Up the Orinoco and down the Magdalena

by J. A. Zahm

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.