At the top of the mountain, not a house or tree was to be seen, and no sign of cultivation. On tufts of coarse mountain grass, a flock of sheep were grazing; some of them merinos, and of good size. Their wool is sent to Lima, where it is sold, to be exported around Cape Horn, to the manufacturers in the North.
To the east is a snow-peaked mountain, and as the moon rises, as if from the Atlantic ocean, we are followed by a cold north wind. The sky is clear and of a deep blue. On our left we see the remains of an ancient Peruvian road, used in the times of the Incas. It is said that good roads are marks of civilization; could my mule, Rose, give her opinion, she would certainly decide in favor of the Inca road, in preference to those found in Peru at the present time. These remains show a width of thirty feet of rock pavement, with well placed curbstones on each side. Where the road has considerable inclination, rows of stone are placed across, higher than the general level of the pavement, so that it appears like a stair-way on the side of a hill. That it was not a coach road is no argument against it; it was before the horse, the ass, or the cow were introduced into South America from Europe. It was constructed for the Indian and his llama, the surest of the sure-footed and, therefore, the improvement speaks well for the civilization of those times of which we have but a traditionary record.
Passing over a plain on the mountain top, there was a cistern by the side of our path, where water is caught during the rainy season to supply the thirsty in the dry. The rainy season commences here about the middle of September—sometimes later—and lasts six months. The remainder of the year is dry.
Night had overtaken us where not a living thing was to be seen, except a black eagle, returning to its roosting-place under overhanging rocks, on the west side of a lofty peak. Our little tent was pitched; the baggage piled up and covered at the door; the mules let free for the night to feed upon the mountain grass around us. A fire was kindled, and water from a small spring heated, and tea was made. José produced bread and cheese from his saddle-wallets; placed them upon a clean cloth over a trunk; looking into the tent, he says, very slowly, "Señor! La hora de cenar," (Sir, it is the supper hour.) Both men and beasts seem tired; we have ascended all day. The first day's travel is always the most harassing. Our arriero, Francisco, a mestizo, is a small, slim built man, with respectful manners; he and his little son Ignacio keep watch by turns over the mules. The little boy is out while his father gets supper. The night was clear and cold; the moon shining brightly. The world is not so silent in the middle of the ocean. I do not think I heard anything; I almost listened to hear the globe turn upon its axis. Long after the people were asleep, I heard little Ignacio singing to himself, wrapped up in his homespun poncho, as he follows the mules.
At daylight in the morning we found heavy frosts and ice about us, with thermometer 24°, and wet bulb 30°. The mules were loaded; breakfast over; observations made; and we off, soon after sunrise. This is the way to travel at an elevation where we find no inhabitants.
The mountains are becoming more rounding, and covered with a fine sort of grass. Shepherdesses are following thousands of sheep and lambs. The girls spin wool and chat together, while the dogs follow lazily after. If we pass close to the flock, and the sheep run back, these dogs make a furious attack upon us, keeping between us and the flock. The temperature of a spring of excellent water near the path was 48°. To the southeast snow peaks stand up in full view. The day is warm and pleasant. Here comes a cheerful party of ladies and gentlemen on horseback. As we pass each other, the gentlemen take off their hats, and the ladies look prettily under their white straw ones. Their figures show to advantage in riding-dresses, and they manage and set their horses well. The cool mountain air gives them a fresh color, which contrasts well with gazelle-eyed beauty and long black hair. I thought their dresses rather short, but a sight of the foot of one of them, small as it was, reminds one there is proof positive against the propriety of a man's travelling through this world alone.
Now we meet the market Indian driving asses loaded with potatoes, corn, and saddles of mutton, to Tarma. I wanted some mutton for the party, but José was positively refused by an old woman, who got out of his way by twisting the tail of her donkey, who was disposed to come to a stand and be relieved of his load. I was told Indians scarcely ever sell except after they arrive in the plaza. I can account for it by the woman's wanting to go to town, for José offered her more than the market price.
At the end of a thickly populated valley, which stretches off to the southeast, we halted at an Indian hut for dinner. The wife was at home with her children—fine, healthy-looking little ones. Boiled mutton, potatoes, and eggs, with good wheat bread, were placed upon the ground at the door. The children and dogs formed an outside circle around us. After dinner the woman gave me an orange, which she said came from the woods, pointing to the Andes, to the east of us. Some of these Indians cross the range of mountains, and garden on the eastern slopes for the markets, on these table lands—Puna—as the Spaniards call the elevated flats.
The husband was threshing barley with his neighbors. The grain is separated from the straw by the tramping of oxen and horses. Over the surface of this level valley there are numbers of such threshing parties. The grain is cleared from the chaff by being poured from the top of a man's head on a windy day. Many of them suffer with inflamed eyes, and even lose them sometimes by a shift of wind, which blows the barley beards into the eyes.
Black cattle are numerous here, and at the foot of the mountains; so are white churches, which stand in the midst of a thick population of Indians. We met a number of tax-gatherers, going among the threshers, with silver-headed canes, receiving a measure of grain instead of contribution-money. They are old Indians, very well dressed, with a respectable, quaker-like air about them; broad-brimmed hats and standing collars. It is an active time also with the priests, who go abroad among the farmers for tithes. The valley is all activity, and merry are the people. Women are visiting about from place to place, astride of plump little jackasses. This is a plentiful season.