From now on I made it a rule to send three or four men about two days ahead of the main body of the expedition, to make a path.  Occasionally they were guided by Apache tracks, but for the most part we cut our own way through the wilderness.  Instead of adopting the Mexican method of going uphill as straight as practicable, I had the trail cut zigzag, and to this I attribute the fact that I was able to pull through at all, as it saved the animals an immense amount of strain.  The steepest inclination we ascended was 40 deg., while for the most part we climbed at an angle of about 30 deg..  On some of the ridges, in order to help an animal up, one man had to drag it by a line, while two others pushed it from behind.  In many places the mules had to be led one by one along the narrow edge of chasms.

To look at these mountains is a soul-inspiring sensation; but to travel over them is exhaustive to muscle and patience.  And the possibility of losing at any moment perhaps the most valuable part of your outfit is a constant and severe strain on your mind.  Nobody except those who have travelled in the Mexican mountains can understand and appreciate the difficulties and anxieties attending such a journey.  Not only the animals themselves, but everything they carry is vital to the success of the expedition, and there is always a danger that, for instance, your camera and photographic outfit, and the priceless collection of negatives already taken, may roll down a precipice.

A mule with its bulky pack is, to a certain extent, helpless on these narrow mountain trails.  Old and experienced animals often manoeuvre their packs with a cleverness that is almost human:  yet, whenever a mule runs accidentally against some projection, or its foot slips, the poor beast invariably loses its balance, and over it goes, down the hill with ever-increasing velocity.

On one occasion I heard a noise coming from above without being at first able to discern what caused it.  A few stones came tumbling down, and were presently followed by a donkey, pack and all, turning over and over with astounding speed.  It cleared a perpendicular rock some twenty feet high and landed at its base, rolling over twice.  Then, to my amazement, it rose to its feet in the midst of its scattered cargo.  And do you know what that cargo consisted of?—­a case of dynamite and our tool chest!  As fast as their legs could carry them, two Mexicans were by its side, promptly reloading the donkey and leading it up to the trail as coolly as if nothing had happened.  A very fine mule, raised on the plains of Arizona, was naturally giddy, and met with such a mishap three times in one day, tumbling down 150 to 200 feet without, however, being seriously hurt.  At first I was greatly shocked to see the animals thus rolling over and over with their packs, down the mountain sides, never stopping until checked by some large tree or rock, sometimes 200 feet below.  But the Mexicans were evidently quite accustomed to such happenings, which seemed to be in the regular line of their travel.