92 



A FLYING TRIP TO THE TROPICS. 



almost perpendicular crests of the foothills, zigzagging back and 

 forth at every ten yards, the pavement being built in steps up which 

 the poor mules toiled. After about three hours' climbing, we 

 stopped for rest at Las Cruces, a mud and thatch inn on the right 

 of the road. We found the air here decidedly cooler. Here I got 

 some good oranges, and some green cocoanuts which were not nearly 

 so good as those that we had found at Barranquilla. The country 

 through which we had passed to this point was parched and in some 

 places almost barren, being covered with a coarse grass and cactus ; 

 but farther on we struck the forest, and found little cool streams 

 crossing the road, and everything was fresher. I saw in the valley 

 many beautiful butterflies (some morphos especially being of large 

 size and brilliant color), a few humming-birds, and several flocks of 

 the blue-rumped parrakeets. After about three quarters of an hour's 

 rest, we started again, and found the road growing steadily steeper 

 and worse, and shortly after four o'clock we stopped at a second 

 inn, Consuelo (consolation), where we concluded to spend the 

 night. We were still half an hour from the summit, with the worst 

 of the road ahead of us ; but although we had traveled only five 

 hours, we all felt somewhat used up, partly on account of the heat 

 and partly because of the roughness of the road. The view from 

 this place was magnificent. We were up between five and six 

 thousand feet, and could see across the valley of the Magdalena 

 to the distant range of the Cauca. We found the air and water 

 much cooler, and needed blankets at night. Alice and I were given 

 a little room in which were two wooden frames with cowhides 

 stretched over them for beds. These we found to be swarming 

 with fleas, bedbugs, and a kind of flying roach an inch and a half 

 long, so we spent a wakeful night, tormented by bites. The rest 

 of our party were given cots in the main room. 



The landlord, Don Clemente Mejija, kept a blank book, by way 

 of hotel register, in which his various guests had indulged in their 

 fondness for poetry by writing, above their names, verses in praise 

 of the host and of his hospitality, or by giving vent to the emotions 



