The expedition left Sucre December 22. The caravan was appallingly large, for we were taking our entire outfit, and it required no less than six Quechuas to look after the mules and burros. All supplies, also, had to be taken with us, as very little is to be had from the Indians, who are virtually the sole inhabitants of the cheerless highlands. There are a number of large villages, it is true, but the person who relies on the natives for maintenance is as likely as not to have to live on coca and _chicha_, or suffer for his improvidence. By noon we had reached the Cachimayo at a point where, ordinarily, it is fordable; but a heavy rain had caused the river to rise and we were confronted by a series of roaring cataracts covered with foam and débris washed down from the mountains. The mules were unloaded and driven into a corral. Soon other caravans arrived, until there were several hundreds of men and animals gathered on the river-bank. We spent the afternoon strolling through the adjacent apricot-orchards and vineyards. The former trees were laden with fruit, all ripening; it was small in size, but of delicious flavor. By seven o’clock the water had subsided many feet, and one of the _arrieros_ having previously ridden across the river to test its depth, the caravan started across. The stream was three hundred feet wide and the current very strong, so that crossing it seemed an endless operation; the mules struggled onward gamely, but to the rider it seemed as if they stood stock-still while a maze of rushing water seethed and raged all around him in frantic efforts to sweep away everything in its path. Our own animals got across safely, although some of the packs were drenched; but a long train of burros laden with huge boxes of the popular _Sucrenses_ cigarettes fared badly, and a number of the poor creatures were upset and whirled away down-stream. We continued onward in the darkness two leagues to Poste Escalera, a lone hut on a hillside, and spent a trying night at this flea-infested post. Next day we reached the Pilcomayo at a point where the river is divided into many narrow channels, although there is one main stream spanned by a swaying wooden bridge. A detailed narration of each day’s ride would mean the recounting of practically the same things. There were, however, a few things of unusual interest, and these will be mentioned later.