IN THE WILDS OF SOUTH AMERICA

From a painting by Louis Agassiz Fuertes.

The cock-of-the-rock at home.

IN THE WILDS
OF SOUTH AMERICA

SIX YEARS OF EXPLORATION IN
COLOMBIA, VENEZUELA, BRITISH GUIANA, PERU, BOLIVIA,
ARGENTINA, PARAGUAY, AND BRAZIL

BY
LEO E. MILLER

OF THE AMERICAN MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY

WITH OVER 70 ILLUSTRATIONS AND A MAP

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1919

Copyright, 1917, 1918, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

Published October, 1918

TO
MY WIFE
L. E. M.

PREFACE

I have frequently wondered how many of the large number of people who visit natural-history museums have any conception of the appearance and actions, in their wilderness homes, of the creatures they see, and of the experiences of the field-naturalists who visit the little-known places of the earth in search of them.

My experience as a field-naturalist consists of nearly six years of almost continuous exploration in South America, and embraces practically all of the republics of that continent.

The purpose of this narrative is to follow the course of these explorations into the tropical jungles of the Amazon, Paraguay, Orinoco, and others of South America’s master rivers, and to the frigid heights of the snow-crowned Andes.

In these jungles one hears the hoarse cough of the jaguar and the scream of long-tailed, multicolored macaws as they fly two by two overhead; the extraordinary chorus of frogs and insects may lull the weary senses to sleep at nightfall, but the dismal roar of howling monkeys is sure to awaken one at dawn. To start at the sudden, long-drawn hiss of a boa or the lightning-like thrust of the terrible bushmaster, the largest of poisonous snakes, and a creature so deadly that a man may die within ten minutes after the fatal stroke, and to shudder as the wild, insane cackle of the wood-rails shatters the brooding silence of the forest, are merely incidents of the explorer’s every-day life; and so, too, are visits to deep lagoons teeming with crocodiles, cannibal fishes, and myriads of water-fowl; lengthy sojourns in gloomy forests where orchids droop from moss-draped branches, brilliant butterflies shimmer in the subdued light, and curious animals live in the eternal shadows; and ascents of the stupendous mountain ranges where condors soar majestically above the ruins of Incan greatness. In short, the expeditions recorded in the book lead through remote wilderness where savage peoples and little-known animals spend their lives in stealth and vigilance, all oblivious of the existence of an outer world.

* * * * *

The explorations here recounted were undertaken by me as a member or leader of the following expeditions, all of which were undertaken under the auspices of the American Museum of Natural History, New York City: Colombia—March, 1911, to September, 1912; Colombia—November, 1914, to April, 1915; Venezuela—November, 1912, to June, 1913; British Guiana—July to October, 1913; Roosevelt-Rondon South American Expedition, mostly in Brazil but covering a part of Paraguay, with stops in Uruguay and Argentina—October, 1913, to June, 1914; Bolivia—May, 1915, to January, 1916, touching at Panama, Ecuador, and Peru en route; Argentina—January to September, 1916. The purpose of these expeditions was to collect birds and mammals; also to study the fauna in general and to make all possible observations regarding the flora, topography, climate, and human inhabitants of the regions visited. The personnel of each expedition is given in the proper place in the text.

I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness to Doctor Frank M. Chapman and to Colonel Theodore Roosevelt for suggesting and encouraging the production of this book, also to Mrs. Alice K. Fraser for the great amount of time and work devoted to typewriting the manuscript.

Leo E. Miller.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

PART I
COLOMBIA

CHAPTER I
BUENAVENTURA TO CALI, AND THE CAUCA VALLEY

The voyage from Panama to Buenaventura, the more northern of Colombia’s two Pacific seaports, requires but two days’ time. Owing to numerous reefs and rocks that render navigation perilous along the coast of northwestern South America, it is necessary for ships to sail far out into the Pacific. Banks of low-hanging fog, encountered at frequent intervals, add further to the skipper’s difficulties.

The captain of the Quito followed a simple plan for finding port. It was his custom to steam in a southerly direction about forty-eight hours, and then head toward the coast. Once in sight of land, there was little difficulty in getting his bearings, although it frequently meant steaming back a distance of ten or fifteen miles.

At noon on the second day out we entered what might be called the belt of perpetual rain, and for three hours water fell in such torrents that it seemed a solid wall. When the deluge had ceased and the last wisps of blue-gray vapor melted into oblivion, the shore-line, dim and distant, could be discerned. The faint outline of a rugged coast became gradually sharper; jagged rocks, frowning precipices, and dark, gloomy forests slowly unfolded themselves to the vision. The magnitude of it all was most impressive.

Then followed a ten-mile sail through the placid water of Buenaventura Bay. Numberless brown pelicans fished in the shallows while others, in long files, alternately sailed and flapped through the air on their way to some isolated nook among the mangroves. The dark, hazy shore-line at the head of the bay gradually dissolved itself into lines of graceful cocoanut-palms and low, thatched huts flanked by a seemingly endless mantle of green. Huge dugout canoes made from logs of great size swarmed out from the water’s edge, their dusky paddlers vying with one another in their efforts to be the first to reach the steamer; then the men quarrelled violently among themselves, and also shouted to the persons on the deck, soliciting luggage to take ashore. Before long, trunks were being lowered into some of these wallowing craft while passengers embarked in others, and the paddle of a mile to shore began.

Unfortunately the tide was ebbing, leaving extensive mud-flats exposed along the water-front. As there was no pier it was necessary for the canoemen to carry on their backs the human freight as well as trunks and other luggage through a wide belt of mud and sand.

Our party consisted of Doctor Frank M. Chapman, curator of birds, of the American Museum, Louis Agassiz Fuertes, and myself. At Buenaventura we were joined by William Richardson, who had spent many years as a field-naturalist in Central and South American countries. We were starting on a zoological expedition—a quest for birds and mammals, and also to study the country, life-zones, problems of distribution and many other things inseparable from a biological survey such as we proposed to make. The original plans of the expedition called for a rather short stay; but for me, at least, the experience was destined to cover a period of eighteen months and take me to some of the most remote and wildest portions of the country.

Viewed from the water, Buenaventura appears most unattractive. The row of squat, makeshift huts, built on tall poles, extends far beyond the line of high water; as the tide rises the water swishes and gurgles underneath the houses and the occupants travel about in canoes. Farther from the shore the ground is high and the town is more interesting, though not inviting. The place bears an unenviable reputation. On account of the superabundant rainfall and hot climate, fevers and other life-sapping diseases are rife and few foreigners can withstand the ordeal of a lengthy residence there. This notoriety had reached our ears long before we embarked on the journey; it was, therefore, with a feeling of relief that we learned of the departure of a train for the interior early the next morning.

Buenaventura.

For a distance of twenty-five miles, after leaving Buenaventura, nothing was visible but swamps filled with mangrove thickets. Then the foot-hills of the Andes appeared, the steady climb began and the character of the vegetation changed. Instead of the low, matted growth of shrubbery, there grew trees and palms of goodly size. Stops for wood and water were made frequently; the train usually halted near a collection of native huts, the occupants of which earned their living chopping wood for the railroad company. Each habitation was surrounded by a small clearing in which broad-leaved banana, plantain, and papaya trees grew in wonderful luxuriance. Jungles of tall bamboo bordered the plantations and grew beside the track. Plantains and bamboo seem to be the staples of the people. The former they eat, and of the latter their houses are built. The flimsy structures were ramshackle affairs with ragged, thatched roofs, and fitted well into their surroundings. Frequently we had a fleeting view of the almost nude occupants of the huts, lolling about in the darkened interior.

The first town of any importance was Cisneros. We were delayed an hour at this station because the train from the opposite direction had met with an accident that blocked the track, and, as the people were celebrating one of their numerous fiestas, it was impossible to get men to clear away the wreckage without great loss of time.

The railroad continued up the slope, following the winding canyon of the Dagua. It has been said that the cost of constructing it was a million dollars a mile. Tunnels, deep cuts through spurs and ridges, trestles and high bridges followed one another in quick succession. The perpendicular sides of the excavations were covered with long moss and drooping ferns that waved plume-like overhead. Mountain torrents poured their crystal streams from openings in overgrown crevices and were dashed to spray on the rocks below. Hundreds of feet lower down, the Dagua raged within the narrow confines of a rock-bound gorge. Thick jungles, dark and impenetrable, cover the slopes. We were conscious of the perfume of flowers concealed amid the forbidding masses of deepest green. An iguana, fully four feet long and of a bright green color dashed across the track a few feet ahead of the puffing engine; a moment later and the beautiful creature would have been crushed to death. Overhead, flocks of parrots screamed defiance at the lowly, wheezing thing that laboriously made its way farther and farther into their time-hallowed abode; and toucans, clattering their long bills and yelping, performed queer acrobatics in a lofty tree-top. A violent lunge recalled us to earth; the train had stopped for more fuel so the passengers got out and amused themselves touching the sensitive-plants that grew abundantly along the road-bed.

Not long afterward we emerged suddenly into a peculiar region. There was an abrupt end to the gloomy forest, and in its place grew straggling clumps of giant cacti. The dividing-line is as sharp as if cut with a knife. The fauna also is different; instead of brilliantly hued tanagers, trogons and toucans, there are wrens, finches, and other birds of sombre color. This desert-like belt continued for a distance of some miles, and then forest again appeared, on the top only of the ridges, at first, but gradually extending downward until the slopes were entirely covered.

Caldas, the terminus of the railroad, was reached at noon and, after a good deal of bargaining, the proprietor of the Hotel del Valle provided us with a room containing four bare, wooden beds; but fortunately our blanket-bags had come with us, so we rather rejoiced that no bedding was provided by the innkeeper. The buildings comprising the town are scattered here and there in small groups, making it difficult to get a comprehensive idea of their number. The first impression suggests that there is a population of a few hundred only, when it is really several thousand. At this time (April, 1911) Caldas was an attractive spot, as its elevation is two thousand feet, and the country immediately surrounding it is open; but in recent years sufferers from malaria, yellow fever, and other diseases have gone there from Buenaventura to recuperate, and have left the several maladies firmly implanted in the entire region, making it most unhealthful.

A small tent-show was playing at Caldas, and as this was a most unusual occurrence it created a certain amount of furor among the people. It rained heavily the greater part of the afternoon, but darkness had scarcely crept up from the lowland when troops of people, each one carrying a chair or box to sit on, came tramping from all directions, their bare feet making swishing and gurgling sounds as they plodded through mud and water. The elite—even Caldas boasts of a high-class social set—arrived later and stood during practically the entire performance in order to be the better seen and admired by the “common” people.

So far, Richardson had acted as cashier for the party, and it was rather startling to see entries in his journal such as “lunch, $200.00; railroad-tickets, $2,000.00; oranges, $15.00.” The Colombian dollar, or peso, had depreciated in value until it was worth exactly one cent in United States currency. Practically all the money in circulation was in bills of from one to one hundred pesos, the former predominating. If one had only a hundred one-peso notes, equalling an American dollar, they made quite a bulky parcel; for this reason all the men carry large leather pocketbooks attached to a strap slung across the shoulder, and quite incidentally these containers also hold cigars, matches, and various other little articles dear to the hearts of their owners.

Richardson had arranged for arrieros and a caravan of pack-mules to meet us early the following morning, but it was almost noon when they appeared. We were in the land of mañana, but had not as yet learned to curb our impatience at the hundred and one exasperating things that were constantly cropping out to impede our progress or upset our plans. One of the first things the visitor to Latin-America must learn is to take things good-naturedly and as easily as possible. If one employs servants regularly it is possible to correct many of their customs that are so annoying to the North American; but the countries, as a whole, cannot be reformed by any one in a single day, and the person who takes things too seriously either lacks a sense of humor or conveys the impression that he is very foolish.

Some of the mules were saddled for riding, while others were equipped with thick pack-saddles made of burlap stuffed with straw. Bags and trunks were brought out, sorted as to weight, and then loaded on the pack-mules, being held in place one on either side of the animal with cowhide thongs. Each mule carried about two hundred and fifty pounds. While adjusting cargoes, the arrieros, or drivers, place their poncho over the mules’ eyes; otherwise they would not stand for the rather rough treatment to which they are subjected.

The road was fairly wide and good. It followed along the gorge of the Dagua, now a small stream. Within a few hours the village of El Carmen was reached and we dismounted to await the pack-train and incidentally to have lunch at the posada, and to see a cock-fight, for the fiesta of yesterday was still in progress in the rural districts.

We climbed slowly and steadily upward. At fifty-five hundred feet the zone of clouds and vapor appeared; trees, rocks, in fact everything seemed unreal and ghost-like, enveloped in the thick, blue-gray haze that penetrated clothing and sent a piercing chill to the very marrow. Darkness was fast approaching, so we stopped at a wayside hut called El Tigre for the night. The house was damp and cold, as might have been expected, and its occupants were practically without food. A profusion of vegetation grew in the yard; there were roses, geraniums, hibiscus, and hydrangeas growing everywhere; monstrous ferns with lace-like leaves formed a thick, velvety background for the brilliant, many-colored blooms. In the garden, blackberries, strawberries, cabbages, coffee, and an edible tuber called aracacha grew; there were also a few stunted banana and plantain stalks, but on account of the cold climate it requires two years for them to mature, and the fruit is small and of poor quality.

Thanks to an early start on the following morning, we reached the summit of the range, or the Cordillera Occidental, as it is better known, by ten o’clock. The whole slopes are covered with the densest of subtropical jungles. A steady downpour had fallen the entire morning, against which ponchos availed little. A halt of two hours was therefore called at a rather cheerless inn just beyond the pass, named San Antonio; the señora who conducted the establishment was glad to see us, for Richardson had apprised her of our coming; she soon had plantains roasting on the embers, and her shop provided sardines for lunch.

The descent of the eastern slope now began. The trail narrowed down and was rough; in places the decline was 45°. On both sides rose the living walls of impenetrable, gloomy jungle. One thing could not fail to impress us, and that was the great, breathless silence of the forest. Where we had expected to find multitudes of gorgeous birds, a babble of animal voices and brilliant flowers, there was only the sombre, silent mass of unvaried green. Within two hours we had left the regions of cold and penetrating mists. For the first time we beheld the beautiful valley of the Cauca far below, spread before our vision like a velvet carpet of softest green that reached the very foot-hills of the Central Range not less than forty miles distant.

The steady, rhythmic skuff of bare or sandal-shod feet, mingled with the louder tramp of mules and discordant cries of the arrieros, now reached our ears at frequent intervals, to be followed shortly by the appearance of pack-trains heavily laden with coffee and hides as they swung around a bend in the narrow mountain trail, and we knew that the end of our journey, at least for the present, was near.

Downward we rode, always downward, with the valley still several hundreds of feet below, and the mountains towering thousands of feet in the rear.

Here and there a bit of humanity flashed into view near one of the lonely haciendas snugly nestling in some seemingly inaccessible niche in the mountainside. To our right, a solitary monastery perched upon a barren peak, with its separate narrow trail leading from the dizzy height and winding its tortuous course along the jutting precipice until lost in the filmy haze.

Ahead, a black mass that dissolved itself into one immense flock of vultures appeared on the landscape. This was their season of harvest and the quarrelsome scavengers were reluctant to leave their repast—an unfortunate burro that had been abandoned on the trail.

With a feeling of repugnance, we spurred our horses on to greater effort, and at last our anticipations were realized as, rounding an abrupt point, we beheld Cali directly at our feet. A half-hour later we had clattered through a green arch formed by four magnificent ceibas that stood like sentinels guarding the approach to the city, crossed the bridge spanning the Rio Cali, wended our way up the stone-paved streets, and drawn rein in the patio of the Hotel Central.

Cali is a typical Colombian city. At first the uniformly low, whitewashed buildings with barred windows, thick adobe walls, and pretty patios, or inner courts, thrust themselves forcibly upon the attention, on account of the sharp contrast to the style of architecture to which the American is accustomed; but later one accepts them as a matter of course quite in harmony with the monotonous and easy-going life of most Latin-American cities.

There is nothing particularly modern about Cali; but the city is interesting, perhaps for that very reason. I saw not a single chimney, nor was there a pane of glass anywhere except in the huge cathedral facing the verdure-laden plaza. Churches are numerous, of massive construction, and built in Spanish style. The bells, of which there are many, are suspended in open niches in the towers, covered with verdigris, and keep up an almost continuous clanging.

The streets are narrow and crooked. A stream of water flows through the centre of some of them; this serves both purposes—as a kind of sewage system and also to supply water for various needs, although there is a system of piping in some of the houses, and fountains on a few street corners supply drinking-water to those who care to fetch it. I have seen, on several occasions, children attempting to bathe in the little stream; a short distance below, ducks were swimming in the water; then a person stepping from one of the doorways threw a pailful of garbage into it; finally, some one stepped out and unconcernedly dipped up a pitcherful of the water and took it indoors.

It is quite unusual to see any of the women of the upper class on the streets during the daytime, except on special occasions, or while they are on their way to and from church. They remain secluded in their homes, safe from the gaze of vulgar eyes. Embroidering and music are the chief diversions, and a large number of them are really very accomplished in both lines. It was remarkable to notice how many pianos there were, when we consider that each instrument had to be brought over the Andes slung on poles and carried by mules.

Practically all work is performed by people of the lower class. They toil day and night and, in most instances, for very little remuneration. One may see them engaged in various occupations at all hours of the day; but during the early hours of the morning, long files wend their way down the streets with the public market-place as the point of focus. The huge brick structure is a busy place. It reminds one of an ants’ nest with its incoming and departing swarms. Inside the building are rows and heaps of fruit, vegetables, meat, bread, and many other articles. A motley crowd of women fills the place to overflowing; each carries a basket, or wooden tray, on her head into which the purchases are placed, when, after an indefinite amount of bargaining and haggling, they have been consummated. Invariably each receptacle contains a curious collection; a number of green and ripe plantains; a slice of pumpkin; a pepper, garlic, and a tomato; a chunk of meat, and a papaya. Perhaps there may also be a bunch of yerba buena and some achiote seeds with which to give a spicy flavor and yellow color to the soup; but these condiments are, unfortunately, used in such quantities that a goodly supply is usually kept on hand even when there is no other food in the house.

The nights are delightful in Cali. A refreshing wind springs up soon after sundown; the military band plays in the plaza, lights twinkle and the breeze sighs through the royal palms and orange-trees scattering broadcast snowy petals and heavy perfume. Only the gente are admitted into this little fairy-land. Gayly dressed and highly-rouged women, clothed in the extreme of fashion, parade along the winding walks; but it is considered in bad taste for them to appear without an escort. The poorer class, ragged and barefooted, gathers outside the iron fence and peers through the bars; the children run and play noisily on the neighboring streets. At last the bells in the cathedral boom the hour of ten; the band plays the national anthem, when every one stands, the men with uncovered heads. Then the crowd disperses quietly and orderly. Soon the town is wrapped in slumber with only the sighing wind and the occasional shrill blasts of police whistles to disturb the drowsy solitude.

It was said, that Cali had a population of forty thousand, but that figure doubtless included the populace of the suburban districts for a considerable distance. The city is bound to grow, however, on account of its favorable location in the fertile Cauca Valley, which is one of the garden spots of all South America.

The Cauca River is about four miles distant from the city, and the settlement of Guanchito is located on the river-bank. A little toy-like train makes frequent trips back and forth between the two points because the puerto, as Guanchito is commonly called, is of real importance. Steamers and launches from Cartago take on and discharge passengers and freight, and many rafts laden with green plantains and produce arrive daily. The village presents a scene of great activity during the morning hours; clusters of ragged little booths, like mushrooms, have sprung up during the hours of darkness where women, squatting under the shambling shelters, cook sancocho over charcoal braziers; files of peons hurry back and forth as they transfer the cargoes from rafts and canoes to the waiting freight-cars; and there is a great deal of good-natured raillery between the slovenly mozos who liberally patronize the eating and drinking places, and the stand-keepers who feign an air of coyness withal. Gradually, as the sun mounts higher the crowds grow thinner. Their morning’s work over, the people either depart via the waterway they had come, or take the train back to Cali.

An interesting ferry service is maintained at Guanchito. A stout steel cable has been strung across the river, and to a pulley running along it, two chains are fastened, their other ends being tied to either end of the boat. The latter is a huge, flat-bottomed affair, capable of holding many people and horses. Before starting across, the up-stream chain is shortened, so that the side of the boat presents a sharp angle to the current, and the craft is speedily pushed to the other side of the river.

Extensive marshes border the Cauca, a short distance above Guanchito. During the rainy season the water spreads over many miles of land, and is very deep; but in the dry season it recedes rapidly leaving a number of shallow and well-defined marshes and ponds. Wildfowl gathers in great numbers to spend the hottest months in these friendly havens. There were ducks of a number of species, including tree-ducks that make a shrill, whistling noise as they speed by and then drop on the ground near the marsh, to stand motionless and on the alert for possible danger before plunging into the water. Great gray herons croaked and waded sedately among the rushes, spearing frogs and fish as they went along. The horned screamer—a bird the size of a large turkey—is also an inhabitant of the marshes. It has rather long, but thick legs, that enable it to wade into fairly deep water, but also swims to floating islands of succulent water-plants which form a part of its food. The bird’s color is slaty black, the back being glossy; the belly is white; a horn, or caruncle, several inches long grows from the forehead and curves forward. The feathers are soft, and the tissues for half an inch under the skin are filled with air spaces; the natives say that this protects the bird from the bites of poisonous snakes, and it is not impossible that this pneumatic cushion could serve such a purpose, although it is hardly probable. The most remarkable thing about the bird, however, is its voice. Usually a pair sing together; they walk slowly back and forth, throw the head over the back, and emit powerful hoots, booms, and long-drawn, clear, ringing notes that, while harmonious and not unmusical, are nevertheless touched with pathos and conjure in one’s imagination a picture of some trammelled spirit of the wild yearning for redemption. Numerous small birds, mainly tyrant-flycatchers inhabit the thorny thickets growing out of the water, and build their huge grass nests within the safe barrier of thorn-armed branches.

The surrounding country of the Cauca Valley is fertile and productive of most of the things essential to the support of a contented and thriving populace. A great deal of the land is used for grazing cattle and horses, but it will soon become too valuable to use for this purpose on account of the limited amount available. A far greater revenue can be derived through cultivation.

Cattle grazing in the Cauca Valley.

Port of Guanchito.

We paid a visit to a large sugar estate called La Manuelita, near the town of Palmira. La Manuelita is a little world of its own; it comprises fifteen hundred acres of the most fertile and attractive part of the valley. The ranch-house, occupying a site in the centre, is a rambling two-story building of generous proportions and attractive appearance. The gardens, surrounding it with a riot of color, give it a quaint, old-fashioned charm; there has been no studied effect, no precision in the arrangement of plants or flowers; oleanders, roses, hibiscus, geraniums, and hollyhocks grow in matted profusion. Clumps of magnolias, chinaberries and oranges conceal the high stone fence. Immediately without the wall surrounding the house is the peon village consisting of some fifty-odd houses of uniform size and appearance, and the sugar-factory. The peons are of Spanish, Indian, and negro blood, or of a mixture of any two or all three, and require constant supervision to secure the best results.

All the land is under cultivation, mostly in cane, for the production of which it is well suited. The soil is a rich alluvial loam. Some of the cane-fields at La Manuelita had not been replanted in ninety years; others on the estate of William Barney, former United States consul in Cali, had been producing one hundred and twenty years, and were still yielding eighty tons or more of cane to the acre. It was said, and all indications substantiate the report, that the entire region was at one time covered by a great lake! This accounts for the continued productiveness of the soil.

Cane grows to a height of fifteen feet, there being a dozen or more stalks to each hill. It requires eight to ten months to mature. The fields are divided into sections and cut at different intervals so as to provide a succession of ripe cane for the mill, and furnish steady employment for the several hundred peons.

The factory is modern in nearly every respect; its capacity is from five to eight tons of sugar daily, of good quality. It required a number of years to bring the heavy machinery over the mountains from Buenaventura. The more cumbersome pieces were slowly drawn up the steep slopes with the aid of block and tackle and oxen; the apparatus was so arranged that the animals could walk down-hill as they pulled, adding greatly to their efficiency. It is necessary to carry a complete stock of duplicate machinery to use in case of an accident; otherwise the factory might have to shut down a year or two while some badly needed article was being secured from abroad.

Nearly all machinery is ordered from London, as it can be had more quickly and better packed than from the United States. I heard this same statement in various parts of South America. Although manufacturers were beginning to realize that in order to do business successfully in South America, they must first make a study of general conditions, they have not done so in the past, with the natural result that the bulk of Latin-American commerce has been done with the Old World. It is frequently necessary to ship merchandise on mule-back, or in small river-craft a distance of many days after its arrival at a port and before it reaches its destination; it is exposed to varying weather conditions—great heat and heavy rains; the treatment it receives is of necessity very rough. All this means that packing must have been done with great care and in a special manner. The fact that we have not adopted the metric system, and that there have been practically no American banks to discount bills, have been further drawbacks to the establishment of extensive trade relations between the two peoples.

Perhaps the most attractive thing of all about the Cauca Valley is its climate. A record of the temperature kept at La Manuelita during a period of ten years shows the greatest uniformity. The difference in the average weekly temperature is only 6° the year around.

A belt of tall bamboo entirely surrounds the hacienda; the giant stalks of steel-like toughness are armed with long, murderous thorns and form an interlocking mass that is absolutely impenetrable to man. Contrary to our expectations, birds were not plentiful in this land of tangled verdure. A few nighthawks dozed on the ground in the deep shade, and an occasional yellow-headed caracara (Milvago chimachima) that, perched on the tip of a swaying stalk, gave vent to its feelings in a succession of shrill, long-drawn screams.

Farther away, where clumps of woods grew, birds were more plentiful. There were many red-fronted parrakeets nesting in holes in dead stubs. Red-headed woodpeckers (Chrysoptilus p. striatigularis) in numbers hammered on hollow trunks; the strokes are so rapid that the sound resembles the roll of a snare-drum. Pigmy woodpeckers (Picumnus) no larger than a good-sized humming-bird, worked industriously on the smaller branches. They are obscurely marked mites of feathered energy, of a dark olive color with a few red dots on top of the blackish head. When the nesting season arrives a tiny cavity is excavated in some partially decayed limb in which two round, white eggs are deposited. These birds are nearly always found in pairs, and when the young leave the nest they accompany the parents, forming small family parties that forage for minute insects among the crevices of rough bark and in decayed wood.

Occasionally it seemed as if we were not so far from our northern home after all; for along the edges of the numerous marshes ran an old acquaintance—the spotted sandpiper. In the reeds yellow-headed blackbirds chirped and fluttered; but they are slightly smaller than the North American birds and have even been placed in a different genus (Agelaius). By walking quietly it was also possible to surprise a deer that had been tempted far from cover by the prospects of a luscious breakfast in some little plantation. These animals are so greatly persecuted that they make off at the first sign of danger.

CHAPTER II
POPAYÁN AND THE CERRO MUNCHIQUE

After spending a few weeks in and about the Cauca Valley, Richardson and I started southward, while the two other members of the expedition began the homeward journey. I had looked forward very eagerly to my visit to southern Colombia because I knew that the country, towns, and even the people were different from those we had seen heretofore. But, above all, because ahead of us lay a vast region little known zoologically, and we hoped to penetrate into at least the mountain fastnesses west of Popayán in our insatiable search for the rare and interesting wild life that haunted that remote wilderness.

We left Cali at noon, May 13, well provided with riding and pack animals, and half-breed arrieros, and started on the well-beaten trail that leads toward the south.

At first there was no appreciable change in the valley, but by degrees the stretches of absolutely level-appearing land increased in size; instead of extensive cultivated areas there were pastures of large size, covered with a luxuriant growth of grass. Thousands of head of cattle were sprinkled over the velvety turf. We rode an hour through one of these ranches just before reaching the river Jamundi. This estate is the property of one Angel Mario Borreo, who is reported to be one of the most influential men in the Department of Cauca, and is only one of his sixteen similar holdings.

The Jamundi is not over one hundred and fifty feet wide at the point of crossing, and is spanned by a steel and brick bridge; dense jungles of bamboo line both banks. Just beyond lies the little town bearing the same name.

A tent-show had been billed to appear here at some time within the near future, and the arrival of our pack-train was mistaken for that eagerly awaited event. The news spread rapidly and before long the populace had turned out en masse in the hope of getting a glimpse at the wonders our trunks and duffel-bags were supposed to contain. Not until we had taken refuge in the little posada or inn could they be convinced of their error and induced to return to their homes; but another surprise was in store for us.

The many and enervating tasks of the day called for our early retirement, and eight o’clock found us in our cots. Great was our surprise to be awakened an hour later by the sound of music at our very door. One of our men was sent to the door to learn the cause of the serenade and was told that the mayor of the town, with a delegation of the chief officials and the band, had come to pay us a visit. Of course, there was but one thing to do, and half an hour later found us out on the special seats that had been prepared, in full view of the visitors and perhaps half of the villagers who had accompanied them. Then followed speeches, singing, music, and a few native dances, interspersed with short intervals for smoking, drinking (a goodly supply of aguardiente had been brought along), and conversation. The visitors remained until one in the morning; a rather lengthy call, to be sure, but a pleasant one, and quite characteristic of the friendliness of the Colombians.

The next day’s ride of ten hours’ duration brought us to Buenos Aires, a very pretty little town nestling among and almost obscured by gardens of flowers and orchards of fruit.

A heavy rain during the night had filled all the sink-holes in the road with water, making progress slow on the following day. We rounded Mount Saint Ignacio early in the morning, and shortly after had our first view of the volcano Purace; we were to learn more of this mountain in the not distant future. Soon after, the lomas or great barren hills appeared; they form a kind of connecting-link between the Coast and Central Ranges. These gently rounded mounds are bare except for a kind of worthless, wiry grass that in some unaccountable way draws enough sustenance from the red-clay soil to maintain its meagre growth. These hills gradually increase in height, but the ascent is by such slow degrees that one is scarcely conscious of any rise at all. There are few houses, and the small number of inhabitants seem to be as sallow and lifeless as the hills themselves. A party of people had gathered at one of the Philippine-like structures near the roadside; they were chatting excitedly and drinking a good deal of chicha. When we dismounted we found that a child had died and was being prepared for burial. It sat propped up in a small, rudely made chair, covered with a piece of white cloth. No one seemed greatly concerned over the death, least of all the parents; on the contrary, they were proud of the angelito, and of the attention the event attracted from the people of the neighboring country.

In perfect accord with our expectations, there was little bird-life on the cheerless lomas. A few blue tanagers and Veinte-vi flycatchers (Pitangus) lived in the bushes that lined the infrequent rivulets trickling through narrow gullies between the hills. The Veinte-vi was an old acquaintance; its cheery call is one of the first bird-notes to greet the ear of the visitor to tropical South America. Its local name varies with the locality, and is an attempt by the natives to imitate the bird’s cry. Thus it ranges from Kiss-ka-dee and Veinte-vi to Dios te di and Christi fui. This flycatcher is of a rather vivacious disposition, and pairs of them frequently may be seen singing together and beating their wings on the branches.

As a general rule these birds are of peaceful habits, except when nesting; but I have frequently seen them in pursuit of a carrion hawk at which they darted viciously and continued to follow until lost to view.

The diet of the Veinte-vi is varied, and the bird is most versatile in capturing its prey. Thus it will sit on a perch above a brook and plunge in after small fish or tadpoles, somewhat in the manner of a kingfisher; it may hover over a field and drop upon an unsuspicious mouse, lizard, or small snake; beetles, grasshoppers, and other insects are overtaken and captured on the wing. When a victim of some size has been captured, it is beaten rapidly upon a branch until its life is hammered out. It also hops about in fields looking for worms and grubs.

The nest is a huge domed structure, made of grasses and often wool, and placed in the branches of a tree six to fifteen feet up. Entrance is gained through an opening in one side, near the top. On account of the great size of the structure, being about twelve or fifteen inches high and eight to ten inches thick, it is very conspicuous; the exterior is carelessly made, with grasses and streamers of nesting material hanging down on all sides.

The eggs, two to five in number, although four seem to constitute the usual set, are long and pointed, cream-colored, and lightly spotted with chocolate-brown and purple blotches—mostly on the larger end.

Besides these species, there were ground-doves, lapwings, and an occasional sparrow-hawk. The latter is so similar to our common little terror of the air that it is hard to distinguish between the two.

Shortly after noon we encountered one of the most terrific tropical storms imaginable. Hour after hour a perfect deluge of rain poured down upon us from which rubber ponchos afforded little protection. Flashes of lightning pierced the semiblackness with blinding shafts of light, followed by deafening crashes of thunder—an indication that we were approaching the high zone of bleak mountain slopes and paramos.

That night we reached Morales, at an elevation of five thousand nine hundred feet. Fortunately there was no demonstration of any kind to interfere with our much-needed rest. Early the next morning, however, we experienced the thrill inseparably linked with the sudden display of one of those hidden forces of nature that forever and inalterably control our destiny.

From out of the gray and penetrating mist that seemed to envelop all the world there rose a low, ominous rumbling, distant, yet of thunderous volume; and the mud-walled, grass-thatched inn shuddered violently in unison with the trembling earth.

Through the open door of the adjoining room I heard the scratching of matches and saw the flicker of yellow light reflected on the whitewashed wall. A moment later the pious señora, surrounded by her little ones, was kneeling before the shrine of the Virgin, chanting a litany in low, monotonous tones. Two tapers flickered hazily. The gaudy tinsel flowers that decked the image gleamed in the uncertain light, but the pitiful squalor, ignorance, and general misery of the surroundings were mercifully left in darkness.

Without, all was silent, save for the barking of a pack of stray mongrels which had been asleep on the door-steps of Morales. The village again slumbered, and the chill, damp fog clung to the earth.

Alone I made my way up the only street, through the mud, to the eminence on which the adobe church stands, overlooking the valley and affording a view of the tremendous range on each side; for it was nearly the hour of daybreak and the sun rising above the lofty peaks of the Andes presents a scene of matchless beauty.

With the first faint glow of light in the east the banks of vapor became dissipated and gradually disappeared. Peak after peak reared its head above the ocean of snowy whiteness. First of all was Purace, the hoary monarch that dominates the southern part of the Cordillera Central and spreads terror through the land with threats and warnings similar to those we had just experienced. This great volcano has been active for untold ages. A huge column of smoke and vapor ascends continually straight into the clouds, and this, reflecting the light of the rising sun, makes a magnificent picture. Occasionally at night the eternal fires within the gaping crater may be seen tinting the low-hanging clouds and the snow that crowns the summit, fourteen thousand five hundred feet high, with rosy red. All about, the great barren lomas are strewn with black boulders, some of immense size, that serve to remind the wayfarer of the cataclysms of bygone ages. Everywhere they dot the hillsides and tower above the trail that winds among them.

Just below rises the silent mass of Sotará, crowned with the snow of centuries; the precipitous slopes are seamed and worn by the frequent slides of ice and stones from above, and deep, snow-filled gashes extend far down below the glittering dome in a ragged fringe. At night the moonlight steals softly up the frigid heights and reverently bathes the ancient head in a halo of dazzling splendor.

As the sun mounted higher and higher the peaks of the Western Range appeared one by one, like islands in mid-ocean, led by the awe-inspiring Munchique and followed by his lesser satellites. Between the two ranges, in the fruitful valley of the Cauca, Popayán still slumbered beneath a blanket of billowy softness.

By six o’clock the arrieros had corralled the mules and riding-horses, and half an hour later we were on the march.

Replacing the dry and barren lomas, we now found a bush-covered country with occasional long strips of low forest in the hollows; but the trail was an exceedingly difficult one, owing to the rocky nature of the country and the great boulders that obstruct the way. Frequently a small stream had to be crossed, such as the Rio Piendano, which is spanned by an arched bridge built of large, hand-made bricks, a curious relic of olden Spanish days. Down goes the trail five hundred feet or more at an angle of forty-five degrees, and then up again on the other side, the mules snorting and puffing as they creep along at a snail’s pace. All the rivers seem to flow through deep gorges. Only sure-footed mules are of service on this trail, each carrying not more than two hundred pounds.

The distance from Morales to Popayán is not great; without cargo-mules it is an easy day’s ride, but with a caravan of tired, heavily laden animals that have come all the way from Cali it is the part of wisdom to spend the night at the little posada La Venta and ride into the city early the next morning. Here a room and a good meal can usually be had on short notice, but one must carry his own cot and bedding, as luxuries of this kind are not furnished in Colombian inns except in the larger cities.

We were up and on our way early the next morning, for it was market-day—the day when the inhabitants from miles around flock to the city to buy and sell and to have a good time generally. It was our first visit and we could not afford to miss such an interesting and typical sight.

While still several miles distant from Popayán we began to meet small parties of Indians that dotted the trail, slowly wending their way toward the Mecca of the Upper Cauca. By the time we had reached Belen, a settlement of about twenty houses, the trail had widened into a beautiful thoroughfare and was crowded with oncoming hordes. These Indians are probably descendants of the ancient Guanacas, while some are doubtless the offspring of the tribe of Paeces which inhabits the Cordillera Central to the north. Many, no doubt, still preserve the original purity of the old stock, but the vast majority have mingled and intermarried with the native Colombians until one finds every possible stage of intergradation.

Before us passed the motliest crowd imaginable, each bearing the fruit of his toil, to be appraised and sold in the public plaza. There were small family parties, the man leading a decrepit mule that threatened to collapse at every step, laden with fruit and vegetables, fire-wood, hemp ropes and bags, calabashes, pottery, or any one of a hundred different things. The wife, acting as auxiliary beast of burden, carried the surplus. A band passed over the forehead supported the heavy pack; usually a small child was carried in a sling at her side, while several larger children clung to her skirt or trudged behind. As she walked she worked, spinning from a bunch of wool or cotton tucked under her arm, the spindle, a sharpened stick with a potato stuck on the end, dangling from her hands. The most characteristic occupation of the women is the making of small fibre bags, or muchilas, from hempen cord. They are meshed entirely by hand as the overburdened worker trots along, and when completed somewhat resemble a lady’s shopping-bag. If the meshes are close it requires weeks to finish one which would fetch forty or fifty cents.

The men are dressed in loose white-cotton trousers that come below the knee; then there is the inevitable square of homespun woollen cloth, usually brownish, gray, or blue, called ruana; the head is thrust through a hole in the centre so that it drapes down to the waist, the corners often touching the ground and giving the same effect as the toga of a Roman senator. At night the ruana takes the place of a blanket under which the whole family sleeps. A broad-brimmed, high-crowned straw hat completes the outfit. The women are fond of dark-blue skirts (also the product of their industry), pink waists, and shawls of almost any color so long as they have fringes. Their hats are similar to those worn by the men. The feet of both sexes are, of course, bare.

Half an hour after leaving Belen we were cantering across the great brick bridge that spans the Cauca and forms the entrance to Popayán. This bridge is really a marvel of ancient Spanish architecture, five hundred feet long, forty feet wide, and supported by a series of arches.

Popayán is one of the oldest and most picturesque of Spanish-American cities, though by no means the largest. I doubt if its population exceeds ten thousand. The early history of the city is full of interest, and from it one gains an insight into the conditions attendant upon the conquest and colonization of a large part of South America. Spurred on by the love of adventure and the lust for treasure, the Conquistadores overran vast portions of the continent, establishing depots here and there from which they could start anew in search of El Dorado, which they were destined never to find. In this manner Popayán was founded in the year 1536 by Sebastian de Belalcazar, the son of a peasant from the border of Estremadura and Andalusia, in the south of Spain.

After founding Popayán, Belalcazar extended his raids down the river and formed the settlement which to-day is Cali, the largest and most important city in the Cauca. Being a fair example of the usual type of Conquistador, he showed no mercy toward the Indians, but nearly exterminated them; the country which had been a fruitful province was turned into a famine-stricken waste. In the meantime Pizarro had sent an officer, Lorenzo de Aldana, to arrest his erstwhile lieutenant; but Belalcazar, satisfied with his conquests, set sail for Spain in 1539 for the purpose of securing a charter before he could be apprehended.

The city lies high up on the level plain, more than six thousand feet above the sea, surrounded by rugged peaks, some snow-capped, others unbridled as yet by the hand of time, presaging catastrophe and disaster; and still others covered with impenetrable growths of virgin forest, untrodden by human foot, and known only to the wild creatures that lurk within the dark recesses. Above all hang the fleecy clouds that encircle the lofty pinnacles, dip low to meet the earth, and then vanish again into space. About the city prevails an air of calm repose; an air of sanctity and mysticism that radiates into every nook and corner, permeating every fibre. The city is famous as a centre of learning. Its colleges and university, conducted by the Order of Maristas, attract the youths from all parts of the country. There are numerous old churches, all very ancient, the gilded interiors rankling with the damp of untold years. Bells of antique workmanship, and covered with verdigris, dangle in open niches in the walls or in the low, square towers, and hourly call the faithful to prayer in monotonous cadence. The cathedral was completed in 1752 after many years’ work. In one of the streets a delightful view may be had of three successive chapels, one above the other, and of the streams of pious penitents wending their way up the rocky path. There are also the overgrown ruins of a house of worship, but I could never quite decide whether the edifice had fallen into decay or whether the medley piles of bricks and rubbish between the four crumbling walls were still waiting to be placed in position. The streets, crooked and narrow, are paved with cobblestones. The buildings are of the old adobe type, one-story and whitewashed, with red-tile or sod roofs. Glass is not used except in the churches, but the windows are heavily barred. Recently a few modern brick structures have been erected. A look into the corridors and inner courts, of which there may be several in one house, conveys an insight into the domestic life of the people. The front courts are very attractive with their flowers, shrubbery, and trees, but the rear ones are anything but inviting, the dungeon-like enclosures reminding one of the stories of atrocities and persecutions carried on here in the turbulent times of the Spanish Inquisition.

On an average, the people are of a higher class, both intellectually and physically, than in most Colombian cities of equal size; comparatively few negroes are seen, and the good health and bright looks of the inhabitants are the natural result of a cool climate and pure mountain air.

One day, at noon, as I was photographing in the vicinity of Popayán, after having ridden perhaps five or six miles from the city, I was accosted by an elderly woman who invited me to stop at her humble cabin, where she had prepared a really palatable lunch. Her reason for doing this was that she had recognized me as a foreigner. During the course of the meal she tearfully related that she had had a son, of about my own age, who had gone to the States many years before. Had I met him, and could I give her any tidings? I could have, but I did not. By a strange and inexplicable coincidence I knew that her son had not left the country. Instead of going to the coast he had engaged in one of the revolutions common enough at that time and had been captured and shot; but what right had I to remove the only support that maintained the spark of life in her aged body? It was only the hope of seeing her boy again that gave her the strength to resist the onslaught of advancing years. Doubtless, she still waits, hoping against hope for the message that will never come. Hers is the mother-love that never despairs. How clearly it shows that human nature is very much the same the world over, even among the lowly!

On June 23 I was fortunate enough, while in Popayán, to behold one of the religious celebrations formerly all too numerous in Latin America. It was the Fiesta del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús. Troops of soldiers and bands were lined up in front of the cathedral; all were quiet and orderly while the sacred rites were being performed within. Suddenly the doors burst open, bells boomed and jingled, and the contents of the vast church poured through the portals in a steady stream. First came the altar-boys in white surplices and red cassocks, carrying gilded crosses on long poles and lighted tapers in silver holders, followed by the small children, the girls with tinsel wings, resembling tiny angels. Then came the governor of Cauca, the prefect of Popayán and their staffs, each bearing a standard. Next in line were the maidens, covered with large black shawls, or mantas, with folded hands and downcast eyes which, however, they were not averse to raising to meet the admiring glances cast by some of the onlookers. The students from the seminaries and a choir of singers preceded a life-size statue of the patron of the feast, borne aloft on the shoulders of stalwart youths; then came the archbishop and the higher ecclesiastics in tall mitres and gorgeously embroidered and glittering robes. Those of the general public who chose to march fell in line behind the bands that followed, chanting prayers. The remainder knelt in the streets with bowed, uncovered heads as the procession passed. All the buildings, even the trees, were gayly decorated with banners, a mixture of the papal and national insignia. Colombia is perhaps the only remaining country in the New World in which religion still dominates the government.

If we examine a map of Colombia we will find that the Cerro Munchique, the highest of the mountains in the Western Range, lies directly west of Popayán. There is an exceedingly difficult pass across the Cordillera at this point, leading to a place called the Cocal, still far distant from the coast. A trail was also being opened a short distance to the south leading to the Rio Micai. When this is completed it will require a four days’ journey on mules to the river; then two days in canoes on the Micai, said to contain many rapids and to flow through country inhabited by savage tribes, before the coast is reached.

A day’s ride from Popayán took us to El Tambo, and at noon the following day we were in the Indian village of Chapa at the very base of Munchique. A heavy electrical storm delayed our departure until noon the next day. There were but a dozen or fifteen adobe huts in the village, and during the height of the tempest one of these suddenly collapsed into a heap of mud and straw; the occupants barely escaped by fleeing into the deluge when the buckling walls apprised them of their danger.

After the agitation had subsided the people erected an altar in the plaza for the celebration of a mass of thanksgiving. Each one brought some trinket—a few paper flowers, a picture, a bit of tinsel, or a candle—with which to embellish the sacred structure. Then they all knelt, with bared heads, and in deepest devotion assisted at the religious service; that is, all but a plump Indian woman who boiled chontaduros, or palm-nuts, in a huge kettle, in back of one of the huts and sold them to the worshippers the moment devotions were over.

It required fully a half-day longer to reach the end of the mule trail, and by that time we had reached an elevation of eight thousand feet.

From this point up the mountains are covered with a dense growth of primeval forest. Below this elevation there are occasional strips of woods and patches of brush interspersed with clearings. Maize grows splendidly up to an altitude of seven thousand feet; this was proven by the few small fields cultivated by the Indians. The slope was also dotted with areas planted in rice.

The ascent of Munchique is very abrupt; there are no streams near the summit, as the top of the mountain is composed of solid rock that sheds rain as soon as it falls. The highest pinnacle is a flat, bare rock, about ten thousand feet above sea-level.

Robert Blake White states that from this spot one may “obtain a view over more than fifteen thousand square miles of country. The whole of the Central Cordillera, from the frontier of Ecuador to the confines of the State of Antioquia, with the valleys of the Cauca and the Patia, were visible to the north, east, and south; whilst, on turning to the westward, the Pacific coast from the bay of Tumaco to the mouth of the San Juan River seemed spread out like a map before us.

“A more gorgeous panorama cannot well be imagined. The belts of bright-colored vegetation, marked by the valleys with their winding rivers and streams, were backed with masses of the Cordillera with their varied tints and snow-capped peaks. On the other hand, the dark-hued vegetation of the virgin forests of the Pacific slopes stretched down to the ocean’s margin, which with its thousand bays and inlets and fringe of foam which was quite visible, looked like an edging of lace. The island of Gorgona could be distinctly seen.

“The Cerro Munchique should be visited in the dry season, for its peculiar prominence makes it a grand lightning conductor, as we clearly saw from the shattered rock on the summit.”

Cerro Munchique.

A deserted Indian hut on the Cerro Munchique.

We discovered a deserted Indian hut in the centre of a large, overgrown, abandoned plantation, and made it our headquarters for a week or more. The site was ideal. Tall forest hemmed in the clearing on all sides, and a rivulet of clear, icy water flowed near the shack. The elevation was eight thousand two hundred and twenty-five feet. Obviously, the place had been unoccupied for a number of years, doubtless owing to the fact that maize and rice would not thrive at this high altitude. However, these same conditions were most congenial to a host of other vegetation. Blackberries and rhododendrons, with lilac, red, white, pink, and yellow flowers formed a solid tangle, acres in extent, and creepers entirely covered the tall, dead stubs, and crowned them with a thick canopy of green leaves from which clusters of orange and scarlet trumpetflowers drooped.

At night the temperature went down to about 45°, but this did not deter giant hawk, owl, and sphinx-moths from appearing at dusk to feast on the nectar of the myriads of flowers. The little stream was the rendezvous for numberless frogs. One hardly suspected their presence during the daytime unless a careful search was made of the rotting wood that littered the ground, and of the tangled, snakelike stems of second-growth sprouts and leaves; but at night the concert was always sure to begin in startling volume. Some of the notes reminded me of our own spring peeper; others were sharp and metallic, like the twanging of a banjo-string; and others were low and mellow like the murmuring of a ’cello. They all blended into a deafening chorus of unflagging animation and unvaried monotony. At first the din was rather disconcerting, but gradually there came to us the realization that this was but the bubbling over of care-free little hearts rendering a song of happiness and thanksgiving to nature for the pure, unsullied joy of an unfettered existence.

Birds were not particularly plentiful in the forest. There were, however, a number of interesting forms, particularly among the tanagers. One species (Psittospiza riefferi) was about the size of a robin and of a deep grass-green color, with a chestnut-colored face and abdomen; these birds live singly and in pairs in the tall trees and are of a wary disposition. Another tanager (Sporathraupis) has a bright-blue head and olive-green back; the breast is deep, dull blue merging into golden yellow on the legs. The natives called this bird jilguero, a name applied to the solitaire in other localities. It lives in the lower branches of trees, travelling in pairs or small flocks and feeds on fruit; the song is not unpleasant, but cannot compare with any solitaire known to me.

While collecting one morning my attention was attracted by a chorus of chirps and screams, and following up the sounds I reached a tall tree where a peculiar bird drama was being staged. A number of California woodpeckers (Melanerpes flavigularis) had drilled numerous holes in the tree-trunk, from which sap trickled in small streams. A dozen or more buff-tailed hummers (Boissonneaua flavescens) had apparently come for their daily jag, for the sap very evidently had an intoxicating effect. Arriving in a bee-line, newcomers landed against the trunk, where they clung like so many moths, the buff-colored tail spread wide and against the bark for support. Their antics as the different stages of hilarity were reached were most amusing. They twittered, fought, turned, and tumbled in the air; others dozed on small twigs, and several fluttered toward the ground in an exhausted condition. This performance continued daily for a week, until the sap suddenly ceased to flow; then the tree was deserted and silent, the capricious band having no doubt sobered up from their debauch and gone back to their normal and more profitable pursuits in life.

In getting water from the brook, one of our men discovered a narrow trail under a giant log. We justly surmised that animals of some sort used the runway in journeying to and from the water. A trap was set in the path, and next morning a fine white opossum of large size had been safely ensnared. In the days that followed we secured an even dozen of the animals. They proved to be a form unknown to science that now bears the name Didelphis paraguayensis andina. The cook said that they were delicious eating, and prepared for us an unusually fat individual; but we found the meat of rather strong flavor, and not very palatable. A solitary weasel (Mustela affinis costaricensis) was also taken in the same spot. It would be interesting to know whether this animal came down to drink, or was in pursuit of some of the other creatures that frequented the runway. Weasels are courageous, active, and bloodthirsty little animals; their eyesight is poor, but their sense of smell is keen and they will tirelessly follow their intended victim until it falls into their clutches. I have frequently heard that they attack and kill small deer by clinging to the neck and doggedly chewing their way through the skin until the jugular vein is severed; this does not seem probable to me, however, and it is far more reasonable to believe that rats, mice, frogs, and other small creatures form the bulk of their prey. On account of their slender proportions, they can trail the quarry through small holes and crevices; in addition, they are also expert climbers. On one occasion, while “squeaking” to attract a bird, a weasel came instead, looking for the supposed helpless creature, and ran over my feet without suspecting the fraud.

They will fight savagely to protect their nest, usually made in a hole in the ground or hollow stump, and I know of one instance where one of the animals sprang into the face of a native who had trapped its mate at the mouth of a burrow.

Nearly a month had passed since we left Popayán, but the time had been spent so pleasantly and profitably that it seemed scarcely longer than a week. Our scheduled time for the region had been exhausted, however, so we reluctantly retraced our steps to Popayán.

CHAPTER III
THE ANDES SOUTHWEST OF POPAYÁN; CRUISE OF THE CALDAS

After our return to Popayán we spent a few days wrapping and packing the large collection of birds and mammals that had been secured on the Cerro Munchique; and, during the odd moments when this work became arduous, we sought information about the mountains south of the place we had just visited. Eventually our quest took us to the governor’s palace, where we had the good fortune to meet the executive of the province of Cauca, Doctor Alfredo Garcés.

The first thing that attracted our attention was a framed poem hanging above his desk; the title of it was “Death to Foreigners”; but the kindly and sympathetic governor soon dispelled any doubts we may have harbored as to his feelings. He was a man of great refinement and education, and had travelled extensively in the United States. Our mission interested him greatly. He brought out maps and charts, and then, with the aid of a pair of powerful field-glasses, showed us the places he had pointed out on the drawings.

Doctor Garcés proved to be one of our best and most highly valued friends, despite the rather alarming notice on his office wall. He called on us at the inn several times each day, and admired the birds and mammals we had collected. Our rooms were always in the state of greatest upheaval with packing-cases, equipment, provisions, and a hundred other things occupying each available place; but the governor took it all as a matter of course, enjoyed delving among our possessions in search of things unknown to him, and probably considered himself fortunate if he could find his silk hat and cane in the place they had been left when he was ready to leave.

June 24 found us again upon the trail, heading south-westward. Both the Central and Coast Ranges were visible for many miles, the snow-covered Purace and Sotará dominating the former, with Munchique standing unequalled in the latter. Barren, rolling hills stretched away in the distance like the waves of a storm-tossed sea; this undulating country is the first indication of a connecting-link between the two ranges.

For two days there was no perceptible change in the country; but on the morning of the third day, shortly after leaving the settlement of Monos, we entered virgin forest at an altitude of seven thousand five hundred feet. A shelter-house, known as San José, is just a thousand feet higher up, and at ten o’clock we were up ten thousand one hundred and forty feet. From here one has an unrivalled view of thousands of square miles of country. The magnificent valley, appearing greener and more level from our height than was really the case, lay below, and stretched far to the north. The paramos and volcanoes flanking the far side were abreast of our station. Frequently, while in similar positions, there recurred to me the sentiment so aptly expressed by Hudson: “Viewed from the top of a lofty mountain, the world assumes a vastness and varied beauty that revive the flagging spirit and refresh the soul.” And quite as certainly there is forced upon our recognition the infinitesimal smallness of man when compared to the immensity of nature—a mere atom existing by virtue of a benevolent force that has so ordained, but that reserves the power to crush the whole fabric of life at a breath.

The top of the ridge is ten thousand three hundred and forty feet high, and the vegetation is typical of the temperate zone; low, dense bushes, mingled with the gnarled branches of stunted evergreen trees and shrubs, burdened with clumps of red and lavender flowers. Numbers of low grass shacks had been built along the trail; some of them were very long and housed the peons working on the road to Micai. Although these structures were of comparatively recent origin, many small rodents had been attracted to them by the corn that formed the principal article of food of the peons. A large brown rat (Oryzomys pectoralis) was very abundant; apparently this rodent had formerly existed in small numbers only, for it was rare out in the open; but the artificial conditions created by the settlement of the region had proved so congenial that it increased rapidly. The same is true of several other species of rats that almost overran the houses.

In riding or walking along the trail, I frequently encountered a species of snake resembling in coloration a coral snake; however, it was not unusual to find an individual five feet or even more in length, and two or three inches through in the thickest part. They appeared exceeding sluggish and even refused to move although almost trodden upon. We never molested them, as they appeared to be harmless, and were really of striking beauty. Unfortunately, we had no way of preserving any. A species recently discovered in Nicaragua by Mr. Clarence R. Halter, which is similar to the one we saw almost daily, belongs to the genus Coronella.

The birds belonged to a typical temperate-zone fauna. Among them was a new species of beautiful honey-creeper (Diglossa gloriosissima); it is black with blue shoulders and a deep-rufous abdomen. They clambered about over the clusters of gorgeous flowers, feasting on the nectar they contained. Another common bird was a tanager (Iridosornis) the size of our redbird, but of a bright-violet color that merges into greenish blue on the wings. The head is black excepting the crown, which is deep orange. It is a vivacious creature, travels in small flocks that frequent the taller shrubbery, but possesses limited singing powers only.

During our stay we had occasion to witness a christening ceremony performed by a priest who was travelling through the region for the purpose of ministering to the people’s spiritual needs. The fact had been widely advertised, so early on the appointed day many natives appeared, bringing small children to be baptized. About thirty had been brought by noon, when the priest commanded the god-parents to line up, each holding his gaudily dressed and probably fretful little charge. The priest began at one end of the row, dispensing one part of the sacrament to each child as he passed; then he went back and began all over again, giving the second part to each of them, and so on until the rite was completed.

It so happened that there was a small child in the hut we had chosen for our several days’ sojourn. To honor the gringos who were stopping under her roof, the señora asked Richardson to be the little one’s godfather, while I was permitted to suggest the name. We naturally felt as if we should give the baby a present, but a thorough ransacking through my effects revealed only a can of talcum powder, which I promptly presented to the mother. A few days later she came to me in distress: “The baby has a slight fever,” she said. “I gave it some of the white powder you made me a present of, but it did no good. How much is it necessary to take at one time?”

The western slope of the range is very abrupt. Large forces of men were engaged in cutting a narrow ledge for a footpath into the face of the steep mountainside. The trail wound back and forth continuously; looking over the rim of the narrow shelf one could count six or eight loops underneath, one below the other.

The work of cutting such a way is hazardous for the men engaged in it. The soil is loose and saturated with water, so landslides were of frequent occurrence; and whenever the irresistible avalanche swept the precipitous terrain, it usually carried one or more of the laborers with it and buried them under tons of rock and débris. It was invariably hopeless to try to find the body, so the survivors simply erected a cross on the spot. Frequently there were several crosses together, and in one place I counted seventeen standing side by side.

Late in the afternoon we reached a lone hut in a small clearing—the hastily erected shelter of a group of peons. The men invited us to stop, and as the locality looked interesting we accepted the invitation; but we erected our tent and lived in it in preference to the hut.

All the surrounding country was covered with virgin forest. It had never been trodden by man, at least not within many years; there were no side trails of any kind, so that it was impossible to penetrate very far.

Among our first mammals were a doe and fawn of a little forest-deer (Mazama setta). They are commonly known as brockets or spike-bucks, as each horn consists of a single prong. I believe that these deer are not so rare as generally supposed, but they are seldom collected on account of the difficulty of hunting them in the thick jungle. The peons shot the ones we secured. They had discovered a path leading to a small stream, and concealing themselves on the opposite side, waited until the animals came down to drink; then they shot them. The men also brought in a huge bushmaster that they unearthed while clearing away underbrush. The deadly reptile is known as equis to the natives on account of the black X-shaped marks on its back.

The mountainsides were scarred with deep fissures and ravines filled with the darkest and most impenetrable of forests. It was possible to look across from one side to the other, but crossing them was impracticable. Each morning I could see a flock of some thirty-odd swallow-tailed kites soaring just above the trees on the far side of one of the ravines. The magnificent birds resembled huge white-bellied swallows, or swifts, as they circled majestically over the dark forest; they uttered shrill screams all the while. Apparently they fed on the wing, and specimens collected by us later had eaten quantities of large beetles and flying ants. At about nine o’clock the band always resorted to the top of a tall tree that towered far above its contemporaries for a short rest; this was rather unusual, as the birds are rarely seen perched, and the natives said they never alight during the daytime. Live birds, or specimens freshly killed, have the glistening black back covered with a beautiful grayish “bloom” or powder that gives it a soft, velvety appearance. However, this disappears soon after death.

A species of pigmy squirrel (Microsciurus) lived in the forest, but we seldom saw any of the little creatures scarcely bigger than one of the larger kinds of mice. I have always found these animals much rarer than the ordinary squirrels; usually they live in pairs. They seem to prefer forests abounding in palms and to feed on the various kinds of palm-fruits and nuts. They frequently evince a great deal of curiosity and can be approached to within a short distance before taking fright and scampering out of sight among the leaves.

The minute creatures move rapidly and gracefully and make long, daring leaps. In running over the leaves and branches they follow the lateral stems, and on reaching the ends ascend through the tree-top or thick foliage by leaping crossways from twig to twig, as if ascending the rungs of a ladder.

I kept one that was given to me by the natives as a pet for some time. It made its home in the pocket of my flannel hunting-shirt, where it was always sure to find a bit of cracker or sugar, and to which it could retreat when frightened. Whenever anything of an unusual nature occurred, the bright, inquisitive little eyes always appeared suddenly so as not to miss a single thing that might be of interest. It never attempted to bite or run away, and seemed perfectly contented with the company of the friends that fed and protected it.

Eventually we started back toward Popayán. We crossed the high brush-covered divide July 4; a violent electrical storm had been staged on the wild mountain-top as if in noisy celebration of the day. It began with a dark mist that covered everything. Then rain and hail fell uninterruptedly for more than an hour, while lightning flashed and blue-green flames seemed to leap toward the blackened rock. Sometimes the bolts came from above, and again they were below us so that we were enveloped in a weird, ghastly light. The thunder was terrific and kept up a continuous crash and rumble. It was impossible to see any other member of the expedition on account of the thick haze—there was no shelter of any kind—only the narrow shelf-like trail that snaked its way along the steep slope. After the storm we made camp; the men and mules kept straggling in until a late hour; they were very wet and much bedraggled, but apparently none the worse for the nerve-racking experience.

Popayán was reached without further incident. Richardson’s contract having expired, he determined to leave the country, so we returned to Cali to rearrange the equipment and pack the collections; then he left for Buenaventura to take a north-bound steamer.

In the meantime Doctor Chapman, who had reached New York, arranged to send down a man to fill the vacancy left by Richardson. Doctor Arthur A. Allen, of Cornell University, was selected for the place. He reached Cali about the middle of August and accompanied me during the succeeding eight months.

In compliance with instructions received from Doctor Chapman, I immediately planned an expedition northward, then toward the east to make a zoological exploration of the forests bordering the Quindio Pass and of the high paramo of Santa Isabel. The first stage of the journey was down the Cauca River.

Regular steamboat service is maintained between Guanchito and Cartago during the rainy season. The Sucre, a boat of small size, makes frequent voyages, requiring about three days’ time each way. On this vessel one may travel in comparative comfort—if one is not too squeamish. We had to be content with a smaller craft, however, as there was not sufficient water to float the Sucre over the numerous sand-bars.

The Caldas is a little steel launch of not over fifty feet from stem to stern, with a beam of fifteen feet and drawing eighteen inches of water. When the river is full the Caldas is used to carry freight only, for which purpose she doubtless serves admirably; but at other times she assumes the double responsibility of carrying both cargo and passengers. Of course there is the alternative of going overland; but the trip takes twice as long, and after having spent some time on the muddy trails, the novelty of a river trip is likely to make a strong appeal, whatever the odds.

On the announced date of sailing thirty-seven individuals of all sizes, ages, and shades of color gathered on the river’s bank, each impatient to be the first to cross the narrow plank and board the small craft. There also waited a huge mound of boxes, bags, bales of hides, and other freight; this was loaded first and piled in the front and rear. The engine occupied the centre of the boat, as did the kitchen. When the people were finally permitted to go aboard, there was a wild scramble to the top of the heap of boxes and bundles. To sit up straight under the sheet-iron roof was impossible; fortunately the sun shone intermittently only or we should have been suffocated.

From the very beginning there was enough of interest to keep one’s nerves tensed to a high pitch. The crumbling banks, great chunks of which settled gently into the water as the waves, caused by the launch’s propeller, washed away the last bit of restraining sand; the numbers of bamboo rafts laden with bananas, plantains, and other tropical fruits on their way to the port of Guanchito; the dark-skinned fishermen who cast their nets into eddies and quiet pools, and the washwomen, each smoking an enormous black cigar and beating the clothes upon stones until one expected to see them fly into shreds, were very interesting. There were also hundreds of cormorants and anhingas that swam and dived or flew up into the trees; some of them sat on snags drying their wide-spread wings.

The banks of the river are very high and abrupt in most places, and the stream runs through a tortuous channel. At each bend the current dashes with great force against the bank, and then rebounds on down-stream. The little Caldas could not hope to battle against the rushing torrent, so she would head straight for the bank; frequently her nose struck the soft sand and held fast; then the current swung her around and back into midstream, where after spinning around a few times she regained her poise and was swept along. As wood was burned exclusively, stops had to be made every few hours for a new supply. The launch, in her crowded condition, had little room for fuel, but the brief pauses gave those on board an opportunity to go ashore—a welcome respite from the cramped position made necessary by the limited space available on the boat. At one of these spots an extensive cacao-plantation lined the bank, the tall madres de cacao reaching high up into the heavens above their lowly but precious protégés. The “mother of cacao,” it might be said, is a species of Erithmas planted to protect the delicate cacao-trees from the sun. A colony of snake-birds or anhingas had selected this grove for a rookery. Thousands of the birds sat on the topmost branches while other countless numbers were flying back and forth in endless streams, each bird a component part of a whirling, living mass. The slender body, long thin neck, small head, and sharp bill give the bird a peculiar appearance; when swimming under water with only the neck protruding it greatly resembles a snake—hence the name snake-bird. Each tree within an area of several acres contained a number of nests; they were clumsy structures made of sticks. The eggs, three or four in number, are white and as long as a hen’s egg but only half as wide. Later in the day a flock of scarlet ibises approached from down-stream, flew past, and then disappeared like twinkling bits of flame.

In the early afternoon the Caldas struck a sand-bar with full force. The greater number of the passengers had eaten their luncheon—brought by themselves in small parcels neatly done up in banana leaves—and were quietly dozing. There was a harsh, grating sound, a shock, and the water swirled around and past the boat, which moved not an inch. The engines were reversed and the crew sprang into the river and pushed, but it availed nothing, so after repeated efforts these attempts were abandoned. Luckily, the craft carried a small dugout canoe, into which the passengers were unloaded, three or four at a time, and taken ashore by two husky negroes who waded to the bank, one pulling and the other pushing the canoe. There was no break in the abrupt banks for perhaps a quarter of a mile, so it was some time before all on board had been landed. The crew then began to dig away the sand that held the launch fast.

The spot where the passengers had been landed was an open, treeless plain with not a shelter in sight. At first the heat of the sun was insufferable; then it began to rain as we had never seen it rain before. No one had a poncho, so there was nothing to do but stand quietly and endure the drenching downpour.

When the sand had been dug away the launch, suddenly freed, shot down-stream a half mile before a landing could be effected. This of course necessitated a long tramp through deep mud and tall, wet grass, which added to the cheerlessness of the luckless, half-drowned victims of backward methods of transportation. The banks were as steep as ever, but a capybara runway, resembling a giant muskrat slide, had been discovered, and down this we slid, one at a time, into the arms of two negroes who acted as a back-stop below.

The delay prevented the launch from reaching Buga, so as soon as darkness settled, she was tied up for the night. A great tree-trunk, embedded in the sand with huge branches swaying high above the water, lay near by. We swung our hammocks between the sturdy limbs, covered them with mosquito-nets, and spent a miserable night; those who attempted to sleep aboard had a harder time of it by far.

We were off with the first streak of dawn, startling flocks of muscovy ducks and herons from near the banks. A faint blue mist was rising slowly from the water, and the air was chill and damp. The mantle of silence that falls over tropical South America at nightfall had not yet been lifted. For some little time we glided on, farther and farther, it seemed, into a great vacuity that led to some vaguely defined sanctuary of everlasting peace and oblivion. Then, without warning, a sound so terrible rent the vast solitude that it seemed as if some demon of the wilds were taking a belated revenge for the few hours of quiet in which the earth had rejoiced.

At first there was a series of low, gruff roars that would have done credit to the most savage of lions, and made the very air tremble; but this was not all. Added to the majestic frightfulness of the jungle king’s voice was a quality of hate and treachery, of unfathomed rage and malicious bitterness. Then followed in quick succession a number of high-pitched, long-drawn wails or howls of tremulous quality that gradually died, ending with a few guttural barks. This uncanny performance lasted a number of minutes; but having perpetrated this outrage upon a heretofore peaceful world, the weird chorus suddenly stopped.

The mists of night had lifted, revealing clumps of tall bamboo and the beginning of heavy forest. In the top of the very first trees sat a group of large monkeys, red, with golden backs, properly called howling monkeys; they were the authors of the terrific chorus we had just heard. How an animal that rarely attains a weight of thirty pounds can produce such loud sounds is most remarkable; the hyoid bone is developed into a huge cup which gives resonance to the voice. The howlers are rather sluggish and seldom descend from the trees. Their roaring, which can be heard several miles, resounds through the forest morning and night; whether it is merely a form of amusement with them, or is used to intimidate enemies, seems to be unknown.

The Caldas fast on a sand-bar in the Cauca River.

Bamboo rafts on the Cauca River.

Very little is known about the habits of howling monkeys, despite their abundance and wide distribution. They are usually found in small family parties, including young of various sizes; but I have noticed, on various occasions, that the females desert from the troop when their babies are males and do not rejoin it until the young are half-grown, perhaps fearing that the old males will kill them; but I do not know if this is always the case.

C. William Beebe, in the course of a lecture at the American Museum, stated that he had on several occasions watched troops of these animals feed, in British Guiana. The older ones sent their small young to the tip of the slender branches that they, themselves, could not venture upon on account of their weight, to pick fruits; then they pulled the little ones back and robbed them of their food. This was repeated a number of times.

The second night we tied up near a heavy growth of forest, at a place called Riofrio. This is one of the few sections of the Cauca Valley still retaining its original stand of virgin jungle. We slung our hammocks between the trees. The nets furnished ample protection from the mosquitoes, but not from an army of foraging ants that chanced our way. From across the river came the whine of an ocelot, and the sharp snort of deer, while more than once we were awakened by the pattering and shuffle of cautious feet close at hand, some light, some heavy as if belonging to a large animal.

Contrary to her custom, the Caldas steamed on after dark on the third night of her voyage. A train of bright sparks trailed far behind, and when the wind blew it carried them into the boat where they set fire to clothing and baggage alike. Within a short time we had reached the port of Cartago, found the arriero who was awaiting us with the animals, and were off for Cartago a league away. The town was enveloped in inky blackness, and fast asleep, notwithstanding the early hour. A stray dog barked and a mule whinnied, but there were no other signs of life.

CHAPTER IV
CARTAGO TO THE PARAMOS OF RUIZ AND SANTA ISABEL

Dawn revealed the fact that Cartago was not materially different from Cali. It was not so large, however, and the temperature was much higher. Upon our arrival the preceding night we had finally succeeded in arousing a sleepy landlord, who admitted us to a dusty, bare room in the Hotel Colombia. We had learned long before this time that the word “hotel” usually meant a roof only over one’s head and perhaps food, so we at no time travelled out of sight of our baggage, with which we could make ourselves fairly comfortable under almost any circumstances.

The country surrounding Cartago is level and of a dry nature; at any rate, it does not compare at all favorably with the Cauca Valley at Cali. We saw few evidences of cultivation and the number of cattle and mules grazing on the scanty vegetation was very small.

The outskirts of the city are picturesque. The huts are low and lightly built of slabs of flattened bamboo; fences made of split bamboo neatly woven in a basket pattern surround them, and cannon-ball trees rear their slender, awkward branches laden with great glistening spheres of green fruit, high above the narrow, muddy sidewalks. When the huge calabashes are ripe they are collected and used as containers for water, wash-basins, bowls, and a variety of utensils; narrow sections that have been split carefully and resemble miniature pointed barrel-staves even serve the purpose of spoons.

A small marsh lies just in back of Cartago. It was filled with several species of aquatic plants—mostly water-hyacinths and wild lettuce on which cattle fed, half submerged in the murky water. Swarms of mosquitoes issued from the stagnant borders and invaded the town at nightfall, but this was by no means the only breeding-place of the obnoxious insects. Drinking water, kept in uncovered kegs and pots, teemed with larvæ, and glasses full of it set before us in one of the shops were fairly alive with wrigglers.

One thing impressed me as being really appalling, and that was the number of infirm beggars in the streets. In most Colombian towns beggars are permitted to ply their profession only one day each week and are required to wear a cardboard license tag suspended from a string around the neck; but it seemed as if they were out in full force every day in Cartago. Some of them presented an offensive appearance; they were suffering with leprosy and other terrible diseases, and were in such a pitiful plight that one was literally touched at mere sight of them. They always asked alms in the name of the Virgin and all the saints, and if results were forthcoming heaped a copious blessing on the donor; but in the event that nothing was given the benediction was in some instances replaced by such a tirade of profanity that one quickly realized what a good opportunity to acquire merit had been neglected.

We left Cartago as soon as possible and after a half-day’s ride over gently rolling, brush-covered country reached the Rio Viejo. A good-sized dwelling known as Piedra Moller stands near the river; there one may obtain men and dugout canoes with which to cross the stream.

Beyond the river the trail passes through a little valley or depression about four leagues across. Tall brush, some first-growth forest, and extensive jungles of bamboo flank the narrow passageway. I counted no less than forty species of birds during the afternoon and heard the notes of several others that I did not recognize. Small green parrakeets (Psittacula conspicillata) were exceedingly plentiful. They always reminded me of English sparrows—not in appearance but by their actions. Flocks of them sat on telegraph wires or house-tops, chirping and chattering incessantly, or fed on fruits or seeds in the bushes. They are also abundant in towns and villages and nest under tile roofs, in hollow posts, and in holes in walls. The people are very fond of the little “love-birds” as they are called and keep them in their patios as pets.

At Balsas, which served as the first night’s stopping-place, we discovered a whippoorwill’s (Stenopsis ruficervix) nest in a clump of bamboo. The single egg had been deposited on the leaves near a bamboo sprout that was rapidly pushing its way upward like a huge stalk of asparagus. The incubating bird fluttered away as we approached, but we returned the next morning and Allen secured a photograph of her on the nest.

Noon of the next day found us at Finlandia, an inviting village with a population of about four hundred, and situated at an elevation of six thousand four hundred feet. All this country is the foot-hills of the Central Andean Range. Rounded hills follow one another in a succession of gentle billows, the sides of which are so gradual that one hardly realizes there is a steady ascent. The forest that covers the ridge on the other side of Finlandia is of a heavy, subtropical character—the first of its kind we had encountered on this trip. Red howling monkeys were roaring in the ravine below, but the birds of the forest belonged to a fauna different from the one we had just left.

The palm-filled valley of the Boquilla had been reached by night. Salento, with its low, whitewashed houses, was clearly visible on top of the next ridge. It required just thirty minutes next morning to reach the town after a climb of nine hundred feet. We did not stop at the settlement, but continued up the time-honored trail leading to Quindio Pass; within a short time forest of the most promising kind had been reached and camp was being made in a sheltered spot about half a mile above a lone house called Laguneta. The pack-animals were sent back to Salento, where there was an abundance of pasturage, until they should be required again.

The woods at Laguneta were rather open and there was little underbrush. The trees, however, were burdened with moss, bromelias, orchids, and other epiphytes. Climbing bamboo and creepers filled the few clearings with impenetrable thickets. Most of the vegetation had small, harsh leaves, and the stems were gnarled and stunted. Clusters of fruit resembling pokeberries, on which numerous species of birds fed, grew on tall bushes near the forest’s edge. Begonias covered with red and white flowers filled the hollows.

The Laguneta region was remarkable for the number of ant-birds found there (Grallaria, Chamœza, etc.) that are rare in collections on account of the difficulty of collecting them. We secured fifteen different species in the neighborhood. As they live in thickets and on the ground, the only knowledge one has of their presence is their strange whistling notes, distinct in each species, that come from some gloomy spot deep in the tangled vegetation. Grallaria squamigera was to me the most interesting species. It is a huge, heavy-bodied bird, olive above and tawny barred with black below. From a distance the coloration reminds one of a large immature robin, but the tail is very short and protrudes only about half an inch beyond the lower coverts, and the long legs measure fully five inches. The plumage is long and full. Occasionally we saw the shy creatures as we worked in front of our tent in the afternoons; we always made it a point to be very quiet and the reward came in the way of shadowy forms that unconcernedly pursued their lives among the logs and brush without suspecting our presence. This shows the advantage of camping in the midst of the wilderness, where one is sure to see and hear wild things at the most unexpected times—experiences that are lost if one does not spend his entire time in the very heart of their environs.

The town of Salento.

Squirrel Woods is the name we applied to a spot below Laguneta and several miles nearer to Salento. On the upward journey the place had been singled out as being unusually attractive for a week’s collecting, owing to the number of birds and particularly of squirrels seen from the trail. This, however, proved to be the one place in all Colombia where we were not welcome, and in this regard it is unique in my two years’ experience in that country.

After leaving the Quindio trail we followed a narrow path through fields and forest for nearly a mile. It led to a neat, new cottage surrounded by pastures in which there were cattle and horses. The owner and his wife, middle-aged Colombians of the mestizo class, but of better appearance than the average, did not seem overjoyed to see us; they had no room, they said, for strangers. Explanations and the display of credentials bearing flaring, important-looking seals were of no avail; the people did not care to have the drowsy tenor of their ways disturbed by a couple of gringos. The region, however, was too alluring to forego, so we camped beside the house and took possession of the veranda for sleeping-quarters. There we remained a week, much to the displeasure of our unwilling hosts.

We had supposed that the presence of a wheat-field surrounded by primeval forest had led to an increase in the number of small mammals indigenous to the region, but this assumption proved right in so far as squirrels only were concerned. A granary had been built in the centre of the clearing, which was of considerable extent; bundles of grain were piled in it from floor to roof. Squirrels of three species came from the woods, and ensconcing themselves in the structure feasted on the wheat. They ran the entire distance between the forest and the house on the ground, taking advantage, however, of any logs or branches that littered the place. They were especially plentiful in the early morning and just before sundown. If one crept cautiously to the border of the field he was sure to see dark little forms scamper over the ground and disappear in the storehouse. The animals were very tame at first and did not leave their shelter until one was but a few yards away; then they appeared on all sides and ran quickly to the protecting woods. Later they posted a sentinel or remained on the alert, for no sooner did we reach one side of the clearing than all the squirrels hurried away on the opposite side, being careful to keep the granary between themselves and us. There were many stray dogs in the neighborhood; they pursued the squirrels while making their pilgrimage across the open space, and devoured any they succeeded in catching.

There were also other marauders that exacted a heavy toll in grain from the farmer. Yellow-throated woodpeckers (Melanerpes flavigularis) and green and yellow jays (Xanthoura yucas) were always about and frequently came to grief in our traps set for small rodents.

A species of pigmy opossum (Thylamys caucæ) lived in the woods. It is the size of a mouse, but has a longer tail. The slate-colored little animals prefer small cavities in tree-trunks for their homes, where they spend the days curled up in sleep; if disturbed they are very sluggish and may be taken in the hand, their only concern being to find a dark spot where they can snuggle up to one another and go to sleep again. At night they are more active and go on foraging expeditions for fruit, insects, and almost anything of an edible nature they can find.

The camp pet at this time was a young sloth (Cholœpus andinus). The slow-moving little beast reminded one of a “Teddy Bear,” and when it clambered among the branches of a tree it always recalled to me Hudson’s description to the effect that he “hugged the branches as if he loved them.” Our pet had been brought in by a native hunter who had shot the mother and found the young one clinging to her long, gray hair. It was easy to handle owing to its inactivity, but occasionally it struck viciously with its front feet, each armed with two formidable claws, and also snapped suddenly in an attempt to bite, its strong teeth enabling it to inflict severe injury. It ate quantities of tender green leaves at regular intervals, but it was always necessary to first sprinkle them liberally with water and then feed them to the little creature one at a time and in quick succession. I have kept a number of sloths at various times and found that they thrived on young shoots and buds of many trees and plants, such as cacao, cabbage, lettuce, and almost any succulent vegetation.

I know of no animal that appears more stupid and lifeless than a sloth. They move with great difficulty and in a sprawling posture on the rare occasions when they descend to the ground, on account of the peculiar formation of the feet; nor do they attain any great speed while moving in the tree-tops, where they always maintain an inverted position except when climbing up or down a trunk. When resting they roll up into a ball, and as a species of green alga not infrequently grows on the fur, they are very inconspicuous among the leaves and moss-covered branches of their home—at least when viewed from below. But from above they do not always escape the sharp eye of the harpy-eagle, which is their chief enemy.

In spite of its lifeless appearance, it would be difficult to find a mammal more tenacious of life; in this respect it resembles the reptiles. Sloths will withstand the most frightful wounds and frequently make their escape after having been shot many times. The natives are very fond of the flesh and not infrequently capture the animals when cutting down trees in clearing land; a favorite way to kill them is by drowning, but this is a lengthy and barbarous process, as it requires a long submergence before the creatures cease struggling and life is extinct.

People of the lower class attribute peculiar powers to the sloth. They say that when one of the animals finds it necessary to descend to the ground it is unable to climb back to its lofty perch; but a friendly cloud is always hovering near by which envelops it and carries it back to any desired station in the tree-tops. In some localities they also attribute the wild call of the giant goatsucker to the sloth. The only time I heard the latter utter any sound was when a mother called to her young that was a few feet away; she gave a fairly loud ‘peep’ and her offspring at once went to her.

After a time our work at Squirrel Woods was completed, so, much to the relief of the inhospitable couple, we left the place and returned to Salento, where we had better fortune and were well cared for by one Colonel Martinez; his wife had come from Bogotá, was a well-educated woman, and, what interested us more just then, was a splendid cook. The family conducted a fairly good posada and shop and had various other business interests, including several worthless mining claims along streams flowing into the Quindio River just below. A few excavations had been made into the hillsides; the largest was known as La Mina del Gallo and had yielded hundreds of tons of rocks and earth; but as not a speck of the elusive yellow metal they so eagerly sought had been forthcoming, the mine had been abandoned, and owls and bats inhabited the dark tunnel. The greater part of the mining population had deserted Salento for a place about ten miles distant, where extensive cinnabar-fields had been discovered. They expected to acquire fabulous riches extracting the mercury from the deposits. Some Englishmen headed by a man named Lloyd-Owen were also interested in the enterprise, but I learned later that the prospect failed.

At dusk we occasionally had a brief view of the Nevado del Tolima far to the east. The snow-capped summit is over eighteen thousand feet high, but we could never see more than a small portion of it on account of the ridges that surrounded it. At night the snowy dome gleamed white and frosty beneath a brilliant moon, and chill winds blew from the frigid heights and roared through the town. The paramos of Ruiz and Isabel, composed of high, cold valleys, plateaus, and snow-covered peaks are south of the Tolima. We straightway resolved to visit that region, and as the rainy season with its severe electrical storms was fast approaching, no time was lost in starting on the expedition. My experience on the Cerro Munchique was still too fresh to make me want to duplicate it or expose any other members of the party to a similar ordeal.

September 12 found us wending our way along the Quindio River toward its headwaters. The valley floor is covered with grass that is kept close-cropped by cattle and horses. Low shrubbery grows along the river-bank; the stream—not over one hundred feet wide—is clear and swift and the icy water rushes over a boulder-strewn bed. A scattered growth of tall palms dots the entire valley and extends up the mountainsides to an elevation of about nine thousand five hundred feet.

The trail is so indistinct that Allen and I, who were riding in advance of the pack-mules, lost it and spent two hours in a vain endeavor to recover the way; then we saw the cargoes and peons far below, resembling moving black dots, and hurriedly rejoined them just as they were leaving the valley for the abrupt slope. The trail from here onward was steep and rough. Before us stretched a seemingly endless succession of ridges, farallones, tall rocks, and high precipices that reach a climax in the brown paramo of Santa Isabel, backed by walls of gleaming snow. In looking back over the way we had just come we could see the Quindio and the thousands of palms growing in its valley spread before us like a map.

The lower slopes were barren, having but recently been burned over; fire was still raging in a number of places and the hissing and popping of burning vegetation could be heard frequently with distinctness. Tall, smouldering stumps were clustered here and there like blackened chimneys from the tops of which wisps and columns of smoke ascended into a hazy sky. The pungent odor of burning green plants was at times almost suffocating.

Forest begins at nine thousand five hundred feet. It is at first somewhat open and reminded us of Laguneta. The rich mould of the forest floor was very deep and caused us much anxiety lest some of the pack-animals be lost, for they sank into it to a great depth, and there was constant danger of their floundering and pitching headlong down the mountainside. The arrieros took the utmost precautions, but even then one of the mules became overbalanced and fell off the trail. Fortunately the trees grew close together and one of the packs became wedged between two of them and halted the rolling creature a short distance below. It struggled there with feet in the air until the peons released it and led it back to the trail.

Toward evening we reached a native hut—the second since leaving the valley. The elevation of the place was ten thousand five hundred feet. A large clearing in which white clover grew abundantly surrounded the house. The inhabitants also had other clearings farther down, where they planted corn and wheat. They were all suffering with colds and the dreaded dengue, from which I was fortunately able to give them some relief with the aid of our medical kit. In return for this service they treated us most courteously and placed one of their two rooms at our disposal, although it happened that a score or more of chickens occupied the same quarters. The night was cold and damp. Next morning the wretched people gave us milk and cheese and we purchased several dozen eggs—certainly a great luxury in such an out-of-the-way place. They also showed us the skin and feet of a tapir one of the men had killed in the forest above. The hide had been used to make bottoms for chairs and was of a black color. They reported the presence of two species of bears, one entirely black and the other the tolerably well-known spectacled bear. Although the latter is the only species of bear supposed to exist in South America, I have been told repeatedly by the people that a large black bear is found in the high Andes and have seen skins that appeared to bear out their statements.

After leaving the house next morning we soon reached heavy mountain forest. A deserted hut stood near the border of it, so on our return from the paramo we spent several days there. The chief attraction about the place was the abundance of white-throated sparrows (Brachyspiza capensis capensis). Their cheerful little song cannot fail to endear them to any one with even a limited æsthetic nature. Whether one hears it in the hot, tropical lowlands or on a bleak mountain-top twelve thousand feet above sea-level, the happy little melody is always the same. Nor is the music confined to the hours of daylight only. I have frequently heard it in the darkest hours of night, ringing clear and sweet from somewhere out in the all-pervading blackness. These birds are fond of the proximity of man and are most abundant where he has chosen to break the soil and erect his abode. As a general rule they are not gregarious, but I have seen them congregate in flocks of many thousands to spend the night in some particularly attractive spot in places where sleeping sites were limited in number. Farther south these sparrows also gather in flocks of varying size during the winter season.

The nest is a neat, cup-shaped structure made of fine grasses; it is placed in a low bush or on the ground. Two or three pale-blue eggs thickly spotted with brown are laid and not infrequently two broods are reared in a season.

During our stay at the solitary house on the edge of the great forest a white-throat or chingolo came daily and perched on the bannister of our porch to pour out its overflow of happiness. We grew very much attached to the confiding feathered mite and eagerly awaited its frequent visits. After a short time I discovered the runway of some small rodent under the porch and set a trap to catch the animal. Not long after we heard the dull snap of the spring, and upon investigation found the limp body of the unfortunate songster. The place seemed deserted without the sprightly little bird and we never ceased to miss it.

The belt of forest through which we penetrated before reaching the paramo was magnificent. A species of orchid bearing long spikes of yellow flowers was in full bloom; there were many hundreds of the thick-leaved plants, some perched on lofty branches, others growing from crotches but a few feet above the ground, but all surmounted by a glorious halo of golden blossoms.

We left the forest with its giant moss-covered trees, ensnaring creepers, and breathless silence that suggests a thousand mysteries, at about noon. It ends abruptly and is replaced by a narrow strip of low, dwarfed trees and bushes with small leaves that are either very stiff or are covered with thick down. There were also clumps of blueberry-bushes, but the fruit was woody, bitter and inedible for human beings. Lupines and gentians grew in the hollows and numerous composites thrived on the slopes; among the latter was one with showy purple flowers that the peons called “arnica.”

After a stiff climb of an hour we gained the summit of a rise; the whole panorama of the paramo was spread out before us—a marvellous series of brown plateaus, sunken valleys with tiny rivulets meandering through them, and stern ridges dotted with blackened, rocky peaks. The snow-fields of the higher altitudes were entirely obliterated by banks of cold, gray clouds.

The word páramo means an elevated plain, barren of trees, uncultivated, uninhabited, and exposed to the icy blasts of wind from the higher elevations. This description exactly fitted the country before us. We descended into one of the valleys, at the head of which lay a placid lake of small size, and made camp at the base of one of the protecting walls of rock that flanked it. The elevation of the valley is about twelve thousand seven hundred feet, and the main peaks of the range hemming in the paramo rise to a height of sixteen thousand feet or more.

Long, wiry grass covered the valley floor; the top was bent over, forming a billowy expanse of brown, variegated here and there with a diminutive patch of green. Lifting any one of the tufts disclosed a labyrinth of tunnels and runways apparently made by small mammals; but, strange to say, we saw a small number only of rabbits, and few rats came to our traps. If the network of tunnels harbored other creatures, they effectively succeeded in evading our every effort to discover them. Probably the denizens of this underworld had learned the value of extreme caution and wariness because numbers of eagles (Lophotriorchis) were always soaring overhead ready to pounce down on any of them that for an instant relaxed their vigil.

The lake on the paramo of Santa Isabel.

Snow on the paramo of Ruiz.

A large part of the soil was springy beneath our step; it was undermined by numberless rivulets which trickled from the slopes and made their way to the stream in the centre of the valley. These wet places were covered with extensive areas of daisy-like plants having clumps or rosettes of stiff leaves; the squat, green hummocks were strong enough to support one’s weight, but walking over them was always accompanied by the feeling that they might give way suddenly and precipitate one into the deep mire. Sphagnum flourished along the edges of the marsh where it was not too wet.

The peculiar, gray, mullein-like plant called frailejón thrives in rocky places that were sheltered to some extent; but clumps of the plants also braved the open, wind-swept slopes and grew to the very edge of the snow-fields.

The heavy, orchid-laden forest through which we passed just before reaching the paramo encroached upon the valley’s lower end, but for a short distance only. There were well-worn trails made by tapirs and deer that came nightly to feed on the abundant grass, for despite the dry and withered appearance of the upper layer there was a deep carpet of tender green shoots underneath.

There was an abundance of birds on the paramo, especially along the bush-grown banks of the streamlet; but all were of dull colors—slaty blue, gray, black, or deep brown, that harmonized well with the bleak surroundings. Their habits reminded us of open-country birds of the northern United States. Gray flycatchers ran over the ground; at frequent intervals they mounted high in the air, like horned larks, for which we at first from a distance mistook them. A small wren-like bird, black with brown flanks (Scytalopus sylvestris), lived in the taller herbage. It had a piping note that could be clearly heard fifty yards away, but the agile bird was hard to see on account of its obscure color and mouse-like habits that kept it constantly in the thickest cover. Numerous marsh-wrens (Cistothorus æquatorialis) inhabited the sedges, scolding and nervously flitting about.

More interesting than the foregoing, however, were large Andean snipe (Gallinago nobilis) bearing at least a superficial resemblance to the American woodcock. Single individuals or pairs of these birds were found running over the bogs and drilling in the soft earth. In many places the ground was perforated with dozens of the deep, symmetrical holes where the tireless workers had labored diligently for a meal. Shooting them was good sport. They sprang into the air with a piping bleat and then sped away in a zigzag course for fifty or a hundred yards, dropped back to earth and instantly merged into their surroundings so completely as to be invisible.

The finches were perhaps better represented than any other family of birds. A few goldfinches, in small bands, frequented the flowering shrubs. A kind of slaty finch (Phrygilus unicolor grandis) was far more abundant and fairly evenly distributed over the entire paramo. We discovered a nest of this species among the grass at the base of a frailejon; the structure was beautifully made of down taken from the leaves of the plants that sheltered it. It contained two pear-shaped eggs of a greenish color heavily speckled with fine dull-brown dots.

From a distance the small lake at the head of the valley appeared to be a promising field for investigation. It yielded, however, but a solitary Andean teal greatly resembling the gadwall (Chaulelasmus), that was swimming on the unruffled water, and when this had been taken our work in that particular spot was completed. The bottom of the pond was covered with a solid mass of long algæ far out as we could see; these concealed any aquatic life that may have existed in the chilly depths.

The weather was usually agreeable during the greater part of the day, the thermometer registering in the neighborhood of 76° at noon, and dropping to 30° at night. It rained little, but banks of clouds rolled in frequently and precipitated a superabundance of moisture.

One day Allen and I undertook an exploration trip to the snow-line. We started at daybreak, taking with us our guns, an abundant supply of ammunition, cameras, and a small parcel of lunch. We made straight for the head of the valley, passed the lake, and had soon reached the top of the weathered ridge that formed the first barrier to our progress. From the summit, fourteen thousand four hundred feet up, we could see numerous other isolated depressions like the one we had just left; in one of them was a newly made trench—probably the work of some venturesome miner who had drifted to this lonely place in search of gold. So far we had had not a glimpse of snow on account of the heavy mist. We followed along the top of a hogback running northward and gradually leading to higher country that flattened out into a marshy plateau on its farther end. Progress was difficult. At each step the bog quivered within a radius of several yards and the clumps of matted vegetation depressed by our weight were quickly covered with water that oozed from below. This was an ideal spot for snipe and several sprang up as we painfully picked our way over the treacherous ground; but the great exertion and high altitude had a demoralizing effect on our aim, with the result that we were relieved of a good deal of ammunition without securing a single bird in return.

A high wall of bare rock rose just beyond the confines of the bog, and gaining the top of it we were up fifteen thousand feet. It was covered with blackened rock fragments—mostly the result of weathering, but some of them probably detached from the many towering crags and columns by the shattering force of lightning. The highest point in the wall is fifteen thousand two hundred feet. As we rested a moment to recover our breath, a procedure necessary every twenty steps, the fog suddenly lifted and disclosed the snow-bound slopes of Ruiz a short distance away. Between us lay a valley flanked by perpendicular walls of rock and hundreds of feet deep. The snow apparently extended down two hundred feet lower than our station, making its lower limit fifteen thousand feet.

We stood lost in admiration at the marvellous spectacle that unfolded itself before us. The hurrying curtains of clouds revealed ever-changing scenes. One moment miles of slopes covered with a white mantle of snow stood out in bold relief; the next, they were whisked from view and bare pinnacles of dark rock, like the spires of a cathedral, appeared momentarily high above, their ragged outlines softened by a veil of thin blue haze. Again, the lower edges of the panorama came into view, revealing glaciers and avalanches of snow and rocks perched on the brink of the wall ready to plunge with a boom into the deep valley.

The floor of the valley was a series of ponds and morasses. Ducks disported in the cold water, all oblivious of our presence, and apparently safe in their, at least to man, inaccessible retreat. A raging torrent tore along the base of the wall, adding its roar as a fitting accompaniment to the general awe-inspiring character of its desolate and inhospitable surroundings.

A whisp of vapor borne on a chill wind hurried across the intervening chasm and blew into our faces. Time had passed faster than we realized and we discovered that half of the afternoon was gone. Hurriedly we began to retrace our steps along the wall of rock and through the treacherous bog. By the time the sharp ridge was reached, clouds in such volumes had rolled in over the paramo that everything was obscured outside of a radius of a few yards from us. There was no trail of any kind, and even the most familiar rocks assumed strange shapes swathed in the dank vapor. A compass is useless under such circumstances. Before long we reached the interlacing mass of ridges and, after holding a consultation, followed along the top of one that seemed to lead in the right direction. We stumbled along for two hours or more, and then realized that we were lost. Darkness was fast approaching and a raw wind swept down from the region of perpetual ice and snow. We began to look for a sheltered spot in which to spend the night, for it now seemed certain that each step was only taking us farther from camp. Just then a rift in the clouds appeared, and before it again closed we caught sight of a faint glimmer far below and to the right. That could mean but one thing: it was a reflection from the lake at the head of “our” valley. For more than an hour we had been travelling in exactly the opposite direction. We gave up the thought of a bed of frailejon leaves without regret and stumbled down the steep slope straight for the spot where the lake had flashed into view. After many collapses from thirst and fatigue we reached the brook with its crystal, ice-cold water; then progress was easier, and within another hour the glow of the camp-fire appeared through the haze, and soon we were snugly ensconced in the depths of our blankets.

A few days after our journey to Ruiz the weather changed greatly. Low-hanging fogs covered the paramo day and night; lightning flashed among the clouds, and frigid gales roared over the plateaus. These were signs of the coming winter and warned us to leave the paramo before it was too late. Soon there would be only snow and ice, penetrating mists, the reverberating roll of thunder, and blinding displays of electricity. The elements would be unleashed and in all their grandeur, and awe-inspiring frightfulness take possession of the upper world. Life would then be unendurable, so we accepted the warning and returned to Salento.

CHAPTER V
THE CHOCÓ COUNTRY ON THE WESTERN COAST OF COLOMBIA

Upon returning to Cartago from our expedition to the bleak paramo of Santa Isabel, we began preparations for a visit to the notorious Chocó, which lies along the western coast and within the San Juan River watershed. This section of the country presents the other extreme in climatic conditions. It has been rarely visited by naturalists on account of its inaccessibility; and the few who have succeeded in forcing their way within its inhospitable borders have found it impossible to remain any length of time. Malarial and yellow fevers are endemic among the natives, but quickly sap the vitality and life of newcomers into the region; rain falls daily—four hundred inches being the average precipitation for one year—and the heat is so intense that when the sun appears during the intervals between showers the whole jungle is converted into a steaming inferno. Small wonder, then, that the fabulous wealth in gold and platinum of the Chocó has been little more than touched.

Our plans called for an overland trip to Nóvita on the Tamaná River; after reaching that point local conditions would have to guide our subsequent movements. Trail there is none, but a footpath, often so faint that it loses itself among the vegetation or in the beds of streams, serves the purpose of partially guiding the stalwart negro who carries the mail to Nóvita at infrequent intervals, as well as others who undertake to cross the Western Range into the tropical lowland.

The townspeople of Cartago had heard a good deal, in a general way, about conditions existing in the Chocó, but they could give no information of practical value. We haunted the market and other places where peons congregate in numbers in our endeavor to secure porters for the trip. The few who reluctantly expressed a readiness to go did not seem physically fit for such strenuous work, so I rejected them. One day a caravan of oxen arrived from the settlement of Salencio, and I hastily engaged them for the return trip, as these animals, while slow, are sure-footed, and can pick their way through mud and jungle that horses could not penetrate.

Leaving Cartago, we crossed the arid Cauca Valley; the land west of the river is more rolling than on the opposite bank, but the character of the plant life is much the same. Within an hour Ansermanueva, a cluster of twenty or thirty adobe hovels, was sighted in the distance, but the trail divided just before reaching the village and we followed the southern branch. Beyond this fork the climb into the mountains began; there are two ridges, six thousand eight hundred feet and seven thousand five hundred feet high respectively, with a ravine of five thousand eight hundred feet between. The “cloud” forest does not begin below the top of the first ridge; then there is an abundance of mosses, ferns, bromelias and other epiphytes forming a growth that is both rank and beautiful, and equalling in density that found in any other region. The greater luxuriance of the flora on the western slope indicated a heavier rainfall on that side; this is accounted for by the fact that the summits of the various ridges stop the moisture-laden winds from the Pacific, to a large extent, and cause them to precipitate the water on the ocean side of the divide.

Within two days we arrived at Salencio, small, dilapidated, situated on a little plateau between the peaks, and inhabited mainly by half-breeds. We were advised to wait until the weekly market-day, when many people from the surroundings would come to town, and it would be possible to secure porters for the continuation of the journey. In the meantime we made short excursions into the neighboring forest; they yielded several novelties, among them a splendid example of the military macaw (Ara m. militaris). This gorgeously colored bird is rare, indeed, and we have never seen more than two at the same time. Spectacled bears were said to be common and to come to the clearings when corn is ripe; the number of pelts exhibited by the inhabitants amply verified their assertion.

When Sunday came, and with it the gathering of people always present when market is held, we had no trouble in engaging the required peons, each of whom agreed to carry a pack of seventy-five pounds. Early the next morning they appeared, eager and ready for their undertaking. They shouldered their loads and started away at a fast gait, while we brought up the rear of the column to prevent straggling.

The way lay across a low, forested ridge, and then adhered closely to the bamboo-covered banks of a small stream called locally Rio Cabeceros or Rio Vueltas, but which is really the headwaters of the Sipi River. At one time we waded in the knee-deep water a distance of over three miles, as it was easier than to force a way through the matted plant life on either side. I soon discovered that the porters did not possess the endurance of those we had previously employed on other expeditions, and I believe this was due to the fact that the use of coca leaves is unknown in this part of Colombia. Whenever our peons had an abundance of coca to chew they seemed tireless in the performance of their work; those not given to the habit required large and frequent meals, ate panela all day long as they marched, and were capable of covering a short distance only in the course of a day’s walk. We were compelled to halt early and chose the top of a knoll for a camping site.

A steady downpour of rain had fallen the entire afternoon, which continued throughout the night, and this, coupled with the severe cold (the elevation being seven thousand two hundred feet) and the desirability of preparing hot food, caused us to long for the comforts of a huge camp-fire. Dry wood was out of the question, but the men cut down a tree, the green wood of which burned readily, and had soon started a fire adequate for working purposes. Their ponchos, which had become saturated with water, were of no service in keeping them warm, so they sat up the entire night, singing, telling stories, and drinking hot coffee in their endeavors to remain cheerful and keep warm.

On the following day the vegetation was far more dense, and advantage was taken of numerous narrow fissures in the mountainside roofed over with logs and moss; through these tunnels we crawled on hands and knees, but that was easier than forcing a way through the tangled mass of plants growing above. When camp was made that night the base of a tree was selected for a fireplace. At first glance it seemed that the diameter of the vine-covered trunk must be at least ten feet, but this was a delusion. After the men had vigorously plied their machetes on the creepers, moss, and ferns, a stem not over two feet across was revealed; they cleared away the lower tangle, leaving a protecting umbrella-like canopy overhead that shielded the entire party from the rain while they cooked their food.

We crossed three ridges in all, the elevation of each being slightly in excess of seven thousand feet, with depressions of from two thousand feet to three thousand feet between them. All are heavily forested, the growth above four thousand feet being subtropical in character, while that lower down is typical of the tropics and comparatively open.

At the end of the third day we heard the welcome roar of water, and not long after halted on the bank of the Hávita River. A naked negro came from the far side in answer to our calls, and ferried us across the stream in a huge dugout canoe. There we found a settlement of half a dozen bamboo huts filled with lazy negroes clothed in scanty attire. The place is called El Puente. About one hundred yards below the group of hovels, the Hávita is joined by the Rio Ingara. The water of both streams is swift, cool, and of a bluish-gray color. Each of the streams is about seventy-five yards wide just above the junction.

After crossing another ridge which required two days’ time, we reached Juntas de Tamaná, on the south bank of the Hávita, a stone’s throw above the point where this stream empties into the Tamaná, and but four hundred feet above sea-level. Excepting only the little clearing in which the fifteen dilapidated negro abodes stand, the entire country is covered with a forest of tall trees; there is little undergrowth, but many of the lower branches are covered with epiphytes, and long vines or “forest ropes” dangle down from the interlocking tree-tops to the very ground.

The negroes of Juntas are a miserable, sickly lot. They suffer from lack of food, for the simple reason that they are too indolent to grow in sufficient quantities the plantains, yuccas, and other plants that thrive with a minimum of attention in such a favorable location. Instead of making clearings and cultivating the fertile ground, they prefer to lounge in their hammocks and take a chance at starving to death. At irregular intervals, when the pinch of want is too great to endure longer, the men paddle in canoes to their fincas to cut sugar-cane, gather plantains, and to pick palm-nuts in the forest. Upon their return the family gathers about the food and eats until not a vestige remains. So effectively do they attack the mound of provisions that one might easily imagine a swarm of locusts had paid the region a visit.

Native of Juntas de Tamaná with trail-haunting blacksnake.

The author with natives of Juntas de Tamaná.

A day or two after our arrival at Juntas a two-year-old child belonging to one of the families died. The news spread rapidly and by night the entire neighborhood had turned out for a wake. We followed the crowd. The baby, in a white dress, with bright red and green ribbon trimming, lay in a wooden box on the table. A canopy of muslin had been erected above the bier which was strewn with wild flowers. The room was packed to suffocation with the black forms of the populace, which glistened in the dim, flickering candle-light. At first bottles of aguardiente were distributed, and every one had a number of liberal-sized drinks. Then the older folks withdrew against the four walls and, squatting on the floor, sang or lamented as fancy dictated. The younger people divided into two parties and played games around the coffin. One of them was a kind of charade and, when the guessing side solved the riddle, they pursued and caught the others, amid loud shouts and laughter. I feared constantly that they might upset the coffin. Occasionally some one would stop long enough to pet or caress the dead little form, and address a few terms of endearment to it, such as pobrecito, angelito, or tan lindito. The revelry lasted until daylight; then a procession slowly wound its way to a newly dug grave and deposited its burden, leaving the only little mound visible that side of the Tamaná.

Christmas was drawing near. We were surprised to see the women apparently making preparations for a celebration, which is most unusual in South America. They worked several days cutting the weeds around the village and cleaning up the place. When we asked about it, they said it was not on account of the approaching fiesta, but a form of penance they performed annually in atonement of their sins. Apparently the men were without blemish, for they gazed upon the workers and addressed jocular remarks to them from the comfortable retreat of their hammocks, even enumerating particular misdeeds and suggesting special forms of penance that might be effective.

The next stage of our journey had to be performed on the river. We secured a huge bongo and stalwart negro paddlers, and December 21 found us speeding down-stream toward Nóvita. The Tamaná is a rapid stream, varying between one hundred and three hundred yards in width. Its bed is strewn with boulders, causing rapids easily navigable on the downward voyage, but difficult and dangerous to negotiate when bound up-stream. Then there are deep passages between high, crumbling banks, where the water glides silently onward like an olive-drab stream of molten glass. The densest of tropical jungles lines both banks; its matted walls facing the river are interrupted by small clearings at infrequent intervals, where low hovels stand surrounded by the rich foliage of banana and yucca plants. Chonta-palms, with bristling, spiny stems, rear their plumed heads above the other forest-trees, or droop over the water in a graceful manner, forming a dainty filigree against the brazen sky. The brassy, merciless sun blazed down with unrelenting vigor, and we were glad when dark storm-clouds obscured the sky and provided a greatly needed respite.

It was possible to proceed only to a point called Cabeceros, below which rapids of a formidable character obstruct further navigation. The few negroes living on the river-bank can usually be induced to assist in making the portage, men and women alike undertaking to carry packs to Tambito at the foot of the rapids. Here it was necessary to secure another bongo and the trip was resumed.

The Tamaná grows wider constantly. Cataracts are of more frequent occurrence and present greater hazards in their navigation. The bongo, made of a huge tree-trunk and measuring thirty feet in length, and a yard in width, was most seaworthy; but frequently it shipped water in alarming quantities, and scraped and bumped over the hidden rocks until we expected the craft to be rent asunder and flounder.

During the greater part of the afternoon we were in sight of a high, isolated mountain, appearing on the map under the name Cerro Torra. So far as I can learn no explorer has ever succeeded in gaining its summit, and when I beheld the vast stretch of impenetrable jungle extending from the river to apparently the very top of the mountain, I could readily understand why the few men who had attempted this piece of exploration had failed in their undertaking.

Late in the afternoon we landed at Nóvita. I was somewhat surprised at the size of the town, which consists of about fifty hovels. The white population, which was very small, consists mainly of traders, and is more or less transient. I was told that they remain in the region a year or two to buy gold and to sell their stock of provisions and merchandise at exorbitant prices, and then return to a more healthful climate—to suffer many years afterward from the effects of their sojourn in the Chocó.

Nóvita is essentially a mining town. A good deal of gold and platinum are washed out of the small streams that form a network in the surrounding country. The negroes and Indians bring in the precious metals in small quantities—wrapped in leaves—and trade them for tinned food and cloth. However, the town seemed to be on the decline in favor of Condoto, Pueblo Rico, and Quibdó, where richer mineral deposits had been located.

The forest contained comparatively little wild life, and that was typical of the Pacific tropical faunal zone. We daily took long tramps and discovered numerous things of more than passing interest. Among them was a colony of nesting black-and-yellow orioles (Icterus). The birds had selected a solitary ceiba-tree standing in the centre of a banana-field. It was seventy feet to the lowest limbs and the trunk was so thick and smooth that no predatory animal could climb it, which insured the safety of the colony from such a source of danger. The nests, like huge pears, dangled from the tips of the branches; I counted one hundred and four, and there must have been many others concealed by the foliage. The adult birds were busy and excited, and were coming and going in steady streams, keeping up their noisy chattering all the while. We found numerous bits of egg-shells, white with black dots, on the ground, indicating that the young were just hatching.

One evening as we were returning from a long hunt, we noticed lines of bats emerging from the little church standing on the edge of the village. Next day (Christmas) I visited this rendezvous accompanied by several negro assistants. The bats were all concealed within the board walls, so that it was impossible to get at them, but the negroes unhesitatingly tore away the slabs of flattened bamboo and soon had the room filled with a squeaking, fluttering swarm which they attacked with sticks. This method of attack proving too slow, they grabbed guns and fired into the masses amid wild shouts of merriment. When the pandemonium was over and the heap of slain had been collected, they respectfully removed their hats and in passing out of the church reverently bowed the knee before the altar.

We had been cautioned to be on the alert for snakes. The deadly bushmaster or verrugosa was said to be particularly abundant. While hunting one day, Allen shot a hawk and placed it in the back pocket of his hunting-coat. To all appearances the bird was dead; while crawling through a thicket a short time later he felt a sudden sharp sting in his back and, throwing up his hands in terror, yelled, “Oh, Lord! one got me at last,” thinking, of course, that he had been struck by a snake. Hurriedly removing his coat, the discovery was made that the supposedly dead hawk had been stunned only and, reviving, had promptly dug its talons in the first thing that offered a firm hold. One may well imagine the unpleasantness of such an experience.

Occasionally we saw a species of blacksnake that grows to a length of more than twelve feet. It is perfectly harmless, but has the disagreeable habit of haunting trails and footpaths near the villages. When a pedestrian approaches it rears its head several feet above the ground and calmly gazes into his face. The first few times this happens, the sudden, upward lunge of the big head, the rapidly playing tongue and the beady eyes give one a decided shock and provide ample cause for flight. Later, one becomes more or less accustomed to it. This snake was also plentiful in tropical Venezuela and Bolivia.

Nóvita, the largest town in the Chocó.

It was impossible to secure fresh meat at Nóvita; salt beef was imported in barrels, but it was of such poor quality that we could not eat it. We therefore depended on toucans and parrots for our meat-supply, and found both species very palatable.

The paper money used throughout the greater part of Colombia is not recognized by inhabitants of the Chocó. It rots in the wet, hot atmosphere and for that reason is valueless. Neither are gold coins wanted, but some of the shopkeepers accepted them at a twelve per cent discount. The money that finds favor is composed of silver coins from Mexico and practically all the other South and Central American republics; it is valued according to size, the “dollars” passing for forty cents, the halves for twenty, and so on. I found a number of United States half-dimes circulating at two cent, and dimes at four cent values, and “collected” all that came within reach.

After a few days’ hunting around Nóvita we secured another bongo and resumed our journey down-stream. The Tamaná empties into the San Juan, about ten miles below Nóvita. The latter river is wider and deeper, but there is no change in the country bordering it. All day long we glided steadily onward, stopping at noon only for a brief respite from the burning sun. At dusk we landed to spend the night near a negro hut. The floor was raised five feet from the ground and the ragged, thatched roof nearly touched it; there were no walls. Altogether it was a most primitive dwelling, in which the dusky forms of the occupants moved like shadows against the dim light of their cooking fire. Noanamá was reached the next day. It is not quite so large as Juntas de Tamaná, and stands on a bluff overlooking the river. The inhabitants are all negroes; the males wore breech-cloths only, while the costume of the women consisted of a narrow cloth fastened around the waist with a string. Both men and women spend a few hours each day washing gold on the river-bank, securing enough from this work to pay for provisions brought from Buenaventura. When they have accumulated a small quantity of the fine, sparkling flakes they embark in their canoes and make their way to the seaport in three days, there to do their trading. It was impossible to hire them for any kind of work; one woman had flour, but could not bake bread for lack of fire-wood, because no one would carry it from the forest one hundred yards away. Indians came to the village daily. They wore many ornaments of beaten silver about their necks and wrists; some of them also had earrings made of the same metal, the size of doorknobs; they were so heavy that a framework of sticks placed at the back of the head had to be used to support their weight. I was greatly amused by the actions of one stalwart young brave who, with his wife and baby, came to the settlement each day. While in town, where he might be observed, he paid no attention whatever to his family; he walked several paces in front of the woman, who, of course, carried the baby, and not once even condescended to glance in their direction. However, when they reached the river-bank or some other secluded spot where he was safe from prying eyes, he snatched the infant from the mother’s arms, kissed it, tossed it into the air and acted exactly like any other fond parent. If any one approached, he hastily returned it to his wife and resumed his taciturn expression.

At times a small steamer, the Fluvial, from Buenaventura, visits the settlements on the lower San Juan. We waited in vain ten days for her appearance. However, a launch belonging to a miner, a Mr. Stapleton, chanced to pass, and the owner kindly offered to take us to the coast.

The San Juan grows constantly wider. Its banks are dotted with the conical huts of Indians; the floors are always raised on poles, high above the ground, to escape the floods and insects.

As we sped down the river many of the naked, painted savages rushed out in their canoes, paddling and yelling like demons in attempts to overtake the launch. I do not know what object they had in mind as we always outdistanced them. We also saw others catching crabs in places where the high, sheer banks were honeycombed with holes made by these crustaceans. They had slender, sharpened sticks with a barb on the end, which they inserted in the burrows and then withdrew with the struggling victims impaled on them.

We reached the mouth of the San Juan in two days’ time. The river is very wide at this point and dotted with low mangrove islands. A sand-bar almost completely blocks the estuary, and when we left the next morning we had great difficulty in finding a passage. Then followed a wild, careening dash of forty miles in the open ocean. The launch was but twenty-one feet long, and we were compelled to go out of sight of land to avoid rocks and reefs; but dusk found us well within the confines of Buenaventura Bay, ploughing through the placid water at great speed and frightening up innumerable flocks of brown pelicans that much preferred to float comfortably on the unruffled surface, and took wing only as a last resort to escape being run down.

Buenaventura had never seemed attractive or inviting to us before, but after a month in the steaming coastal land, with its almost constant downpour, insect pests, and terrific heat, it appeared to be altogether delightful. We returned to Cali and spent weeks on our backs suffering from the fevers with which we had become inoculated. Allen’s attack was so severe that he was compelled to return to the United States two days after reaching San Agustin on our next expedition, and just before the discovery of some of our most valuable material.

CHAPTER VI
IN QUEST OF THE COCK-OF-THE-ROCK

On my fourth visit to Popayán we had to remain in the city the greater part of a week, arranging for the continuation of our journey across the Central Andes to the headwaters of the Magdalena. Hereafter we were to travel on foot, partly due to the fact that some of the trails were impassable, both to riding and pack animals, and partly to enable us to be in a position better to study the wild life of the region we traversed. I was accompanied on this particular expedition by Doctor Allen and Mr. J. T. Lloyd, of Cornell University.

On February 27 we left Popayán on foot, the mule-train following some little distance behind. The route lay through undulating country, rather well cultivated, where there were numerous huts at which we found shelter for the nights. At one of these stopping-places the natives were engaged in thrashing beans. The pods had been heaped upon a straw mat and the family were beating them with heavy flails. Wheat was thrashed in the same manner, but after the grains had been beaten loose from the chaff large pans full were held high above the head and poured out in a thin, steady stream; the wind blew the chaff from the falling column and the wheat dropped upon the mat. At another hut men were manufacturing “cabulla” by stripping off, between two sticks, the fleshy part of the leaves of the yucca-plant. The tough fibres remaining were mixed with horsehair and braided into strong ropes. Food was scarce, the natives subsisting upon the inevitable “sancocho” of boiled green plantains, and cornmeal “jarepas.” However, we managed occasionally to pick up a fowl, some green corn, and once, we succeeded in purchasing a live sheep; this, in addition to the provisions we carried, enabled us to fare passably well.

On March 7 we had reached the top of a ridge ten thousand three hundred and fifty feet high, having passed the little villages Timbio, San Miguel, Santa Barbara, and La Vega. La Vega means “fertile plain,” and the surrounding country fully justifies the name. Far as the eye could see the gently sloping mountainsides had been divided into a network of small, irregular plots by rows of high, thick hedges. Wheat, corn, cabbage, and rice flourished under the cultivating hand of the Indian; there were also small flocks of sheep, and occasionally a few head of cattle. Small mud-walled huts, singly and in clusters, dotted the maze of green landscape, and over all breathed an air of quiet and contentment.

The trail had gradually led upward, though often descending into gorges and ravines a thousand feet deep. We had passed through patches of barren country, and then entered a wilderness of lovely flowering rhododendrons. The masses of red wild oleanders were beautiful, but the lanes of a species of shrub covered with small waxen blossoms of purest white, mingled with deep-green foliage and the fronds of monstrous subtropical ferns, surpassed any picture that pen can describe or the imagination conjure. From afar we could hear the steady buzz of bees and other insects that swarmed about the flowers, and frequently a humming-bird whirred into the arena, hovered a few moments, and then sped away; myriads of nocturnal insects appeared at night, and great sphinx-moths took the place of the hummers.

The top of the ridge is covered with tall, magnificent forest. We saw numerous signs of bird and animal life. Toucans of several species yelped and clattered their bills in the tall trees above. There were also yellow-shouldered troupials, blue and yellow cotingas, brown creepers, bright-colored hummers, and many dragon-flies. The latter possessed a special interest for Lloyd, who immediately erected breeding-cages and began to study their life history. The larva of the dragon-fly resembles a good-size black beetle and lives in water. It is the possessor of a voracious appetite, feeding upon aquatic insects, the larvæ of mosquitoes, and even upon members of its own kind. Finally it rises to the top, hatches, and continues the cycle of its existence as an aerialist, the terror of the winged insects upon which it preys. Penelopes, small turkey-like birds, were abundant, and proved to be excellent eating. One day we succeeded in taking two specimens of a rare, beautiful tanager (Serricossypha albocristata) that lived in small flocks in the tall tree-tops. It was as large as a robin, of a velvety blue-black color, with a white crown and breast of deep scarlet. With such a display of lovely colors one might expect harmony in song; but apparently the vocal ability of the gorgeous creature was limited to a few shrill “peeps” like those of a strayed pullet. Deer also were abundant, and one day we caught a fine cat of the ocelot family.

We pitched camp in the heart of the forest. The vegetation was really wonderful. In spots the lower growth consisted entirely of climbing bamboo, so dense as to be impenetrable; the moss carpeting the ground was often knee-deep, and the trees seemed to be breaking under the weight of the creepers, orchids, mosses, and lilies that burdened every trunk and branch. It rained a good deal, and when the downpour stopped there was always the drip, drip of water that had been absorbed by the spongy masses overhead.