“_Vamonos_,” says the conductor of the narrow gauge train, as it pulls out of the station on its way to the limits of Chilean territory. One will begin to take notice of his fellow-travellers. The passengers will be found to be of many nationalities, and of many shades of colour, for, since the railway journey is continuous, fewer people take the much longer route via the Straits of Magellan. There will be Chilenos, with big hats and _ponchos_, and Chilenas, whose faces are coated with powder or paste. There will be priests in beaver hats and black gowns, which reach to their feet. Soldiers in uniforms modelled after the German army are quite likely to be companions as far as the border. Americans, British, French, Germans, Italians and Argentinians—all of these nationalities go to make up a potpourri of nations and national characteristics. As the start is generally made in the morning, one sees the stars disappear and the dawn break over the mountains. The gray skies turn to a steel-blue, then to a rosy pink, until, at last, the highest peaks are illuminated by the rays of the sun. One may leave Los Andes clad in its summer plumage, with myriads of butterflies and moths flitting about, but these characteristics soon disappear, for the upward climb begins almost immediately. In the next thirty-five miles this rack and pinion road climbs upward more than seven thousand feet. It is a much steeper ascent than on the Argentine side, for it requires three times the distance to reach the same level on that slope.