The first thing I come across is a tunnel burrowing through a hill. This
tunnel was originally built the proper size, but, after being walled up,
there were indications of a general cave-in; so the company had to go
to work and build another thick rock-wall inside the other, which leaves
barely room for the trains to pass through without touching the sides.
It is anything but an inviting path around the hill; but it is far the
safer of the two. Once my foot slips, and I unceremoniously sit down and
slide around in the soft yellow clay, in my frantic endeavors to keep
from slipping down the hill. This hardly enhances my personal appearance;
but it doesn't matter much, as I am where no one can see, and a clay-
besmeared individual is worth a dozen dead ones. Soon I am on the track
again, briskly trudging up the steep grade toward the snow-line, which
I can plainly see, at no great distance ahead, through the windings
around the mountains.

All through here the only riding to be done is along occasional short
stretches of difficult path beside the track, where it happens to be a
hard surface; and on the plank platforms of the stations, where I generally
take a turn or two to satisfy the consuming curiosity of the miners, who
can't imagine how anybody can ride a thing that won't stand alone; at
the same time arguing among themselves as to whether I ride along on one
of the rails, or bump along over the protruding ties.

This morning I follow the railway track around the famous "Cape Horn,"
a place that never fails to photograph itself permanently upon the memory
of all who once see it. For scenery that is magnificently grand and
picturesque, the view from where the railroad track curves around Cape
Horn is probably without a peer on the American continent.