that one may engage, never set foot on the ground if they can avoid it. It would, I suppose, be a loss of caste to walk, and they would rather ride their horses over a precipice than humiliate themselves by getting off and walking. The general appearance of these arrieros is decidedly picturesque, is certainly distinctive and gives them a rather striking appearance. They ride an old-fashioned Mexican saddle with a number of sheepskins strapped over the top of it. They generally have their feet encased in soft slippers made of a square piece of rawhide strapped on the foot by leather thongs, which would certainly make walking over stones decidedly uncomfortable. They are fond of silver trappings and gaudy accoutrements, and the more jingling these accessories make the better pleased is the rider, for he declares that this noise encourages the animals.

Aconcagua is distant a dozen miles from the Cumbre. The ascent of this peak has been made up a valley which runs over toward it. Vegetation gradually disappears on the upward journey, and the most of the streams contain water unfit to drink. Soon the giant cliffs and crags of Aconcagua tower over the traveller, a great mass of rock rising like the battlements of some stupendous castle. Its vast proportions are bewildering to the pygmy onlooker. Amidst this amphitheatre of peaks and valleys it would seem was the arena of one of the early-world dramas ages and ages ago. The cold becomes greater and more acute as more lofty heights are reached, especially so just before daybreak. The wind is biting. The loose round stones make a footing difficult. What looks like a mere step from one part of the mountain to another often means hours of toil to the venturesome climber.

One writer says: “The sight that met my gaze was an astounding one. An immense glacier separated us from the glacier below—the difference between twenty-three thousand feet and thirteen thousand feet. It was a precipice of gigantic size. As I looked down its dizzy sides, I saw spurs of the mountain flanking the glaciers beneath to the left and right, giving the appearance of some huge amphitheatre. The sun was low in the heavens, and did not penetrate into the vast pit, and the great masses of vapour slowly moving about in it far below, gave it the aspect of a giant cauldron, into whose depths the eye failed to penetrate, two miles vertically below. The arete, about five feet wide at this point, ran east to the summit and west to the snow-clad western peak of the mountain, growing ever narrower in that direction, until, where it sloped up to the highest point, its edge became knife-like.”

In “The Highest Andes,” by E. A. Fitzgerald, the following description is given of the summit of Aconcagua. “Over Argentinian territory range beyond range stretched away; coloured slopes of red, brown and yellow, peaks and crags capped with fresh-fallen snow. I had hoped to look down upon the pampas of Argentina. In this I was disappointed for, though I gazed down over the range, a sea of mountains some sixty miles in width, and averaging a height of quite thirteen thousand feet, made such a view impossible. Away over the surging mass of white cloud that lay on the glacier at my feet rose the southern frontier chain. Torlosa and the Twins, on either side of the Cumbre Pass, stood like colossal sentinels guarding the great highway between the two republics; then there were the lofty glaciers lying between the rugged crags of Juncal, the ice peaks of Navarro and Pollera, the Leones and the Cerro del Plomo, that overhangs the city of Santiago, Chile, and some sixty miles farther on the magnificent white summit of Tupungato.

“No lens or pen can depict the view from the Chilean side. I looked down the great waste, past the western peak of the mountain to right and left, over ranges that dwindled in height as they neared the coast to where, a hundred miles away, the blue expanse of the Pacific glittered in the evening sun. The sun lay low on the horizon, and the whole surface of the ocean within the points of vision was diffused with a blood-red glow. The shimmering of the light on the water could be distinctly seen. So near did it seem that I could not realize the immense distance that separated one from it.

“All the forces of nature had been brought to bear upon this mountain giant. Visible signs lay around one of the power of the weather and rapid changes of temperature to destroy. Aconcagua, with all its cherished secrets and its mystery, lay here before one, confessing itself as nothing more than a colossal ruin, for not a single vestige of the ancient crater of this extinct volcano remains. Foot by foot the relentless forces of nature have reduced the mountain to its present proportions. The innumerable traces of ruin and decay around one, the crumbling rocks and the disappearance of the crater told of an Aconcagua of the past, whose gigantic base filled the glacier-beds around, whose sides rose towering to the heavens several thousand feet higher than the Aconcagua of to-day; of an Aconcagua of ages yet unborn, split, broken and powdered by frost and heat, pouring itself over valleys and plains in sediment and shingle, a mere shapeless mass whose height will no longer distress the mountaineer.

“I looked at the time. It was twenty minutes past six. The sun, a great ball of blood-red fire in a cloudless sky, was dipping into the waters of the Pacific. Rapidly it sank and disappeared from view, yet, as if struggling for supremacy with the fast-approaching night, an afterglow of surpassing beauty spread over land and sea in a series of magnificent changes of colour. The mighty expanse of water from north to south, together with the sky above it, was diffused with a fiery, red glow. While the red in the sky remained, the waters, through a variety of intermediate shades of colouring, turned slowly to purple and then to blue. And yet we were not in darkness, for with the sun’s departure the risen moon declared itself with wondrous brightness, penetrating the thin atmosphere and flooding everything with its colder light.”