In 1903, Rev. A. L. Kitching, Mr. Fisher, and myself started off for a trip to that unfrequented region. Our baggage looked more suitable for a Polar expedition than a climb on the Equator. Every conceivable fusty and moth eaten winter garment was hauled out and packed into a waterproof sack; eider-down quilts, India rubber foot warmers, and bales of blankets for ourselves and boys formed part of the caravan. The reports of our mountaineering predecessors led us to anticipate an arduous and colossal task, but our ambition was not to attempt more than those who had a wider experience in mountain climbing than ourselves, but to stand on that untraversed land of ice where scarcely mortal foot had trod, and to inhale its cool life-giving air so that we might be refreshed for a return to work in the hot tiring lowlands. January was the time fixed on for the expedition. That is generally regarded as one of the most reliably dry months in the year, but the mountains manage to upset all one’s calculations, and in Toro fine weather is more the exception than the rule. So we found ourselves in a few very stiff storms before we had even reached the base of the mountains. Our porters were aggravatingly discouraging, and on the first day, regarding my skirt flapping about after a drenching shower, shook their heads, and said, “Perhaps the two Bwanas will reach the snows, but who ever heard of a woman doing it.” They did not understand that their very argument was one of my strongest incentives! Four days of strong marching from Kabarole brought us to a village of the Bakonjo called Bihunga. It was about 6,000ft. high, tucked away in the very heart of the mountains. Frowning peaks and ridge upon ridge of dense foresting completely shut us in from the outside world. Save for the noise of the River Mubuku, as it rushed madly down and tumbled into the valley beneath, there was no sound to break the deep silence of the mountains. All nature was at perfect peace with itself, and the few clouds that seemed wearied in their flight through the hot, dry air rested for a while on the green slopes as if to enjoy the quiet and beauty of the scene. It was to these strongholds that the Batoro fled in past times for security when the raiding King Kabarega of Bunyoro made plundering expeditions into their country. Although they found safety and shelter in the thickly-wooded crevices and creeks, the refugees searched in vain for food, and while some were able to drag through the time of their temporary captivity by subsisting on the roots and leaves of wild plants, hundreds are said to have died from hunger and exposure. The so-called village at which we halted was a collection of three tiny circular huts, built of poles packed as closely together as possible. Round and outside these was tied a thick padding of dried banana bark, leaves, and saplings, as protection from the gales and storms that blew down from the snows and whistled round these little dwellings.