THE CLIMB TO CHOQQUEQUIRAU
The next morning, accompanied by a large cavalcade, we started for
Choqquequirau. Most of our escort contented themselves with a mile or
so, and then wishing us good luck, returned to Abancay. We did not blame
them. Owing to unusually heavy rains, the trail was in a frightful
state. Well-nigh impassable bogs, swollen torrents, avalanches of
boulders and trees, besides the usual concomitants of a Peruvian
bridle-path, cheered us on our way.
Soon after leaving our friends we had to ford a particularly dangerous
torrent where the mules had all they could possibly do to keep their
footing in the foamy waters. After the crossing we rested to watch
Castillo, one of the soldiers who had been assigned to accompany us,
cross the stream on foot. His mule, tired out by the dreadful trail, was
being rested. It had forded the stream with the others and was standing
by us watching the soldier take perilous leaps from boulder to boulder,
where a misstep would have meant certain death. Hardly had Castillo
gained our side of the stream when the mule decided to return to Abancay
and plunged back across the dangerous ford. With a shout of rage, the
soldier repeated his performance, gained the other side of the torrent,
and started after the mule, now quite rested, and trotting off briskly
for home. A chase of a mile and a half put Castillo into no very
pleasant frame of mind, and the mule had little respite for the
remainder of the day. At noon we stopped a few moments in the village of
Cachora where the Prefect had instructed the Gobernador to prepare us a
“suitable luncheon.” This intoxicated worthy offered us instead many
apologies, and we had to get along as best we could with three or four
boiled eggs, all the village could provide.
All day long through rain and heavy mist that broke away occasionally to
give us glimpses of wonderfully deep green valleys and hillsides covered
with rare flowers, we rode along a slippery path that grew every hour
more treacherous and difficult. In order to reach the little camp on the
bank of the Apurimac that night, we hurried forward as fast as possible
although frequently tempted to linger by the sight of acres of
magnificent pink begonias and square miles of blue lupins. By five
o’clock, we began to hear the roar of the great river seven thousand
feet below us in the cañon. The Apurimac, which flows through the
Ucayali to the Amazon, rises in a little lake near Arequipa, so far from
the mouth of the Amazon that it may be said to be the parent stream of
that mighty river. By the time it reaches this region, it is a raging
torrent two hundred and fifty feet wide, and at this time of the year,
over eighty feet deep. Its roaring voice can be heard so many miles away
that it is called by the Quichuas, the Apurimac, or the “Great
Speaker.”
Our guide, the enthusiastic Caceres, declared that we had now gone far
enough. As it was beginning to rain and the road from there on was
“worse than anything we had as yet experienced,” he said it would be
better to camp for the night in an abandoned hut near by. His opinion
was eagerly welcomed by two of the party, young men from Abancay, who
were having their first real adventure, but the two _Yankis_ decided
that it was best to reach the river if possible. Caceres finally
consented, and aided by the dare-devil Castillo, we commenced a descent
that for tortuous turns and narrow escapes beat anything we had yet
seen. Just as darkness came on, we encountered a large tree that had so
fallen across our path as completely to block all progress. It seemed as
though we must return to the hut. Half an hour’s work enabled us to pass
this obstacle only to reach a part of the hillside where an avalanche
had recently occurred. Here even the mules and horses trembled with
fright as we led them across a mass of loose earth and stones which
threatened to give way at any moment. Only two weeks previously, two
mules had been lost here. Their crossing had started a renewal of the
avalanche which had taken the poor animals along with it.
An hour after dark we came out on a terrace. The roar of the river was
so great that we could scarcely hear Caceres shouting out that our
troubles were now over and “all the rest was level ground.” This turned
out to be only his little joke. We were still a thousand feet above the
river and a path cut in
[Illustration: A CHASM DOWN WHICH PLUNGED A SMALL CATARACT]
[Illustration: THE WONDERFUL CAÑON OF THE APURIMAC]
the face of a precipice had yet to be negotiated. In broad daylight we
should never had dared to ride down the tortuous trail that led from the
terrace to the bank of the river. But as it was quite dark and we were
quite innocent of any danger we readily followed the cheery voice of our
guide. The path is what is known as a corkscrew and descended the wall
of the cañon by means of short turns each twenty feet long. At one end
of each turn was the precipice, while at the other was a chasm down
which plunged a small cataract which had a clear fall of seven hundred
feet. Half way down the path my mule stopped, trembling, and I
dismounted to find that in the darkness he had walked off the trail and
had slid down the cliff to a ledge. How to get him back was a problem.
It is not easy to back an animal up a steep hill, and there was no room
in which to turn him around. It was such a narrow escape that when I got
safely back onto the trail, I decided to walk the rest of the way and
let the mule go first, preferring to have him fall over the precipice
alone if that were necessary.
Two thirds of the way down the descent came the crux of the whole
matter, for here the path crossed the narrow chasm close to and directly
in front of the cataract, and in the midst of its spray. There was no
bridge. To be sure, the waterfall was only three feet wide, but it was
pitch dark. As I could not see the other side of the chasm, I did not
dare to jump alone, but remounted my mule, held my breath, and gave him
both spurs at once. His jump was successful.
Ten minutes later we saw the welcome light of the master of the camp who
came out to guide us through a thicket of mimosa trees that grew on the
lower terrace just above the river.
The camp consisted of two huts, six by seven, built of reeds. Here we
passed a most uncomfortable night. Mr. Hay has described the next few
hours so vividly in his diary that, with his permission, I am going to
quote his account of it.
“Our luggage, including the folding cots, did not arrive that night till
very late, so we slept on benches made of bamboo poles, in our boots,
under an open thatch-roofed shelter. During the night the Prefect’s
secretary, _el periodista_, either in exuberance over reaching the
bottom of the mountain in safety, or being unstrung on account of his
recent experience, or simply because he was a bounder, fired his
revolver off at three different times, the ball fortunately passing
through the roof each time. I must admit that I was so sound asleep as
to hear only one of the shots, though I was so near the “young idea”
that I could have touched him with my hand. Even he, though, wearied of
that form of amusement after a time, and quiet was restored until 3 A.M.
At that hour a rooster, who had quietly been resting with his women-folk
on a pole over our heads, decided that dawn was coming on, or if it
wasn’t, ought to be, and showed us conclusively what a healthy pair of
feathered lungs, in a rarified atmosphere, was capable of. He was within
reach, but I bided my time. Not half enough notice had been taken of the
alarm to suit him, and I saw the chest of Sr. Chanticlerio expand for a
supreme effort. He raised himself to his full height and let loose. With
ever increasing volume the notes poured out, until just as it seemed he
would burst, in the concluding notes of the anthem, I arose, and with
the side of my hand, caught him in the place that needed it most. He
summoned up the courage to give one defiant little crow three hours
later. But his spirit was broken, and his style was cramped by the
_periodista_, who, awake by this time, was firing at him with his
revolver. There were no casualties.”
While breakfast was being prepared we went out to take pictures and
measurements of the bridge. This was 273 feet long by 32 inches wide,
and the river 250 feet wide. “Don Mariano,” the builder of the bridge,
told us that when construction commenced, the water was nearly eighty
feet below the bridge although at present the river had risen so that it
was only twenty-five feet below it, an increase in depth of over _fifty
feet_. An almost incredible bulk of water was roaring between its steep
banks. It was estimated at 100 feet deep, and yet the water piled up on
itself in such a way as to give the appearance of running against huge
boulders in midstream.
We sent the Indian bearers ahead with our luggage. Pack animals could
not possibly use the trail on the other side of the river and the bridge
was not constructed to carry their weight. The surprising thing was that
the Indians were very much afraid of the frail little bridge which
Chinese courage and ingenuity had built, and crept gingerly across it
on their hands and knees while they carried our luggage and supplies to
the other side of the river. They had been accustomed for centuries to
using frail suspension bridges much less strong in reality than this
little structure. But they are not acquainted with the tenacity of wire,
and it seemed the height of frivolity to them that we should be willing
to trust our lives to such a small “rope.” Yet the much larger fibre
ropes of which their suspension bridges were constructed would not begin
to stand the strain as well as these six telegraph wires.
After a breakfast of thin soup and boiled sweet potatoes, we girded
ourselves for the ascent. The river at this point is about 5000 feet
above sea-level. We had had little practice in mountain climbing, except
on mule-back, for many months, and it seemed like a pretty serious
undertaking to attempt to climb six thousand feet more to an elevation
of 11,000 feet. This will sound tame enough to the experienced mountain
climber although it was anything but easy for us. Our patient,
long-suffering Quichua bearers, coming of a race that, at high
altitudes, is in the habit of marching distances which appear incredibly
long to those students of military history that have confined their
attention to the movements of European troops, bore their burdens most
cheerfully. At the same time they gave frequent evidence of great
fatigue which was not at all to be wondered at under the circumstances.
Of one incident of the ascent Mr. Hay wrote: “Most of the party started
long before the two ‘Yanquis,’ but in half an hour we caught up with
[Illustration: SUNRISE AT CHOQQUEQUIRAU]
[Illustration: THE FRAIL LITTLE BRIDGE OVER THE APURIMAC]
them. They had waylaid an Indian bearer and were having beer and other
refreshments under a tree. Here we noticed an example of the height of
generosity towards an Indian in Peru. This is to let him carry all day,
among other things, the refreshments. Then take the beer, drink it, and
return him the bottle. The bottle, be it noted, should be received with
many expressions of thanks on the part of the Indian. We passed the
revellers and plodded on up together. Unfortunately for history but
fortunately for our nerves, at least, the _periodista_ gave out soon
after this and was forced to turn back. So the chronicle of the events
at Choqquequirau must come only from the pen of an alien? Not for a
minute! _El periodista_ was ever with us in spirit, and the report for
the Lima Journal fared far better at the hands of Imagination than it
ever could have through plain Experience.”
The enthusiastic Caceres kept shouting “valor” at the top of his lungs
as evidence of his good spirits and in an effort to encourage the
others. The two _Yankis_ had a hard time of it and were obliged to stop
and rest nearly every fifty feet.
At times the trail was so steep that it was easier to go on all fours
than to attempt to maintain an erect attitude. Occasionally we crossed
streams in front of waterfalls on slippery logs or treacherous little
foot-bridges. At other times we clung to the face of rocky precipices or
ascended by roughly constructed ladders from one elevation to another.
Although the hillside was too precipitous to allow much forest growth,
no small part of the labor of making the path had been the work of
cutting through dense underbrush.
As we mounted, the view of the valley became more and more magnificent.
Nowhere have I ever witnessed such beauty and grandeur as was here
displayed. A white torrent raged through the cañon six thousand feet
below us. Where its sides were not too precipitous to admit of
vegetation, the steep slopes were covered with green foliage and
luxuriant flowers. From the hilltops near us other slopes rose six
thousand feet beyond and above to the glaciers and snow-capped summits
of Mts. Sargantay and Soray. In the distance, as far as we could see, a
maze of hills, valleys, tropical jungle, and snow-capped peaks held the
imagination as though by a spell. Such were our rewards as we lay
panting by the side of the little path when we had reached its highest
point.
After getting our wind, we followed the trail westward, skirting more
precipices and crossing other torrents, until, about two o’clock, we
rounded a promontory and caught our first glimpse of the ruins of
Choqquequirau on the slopes of a bold mountain headland 6000 feet above
the river. Between the outer hilltop and the ridge connecting it with
the snow-capped mountains, a depression or saddle had been terraced and
levelled so as to leave a space for the more important buildings of the
Inca stronghold.
At three o’clock we reached a glorious waterfall whose icy waters,
coming probably from the glaciers on Soray, cooled our heads and
quenched our thirst. We had now left our companions far behind, and
were pushing slowly along through the jungle, when shortly before four
o’clock we saw terraces in the near distance. Just as we began to enjoy
the prospect of reaching Choqquequirau alone, Caceres and Castillo
caught up with us. They had stayed behind in a futile attempt to
encourage the Indian bearers, and the other adventurers to have more
“valor.” The others did not arrive until the next morning; not even the
Quichua carriers on whom we depended for food and blankets.
Soon after our arrival, we clambered up to a little bit of flat ground,
where evidently the Incas once cultivated their crops, to enjoy the
view. Here we were discovered by a huge condor who proceeded to
investigate the invaders of his domain. Apparently without moving a
muscle, he sailed gracefully down in ever narrowing circles until we
could see clearly not only his cruel beak and great talons, but even the
whites of his eyes. We had no guns and not even a club with which to
resist his attack. It was an awe-inspiring moment, for he measured at
least twelve feet from tip to tip of wing. When within forty feet of us
he decided not to disturb us, and seemingly without changing the
position of a feather, soared off into space. We were told afterwards by
Caceres and Castillo that they had been greatly alarmed by condors when
they first commenced operations here.
Owing to the non-appearance of the carriers we passed an uncomfortable
night in the smallest of the little thatched huts which the workmen had
erected for their own use. It was scarcely three feet high and about six
feet long by four feet wide. The day had been warm, and in our efforts
to make climbing as easy as possible, we had divested ourselves of all
our warm clothes. Notwithstanding the fact that a shelter tent was
pulled down and wrapped around us for warmth, and stacks of dry grass
piled about us, we were scarcely able to close our eyes for the cold and
chilling dampness all night long.
The humidity was one hundred or nearly so during the four days which we
spent on the mountain. Consequently we passed the majority of the time
in thick mist or rain.
[Illustration:
CHOQQUEQUIRAU & VICINITY, PERU.
Drawn by C. W. Drysdale
From
Measurements and Photographs taken Feb. 7, 8, 9, 10, 1909
by
DR. HIRAM BINGHAM and CLARENCE HAY Esq.
]