“The clouds have voices, and the rivers pour
Their floods in thunder down to ocean’s floor;—
The hills alone mysterious silence keep.”
One of the most striking aspects which impress the traveller crossing the Andes is the terribly bleak and desolate outlook that they present. Blades of grass here and there, or perhaps a few stunted shrubs, are the only signs of vegetation, for of trees there are none. There seems to be no tree line, as in most mountains. A huge expanse of yellow sand and stone spreads out everywhere with peaks rising up on every side in clearly defined and rugged stratification, whose many-coloured hues are almost bewildering to the eye. Great torrents flow down the middle of the valleys, the water being of a dull brackish hue. The fording of these streams is a very dangerous task for the explorer, as the torrents are exceedingly rapid and full of deep, treacherous holes.
THE SOLITUDE OF THE ANDES.
On either side rise high peaks, and the traveller is always interested in knowing the names of these peaks. If he asks the average native which is Aconcagua, or which Tupungato, he is likely to be misinformed. There is to the inexperienced mountain traveller a disappointment when he finally has one of these lofty peaks pointed out, and which he knows to be above twenty thousand feet in height, because he has expected, perhaps, to see an isolated peak rearing its snowy head to the sky for a distance of four miles or more above the level on which he stands. The traveller forgets that he himself is above the sea level almost half that distance, before he gains a good clear view of the higher peak. It is well established that Aconcagua is the loftiest peak of the Andes, but it is a little uncertain whether Tupungato or the Mercedario is the second in height.
Ten thousand miles of majestic mountains stretch from Alaska to Cape Horn—the grandest range of mountains that can be found on the earth’s surface. Throughout this series of connected mountains, from the wilds of Alaska to those of Patagonia, and including the tropical plateaus of Ecuador, there are many peaks that pierce the ethereal blue of the skies. These are generally termed the Sierras, which is the Spanish word for “saw,” and the name is applied to mountains because of the fancied resemblance of their outlines to that of the carpenter’s tool. A dim knowledge of the majesty of mountains is obtained from the smaller ranges of North America, such as the Appalachian Mountains, but Mt. McKinley, highest of North American mountains, must yield in majesty to a number of peaks in the lofty Andean range of mountains.
The lure of altitude seems to have caught at the spirit of man from early times, and led him struggling up almost unscalable peaks. In recent years the fascination of mountain climbing has become the romance of geography. During the last half century daring explorers have conquered more mountains, and gathered more geological data, than in all the previous centuries. Many lives have been lost by devotees of this science, while pitting skill and strength against nature and her secrets. It has not been long since the elevations of the southern half of this continent were an unknown land; some lofty peaks were unexplored and unnamed, and only dim suggestions of their majesty and splendour had reached the scientific world, but they now hold an interest second to none. The loftiest peaks in the world, excepting only the Himalayas, are found along the western coast of South America. They are in truth and reality the mountain monarchs of the western world. In travelling along the west coast of South America by steamer the serrated backbone of the continent is ever in sight, but its hazy outlines are at such a distance that they give but a dim idea of their real height from the steamer.
It remained for European mountain climbers, men who received their schooling in the Alps, to first conquer these lofty giants of nature. Chimborazo (20,498 ft.), the “white watcher of the western seas,” was the first to yield its topmost secrets to Edward Whymper, who fought his way up the rugged snow-clad slopes to the very top. Next he conquered Cotopaxi (19,615 ft.), and has given this volcano the following recommendation: “Cotopaxi is an ideal volcano. It comports itself, volcanically speaking, in a regular and well-behaved manner. It is not one of the provoking sort—exploding in paroxysms and going to sleep directly afterwards. It is in a state of perpetual activity, and has been so ever since it had a place in history.” Could any volcano in the world show a stronger recommendation? It is certainly an exemplary exponent of the volcanic art. The explorer spent a night on the very edge of the crater, peering into the cavernous recesses that belched forth fire and smoke, and must have been under its hypnotic influence when inditing the above.