Amid this luxuriant mass of tropical vegetation, houses were almost invisible until we were directly in front of them.
Notwithstanding the enormous descent we had made, it appeared to us, when we crossed the stream and began the ascent, that we had not really been to the bottom of the great valley.

For a long distance we mounted through a district of sugar-canes; then passed a little settlement of rude huts spread out over a reddish space; then, by a gentle but circuitous ascent, to a rugged trail which brought us to the summit and the edge of the great slope to Uruapan.

At the further side of the valley and to our left, in a mass of green, we saw smoke rising from the factories of Uruapan.

Crossing one of the characteristic bridges of the district, with a pretty shingled roof--four-sloped like those of the houses--over it, and with benches at the sides, where passers can sit and rest, while looking at the dashing, gurgling, foaming, water below,--we followed a level road between blackberries, wild roses, and other shrubs, to Uruapan.
No town in Mexico is more beautiful.

Perpetual spring reigns.