I saddled my mule, and put into one of the saddle-bags a small supply of food. Whilst I was thus engaged, one of those fierce little dogs which are domiciled in every Indian hut, slily watched my movements; and though he had rested at the foot of my bed during the night, yet he was only prevented, by the repeated threats of his master, from making an attack upon me. My Indian host handed me my gun; I paid for my night's lodging by a few reals and some paper cigars; and having asked him to direct me on my way, I rode off whilst he was expressing his gratitude, and his kind wishes in the words, "_Dios lo pague!_"
The sky was overhung by a thick mist, and the snow which had fallen during the night covered the ground as far as the eye could reach. On my way I met an old Indian woman driving her sheep. The bleating flock moved slowly on, leaving a deep furrow in the snow, and seeming impatient till the genial sun should dispel the mist and dissolve the white covering which overspread their scanty pasture. A little further on I met the son of this same Indian shepherdess. He and his dog were busily engaged in catching partridges, destined to be sold on the following Sunday, in the nearest village.
My road lay along a gentle acclivity, interspersed with rocks and swamps, which often obliged me to make wide detours. The swamps (or as the natives call them, _Attoladeros_) are dangerous enemies to travellers in the Puna, who, with their horses and mules, sometimes sink into them and perish. Even in the most open parts of the country it is not easy to discern the swamps, and the ground often sinks beneath the rider where he least expects it. At length the sun began to disperse the mist, and the snow gradually melted beneath his burning rays. Inspired with new vigor, I took a survey of the wild solitude around me. I was now on one of the level heights, about 14,000 feet above the sea. On both sides arose the high Cordillera summits crowned with eternal ice; detached peaks here and there towering to the skies. Behind me lay, deep and deeper, the dark valleys of the lower mountain regions, which, with the scarcely discernible Indian villages, receded in the distance, till they blended with the line of the horizon. Before me stretched the immeasurable extent of the level heights, at intervals broken by ridges of hills. It seemed as though here, in the snow plains of the Cordillera, Nature had breathed out her last breath. Here life and death meet together as it were to maintain the eternal struggle between being and annihilation.