8 THE AMERICAN MUSEUM JOURNAL 
an Andean teal, surprisingly lke our 
northern gadwall. And so the story 
goes on. Here almost on the equator 
but 13,000 feet above the level of the 
sea, we had left the strangeness of the 
tropics and come upon a land that was 
strikingly like our own. 
We decided to pitch camp at timber 
line where there would be wood for cook- 
ing and so made our way back down the 
valley to the edge of the trees where we 
had some difficulty in finding a dry level 
spot for the tent. 
Here we studied and collected for 
about a week, working up the ridges to 
15,000 feet but finding greater abundance 
of bird life along the dashing stream that 
flowed cown the valley in which we were 
camped. There was not however, a 
great variety of birds and but few species 
were really common. Mammals too, 
were scarce, a few tracks of deer and 
tapir along the edge of the forest and 
numerous runways of the rabbits in the 
rank sedges, being almost the only visible 
signs. Even the smaller rats and mice 
were scarce, and few came to our traps. 
Each night the temperature dropped 
to freezing, each noon the temperature 
rose to about 75 degrees Fahrenheit, and 
each afternoon great white clouds rolled 
up from the forests below and obscured 
the landscape. One dared not venture 
far from camp after three o’clock, for the 
great mass of anastomosing ridges would 
easily confuse even the traveler with a 
compass. In fact one day when return- 
ing from ap exploring trip to the snow 
line, the clouds rolled up while we were 
still four or five miles from camp. Ridge 
after ridge disappeared from sight until 
soon we could see only the rocks close 
about us. There was no trail to follow 
and we were soon unable to recognize any 
of the features of the landscape that were 
still visible. For two hours we stumbled 
along trying to keep track of the number 
of ridges as we passed them and trying 
to recall the number passed during the 
morning, until finally we gave up hope 
of return that night. Looking about for 
a spot somewhat sheltered from the raw 
winds which had already begun to sweep 
down from the snows above us, a ray of 
light very far to the left attracted our at- 
tention and we looked just in time to see 
the rift in the clouds close again. We 
knew it must have been reflected from 
the small lake at the head of the valley 
in which we were camped and realized 
that we had been traveling at least an 
hour in exactly the wrong direction. 
It was not reluctantly therefore, that 
we abandoned the thought of beds of 
frailejons and made straight for our 
little lake. In terrible thirst and fatigue 
and after many collapses from the great 
altitude, we were able at last to perceive 
its dim silver outline, and we knew we 
were little more than a mile from camp. 
This was our first warning to leave the 
paramo. In a few weeks these ridges 
would be covered with snow and swept 
by gales. The clouds and fog would not 
part for days and life would be unendur- 
able — although even then one would 
feel the more deeply the grandeur of 
the elements, and with the mountain 
tops shut from view, would still know 
their awe-inspiring presence. With this 
warning then, we prepared to leave the 
paramo. 
