As this was to be a most important day our small party on the crest of one of the high sierras was astir earlier than usual. Our camp had been made in a little glen between two peaks, alongside one of the numerous clear, cold streams that wind in and about through all these mountains, and furnish the loveliest and most picturesque spots imaginable for camping. Francisco, my chief packer, a bright, good-natured Mexican, was off long before sunrise, scouring the ridges and the gulches for the mules, as these animals often wander miles away at night, and in the morning all the available people in camp are turned out to look for them. This search sometimes wears well into the day before these frisky beasts are brought in; then some stray human member of the party has to be found, and when all this is accomplished it is nearly time to turn out the mules for another feed. On this particular morning fortune favored us, however, and soon our dejected-looking beasts were tied in line with the lariats, while we sat on the ground a short distance from them, each with a tin plate in our laps and a tin cupful of coffee in our hands. The night before an Indian had arrived at our camp, sent out from Urique by our Mexican friend, with roasted chickens and fresh eggs. The chickens had vanished on the evening of their arrival, but the eggs furnished us a royal breakfast with the usual bill of fare, bacon and coffee. An early morning in the Sierra Madres, even in midsummer, will make the teeth chatter. The only comfort one can get, after piling on heavy coats, is to pass the time in revolving about the camp fire just out of reach of the smoke till breakfast is ready. Any attempt at washing is sure to be a failure, for the water is as cold as ice and the fingers refuse to work in the frosty air; so it is generally about midday before dirt and the traveler cease to be companions. After we had thawed out with the hot coffee, and all the packs had been strapped on the mules, the animals were started ahead, with Francisco's assistant, a muscular Indian, running after them; then the saddles were placed on our worn-out beasts, and off we went with light hearts, for this day's ride was to take us to the large mining village of Urique, buried away in the depths of the Urique Barranca. We had been on the road about an hour, up hill and down dale, crossing innumerable mountain streams, and skirting the edges of precipices from which we caught glimpses of the beautiful valleys thousands of feet below, when we rounded the corner of an immense spur, climbed a high bald point of the mountain, and came suddenly to what appeared to be the end of land. We could now look out for miles into the great mining barranca, broken into innumerable crags and turrets, with ridges and banks of mountains piled high on every side, mountains of purple, red, yellow, and green, magnificent and fantastic, fading away into other barrancas to the right and left. Here we paused, seven thousand feet above the valley, and looked at the wonderful panorama spread before us, celebrated even among these grand old mountains—by the few who have penetrated their fastnesses—as one of the most famous views and formidable descents in the whole range. The guides carefully examined all the packs and saddles, and every strap and rope was tightened and made secure. All were directed to remain in their saddles, as the descent was too steep and the way too dangerous for walking, the path or trail being covered with loose rolling stones. We had been told to give the mules their heads, and trust to their being perfectly sure-footed, for in that respect a Mexican mule is about as certain as a mountain goat.
From "La Cumbra," or the crest of the Sierra Madres, we could look down in the valley of the Urique River, as I have said, something over a vertical mile. As we stood among the pines we could see the plantations of oranges far below, one of which, called "La Naranja"—the Spanish for orange—seemed almost under our feet; in fact it was not farther away in horizontal measure than it was vertical, or about a mile in both. The Barranca of the Urique was much more open at this point than where we had first struck it at Camp Diaz, but it was, nevertheless, fully as grand and sublime in its mighty scenery, although of quite another kind. The enormous buttresses, almost spurs of mountains, that stood out along the cañon-like sides of the former, with their bristling, perpendicular fronts of thousands of feet in height, were now rounded off along the ridges with their vertical descents, and only their sides were straight up and down. In fact it was down these steep ridges that we must make our descent by zigzag trails that gave us a grade on which a mule could stand. Every time we came to the side of a ridge the trail hung over a precipice with a sickening dizziness to the rider until the mule could make the turn and get back on the descending trail. Occasionally it was necessary to leave one ridge for another far away that gave a better grade, and then we might have to skirt some cumbra, or crest, with walls practically vertical on either side, where, if we ever started to fall, we could guarantee ourselves one thousand five hundred to two thousand feet of plain sailing.
On the trail from Batopilas to Parral is the "La Infinitad" of the Mexican miners (the Infinity), where the trail, not over half a foot wide, looks down a sheer vertical twenty-six hundred feet.
Presently the pines begin to grow less numerous and to be interspersed with the many varieties of oak for which the Sierra Madres will one day be noted, the most conspicuous of which is the encino robles, or everlasting oak, a beautiful tree with enormous leaves of a bright green color. The oaks increase in numbers as we descend, and the pines soon disappear; for we are getting out of the country of cold nights, which the conifers love so much. Presently a thorny mesquite is seen, and in half an hour we have traveled from Montana to Texas, in a climatic way. On the cumbra we jumped off from our mules and ran along by the half hour in the cool, fresh mountain air. Now five minutes brings out our handkerchiefs to wipe our perspiring brows. The northern cactus will soon mingle with the mesquite, and then the great pitahaya tells us we are on the verge of the tropics, while each tree in the orange orchard just below us can be made out, and after a few more turns on the twisting trails, even the yellow oranges on the bright green trees become distinct. Another half hour and we are on the level, while not that length of time has been added before palms are over our head, and the heat is almost unbearable to those who have been for weeks on the high mountain tops of the cool sierras. In a little over four hours we dropped from the land of the pine to the land of the palm, and this too on mule-back, a feat that could be performed in few countries outside of Mexico. We were now out of the land of wild forests and wild men, back again among Mexican civilization, but of a kind almost unknown to the outside world, although one of the richest mining districts and one of the oldest points of colonization on the North American continent.
Our path was now lined with lovely, flowering, thorny shrubs, that stretched out and tried to scratch us, and often succeeded as we passed by. When we reached the little plateau of the first orange grove we rested awhile, and from here could look back to the cool place we had left but four short hours before. The way down from this resting place seemed steeper and longer than the first half of the journey; the heat became intense, the air throbbing and shimmering in the brilliant sunshine. Gayly colored paroquets and strange tropical birds went flitting past us and filled the air with their noisy calls and cries. The trail, however, had a persistent, unaccountable Indian method of keeping away from all shade, and wound among the thickest masses of thorny shrubs, which compelled us constantly to keep an eye on them, or be reminded in a manner more painful than pleasant. These, and the intense heat, made me long for the mountain life again. Although we had dropped from the crest of the range and land of pines to the land of palms, seven thousand feet, still we had many miles to wind up the great tropical barranca before we would reach the village.
FROM ORANGE PLANTATION TO CUMBRA, OR CREST OF MOUNTAIN,
SIX THOUSAND FEET. LOOKING BACKWARD.
One of the most dangerous places on the entire trail, about six hundred feet above the river, was where the mountain had apparently caved in on a sharp curve. This cave-in was directly under the trail, and here it crossed it with an abrupt turn around the point of the mountain. A small torrent had cut its way down at this point, and goats and other animals, when grazing on the steep slope above, had loosened quantities of stones and earth, which had fallen and built out a sort of ledge or shelf at the same point. This shelf projected over the great curve in the hill, and on approaching this place it looked as if a mule must either walk off with his fore feet or let his hind ones drop over the cliff in making the turn. Of course the trail was as narrow as possible for a trail to be and allow an animal to cling to it.