As I left the town, following the pack-train after having made the
last settlements with the natives, I passed a little hut, the last
homestead on this side of the sierra. In front of it stood a young
girl, her hand raised to shade her eyes against the rays of the sinking
sun. She had watched the expedition go by, and was much excited by the
strange sight of so many men, the wonderful array of animals and great
quantity of baggage never before seen in those parts of the world. With
her fine dark eyes, her loose wavy hair and graceful figure, she made
a strikingly beautiful picture, and as she called out in a sweet,
melodious voice, _"Adios, Señor!"_ I took this kindly greeting from a
pretty girl as a good omen for my journey. On the spur of the moment
I dismounted and perpetuated the auspicious scene by means of a kodak
which I carried fastened to the pommel of my saddle. I wish it had been
possible for me to send her that picture as a token of my gratitude
for her cheery greeting. She surely would have appreciated it, as
all Mexicans delight in seeing their photographs. Then I turned my
face to the east and soon overtook my men.

To reach the Sierra Madre from the Bavispe River by way of Nacori,
two--or, as the Mexicans consider it, three--sierras have to be
crossed, all running, generally speaking, in a northwesterly to
southeasterly direction. The first two ranges are quite easy to
climb. The third is the Sierra Madre proper, which the Mexicans here
call Sierra de Nacori, as the upper Bavispe River from its source makes
a great detour toward the north around it, thereby partly separating
it from the main chain. Even this range does not really present any
unsurmountable difficulties if the weather is fine; in bad weather, I
admit, some parts of the trail we made would be all but impracticable.