The Oroya Railway is the greatest engineering feat in the world. It runs from Callao on the Pacific to the goldfields of Cerro de Pasco. From Callao it ascends the narrow valley of the Rimac, rising nearly five thousand feet in the first fifty-six miles. From thence it goes through the intricate gorges of the Sierras until it tunnels the Andes at an altitude of fifteen thousand six hundred and fifty-five feet. This, I believe, is the highest point in the world where a piston rod is moved by steam, and this elevation is reached in eighty-five miles. The contractor was Henry Meiggs, of California, the concession was granted to him by the Peruvian Government in the days of Peru’s prosperity. To serve what purpose the Oroya Railway was built it is hard to understand, passing, as it does, through a mountain district with very little commerce and no population but a few scattered Indian villages. I do not think the line has ever paid one penny of dividend to the shareholders, and apparently was only constructed to benefit the parties concerned. To begin with, a far larger sum than the construction of the line would actually require was demanded from the public. English shareholders contributed largely, and the surplus balance was divided between Mr. Henry Meiggs, the government of that day, and any opposing parties.

There are two remarkable things about this railway. It is the highest in the world; it is the greatest of engineering triumphs, and there are not a few in the world, and it cost five million pounds, the contractor getting forty thousand pounds per mile for the construction of the same. To describe the marvellous feats and freaks of the Oroya Railway is impossible. It is the triumph of the engineer over every obstacle employed by nature to daunt him. A mountain is no barrier, they tunnel clean through it, a valley is made little of—a bridge is thrown across it—a raging, rushing torrent is no hindrance—they span it. It is the only place in the world where you can ride one hundred and seven miles, at any speed you like, without any means of propulsion; you can ride on a trolley from the summit of the Oroya Railway, Monte Meiggs, as it is called, fifteen thousand eight hundred feet above the level of the sea, right down to the water’s edge of the Pacific Ocean at Callao, with nothing to drive you but the trolley’s own momentum, over bridges, on the edge of precipices two thousand feet deep, around curves that make your hair stand on end—you start from the region of the eternal snows and finish among the humming birds and palms. Such is the Oroya.

The following morning at six o’clock I reported myself to the traffic manager at Monserrat. I had supplied myself with a kit consisting of two brown blankets, some spare underclothing, one extra suit, an extra pair of boots, two good Chilian knives, a Colt’s revolver and a box of one hundred cartridges, and I was ready for anything that might come along.

I was ordered to join the gang then about ready to start. There were twenty of us in the gang, engineers, foremen, four carpenters, five blacksmiths, six labourers, and four sailor riggers. A small engine named the “Favorita” with one compartment and three trucks was ready to take us up, one truck containing all the breakdown gang’s tools, the second their kits and several coils of rope, and the third containing stores for the bridge builders up the line.

We had only got a few miles outside Lima and were running alongside the Rimac, when, in crossing a culvert, the superintendent noticed something wrong, he stopped the engine to examine it, and found two large iron bolts in one of the crossbeams were broken. The repairing gang were soon engaged making good the damage, and in a little more than an hour we were ready to continue our journey.

We were now travelling over a level patch of ground, dry and stony, with little herbage or green, for in this strange and interesting country it is in the higher latitudes, and within reach of the rainfall from the clouds that, it becomes greener with every ascending valley.

We noticed overhead a large flock of turkey buzzards—a species of vulture that feed on carrion, they are ugly, and bald-headed, with a curved beak, their plumage being of a dirty dull brown. They were hovering about in a very peculiar manner, ascending and descending, spreading out over the field or paddock right abreast of us, and then gathering together again. Our foreman told us to watch them well, for it was a sight not often seen, and ten to one we should never see the like again. In the field over which the buzzards were hovering, there were two young horses and a mule. They seemed to scent danger, for they were rushing about like mad things, neighing, snorting and kicking, terrified at something we could not understand, but we were not kept long in suspense or doubt. The animals gathered in one corner of the field as if for mutual protection, with their heads in a corner and their tails towards us, stamping their feet all the time as though in great fear, and making a peculiar neighing noise. The buzzards now began to draw together, then, hovering about fifty feet above the animals, they made the most horrible squawking noise, and about a dozen of them dropped to the ground about thirty feet from the horses. If the animals attempted to leave the corner, the birds on the ground would hop about and flap their great ugly wings to drive them back, until the poor things were almost paralysed with fear. After keeping the horses in the corner for fully ten minutes, the buzzards overhead drew near, and those on the ground gave a peculiar screech, then, like a flash of lightning, down swooped a number of them and alighted on the heads and necks of the terrified animals, and for a few minutes we could not distinguish the beasts from the buzzards, there was nothing but feathers to be seen. It was a horrible sight.

Then the buzzards arose in the air, but not all of them—there were a number left crushed and dead on the ground. The animals broke away from the corner, screaming with pain, and raced at full speed across the field with heads hanging down. The mule came straight towards us, and the stone wall that bounded the field. He never raised his head, or checked his speed, we all thought he would jump the wall, but not so, he struck the wall with his head and broke his neck. Several of us ran to it, and to our horror we found that the poor beast’s eyes had been picked out by the buzzards. We turned to look at the horses, and saw them both drop from pain and exhaustion. Then began a scene I shall never forget. With screeching and squawking, the whole flock swooped down, and commenced their horrible work, and in half an hour there was nothing in that field but buzzards and bones.

We continued our journey up the line, stopping at intervals to examine the bridges and the culverts and small streams. The first ten miles we went through fairly level country, then we began to ascend through the valley of the Rimac full of the bright green reed of the sugar cane. Strange though it may seem, and notwithstanding the great height to which the railway is carried, it is always more or less in this valley until the summit is reached. Our first stopping place is Estacion de Chosica, two thousand eight hundred feet above the level of the sea, having passed on our way a little place rejoicing in the quaint name of Sauce Redondo, surrounded by willow trees. Here there are a few navvies’ huts, these like many of the humble dwellings of the country are built of reeds and mud, with flat-topped roofs. The ground here was bare and rocky and sun-scorched, not a scrap of vegetation anywhere, but highly mineralized.

After leaving Chosica, the railway begins to climb the mountain in real earnest, and soon we saw signs of vegetation, beginning with a few stunted willows and pepper trees, which increased in size and number as we rose higher up the hills. As we were steaming up the track the foreman ordered me to examine and overhaul a number of tackle blocks, chain slings and rope slings I should be using when we got to my destination, which I was told was the Verrugas Bridge, then in the course of construction.

But we were not to get there without two more exciting incidents, to me at least. A few miles above Chosica we entered a deep cutting, I think it was about a mile long, with a space of about twelve feet each side of the rails. As we entered the cutting we saw a flock of sheep on the line about half way along, and higher up still a couple of mules. As the engine was on a stiff incline, the driver did not feel inclined to stop, so he blew his whistle and rang the bell on the engine, hoping the sheep would scamper along the track in front of us, but not they, whoever knew sheep to do what was expected of them. As the engine drew near, they all went over to the left side of the track, and got well clear of the engine, and there they stood until the engine was nearly abreast of them, then, for some unaccountable reason, known only to sheep, one of them started to cross over to the other side, right in front of the engine, and, as is usual for a flock of sheep, all the others followed the leader, the consequence was that the engine rushed among them, crushing and mangling about fifty of them, and making the rails so slippery that the engine was brought to a standstill. We had to clear the track of the dead carcases, and rub the grease off the rails with sand before we could get started again. However, after a lot of trouble, and a lot of strong language from the driver, we started off once more, and had proceeded about half a mile, when we drew near the mules, these we thought would surely clear off the track before we got up to them, but we reckoned without the mules, they were bent on disputing our passage, and to our surprise and astonishment they stood stock still side by side in the middle of the track facing the engine, with their heads up and their tails on end, pawing the ground all the time.

“Ring the bell, and blow the whistle!” cried the foreman, in exasperated tones. This was done with noise enough to wake the dead, but it took as much effect as a whisper on the mules, and by this time we were only about twenty feet from them, when, like a flash, round they turned and began kicking as only mules can do with their hind feet. They kept this up until the engine struck them. The mule on the right was killed at once, and was thrown off the track by the cow-catcher, while the other one had both hind legs broken and was thrown clear of the track.

When the engine got to the head of the cutting, and was on a stretch of level ground, the foreman ordered a stop while a gang went back to clear the dead sheep from off the track. I went with them, and helped to gather up the pieces, which were taken back to the train and cooked for supper that same night.

While the rest of us were getting up the slaughtered carcases, Brian Flynn, the blacksmith, walked over to one of the dead mules, it was lying on its back, with its legs upwards, and its spine apparently broken.

“Hello, moke!” cried Brian, as he approached it. “You’ve done your last kick,” at the same time giving it a kick on its hind quarters. But it hadn’t given its last kick for the instant he touched it, whether from some contraction of the muscles, or some other cause, I know not, its legs straightened out, and the hoof caught Brian’s leg, breaking it just below the knee. His cries brought us to his assistance, and we carried him to the engine and at once proceeded to Matacama, where a Chilian doctor set the leg after a fashion.

Up to this point the track had been fairly easy through the valley of the Rimac. From Chosica to Matacama, eight thousand feet above the sea, vegetation shows itself in greater quantities, the railway leaves the bed of the valley and begins to climb the side of the mountain, overcoming every difficulty. About two thousand feet above Matacama brings us to the great Verrugas Bridge, the highest bridge in the world, and one of the greatest achievements of engineering the world has ever seen. Upwards of two thousand lives were lost while constructing this famous bridge, all the labourers suffered from a dangerous fever, in which the body was covered with pustules, often half an inch long and full of blood. It was supposed to be caused by some poison that was inhaled while excavating, or from the water, and came to be known as the Verrugas fever, it seemed to be confined to some ten or twelve miles and only attacked those actually working there.

From the Verrugas Bridge upwards, the mountains are covered with thick vegetation, owing to the humid and rainy atmosphere, there we see a little green village full of tropical vegetation, of camphor, banyan, sumach, which is much used for dyeing and medicinal purposes. There, too, are some ordinary looking butterflies, also a swallow tailed species, a fine black and yellow, the only species to be found on these western slopes of the Andes. After leaving Verrugas, the track is marked by a number of black looking tunnels. They seem to be pointing in all directions, and you wonder how on earth you are going to get up there. You enter a tunnel facing one way, and you leave it facing another, often in quite an opposite direction.

I cannot find words to describe the stupendous and almost insuperable difficulties overcome by the engineers who built this masterpiece of railways. There are fifty-seven tunnels in a stretch of a hundred and seven miles, and seven thousand men lost their lives in the construction of this railway. It has only to be seen to be believed, and the wonder is that there were not a greater number lost.