The edge of the oasis of Vitor is the contour line along which the irrigating canal runs.  There is no gradual petering out of foliage.  The desert begins with a stunning crash.  On one side is the bright, luxurious green of fig trees and vineyards; on the other side is the absolute stark nakedness of the sandy desert.  Within the oasis there is an abundance of water.  Much of it runs to waste.  The wine growers receive more than they can use; in fact, more land could easily be put under cultivation.  The chief difficulties are the scarcity of ports from which produce can be shipped to the outer world, the expense of the transportation system of pack trains over the deserts which intervene between the oases and the railroad, and the lack of capital.  Otherwise the irrigation system might be extended over great stretches of rich, volcanic soil, now unoccupied.

A steady climb of three quarters of an hour took us to the northern rim of the valley.  Here we again saw the snowy mass of Coropuna, glistening in the sunlight, seventy-five miles away to the northwest.  Our view was a short one, for in less than three minutes we had to descend another canyon.  We crossed this and climbed out on the pampa of Sihuas.  There was little to interest us in our immediate surroundings, but in the distance was Coropuna, and I had just begun to study the problem of possible routes for climbing the highest peak when Mr. Hinckley’s mule trotted briskly across the trail directly in front of me, kicked up her heels, and again sent him sprawling over the sand, barometer, camera, plates, and all.  Unluckily, this time his foot caught in a stirrup and, still holding the bridle, he was dragged some distance before he got it loose.  He struggled to his feet and tried to keep the mule from running away, when a violent kick released his hold and knocked him out.  We immediately set up our little “Mummery” tent on the hot, sandy floor of the desert and rendered first-aid to the unlucky astronomer.  We found that the sharp point of one of the vicious mule’s new shoes had opened a large vein in Mr. Hinckley’s leg.  The cut was not dangerous, but too deep for successful mountain climbing.  With Gamarra’s aid, Mr. Hinckley was able to reach Arequipa that night, but his enforced departure not only shattered his own hopes of climbing Coropuna, but also made us wonder how we were going to have the necessary three-men-on-the-rope when we reached the glaciers.  To be sure, there was the corporal—­but would he go?  Indians do not like snow mountains.  Packing up the tent again, we resumed our course over the desert.

The oasis of Sihuas, another beautiful garden in the bottom of a huge canyon, was reached about four o’clock in the afternoon.  We should have been compelled to camp in the open with the arrieros had not the parish priest invited us to rest in the cool shade of his vine-covered arbor.  He graciously served us with cakes and sweet native wine, and asked us to stay as long as we liked.  The desert of Majes, which now lay ahead of us, is perhaps the widest, hottest, and most barren in this region.  Our arrieros were unwilling to cross it in the daytime.  They said it was forty-five miles between water and water.  The next day we enjoyed the hospitality of our kindly host until after supper.