CHAPTER XLIX
ADVENTURES ON LANGAK-TSO
I havenot interrupted the description of my life on the revered lake with notices of our political troubles. Suffice it to say that we succeeded in staying there a whole month. Mounted and other messengers often came to make complaints, and then my men simply replied: “The Sahib is out on the lake, catch him if you can; he is a friend of the lake god, and can stay as long as he likes among the branches of the holy tree.” And when I came back again they had gone off. In consequence of the boat trips they could not control my movements, but when we encamped by Chiu-gompa they became more energetic. During my absence came messenger after messenger with orders that I must at once betake myself to Parka and continue my journey thence to Ladak. On August 23 I sent Robert and Rabsang to Parka to make terms with the authorities, but they would not under any circumstances allow me to visit Langak-tso, my next stage. If I liked to stay a month or a year at Chiu-gompa it was nothing to them, for the monastery was not in their district, but the western lake was in their jurisdiction. They advised that I should come as soon as possible to Parka for my own sake, and would send in the morning fifteen yaks to carry my luggage.
But I wished to see Langak-tso at any cost. So when the fifteen yaks arrived next morning, I quickly made up my mind to send Tsering, Rabsang, and four men with the baggage to Parka, while Robert and the other six men would go with me to Langak-tso. Our own sixhorses and the last mule from Poonch could easily carry the boat and our bit of luggage. The yaks were laden and my men disappeared behind the hills. My own small caravan had orders to camp on the shore of Langak-tso where the old channel enters. I went with Robert and two men on foot and executed a series of exact levellings over the isthmus separating the two lakes. At the same time I drew a map of the course of the channel. The measuring tape was nailed fast to an oar which Robert carried; the theodolite I carried myself. The distance between the pole and the instrument amounted to 55 yards, and was measured with tapes by our two assistants. The pole was placed on an iron dish that it might not sink into the soft ground.
The lakes were visited in 1812 by Moorcroft, who found no connecting channel. In October 1846 Henry Strachey found there an arm of the lake 100 feet broad and 3 feet deep. Landor declared that any connection was inconceivable, for, according to him, the isthmus was 300 feet high at its lowest part. Ryder found in the late autumn of 1904 no water running out of Manasarowar, but he heard from the natives that a little water passed through the channel during the rainy season. Sherring also saw no running water, but he thought it probable that the lake overflowed after rainy summers. As for me, I followed the bed of the channel from one lake to the other and found that in the year 1907 no water flowed from the eastern into the western lake, and in 1908 the condition was the same, though both my visits occurred in the rainy season. There must be very heavy falls of rain before Manasarowar can overflow, for the highest point of the channel bed lies more than 6½ feet above the level of the eastern lake.
The circumstance that different travellers in different years have given different accounts is, however, very easily explained. All depends on the precipitation: if it is abundant, the surface of Manasarowar rises; if it is very abundant its water drains off to the Langak-tso (Rakas-tal). If the summer is dry, as in the year 1907, the Langak-tso receives no water through the channel,but certainly by subterranean passages. On the whole, both these lakes are falling like the other lakes of Tibet, and the time is approaching when the subterranean outlet will be cut off and both lakes will be salt.
As we deliberately measured the channel and came to its highest point from which its bed dips towards the west, I threw a farewell glance at Tso-mavang, and experienced a feeling of bereavement at the thought that I must now leave its shores, and in all probability for ever. For I had known this gem of lakes in the light of the morning red and in the purple of sunset, in storms, in howling hurricanes when the waves rose mountain high, in fresh southerly breezes when the waves sparkled like emeralds, in full sunshine when the lake was smooth as a mirror, in the silver beams of the moon when the mountains stood out like white spectres after the dull yellow light of evening was extinguished, and in peaceful nights when the stars twinkled as clearly on the smooth surface of the lake as above in the vault of heaven. I had passed a memorable month of my life on this lake, and had made friends with the waves and become intimately acquainted with its depths. To this day I can hear the melodious splash of the raging surf, and still Tso-mavang lingers in my memory like a fairy tale, a legend, a song.
We went on westwards along narrow creeks and pools of stagnant water, but when the evening had become so dusky that I could no longer read the figures on the measuring pole, we gave up work, marked the last fixed point, and made for the camp, which we reached in complete darkness.
In the morning the work was continued. We had had a minimum of 22.6° in the night, and a violent south-west storm rendered it difficult to read the instruments. The hundred-and-fourth point was fixed at length at the edge of the water of Langak-tso. I have no space here to analyse the results. The channel runs west-north-west, and the line measured is 10,243 yards long, or twice as long as represented on the most recent maps. The surface of Langak-tso lay 44 feet below that of Tso-mavang, which agrees very well with the difference ofheight on Ryder’s map, namely 50 feet. There is no water beyond the ninety-fourth fixed point in the bed, The Tibetans related a legend concerning the origin of the channel. Two large fishes in Tso-mavang were deadly enemies and chased each other. One was beaten, and in order to escape he darted right through the isthmus, and the windings of the channel bed show the course of the flying fish.
The morning of August 26 was dull, damp, and cold. Heavy clouds floated over the earth, heralds of the monsoon rains, and Langak-tso looked anything but inviting for a sail. But we had the whole day before us, and any moment horsemen might come from Parka, take us by the neck and lead us back, whether we liked it or not, to the path of duty. Langak-tso has a very irregular outline. Its chief basin in the south is begirt by rocks, in the north there is a smaller expansion, and between the two runs a contracted channel. All we could venture to do was to row over the small basin westwards and then to the south-east, to a place on the eastern shore whither our camp could be moved. It could be done in a few hours, so we took nothing but the mast and sail.
Tundup Sonam and Ishe were my boatmen, and we set out at half-past five o’clock. We were at first in the lee of a promontory, but when we had passed it the whole lake came down upon us with rolling, foaming billows, showers of spray, and threatening surge. The waves were crowded together in the narrows to leeward, and assumed curious irregular forms. Among them tossed masses of water-weed; the water was bright green and as clear and sweet as that of Tso-mavang. We are a little beyond the promontory; would it not be better to turn back? No; never turn back, never give in; still forwards! We were wet, but we kept our equilibrium and parried the cunning assaults of the rolling waves. “Row hard and we shall soon get into the shelter of the great point on the western shore.” I even managed to take soundings, and found that the greatest depth was 54½ feet; the lake bottom was almost level. We hadfought with the waves for four hours before we landed on the north side of the promontory, where we were sheltered from the wind.
Here we draw the boat to land and reconnoitre. The cape runs north-eastwards, and is covered with driftsand which is in constant motion. On the shore plain to the south-west yellow sandspouts move about, whirling like corkscrews in the direction of the wind, and our promontory receives its share of this load of sand. On the north the dune is very steep; from time to time fresh sand falls down the slope and slips into the lake, where the waves sweep it away. From the sharp ridge of the dune the driftsand is blown like a dense plume to the lake, and the water is tinged with yellow for quite 200 yards in the direction of the wind by myriads of grains of sand, which fall to the bottom and build up a foundation under water on which the promontory can extend out into the lake. The wind has been strong, and now we have a storm. Patience! We cannot go back. The driftsand now floats so thickly over the lake that the eastern and northern shores are invisible; we might be sitting on a dune in the heart of the Takla-makan desert.
We slipped down to the sheltered side of the dune, but here, out of the wind, it was still worse. We were enveloped in clouds of sand which penetrated everywhere, into our eyes, ears, and noses, and irritated the skin where it came into contact with the body. The moaning howl of the storm was heard above and around us. My oarsmen slept or strolled about, but their footprints were at once obliterated by the wind. I played with the sand like a child—let it roll down the lee-side, built a small peninsula, which was immediately destroyed by the waves, and a harbour mole, which the sea beat over and broke up—and watched how new layers and clumps of dead seaweed appeared on the sand slope, and how the dry sand formed falls and cascades as it rolled down. But the storm did not abate.
We lay waiting there for four hours. On the eastern shore our men had moved the camp a little farther south. We saw the tents quite plainly. Should we venture tocreep along the shore southwards so as to reach a point opposite the camp? Out beyond the promontory the dark-green lake ran uncomfortably high, but we were a match for the waves—the men had only to put their weight on to the oars. So we crept along the shore, where we got some shelter, but we had to be careful that we were not carried out into the heavy seas. After rowing round two points we landed on the lee-side of a third, where the boat was drawn ashore again. Heavy seas with thundering, towering waves dashed against the southern side of the point, so that we could go no farther, for no pilot would encounter such billows in a canvas boat. I stood on the top of the promontory and enjoyed the fine spectacle. Robert’s tent shone brightly in the setting sun. We saw the men, the horses grazing on the bank, and the smoke of the camp-fire beaten down by the storm. The crossing would barely take an hour, but between us and them yawned the dark-green abyss of tyrannical, all-conquering waves.
The sun sets and we still sit and wait, confused by the rush of the spirits of the air and water. This time they have played us a pretty trick, and we have been caught. To the north rises Kang-rinpoche, lofty and bright as a royal crown. Its summit is like achhortenon the grave of a Grand Lama. Snow and ice with vertical and slightly inclined fissures and ledges form a network like the white web of a gigantic spider on the black cliffs.
And the day, a long day of waiting, neared its inevitable close. Shadows lengthened out over the foaming waves, the sun set, and the Pundi mountain, our old friend of Tso-mavang, glowed like fire in the sunset. Clouds of a deep blood-red colour, with edges of orange, and tinted above with reddest gold, hovered over its summit. It was as though the earth had opened and volcanic forces had burst forth. The hours passed by, the glow died out, the outlines of Pundi became indistinct and were at length swallowed up in the darkness. We were in the dark while the camp-fire blazed on the eastern shore. Our hopes were now centred on the night and the moon. The storm had raged thrice twenty-four hours, and itmust end some time; but it was just as strong. And as it was useless to wait, and I could not appease my gnawing hunger with a piece of bread and a cup of tea, I wrapped myself in the sail, burrowed into the sand, and fell into a sound sleep.
The rain pelting down on the sail woke me twice, and about four o’clock in the morning the cold thoroughly roused me. A dreary, grey, rainy outlook. But Ishe proposed that we should try to get over, for the storm had slightly abated in consequence of the rain. We first made sure that the tackle was in good order, and then stepped into the boat and rowed out along the sheltered side of the promontory. But scarcely had the nose of the boat passed beyond the point when it received a shock that made all its joints crack. “Row, row as hard as you can,” I yelled through the howling storm; “we shall get over before the boat is full. It is better to be wet than suck our thumbs for twenty-four hours more.” To the south, 52° E., the tent canvas shone white in the morning grey. We strayed far out of our course, but cut the waves cleanly, and steered towards the surf. We just managed to get over. We were received on the other side by our men, who helped us to draw the boat ashore and had fire and breakfast ready for us.
Namgyal had returned from Parka and brought news that the Gova threatened to drive away my men in order to force me to leave Langak-tso. Bluff, however, has no effect on me. A more serious matter was that Puppy had not been seen for forty-eight hours, and that Shukkur Ali, who had gone the morning before to Chiu-gompa in search of her, had not been heard of since. Puppy at length found her way into camp herself, and then it was Shukkur Ali who was missing.
On the 28th the storm continued. We afterwards heard from Tibetans that stormy weather frequently prevails on Langak-tso, and the lake is agitated, when Tso-mavang is smooth and calm. Tundup Sonam concluded that Tso-mavang was a pet of the gods, while demons and devils ruled over Langak-tso. We had heard a tale in Gossul-gompa that the preceding winter five Tibetans,armed with swords and guns, had crossed the ice to reach Parka by a shorter way, but in the middle of the lake the ice had given way, and all five were dragged down by the weight of their weapons to the bottom.
I wished for fine weather that I might be able to cross over the lake to the islands. As, however, we were obliged to give up all thoughts of a voyage, I determined to pass round the lake and at any rate draw an outline map of it. We commenced, then, with the eastern shore, which makes a regular curve towards the east. The white mule from Poonch carried the boat. Some Ovis Ammons were seen on the rocks, which Tundup Sonam stalked unsuccessfully. Shukkur Ali turned up again as cool as a cucumber, having searched in vain for Puppy, which was snoring in my tent in most excellent condition.
August 29. We go to sleep amidst the roaring of the waves and the howling of the storm, and awake again to the same uproar. It is always in our ears as we ride along the shore. We might be at the foot of a waterfall. Now we follow the south shore westwards. Here the cliffs are almost everywhere precipitous, and the rocks are porphyry, granite, and schist; the shore strip is extremely narrow and steep, and is divided into sharply marked terraces. It descends right down to great depths, and shallow, gradually sloping places are not to be found. A human skull lay in a bay bobbing up and down in the waves, and not far off were other parts of a skeleton. Was it one of the men who had been drowned in the winter? At this discovery my men conceived a still greater aversion to Langak-tso, which even took human life. I perceived that they were wondering what further foolhardiness I might indulge in.
A sharp-pointed peninsula running north-westwards delayed us. On the bay beyond a caravan was camping, and we were glad to meet Tibetans again when all others had withdrawn from us; and they were glad to meet a European who had been at the Luma-ring-tso, their home. But they could not understand why we passed round all projections and went right round all the bays, instead of following the direct road running a little farther to thesouth. One of them held out his hands towards me with the fingers spread out, and said that the south shore of the lake had as many indentations. When I told him that I wished to draw a map of the lake, he said that it was of no consequence what the shore was like, as only egg-gatherers came there.
When we had passed two projecting points we encamped at the extremity of the cape which lies in a line with the southernmost island. It was stormy, but here we found shelter under a cliff with a streamer pole on the top. Stone walls, rags, and eggshells were evidence of the visits of men. On the east and west of the cape were open bays with heavy seas, and to the north, 19° E., we saw the southern point of the island—a dark precipitous rock, rising like a huge roll of bread from the waves. We had already heard of this island, Lache-to, on which the wild-geese lay their eggs in May, and are robbed of them by men from Parka who come over the ice. I could not therefore omit to visit it. The island lay quite near. We would return immediately, and Adul might begin to roast the wild-goose which Tundup had shot on the march. We wanted no provisions, but Robert advised Ishe to take a bag oftsambawith him, lest he should have to wait too long for his dinner.
These two men took the oars when we put off. The shelter of the cape was deceptive. Two minutes from the bank I tried to take a sounding, but the line made a great curve before it reached the bottom, for the storm drove the boat northwards. Then we fell upon another device: the boatmen had only to hold their oars in the air and let the wind carry the boat along. But a little farther out we could not sail so easily, for the wave system of the eastern open part of the lake came into collision with that from the west. Here the waves rose into hillocks and pyramids, and had to be negotiated with the oars. We rapidly drew near to the island, and its rocks became higher and looked threateningly dark and dangerous. When we were close to the southern point I perceived that it was impossible to land there. The bank of rubbish and blocks was very steep, and we and theboat would have been dashed in pieces in the foaming breakers. The situation was critical. Robert wished to land on the lee-side of the northern point, but that would have been risky, for the storm swept unchecked along the sides of the island, and if we did not get under the land at the right moment we should be driven out into the open lake at a distance of two days’ voyage from the northern shore. We rocked up and down on soft green crystal. I steered close to the eastern bank, where the waves were just as high. Here we had no choice. I turned the bow towards the land, and the men rowed for all they were worth. A nasty billow threw us ashore. Robert jumped out, slipped, and got a ducking. Ishe hurried up to help him. Three billows broke over me before I got to land. We were all three drenched, but we were glad to have firm ground under our feet, and to have reached the island safely in spite of the treacherous storm which might have driven us past this open roadstead.
Then Robert and I went round the island while Ishe collected fuel. Though we could only walk slowly over the detritus, we took but twenty-five minutes to go round the island and ascertain its form by compass bearings. It is longish, runs from north to south, and consists of a single rock falling on all sides steeply to the water. During our walk the wind dried us. Then I drew a panorama of Gurla Mandatta, and after that the spot of earth to which fate had led us prisoners was subjected to a closer investigation. At the north-eastern foot of the elevation is a rather flat pebbly plateau. Here the wild-geese breed in spring, and here lay still several thousand eggs, in twos, threes, or fours, in a nest of stones and sand.
That was a discovery. Ishe had a bag oftsamba, but that was all. There was every probability that we should have to stay the night here, and now we had a quite unexpected store of provisions to last for months. And some time this persistent wind must cease. We played at Robinson Crusoe, and found our situation very advantageous. But the egg-collecting was the most interesting. The eggs were pretty and appetizing as they lay half embeddedin the sand, and I pictured to myself the happy cackling that must go on in the spring when the goose mothers sit with expectant hearts on the hard nests, and the sun floods Gurla Mandatta with a sea of light.
We broke two. They were rotten. We tried others which lay in the shade and deeper in the sand. They gave out a horrible stench when the shell broke with a crack on a stone. But of about 200 eggs we broke, we found eight which were edible, and we did not want more. We helped Ishe to collect dry plants lying on the slopes, and at sunset we had a huge heap which we had piled within a small ring fence. In the middle the fire was lighted, and we sat leaning against the wall which sheltered us from the wind. We were warm and comfortable, and our satisfaction reached its height when Ishe’s store oftsambawas divided into three equal portions, and was eaten out of a wooden bowl with the hand in place of a spoon. The greatest inconvenience was that we had no other vessel but Ishe’s small wooden bowl, and therefore whenever one of us wanted a drink he had to tramp down to the shore.
The storm still howled over the rock and through the holes and crannies of the wall. Then the thought shot through my mind: “Is the boat moored securely? If it should be carried away! Then we are lost. Ah, but it may be cast ashore on the northern bank, and our men may fetch it and come across to the island. No, it will be filled with water, and be sunk by the weight of the zinc plates of the centre-boards. But then we can mount in the morning to the southern point and make our people understand by signs that we want provisions. We have drifted to the island in eighteen minutes. They can make a raft with the tent poles and stays, load it with provisions, and let it drift with the wind to the island. And we may find more fresh eggs.”
Such were the thoughts that Robert and I exchanged while Ishe was feeling about in total darkness at the landing-place. “What if we have to stay here till the lake freezes over, four months hence?” I said. But at this moment we heard Ishe’s steps in the sand, and he calmedus with the assurance that both the boat and the oars were safe.
Then we talked together again and kept up the fire. The storm had abated, but sudden gusts came down from all quarters. We inspected the water, and found that we could make for the mainland without danger. But first we took all the remaining fuel and piled it up into a blazing bonfire, which shone like a huge beacon over the lake. If any Tibetan saw it, he must have thought that an enchanted fire was burning on the desolate island.
The moon was high when we put off and the lake was still rough. But soon the black cape where our camp stood was seen on the southern shore against the dim background of mountains. In the middle of the sound the depth was 113 feet. We shouted with all our might, and were soon answered by a fire on the point, to which our people had come down. And the roasted wild-goose, which had waited so long for us, and a cup of hot tea tasted delicious in the early hours of morn. And still more delightful was it to creep into bed after our short visit to the goose island, which raised its dark, mysterious, dolphin-like ridge in the moonlight. Never again would my foot tread its peaceful strand.
CHAPTER L
THE SOURCE OF THE SUTLEJ
Wehad scarcely dressed in the morning before the storm raged again. Galsan and a gova from Parka overtook us here. The former brought provisions, the latter had strict orders from his chief, Parka Tasam, to tell me that if I did not at once betake myself to Parka, he would send off all my baggage to Langak-tso, and force me to move on to Purang. But the gova himself was a jovial old fellow, and he received my answer that if Parka Tasam ventured to meddle with my boxes, he should be immediately deposed. If he kept quiet a couple of days, I would come to Parka, and the rather that I found it impossible to navigate the lake at this season of the year.
Then we marched on westwards, in and out of the bays and round all the projections produced by a mountain elevation north of Gurla, which prolongs its ramifications to the lake. The constantly changing views, as we wind in and out and wander between land and water, are indescribably beautiful and charming. The two large islands lying far out in the lake we see wherever we may be. One is named Dopserma; other water-birds breed there, but no geese. In winter yaks and sheep are driven over the ice to the island, where there is good pasturage. When cattle disease rages in the country the animals on Dopserma do not suffer.
We passed round the sharp-pointed westernmost bay in a furious storm and blinding clouds of sand, and encamped on the shore again. The same agreeable weather continued also on the last day of August as we travellednorth-eastwards and saw the Langak-tso in a new and beautiful aspect. The air was now clear, Kang-rinpoche and Gurla Mandatta were unclouded, and stood as sentinels above the lakes. We passed the point where Tundup Sonam, Ishe, and I had waited so long, and by the sand-dune where we had lain four hours.
At the north-western bay we cross the old bed of the Sutlej, consisting of treacherous, quaking bog or dry, hard clay; it is broad, has no terraces, and has been much degraded and smoothed down by deflation and driftsand in later times. Two springs rise up in the middle, and flow in the direction of the lake. Westwards the bed seems quite level, but actually it rises slowly and evenly to a flat culmination, on the other side of which it dips down towards the Indus.
Now it had become dark, and we rode hour after hour among low hills and dunes and over meadows and water channels. I thought we had lost our way, when the bells of grazing cattle were heard, a fire appeared, and Rabsang came to meet us with a lantern in order to lead us to the village Parka, where my tent was set up in a courtyard.
During the much-needed day of rest we allowed ourselves in Parka, I negotiated now and then with the govas of the neighbourhood. They asked me to set off definitely for the west next day, and I promised to do so, but on the condition that I might stay three days in Khaleb, half a day’s journey to the west. They consented without inquiring into my further intentions. I wished, be it known, to pass round the holy mountain by the pilgrim road, but saw that the authorities would never grant their permission. It could be done only by stratagem.
Here I received a second very kind letter from Mr. Cassels, who happened to be in Gyanima on official business. Unfortunately the force of circumstances prevented us meeting. He gave me a pleasant surprise with three packets of tea, which were the more welcome as I had latterly had to put up with brick-tea.
Here also the truth of the report that had so long followed us, that six Chinese and Tibetan officials from Lhasa had been sent to bring me to reason, was at lengthmade clear. The report was certainly true, but when the gentlemen on reaching Saka-dzong heard that I had marched on westwards some time before, they simply turned back again.
I obtained all kinds of information about the two lakes and their periodical outlets, from Tibetans who had long lived in the country. Four years before some water had flowed from Tso-mavang to Langak-tso, which confirms Ryder’s statement. Twelve years ago the outflow had been so abundant that the channel could not be passed except by the bridge. The channel is sometimes called Ngangga, sometimes Ganga. The water of Langak-tso is said to drain off underground, and to appear again at a place in the old bed called Langchen-kamba, and this water is said to be the true source of the Sutlej, and to find its way to the large streams which form this river, called in Tibetan Langchen-kamba. Twelve years and forty-eight years ago the spring in the old bed is said to have emitted much more water than now. Sherring collected similar data in 1905.
Langak-tso is said to have been so poisonous in former times that any one who drank of its water died, but since the holy fish broke through the isthmus and passed into the lake, the water has been sweet. Langak-tso freezes in the beginning of December, half a month sooner than its eastern neighbour, and the freezing proceeds slowly and in patches, whereas Tso-mavang freezes over in an hour. Langak-tso also breaks up half a month before Tso-mavang. Both have ice 3 feet thick. In winter the surface of Tso-mavang falls 20 inches beneath the ice, which consequently is cracked and fissured, and dips from the shore; but Langak-tso sinks only one or two thirds of an inch. This shows that it receives water constantly from the eastern lake, but only parts with a trifling quantity in winter.
With regard to the goose island, I was told that three men are commissioned by the Devashung to settle on the island as soon as the wild-geese arrive, to protect them from wolves and foxes. They receive 8 rupees, a sheep, and a lump of butter as wages. At this time,in May, the ice is still two feet thick, but the egg-gatherers must take care that they are not cut off from the mainland by a storm. Some years ago it happened that two watchmen were isolated on the island in this way. They lived there eight months, subsisting on eggs and green food, and returned over the ice next winter as soon as the lake was frozen over. But one of them was so enfeebled that he died on reaching Parka.
After a lively feast held by the Ladakis in the evening, we rode on September 2 north-westwards, accompanied by an old grey-headed gova, who had become a particular friend of mine. The weather was fine, but we now felt biting cold in the morning, much as at home on the islets off the coast when the yellow leaves have fallen and a thin sheet of ice has spread over the inlets. All Parka was on foot to witness our departure. With us set out a high lama whom I had known in Leh. His retinue looked well in their yellow dresses against the grey and green ground. He had been in Shigatse, and had lately made the circuit of the holy mountain. During the march we waded through the rivers Dam-chu, Sung-chu, La-chu, and Khaleb, which together carried about 350 cubic feet of water per second to Langak-tso.
The nearer we came to the holy mountain, the less imposing it appeared; it was finest from Langak-tso. In form it resembles a tetrahedron set on a prism. From the middle of its white top a belt of ice falls precipitously down, and below it stands a stalagmite of ice, on to which a thick stream of water pours from above. The stream splits up into glittering drops of spray and thin sheets of water—a grand spectacle, which one could watch with pleasure for hours.
Our camp on the Khaleb moor had the advantage of being far from the haunts of men—a very necessary condition, for here I contrived to make three excursions without permission. The second of these took a whole day, September 6, and its aim was the old bed of the Sutlej. Where we reached it, the bed seemed to contain stagnant water both to the east and west, and the ground was quite level. At the place which seemed highest, wetested it with the boiling-point thermometer and found that it stood about 30 feet above the lake. Following the bed westwards we come first to a large pool of sweet water with large quantities of ducks and water-weeds, then to a series of freshwater swamps connected by channels, and at length to a brook, which flows slowly south-westwards. The brook pours into a large freshwater pool, No. 2, which has no visible outlet. But when we proceed farther west to the point where the bed is contracted between walls of solid rock, we come upon two springs forming a new brook, which flows through a clearly marked valley to the south-west. I am convinced that this water filtrates underground from Langak-tso. A year later I followed the old bed a day’s march farther west, and found at Dölchu-gompa permanent springs of abundant water, which likewise well up on the bottom of the bed. From here and all along its course through the Himalayas the Tibetans call the Sutlej Langchen-kamba, the Elephant river; the hill on which the convent Dölchu-gompa is built is supposed to bear some resemblance to an elephant, and hence the name. The spring at Dölchu is called Langchen-kabab, or the mouth out of which the Elephant river comes, just as the Brahmaputra source is the Tamchok-kabab, or the mouth out of which the Horse river comes, and the Indus source is the Singi-kabab, or the mouth from which the Lion river comes. The fourth in the series is the Mapchu-kamba, the Peacock river or Karnali. The Tibetans assert that the source of the Sutlej is at the monastery Dölchu, not in the Himalayas or the Trans-Himalaya, from which, however, it receives very voluminous tributaries. They are also convinced that the source water of the Langchen-kamba originates from Langak-tso. And I would draw particular attention to the fact that the first of the two holy springs which pour their water into the Tage-tsangpo is also called Langchen-kamba (see p. 105), a proof that in old times the source was supposed to lie to the east of Tso-mavang.
Now I advise any one who takes no interest in the source of the Sutlej to skip the following quotation. During my stay in Kioto in December 1908, Mr. Ogawa,Professor of Geography in the University there, showed me a collection of Chinese books. One of them,Shui-tao-ti-kang, orThe Elements of Hydrography, is a compilation of the author Chi Chao Nan in the 26th year of the Emperor Kien Lung, that is, the year 1762, and in this work, Book 22, is the following communication concerning the source of the Sutlej, which Professor Ogawa was kind enough to translate for me literally:1
The Kang-ka-kiang comes out from Kang-ti-ssu-shan, on the south-east of which there stands Lang-chuan-ka-pa-pu-shan (= Langchen-kabab), magnificent like an elephant. The relief is gradually accentuated more and more towards the south-western frontiers, and culminates at Kang-ti-ssu-shan (= Kailas). The mountain has a circumference of more than 140 li. On all sides the mountain forms precipitous walls more than 1000 feet high above the surrounding mountains, and accumulated snow seems as if hung on cliffs. Hundreds of springs pour down from the top, but flow under the ground on the foot of the mountain. It is situated in the extreme west of the Tsang region, 310 li north-east of Ta-ko-la-cheng in A-li, more than 5590 li south-west of Si-ning-fu in Shensi province. Its longitude is 36° 4’ W., and its latitude 30° 5’ N. In olden times the place was unknown, but can be doubtfully identified with A-nok-ta-shan in the annotation of Shui-ching. In the neighbourhood there are four high mountains, of which the southern is called Lang-chuan-ka-pa-pu-shan, lying 250 li south-by-east of Kang-ti-ssu-shan, and 270 li east of Ta-kola-cheng. The natives call it so, because the form of the mountain resembles an elephant. On the east of this mountain there stands Ta-mu-chu-ko-ka-pa-pu-shan (= Tamchok-kabab), which is the source of the Ya-lu-tsang-pu river (= Yere-tsangpo or Brahmaputra). Springs come out from the northern foot of the mountain, and accumulate into a lake (35° 5’ W., and 29° 1’ N.). The water flows north-westwards for 70 li, and receives a stream coming from the north-east. The stream lies in the mountains 80 li north-east of Lang-chuan-ka-pa-pu. Two streams flow westwards from the mountain and turn north-westwards after their junction. It now takes a sinuous course for 60 li, turns south-westwards, and joins the main river. This is a source.The river flows further to the west-by-north for 40 li, then to the north-east, to be met by the water of lake Kung-sheng (= Gunchu-tso), which sinks under the ground of the lake basin, but which, after reappearing, and after receiving three northern affluents, runs south-westwards to the river.The lake of Kung-sheng-o-mo has two sources—one coming from the north-east, from Ta-ko-la-kung-ma-shan, and flowing 150-160 li; the other from the east, from the western foot of Ma-erh-yo-mu-ling (= Marium-la) in the western frontiers of Cho-shu-tê. This last-mentioned mountain forms the eastern boundary of A-li, and is the chief range going south-eastwards from Kang-ti-ssu. The water (of the lake Kung-sheng) flows westwards for more than 50 li, and forms another lake, 80 li wide, and without an outlet. However, more than 10 li farther to the west there is a third lake with a subterranean source and with a length of 30 li. A stream comes from the north to the lake. The river now flows south-westwards for 60 li, and receives a stream coming from the north-east. 40 li farther south-westwards it receives a stream coming from the northern mountains; farther south-westwards the river meets the water from Lang-chuan-ka-pa-pu-shan.The water forms the lake Ma-piu-mu-ta-lai (= Tso-mavang). From south to north it is 150 li long, from east to west 80 or 100 li wide, and has a circumference of more than 200 li. On the northern side of the lake there are two streams coming from the north. The lake is situated 120 li to the south of Kang-ti-ssu. The water flows out from the west of the lake into the lake Lang-ka (= Lan-gak-tso) at a distance of 60 li. The latter lake receives a stream coming from the north-east. Lake Lang-ka has a narrow rectangular shape, pointed and elongated, the length from south to north being 170 li, and the width from east to west 100 li. Its northern pointed corner has the stream coming from north-east. There are three sources on the southern foot at a distance of 70 li from a southern branch of Kang-ti-ssu; they flow southwards, unite into one stream, which takes a south-westerly course for 150-160 li before entering the lake. The lake is the same in circumference and area, but different in outline.The water (of lake Lang-ka) flows out from the west, and after running westwards for more than 100 li it turns to the south-west, and is now called the Lang-chu-ho, and takes a sinuous course for more than 200 li. Then it receives the Chu-ka-la-ho coming from the north-east.
The Kang-ka-kiang comes out from Kang-ti-ssu-shan, on the south-east of which there stands Lang-chuan-ka-pa-pu-shan (= Langchen-kabab), magnificent like an elephant. The relief is gradually accentuated more and more towards the south-western frontiers, and culminates at Kang-ti-ssu-shan (= Kailas). The mountain has a circumference of more than 140 li. On all sides the mountain forms precipitous walls more than 1000 feet high above the surrounding mountains, and accumulated snow seems as if hung on cliffs. Hundreds of springs pour down from the top, but flow under the ground on the foot of the mountain. It is situated in the extreme west of the Tsang region, 310 li north-east of Ta-ko-la-cheng in A-li, more than 5590 li south-west of Si-ning-fu in Shensi province. Its longitude is 36° 4’ W., and its latitude 30° 5’ N. In olden times the place was unknown, but can be doubtfully identified with A-nok-ta-shan in the annotation of Shui-ching. In the neighbourhood there are four high mountains, of which the southern is called Lang-chuan-ka-pa-pu-shan, lying 250 li south-by-east of Kang-ti-ssu-shan, and 270 li east of Ta-kola-cheng. The natives call it so, because the form of the mountain resembles an elephant. On the east of this mountain there stands Ta-mu-chu-ko-ka-pa-pu-shan (= Tamchok-kabab), which is the source of the Ya-lu-tsang-pu river (= Yere-tsangpo or Brahmaputra). Springs come out from the northern foot of the mountain, and accumulate into a lake (35° 5’ W., and 29° 1’ N.). The water flows north-westwards for 70 li, and receives a stream coming from the north-east. The stream lies in the mountains 80 li north-east of Lang-chuan-ka-pa-pu. Two streams flow westwards from the mountain and turn north-westwards after their junction. It now takes a sinuous course for 60 li, turns south-westwards, and joins the main river. This is a source.
The river flows further to the west-by-north for 40 li, then to the north-east, to be met by the water of lake Kung-sheng (= Gunchu-tso), which sinks under the ground of the lake basin, but which, after reappearing, and after receiving three northern affluents, runs south-westwards to the river.
The lake of Kung-sheng-o-mo has two sources—one coming from the north-east, from Ta-ko-la-kung-ma-shan, and flowing 150-160 li; the other from the east, from the western foot of Ma-erh-yo-mu-ling (= Marium-la) in the western frontiers of Cho-shu-tê. This last-mentioned mountain forms the eastern boundary of A-li, and is the chief range going south-eastwards from Kang-ti-ssu. The water (of the lake Kung-sheng) flows westwards for more than 50 li, and forms another lake, 80 li wide, and without an outlet. However, more than 10 li farther to the west there is a third lake with a subterranean source and with a length of 30 li. A stream comes from the north to the lake. The river now flows south-westwards for 60 li, and receives a stream coming from the north-east. 40 li farther south-westwards it receives a stream coming from the northern mountains; farther south-westwards the river meets the water from Lang-chuan-ka-pa-pu-shan.
The water forms the lake Ma-piu-mu-ta-lai (= Tso-mavang). From south to north it is 150 li long, from east to west 80 or 100 li wide, and has a circumference of more than 200 li. On the northern side of the lake there are two streams coming from the north. The lake is situated 120 li to the south of Kang-ti-ssu. The water flows out from the west of the lake into the lake Lang-ka (= Lan-gak-tso) at a distance of 60 li. The latter lake receives a stream coming from the north-east. Lake Lang-ka has a narrow rectangular shape, pointed and elongated, the length from south to north being 170 li, and the width from east to west 100 li. Its northern pointed corner has the stream coming from north-east. There are three sources on the southern foot at a distance of 70 li from a southern branch of Kang-ti-ssu; they flow southwards, unite into one stream, which takes a south-westerly course for 150-160 li before entering the lake. The lake is the same in circumference and area, but different in outline.
The water (of lake Lang-ka) flows out from the west, and after running westwards for more than 100 li it turns to the south-west, and is now called the Lang-chu-ho, and takes a sinuous course for more than 200 li. Then it receives the Chu-ka-la-ho coming from the north-east.
This description of the position of the source of the Sutlej is of such extraordinary interest that I do not like to reserve it for my scientific work, and the less so that it supports the theory I expressed when in India, that the Tage-tsangpo is nothing but the uppermost section of the course of the Sutlej, or, in other words, that the source of the Tage-tsangpo is also that of the Sutlej. Many quotations have been looked up during the discussion that hasarisen on this problem, but they cannot compare in importance with the one just cited, which, moreover, is sixty years older than the oldest of the others, namely, Gerard’s opinion that the Gunchu-tso is the source of the Sutlej.
The description in Chi Chao Nan’sHydrographyis distinguished by the same careful conformity with the truth and conscientiousness as all other Chinese geographical descriptions. Compare the description of Kailas (Kang-rinpoche) with what I have already said about it.
Lang-chuan-ka-pa-pu is the Chinese translation of the Tibetan Langchen-kabab, which literally means the “Source of the Sutlej.” When the Chinese author informs us that east of Langchen-kabab lies Tamchok-kabab, which is the source of the river Yere-tsangpo (Brahmaputra), we must admit that his description is quite in accordance with the truth, as I, the first European to visit this country, have myself discovered; for on the Tamlung-la I stood on the pass which parts the water between the Brahmaputra and Sutlej, and immediately to the south of the pass I saw Gang-lung-gangri and the glacier from which the Tage-tsangpo takes its rise, and in which the source of the Sutlej lies.
It is further said that the lake Gunchu-tso has two source streams—one from the north-east, from the mountain Ta-ko-la-kung-ma, which is evidently identical with D’Anville’s Tacra-concla; the other from the west side of the pass Marium-la: an account which agrees with Ryder’s map in all particulars. At present the Gunchu-tso is completely cut off and is salt; it therefore is no longer connected with the Sutlej system. But 147 years ago it had an outlet which ran partly underground, and then, rising up again, joined the Langchen-kamba or Tage-tsangpo. And that the Tage-tsangpo was at one time considered by the Tibetans to be the headwater of the Sutlej is apparent from the fact that its name, Langchen-kamba, is still applied to the upper of the two sacred source streams in the valley of the Tage-tsangpo.
And, again, it is said: This water, that is, the water of the Langchen-kabab, or the headwater of the Sutlej, forms the lake Ma-piu-mu-ta-lai, the Tso-mavang or Tso-mavam,as the name is also pronounced; on D’Anville’s map (Map 2) it is written Ma-pama Talai, and D’Anville explains that Talai signifies lake. He might have added that it is the same word as in Dalai Lama, the priest, whose wisdom is as unfathomable as the ocean; for the Chinese word Talai or Dalai means ocean. By the use of this word the Chinese author wished to imply that Tso-mavang is much larger than the other lakes mentioned in his text.
The surplus water, as there is every reason to assume, flowed in the year 1762 from Tso-mavang through the channel to Langak-tso. The length of the channel was 60 li, which corresponds to my 5½ miles. All the northern tributaries which flow into the two lakes from the valleys of the Trans-Himalaya are correctly noted. The lake Langak is called Lang-ka. On D’Anville’s map, the material for which was supplied by the Jesuits who lived in Pekin in the time of the Emperor Kang Hi (at the beginning of the eighteenth century), the lake is named Lanken. On the same map the river flowing thence westwards is called Lanc-tchou (Sutlej), but it is suggested, absurdly enough, that it is the upper course of the Ganges. D’Anville names the mountains south of Tso-mavang Lantchia-Kepou, which is Langchen-kabab, and the mountains lying to the south-east of them Tam-tchou, that is, Tamchok, in which he quite correctly places the origin of the Yarou Tsanpou, the Brahmaputra. The material for the map of the whole Chinese Empire, which the Jesuits presented to the Emperor Kang Hi in the year 1718, was collected between the years 1708 and 1716, and the Emperor procured information about Tibet through natives, who were prepared for their work by the Jesuits, just as in later times English topographers have trained Indian pundits.
From D’Anville’s map we learn that 200 years ago the Sutlej flowed out of Langak-tso through the bed I have already described. Professor Ogawa’s translation of the Chinese text shows us that even in the year 1762, or perhaps some years before, the river still emerged from the Langak-tso. And it is expressly said that the riverChu-ka-la-ho (Chu-kar, which, however, is said to descend from the north-east instead of the south-east) is only a tributary.
In the year 1846 Henry Strachey found no visible outlet, but he says that there is one underground, and considers it probable that the channel also may carry water when the lake has risen after heavy rains.
On July 30, 1908, I heard from the chief lama of the monastery Dölchu-gompa, who was born in the neighbourhood and was then fifty-five years old, that when he was quite young, water occasionally flowed out of the lake. But when he was ten years old, that would be in the year 1863, this water had failed, and since then no more had been seen. On the other hand, the springs in the bed are constant both in winter and in summer, and are independent of the precipitation. The monks believe that the water comes from Langak-tso, but nevertheless they call it the Langchen-kabab, the river which flows out of the mouth of the elephant.
My investigations on the spot, as well as the Chinese quotation, prove that Colonel S. G. Burrard is quite right in his masterly description of the rivers of the Himalayas and Tibet (Calcutta, 1907), when he includes Tso-mavang and Langak-tso and all their affluents in the drainage basin of the Sutlej, and therefore I will here cite two sentences of Colonel Burrard: