Trans-Himalaya: Discoveries and Adventurers in Tibet. Vol. 1 (of 2)

CHAPTER XII

IN UNKNOWN COUNTRY

In the middle of the night I was awaked by seven mules, which stood close to my tent stamping about on its ropes. I went out to drive them away, but when I saw how piteously cold they were, and how closely they crowded together, I let them alone. One of them lay dead in the morning beside my tent, with its belly swollen all out of shape.

Green schists form small ledges and strips on the otherwise soft ground, so that at a distance the land seems striped with black. Here and there veins of quartz crop out. Reddish-purple hills appear on the western horizon, and the country becomes more uneven. After a while we pass the sheep driven by the men in the wake of the caravan. They travel very slowly, grazing as they go; we have still 18 left. To-day the water is a difficulty. Some is found by digging at a depth of a foot, but it is briny. The day’s march is therefore longer than usual, 12 miles, but then we come to a spring.

On the eve of a day of rest we feel as though it were Saturday evening and there were no school next day. We intended to spend October 9 in camp No. 34; I had not given a day’s rest for 17 days. All were delighted, and the Ladakis, in anticipation of the day of rest, arranged an al fresco feast round a great camp-fire. The refreshments were the same as usual: tea in wooden bowls, parched meal, and roasted antelope meat—spirituous liquors of any kind were prohibited in our caravan. But, nevertheless, the men were in a right jovial mood; they danced round the fire, and sang a lively song with a chorus culminating in barbaric, shrill-sounding laughter. They rejoiced that they had proceeded so far and still possessed sufficient power of resistance to undergo severe hardships. We have travelled 331 miles from the Karakorum, and there are 400 more to the Dangra-yum-tso. But we are nearer the lake than we are to Leh, and so have really more than half the journey behind us.

After 41 degrees of frost in the night, October 10 dawned with brilliant weather, sunny and calm. Horse No. 3 was the twenty-sixth martyr of the caravan; he lay dead on the field. We passed another which was reduced to a skeleton and never reached the camp. We travelled east-south-east, and had now to leave the longitudinal valley through which Wellby had traversed the whole of north Tibet. A small hollow in the ground was crossed, and the camp was pitched among the hills on its south side. The brown puppy had behaved so disgracefully that she had to lie outside as a punishment. She howled and whined piteously, but slept after she had been covered with a frieze rug. Next day she had to travel with the mules to her shame. In the night another horse died.

Red and yellowish-grey hills begirt the way, which led up in three hours to a small flat saddle, whence the view eastwards seemed boundless. Had it been our intention to proceed farther in this direction we should have encountered no difficulties in the nature of the ground for many days to come, but my unalterable goal was the Dangra-yum-tso, and therefore we must direct our course south-eastwards. There a dark chain with an irregular, toothed crest soon came into view. Between its summits were seen deeply-cut saddle-formed gaps; but, to our chagrin, they were more difficult to surmount than they appeared, and the slightest rise in the ground was felt by our caravan in its prostrate condition.

The ground was all honeycombed with the holes of the abominable field-mice, but the holes were not so treacherous now, for the soil was frozen, and held firm when we rode over the subterranean catacombs connected by a network of passages.

Again we mounted a small swell in the ground (17,234 feet). We saw before us a dark point in the track of the caravan; it was a dead mule, which slept his last sleep with wide-open eyes beside his pack-saddle. Behind a hill we surprised a large, handsome fox, which made off in a great hurry as we drew near. But he could not refrain from frequently turning round and staring at us; he had probably never seen a human being before.

At camp No. 36 there was not a drop of water, but we were not able to travel further. We had with us two goat’s leather bottles filled with ice which sufficed for our tea; but the animals had to go without water. However, we could not complain; it was the first time since Leh that we had had no water.

An unusual sight greeted us on the morning of October 12; the whole country was covered with snow. But scarcely had the sun mounted up, when the snow melted and the ground was dry. The caravan set out early for the sake of the thirsty animals. Now we kept on a south-easterly course, leaving out of the range of our vision the lake discovered by Rawling, and named “Lake Markham” after the former distinguished President of the Royal Geographical Society in London.

Again we pass a horse with its throat cut; it is reddish-brown, and contrasts strongly with the grey, sandy soil. The eyes have already been picked out by the six ravens which sit like black ghouls round the fallen beast and hold a wake. A little farther something suspicious again appears in the track of the caravan—it is the sixth mule. He has collapsed on the march and has not to be killed; he is still soft and warm, and his eyes have not lost their brightness, but the ravens will soon be here, for they follow the caravan like dolphins in the wake of a vessel. For every animal that falls there is a horse-cloth to spare for his comrades. They will need it when the severe cold of winter comes. The two victims to-day have long been released from duty, but they had to follow on till they died, for there was always a hope that they would recover—a vain one, indeed.

The trail leads us to the mouth of a valley, where we soon come up with the caravan—all the animals have their heads in a brook, they have had to thirst so long. The valley must come down from a pass, so we march up it. It becomes narrower and narrower, till at length there is a passage only five yards broad between walls of schists tilted up vertically. By the brook lay the bleached skull of an Ammon sheep with fine horns (Illustrations 59, 60). We found shelter from the cutting wind at the foot of a precipitous wall of rock on the left side of the valley, and there set up our tent poles. Muhamed Isa climbed a height opposite, taking the field-glass. “A labyrinth of small mountains,” was his unsatisfactory report. By this time we had lost 29 horses and 6 mules, and had only 29 horses and 30 mules. “The strongest animals are still living,” was Muhamed Isa’s consolation.

October 13. The night with 39 degrees of frost deprived us of another horse and a mule. Their bones are bleaching in camp No. 37, and are tokens of our visit. A heavy march over very undulating ground. We had to cross over three small, trying passes. A good deal of snow still lay on the ground. To our right extended a red mountain crest, and in a gorge a waterfall was congealed into a mass of ice. Muhamed Isa had erected three cairns to show us the way where the track of the caravan became indistinct on pebbly ground. On the first pass the prospect was dreary, nothing but pink, purple, and yellow mountains. On the north the Turkestan mountains still dominated the landscape with their majestic peaks, a row of imperial crowns far above the rest. Fifty degrees east of north we fancied we perceived a large lake, but it might equally well be a plain transfigured by the mirage. Many of the hills and spurs consist of creeping soil from above, which in consequence of its slow motion is frozen into concentric rings and other patterns. The third pass rises in perfectly barren land. Here Tsering gave himself enormous trouble in setting up a cairn, which was quite unnecessary, for no one would come after us; but it was an act of homage to the gods of the mountains, an earnest prayer that they would let us pass safely.

At last we came down into open country, a main valley running eastwards, where there was a glimpse of yellow grass in the distance. Tundup Sonam shot two Ammon sheep, and their flesh prolonged the lives of our 18 sheep. In this cold, windy weather we are never properly warm. When I sit, sketching the panorama of the mountains or taking a solar observation, I must have the brazier beside me to warm my numbed hands a little, so that I can use them. Only Muhamed Isa, Tsering, Sonam Tsering, and Guffaru are exempt from night duty; all the rest are obliged to turn out into the cold, dark, wintry night. When darkness falls I fill up the drawings I have sketched in the day, study maps, or read light literature, or Supan’s Physische Erdkunde, and a couple of books on Buddhism and Lamaism. At nine o’clock Robert takes meteorological readings, and sets up the hypsometer, which I read off in my tent. Then we talk awhile and go to sleep. My bed is laid on an India-rubber sheet and two folded Turkestan frieze blankets. On these is laid a great square of goatskins sewed together. I lay myself down on one half of the square and cover myself with the other, and then Tsering tucks in the edges under the felt blankets, so that the whole is converted into a sack. Lastly, he spreads two more felt blankets, my ulster, and my fur coat over me. I have my fur cap on my head and a bashlik; otherwise I undress as usual. In stormy weather the morning bath is not exactly pleasant; my clothes have become icy cold during the night. The Ladakis have no notion of cleanliness, and consequently carry about with them small colonies of vermin, for which I have not the least use. But those who make my bed, clear up, and wait on me in my tent, cannot help giving me a most liberal share of their surplus, and therefore my underclothing has to be frequently washed in boiling water. My sensitiveness in this respect is a wonderful source of amusement to the Ladakis; I hear them laughing heartily at my horror of all kinds of blood-sucking creatures. But I tell them that I feel comfortable only when I am quite alone in my clothes.

The winter evenings grew longer and longer, and our life passed in monotonous solitude. The worst was that my light reading was put a stop to. To occupy the leisure hours I made the Ladakis relate to me traditions and legends of their own country, and noted some of them down. I also made each of my servants narrate his own experiences; but the notes I made of them were not very remarkable, for the men had not much to tell, and thought it all quite natural and unimportant. You must question and draw them out, and even then the result is unsatisfactory. They very seldom know the name of a European whom they have served for months, and they cannot state their own age. But they know exactly how many horses there were in a caravan they accompanied years ago, and the colour of each horse. One Ladaki, who has traversed the inhabited parts of western Tibet, can tell me the name of every camping-ground, describe it accurately, and tell me whether the pasture there was good or bad. They have also a marvellous memory for the character of the ground.

Having regard to the compass of this narrative, I cannot allow myself to wander into diffuse biographical notices, but I must very briefly introduce my little party to the reader. We will begin, then, with Rabsang, who went in search of the horse that was baited by the wolves. He is a Bod, or Buddhist, strictly speaking a Lamaist; his father is named Pale, his mother Rdugmo, from the village Chushut-yogma in Ladak. By occupation he is a zemindar or farmer, grows barley, wheat, and peas, owns two horses and two yaks, but no sheep, pays 23 rupees (about 31 shillings) in taxes to the Maharaja, but no contributions to the lamas. Once a year he travels in the service of Afghan merchants to Yarkand, and receives 50 rupees for the whole journey. The merchants carry clothing materials, coral, tea, indigo, etc., to Yarkand, where they put up in the serai of the Hindus, and stay twenty days to sell their goods and purchase silk, felt rugs, ordinary rugs, etc., which they get rid of in Peshawar. Rabsang had served chiefly the Hajji Eidar Khan, a rich merchant of Cabul. Six years ago he had an adventure on the Suget-davan, where twelve Badakshan men, who owed the Hajji money, met the caravan. The twelve men had led a wild life in Yarkand, and could not pay their debts The Afghans, who numbered five, fell upon them and a violent scuffle ensued, ending in bloodshed. That was Rabsang’s worst adventure. He had served Captain Deasy five months and another Englishman as long. When he was away himself, his wife and a brother tilled his land and looked after his affairs.

“Can you depend on your wife’s faithfulness for so long a time?”

“No,” he answered, “but we do not think much of that in Ladak.”

“What happens if she misconducts herself with another man?”

“Then he must give me a sheep as compensation.”

After this not a word more could be extracted from Rabsang.

In our caravan he is under Tsering’s immediate command, and leads the four horses which carry my tent, my bed, the four boxes of articles for daily use, and the kitchen utensils. He is assistant to the head cook, and has to keep me supplied all the evening with fuel. He brings Tsering fuel and water for cooking, and is an exceedingly sturdy, useful fellow. A year later he had a prominent part to play.

I have already spoken of the Mohammedan Rehim Ali. He is my right-hand man on the march. Guffaru is the oldest of the company, and guide of the horse caravan; consequently the more horses die, the less he has to do. The Hajji Gulam Razul has been twice in Mecca; he is Muhamed Isa’s cook. Shukkur Ali has made many remarkable journeys, which would fill a whole chapter themselves; with us he is leader of a section of the horse caravan, but has now only two charges. Gaffar is a young Mohammedan, who follows the horses, gathers fuel, and fetches water. Young Tsering has the same occupations, and Ishe, Tundup, and Adul belong also to this party; the last, a hard-working, sturdy man, has entered my service in order to buy himself a house in Leh and to enable him to marry. Islam Ahun is horse watchman. Bolu belongs to my caravan, and is one of Tsering’s assistants. Galsan, who has travelled much in western Tibet, serves as a mule-driver. Ishe Tundup is responsible for the sheep. Lobsang Rigdal, nicknamed the Lama, has to attend to my horses. He is come with me to earn money to give to his father and elder brother, because they have always taken good care of him. He is the jester of the caravan, and has a very comical appearance. Tashi, who accompanies the horses, is one of our best men. Tundup Sonam keeps up the sporting reputation of the caravan and provides us all with fresh meat. He scarcely ever misses, and is as quiet and composed as a pan of clotted milk. He had served under me before, in the winter of 1902, when I travelled from Leh to Yarkand. Gartyung belongs to the mule caravan, and entered my service to restore order in his financial affairs. A small, short, black-bearded fellow, fifty years of age, answers to the name of Tashi Tsering; formerly he was called Islam Ahun, he says, so he has changed his religion, though it seldom happens that a Mohammedan goes over to Lamaism. He also leads a troop of horses. Rub Das is a Gurkha from Sitang, and does all sorts of work; he is silent and works like a slave, without needing the slightest reminder. Tundup Geltsan is the reciter of tales, whose voice is heard when all the day’s work is over; he is also chief cook in the black tent of the Ladakis. Namgyal is a mule-driver, and one of our best; Sonam Tsering is overseer of the mules, Kurban nothing but Guffaru’s son, and Tsering is my head cook.

Herewith the list closes. Each of these men had his duty to perform; all were willing and good tempered, and quarrels and disputes were never heard. But Robert and Muhamed Isa knew excellently well how to maintain discipline. Every man had a warm sheepskin, and they made themselves bedding of the skins of the slaughtered sheep or the wild animals that were shot; as the winter cold abated they used empty provision sacks as blankets. As they all travelled on foot they soon wore out their soft Ladak boots, and they had to re-sole them repeatedly; for that purpose they utilized pieces of skin with the wool turned inwards.

On October 14 we passed a series of large river-beds which intersect the ridge to the south along flattish valleys. Kulans and antelopes were grazing in large numbers. At the camp, situated between reddish hills, the grass was good. Our direction was east-south-east. In the night a horse died. The country preserves henceforth the same character: it consists of a number of small ridges extending from east to west, and much time is lost in crossing them; between them lie longitudinal valleys. Not infrequently we can count southwards three or four such ridges, and we have to pass over them all. We have lost ourselves in a sea of rigid undulations; we are like a ship that has lost its rudder and is on the point of sinking: no islands of refuge, no ships coming to meet us, boundless sea on all sides. We should like to pour oil on this rough sea; we long for calm waterways, but as long as a plank remains we will cling fast to it. At camp No. 40 there was good grazing, and water we could obtain from ice.

The men have sewed up a felt coat for the brown puppy, which they put on her when it is cold at night. She looks very ridiculous in her new night-dress when she runs about, steps on a corner, and then rolls over. The white puppy sits at first quite disconcerted and gazes at her, but then finds the sight so alluring that she cannot refrain from making fun of her comrade, dancing about her and biting her cloak. The brown one, on the other hand, sits resolutely quiet and lets the white one sport about her.

We penetrate further into the forbidden land. On October 16, the anniversary of my departure from Stockholm, we had still 380 miles to travel to Dangra-yum-tso, but now were seldom able to march more than 7½ miles a day. In Camp No. 41 (Illustration 65) some articles that we could spare were left behind, to lighten the loads, among them several books that I had read and Bower’s narrative, which had now served their turn in my travelling library. The tents were set up in a sheltered valley at the foot of a rock. Tundup Sonam had gone in advance, and had surprised a four-year-old yak which was lying on a slope in the sun. Taking advantage of inequalities in the ground, the sportsman had crept up quite close to it. The first ball had entered the pelvis. The yak, thus unpleasantly aroused from his meditation, sprang up and received a second bullet in his hough. Then he rushed down the slope, turned a somersault on to the bottom of the valley, and lay dead as a mouse; and here, therefore, the tents were pitched. He was already skinned and cut up when we arrived, and the dark-red flesh with a purplish tint at the legs lay in the sun. The stomach was immense, and full of grass, lichen, and moss—no wonder that the animal needed rest after such gourmandizing. The head was set up as a decoration at the foot of a mountain spur, and the hunter was photographed beside this trophy. The Ladakis were ordered to eat their fill of the meat, for we could not burden ourselves with any extra weight. All the fat, however, was taken with us, and the marrow was reserved for me. When we left the place, there was not much left of the yak, and I have my suspicion that the Ladakis carried some fine pieces with them in their private bags.

The ravens, in company with an eagle, sat feasting round the bloody skeleton. Now there are eleven of them, and their wings shine in the sun like blue steel. They feel, alas! quite at home in the caravan and are half tame. The dogs take no notice of them, and are treated by the ravens with sarcastic contempt.

October 17 was a trying day; there was a strong wind from the west, and the temperature did not rise above 23° at noon. We were approaching a pass, but we encamped before reaching the summit. At nine o’clock the thermometer marked 9.3°, and I could make it rise in the tent only to 24.5°, for the little warmth radiating from the brazier was at once driven out by the wind. The minimum thermometer stood at −18.8°, the lowest temperature that we had hitherto recorded. A white mule, which had carried no load for the past ten days, was frozen to death. Now I had 27 mules, 27 horses, and 27 servants in the caravan. We had not seen a man for 57 days. Should we all remain together till we fell in with the first nomads?

Antelopes and yaks were grazing on the slopes of the pass, the height of which is 17,575 feet. A labyrinth of mountains spreads itself out in the direction of our march, and therefore we turn aside to the north-east and encamp in the mouth of a valley. The white puppy, which faithfully follows Robert and myself, is always soundly thrashed by her brown sister when we arrive in camp. She has no hope of defending herself, so she lies quietly on her back as if she were made of papier maché, and does not dare to utter a sound. Now they are both bloated from over-indulgence in yak flesh; but however bad the brown puppy may feel, her little sister must get her licking as soon as she appears.

In the night of October 19 two more of our horses were frozen to death, and a sheep. Of the latter we had now only 16; puffed up with gas the three dead animals lay on the slope and stared at us with dark blood-stained eye-cavities; the ravens had already been at them. The ground was very difficult, constantly sloping upwards and then down again. We saw the caravan struggle up to a pass, but beyond appeared another still higher, with patches of snow. The crests of the mountains in this country run in general to the east-north-east. In the south lies a lake at a distance of about 20 miles, but it is far to the right of our route.

When we reached camp No. 44, at a height of 17,539 feet, in the midst of terrible mountains, it was announced that Muhamed Isa was ill. He had suffered for some days with severe headache, and had been well dosed with quinine. As he could not reconnoitre as usual, Robert asked permission to climb the high pass which barred the way to the east, and to look around. He did not come back till dark, and then informed us that we should soon emerge from these troublesome mountains if we turned to the south-east. Muhamed Isa therefore received instructions for the following day in accordance with this information.

What a difference from the previous evening when the stars twinkled down from a blue-black sky and the fires blazed bright and red! Now heavy masses of cloud lie over mountain and valley, so low that they seem almost within reach of the hand. It snows unusually thickly; the ground is white, and the inequalities and tufts of moss throw long shadows about the fires. A pale light rises out of the provision fortress, now reduced to small dimensions, and casts a feeble glow on the black tent of the Ladakis. Tsering sits with his men round the kitchen fire, wrapped in furs, and delivers a lecture more than two hours long, without pausing a second. His tongue is like a windmill in a breeze. They have all known one another for years. What on earth can he have to tell them that they have not heard already twenty times over? But Rabsang, Rehim Ali, and a couple of other men listen attentively, and express their satisfaction from time to time. I join them for a while. They rise to greet me, and lay a fresh armful of dry dung cakes on the fire. The flickering flames throw a glaring light over the snow, which crunches under the feet of the men. But the brightness does not extend far, and, beyond, the darkness of night yawns on all sides. The grazing animals can neither be seen nor heard, but the snow hisses as it falls continuously into the blaze of the yak-dung fire.

CHAPTER XIII

UNFORTUNATE DAYS

October 20, 1906, was a bad day. The snow lay three inches deep, and all around was dazzling white in the sunshine; only to the west blue shadows spread over the slopes. We were to cross the pass. In the universal whiteness the distance seemed short, but after the caravan had advanced half way, the pass still appeared as a small, black, fixed point. The field-mice were awake and scurried about between their holes in the snow, which became deeper as the way became steeper. It was soon a foot deep, and we had to keep carefully in the track of the caravan, lest we should roll over into the snowy abyss. Spots of blood were seen; one of the animals had hurt its foot against the sharp-edged detritus. Step by step we mount upwards, blue-black clouds gather threateningly together behind us, and in an instant we are enveloped in the wildest driving snow: the dry particles, fine as flour, whirl round us, like comet tails, with a rushing sound. They collect into drifts, the track of the caravan is hidden, and we can no longer see how far it is still to this deadly pass.

A dead horse lies on the way, without its eyes—the wicked ravens must always have the eyes while they are still warm and soft. The wind had driven the snow over his back and neck, as though to make him a nice and comfortable couch. He lay as on a bed of state, exposed to all the winds of heaven, with clean white pall, and the black ravens as a guard of honour—the only thanks he got for his services.

On the pass we make the usual halt for observations; the height is 18,409 feet; it blows and snows, with 18 degrees of cold. We perceive, however, some sign of the saddle to the south-east which Robert reconnoitred yesterday, and which is supposed to lead down into level country. But Muhamed Isa has taken his own way down a valley running north-east, and that is serious for us. Far in front as he is, we must, though much against our will, follow his track, lest we should lose one another. It is now difficult to see whither the caravan had marched. If we lose one another in such country, and the snow continues to fall, we are done for.

So we follow him down the valley. The pass behind us looks weird—a white saddle against a background of blue-black clouds, which resemble whirling, suffocating smoke. Tsering reaches the pass with his two men and four horses, and salutes it with a loud salaam. Treacherous frozen rivulets are crossed, as hard as glass and as smooth as cooling grease; our riding horses stumble and slide. It is very seldom that a small hill of dark schist peeps out above the snow.

As the valley runs too much to the north, the caravan perceives its mistake, turns aside to the east, and buries itself in a labyrinth of hills where not a blade of grass grows. We ride past the shepherd with the 16 sheep and the goats; the white puppy teases them as usual, till a bold wether puts her to flight. The goats are remarkably hardy and get on splendidly, and yield me a cup of milk every morning and evening.

We found the caravan behind a second saddle. The camp was formed, but in a most unfavourable spot; there was neither grass nor yapkak, neither dung nor water—absolutely nothing. The animals stood in a dark group, standing out sharply against the white snow. Thus they had to stand, quietly and patiently, all night long, and doubtless felt how slowly the time passed, how hunger and thirst increased, and the cold again diminished. They had to wait standing for the morning red, which might perhaps fail to appear, for dark masses of cloud still covered the sky.

Robert and I took refuge in the tent of the Ladakis, where a fire burned, which was fed with fragments of a box and antelope dung. We could at any rate obtain water by melting snow; my dinner consisted of parched meal, bread, and coffee, for nothing else could be cooked. In the twilight Rabsang appeared and asked me to come outside. Two large wild yaks stood on a neighbouring hill and gazed at our camp with astonishment. But we left them in peace, for we did not want their flesh, and would not add to our loads. They trotted slowly away when they were convinced that we were not of their species. The night was pitch dark, so that I had to inspect our weary beasts with a lantern.

We set out early from this unlucky camp, where a mule had fallen at his post. The footprints between the tents, made in the snow the evening before, were filled up with fresh snow, and a new set of paths had been formed. Scarcely two minutes’ walk from the camp a horse lay dead, which had carried his load only the day before, and the black corpse-watch was beside it. A dead wild-duck also lay in the snow. Is there a lake in the neighbourhood? No; the ducks come long distances, and this one had probably lost its way.

Now the sun burns, now a snowstorm envelops us in its fine dust, now we are roasted, now chilled through—regular Tibetan weather, unreliable and changeable. Another dead horse! The men had cut its throat to shorten its sufferings; swiftly whirling snow covers the stream of blood that congeals in the cold. We make our way up to a pass, and then follow a ridge, but the ground is frightful. At length we ride down a flat valley which gradually winds round to the north; on the south rises a formidable crest. Muhamed Isa had orders to take, if possible, a south-easterly direction, but as he was not sure of the way, he had encamped at the bend of the road. He had gone forwards with two men to reconnoitre. Towards four o’clock he returned, and reported that we should reach open country within three hours. My first thought was to set out at once, for in camp No. 46 there was no grass, and the animals were so hungry that they bit one another’s tails and the pack-saddles. One horse had actually not a hair left on his tail, but that one had been eaten up the night before. The old, experienced hands, however, gave their opinion that it would be better to start in the early morning.

I therefore gave orders to reserve as much rice as we should require for forty days, and to give the rest, mixed with barley and maize, to the animals. While, however, they were eating from their nose-bags, the men changed their minds, and Muhamed Isa asked if they might make a start.

“I am quite willing, but it will be pitch dark in an hour.”

“I will find the way. You have only to follow the trail in the snow.”

Then began the tumult of breaking up camp, and the sound of tramping in the snow; but there was no singing. There were 27 degrees of frost with a boisterous wind from the west. Everything was taken except my things and Robert’s and the cooking utensils. A mule, which refused to move, remained with us. No fires lighted up the dark procession led by the horses and closed by the sheep. It moved off slowly, and the shouts of the men reached us more and more feebly till at length the caravan disappeared in the pale moonlight. I entered my tent stiff with cold. A quarter of an hour later a man came back with another mule which could not get on any further. So we had two dying animals with us.

And then came the night. The air was clear and calm, the stars twinkled like diamonds in the brightness of electric light, and the cold settled keenly round our tent. Outside, Tsering, Rabsang, Rehim Ali, and Bolu had rolled themselves together into a heap under all their belongings. As long as I was awake I heard the irrepressible Tsering telling his tales in the depth of his cave of furs, and the others occasionally giving vent to a subterranean giggle. Curious fellows, these Ladakis! No amount of cold seems to affect them, while I, in my tent, can only sleep a minute at a time.

An awful, terrible night in the lonely mountains of Tibet. The temperature sank to −17°, and that was too much for the two mules which had been left behind. One expired about midnight; he was the animal which Sonam Tsering had wished on the first day to send back to Leh as useless. We tried then to exchange him for a horse, but as no one would have him, he had to come with us after all. He was accustomed to travel with horses, and later on always went with them. To the astonishment of all he became strong and led the van—a good example for the horses. Now he lay cold and hard as iron, with his legs stretched out; if he had been lifted on to his feet he would have remained standing. Sonam Tsering wept when he heard that the animal was gone.

The other mule was heard moving about in the night and nibbling at the yak grass, which is too short for other animals except the yak; the tongue of the yak is provided with horny barbs which pluck up the fine velvety grass. Early in the morning I heard the mule squeal, and was glad that one at least still survived. But when the sun rose his strength too was spent, and when Tsering woke me he said that the animal was dying. He looked healthy and well nourished, but we tried in vain to raise him up and feed him with maize, and he was sacrificed to the gods of this valley of death. He did not move a limb or twitch an eyelid as the blood spurted out on to the snow; he seemed only to experience a welcome sense of peace and resignation, while his eyes were turned full on the sun.

As we were on the point of leaving this horrible camp, there came fresh tidings of misfortune. Tundup Sonam appeared to show us the way, and reported that the horse caravan had wandered off too far to the left, while the mules under Muhamed Isa had taken the opposite direction. Muhamed Isa, as soon as he found out his mistake, had descended into the first valley he could find, to wait there for the dawn. As for the flock of sheep, Tundup Sonam could only say that it had at first followed the track of the horses, but had afterwards turned away. The greatest confusion reigned everywhere, but the worst news Tundup Sonam kept to the last: four more mules had died during the night.

Our situation was desperate. We could not go on much longer; we were coming to a crisis. The ground, the weather, and the cold were all against us, the horses died wholesale, and it might be a hopeless distance to the nearest nomads. What did it matter whether the Tibetans would be friendly or hostile? Now the only question was: should we be able to drag ourselves along to inhabited districts? For, if these losses continued a few days longer, we should soon be compelled to abandon all the baggage and continue our journey on foot. But could we carry ourselves enough provisions to last us through this uninhabited country? Should we perish one after another in these icy deserts of the Tibetan Alps? And if at length, in a wretched, half-dead condition, we met with Tibetans, they could do what they liked with us. At any rate we could not force our way through to Shigatse and the unknown country to the north of the Tsangpo, the goal of all my most cherished dreams.

A journey straight across Tibet looks pleasant and easy on the map. In reality it is a serious and difficult undertaking, costing suffering, excitement, and tears. The meandering line is drawn in red on the map, for it is really marked with blood. We set out under the guidance of Tundup Sonam, and it soon became evident that we should never have found the way without him. Up and down, over hills and through valleys we threaded this intricate maze, where the deep snow smoothed down the inequalities and quite misled us in estimating the heights of the steep declivities. We left the track of the horses on our left; there a load of maize was left, but Tundup Sonam assured me it would be fetched. To the right appeared the high ground where the mules had wandered in the night trying their strength uselessly. An icy south-west wind blew over the bitterly cold snowfields. From time to time Tundup Sonam reared up a slab of schist to show the way to Tsering, who was coming behind without a guide.

Now we cross the trail of the mules and see the valley where they have passed the night. “Yonder, on the slope, lies a mule,” says Tundup Sonam, “and two behind the hill, and a little farther on a fourth.” We could not see them from where we were, but the ravens resting here, sleepy and satiated, confirmed his words.

At last we reached the pass, whence we caught sight of the plain and a small lake to the south-east. The height was 18,048 feet. At one o’clock there were 18 degrees of frost, the wind was high, and it snowed so thickly that the view disappeared again. We did not stay a minute longer than was necessary for observations, and then rode down a steep descent. We rested at the first grass we came to; the horses were almost mad with delight when they saw it—their stomachs were so empty.

Now we saw five men on a height. They were Muhamed Isa and four companions, who had come out to look for the missing men and animals—14 horses, 8 men, 16 sheep, and 2 dogs. We were able to inform them that their track ran north-eastwards, and after they had given directions how to find the camping-ground of the mules they vanished again in the snow. After searching in vain for the track and looking out for the smoke of the camp-fire, we came to a halt on a smooth plateau, where the grazing was good, and collected dung for a fire—it was high time, for Robert and I were half dead with cold.

We were in a terribly sad plight. We did not know where the mules were encamping, and had not the slightest notion where the horses had gone. The sheep, in this country swarming with wolves, were probably lost. Tsering had remained behind, and might easily miss our track in the snowstorm. We could do nothing but thaw our clothes. After we had been sitting an hour, and had somewhat recovered in the heat of the fire, the “Lama” came over the plain bringing with him Sonam Tsering, who had been camping with the mules behind some hills. The good fellow wept bitterly at our losses; Muhamed Isa had proved a bad pilot this time, he complained. Nine mules had perished within a few hours in these frightful mountains, which were probably the western prolongation of the system called by the Mongols, dwelling farther to the east, Buka-magna, or the “Head of the Wild Yak.” Twenty mules still remained, but two of them had received their death-warrant. Of the twenty-three surviving horses one was left behind with his pack-saddle in a hollow, and was probably dead by this time. At a late hour of the night only one of the missing ones, namely, Tsering, had put in an appearance.

Under these circumstances it was a matter of course that we should have a day’s rest in camp No. 47. When day broke, I was awakened by the bleating of sheep. The shepherd had at first followed the track of the horses, but soon abandoned it when he noticed that the mules were not there, and he began to look for the track of the latter. In the darkness he got completely lost, and in a pass one of the sheep had refused to go any farther. He had carried it awhile, but as he soon felt that it had become cold and stiff he threw it away as dead. Frightened of the darkness and the wolves, he had taken refuge in a gorge, tied together the sheep and goats in a circle, and set himself in the middle to keep himself warm and look out for the wolves. However, they had not ventured to attack him. In the morning twilight he had found one of the many tracks leading to camp No. 47.

Two of the missing men turned up in the forenoon, carrying boxes. A horse had been left behind. Islam Ahun, who had led the horse caravan, had cleverly conducted them down by the shortest way to the lake, and had encamped there beside good pasture. Muhamed Isa and his companions had lost themselves in the night, and had slept beside a fire, with nothing to eat or drink but snow. But they, too, found their way to us again, and so the remnants of the caravan were gathered together to one place.

Here everything was sorted out that could be spared: sacks, bags, ropes, horse-shoes, tools, and cooking utensils. Boxes were burned after their contents had been transferred to others; no one was allowed to burden the caravan with unnecessary articles. The rejected goods formed a large heap, and we thus got rid of two horse loads. Then we took stock, and found that we had still 32 loads including the boat. We had 20 mules, of which 2 were on their last legs, and 21 horses also, including 2 ready to drop, or 37 serviceable animals in all. Only Robert and I were allowed to ride, so that we had 3 spare horses; but in the evening the loads were so distributed that all the animals carried something, except the sickly ones. Four animals were to be laden with maize and barley, the rice made seven loads more, the meal five, the bread one, and the butter, which the Ladakis took in their tea, only half a load. We estimated that the meal would last a month longer; five loads of rice were to be given up to the animals, and I directed all the men to take the greatest care of the veterans. Tundup Sonam shot three antelopes just when our meat was finished. Some of the Ladakis had to cut them up, and at even when they returned with the spoil they intoned the antiphonal song they sing when they carry a dandy, or an ordinary load, at home in Ladak. One of the antelopes, however, was all devoured by the wolves before they found it.

We decided to rest a couple of days at the next camp, and Tundup Sonam undertook to conduct us to a small lake lying to the east, where the grass was particularly good.

In the night of October 24 a horse and two mules died, so we had 38 animals. “The strongest are still living,” said Muhamed Isa as usual.

To the north rose the lofty mountain system which had caused us so much suffering, and its crests were seen stretching to the east. We advanced over even ground, and after a short march reached a small round lake firmly frozen over, and surrounded by yellow grassland. Water was supplied by a spring which filled a small frozen basin; the animals drank as much as they would from a hole cut through the ice; they had had no water for three days. The sandy soil was frozen so hard that the iron tent-pegs bent when they were driven into the ground. The sky was overcast, and there was a strong wind, but the ground to the east-south-east seemed favourable. The four tents stood in a row, mine to windward, that I might not be annoyed by the smoke of the other fires.

At ten o’clock at night a flock of wild geese passed over our camp in the brilliant, silvery-white moonshine. They flew very low, and quacked the whole time. Probably they intended to settle at the spring, but went on when they found the place occupied. “There is plenty of light, and in a short time we shall be at the next spring.” Such, we may suppose, was the gist of the conversation between the leading goose and the others. No doubt it had given its orders at sunset, remarking: “To-night we will stay at the spring on the shore of the small lake, where we rested last spring.” All were agreed, and the flock, flying in a wedge, had gradually dipped lower towards the ground. But when they had passed over the hills which concealed the spot from view, and saw the frozen lake glancing like a mirror in the moonshine, the leading goose called out, “Men! we cannot stay so near to tents and fires. Up again, and onwards.” And all the flock answered: “We can rest at the next spring in the valley behind the hills to the south.” That was the conversation I heard above my tent when all was quiet in the camp. Perhaps the lively chatter was about something else, but I think that I interpreted the wild geese correctly. For it is quite certain that they hold consultations on their long journeys, and discuss their plans. And why should they not be endowed with intelligence? Why should they speed away at random like soulless flying-machines? They are just as dependent as ourselves on the earth and winds. If they can cover 120 miles on a clear, calm day, they must take a longer time over the same distance when storm and contrary winds prevail. Therefore they cannot every year pass the nights at the same springs, but must adapt their arrangements to circumstances. But the wild geese know every spring along the course they follow twice a year, and when they are tired they settle at the first they come to. On my travels in various parts of Tibet I have come to the conclusion that the same parties or tribes of wild geese, which have for generations bred at the same watercourses, follow always the same routes through Tibet. The geese which we saw on this occasion came, let us say, from one of the lakes along the Tarim river below Shah-yar, and intended to spend the winter in the neighbourhood of Khatmandu, the capital of Nepal. In spring they return to the Tarim lakes, and follow exactly the same course as in autumn, and so on from year to year. The young ones, which are born on the Tarim, make the journey over the mountains for the first time in autumn, but they remember the way in the following autumn, and afterwards the time comes when they in turn teach their young ones the position of the sources. Thus the knowledge of the route is never lost in the family, and the leading geese would never dream of trying any other course. We had already on several occasions seen wild geese flying southwards, but they had certainly taken other roads, come from other breeding-places, and had other destinations. They belonged to other tribes. If it were possible to draw on a map of Tibet all the tracks of the various tribes of geese, they would form a whole system of lines running more or less in a meridional direction. Perhaps many of these lines would in parts merge into one another like the fine ripples on the surface of a sand-dune. Perhaps now and then a line runs in sharp zigzags. It may then be taken for granted that it was thus drawn in the most remote antiquity when the patriarchs of each tribe first sought out the way from one spring to another. Each tribe is divided into a number of communities, and each of these into families. Probably all the geese of one community are closely related to one another. Each community remains together on the journey, but how do they choose a leader? It may be supposed that the oldest goose flies at the head of the flock, for it must be the most experienced, and if it dies the next oldest is its natural successor. I am fond of the wild geese, and admire their intelligence and their wonderful bump of locality; we shall hereafter come into closer contact with them.

In camp 48 we remained fully three days inactive, and the south wind howled continuously: “Patience! Patience!” To us the days seemed very long, but the animals must have rest. On the first morning horse No. 39 lay dead on the ground, and was entered with the same number in the list of the dead.

The wolves were impudent, and howled just outside our camp, but they were more polite after Tundup had shot a brute, which ran off on to the ice, and lay down to die in the middle of the lake. The scoundrel soon had as companion a raven, which had taken into his head to peck the manes of the living horses and disturb them while grazing. At nine o’clock in the evening the thermometer indicated −6°, and in the night −18½°.

In the morning Muhamed Isa reported that the dung-gatherers had discovered something which they described as ruins of stone houses. Robert and I went at once to look at them. We found that there actually were three quadrangular walls constructed of slabs of schist, probably of very ancient date. They rose but just above the ground, and on digging we discovered that they went down fully 3 feet. Probably they had been constructed only as foundations and wind screens for permanent tents, for such walls were afterwards met with on several occasions. There was no trace of a hearth. The Ladakis, who had travelled much in west Tibet, thought that the place had once been the permanent abode of some Changpas who had wished to avoid paying taxes to the Devashung, or the Government in Lhasa.

At any rate this discovery had a very encouraging effect on us. We had not seen men for 65 days, and now we found the first sign indicating their proximity. We felt invigorated, and the tale-teller in Muhamed Isa’s tent in the evening was longer winded than ever. He sang a song, all joining in the chorus. Now we must keep a sharp look-out in the country before us, for this first sign of man must surely be succeeded by others.

The caravan moved on towards the east-south-east on October 28 in a very violent south-west storm. A mule had died in the night, and so we had 36 baggage animals, but since the last inspection the provisions had diminished by nearly three loads. In this camp, also, superfluous articles were left behind. I threw away Sonja, by Blicher-Clausen. Robert and I sat at the morning fire, while the men saddled the horses, and I amused myself by tearing out one leaf of the book after another and throwing the whole collection into the air, where the wind swept the flying leaves with tremendous velocity to the north-east. The ten ravens puzzled their heads as to what new species of flying creatures they could be, but made little effort to get out of their way, and the dogs soon gave up the attempt to pursue the leaves; but one of Tsering’s pack-horses was so alarmed that it shied, broke loose, and rushed up the hills, and was not caught again for a good half hour. Meanwhile Sonja swept on, fluttering over mountain and valley, much to my satisfaction, for I had felt annoyed the evening before because she left her good-hearted husband. When and where would these leaves come to rest after flying over endless stretches of unknown country? Certainly a book has seldom had so wide a distribution.

We follow the track of the caravan in an open, flat valley between low mountains. After riding some hours we were so perished that we had to make a halt in a hollow way and light a fire. My small white Ladak horse was in excellent condition; he treated the cold and other disagreeable incidents with philosophical calmness. The tall dapple-grey which I had ridden from Leh was usually off duty, for he showed symptoms of exhaustion. At this day’s camp there was no water, only snow in a cleft of the mountain. Yet we were in very high spirits, for the men had seen fireplaces built of three stones laid crossways, which were intended to hold a kettle. It must have been a long time, however, since they were used, for neither ash nor soot was seen among them. An iron ladle, too, was found, such as the Tibetans use to melt lead for bullets. So either robbers or hunters must have halted here sometime or other.