The night at the Vaqueria was one of the most unpleasant I ever knew.  It was very cold and the rain fell in torrents.  A little higher up the rain ceased and snow began.  The wind blew with great velocity.  The log-cabin we were in had lost the roof entirely on one side, and on the other it was hardly better then a sieve.  There was little or no sleep that night.  As soon as it was light the next morning, we started to make the ascent to the summit.  The wind continued to blow with violence and the weather was still cloudy, but there was neither rain nor snow.  The clouds, however, concealed from our view the country below us, except at times a momentary glimpse could be got through a clear space between them.  The wind carried the loose snow around the mountain-sides in such volumes as to make it almost impossible to stand up against it.  We labored on and on, until it became evident that the top could not be reached before night, if at all in such a storm, and we concluded to return.  The descent was easy and rapid, though dangerous, until we got below the snow line.  At the cabin we mounted our horses, and by night were at Ozumba.

The fatigues of the day and the loss of sleep the night before drove us to bed early.  Our beds consisted of a place on the dirt-floor with a blanket under us.  Soon all were asleep; but long before morning first one and then another of our party began to cry out with excruciating pain in the eyes.  Not one escaped it.  By morning the eyes of half the party were so swollen that they were entirely closed.  The others suffered pain equally.  The feeling was about what might be expected from the prick of a sharp needle at a white heat.  We remained in quarters until the afternoon bathing our eyes in cold water.  This relieved us very much, and before night the pain had entirely left.  The swelling, however, continued, and about half the party still had their eyes entirely closed; but we concluded to make a start back, those who could see a little leading the horses of those who could not see at all.  We moved back to the village of Ameca Ameca, some six miles, and stopped again for the night.  The next morning all were entirely well and free from pain.  The weather was clear and Popocatapetl stood out in all its beauty, the top looking as if not a mile away, and inviting us to return.  About half the party were anxious to try the ascent again, and concluded to do so.  The remainder—­I was with the remainder—­concluded that we had got all the pleasure there was to be had out of mountain climbing, and that we would visit the great caves of Mexico, some ninety miles from where we then were, on the road to Acapulco.

The party that ascended the mountain the second time succeeded in reaching the crater at the top, with but little of the labor they encountered in their first attempt.  Three of them—­Anderson, Stone and Buckner—­wrote accounts of their journey, which were published at the time.  I made no notes of this excursion, and have read nothing about it since, but it seems to me that I can see the whole of it as vividly as if it were but yesterday.  I have been back at Ameca Ameca, and the village beyond, twice in the last five years.  The scene had not changed materially from my recollection of it.