CHAPTER LVI
UP TO THE HEIGHTS OF DAPSANG
Heavyclouds and piercingly cold wind increased the difficulty of our march on December 14 up the valley. We saw two bales of goods, sewed up in linen and with the stamp of a Turkestan firm, lying on the ground, as though they had fallen from a dying horse, the carcase of which we had passed. Higher up two more. They contained silken materials from Khotan. So far the caravans come with failing strength after excessive exertions on the pass. They are like ships which must throw their cargo overboard when they begin to sink. At Köteklik also we found passable grass and firewood. Gulam is a capital cook; he prepares me the most delicate cutlets and rissoles, and for a change gives me chickens and eggs.
On the 15th there is little water in the valley; it runs under rubbish, but farther up the river is again fresh and clear. We frequently pass the remains of unfortunate caravans—dead horses, bales of goods, and pack-saddles from which the hay has been removed to save the life of a dying horse. We travel west-north-westwards, and therefore ever farther from our goal. But at length we come to a valley which will lead us in the right direction. We leave the Sasser valley to the left and enter a valley portal full of treacherous ice, often as thin as skin. We wait till our scouts have tried the ice, which they declare to be impassable. Tubges, however, finds another, longer way, over steep hills, and at their foot we pitch our camp.
Next morning we went over a steep spur of porphyryto reach a better place on the frozen river which was to afford us an easterly passage up to Murgu. We crossed again and again the strip of ice, which was first strewn with sand that the horses might not break their legs. As usual, two scouts went in advance. One of them came back and called to us from a distance that a fallen rock closed up the valley. On reaching the spot I found that a landslip had lately taken place. The blocks of porphyry barring the channel were as big as houses, and between them the river formed deep basins covered with a thin coat of ice. We had therefore to turn back and retrace our steps all the way down to camp No. 279, over the terrible rock, which on this side was so steep that each animal had to be shoved up separately, and the men had to look out for themselves when a pack got loose and rolled down the acclivity. Then we went some distance up the Sasser valley. A strong icy wind blew in our faces. Beside a wall of rock the dogs put up a hare which took refuge in a hole, but Kunchuk pulled him out again and he was condemned to be eaten. Our camp this time was in an almost barren place, and after all the fording of the river during the day icicles clinked on the flanks of our wearied animals.
It is evening again. The mountain spurs project, dark and rugged, into the valley like huge sarcophagi, and on them rest moon-lighted snowfields like shrouds. The Ladakis sing no more; their ditties are frozen on their lips. It is awfully quiet. The kitchen fire flickers with yellowish-red tongues in the white moonshine. One can almost hear the sound of the frost outside.
After Gulam has brought in the last brazier I undress myself, put on my large woollen dressing-gown, set myself a while right over the fire to get a little heat into my body before I creep into my lair of fur, and smile to hear the yellow dog, who is lying outside, and barks and snarls at the increasing cold in the angriest and most comical tones. No wonder he is enraged, for the thermometer falls in the night to −12.8°. Then I hear a singular squeaking in Gulam’s tent. We had already anticipated a happy event, and now I inquired whether there was an addition to thePuppy family. Four small puppies had again come into the world. They had waited for the very coldest night we had yet experienced. Gulam had contrived a cage of frieze rugs in which Puppy lay, licking her young ones. Two of the tiny animals were of the female, two of the male sex; the former were drowned, for we thought that the others would grow stronger if they monopolized all the milk and heat that would otherwise have been divided among four. I sat by the hutch and studied the interesting group till I was so stiff with cold that I could hardly walk back to my tent. Next morning the tiny curs were going on splendidly; one of them whined in quite the orthodox fashion, and no doubt thought what a grim cold country fate had launched him into. We determined to take good care of them, for they would be pleasant companions for me. Up here they would at any rate be immune from the sickness which had carried off their elder sisters. Kunchuk had to carry them against his bare skin to keep them warm. Half-way Mamma Puppy was allowed to occupy herself for a while with her little ones, though these did not seem quite to understand the milk business.
We had a bad march on December 17. No shouts of encouragement were heard, but the caravan moved on slowly and apathetically. Within half an hour our feet were benumbed and lost all feeling. I wound the ends of mybashliklike a visor several times round my face up to the eyes, but the breath turned it into a thick crust of ice which froze to my moustache and beard, which I had allowed to grow since leaving Gartok to suit my intended Mohammedan disguise. All the men put on their furs. Dust and soil flew about, and our faces had a singular appearance.
At a place where a Yarkand caravan was encamped, we turned to the right up a very narrow valley, in which the floor, covered with bright milky-white ice, looked like a marble pavement between the rocky walls. Fortunately the Yarkand men had strewn sand over the ice, but still it did not prevent several of our animals from falling, so that they had to be loaded again.
When we at length camped in Long the temperaturewas at zero even at three o’clock. A second large Yarkand caravan, on the homeward journey, was halting here. The leaders asked us to travel with them over the Karakorum, but I refused, with the excuse that we could make only short day’s marches. Observation by any who might tell the Chinese in Yarkand that I had again passed over into Tibet was exactly what I must avoid above everything.
Here lay a poor man, both of whose feet had been frost-bitten on the Karakorum, so that the flesh and toes actually fell off. He crawled up to our camp and wept over his disastrous fate. He had been engaged with the Yarkand caravan we had met first, but as he had become incapable of work owing to his wounds, the barbarous merchant had dismissed him in the midst of the wilds and left him behind. In such a case it is hard to know what to do. We could not cure him, and to take him with us or give up a part of the caravan for him was out of the question. He said himself that he would crawl to Shyok, but how was he to get across the river? I let him warm himself at our fire, drink tea and eat, and on the 18th, when we went on after 56½° of frost in the night, I gave himtsambafor several days, matches, and a sum of money which would enable him to hire a horse from a caravan travelling to Shyok.
This day’s march took us eastwards to a place called Bulak (the spring); it should properly have been called Guristan (the graveyard), for here lay at least twenty dead horses. During a ride of two hours I had counted sixty-three carcases of horses; it is wonderful that trade on this caravan route, the highest in the world, can be profitable.
From there the route ran up the narrow fissured Murgu valley, at first up and down over hills, where numbers of dead horses, which had once been strong and fat, showed us the way. Then we descended a break-neck path into the deep valley, where spring water at the bottom formed cracked domes of ice. Then on the slopes of the left flank we climbed again up a zigzag path; the snow became deeper and was piled up, especially on the path, so smooth that if the horses had made a falsestep we should have been lost beyond recovery. The landscape was magnificent, but it could not be properly enjoyed when the temperature about one o’clock was only 0.3°. And then again we went down headlong to the valley bottom, where we passed over a natural bridge of rock improved by the hand of man. Our direction had been east, but now we diverged more and more to the north and north-west.
The snow becomes deeper, the sun sinks, the shadows creep up the reddish-yellow hills, the wind is stronger, and one thinks: If this lasts much longer I shall freeze. At last we halt at the foot of a terrace on the right side of the valley, where the sheep are driven into a cave to keep them warm in the night. I slip down from the saddle with all my limbs numbed, and long for a fire. Not a trace of organic life was to be seen at camp No. 283. The horses and mules were tethered so that they stood in a close pack.
At this unlucky camp I made the first discovery on this new journey through Tibet. Abdul Kerim came to me at the fire and said:
“Sahib, we have barley for eight to ten days more; but in that time we shall reach Shahidulla, where we can get everything.”
“Eight to ten days! Are you mad? Did you not obey my orders? Did I not tell you expressly to take barley for 2½ months?”
“I brought a supply with me which was enough for the journey to Khotan.”
“Did I not tell you that I was not going to Khotan by the ordinary route, but by roundabout ways which would demand at least two months?”
“Yes, Sahib, I have acted wrongly,” answered the old man, and began to sob. Abdul Kerim was an honest man, but he was stupid, and he had not the great experience of Muhamed Isa.
“You are caravan bashi, and the duty of a caravan leader is to see that there is sufficient provender for the journey. When the ten days are over, our animals will starve. What do you mean to do then?”
“Sahib, send me with some animals to Shahidulla. I can be back again in a fortnight.”
“You know that everything that happens in Shahidulla is reported to the Amban of Khotan. The Chinese must know nothing of our intentions.”
My first notion was to dismiss Abdul Kerim at once and to write to the Hajji Nazer Shah for more provender, which might be brought up on hired animals. But what would they think in western Tibet and Ladak if I sent for more provender from Leh when I was barely eight days’ journey from Shahidulla, which lies on the direct road to Khotan? My whole plan would be betrayed and must fail. I should be stopped by the first nomads, perhaps by the English whom I had so happily escaped hitherto. It was only necessary to forbid the natives to supply me with provisions and baggage animals. And if I procured all we wanted in Shahidulla, the Amban of Khotan would send word to Kashgar, whence a telegraph line runs through Asia to Pekin, where His Excellency Na Tang proved so absolutely immovable when the Swedish Minister Wallenberg had given himself so much trouble to obtain for me permission for a new journey through Tibet. Up here in this desolate valley my position was strong. We had sneaked quietly and cautiously through British territory without exciting suspicion. But as soon as we came into contact with the outer world we should be caught.
I sat in my tent all the evening, considering the matter from all sides, and measured the distances on my map with compasses. We were about 100 miles from my camp No. 8 of the preceding year, where the grass was so good. So far we could travel without the least difficulty. But beyond we had 430 miles more, to the district on the Tong-tso. However, before we came there we must meet with nomads and grazing land. The horses, indeed, would be lost, but the Tibetan mules were, so Gulam Razul said, accustomed to shift for themselves, and they were not given barley. The first step was to reach the free open Chang-tang and get out of this frightful mousetrap, the Shyok valley, which was always taking us further north-north-west. Even if we had to sacrifice everything andcreep on all fours to the nearest tent, I would not give in: I would not depart a hair’s breadth from the original plan.
Night came with a clear sky, twinkling stars and sharp frost; by nine o’clock the temperature was down to −20.4°. The animals stood quietly crowded together to keep themselves warm. When I awoke occasionally I did not hear them, and they might have vanished. The minimum was reached at −31.2°. When I was awakened, Kutus had been out on the prowl into a broad valley, coming in from the east, and had found a road which, as far as he could see, was excellent. We had still two days’ journey from camp No. 283 to the dreaded Karakorum pass, which I wished to avoid. If we ascended the side valley eastwards, we should soon arrive at the main crest of the Karakorum range and be spared two days’ journey. I resolved to try it.
So we travelled on December 20 to the east-north-east over crunching snow. The valley looked very promising, especially as old horse tracks could be seen in some places. In the middle of the valley was the bed of a brook covered over with smooth, treacherous ice, but elsewhere there was nothing but detritus. After we had passed a hill thickly overgrown withburtsetufts, all vegetation ceased. At one o’clock the temperature was −5.8°. My beard was white with rime, my face-cloth turned into a mass of ice, and all the animals were white. For hours we slowly mounted upwards. In some places the valley was so contracted that it was only 2 yards broad. The best of the day was over when the caravan suddenly came to a halt. All was quiet in the front, and I waited with Kutus for whatever was to happen.
After a time came Abdul Kerim, much cast down, with the news that the valley was impassable at two places. I went to look. The first barrier of rocks might be forced, but the second was worse. We could certainly have dragged the baggage over the ice between and under the blocks, but there was no passage for the animals. Should we try to make a road along which the animals could be helped over the blocks by the united strength of the men? Yes; but first men must be sent up to find out whetherthere were more of such barriers to cross. When they came back with the news that the way was still worse above, I gave orders to pitch the camp, as the shades of evening were falling.
Good heavens, what a camp! Not a blade of grass, not a drop of water! Again we sat in a mousetrap between steep mountain walls, where, at any moment, devastating blocks might be detached from the sides by the frost. The horses scraped about in the snow looking for grass. During the night they roamed about, and stumbled over the tent ropes. The thermometer fell to −30.6°. One puppy lost his way, got outside, and came of his own accord into my tent; fortunately for him I was awakened by his whining, and gave him shelter in my bed, where he was warm and comfortable.
A frosty morning! we must take care not to touch metal, for it burns like fire. A mule made his way into my tent and looked for something edible in my washing-basin. To his great astonishment it stuck to his nose, and he took it a few steps with him. The hungry animals had consumed two empty sacks and six ropes during the night, and played the mischief with one another’s tails. In winter, life up here is a desperate struggle with the frost.
The orders for the day were to encamp in a place where there were stalks ofyapchanandburtse, and remain there all the next day. I set out at a temperature of −23.8° and found the camp all ready on the right side of the valley. The animals were immediately sent up the slopes, and there grazed with a good appetite on the dry frozen stalks. During the day of rest, pieces of ice were hewn out of the brook and melted in the two large kettles of the men. Horses and mules were then able to drink their fill.
In the night a most welcome change took place in the weather, the whole sky was overcast, and the thermometer fell only to 1°; it felt quite warm in the morning. Some mules had stampeded, but Lobsang found them after a diligent search. I set out with Kutus soon after the caravan. We had not gone far when we saw Muhamed Isa’s white Shigatse horse lying frozen stiff in the snow.He had been in a wretched state for some days, and the last hardships had been too much for him. Worn-out and emaciated he really needed a long, long rest.
After a while we passed the valley junction and the unlucky camp No. 283, and were again on the great caravan route, the road of dead horses. Four lay in a ravine quite close together, as though they did not wish to part even in death. A large dapple-grey showed no change, but another horse looked as if it were stuffed, and a third, with its outstretched legs, resembled an overturned gymnasium horse. Some were nearly covered with snow, and others had fallen in a curious cramped position, but most of them lay as though death had surprised them when they were composing themselves to rest after violent exertion. Nearly all were hollow: the hide was stretched over the backbone and ribs, and they looked intact from the back, but on the other side it could be seen that they were only empty, dry skeletons, hard as iron, which rattled when the yellow dog, who had nothing else to eat on the way, pulled them about. The dogs barked at the first carcases, but soon they became familiar with the sight of them. What sufferings and what desperate struggles for life these dreary mountains must have witnessed in the course of time! Lying awake at night one fancies one hears the sighs of worn-out pack animals and their laboured breathing as they patiently go towards their end, and sees an endless parade of veterans condemned to die who can endure no more in the service of cruel man. When the dogs bark outside in the silent night they seem to bark at ghosts and apparitions who try with hesitating steps to make their way out of the snowfields that hold them fast, and intervene between them and the juicy meadows of Ladak. If any road in the world deserves the name “Via dolorosa,” it is the caravan road over the Karakorum pass connecting Eastern Turkestan with India. Like an enormous bridge of sighs it spans with its airy arches the highest mountain-land of Asia and of the world.
Higher and higher our slow train ascends the fissured valley where here and there small glacier tongues peep out between the steep crags. Frequently old camping-placesare seen with ripped-up pack-saddles. Hurricanes from the south prevail here; fine red dust from weathered sandstone flies like clouds of blood through the valley and colours the snowfields red. The valley shrinks to a hollow way where a somewhat more sheltered spot bears the name “Daulet Bek ulldi” (where Daulet Bek died). Who was he? No one knows; but the name has remained. Probably an ordinary trader from Khotan or Yarkand, or a pilgrim who died on his wanderings, and therefore found the doors of paradise wide open. For over the Karakorum pass runs the main pilgrim route from Eastern Turkestan to Mecca.
The valley becomes ever smaller—a mere corridor between walls of red conglomerate. This is the Kizil-unkur, or the Red Hole, an appropriate name. Here the caravan has pitched its camp. Not a sign of organic life. The animals stand in a group, and the mules gnaw at the frozen dung of former visitors. From this hole the way rises up to the Dapsang plateau, where a snowstorm is now raging, and even in the valley flakes of snow dance and whirl in the air. In the twilight Tundup Sonam comes up with only twelve sheep; the others have been frozen to death on the way. Night falls threatening and awful on the everlasting snow. Everything up here is so dreary and cold (16,824 feet); there is nothing living far and wide, and yet the yellow dog fills the ravine with his barking.
The men set up the tents near together, and a very scanty fire burned among them, for we had to be economical with the firewood from Köteklik. The Mohammedans started a low charming song in rising and falling tones, and now and then a strong voice intoned a hollow “Allahu ekber.” When Gulam came with the brazier I asked him what it meant, and he said that it was anamasor hymn of prayer to Allah, that the Most High might protect us in the morning from the snowstorm. For if a caravan is caught in a snowstorm on the heights of Dapsang it is lost.
I often heard this melodious hymn again in days of hardship, and it always affected me painfully. Not as the reproachful warning clang of church bells ringing for service,when I pass a church door without going in, but because the men sang the hymn only when they were out of spirits and considered our position desperate. It seemed as though they would remind me that defeat awaited me, and that this time I had aimed too high.
CHAPTER LVII
ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD
OnChristmas Eve 1905 I had dined with Mr. and Mrs. Grant Duff in the hospitable English Embassy, and on another day supped with Count d’Apchier in the French Legation, and was invited to a reception by Count Rex in the German Embassy,—all in Teheran, now in such a disturbed state. The same day twelve months later I had still Muhamed Isa and Robert with me, and we were in inhabited country. Little I dreamt now that old Asia would demand still another Christmas Eve in my life, and that on December 24, 1908, I should sit at table amid a circle of pleasant and intelligent Japanese in distant Mukden, where a few years before the thunders of war had rolled above the graves of the Manchurian emperors. But this year, 1907, I was quite alone, and with twelve satellites on the way to my—Ukraine.
In the morning with a bright sun and calm weather the caravan marched slowly up towards the heights of Dapsang, while Kutus and I followed in the crunching snow. I had given Abdul Kerim orders to wait at the top. After I had read the instruments and found a height of 17,808 feet, I scoured the horizon with my field-glass—a confusion of snowy mountains. Only to the north-east a broad erosion furrow sloped gently down, and I chose that direction.
“Now we leave the Karakorum route and ride eastwards,” I said; “follow my track; I will ride in front.” The men stared in astonishment; they had looked forward to the gardens and vineyards of Khotan, and I offeredthem the granite and snowstorms of Chang-tang. They said nothing, however, but silently and patiently followed in my footsteps. It was not easy to lead the way, for the country was covered with deep snow. I directed Kutus, and he went before my horse to test the depth. The ground was quite level, but contained hollows where the snow lay 3 to 6 feet deep; and the crust was exceedingly treacherous, for sometimes it broke, and I was thrown out of the saddle, while the horse plunged and floundered like a dolphin, and was almost suffocated in the fine dry snow. We therefore turned back to try another direction.
Lobsang, who was always on the alert when we were in a critical situation, was already looking for a better way. But we must in any case cross the valley, and the men tramped out a furrow in the snow, through which the animals were led one at a time. The horses managed best, while the mules often fell and caused long delays. How far would this snow extend? It checked our progress and concealed any wretched pasture that might exist in some ravine. We crawled on like snails. I went on foot, and my skin coat felt as heavy as lead. But after several hours of hard toil we reached the terrace skirting the right side of the valley, where the snow was thinner and we made more progress.
Camp No. 287 was in the most desolate spot I can remember in all my travels, except the sandy sea of the Takla-makan desert. Behind us our trail wound through the white snow and in front all was snow. The animals were tethered close together, and they had a feed of corn in the evening.
After the day’s work was over I lighted two candles—usually I had but one—and set up the portraits of my family on a box, as I had often done before on Christmas Eves in Asia. At half-past eight o’clock the moon rose gloriously over the mountains to the east-north-east, and at nine the thermometer had sunk to −16.8°. I could not get the temperature above −4° in my tent, and my hands were so benumbed that I could not hold a book, but had to crawl into bed, which was the bestthing to do—there one forgets Christmas with all its precious memories and its melancholy solitude.
The thermometer sank to −37.5°. A horse lay frozen hard in his place in the line; the others stood stupefied, with drooping heads, and great icicles on their noses. Christmas Eve brought us good weather. I almost longed for a snowstorm. We had no fear of pursuit, but if a Turkestan caravan now went down to Kizil-unkur, the men would see our trail in the snow and report that we were off to Tibet. A snowstorm would obliterate all traces.
Meanwhile we stumbled on eastwards through the snow. A spring supplied water where all the animals got a drink. We halted in a ravine with tufts ofyapchan(17,087 feet). The animals made greedily for the dry hard stalks, which also provided us with a grand fire, and this evening it was warm and comfortable in my tent. I rejoiced to think that the days would again become longer, and subtracted the length of each day’s march from the distance between us and the Tong-tso. Ah, would we were there! And there we should be only on the northern margin of the blank space. What an immensely long way we had to travel!
Next day we followed the same flat valley eastwards between mountains of moderate height, making use of a path worn down by Pantholops antelopes. The snow became less deep and was only occasionally troublesome, usually covered with a crust as dry as parchment. When we had encamped in a perfectly barren spot, I consulted with Abdul Kerim. Only two sacks of barley were left. I saw that he had been weeping, and therefore I restrained my wrath. The others, too, were astonished and doleful. I had not yet said anything to them, but they understood that there was no question of Khotan. The men hadtsambafor nearly three months and rice for two. I therefore ordered that some should be given to the horses when the barley was finished, but enough should be left for the men to last two months. The others gathered outside the tent during the consultation. Lobsang was calm and unconcerned, and could be heard singing and whistling as he watched the animals. I took to him most,perhaps because he was a Tibetan; but I liked them all, for they were capital fellows. In the evening they sang hymns to Allah, knowing that our situation was exceedingly critical.
Next day we started early, and I rode at the head of the caravan. We all had severe headaches, but the height was enormous (17,644 feet). We had marched little more than a mile when we found sparse grass in a slight hollow on the northern slopes. That was a Christmas box. Here we pitched our camp. The animals ran up to the pasture with their loads on. How they ate! It was a pleasure to see them. Suen cut ridiculous capers between the tents. The men were in high spirits. I heard no more hymns to Allah, but the caravan bashi, who seemed to think he was in some degree responsible for the spiritual welfare of all the Mohammedans, usually read every evening at sunset one of the five daily prayers. Our supply of fuel was at an end, but Lobsang found a hard moss which burned for a long time and gave out plenty of heat. Now I perceived that when we should some time part, I should miss Lobsang most.
On December 28, leaden clouds lay over the earth, and therefore the cold was less severe. We continued our course eastwards, and marched slowly till we came to a spring, which at the orifice had a temperature of 33.6°. The water felt quite warm; it formed large cakes of ice in the flat valley, which looked from a distance like a lake. While the men set up the tents here, Puppy, as usual, took charge of her young ones in a folded piece of felt. One of them had a white spot on the forehead and was my especial favourite, for he never whined unnecessarily. To-day he had opened his eyes and given a short glance at the cold inhospitable world around him. However, before my tent was ready, he died quite suddenly, and was buried under some stones that the yellow dog might not eat him up. Mamma Puppy looked for him, but soon contented herself with the last of the four. We would do all we could to keep this little creature.
On the way to the next camping-place, No. 292, we still followed the same blessed valley which had affordedus such an excellent route since Christmas Eve. The minimum temperature had fallen to −21.8°, as though a cold wave were passing over the country. At one place some wild yaks had left their visiting cards, and the men collected a sack of dung. Evidently these animals come hither only in summer; the winter is too cold even for them. A mule died before we reached a spring surrounded by fair grazing. So far we had got on well, but had made little progress; on the past six days we had covered only 47 miles.
December 30. With a minimum of zero and a temperature at one o’clock of 3.2° the range between day and night is not great. But now the sky was covered with dense clouds; it snowed and became half dark; the men could not tell in which direction they were marching, and asked where the sun rose. We had the help of the longitudinal valley for another day’s journey, and we followed it down to a junction of valleys where there was a huge sheet of ice. On the way I saw a flock of twenty-two wild sheep, which fled with great agility up a slope of detritus, bringing the stones rattling down.
In the evening I informed Abdul Kerim, Gulam, and Kutus that we were to advance into Tibet and steer our course past the Arport-tso to the upper Brahmaputra. And I told them that I should travel in disguise in order to escape notice. They were amazed, and asked if I should not expose my life to danger daily; but I calmed them, saying that all would go well if they only obeyed my orders implicitly. Our chief concern was to preserve our animals, for if the caravan were lost we should never get on. “Yes,” answered the caravan bashi, “if we only find good pasture, so that the animals can rest and eat their fill, we can certainly hold out for two months, but they will not bear long marches.”
Here we stood at a parting of the roads. Our valley opened into another, which came down from high mountains in the south, part of the Karakorum range. The united streams continued their course northwards, and could not be any other river but the upper course of the Karakash Darya; in its lower valley on the Khotan Darya I hadmany years before almost lost my life. Now the question was whether we should go up or down, and we decided to devote the last day of the year to finding out which was the better road, sending out Abdullah to reconnoitre south-eastwards, Tubges north-eastwards. As in any case we should have to cross the ice sheet, a path was sanded.
We packed the 6000 rupees Colonel Dunlop Smith had sent from India in two sacks, which were lighter than the wooden boxes, and these were to be used as firewood some time when all else failed. At every camp our baggage became lighter, as our provisions diminished, and I threw away one book after another after I had read them. I had received from home the numbers of a Swedish journal for half a year, and these were very useful in lighting our camp-fires. We had still nine sheep left, but the time was fast approaching when our meat supply would come to an end, for we could hardly reckon on finding game so soon.
New Year’s Day 1908 was bright and sunny—a good omen as regarded the dark riddles this year concealed. The two scouts returned with the same report: that there were no obstacles in the way; and I let them discuss the question themselves, and decide which way was the best. They chose Abdullah’s route, which led up the valley south-eastwards. The road here was excellent. At the mouth of the valley we found a couple of small round stone walls, which, however, might very well have been a hundred years old. The sight of a dead yak had an enlivening effect on us, contradictory as it may sound. Higher we mounted to where a lofty snow mountain with glaciers could be seen at the end of the valley. Then we stopped, and scouts were sent forwards. They declared that the way was impassable, and voted that Abdullah should be thrashed. But as such measures would have been of no use to us in our difficulty he got off with a good scolding. He admitted that he had not been so far up as we were now, yet on his return he had asked for, and been given, a bit of tobacco for his reconnoitring work. I told him that he had done a mean trick, and that he should never see the smoke of my tobacco again.
There was nothing to do but pitch our camp. A strong south-west wind blew, and fine snow was driven down from all the crests and summits. When the men went out to gather fuel they looked like Polar explorers. After all, New Year’s Day had brought us no good luck, but, on the contrary, a retreat.
This was commenced early on the morning of January 2, and we passed again camp 293, and marched onwards over slopes of detritus on the eastern side of the ice sheet. At one spot spring water formed a little bubbling fountain in the midst of the ice. After the valley had turned to the east-north-east we encamped in a corner where driftsand was piled up into hillocks.
I wanted to get out of this labyrinth of mountains and valleys which pour their waters into Eastern Turkestan. We were still in the basin of the Karakash river, and must sooner or later cross a pass separating it from the salt lakes of the Chang-tang. On the 3rd we again mounted up one of the head valleys and camped in its upper part, while the country was enveloped in a furious snowstorm. It continued till late in the evening, and what was most remarkable was that the stars shone all the time though the snow was falling thickly. Before, there had been blue-black clouds above us without a snowflake. Extraordinary land!
Next day we rested. The animals had been without drink for a long time, fuel was abundant, ice was taken from the river bed and melted in pots.
In this region the mountains are less continuous, and form sharp peaks and pyramids of small relative height. It snowed all night, but the morning of January 5 was fine as we travelled eastwards along the route Kutus had investigated. It led up over snow-covered ground to a small pass (17,995 feet), on the other side of which another branch of the Karakash crossed our course. We must get out of this entanglement, which delayed our march and told on our strength. As long as the animals kept up we had nothing to complain of. I was glad of every day that brought us a little nearer to spring and out of the winter’s cold. It penetrated through everything. My feet had no feeling in them. Gulam rubbed them and massaged me inthe evening over the fire, but could not bring them to life. The ink was turned into a lump of ice and had to be thawed before the fire; when I wrote I had to bend over the brazier, and still the ink congealed in the pen and froze on the paper. Singularly enough I have still an unquenchable desire for ice-cold water and prefer it to warm tea, but the water we usually get is far from pleasant. It is generally Tubges who takes a spade and fills an empty sack with snow, and then melts it in a kettle. Gulam tries to persuade me to drink tea, and cannot understand how it is that I am not sick of water. It is no use being thirsty in the night: a cup of water standing near the brazier is frozen to the bottom in a quarter of an hour.
After a temperature of −28° and a stormy night, which drove the animals to seek shelter in the men’s tent, we crossed the broad valley up to the next pass. We left a lofty snow-covered mountain to the south. At the foot of a hill a wild yak was musing. When he saw our dark train against the white snow he made straight towards us, but before long he took his way through the valley and dashed in wild flight to the north, followed by our two dogs. It was very encouraging to find something living in this God-forgotten wilderness; for now we had lost even the raven.
It was a steep and slow ascent up to the pass, which had a height of 18,005 feet. We were surprised to find that it was a snow limit, for east of the pass there was no snow at all. As we descended the other side along a broad, open, sandy valley we had to be careful that we did not find ourselves without water in the evening. Far to the south appeared an ice sheet, but it lay too far out of our course. We therefore filled two sacks with snow from the last drift, encamped where thin tufts afforded fuel, and sent five men with all the animals southwards to the ice in search of water and fodder.
The water question now became pressing, for apparently we could not count on snow much farther. And we could not dig for water, as before, for the ground was frozen into stone. We must therefore proceed cautiously. We had a great open wilderness in front of us; we mustmake our way from one point of support to another, and explore the routes in advance, lest we might come to a catastrophe. I therefore gave orders that, now that the loads were considerably smaller, a couple of our animals should carry snow or ice. At every camp we left an empty meat-tin. I think less of the time soon approaching when the excellent goods from Simla will come to an end than of the fact that the burdens of our animals are daily becoming lighter. The rock specimens I collect do not weigh much. Of course the provender has long given out, but where the pasturage is scanty or altogether absent, loaves of parched meal are kneaded together for the animals.
The men are to come back on the 7th, and we wait for them till mid-day. There, too, they come: the black group is plainly visible; they march and march, but come no nearer. Ah, it is only some black stones dancing in the mirage. A little later Suen reports that some of the animals have run away, and consequently we have to remain the whole day at this dismal camp.
How slowly the hours pass on a day like this! I am a prisoner in my own tent, for cold and wind keep me from work out of doors. As long as the sun is above the horizon I pass the time very comfortably, for I can see the mountains, these silent, dreary, lonely mountains, where men never wander, and I see the sandspouts whirling along before the wind. But when the sun sets, the long winter evening begins, and I hear only the howl of the storm without. Patience! Spring will come some time. Every day that passes we are a step farther from this horrible winter. Brown Puppy and her whelp keep me company, and I look upon them as comrades in misfortune. She has her mat in a corner of the tent, and takes her meals when I do. The whelp we call Black Puppy amuses me immensely. He has begun to take notice of the world and the life around him. When the big dogs bark outside the tent, he turns his head and gives a feeble growl. When his mother leaves him on the mat in the cold, he makes an attempt at a bark and seems to think it strange. He wanders about the tent, though he is still so unsteadyon his legs that he constantly topples over. He has already conceived a highly salutary respect for the brazier, and sniffs and shakes his head when he chances to come too near it. Sometimes it happens that he misses his mother in the night, when there may be as many as 54 degrees of frost in the tent; but his complaining squeal awakens me, and I take him under the furs—an attention he is very fond of. One morning he wakened me by crawling of his own accord on to my pillow and trying to get into my bed. After that I felt no concern about his future; he must learn how to make his way in life, and that he was doing.
On the 8th we went over a small pass 17,569 feet high. A horse and a mule perished on the way. Camp 299 was pitched where the first pasture was found, in a valley on the other side (16,946 feet). There was no water, but we had four sacks of ice. Seven sheep were left, and the raven had also come again.
The aim of our next day’s journey was to find water for the animals. My trusty white Ladaki horse, which I always rode, used to get my washing water every morning, and I used no soap that I might not spoil it for him. From a small rise in the ground we were able to enjoy the view I had so longed for—the great open plain we had crossed in the autumn of 1906. To the east-south-east I easily recognized the spur we passed then, and we could not be more than two days’ march from the Aksai-chin lake. I had now followed for several days much the same route as Crosby, and at the lake I should cross my own route of 1906, after which we should go down towards the Arport-tso, and, as last year, intersect the paths of Bower, Deasy, Rawling, and Zugmeyer.
The whole country lay under a vault of dense clouds. After a march of only 3 miles we found a flowing spring of beautiful water (33°), where camp No. 300 (16,329 feet) was pitched. In the evening my servants sang bright and happy melodies again, and Suen performed his most ridiculous dances. We were again up on the roof of the world, and all dreary Tibet lay in front of us. Should we be able to cross it with our little caravan?
CHAPTER LVIII
FORTY DEGREES BELOW ZERO
Withfresh blocks of ice in our sacks we set out on January 10 straight towards the projection at the foot of which camp 8 had been pitched, and where I knew that the grass was good. The great level barren plain stretched between us and the spot, and we had 15 miles to cover. The wind was boisterous, and we were frozen through in a minute. In the lee of the caravan, which went in advance, lay a cloud of dust like smoke. The yellow hue of the grass could be seen from a distance, and the sight so refreshed my men that they began to sing on the march. The animals understood that they were coming to good pasturage, and quickened their pace without any shouts from the men. The tents were set up in the same place as last year, and here I closed my long circuitous route through Tibet. It was with a melancholy feeling I saw this place again, where Muhamed Isa had raised his tall cairn. Now we had avoided all dangers from Rudok, and we minded little that England and Russia had promised each other not to let a European into Tibet for three years. The height here was 16,198 feet.
For several days I had spoken of this place with its good pasturage, and when we broke up our camp on the 11th I was able to promise my men a still better camp for the next night. They were astonished that I was so much at home in these dreary regions. The track of the great caravan of 1906 was blown away by the passage of many storms, but the Aksai-chin lake soon came into sight, its surface looking grey and dismal in the chillyweather. Six kiang spoors converged to the fine spring of fresh water near the shore, where we kindled our fires among the same stones as last time. Pasturage and fuel are abundant in the neighbourhood; it is a veritable oasis—the best camp we had had since Köteklik. But the storm still raged, and the salt waves rose high over the lake, cooled down to 20.7°, though there was no sign of ice. In the night it snowed hard again, and on the 12th, which was made a day of rest, the lake lay blue amidst a landscape of shining white.
When all goes well the Mohammedans read no prayers. Probably they think that when we can help ourselves it is unnecessary to disturb Allah.
We had to pay a horse as toll for the good pasturage. He lay frozen hard in the camp on the morning of the 13th, after a night temperature of −18.4°. The yellow dog remained beside him, and when he came late at night into the next camp, he was so fat and puffed up that it was evident he had stored up food for several days. Two ravens followed us with their hoarse croaking. Snow fell thickly and hid the view. A herd of antelopes disappeared like shadows in the mist. A sheep died on the way, and two more had to be killed, for they were worn-out; we had now only three left. The cold penetrated everywhere in the night, and the thermometer sank to −33°.
On January 14 we made south-eastwards over a plain of soft, tiring ground, which caused us the loss of a mule. The caravan moved very slowly forward and in close order; the animals marched more comfortably when they were together; those which would linger behind, overcome with fatigue, were driven forward by the Ladakis. At camp 304 the grass was poor, and two mules seemed to be near their end. The cold was fearfully sharp in the night. The thermometer fell to −39.6°, or to nearly 40 degrees below zero, and almost to the freezing-point of mercury. That was the lowest temperature I ever recorded in all my journeys in Asia.
But January 15 brought a fine morning and an Italian blue sky. Abdul Kerim and all the other Mohammedans waited on me, in a tragi-comical procession, with driedapricots and almonds, and a simultaneous cry of “Aid mubarek,” or “A blessed Festival.” One of the festivals of Islam fell on this day. Exceedingly comical was the procession of the four Lamaists, who came up as the others retired; and Lobsang, who led them, took off his cap and scratched his head in Tibetan fashion, but did not put out his tongue—he had no doubt learned in Leh that this performance was not pleasing to a European. I gave them 10 rupees each and handed the caravan bashi a watch, which he was to wind up well every evening to be sure of the time.
On we marched again, moving slowly, for the ground rose. We proceeded like a funeral procession, and Suen was the parson. There was no longer reason to fear thirst, for half the country was covered with snow. But every mile caused us a struggle, and it was long before we came to the cliff we were making for. We left a huge snowy massive on the right hand.
Next day’s march took us over a flat saddle to a small side valley where there was some grass. The temperature had been down to −29.9°, and I could not by any means get life into my feet. Sometimes they ached, sometimes there was an uncomfortable pricking in my toes, and then again they lost all feeling. During the day’s rest we allowed ourselves in camp 306 Tubges shot an antelope and an Ovis Ammon, a feat which prolonged the lives of our last two sheep. In the evening the men were cheerful and hopeful as they sat around the flesh-pot.
Gulam Razul had presented me with six bottles of whisky, which, sewed up in thick felt, had been brought all the way; for Ladakis maintain that when a mule shows signs of exhaustion and weakness it can be cured by giving it whisky or other spirits. But the bottles were heavy, so three of them were emptied and set up as a memorial on some stones. Perhaps some time or other they may be found by another traveller. The other three were kept.
On the 18th we continued to follow the same longitudinal valley. All the ranges in this country run east and west, the usual direction in Tibet. To the right was a lofty range we must cross if we would travel south-eastwards.Through a gap in the northern mountains was visible to the north-east the mighty snowy dome we had passed to the right of in 1906. Eastwards there seemed to be no obstacle in the way, but we diverged south-eastwards up a valley. Before we encamped (Illust. 301) another mule had fallen, and then we had lost a fourth of the caravan.
Next day we proceeded further up the valley. Sometimes it was only 10 yards broad between solid horizontal terraces. Below a steep crag lay five pot-stones, and therefore Tibetan hunters must have come thus far. The Ladakis were delighted to meet with signs of human beings again. The valley opened out into an extensive plain, and a gap was seen to the south-east, but as the ground was lower towards the east we turned our steps in that direction. From the low threshold the view was anything but encouraging—a world of mountains. We resolved to encamp where we were (17,405 feet high) and to try the other, southern, passage next day.
A miserable camp! The storm raged so violently that the tents could hardly be set up, and the iron tent-pegs beat together and rattled until they were fixed. We had first to make a fire before we could use our numbed hands, and a small stone wall had to be raised to prevent the fire from being carried away. Now Nature and the elements were against us, whereas we might in the future expect opposition from man. The pasture was wretched, and a grey horse and the last mule from Poonch lay dead in the morning. It was the senior of the veterans, for it had come with me all the way from Srinagar and had done good service, and I was grieved at losing it. Now there was only one creature left which had seen the first beginning of the caravan, namely, our brown Puppy. She and the little puppy kept me company in this oppressive, weary solitude.
From camp 309, where we stayed a day, there was an uninterrupted view over another longitudinal valley, to the south of the former. There lay a contracted salt lake. At almost every camp, as on the former journey, I drew a panorama of the surroundings, and tried sometimes topaint small water-colour drawings (Illust. 302). Then I had to sit in the opening of the tent and hold the block over the fire to prevent the brush freezing into a lump of ice. But the sky, which should have been of an even blue or grey tone, usually turned into a film of ice with strange stars and crystals.
In camp 310 we also remained a day, for the pasture was better than we had found for a long time. The grass grew in sand on the shore of a small freshwater lake with a free opening, where at length the animals got a good drink after having had to quench their thirst with snow. We had travelled 188 miles since Christmas Eve, or about 6½ miles a day on an average—a terribly slow pace. Now we had had a furious storm for three days, and here yellow whirls of sand flew over the ice and the wind moaned and rustled through the grass. Abdul Kerim sewed together a long Mohammedan coat for me, which I was to wear under my fur when I assumed my disguise.
On January 24 the whole country was covered with dazzling snow and the sun shone, but a stormy blast drove the fine snow particles in streaks over the land, and a roaring sound was heard. Antelopes careered lightly over the ground, dark against the white snow. A mule died on the way; not even Tibetan mules can bear this climate. I was benumbed and half-dead with cold before I reached the camp.
After a temperature of −21.3° the neighbourhood was enveloped in semi-darkness by heavy clouds. The jagged mountains to the south reminded me of a squadron of armoured vessels at gunnery practice in rainy weather. Their grey outlines peeped out from the low clouds. The valley was about 6 miles broad. Towards the east the snow lay less thickly, and finally only the footprints of wild animals were filled with snow, like a string of pearls in the dark ground.
As I turn over the leaves of my diary of this terrible journey how often I come across the remark that this was the hardest day we had hitherto experienced. And yet days were always coming when we suffered still more. So it was on January 26. The sky was covered with suchcompact clouds that we might fancy we were riding under a prison vault. The storm raged with undiminished violence, and a quarter of an hour after I had mounted my horse I was benumbed and powerless. My hands ached, and I tried to thaw my right hand by breathing on it whenever I had to take a note, but after reading the compass for two seconds my hands lost all feeling. My feet troubled me less, for I had no feeling at all in them. I only hoped I should reach the camp before the blood froze in my veins (Illust. 305).
Then we come at length to the Arport-tso and leave the northern basin of the lake on our left, while a large basin swells out like a fjord towards the south. A mountain spur sends out a cape into the lake, which has a very irregular outline. It stands in our way. Shall we leave it on the right or left? We come up to the middle of the lake shore and wait while Lobsang goes to see if the caravan can travel over the ice. He hurries forward and makes us a sign to follow. We go down to the beach and along a spit which narrows down to a fine point.
Here the ice on our left hand has been piled up into hummocks, 6 feet high, of grand transparent green flat slabs, but on the right, as far as we can see over the southern basin, the ice spreads its level smooth sheet of a beautiful dark green colour like leaves of laurel and lilac. We feel the usual fascination of the ice, and stand and stare down into the dark cold depths. Drifting snow sweeps like comets’ tails over the smooth course. We stand on the very point of the promontory, with the narrowest part of the Arport-tso in front of us, for the lake is contracted like a wasp’s waist. Here there are fences, walls, and barriers raised by ice pressure, and between them snow is drifted up, hard and dry on the surface. It would have been quite impossible to march over the bare ice; the caravan would have been carried away like chaff before the wind. But the snow affords us an excellent path. Lobsang leads the way, guiding us in many a wind, but we get across and come to the farther shore at the foot of a cliff.
Worse followed, for the rocky point fell straight down to the lake on its eastern side, and here we had slipperyice swept clear of snow which we sanded. One horse or mule after another slipped and fell. Some of them made no attempt to get up again, but were dragged over the ice to firm ground, where their loads were put on again. Some fell with a heavy thud on the hard treacherous ice. We had to double a whole series of points in this way till we came to one where further progress was impossible, for at its foot issued forth springs which produced large openings in the ice. There icy cold waves beat with a sharp sound against the edges of the ice under the lash of the wind, which drove continually clouds of snow dancing like elves over the dark green field of ice. We had to struggle up over steep slopes till at last we reached, thoroughly tired out, an inlet where a few leaves of grass grew. We had left a mule on the ice, and two men went back and gave it a drop of whisky so that it could come on to the camp. But my brown horse from Shigatse, which had so often carried me up to the east gate of Tashi-lunpo, remained behind for good. It is sad and depressing when a veteran dies.
Arport-tso lies at a height of 17,382 feet. The water, which was drawn from an opening in the ice, was quite potable. There was a high pass in front of us to the south-east, but we could not reach it in one day, and we camped on the plain at the south-east of the lake where Rawling had once stayed. It was little more than a mile thither, but the grass was good and the animals needed nourishment. It snowed thickly all day. It was warm and comfortable under cover, and we pitied the poor animals which were out grazing in the cold. The small puppy had grown so much that he could wander alone between the tents watching for an opportunity to steal meat. A sheep was slaughtered.
At night the cold was more severe again, and the thermometer sank to −30.3°. The sick mule sought shelter behind the men’s tent, lay down at once, and gave vent to a piteous sound. I went out to look at it, and caused it to be put out of its misery.
On the morning of the 28th we found two horses dead on the grass. One was one of the veterans of Leh which Robert had ridden, and which also bore me to the springsin the Sutlej bed. We had now only twenty-three animals left, and my small white Ladaki was the last of the veterans. Little I thought, as he carried me over the Chang-lung-yogma, that he would survive a hundred and fifty comrades. Every morning two long icicles hung down from his nostrils. He was taken great care of, and I always saved a piece of bread from my breakfast for him. I had a particular affection for him and for Brown Puppy. They had been with me so long, and had passed through so many adventures.
A loss of three animals in one day was serious for such a caravan as ours. How would it all end? We had still an immense distance before us. We struggled for three hours with halting steps up this terrible pass which had a height of 18,281 feet. We encamped in the shelter of a rock and killed the last worn-out sheep, and then had no live store of meat.
The temperature fell to −24.5°, and the first sound I heard in the morning of the 29th was the everlasting howl of the storm. We marched south-eastwards through snow a foot deep. “One of our worst days,” it is styled in my diary. We cared about nothing except to get to our camp alive. I had a scarf wound several times over my face, but it was quickly turned into a sheet of ice, which cracked when I turned my head. I tried to smoke a cigarette, but it froze on to my lips. Two horses died on the way, and Abdul Kerim’s horse took over the load of one of them, while the man himself went on foot like the others. I followed the track of the caravan with Kutus. Then we found Kunchuk Sonam and Suen unable to go further; they suffered from pains at the heart. I tried to cheer them up, and promised to give them medicine if they would follow slowly in the track of the caravan. Was it now the turn of the men after half the caravan had been lost? Quite overcome with fatigue they hobbled at twilight into camp.
Abdul Kerim came into my tent very cast down and asked if we should fall in with nomads within ten days, for otherwise he considered our condition desperate. In truth, I could give him no consolation, but could only tell him that we must go on as long as there was a single mule left,and then try to drag ourselves along to the nomads with as much food as we could carry. Now we thought no longer of pursuers behind, or of dangers before us, but only wished to preserve our lives and come to country where we could find means of subsistence. Behind us the snow obliterated our tracks, and the future awaited us with its impenetrable secrets.