In the cold, misty morning we started without coffee, and at once began to climb a long ascent; for Cunen seems to be built on a platform on the mountain side. On our left was the finest waterfall we had yet seen, and on the banks were red violets. The summit of this pass was nearly seven thousand feet, and a sudden turn on a sharp ridge brought us to another region and a different climate. The transition was astonishing, for only a few rods behind we had left the rainy season. Before us was a vast valley bounded by forest-clad mountains and grassy buttresses; but near and far no sign of human habitation. The path we were on was the only token of man’s presence, and that looked more like the dry bed of a mountain torrent than a public road. Broad-leaved agaves were very common, some crowned with golden blossoms on immense stems, some dead after flowering, still others wantonly hacked by the passer-by,—so we thought, in our ignorance, until the too-frequent mutilation of the tough stems showed a labor that could not be purposeless; and then we remembered that these “century plants” flower but once, after years of growth exhausting their entire substance in that supreme effort, and leaving a withered stem and shrivelled leaves, to be swept down the hillside by the next storm. Foiled in its attempt to flower by the decapitating machete of the mozo, the plant lives on for a longer period, furnishing fibre and drink from its leaves. Anona-trees grew at the very summit of the pass, although we were assured that frosts sometimes occurred. Oaks of two species were abundant, and laurels were in blossom. A rancho built by the roadside, a sad travesty of the Dâk Bungalows of India, gave us at least a chance to boil our coffee.