of an Orchid Hunter. \ ic 



was an occasional straggling bulb hung as if in mid- 

 air on some point only accessible to the eagles. 



I left the place impressed with the magnificence 

 of the scenery, but disappointed in my search for 

 plants. Continuing over the plain, we arrived at a 

 small village of ancient Spanish construction, called 

 Los Santos, situated on the very edge of a declivity 

 of about one thousand feet. In the valley below 

 runs the turbulent little river Subi, formerly called 

 by the Indians the Chicamocha. On the opposite 

 side of the valley mighty precipices rise to the same 

 height as the one on which we stood. It seems as 

 if the river had once flowed over the level plain, 

 but floods, during centuries, had cut out the terrible 

 chasm which opens so suddenly to the traveller. 

 The distance from the one line of precipices to the 

 other, at the top, is about a mile and a half, and 

 the mule-track was down the mountain-side, across 

 the river, and up the other side, on to the plain 

 beyond. The descent occupied about an hour and 

 a half of the most perilous winding about amongst 

 rocks, and creeping along shelving ledges, where 

 the mules, with one false step, would have been 

 dashed to pieces. At intervals we came to small 

 huts, the occupation of the owners being to keep 

 goats, of which there were many large herds nimbly 

 jumping from rock to rock, cropping the scant herbage 



