where they began the chore of unpacking and sorting. With oilskins bought from Senor Mattos, they began the lengthy task of re-packing their goods into bales, each approximately 50 pounds in weight, two of which would comprise the burden of a mule. They had been told that they could hire Indian porters if they wished, each of whom could carry 50 pounds of baggage for 15 miles of travel each day. This had struck them as impractical, so they had chosen the mules instead.
Senor Mattos was the one to tell them of Juan de Penol. “A mestizo, born of a Spanish father and an Indian mother. Cortes himself had a son like him. He’s absolutely dependable,” he said, emphasizing the “absolutely.” “You can’t do better. I’ve used him many times. Don’t lose him,” Senor Mattos continued emphatically. “Penol has no mulas de retorno who go back without a load. There will be many who’ll want him, and he and his men will be ready to go back to the City of Mexico by Thursday.”
Pedro Robledo was unsure they could be ready by that time. He blamed himself, although he knew that he had obtained his cargo as soon as it had become available to him. He also knew that he and his wife had begun the tasks of unpacking and sorting as soon as they were able, although, Pedro thought, perhaps it could have been done more efficiently. Perhaps they could have worked longer or harder and would now be finished. It was while he talked to himself in this manner (a trait which would become more pronounced as he grew older) that Juan de Penol, wearing two enormous leaves as a raincoat, appeared out of the rain.
“Senor Mattos told me that you need a guide,” he said, his hand outstretched, not even bothering to introduce himself.
Juan de Penol, who was known to his men as El Arriero, The Muleteer, was a tall, broad-shouldered individual with a long, pockmarked face. Although coarse in dress, he carried himself with dignity.
“You could do no better, Senor,” Penol said. “My village is on the shores of the lake, and I’ve made the trip many times—always without incident,” he added as a means of bolstering his credentials. “You need a guide?” he asked rhetorically. “I’m your guide.” He moved closer to the pot brewing on the stone hearth. “Senor Mattos tells me you’re a very intelligent man, Senor Robledo, interested in everything. He said I could learn much from you. I think, maybe, that you can learn something from me too. We’ll make a good team,” he added with a toothsome grin. “We’ll leave on Thursday!”
Pedro explained that he and his family could not be ready to leave on Thursday. Perhaps they could be ready by Saturday, but Sunday would be better. “You know,” Juan said thoughtfully as he gauged the number of finished bales the packing would produce knowing he could not carry it all. “I could make a deal with another, Senor,” he said as he pinched and patted the cloth Pedro was packing. “There are many who want me, but I want to go with you. We’ll leave on Friday. What you’ve not finished packing, you can leave here. There’ll be other trips, Senor Robledo. Many others. What you don’t have ready on Friday, we’ll take later.”
And so it was. When Juan’s mules came up the sand-packed path of the hill overlooking the harbor at Vera Cruz, Pedro, Catalina, Diego and Lucia were waiting for them. The work of placing saddlecloths (jergas), sheepskin pads, and saddles on the mules, and of attaching packs to these saddles occupied the better part of the morning. It was a process they would repeat in reverse order each evening so that each mule would receive the same packs and load the succeeding day. After eating the remains of their maize cakes, and drinking a bit of chocolate, the Robledo party left the area of the warehouse. They moved across the soggy field to the road—less muddy now that the season of the monsoon had abated—and left their first home in New Spain. Many others would follow.
In the Footsteps of Cortes
There was no want of advice or information concerning what the Robledos would meet with on their trek of nearly 400 miles. They had been told they would cross a series of mountains and three natural terraces as they followed in the footsteps of Cortes. The first of these terraces, they had been told, would be the tierra caliente, or hot region, where Vera Cruz was located. The inhabitants of the coast thought of this as the area of mal aire arising from, they thought, the decomposition of rank vegetable matter in the hot and humid soil. The tierra caliente would continue inland for some 60 miles and extend upward to an altitude of approximately 4,000 feet. At that point, they would enter the second terrace, the area of tierra templada, or temperate zone, a land of perpetual humidity. The third terrace, the tierra fria, or cold region, would occur at between 7,000 and 8,000 feet above sea level. After that, they would be on the Central Plateau. This tableland would maintain an altitude of 6,000 feet across its great expanse until they came to the ramparts surrounding the Valley of Mexico. After climbing this final barrier at 7,000 feet above sea level, they would descend into the valley. The entire journey from Vera Cruz to the City of Mexico, they were assured, would constitute a trip of less than two months.
The Robledos left Vera Cruz in the middle of September eager to see what lay beyond the broad expanse of the coast with its sandy plains and marshy areas of deep, luxuriant growth. They found that this tract of aromatic shrubs, wild flowers, thickets and towering trees extended for a considerable distance inland. They spent the first two nights on the trail amid soggy surroundings. After a trek of perhaps 50 miles, they left the vanilla, indigo, and flowering cacao-groves behind and entered a broad savanna that demonstrated quite dramatically that they had crossed into a new zone. They spent the night of 19 September on the savanna out of the weather, their tents pitched near a stand of trees.
On their first three days of travel, the Robledos had noted that they had not seen anyone on the trail. They had also not come across any areas of habitation. Juan had told them there were Indians who lived in this region, but that the party was unlikely to see them. The elusive hunters of this area, individuals who lived on the eastern slope of the mountains fronting Vera Cruz, would be making the best of the weather by hunting deep in the forest. The tremendous rains of the last month had diminished and would soon become a distant memory. It was anticipated by all who knew the district that it would continue to become drier as the season moved into fall.
On the savanna the Robledo party found deer grazing on the meadows and considered spending a few extra days there as it was important to obtain deer, fowl or other food. They had brought cooking pots and a grinding stone in nets they had attached to their mules, but the only food they carried was maize meal. They had to obtain any additional food they needed by purchasing it, or bartering or hunting for it. Unfortunately, they left the savanna on 20 September, at dawn, without having been successful at killing any game. Pedro had had two opportunities to kill a deer—and had even fired his harquebus—but the distance was too great, and he was unable to hit his target.
After leaving the savanna, the Robledos passed along mossy pathways through a land scarred and fractured with volcanic canyons. The trail passed through vast tracts of lava frozen in innumerable fantastic formations. On the margins of the road were enormous chasms bursting with rich blooms and the most verdant vegetation the family had ever seen. They spent their fourth night at Jalapa, a village some 60 miles from the coast but already 4,681 feet above sea level. Nearby was Cofre de Perote, once blazing with volcanic fires and still resplendent with its mantle of snow. Here, with a cool breeze blowing off the 14,048-foot cone of the extinct volcano, they spent an extra day.
“Dawn broke in a luminous haze,” reads Pedro’s entry for 22 September. Still climbing, they found cultivated fields of corn and wheat that lay beside the road and extended for some distance beyond it. Wooden crosses with strips of red cloth attached guarded the fields. They were there to ward off eclipses and spirits that might cause these crops to fail. After a day of difficult travel, they approached the village of Socochima. This was once a fortified hamlet of exceptional beauty, its old stone fortress hovering on a precipice towering above a magnificent cataract. Here they found many vines of the granadilla, the fruit of the passion flower, and an abundance of good food, and so they spent an additional day.
At
