Entrance to the Rio Dulce.
Later than usual the breeze freshened, and we were sailing apparently for the spur of San Gil, which stretches northward right across the river. As we advanced, the walls opened, and we entered a gorge far finer than that of the Saguenay; for the savage cliffs of the wild Canadian stream are here replaced by white limestone precipices jealously covered with palms and vines, until only here and there could the rock be seen under or through its richly colored mantle. The river is deep, in places eighteen fathoms, and, except in the overhanging trees, there was no place to land on either side for some distance.
Frank shot at a fine pelican, but only broke a wing; and although he pursued the wounded bird rapidly in a little cayuco that we had in tow, he did not gain on the powerful swimmer until a shot from the “Progreso” killed the fugitive, whose remains measured seven feet across the wings. Other birds tempted us, but the fast-waning daylight warned us against delay; and as darkness fell upon us with tropical rapidity, we came to the lake-like Golfete, nine miles from Livingston, and anchored for the night off Cayo Paloma (Dove Island), the only inhabited spot on the river. Our crew went ashore for shelter, and we retired under our substantial awning, which protected us from the rain which fell in torrents during the night. We had found no mosquitoes at Livingston, and there were none here; so our sleep was not broken until our boys came on board before daybreak. Where we had entered this beautiful lake we strangers did not know; and even when the direction was ascertained, the opening of the river was invisible. Coconut-palms and bananas will give a charm to any landscape; yet the little Cayo Paloma hardly needed them, so beautiful was it in itself.
Grand San Gil brushed the clouds from his forehead and looked down smilingly upon us in promise of a fair day as we sailed up the Golfete. A short league brought us to a curious limestone rock on the northern shore,—a regular cube, rising from deep water, and capped with a pyramid of foliage. So unusual a formation could hardly have failed to attract the aboriginal mind; and there may be on the summit some remains,—a sacrificial altar, or stele. We did not go near enough to see any way of access; but the branches seem to hang low enough on one side to promise an entrance to an active climber, and we determined to try it some other day when we had more time.[4]
If the entrance to the Rio Dulce was well concealed, that to the Rio Chocon was still harder to find; and but for the rock island, one might try several apparent openings in the hedge-like border of the stream before entering the canal that sweeps in a semicircle into the actual river. Two alligators sat, like the porters at an Egyptian palace, opposite each other at the entrance, but dropped incontinently into the stream before our rifles were ready,—giving us an unpleasant reminder of what we might expect should we take a bath in the cool river. From animal to vegetable was but a glance; and the musky odor of the reptiles faded into the fragrance of a large purple passion-flower, which hung so low that we slipped into the cayuco, Frank and I, and paddled from bank to bank in the little mahogany dug-out, pulling down branches and vines, shaking out lizards and beetles, while humming-birds of almost every bright color, and butterflies of hues seldom seen in cooler climates, would hardly leave the fragrant flowers we gathered. Nothing could be seen beyond the river, for we were in a green lane bordered by all the tropics can produce of vegetable life; and as the day wore on we felt the weariness of seeing. A little white passion-flower (P. Brighami), with curiously clipped leaves, three kinds of morning-glory, a crimson abutilon, and a host of plants whose family alone was known to us, had been consigned to the plant-press. At first there were no palms; but as we ascended the stream, which was in flood, the banks at last appeared, growing gradually higher, and only on solid ground could the palms find foothold. The cohune (Attalea cohune), with its long clusters of hard oily nuts, came first; then a small pinnate-leaved, graceful, but unknown species; then an astrocarya, with dreadful spines and hard but edible nuts; and finally, on the rocky banks, slender, long-stemmed species, and a climbing palm that, like the rattan, attained a length of several hundred feet. Our first glimpse of the family in full force was at the junction of the two mouths of the Chocon. Here there is an enlargement of the river into a lagoon, and the eastern branch looks as large and easily navigable as that we had entered. At another time we found this was the case. Bambus bent their graceful stems in clusters over the water, and here and there tall reeds in blossom waved their light plumes against the dark-green trees behind them.
With the drift floating down stream we noticed queer green things which were evidently vegetable; but what else? At last we came to some sapoton-trees (Pachira); and it was their fruit, now ripening,—like in size and appearance to a husked coconut,—that furnished our puzzle. The fruits split while on the tree, and drop the nuts, which are about as large as a hen’s egg, into the water, where they soon germinate, and float about with expanded cotyledons until caught on some shoal, or at the bank, where they take root.
EL RIO CHOCON.
Not once all day did we see a place to land; indeed, until we had ascended the river several miles there was no land, so high was the flood. Dense foliage, suitably defended with spines of palm and the no less unpleasant thorns of the guilandina and sarsaparilla, hid what might be disagreeable of animal life along shore; and as we could not land, neither could we plunge into the cool river,—that was already engaged by the alligators.
As the sun dropped behind the trees we made fast to a large post in midstream, starting a whole family of little leaf-nosed bats out of a woodpecker’s hole in this dead tree; and as our comida was being laid, I explored more carefully this curious mooring. Water-logged and stranded on the bottom, some twenty feet below us, it was a perfect image of life in death; for every part above the water was covered with a luxuriant growth not its own, and yet perfectly in place. On one side clung three different orchids in seed, a cluster of peperomias in blossom, and a fine cereus, while mosses and ferns quite covered the interstices. We did not at that time know the naughty habits of the bright little bats,[5] or we should not have slept so quietly; as it was, the mosquitoes were very thick, and only our veils protected us.