From San José the path winds up a long ravine for several leagues, down which a torrent dashes furiously over the rocks, descending from the snowy peak of Accosiri. The mountain scenery, consisting of steep grassy slopes, masses of rock, torrents, and distant snowy peaks, was very fine. The ravine led up to the summit of the pass of Surupana, where it was intensely cold, and the height of which I roughly estimated, with a boiling-point thermometer, at 16,700 feet above the sea. Here I met an active young vicuña-hunter, well mounted, and provided with a gun, who said he was a servant of the Cacique Chuquihuanca of Azangaro, on his way to buy wool in Caravaya. He continued in my company during most part of the day. Loud claps of thunder burst out in different directions, and a snow-storm was drifting in our faces. The ravines were covered with deep snow, between high dark mountains, with abrupt cliffs cropping out. A flock of vicuñas dashed across our path, disappearing again in the driving sleet. After wading through snow and mud for several leagues the weather cleared up, and we began to descend a splendid gorge, exactly like some of the finest coombs on the north coast of Devon, on a gigantic scale. This led us down into a valley, where I parted with my young vicuña-hunter, who had been a very pleasant companion. Riding down the grassy valley, and passing many flocks of sheep, I rode through the village of Potoni, a dozen huts on the side of a hill; forded the river Azangaro, which is here but a small stream even in the rainy season; and riding up the opposite bank, got a magnificent view of the snowy mountains of Caravaya, with their sharp needle-like peaks. Two leagues brought me to Crucero, the capital of the province of Caravaya, so called from the cross-roads which here branch off to the various villages in the forests on the other side of the snowy barrier which rises up close to the town, to the eastward.