"We set out for San Mateo Ixtatán, a ride of about nine leagues….We climbed the side of a long, high ridge, followed it and then…came into a shaggy, rugged country of fine, tall pines and uncanny live-oak groves, fog, cold, wheat, sheep, and very Indian-looking Indians…The clouds wove in and out of huge firs…We had a glimpse of Tibet-like houses, then the clouds shut down and the rain began…A tall, black cross came out of nowhere, and we began to descend. On our right, close at hand the other side of a new valley rose like a wall of emerald-green pastureland seen through a shifting film of cloud…We climbed a hill, just enough to get back into the mist, and entered San Mateo, getting glimpses of roses and shingle-roofed houses…The place was mournful with rain and the constant rush of water…But we felt our health and spirits revive…And all that land was so beautiful it hurt."

Oliver LaFarge and Douglas Byers, 1931