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We had another day’s rest in Pobrang; there we found the last good pasture land on the way to Tibet; it was, moreover, important that men and horses should gradually become accustomed to the increasing elevation. I had also received my letters from Sweden and India, and was a long time occupied with my letters and answers; the post-carrier was to return to Leh on the next day. But it was arranged that a mail-runner should be sent after us from there. From Pobrang he was to have a companion, for the country is infested with wolves. After the road came to an end the track of the caravan could easily be traced, and it was agreed that we should pile up small heaps of stones at doubtful points for the guidance of the letter-carriers. However, we never heard anything of them, and I do not know how they prospered. Pobrang, then, was the last point where I was in contact with the outer world.

Here we bought thirty sheep for fresh meat; we thought we should not want more, as the chase would yield us some supply, and some of my men were clever sportsmen.

At Muhamed Isa’s suggestion, Sonam Tsering’s pay was raised to 20 rupees, and he was appointed caravan-bashi of the mules. Old Guffaru was leader of the horse caravan, and Tsering, the short name we gave to Muhamed Isa’s brother, had the management of the small caravan which transported my daily necessaries, Robert’s tent, and the cooking outfit.

The jamadar, Rahman Khan, who had been my leader in 1902, and had come with us from Lamayuru, was discharged and well paid, and also the two chaprassis, Razul and Ishe. Old Hiraman insisted on keeping us company for another day’s journey, while the Numberdar of Pobrang and the Kotidar of Tankse were to remain with us, as already mentioned, up to the plateau. Thus our party was gradually lessened; last of all the hired horses and their ten attendants would leave us.

I consulted every evening with Muhamed Isa; Robert, too, was generally present, for he was the first of all my servants, conducted the business of the caravan, and kept accounts of the expenditure. We now resolved that some of the hired yaks should carry the boat, and that the last of the coolies should turn back. Then we took stock of our provisions: the maize and barley must last for 68 days; the meal for our thirty men would hold out for 80 days, and with economy for three months; the rice would not be all consumed for four or five months. But, however carefully calculations and estimates may be made, it is a risky, adventurous undertaking to cross the whole of Tibet, and the calculations seldom turn out correct. One may be sure of losing animals wholesale; matters may, too, come to a crisis, when the loads become too heavy for the surviving animals, and part of the baggage must be sacrificed. It may also happen that the provender diminishes more quickly than the animals, and then the latter must put up with smaller feeds, and at last find what nourishment they can on the ground.

My chief anxiety now was to maintain the caravan until we might meet the first nomads to the north of Bogtsang-tsangpo; had we good fortune so far, we should manage to get on by some means or other. I now drew up a provisional plan of campaign, the chief point being that it was based, not on time and distances, but on pasturage and water. The length of a day’s march was, then, fixed by the occurrence of these indispensable resources, and even a march of one hour in the day was enough when it led to tolerable pasture. Where, however, the land was quite barren we might travel any distance we liked. No one had any suspicion of my actual plans; I meant to reveal all only when the last men and their horses had left us. If I let anything transpire now, my plan would be made known in Ladak, and would reach the ears of my opponents. Then, as so often before, a merciless “Thus far and no farther” would have sounded in my ears even at Bogtsang-tsangpo.

On August 24 we left Pobrang, the last village, and rode up the valley. Fine tame yaks were sunning themselves on small grassy patches. To the left stretches out the Ldata valley, with good pasture lands in its lower part. Seen from a flat hilly rise with a couple of stone cairns, the country to the east assumes more of a Tibetan character, with low, rounded forms, and small, slightly marked open valleys and dried-up river beds. Everything seems dreary and barren; small hard yapkak plants are alone visible. The ascent is extremely slow, but the path is still easily perceptible in the tiring gravel or sand. Not a drop of water is to be seen. The weather is quite Tibetan: burning hot when the atmosphere is calm and clear; raw and cold when the sun is overcast, and the wind envelops horse and rider in sand.

At Lunkar we encamped near some deserted stone huts. A couple of hundred yards from us were grazing a pair of kulans or kiangs, as the wild asses are called in Tibet and Ladak. Nine fires lighted up the darkness, and snow hissed among the firebrands, continuing to fall, so the night watchman reported, till early morning.

Consequently in the morning was heard the crunching sound caused by footfalls on frozen snow; my tent bulged inwards under the burden, while all the landscape disappeared under a white wintry mantle, and dense clouds hung over all the crests. Manuel and Ganpat Sing had never seen snow falling before; they appeared extremely astonished and curious, and looked very cold in their pustins or Yarkand fur coats. The puppies were highly displeased at this new occurrence, and barked at the snow in their disgust till they found that it was no use. They also disapproved of our impudence in adding two large dogs from Pobrang to the caravan. Another reinforcement consisted of ten goats to supply me with milk, which were obtained in Lunkar.

We were all of a sudden transferred from the summer that reigned in Tankse to midwinter on the heights, and received a foretaste of the cold of the neighbouring Tibet. We saw little more of the summer this year—Pamzel might allow us to take a last farewell of the warm season.

The main caravan was still there when I left my tent, and we started all together. Old Hiraman took leave of us, and rode back down to his hut. The sun came out, and all around became dazzling white; even the Ladakis were forced to protect their eyes with a tuft of wool, which they fixed in front under their caps, and they looked very comical with this by no means becoming frontal decoration.

The long train now wound up to the pass like a huge black snake. The forty sheep and goats with their drivers led the way, but were soon overtaken by the mules, which now marched all day at the front. Next came Muhamed Isa with the horse caravan, and at his heels the hired horses with their leaders, and the yaks belonging to them. In their tracks followed our seven hired yaks, which carried the heaviest boxes and the boat; they did their work very well, and were first-rate animals—great black beasts; they did not seem to be affected by the high elevation of the pass, nor to feel the weight of the boxes; and kept up with the rear of the caravan all day long. Behind the yaks I rode, with Robert, the Kotidar of Tankse, and a runner who held my horse when I dismounted to search for rock specimens, take bearings, or make sketches. Last of all came Tsering and Manuel with my small caravan (Illustration 47).

We had not ridden far when we came up with the horse entered as number 52 on the list; it came from Sanskar, and cost 90 rupees. It had eaten nothing the day before, and was evidently on its last legs, for its leader could only make it stumble on a step at a time. It bled from the nostrils, its belly was swollen, and its muzzle was cold—all bad symptoms. It seemed to suffer from giddiness, and at last fell down and could not be induced to get up again. After a time, however, it raised itself up with a last effort, but rolled over again on the other side. We saw it from the pass still lying motionless, its attendant beside it; the latter overtook us later and reported that there was nothing to be done with the horse. So it was numbered 1 in the list of the lost, and we decided that the Kotidar might keep it, should it unexpectedly recover.

This pass, the Marsimik-la, had looked quite easy from our camping-ground at Lunkar, but now we found that it would be a very serious matter to cross it. The horses had to stop and recover their wind every five minutes at first, then every minute and a half, and at last they could not go more than a minute at a time, and then must stand still for as long. The snow now lay a foot deep, and the caravan marked out a coal-black winding line through the white expanse. Curious yellowish-grey and violet clouds rose above the mighty snowy range to the south and west. When the sun was visible our faces and hands were scorched; but when it was hidden behind clouds the day was pleasant, and the glitter of the sunshine on the snow, so trying to the eyes, was extinguished by the shadows of the clouds.

The caravan in front of us seems hardly to move, so slow is the progress in this highly rarefied air. Still it does move onwards, as we can tell by the constant shouts of the drivers. Some of the Ladakis sing together to lighten the toil of themselves and the animals. They are as cheerful and contented as though they were going to a harvest festival. From time to time Muhamed Isa’s voice growls forth like rolls of thunder, shouting out Khavass and Khabardar. We see him standing up above at the last turn up to the pass, and hear him distributing his orders from the centre of the semicircle now formed by the caravan. His sharp, practised eye takes in every horse; if a load threatens to slip down he calls up the nearest man; if there is any crowding, or a gap in the ranks, he notices it immediately. With his hands in his pockets and his pipe in his mouth he goes up quietly on foot over the Marsimik-la.

47. The Way to the Marsimik-la.

48. Spanglung.

Now the first column of mules reaches the ridge of the pass. A joyous shout goes out over the mountains; it is heard clearly and distinctly, but is indescribably thin, cold, and toneless, and at once dies away without awaking the feeblest echo; the air is too rare for that. Every detachment as it comes to the pass raises the same shout of triumph. With a feeling of relief I watch the last horse disappear below the white outline of the pass summit.

At the highest point I made, as usual, a fairly long halt to take observations, while Tsering’s detachment filed past me, and the yaks tramped, grunting, over the Marsimik-la. The absolute height was 18,343 feet, the sky was partly clear, and it was as warm as in an oven, though the temperature had risen only to 34.7°. Before we began to move again the tail of the procession had vanished behind the point of rock which marks the entrance to the valley that leads downwards. The fallen horse lay lonely and forlorn, a dark spot in the snow. It was the offering the gods of the pass had exacted as toll.

Eastwards the high range appears more uniform, as though planed down, and no prominent summit rises above the crest. The descent from the pass is bestrewn with pebbles and small blocks, which may be said to swim in mud. The snow thaws, and a continual trickling murmuring sound is heard. The route of the caravan is marked by an endless succession of small deep ditches filled with water, and meandering in dark lines through the white surface. Numerous trickles of water collect into a rivulet, which rushes down among the stones. Where the ground is level a swamp is formed, dome-shaped clumps of moss render it uneven, and between these stand pools, often of deceptive depth. For a long distance we follow a perfectly bare slope, and we are almost impatient at descending so slowly to the layers of denser air.

At length we go down steeply into the valley over a disagreeable slope of detritus crossed by a number of small water channels. On the left opens a large trough-shaped valley, where we can perceive in the upper part three snow-covered glacier tongues with fissures in the ice-front standing out clearly. From these a large brook issues, which unites with the brook from the pass into a greenish-grey foaming river. From their confluence we see the whole length of the valley which we must traverse to reach our camping-ground. It is deeply and boldly eroded; the foaming river occupies the whole of its bottom. We must therefore keep to the steep banks on the right side, 300 to 600 feet above the river. Here the ground is detestable—coarse, sharp pebbles forming the edge of a terrace—and as we have to ride along the outer edge we should roll down the slope and break our necks if the horses made a false step.

Here one of the Pobrang dogs came towards us; he made a wide detour to avoid us, and did not once look at us when we tried to coax him. Probably he suspected that we were on the way to inhospitable regions, and thought he could lead a more peaceful life at the miserable huts of Pobrang. At length we came down over swampy moss-grown rubbish mounds to the camp, which was situated just where our valley ran at an angle into the Spanglung valley, in the midst of lofty mountains where nothing could be heard but the monotonous roar of the two streams. Wearied out, we threw ourselves into our tents and enjoyed the pleasant heat of the brazier. Bikom Sing went up the mountains and shot at an antelope, but missed. Muhamed Isa said jestingly that hitherto the Rajputs had done no more than the puppies. He did not include them at all in our muster roll; in his opinion they did nothing but consume our stores of meal and rice; but he was unjust in condemning them before they had had an opportunity of distinguishing themselves (Illustrations 48, 49).

The moon shone, a cold pale sickle, over the mountains, and we were glad to get to rest; after such a day the night comes as a friend and deliverer.

Our route to Pamzal continued downwards along the Spanglung valley, sometimes about 150 feet above the bottom, where some snowdrifts resisted the warmth of the short summer, sometimes on sharply defined terraces forming several steps. The road was bad, for the whole country was full of detritus. On the right opened the Lungnak valley with small snowy peaks in the background, and before us towered the great dark range lying on the north side of the Chang-chenmo valley. The Manlung valley runs up from the south-west, and its stream contributes a large addition of muddy water to our valley.

49. Spanglung.

50. Camp near Pamzal.

51. The Chang-chenmo and the Way to Gogra.

As we advanced farther, other grand snowy mountains and jagged peaks came into view—these are the heights that enclose the Chang-chenmo valley. At last the path turned into this valley, and we bivouacked on the small strip of vegetation on the left bank of the river (Illustration 50).

Towards evening the river rose considerably; when we measured its volume next morning we found the discharge to be 494 cubic feet a second, and large strips of the stony bed were still wet from the high-water in the night. In summer one cannot ride through the river at this place; then it rolls enormous floods down to the Indus. Its name is Kograng-sanspo, while Chang-chenmo denotes rather the whole country around. The Ladakis said that the summer would here last twenty days longer; after that the nights would become cold but the days remain fairly warm; then, however, winter would come with ever-increasing rigour.

Eastwards five days’ march brings one to the pass Lanak-la, which belongs to the colossal ridge of the Karakorum mountains running right through Tibet. Some English travellers have crossed this pass. To me the road was closed. I had promised Lord Minto not to act against the wishes of the English Government, but I should like to know who could have prevented me now.

On August 28 we left this pleasant, quiet spot, and now it would be long before we came again to so low a level. We were constantly increasing the distance from roads and human dwellings; for some time yet we were to remain in known country, and then the vast unknown land in the east awaited us. The day was fair and warm when I set out with my usual companions, Robert, Rehim Ali, one of our Mohammedans, and the two drivers from Tankse and Pobrang.

The terrace on the left bank, on which we ride, is washed by a branch of the stream which is very muddy, forms small rapids, and usually divides into several arms. The whole of the valley bottom is grey with rubbish; the river water has much the same colour, and therefore is not conspicuous in the landscape. There is no living thing anywhere around, neither tame yaks nor wild animals, and not a sign of men. But a faintly beaten footpath shows that mountaineers occasionally wander here. It guides us down to the river again, at a point opposite the narrow, deep, and boldly sculptured transverse valley Kadsung with the usual terraces, from which emerges a brook of clear, blue, beautifully fresh water and mingles with, and is lost in, the dirty grey water of the main stream. Here the path again turns upwards and affords a short cut over a small pass to our camp for the night. We could see at a distance that in the middle of the steep slope where the path runs there had been a landslip, and a deep fissure formed which we could hardly cross until some alterations had been effected. A troop of men were sent in advance with spades and pick-axes, and meanwhile the various sections of the caravan collected together on the bank.

Some men examined the ford on foot, for here we had to cross the main stream. The water certainly foamed up to the houghs of the horses as they were led over in long files, but the depth was nowhere more than 2½ feet, and all came safely to the other bank. The yaks evidently liked the bath; they waded through the water as slowly as possible, and my boat was poised over its own element without touching it. The most difficult task was to get the sheep and goats over. The whole flock was driven to the water’s edge, and some were seized by the horns and thrown into the river, though they struggled frantically. But the rest found the situation too disagreeable, turned tail and made a wild dash up the nearest terrace. Again they were all driven to the bank, and were there shut in by a line of men and pushed into the water, and as the first had now made up their minds to wade, the others followed and bravely struggled against the current (Illustrations 51, 52).

Immediately after, the caravan was seen labouring up the steep slope; it was a pretty sight, but not without danger. The sheep did not keep to the path, but climbed about in search of food.

52. Muhamed Isa in the River Chang-chenmo near Pamzal.

A couple of minutes after the little pass Mankogh-la is left behind there is a bird’s-eye view of the valley of the Kograng-sanspol, at any rate of the upper part, which we had followed from Pamzal; it makes here a sharp turn, and we came over hills and spurs down again to the river-bank. The camping-ground, which has fairly good pasturage, is called Gogra. From here two valleys run up to the main crest of the Karakorum range, the Chang-lung-barma and the Chang-lung-yogma or “the middle and the lower north valleys.” Both valleys would take us to a nasty pass; we chose the second. We must get over somehow or other, and at dangerous places the most valuable baggage could, if necessary, be carried by men. With his cap on the side of his head, his fur coat thrown negligently over his shoulders, and the inevitable pipe in his mouth, Muhamed Isa stalked like a field-marshal through the smoke of the camp-fires and issued his orders for the next day’s march. None of our men, indeed, knew the road, but from their uncertain reports we could gather that we had a nasty bit of work before us.

We did not reach a much greater height during our march, but we had to go up and down over so many hills and steep declivities that the day’s journey was as trying as though we had surmounted a number of passes. The river was now considerably smaller, as many of its tributaries had been left behind. Nevertheless, it was more troublesome to ford than before, for the whole volume of water was confined to one channel, and the fall was greater. It seemed hopeless to drive the sheep into the cold water where the current would carry them away. The shepherds were at a loss what to do when I lost sight of them, and I do not know how the passage was accomplished; but they came across somehow, for they reached the camp all safe and sound. The dark-green schists in this neighbourhood are partly much weathered, partly hard and untouched. A large cairn stands on a hill, and one of the men asserted that an old road to Yarkand ran past here, while Guffaru affirmed that some, at least, of Forsyth’s companions travelled through this country.

The headwaters of the river flow from a large valley to the north-west, its background formed by snow mountains, while we follow the heights above a side valley, which, seen from above, has a grand and almost awesome aspect. A small, clear brook murmurs melodiously along the bottom. Then again we descend over soft red dust and rubbish. Small cairns mark the route, and guide us down to the bottom of the valley, here very narrow, and confined between steep, dark schistose rocks. A little higher up the rocky walls are perpendicular, and the river finds its way through a dark gorge. We therefore have to climb up the right side to avoid the difficult spots, and the ascent is very steep. Here the caravan came to a standstill; Muhamed Isa’s gigantic form was seen at the worst point of the ascent. Every horse had to be assisted up by five men. One tugged at the bridle, two supported the load at either side to prevent it slipping off, and two pushed behind; as soon as somewhat easier ground was reached the baggage was put to rights and the cords tightened, and then the horse had to get along the track without help.

In the Chuta district, where we again find ourselves at the valley bottom, warm springs of sulphurous water rise out of the earth. One of them has built up a pyramid 10 feet high, somewhat like a toad-stool; the water bubbles up from the centre of the crown, and drops down the sides, forming a circle of stalactites around. The water as it leaves the orifice has a temperature of 124° F. Another spring, which sends a jet of water right into the river, has a heat of only 108°. At many places on the bank and in the river-bed the water bubbles up with a simmering noise.

After more rugged slopes of rubbish and loose yellow dust we arrived at last in the Chang-lung-yogma valley, where the pasturage was very scanty. In the evening it snowed hard, and the valley was veiled in a mystic light, which was perhaps a faint reflexion of the moon. A couple of fires flashed out of the mist and lighted up the large tent of the Ladakis. Only the murmur of the brook broke the silence. Suddenly, however, repeated shouts resounded through the stillness of the night—perhaps some horses had taken into their heads to stampede to more hospitable regions.

53. Rabsang, Adul, Tsering, and Muhamed Isa.

54. Our Horses at the Karakorum.

We needed a day’s rest in this camp, for before us was the high pass which forms a watershed between the Indus and the isolated drainage of the plateau. Muhamed Isa and Sonam Tsering rode up the valley to reconnoitre, and, meanwhile, Robert and I repacked my boxes amidst alternations of sunshine and snowfalls; winter clothing and furs were taken out, and the tent bed was put aside; henceforth my bed was to be made on the ground, on a foundation consisting of a waterproof sheet and a frieze rug; by this method it is much easier to get warm.

On the last day of August the ascent was continued. The country was white with snow, but before noon the ground was clear again. I now rode a small, white, active Ladak pony; it was sure-footed, and we were soon good friends. A small stone wall at a bend of the route shows that men have been here; but many years have probably elapsed since their visit, for there is no sign of a path or other indications of their presence. All is barren, yet it is evident that wild yaks have been here not long ago. Muhamed Isa set up three cairns at the mouth of a very small insignificant side-valley for the guidance of the expected post-runners. Here we turned aside from the main valley. The contours of the mountains now become more rounded, the relative heights diminish, and the valleys are not so deeply excavated as on yesterday’s ride. The rivulet, which we follow up to its source in the main ridge, is the last connected with the system of the Indus, but still it is a child of the Indus, and carries to the sea news of this elevated region. Winter will soon chain up its waters, soon it will fall asleep in the cold and frost, until the sun calls it to life again in spring (Illustration 55).

An old yak skull was set up on a rocky projection and grinned at us—another of Muhamed Isa’s waymarks. There were several yapkak plants, hard as wood, in a small hollow, but even this meagre forage was no longer to be despised. We therefore pitched our camp here at a height of 16,962 feet, or about 1300 feet higher than Mont Blanc. This camp was distinguished as No. 1, for we were now in a country beyond the range of topographical names. A huge stone pyramid was erected among the tents, for the men had nothing else to do while the animals were gnawing at the yapkak stalks close by.