For three hours, during which no distant view had delighted our eyes, we had traveled in the mists; we had almost forgotten that the sun could shine.  At the end of a long, narrow ridge, where it joined the greater mountain mass, we found a rest-house.  Here the trail turned abruptly onto the larger ridge, mounted sharply through a dugway, and then to our complete surprise emerged into the fair sunlight.  The clear, blue sky was over us, and directly below us, at our horses’ feet, was the flat top of the sea of clouds.  A moment more and we rose to a point of view from which the grandest view of a lifetime burst upon our vision.  Opposite, the evening sun was nearing the horizon, before and below us lay the valley; we were upon the very edge of a great mountain slope.  To our right lay the cloud mass, which was all in movement, precipitating itself down the slope into the profound valley.  It was a river of vapors, more than two miles, perhaps, in width, plunging, perhaps, two thousand feet into the abyss.  Niagara, which I have often seen, is a pigmy cataract in comparison.  The cloud mass tossed and heaved, whirled and poured in one enormous sheet over the precipice, breaking into spray as it struck against projecting rock masses.  Every movement of whirling and plunging water was there; the rapid above the fall, the plunge, the whirlpool, the wild rush of whirlpool rapids, all were there, but all silent, fearfully and impressively silent.  We could have stood there gazing for hours, but night was coming and a stretch of unknown road still lay before us.  At the other end of the valley, in the dusk of early evening, we saw a second cataract pouring in.  From both ends the cloud rivers were rushing in to fill the valley, along the edge of which we crept.  And presently we plunged down again into the mists; night fell; our trail was barely visible, and we had to trust to our horses to find it; the air was cold and penetrating.  Long after dark, we rode into Juquila.

[Illustration:  CLOUD CATARACT; NEAR JUQUILA]

[Illustration:  DANCERS IN THE DANZA DE LA CONQUISTA; JUQUILA]

The cura had gone to bed; the meson had no room for us and no food for our horses; our case seemed desperate.  We heard, however, noisy laughter and the loud voices of men drinking.  So I begged Ernst to seek the presidente and tell him our needs while I looked after the animals.  The official was at the tienda, drinking with his friends.  Ernst made known our wishes, producing our letter from the governor.  At this, the presidente became furious:  “Who is this with orders from the governor?  Let me kill him,” and with that he drew his machete and made at Ernst.  Some of his less-intoxicated friends restrained him, and Ernst, concluding that the moment was not propitious, returned to me.  After other fruitless efforts to get food for ourselves and animals we resigned ourselves to our fate, and lay down upon the stone floor of the corridor outside the meson, with a crowd of sleeping indians as companions.