Our plan, on leaving Villavicencio, was to reach BogotÁ in three days. This we could easily have accomplished, had there not been a mistake in the telegram ordering horses to be in readiness for us on our arrival at Caqueza. The morning after arriving there, when we inquired for our mounts, we were surprised to learn that we were not expected until a day later, and that it would not be possible for us to get animals until the following morning.

“Travelers usually take three days to make the trip from Villavicencio to Caqueza,” said Sr. N., who was to furnish the horses, “and I did not think you would attempt to make such an arduous journey in two days. However, everything will be ready early to-morrow morning. Besides a day’s rest here, preparatory to crossing the paramo, will do you no harm. Most people coming up from the llanos consider it necessary.”

Not desiring to remain longer in the insectarium, in which we had spent so wretched a night, we removed to an asistencia—boarding house—in another part of the town. Here we found clean and comfortable quarters and had reason to congratulate ourselves on our involuntary detention in this interesting town. We were both quite jaded from the long ride of the previous day, and really needed some repose more than we at first realized.

“But why did we not,” it may be asked, “continue our journey through to BogotÁ on our mules? Are they not the best and surest-footed animals in the steep mountain trails?”

The reply is best given in the words of our host at Villavicencio, Sr. N.: “It would never do for such distinguished travelers as you are—personas tan amables y tan honorables—to enter the national capital on such lowly animals as mules. Only common people do this. Custom here makes it de rigueur for people of the better classes to travel on horseback. More than this. Our people usually send word ahead to have a carriage meet them in the suburbs of BogotÁ, as they do not care to enter the city even on horseback. Permit me to order a carriage to meet you at Santa Cruz, some distance this side of the capital.”

We thanked him for his kind offer, but replied that, while we should be glad to defer to the custom of the country, by exchanging our mules for horses, we should forego the usual formality of entering the city in a carriage. We were simple, plain travelers and wished to remain such till the end of our journey.

Caqueza, fully twenty-five miles from BogotÁ, is the capital of a district of the same name and, in location, is not unlike that of many of the higher mountain towns of Colombia or Switzerland. It is surrounded on all sides by beautiful mountain ridges and is about five thousand and six hundred feet above sea level. The temperature at seven o’clock p. m., the day before our departure, was 72° F., but at no time during the day was it much higher. In temperature, elevation and the beauty of the surrounding mountains it is much like Caracas, and when the long-projected railroad from BogotÁ to the llanos shall have been completed, it will become a commercial centre of considerable importance. The climate is salubrious and as equable as that of Bermuda, and the town, counting about two thousand inhabitants, is just such a place as the traveler from the lowlands would delight to tarry in, if he were always master of his own time.

Early the second morning after our arrival in Caqueza, we had bidden adieu to this interesting town and its hospitable people and were on our way to the crest of the Andes. Just outside of the town we crossed the Rio Caqueza, over what looked like the Devil’s Bridge in ruins. Fortunately, we had grown quite accustomed to such shaky structures, although, in the beginning, we approached them with the greatest misgivings. Near San Miguel, for instance, we had to cross a raging torrent, in a dark, deep ravine, over what was but the semblance of a bridge, that threatened every moment to collapse. It was in reality nothing more than three logs laid side by side and covered with loose twigs and earth. It had no railings or balustrades at the sides, and the abutments at the two ends had become so loosened by the heavy rains that it seemed every moment on the verge of tottering into the abyss below. Even our mules balked at the treacherous structure. However, after taking a good look at the tumultuous Rio Negro, that was coursing through the wild gorge beneath, and stretching their long ears toward the opposite bank, as if to determine thereby what chance there was of a successful passage, they finally ventured on the bridge, but it was with fear and trembling. And how light was their step and how they actually felt their way until they reached terra firma! From that moment the much-abused mule rose high in our estimation. He may be obstinate, but he instinctively avoids danger. And when he concludes to go forward, you may be sure that the danger is more apparent then real. Subsequent experience only confirmed us in the impression that we then formed of him.

From the time we crossed the Rio Caqueza, our path was ever upward towards cloudland. La cumbre—the summit—of the Andes, where we were to cross it, is about midway between Caqueza and BogotÁ, and is nearly a mile higher than the makeshift of a bridge over the Rio Caqueza.

We had left Caqueza only a few miles behind us when we found a large number of market women—young and old—on the road. They were mostly Indians, all carrying heavy burdens from seventy-five to a hundred pounds, and, to our surprise, they were all en route to BogotÁ. I do not think we met one going to Caqueza. They were loaded down with chickens, eggs, fruits and all kinds of garden produce for the BogotÁ market.

But think of carrying such burdens more than twenty miles, and that, too, over the lofty Cordilleras! And think, too, of the slight pittance that was often to reward the expenditure of such energy! Nevertheless, all of these poor people seemed to be quite happy. They were constantly chatting and singing, as they trudged along the rough, stony path, and rarely stopped to rest. They were clad in a rough, dark-colored tunic, something like the peplum or chiton of the ancient Greeks. Most of them were barefooted, although we saw some who wore alpargatas, a kind of sandal made from the fibres of the aloe, which flourishes everywhere in the uplands of Colombia. As in Mexico, so also here, this plant has from time immemorial furnished the natives many articles of daily use.

What specially attracted our attention was the number of chickens and eggs these humble folks carried with them to the market. When we observed this and noted the number of cattle, horses and other domestic animals we had seen along our route, and the variety of fruits and vegetables that were under cultivation, we could not but recall what Herrera has to say about the absence of these and other things in pre-Colombian times.

“In the other hemisphere” (America), he writes, “there were no dogs, asses, sheep, goats, swine, cats, horses, mules, camels, nor elephants. They had no oranges, lemons, pomegranates, figs, quinces, melons, vines, nor olives, nor sugar, wheat nor rice. They knew not the use of iron, knew nothing of firearms, printing or learning. Their navigation extended not beyond their sight; their government and politics were barbarous. Their mountains and vast woods were not habitable. An Indian of good natural parts being asked what was the best they had got by the Spaniards, answered: The hen’s eggs, as being laid new every day; the hen herself must be either boiled or roasted, and does not always prove tender, while the egg is good every way. Then he added: The horse and artificial light, because the first carries men with ease and bears his burdens, and by means of the latter (the Indians having learned to make wax and tallow candles and oil), they lived some part of the night! and this he thought to be the most valuable acquisition from the white people.”1

At the time of the arrival of the Spaniards in South America, there were no domestic animals except the llama, the alpaca, the guinea pig and the alco, and these were found only within the limits of the empire of the Incas.

There was a time, however, long anterior to the advent of Europeans—during the Pleistocene epoch—when horses2 and the larger members of the camel tribe roamed over the vast plains of South America, notably in the parts now known as Argentina and Southern Brazil. It was at this period, too, that flourished in the same regions those gigantic creatures, now extinct, known as the mylodon, the ground sloth, the glyptodont, the mastodon, the toxodont and peculiar sabre-toothed tigers, vast quantities of whose remains have been found and carefully stored away in our museums. Not far toward the west of us, at the Campo de los Gigantes3 in the Savanna of BogotÁ—not to speak of those found in the bluffs along the valley of the Zulia—abundant fossil remains have been discovered of horses, taxodonts, glyptodons, and megatheriums. It is, indeed, a remarkable fact that the South American continent, which has enriched the Old World with so many valuable medicinal and economic plants, has not given to it a single useful animal.

After traveling some hours we reached Chipaque, an interesting mountain town fully half a mile higher above sea level than Caqueza. Our attention was attracted by an unusually large and beautiful stone church, which was then undergoing repairs. A great bell, imported from Europe, had just been put in one of the towers. It was the gift of Gen. Reyes, then president of the republic, and the good people were not only proud of their bell but were loud in their praises of the generous donor.

But where did the money come from for the erection of such a noble structure? The people all seemed very poor, and quite unable to keep such an edifice in repair after its completion, not to speak of supplying the means for building it. We frequently found ourselves asking this same question in other parts of South America, when contemplating the large and beautiful ecclesiastical structures that are often met with where one should least expect to find them. The builders of them evidently belonged to those ages of faith that have bequeathed to us those marvels of architecture—the great cathedrals of Europe.

Something that always afforded us great comfort, and that was rarely far away, after we left Villavicencio, was the telegraph line. For weeks we had been far away from it, and, in case of need, it could not have been reached. It was then that we really felt that we were indeed a long way off from home and friends. To communicate with them by letter would then have required the best part of a year, for there was no regular postal service to which we could have had recourse. With the friendly and willing telegraph ever near, it was quite different. By its means we could, in a few hours at most, convey a message to the most distant parts of the world.

When leaving any given place in the morning our whole party—peons with baggage, mules included—would be together. But it was not long until we were far in advance of the vaqueano and peons, whom we would not again see until evening or, as it sometimes happened, until the following morning. There was rarely any danger of losing our path, for the simple reason that there was, as a rule, only a single path from one place to another. We had, therefore, nothing to do but to keep to the trail. Occasionally, however, we would come to a point where it was necessary to choose between two diverging trails. Then it was that the telegraph line was an invaluable guide. We followed the trail which it paralleled, and in so doing we never went astray.

It was now several months since we had received a letter from home. We had not even seen a newspaper of any kind, and were, consequently, in utter ignorance of what was occurring in the great and busy world we had left behind us. But strange as it may seem, the traveler in Nature’s wilds seems soon to grow indifferent to the world’s doings. Even those who at home consider the morning and evening papers indispensable necessities, seem to forget that there are such things. Nay, they even experience a sense of relief that they have gotten beyond the reach of post and telegraph, and that, for once in their lives, they can call their time their own. Indeed, the absence of the daily paper, with its countless dispatches, far from being a privation, soon impressed us as a positive blessing.

We enjoyed a sense of freedom—the freedom of the child of the forest—we had never known before. We were beginning to see how easy it was to dispense with many things that are so often regarded as essentials to pleasure and comfort. If we had been unavoidably detained at some Indian encampment for a few months or found it necessary to tarry a year or so in one of the little bamboo cottages on the eastern slope of the Andes, we should not have regarded it as an unmixed evil. Even as I pen these lines, I have a vivid recollection of a score of tiny cots along the Rio Negro and the Rio Caqueza, near a purling brook or a musical cascade, shaded by palms and surrounded by smiling citrus trees, where it would be a delight to live and commune with Nature at her best.

I can fully sympathize with Waterton’s longing for the wild and his love of tropical life. Every lover of nature, who has spent some time in the heart of the equatorial forests, is affected in the same way. The wanderlust and abenteuergeist—the love of travel and adventure—grows on one, it seems, in the wilds of South America more than elsewhere. Is it because the conquistadores and other early explorers have impregnated the atmosphere with their spirit, or because the environment of itself has the power of inoculating the visitor from the north with the microbe of a life-long wanderleben? Dicant Paduani.

Recording his impressions of travel in Andean highlands a writer in the early part of the last century says: “A sense of extreme loneliness and remoteness from the world seizes on his,” the traveler’s mind, “and is heightened by the dead silence that prevails; not a sound being heard but the scream of the condor, and the monotonous murmur of the distant waterfalls.”4

This, undoubtedly, like many similar impressions, is a question of temperament. As for ourselves we never, for a single moment, experienced anything even approaching a feeling of loneliness or remoteness from the world. Probably, like Scipio Africanus, we are among those who never felt less alone than when alone. Far from feeling lonely while crossing the Cordilleras, we congratulated ourselves that we were far away from the beaten track of personally conducted tourists.

We could not help comparing the splendid panoramas around us with the noted show places of Switzerland. In the Andes it was the forest primeval, or the humble cot, or the picturesque village of the unspoiled and simple people of eastern Colombia, where a foreigner is rarely seen, but where he is always sure of a cordial welcome. There were here no tourist resorts, no palatial hotels or restaurants, no sumptuous chalets or villas—seats of opulence and luxury—but Nature alone in all her beauty and sublimity, as she came forth from the hands of her Creator. We were far away from the land of inclined railroads, leading to every peak, and from macadamized thoroughfares, along which reckless drivers and wild chauffeurs are constantly claiming the right of way, regardless of the safety or convenience of the ordinary wayfarer.

The uplands of the Andes should be the last places in the world where the thoughtful mind should experience a sense of loneliness, or be oppressed with tedium or listlessness. There, if anywhere, such a thing as ennui should be impossible. There is so much to excite the imagination, and so much to gratify every sense, so much to exhilarate the weary spirits and to elevate the mind, that one feels oneself in a kind of mountain elysium, where every moment spent is one of unalloyed delight.

Never shall we forget the morning preceding our first crossing of the Cordilleras. The weather was ideal—neither hot nor cold—and the scenery at every turn was magnificent beyond compare. While the vegetation was quite different in character from that of the lowlands, it was, nevertheless, equally attractive and fragrant. Our route at times lay through a narrow defile with wild beetling steeps on both sides of us. Ever and anon we passed by natural bowers, sculptured in the solid rock and entwined with odorous plants and flowers, that might well serve as trysting places of fays and elves, or be the favorite resorts of Titania and Oberon. Farther on our way we descried a dark and romantic chasm which we could fancy might, under a waning moon, be haunted “by a woman waiting for her demon lover.” And higher up on a lofty peak, tinged with the roseate hues of quivering sunlight, C.’s fancy told us was the home of that race of Oreads

“Small wonder,” said C, “that the lively fancy of the Indian should have peopled these romantic spots with the creatures of his imagination, and that he should have woven legends about objects and phenomena that had specially attracted his notice. Even we, who see these things for the first time, find ourselves under the spell of the genius loci. Considering the beautiful arbors here formed by tree and vine and flower, the fantastic shapes assumed by rock and mountain spur, the mysterious natural phenomena that frequently obtrude themselves on his attention, and his proneness to refer to supernatural agency everything that his untutored mind is unable to explain, it would be a greater wonder if such legends did not exist, and if the numerous physical features, that have so often excited our interest, were left unpeopled by creatures of the Indian’s fancy.”

The Indian of Colombia may know nothing of our elves and fairies; sylphs, undines and salamanders; gnomes, kobolds and hobgoblins, but his fertile imagination has, nevertheless, found similar beings to people plain and forest and mountain peak. Now, as in the days of their pre-Colombian ancestors, the Indian loves to regard stones and rocks and trees of peculiar form or extraordinary size as the abode of certain spirits, or as being in some way identified with them. Like the Scandinavians of old, they see their deceased ancestors in the dense clouds that veil the neighboring hill tops. And like the peasant in the Hartz mountains, who has a superstitious dread of the spectre of the Brocken, they quail before a similar apparition frequently seen in the summits of the Cordilleras. They venerate the rainbow, and see in volcanoes the abode of beings of power and destruction.

To them, as to peoples of other parts of the world, the owl is a bird of ill omen. One of them, called from its cry ya acabo, ya acabo—it is finished, it is finished—is, when heard fluttering around the house, regarded as a harbinger of death. Another, the pavita, is considered as the spirit of some departed relative who, like the Irish banshee, would warn his kindred against death or some imminent calamity.

The Llaneros, fearless as they are in most respects, entertain the greatest dread of espantos, ghosts or apparitions. The bola de fuego, or the light of Aguirre, the Tyrant, is one of these ghosts. It is in reality nothing more than a kind of ignis fatuus, produced by the decomposition of organic matter, but to their minds, ignorant of the true nature of such gaseous exhalations, it is the soul of the infamous traitor, Lope de Aguirre, who, in punishment for his atrocities, has been condemned to wander through the broad forests and savannas that were the witnesses of his blood-stained crimes.

In their duendes, if they have not the analogues of pucks and brownies, they certainly possess a shrewd and knavish sprite, somewhat like the English Robin Good-Fellow. Among the Llaneros he is noted for the mischievous pranks he plays in the corrals, when occupied by horses and cattle, and, if one is to credit the stories of those who live on the plains, these particular duendes give the owners of live stock a world of trouble.

The Serranos—mountaineers—have even more wonderful stories to tell than the inhabitants of the llanos. The most remarkable of them are connected with certain caves, which are so numerous in the Eastern Andes, and certain lakes in which, the Serrano assures one, are occasionally observed phenomena of an extraordinary character.

They are firmly convinced, for instance, of a certain witch or malignant sorceress, called Mancarita, who carries away lonely travelers, or those who may have lost their way in the mountains. And they rehearse the tale of an Indian who concealed a bag of silver under a certain water fall near a well-known lake. This is guarded by a serpent or a dragon, but if one will, on St. John’s day, travel in a state of complete nudity, the paramo of Novagote from one end to the other, he will be able to get possession of the hidden treasure. In all these legends, and there are many of them, the Indian has as much faith as have the children of the North in the fairy stories they hear in the nursery.

Then there is that “strange, harrowing, long-drawn cry, human in its tones,” alleged sometimes to be audible in the depths of the tropical forests, for which no satisfactory explanation has as yet been given. The Indians say it is “The Cry of a Lost Soul.” The poet Whittier refers to it in the following verses:—

Some of their stories, however, seem to have some foundation in fact. Almost every paramero—inhabitant of the paramo—has a story to tell about seeing lightning or hearing thunder issue from certain lakes or wells as he was passing by on a clear night when there was not the slightest indication of rain or storm. At such times the waters of the lake may become violently agitated without any apparent cause. One’s vaqueano, on being asked the reason of such a phenomenon, simply replies, “EstÁ brava la laguna,” or “Truena la laguna—the lake is disturbed, or thunders.”

The Indian’s answer explains nothing, but the phenomenon seems to lend itself to an explanation which is as simple as it is natural. If we suppose these lakes, as we well may, to be in the craters of extinct volcanoes, in the bottoms of which, owing to slight earth tremors, rents are made in the rocks that permit the escape of imprisoned gases, the mystery is at least partially solved. The escape of gas, in large quantity under great pressure, would account for the violent agitation of the water. If these gases should become ignited by the action of the electricity with which, as we have learned, the summits of the mountains are often very highly charged, we should have in the flash of the ignited gas what the Indian takes to be lightning, and in the resulting explosion what he thinks is thunder.

I suggest this view merely as a tentative one, and hope that the phenomena in question, like those referred to in chapter nine regarding the luminous displays in the mountain summits, may eventually receive an explanation that men of science will accept as conclusive. But while awaiting the final word of empirical science regarding these, and similar mysterious manifestations of nature, we may, with the simple Indian, give free rein to our fancy and people the cascades and lakes, caverns, forests and colossal rock masses with all kinds of preternatural beings and invest them with the most extraordinary powers.

To be frank, we were not sorry to get away from the atmosphere of science, and find a land where the legends and traditions of the people were akin to those that were the delight of our childhood. For, much as we love science, we have never been willing to renounce the pleasure of indulging our imagination, as we did in years long gone by, when the fairy tale and the myth so captivated our youthful mind. We confess it freely, we were glad to be among the simple, primitive people of the Andes, and were deeply interested in their peculiar folklore. It afforded us, in another form, the pleasure we derived from our first acquaintance with the creations of Homer, Hesiod and Ovid; and with such productions as the Niebelungen Lied, Sakuntala, the Knights of the Round Table and Cid Campeador. All the science, history and philosophy in the world could not diminish the pleasure we still find in these creations of fancy. We cherish them as much, if not more, to-day, as we did when they first became a part of our intellectual life. For this reason, if for no other, the reader will conceive our unalloyed delight in being beyond the reach of the reports of physical and psychological laboratories, wherein nothing is admitted that has not the imprimatur of Baconian science or Comtian philosophy, both of which lay an absolute interdict on all the most charming creations of poetry and romance.

The vista towards the east, as we finally drew near the cumbre—the long desired summit of the Andes—was beautiful in the extreme. Below us, to the right and to the left, were a succession of mountain ridges, some still forest-covered, while others exhibited the smiling gardens, verdant pastures and humble dwellings of the inhabitants. Here and there was a picturesque little village of white-washed stone houses in place of the bamboo dwellings of the llanos and foothills. On all sides were multitudinous streams and torrents, that had their birth in the snow fields and ice pinnacles of the highest points of Sumapaz, and which were vying with one another in their long race for the broad emerald plains of Casanare and San Martin.

Above was the clear sapphire-blue sky, save where it was flecked by fantastic fleeces of glimmering clouds that floated voluptuously among the lofty peaks of the Cordilleras, and mantled them, in passing, with their quivering vapors. Then, as if by enchantment, all was changed with a suddenness that was positively startling. We had reached the limit of the alisios—trade winds—for the Andes form a rampart which they never pass. Here they are forced to part with the last drop of the moisture that they have brought from the distant Atlantic. But, on the occasion of our passage, they seemed determined to make one last desperate effort to cross the rock-ribbed barrier. As if marshaled by Æolus himself, the bright, white, cumulous clouds, those fair flocks of the west wind, were in a moment transformed into dark, ominous nimbi.

“Terrible, strange, sublime and beauteous shapes,” which, gathering their forces, dashed with the fury of the hurricane against the adamantine crest of the Cordilleras. The tempest lasted but a few minutes, and then all was as bright and serene as before, and, if anything, more radiantly beautiful.

Here, in a region empyreal, far away from the noise and turmoil of our marts of commerce, we breathed an air of purity, and experienced a sense of freedom that are unknown in the dank, foul and malarial atmosphere in which so many struggling millions pass the greater part of their wretched lives. But above all, what most impresses one in these ethereal heights is the sense of the proximity of God. We could almost fancy some one breathing into our ear the words of Tennyson:—

Traveling from the foothills to the summit of the Cordilleras is like going from the equator to the arctic circle. One has every variety of climate peculiar to the torrid, temperate and frigid zones, and the fauna and flora vary with the altitude as they change with the climate.

The inhabitants of the Andean regions have long recognized three distinct climates, known as those of the tierra caliente—hot land; the tierra frÍa—cold land; and the paramo. Men of science have, for the sake of convenience, added a third climate, that of the tierra templada, or temperate land. The altitudes at which these climates are found vary with the latitude and with certain meteorological conditions, but in Colombia and near the equator they are quite fixed and accepted as fair approximations to the truth.

Tierra caliente embraces a zone extending from sea level to a line one thousand meters higher up. It is pre-eminently the land of palms, ceibas and milk trees; of totumos and tamarinds, of the vanilla and ipecacuanha; the algarroba and white cedar; the sarrapia—Dipteryx odorata—and the poisonous curare—strychnos toxifera—from which the Indians make the deadly compound that renders their arrows such certain messengers of death. It is also the favorite zone for many tropical fruits such as plantains, bananas, mameys, nisperos, mangos, zapotes, oranges, lemons, pineapples, and scores of others found only in the lowlands of the equinoctial regions.

The upper limits of the tierra caliente are indicated by the disappearance of the cacao tree and certain plants that do not flourish at an altitude beyond one thousand meters above sea level. The tierra caliente and the tierra templada are connected by such well-known plants and trees as sensitive mimosas, bamboos, cinchonas and tree ferns, although these representatives of the vegetable world do not attain their full importance until higher altitudes are reached.

The tierra templada comprises a zone extending from one thousand to twenty-four hundred meters above sea level. It is in the lower part of this zone that the bamboo, the most delicate and graceful of tropical plants, attains its greatest development and gives its greatest charm to the landscape.

The numerous plants, shrubs and trees of the bean and myrtle families are seen at their best in the lower half of the tierra templada. It is here, too, that one meets with the largest and most beautiful specimens of tree ferns. So gigantic, indeed, are they that at a distance they are easily mistaken for a moriche palm. Only in the islands of the Pacific have I ever seen anything to compare with them in size and luxuriant loveliness.

In this zone the cultivation of coffee replaces that of cacao in the zone below. I have never seen larger or finer berries anywhere than we found on the shrubs grown on the eastern declivity of the Cordilleras near San Miguel. And yet, strange to relate, only a short distance from this spot, we found it impossible to get a cup of coffee, although we asked for it at several places. There was chocolate and chicha in abundance, but no coffee, where it would be, one would think, the most common beverage. Its absence here reminded us of the difficulty we found in getting a calabash of milk on the great cattle farms of the llanos.

At twelve hundred meters above sea level the palm family begins to lose its importance, although graceful representatives continue to charm the traveler until he reaches much higher altitudes. But one is, in a measure, reconciled to the disappearance of palms, that so delighted one in the lowlands, by the marvelous display made on all sides by countless species of the convolvulus and gesnerwort families. Nothing can exceed their exuberance, or their gay and brilliant flowers, as they mantle the shrubbery by the wayside or peep out from under the forest trees along one’s path.

The flora comprehended in the zone extending from eighteen to twenty-four hundred meters above the sea is in reality transitional in its nature, and partakes of the character of both that of the tierra templada and the tierra frÍa. The various species of cinchona render this zone notable, for it is here and in the tierra frÍa that was formerly obtained most of the quinine of commerce.

Tierra frÍa extends from twenty-four hundred to three thousand meters above sea level. Its vegetation, as would be expected, is entirely different from that of the hot plains and temperate valleys of the lowlands. One no longer sees the elegant forms of the plantain and the bamboo, nor the majestic palm and ceiba, nor the graceful and flexible bejucos and creepers of hotter climes. But, notwithstanding the absence of all these charming representatives of Flora, it cannot be said of the vegetation of tierra frÍa that it is either poor or devoid of importance. Its dark hardy foliage, may, if you will, give it the impress of solemnity and melancholy, but the herbs, shrubs and trees are remarkable, not only for the number of their species, but also for the beauty of their inflorescence and the variety and importance of their products. Here flourish the noble red cedar and the white caoutchouc tree that supplies to commerce the highly valued rubber known as the Virgen del Para.

The products of our northern lands, such as wheat, barley and potatoes, and such fruits—all of foreign origin—as the peach, pear, cherry and apple, together with a number of valuable garden vegetables, are cultivated in this zone, and with marked success.

The most important, and in some respects the most remarkable plant of the tropics is Indian corn—zea mais. It is cultivated in all the zones from the hot plains of tierra caliente to the upper regions of tierra frÍa and constitutes, in one form or another, the chief food-supply of the inhabitants. There is, however, a striking difference in the time required for the plant to reach maturity at the different altitudes. In the hot climates it is often ready for the harvest in two months after planting—when several crops a year are obtainable—whereas in the cold uplands it requires nearly a year to mature.

All the land between the tierra frÍa and the region of perpetual snow is called the paramo. It corresponds to the puna of Peru, Bolivia and Northern Chili. In some parts of Colombia the paramos are bleak, treeless plains, often enveloped in dark, cold fogs, or swept by keen blasts of almost arctic severity. In other parts, they are covered by a hardy Alpine vegetation, together with grasses and mosses of different species. The most interesting growths are strange-looking ferns and the woolly Frailejon—Espeletia grandiflora—which Sievers well designates as the character-plant of the paramos. The name, Frailejon, signifies a big monk, and was given the plant by the inhabitants on account of the fancied resemblance of its felt-like covering to a monk’s hood. It is usually from six to eight feet high, but it frequently attains a much greater altitude. It is one of those odd forms of vegetation that once seen are never forgotten.

No mere account, however, of the wonderful changes witnessed in passing from lower to higher altitudes can give any idea of the effect produced on the traveler. Every hour—yea, every minute—on his upward journey, he is greeted by new forms of vegetable life and must needs at the same time bid farewell to others that may not accompany him beyond their own proper zones. But, although Flora’s children are ever changing, they are always beautiful and it would be difficult for the botanist to say where they challenge the most admiration—in the hot plains of the Orinoco and the Meta or high up on the cheerless and inhospitable paramo.

What we found most astonishing in our three-days journey from the llanos to the crest of the Cordilleras was the extraordinary number and diversity of forms of plant life. While we, in our northern woodlands, do well if we can find a score of different species of trees in the space of a square mile, we may, within the same limits in a tropical forest, count species by the hundred. Every few rods, on our way from Villavicencio to the cumbre of the Andes, we noted the appearance of some new species of plant, shrub or tree; some strange vine or epiphyte; some fruit or blossom which we had not observed before.

Great as were the physical and meteorological changes observable between the tierra caliente and the paramo, those of the vegetable world were still greater. At times, during our rapid ascent from lower to higher altitudes, from llanos to paramo, the changes in species were so rapid and kaleidoscopic, the transitions so sudden and unexpected, that our brains were in a whirl and we had to give up in despair the attempt to keep anything approaching a record of the order of sequence of the countless vegetable forms encountered along our path. Considering solely the successive changes in flora and temperature, our experience in climbing the Cordilleras was like that which would result from a three-days journey overland from the sultry valley of the Amazon to the gold-bearing strands of the Yukon or to the distant shores of the Arctic Ocean.

It was a little after midday when we finally reached the paramo of Chipaque—that dread paramo of which we had so frequently heard so many and so extraordinary tales. It was, we had been told, a place of eternal frost and snow, and of blasts so tempestuous that both men and animals were sometimes picked up bodily and hurled into a yawning gorge near the dizzy height which we were obliged to pass. We soon discovered, however, that most of the stories we had heard of this and similar paramos, had but little foundation in fact, or were greatly exaggerated.5

To begin with, we found neither frost nor snow. As a matter of fact, snow rarely falls in this paramo. All about us there was an abundance of vegetation that little comported with the region of arctic temperature. We found there a number of peasants’ huts and a large drove of cattle, that were on their way from the llanos to the BogatÁ market. It took them more than two weeks to make a journey that we had made in three days. But both the cattle and their drivers—vaqueros—were more sensitive to cold than we were. For this reason, they had to proceed slowly to accustom themselves to the lower temperature and the higher altitude. The peasants living on the paramo, although lightly clad, did not seem to be affected by the cold. The vaqueros, however, who had come from the lowlands, seemed to suffer greatly. But no wonder. They made no provision for so great a change of climate. They wore the same light garments—probably they had nothing else—in crossing the Cordilleras, that they had used in the ever-heated llanos. It was not strange, then, that they should give exaggerated accounts of the cold of the paramo or of the suffering it induces. It would be surprising if it were otherwise.

It requires less than half an hour to cross the paramo—so limited is it in area—and reach the BoquerÓn6—the name given the short artificial cut, only a few rods in length—through the crest of the Andes. At this highest point our thermometer registered 48° F., and the aneroid, a fine compensated instrument, indicated an altitude of ten thousand five hundred and sixty feet. This is but little higher than Leadville, Colo., and considerably lower than some of the railway passes over the Rocky Mountains. The temperature, owing to the light atmosphere, was so mild, that we did not even think of throwing our ponchos over our shoulders, as a protection from the cold that the poor Llanero felt so keenly.

As we were passing through the BoquerÓn we were joined by a young hacendado who had a cattle farm in the neighborhood. After a friendly greeting he remarked, “EstÁ sumamente frÍa”—It is extremely cold. And then, thinking we were too lightly clad, he said almost pleadingly, “Cubranse con sus bayetones, otramente se saca una pulmonia.” Put on your bayetones, otherwise you will get pneumonia. Then he related how, the preceding year, he had crossed this pass in a snow storm, contracted pneumonia, was confined to his bed for months, and barely escaped a premature death.

While he was thus addressing us, a number of Llaneros passed by on their way from BogotÁ to their homes in the warm plains near Villavicencio. In addition to the usual covering for the head they had their ears and face protected by a kind of kerchief and seemed to suffer more from the cold than our hardy northerners would in a Dakota blizzard. Poor fellows! We pitied them. They were shivering, their teeth were chattering and they were evidently in great distress. But the reason was manifest at a glance. Aside from their head gear, they had nothing on except a pair of short trousers of flimsy material and a light poncho. They were barefooted, and, to judge from their wan and pinched features, they were suffering from hunger as well as from cold.

We had now discovered the origin of the reports so generally accepted as true in the llanos, regarding the intense cold of the paramos and of the various Andean passes. Those poor, shivering, ill-clad, half-famished peons explained all. The same causes evidently operated in occasioning the great mortality suffered by Bolivar’s army when it passed, in 1819, from the llanos of the Apure to the altiplanicies—high tablelands—of New Granada.7

The paramo of Pisva, through which the Republican army invaded the enemy’s country, is less than thirteen thousand8 feet above sea level, and the passage, therefore, of the Cordilleras, at this point, was not in itself the difficult undertaking it is so often represented to have been. The frightful loss of life, usually attributed to the intense cold of Pisva Pass, was, in reality, due to the fact that Bolivar’s followers were not properly prepared for the campaign in which they were engaged. They were half-naked and half-starved and the wonder is that the hapless army did not suffer far greater losses than those actually recorded.

“The army endured many sufferings in the passage of the paramo,” writes Vergara y Velasco, “but it is a grave error to compare them with those incurred in the passage of the Alps by Hannibal and Napoleon or in the passage of the Chilean Andes by San Martin, for in Pisva there is no snow, neither is the altitude so great as that of many frequented places in our Cordilleras. The expedition, without having the romance of the others, nevertheless equals them in results and for the same reason—the ineptitude of the enemy.”9

The first thing that attracted our attention, on reaching the western end of the BoquerÓn, was the large number of flowers, of divers species, that bedecked both sides of our path. They constituted a carpet of the most brilliant hues that, with a lovely green boscage, extended to the very summit of the mountain crest. In form and beauty they were not unlike the charming blooms that gladden our forests and meadows in May and June. There was this difference, however, that the number of species in a given space was far greater than is ever found in the same space in our northern climes. Does this close juxtaposition of so many species in the tropics contribute to the more rapid formation of varieties and new species than is possible in higher latitudes, where species are fewer and more widely separated from one another? It would seem so.

We shall never forget the panorama that burst upon our vision as we made our exit from the BoquerÓn. It was in such marked contrast with the view which we had so much admired on the eastern side. On the east side all was verdure, bloom, and grateful shrubbery, with occasional clumps of trees. On the western declivity, with the exception of a narrow reach, already mentioned, near the mountain crest, all was as treeless and as bare and arid as the sandy plains of Nevada or Arizona.

But the entire western slope and distant plateau was bathed in bright sunshine. Not a single cloud flecked the azure canopy above us, and not a single sound, except the muffled footsteps of our horses, disturbed the quiet and serenity of our exalted outlook. We were standing on the crest of the Eastern Cordillera—the range to which the people of the country have long given the poetical name of Suma Paz—Supreme Peace.10 Owing to its proximity to the capital, where it is always in view, it doubtless impressed the popular fancy more than did the more distant, although loftier and more imposing, snow-capped masses of Ruiz and Tolima. Seen from BogotÁ, this beautiful range, when tinged with the golden crimson rays of the setting sun, might well appear as an Olympus, the abode of the gods in the enjoyment of eternal peace.

There are some geographers who contend that the Cordillera of Suma Paz is the continuation of the principal chain of the Andes, but, as it terminates in the adjoining Republic of Venezuela, it seems more reasonable to maintain that the Western Cordillera is entitled to this distinction. It is the western range, which, after passing through the Isthmus of Panama, reappears as the Sierra Madre of Mexico and as the Rocky Mountains of North America, and continues its course, almost without interruption, to Bering’s Strait.

It is, however, the Sierra de Suma Paz which separates the two great hydrographic basins of the Orinoco and the Magdalena. We saw tiny rivulets, almost at the instant of their birth, and only a few spans from one another, beginning simultaneously their long journey to the broad Magdalena to the west and to the mighty Orinoco in the distant east. Some were to visit the lands which we had already traversed, others were to pass through a country that still lay before us, but which we hoped to explore in the very near future.

Although Suma Paz had long been one of the objective points of our peregrinations, we could not leave it without mingled feelings of regret and sadness. It stood between us and many delightful scenes and marked the passing of many delightful days that could never return. There was also, of course, a feeling of relief experienced, for we had happily completed the most arduous part of our journey and that, too, without encountering a single one of the many difficulties and dangers that had been predicted when in Trinidad and Ciudad Bolivar we announced our intention of going to BogotÁ over the route whose last lap we were completing.

From the spot where we halted to pluck a few flowers at the mouth of the BoquerÓn, as a souvenir of our first passage of the Andes, we could almost catch a glimpse towards the northwest, of the churches and public edifices of Colombia’s capital. There was one of the celebrated camping-grounds of some of the most noted of the Conquistadores and thither we would hasten with the minimum of delay. We loved to think that Federmann had crossed the Cordilleras just where we did. It is certain that, if he did not cross them at this point, it was not far distant from it.11 All the way from Villavicencio we felt that we were following in his footsteps, as we had been following in the footsteps of other conquistadores from the time we had trod the romantic soil of Tierra Florida. We had, near the foothills of the Cordilleras, in the neighborhood of Buena Vista, crossed the path of Hernan PÉrez de Quesada, who almost made the circuit of New Granada in his memorable quest of El Dorado, and we were likely to cross it again before reaching BogotÁ, for on his return from his expedition, he, as well as Federmann, must have entered the city near where we did ourselves.

Before leaving our posada at Caqueza we asked a certain Colombian general how long it took to make the trip to BogotÁ. His reply was, “Cinco horas sin mujeres”—Five hours without women. To our surprise the women present made no protest against this unchivalrous reflection on their horsemanship. Probably, not being accustomed to riding, they felt that his statement was true, and that it was unwise to call it in question. Had some of our dashing American horsewomen been present, it is most likely that the implied challenge would have provoked a spirited retort.

But whatever the women present may have thought, we subsequently had reason to believe that the man was wrong, but for a reason different from the one he had given. After leaving Caqueza we had pushed forward towards the BoquerÓn as rapidly as our horses—and they were good animals—could make their way over the terrible path up the mountain, and it took us more than five hours to reach that point. Judging from our experience it would have required an extraordinary strong and spirited horse to carry a man, over such a road as we had to traverse, to BogatÁ in five hours even sin mujeres.

Our path, during the first few miles down the western declivity of the Suma Paz, was quite as bad as it had been anywhere on the eastern slope. After, however, we had reached the plateau, about fifteen hundred feet below the BoquerÓn, the road became much better and our mounts could make far better time than was before possible. Notwithstanding the energy expended in crossing the crest of the Andes, they were still in fine fettle, and it was only necessary to give them a loose rein to have them break into a lively gallop, which they seemed to be able to keep up indefinitely with but little effort.

There was not much of interest to note on this part of the way except, perhaps, some remarkable effects of erosion near the road a short distance from the capital. The hard, compact earth was here carved by the action of rain and running water into the same fantastic forms, often resembling dolmens and cromlechs, that characterize the Badlands of South Dakota. We regretted that we were unable to take some photographs of them, as a number of the formations were of special geological importance.

The first indication of our near approach to BogatÁ was a two-wheeled cart, drawn by a yoke of oxen, which we passed near the suburbs of the city. It was the first wheeled vehicle we had seen since leaving Ciudad Bolivar. Further on we were startled—and, I may add, delighted—by the piercing sound of a locomotive whistle. It came from an engine on one of the short railroads that centre in BogotÁ.

At last we were getting back—I will not say to civilization—but to where the material evidences of civilisation were more numerous than they had been anywhere on our journey since we had taken our departure from the Port-of-Spain. As we got still nearer the city, we met a cavalcade of horsemen who were out for their evening ride. It was here that we saw, for the first time in Colombia, a thoroughfare worthy of the name. Our bonny steeds, trusty and true, seemed to appreciate the improvement in the road as much as we did ourselves. And, as if put on their mettle by the curveting steeds we had just passed, they, like the fleet mules of Nausicaa, “gathered up their nimble feet,” and almost before we realized it we were in the streets of BogotÁ.

It was then a matter of only a few minutes to our hotel, where we found comforts and conveniences to which we had long been strangers. It was just eight hours since we had left our modest posada in Caqueza, with its simple fare and hard board cot, and now we suddenly found ourselves installed in richly furnished apartments, with brilliant electric lights and an excellent cuisine. The sudden change in our environment seemed like an incident in the Arabian Nights rather than a reality in which we were personally concerned.

“How were you ever able to make such a trip?” queried a German traveler, shortly after our arrival. I had made all arrangements to go with a friend from BogotÁ to Ciudad Bolivar, but after all was ready, I was dissuaded by my friends from undertaking a journey on which I had so long set my heart. They assured me that the trip would be so difficult and beset with so many dangers of all kinds that I would run the risk of losing health, and even life, if I persisted in my purpose. Only at the last moment, when they told me that the roads were absolutely impassable at this season of the year, did I give up a project that I had so long cherished. How I envy you. But it is too late now for me to reconsider my plans, as I must return to Germany in a few days, and with the knowledge that, against my better judgment, I was forced to forego the most interesting part of my itinerary.”

Yes, we had indeed been fortunate in our wanderings. In the expressive language of a West Indian negro servant, whom we had for a while in Venezuela, we had always been “good-lucky, never bad-lucky.” We had no adventures to record and never once felt that we were in presence of danger. We never carried weapons of any kind and at no time was there any need for them. During our entire journey, through plains and among mountains, we felt quite as safe as if we had been taking a promenade down Broadway or Fifth Avenue, New York. Roughing it agreed with us perfectly and, far from suffering from exposure or fatigue, we found ourselves in the enjoyment of better health at the completion of our journey than at the beginning. Despite all predictions to the contrary, we had escaped all

and had reached Colombia’s capital, ready, after a few days’ rest, to enter upon even a longer and a more arduous journey than the one that we had just so happily terminated.

“But did you not fear sickness on your way?” asked another German, who had gone over some of the ground we had just traversed, and who seemed to entertain anything but pleasant recollections of his experience. “When I traveled in the interior, far away from doctors and medical assistance of every kind, I was continually haunted by the thought of contracting fever or some other dread tropical disease. What would you have done if you had been stricken with the vomito or berriberri or the bubonic plague?” Modesty forbade us replying to this question by saying that “The Lord takes care of his own,” so we answered in the words of Lucan,