In the evening we were most hospitably entertained at one of the sugar estates. To this dinner a genial gathering came from far and near. The planters of Abancay are a fine class of caballeros, hospitable, courteous, and intelligent, kind to their working people, interested both in one another’s affairs and in the news of the outside world. Many of them spend part of each year or two in Lima, and a few have travelled abroad.
One of our hosts had recently made an excursion to Choqquequirau, which “nearly killed him.” He lost one mule: it slid down a precipice. He lamed another badly. On the whole, although urged to do so by his friends, he decided not to offer to go with us on the morrow. At least one man proposed to stay in Abancay!
CHAPTER XXII
THE CLIMB TO CHOQQUEQUIRAU
The next morning, accompanied by a large cavalcade, we started for Choqquequirau. Most of our escort contented themselves with a mile or so, and then wishing us good luck, returned to Abancay. We did not blame them. Owing to unusually heavy rains, the trail was in a frightful state. Well-nigh impassable bogs, swollen torrents, avalanches of boulders and trees, besides the usual concomitants of a Peruvian bridle-path, cheered us on our way.
Soon after leaving our friends we had to ford a particularly dangerous torrent where the mules had all they could possibly do to keep their footing in the foamy waters. After the crossing we rested to watch Castillo, one of the soldiers who had been assigned to accompany us, cross the stream on foot. His mule, tired out by the dreadful trail, was being rested. It had forded the stream with the others and was standing by us watching the soldier take perilous leaps from boulder to boulder, where a misstep would have meant certain death. Hardly had Castillo gained our side of the stream when the mule decided to return to Abancay and plunged back across the dangerous ford. With a shout of rage, the soldier repeated his performance, gained the other side of the torrent, and started after the mule, now quite rested, and trotting off briskly for home. A chase of a mile and a half put Castillo into no very pleasant frame of mind, and the mule had little respite for the remainder of the day. At noon we stopped a few moments in the village of Cachora where the Prefect had instructed the Gobernador to prepare us a “suitable luncheon.” This intoxicated worthy offered us instead many apologies, and we had to get along as best we could with three or four boiled eggs, all the village could provide.
All day long through rain and heavy mist that broke away occasionally to give us glimpses of wonderfully deep green valleys and hillsides covered with rare flowers, we rode along a slippery path that grew every hour more treacherous and difficult. In order to reach the little camp on the bank of the Apurimac that night, we hurried forward as fast as possible although frequently tempted to linger by the sight of acres of magnificent pink begonias and square miles of blue lupins. By five o’clock, we began to hear the roar of the great river seven thousand feet below us in the cañon. The Apurimac, which flows through the Ucayali to the Amazon, rises in a little lake near Arequipa, so far from the mouth of the Amazon that it may be said to be the parent stream of that mighty river. By the time it reaches this region, it is a raging torrent two hundred and fifty feet wide, and at this time of the year, over eighty feet deep. Its roaring voice can be heard so many miles away that it is called by the Quichuas, the Apurimac, or the “Great Speaker.”
Our guide, the enthusiastic Caceres, declared that we had now gone far enough. As it was beginning to rain and the road from there on was “worse than anything we had as yet experienced,” he said it would be better to camp for the night in an abandoned hut near by. His opinion was eagerly welcomed by two of the party, young men from Abancay, who were having their first real adventure, but the two Yankis decided that it was best to reach the river if possible. Caceres finally consented, and aided by the dare-devil Castillo, we commenced a descent that for tortuous turns and narrow escapes beat anything we had yet seen. Just as darkness came on, we encountered a large tree that had so fallen across our path as completely to block all progress. It seemed as though we must return to the hut. Half an hour’s work enabled us to pass this obstacle only to reach a part of the hillside where an avalanche had recently occurred. Here even the mules and horses trembled with fright as we led them across a mass of loose earth and stones which threatened to give way at any moment. Only two weeks previously, two mules had been lost here. Their crossing had started a renewal of the avalanche which had taken the poor animals along with it.
An hour after dark we came out on a terrace. The roar of the river was so great that we could scarcely hear Caceres shouting out that our troubles were now over and “all the rest was level ground.” This turned out to be only his little joke. We were still a thousand feet above the river and a path cut in
