been dashed to pieces against granite boulders.  I am frank to confess that I got down on hands and knees and crawled across, six inches at a time.  Even after we reached the other side I could not help wondering what would happen to the “bridge” if a particularly heavy shower should fall in the valley above.  A light rain had fallen during the night.  The river had risen so that the bridge was already threatened by the foaming rapids.  It would not take much more rain to wash away the bridge entirely.  If this should happen during the day it might be very awkward.  As a matter of fact, it did happen a few days later and the next explorers to attempt to cross the river at this point found only one slender log remaining.

Leaving the stream, we struggled up the bank through a dense jungle, and in a few minutes reached the bottom of a precipitous slope.  For an hour and twenty minutes we had a hard climb.  A good part of the distance we went on all fours, sometimes hanging on by the tips of our fingers.  Here and there, a primitive ladder made from the roughly hewn trunk of a small tree was placed in such a way as to help one over what might otherwise have proved to be an impassable cliff.  In another place the slope was covered with slippery grass where it was hard to find either handholds or footholds.  The guide said that there were lots of snakes here.  The humidity was great, the heat was excessive, and we were not in training.

Shortly after noon we reached a little grass-covered hut where several good-natured Indians, pleasantly surprised at our unexpected arrival, welcomed us with dripping gourds full of cool, delicious water.  Then they set before us a few cooked sweet potatoes, called here cumara, a Quichua word identical with the Polynesian kumala, as has been pointed out by Mr. Cook.

Apart from the wonderful view of the canyon, all we could see from our cool shelter was a couple of small grass huts and a few ancient stone-faced terraces.  Two pleasant Indian farmers, Richarte and Alvarez, had chosen this eagle’s nest for their home.  They said they had found plenty of terraces here on which to grow their crops and they were usually free from undesirable visitors.  They did not speak Spanish, but through Sergeant Carrasco I learned that there were more ruins “a little farther along.”  In this country one never can tell whether such a report is worthy of credence.  “He may have been lying” is a good footnote to affix to all hearsay evidence.  Accordingly, I was not unduly excited, nor in a great hurry to move.  The heat was still great, the water from the Indian’s spring was cool and delicious, and the rustic wooden bench, hospitably covered immediately after my arrival with a soft, woolen poncho, seemed most comfortable.  Furthermore, the view was simply enchanting.  Tremendous green precipices fell away to the white rapids of the Urubamba below.  Immediately in front, on the north side of the valley, was a great granite cliff rising 2000 feet sheer.  To the left was the solitary peak of Huayna Picchu, surrounded by seemingly inaccessible precipices.  On all sides were rocky cliffs.  Beyond them cloud-capped mountains rose thousands of feet above us.