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On September 19 we took leave of the Hindus and the natives of Tankse. I was sorry for the former; it was not their fault that they could not bear the climate, and they had had no opportunity of showing what they were worth. On the last evening Bikom Sing had sung his swan-song in our party, the same monotonous, melancholy Sanskrit hymn which had so frequently reminded himself and his fellow-countrymen of a warm country with pleasant huts in the shade of palms and mango trees, of laden ox-carts on dusty roads, and of the warning growl of the royal tiger in the jungle by the river bank, when the full moon shines from heaven on mild spring nights. I thanked them for their good, faithful, and honest services, paid them well, provided for their return journey, and handed them good testimonials. They received supplies of meal, sugar, tea, and rice, and a sheep for butcher’s meat. Manuel was allowed to take with him one of the puppies which he was fond of. Muhamed Isa had sewed together a tent of empty corn sacks, to protect them from the frosts at night.

They intended to travel on the first day only to the foot of the red mountain chain, and the day was already far advanced when they shook hands and mounted their horses. We remained standing awhile, watching the little party grow smaller under the sun in the south-west, and soon disappearing behind the nearest hills.

I have never heard anything more of them. Eighteen months later Manuel’s father wrote to inquire where his son was, but I did not know. So much I ascertained, that he had arrived safely at Leh, but I could not track him any farther. However, I hope that he will turn up all right at home after his wanderings. We missed them sorely, but we consoled ourselves with the boat, which was unpacked and put together on the bank.

A bright clear day after 30 degrees of frost. The rivulet at our camp was frozen into a shiny riband, meandering to the strand, and along the bank a belt of ice two yards broad flapped up and down under the beat of the ripples. The water of the lake may be drunk in case of necessity; probably its affluents reduce the salinity along our shore, where the river descending from the pass and numerous springs pour into it. The sand on the bottom of the lake is finely and sharply rippled by the oscillating movement of the waves, and the water is crystal clear.

Now our horses, which had lost another comrade in camp No. 15, were laden with heavy packs. The caravan had orders to skirt the northern shore of the lake, and to encamp at some suitable spot near it. Robert was to draw a rough sketch of the shore-line; Tsering, Muhamed Isa’s brother, accompanied me at his own request. And so we left at the same time this dreary place, where we had parted with our companions and had lost seven horses. Amid the silence of the desert it lay rocked to sleep, as it were, by the murmur of the waves against the shore—a burial-ground forgotten by gods and men.

Tsering soon got used to the oars, and afterwards the west wind came to our assistance. We made across to the north-western corner of the lake, and had a much less distance to cover than the caravan, which had to make a wide detour. The sail was only a trial trip, but I was delighted from the first moment with the English boat, which was solid and comfortable, and easy to steer. The greatest depth we measured was 159 feet. After rounding a promontory we caught sight of the bluish-grey smoke of our camp a little distance from the shore, drew the boat on to the beach, and rejoined our people.

The camp was arranged as follows: Muhamed Isa, Tsering, two other men, and the kitchen were accommodated in a large tent, quadrangular below and pyramidal above. The principal Ladakis lived in the Tibetan tent, while the rest found shelter within the ramparts of the provision sacks. Robert had Manuel’s tent to himself, and he had piled up so many boxes of all kinds round his bed that it looked like a Parsee tomb. Outside, on the right wing, stood my tent, a little apart from the others. The black Pobrang dog was missing; probably he was enjoying a feast on the seven dead horses; and so it was in fact: when Muhamed Isa sent a man back to camp 15 there was the dog fat and bloated, like a tightly stuffed bag, and so lazy and stupid that he could hardly move. He had thoroughly overeaten himself, and would not look at his food for a whole day after.

September 21 was a memorable day in our chronicles. The boat lay on the shore ready to sail, and I resolved to spare the horses its weight once more. Eastwards the lake seemed quite small, and it could not be far to its eastern bank, near which the caravan could encamp wherever there was passable grazing. If it became too dark before they heard anything of me, they could light a beacon fire on the shore. But, of course, we should turn up in good time. We looked upon the trip as a mere trifle, and did not think of providing ourselves with food, drinking-water, fuel, and warm clothing for the night. I was dressed as usual, wore my leathern vest, and took my ulster with me, and a fur coat was spread over the back bench only to make a soft seat.

70. Rehim Ali, one of my Ladakis on the First Crossing of Tibet.

Yes, we were too thoughtless on this occasion. In the forenoon I inspected the animals, as usual, and then gave Rehim Ali a lesson in rowing, for he was to come with me this time, and he did so well that he was solemnly appointed Kemibashi, or admiral of the fleet. Just at starting I decided to row across the lake, to sound its depth and ascertain its breadth. The distances, or, more correctly, the course, I measured with a log by Lyth of Stockholm, and the depths were to be sounded every quarter of an hour. We should certainly reach the rendezvous before dark. At eleven o’clock the temperature of the water was 43° F., and it rose afterwards a few degrees higher. The day was bright and quite calm; at one o’clock we noted 53° F. I took the dark opening of a bank terrace as the point to steer for. We could do without drinking-water, for the hydrometer marked 1000 in the lake; it therefore floated as low as in fresh water (Illustration 70).

The lagoons on our shore were covered with ice fully half an inch thick. Six wild yaks were seen at the foot of the mountain to the north. The lake lay deceptively quiet and smooth; only a slow gentle swell, the last reminder of the effect of the expiring night wind, could be felt. Not a wisp of cloud, not the slightest breeze—weather all the more enjoyable after the storms of the past days. The lake shone against the light turquoise-blue vault of heaven, when we looked southwards, with as bright a green as the tender foliage of birches in the spring.

For a few minutes we heard the bells of the mules as they tramped off, but the black line of the caravan soon vanished in the hilly lands along the shore. Rehim Ali rowed like a practised boatman. At the second sounding-station the depth was 115 feet, and at the third 161. When my oarsman shipped his oars the next time the sounding-line, 213 feet long, did not reach the bottom; unfortunately we had no reserve lines, for I had never found before such great depths in a Tibetan lake.

“This lake has no bottom at all,” groaned Rehim Ali.

“Of course it has a bottom, but we have no more line.”

“Does not the Sahib think it dangerous to go further when the lake is bottomless?”

“There is no danger on that account; we can row to the shore, which is not far, and then we have only a short distance to the camp.”

“Inshallah, but it may be farther than it looks. Bismillah,” he cried, and he set to work again.

About two o’clock the lake was as smooth as a sheet of glass, and showed curious confused reflexions of the mountains. We became quite dizzy in the head; the lake had now assumed the same colour as the sky, and we might have been soaring in a space of bright blue ether within a magical spherical planet. Behind us, to the north, the panorama of a mighty crest unrolled itself, with flattish lofty domes covered with eternal snow. The sun was scorching hot, Rehim Ali wiped his brow, the smoke of my cigarette hung motionless in the air, there was not a ripple except those produced by the boat and the oars—it was a pity to spoil the surface. All was quiet and peaceful as a day in late summer which had lingered among the mountains.

“God protect us from the darkness,” said Rehim Ali; “it is dangerous to be on the water after the sun has set.”

“Do not be afraid.”

Now the sounding-line touched the bottom at 95 feet, and next time at 34 feet. A quarter of an hour later we jumped ashore.

I drew a panorama of the northern mountains, while Rehim Ali munched a piece of bread which he had providently brought with him.

It was a quarter to four when we put off again. In two hours it would be dark, but then we should see the camp-fire on the shore. The east end of the lake seemed quite close, but we were easily deceived by the mirage. We rowed for a while east-north-eastwards along the shore. It would be extraordinary if the west wind did not get up on this day. I asked Rehim Ali repeatedly, for he had the western horizon in front of him, if the view was clear in that direction, or if the westerly storm was making its appearance.

“No, there is no storm,” he answered quietly.

“Yes, now it is coming,” he said, after a short interval; “and it will be a bad one.”

I turn round and see in the west, above the pass we had crossed some days before, high, light-yellow vortices of sand and dust, which soon tower up to 30° above the horizon; they rise rapidly, condense into a dark cloud, and hide the view of the western heights. Yes, that is a westerly storm coming on.

71. Starting on a Voyage.

But the danger to us is not great; we can land wherever we like; we have matches to light a fire, and sufficient yapkak can be found, so we shall not freeze even with 29 degrees of frost; and we can do without food for once.

But we will not land; perhaps the camp is close to. “Row on, Rehim Ali—no, wait a moment, set up the mast and loose the sail before the storm breaks, and then we shall get help for a part of the way. If the storm becomes too violent we will go ashore.”

It is still deadly quiet. But now comes the first forerunner—a ripple skims over the surface, the wind catches the sail, puffs it out like a ball, smoothing out all its folds, the boat darts forwards, and a whirling, boiling track is formed in our wake. We keep to the southern shore; there lie a series of lagoons and spits of sand and pebbles. A pair of black geese sit on one of these spits; they gaze in astonishment as we pass; they perhaps take us for a huge water-bird which cannot fly, because it has only one wing. The lake is getting rougher; we fly towards a spit to the north-east; oh, heavens! the water is only 3 feet deep under our keel. If we run aground the boat will be dashed to pieces; its oiled sailcloth is as taut as a drum-skin. I put the helm over as far as possible, and graze the spit amidst the raging surf; the manœuvre succeeds, and the next minute we are in deep open water where the waves are more moderate.

Now a spit shows itself to the east-north-east projecting far into the lake, but it is a long distance off, and we are out on the agitated lake, where the white horses are getting higher and higher and their roar becomes louder and louder; the whole lake is in the wildest commotion; if we can only reach that landspit safe and sound we can get under its lee and land safely. Yes, we must land by hook or crook, for the storm is upon us; it becomes more violent every moment and the mast cracks; I dare not sail any longer with the sheet made fast. We have a grand sailing wind, the water roars and rages under the stem and boils and bubbles behind us. We have to look out, for if the mast breaks, which already bends like a whip, the boat will tip over, will fill in a moment, and will be sunk by the weight of the centre-board, which is not in use but is carried as cargo. We have two life-buoys as a last resource.

Rehim Ali sits in the bow. He clings to the mast, keeps a look-out forwards, and reports that the lake beyond the landspit is as extensive as in the west. We have been the victims of an illusion, and cannot reach the eastern shore before complete darkness overtakes us. Would it not be better to land and wait for the day? Yes, let us land and get into the lee of the landspit. The sun sinks, the storm grows in strength, we can hear it howling through the chasms to the south; fine spindrift flies like a comet’s tail over the crests of the waves; it is a most critical and trying moment. The dust clouds have disappeared, and the western horizon is dimly perceptible. The sun sinks to its rest, a ball of liquid gold, and a weird, mysterious gleam spreads over the whole country. Everything is coloured red except the dark-blue white-edged lake. The night rises out of the east, dark purple shades lengthen out behind the mountains, but the most easterly pinnacles and the summit T, rising above all the others with its glittering snowfields, stands out fiery red against the dark background, like volcanic cones of glass lighted within by glowing streams of lava; a couple of riven clouds rush eastwards, their crimson colour vying in beauty with the snowfields and glaciers below them. All shades of rose-colour play on the sail, and a purple foam quivers on the crests of the waves as though we were being driven over a sea of blood.

The sun sinks; now the sail and spray turn white, and soon only the last tint of the evening red lights up the highest snowfields. The night spreads further westwards, and the last glow, the final glimmer of day, dies out on the summits in the south-east.

Rehim Ali crouches at the bottom of the boat while we shoot towards the landspit, tossing, rolling, and pitching. All outlines are still sharp and clear. I steer the boat out of the surf round the landspit, but then pause a moment; it would be easy to get into lee-water; but no, all is well now—the moon shines brightly, and before it goes down we may perhaps reach another point.

72. In Peril on Lake Lighten.

Through driving spume and hissing foam we fly past the point, and in a second it is too late to get under its lee, however much we might wish to do so, for the roar of the surge dies away behind us, and open water again yawns before us black as night, bounded in the distance by a scarcely perceptible strip of land, another spit of the gravel so abundant on the southern shore.

So we speed over the disturbed lake. We start with a fright, for we hear the huge waves rolling over behind us. The dull droning comes nearer, and I turn round—we must inevitably be buried under the heavy, rolling crests. A faint gleam of the dying day still lingers in the west. The spray, driven by the storm, gives us a cool bath. Then the waves reach us, but they lift up the boat gently, and then roll on towards the eastern shore, which Rehim Ali does not expect to reach.

Now the sail is white in the moonshine, and my shadow passes up and down it with the movement of the boat. Rehim Ali is almost dead of fright; he has rolled himself up like a hedgehog on the bottom of the boat and buried his face in my ulster, so as not to see the agitated water. He says not a word, he is quite resigned and is awaiting his last moments. The distance to the eastern shore cannot be estimated, and it is certainly impossible to effect a landing there without shipwreck. If there are cliffs and reefs on the shore we shall be mangled and crushed amid the breakers, and if the strand slopes down gently we shall capsize, and be thrown ashore by the great rolling billows like a piece of cork (Illustration 72).

In the midst of the dark, indistinct chaos the surf at the point of the landspit flashes out; it is more furious than at the other point, for the waves have become larger as we have left a wider expanse of lake behind us. I try to get into the lee, but the storm drives us out again, and we are away from the land before we are aware. It now becomes colder, but I do not feel it, the excitement is too great, and our lives are at stake. I look in vain for the beacon of my servants; have they not obeyed my orders, or are they so far from the shore that the fire is invisible? I succeed in removing the back bench and sit on the bottom, where I am somewhat protected from the cutting wind. Behind us, the broken streak of moonlight on the water makes the waves look more weird than before; they have become gigantic, and the nearest hides all behind it.

The hours pass one after another; the moon sets. Now all is pitch darkness; only the stars flicker like torches over our heads, otherwise the deepest blackness surrounds us. My right hand is gone to sleep, cramped with grasping the rudder; the boat seems to dart eastwards, but the waves roll past us—they are still quicker than we. Now and then I ask Rehim Ali whether his cat’s eyes can see the breakers on the eastern shore. He casts a hurried glance over the gunwale, answers that they are still very far off, and buries his face again in the ulster. The tension becomes more acute; whatever happens we are certainly approaching the moment when the boat will be cast helpless on the strand. I hope that the lake is so broad that we may continue our wild career till daybreak. But no, that is incredible, for there are no lakes so large in Tibet. We have the whole night before us, and in this flying course we can cover immense distances.

There is something uncanny and awe-inspiring in such a sail, when the crests are visible in the darkness only when they lift the boat, to roll onward the next moment. We hear nothing but their swish, the howling of the wind, and the hissing of the foam under the stem.

“Look out, Rehim Ali,” I call out; “when you feel that the boat has grounded, jump out and pull it with all your strength to the beach.” But he makes no reply; he is quite paralyzed with fear. I pack up my drawings and sketch-books in a small bag.

But what is that? I hear a thundering roar that drowns the growling of the storm, and in the pitch-black darkness I see something like a bright streak close to us. That must be the surf on the shore. “Loose the sail!” I cry, so loudly that my throat nearly cracks, but Rehim Ali is helpless and does not move an inch. I undo the rope and let the sail flap and beat just as the boat grinds against the bottom and suddenly sticks fast.

“Jump into the water and draw the boat up,” I shout, but he does not obey; I poke him in the back, but he takes no notice. Then I seize him by the collar and throw him overboard just as the next roller dashes up the beach, fills the boat, turns it over, and soaks me to the skin. Now I may as well jump out myself, but Rehim Ali at last realizes the situation and helps me to draw the boat beyond the reach of the waves (Illustration 73). The fur coat and ulster are as wet as myself, and only after a long search do we recover all the things that have been scattered in our shipwreck.

We were half-dead with weariness and excitement; one almost loses one’s breath altogether with such exertions in this rare atmosphere. We mounted a sandy hillock and sat down, but the cutting icy wind drove us away. Could the boat provide us with shelter? We must draw out the bolts which held the two halves together, and at last we succeeded with the help of the centre-board. Uniting our forces we heaved up one half of the boat, propped it up with a plank, and crept under its shelter. We were quite numbed; no wonder, for the water froze in our clothes so that they crackled when touched. The water on the bottom of the boat turned to ice; my fur coat was as hard as a board, and was absolutely useless. Hands and feet were stiff and had lost all feeling; we must get up again or we should be quite frozen. There was only one thing to do. In the shelter of the boat I took off my Kashmir boots and my stockings, and Rehim Ali shampooed my feet, but I felt no life in them till he had opened his chapkan and warmed them for a long time against his naked body.

There was no sign of life anywhere about. Amid the roaring of the surf we had to shout to make ourselves heard. How were we to pass the night with 29 degrees of frost, and wet clothes already stiffened into cuirasses of ice? Could we keep alive till the sun rose? Rehim Ali disappears into the darkness to search for fuel, but he comes back empty-handed. To my joy I discover that my cigarette-case and matches are still available; I had stood in the water only up to my breast, even when the last breaker had done its best to wet me through. So I light a cigarette and give one to Rehim Ali to cheer him up.

“Is there nothing here, then, that we can burn? Yes, wait, we have the wooden roller of the sounding-line and the frame in which it is fixed. Fetch them at once.”

We ruthlessly break up this masterpiece of Muhamed Isa’s skill in carpentry, and hack in pieces the frame with our knives; we lay aside the wet shavings, and use the dry, inner sticks as firewood. They make a very tiny heap. Only a couple are sacrificed at once, and I get them to burn with some blank leaves from my note-book. Our fire is small and insignificant, but it warms us famously, and our hands thaw again. We sit close over the fire, and keep it up with the greatest economy, putting on one splinter at a time. I take off my clothes to wring them as dry as I can; Rehim Ali dries my ulster, on which I depend for the night; the fur coat is left to its fate. How long is it to the dawn? Ah, several hours yet. The roller and the handle are still in reserve, but this small stock of wood cannot last long, and I look forward with trepidation to the moment when the cold will compel us to sacrifice the mast and the benches. The time passes so slowly; we say little to one another, we long for the sun. As soon as our clothing is a little dry we can boil water in the baler, so as to get something warm into our bodies.

73. The Author and Rehim Ali pull the Boat out of the Waves up on to the Shore.

However, we had good reason to rejoice that we had got off so well. I shall never forget Lake Lighten, Wellby’s and Deasy’s lake. It had kept us company for several days, we had lost seven horses on its banks, and our friends had left us with the last letters. We had seen this lake strikingly beautiful in bright light hues, but also pitchy black, like a tomb, in the arms of night; it had lain smooth and shining in the burning sunshine, but it had also shown us its teeth, white shining teeth of foam and spindrift. Not long ago we were almost roasted in the heat of the sun on its unknown depths of crystal-clear, vernal-green water; now we were on its bank nearly frozen in the bitter, wintry cold; then it lay so still that we hardly ventured to speak lest we should disturb its peaceful repose; now it raved in unbridled fury. Its shores had yielded us grass, spring-water, and fuel, but to the voyagers in the night it had seemed almost boundless: the eastern bank had retired before us all day long; we had seen the sun rise, sink and set in a sea of purple and flames, and even the moon accomplish its short journey before we reached our goal where the surf thundered and folded us in a wet and cold embrace. We had made a notable voyage in the small boat, full of variety and excitement; thrice our lives had hung by a hair as we almost ran aground on the landspits, for had we capsized there we could hardly have reached land before our hands were paralyzed on the life-buoys in the icy-cold water. Wonderful lake! Only yaks, wild asses, and antelopes find freedom on thy shores; only glaciers, firn-fields, and the everlasting stars are reflected on thy surface; and thy silence is only interrupted by the music of thine own waves and the victorious war-song that the western tempest plays on thy strings of emerald-green water.

At any rate we were still alive and on land without any broken limbs. We longed for the grey of dawn, and kept a tight hand on the fire, feeding it only now and then with a fresh chip to prevent its going out altogether. Sleep was out of the question, for we should be frozen. Sometimes we nodded a moment while we sat cowering over the flickering flames, and Rehim Ali occasionally hummed an air to make the time pass.

I am just thinking how I should enjoy a cup of hot tea, when Rehim Ali gives a start, and cries out:

“A fire in the distance.”

“Where?” I ask, somewhat incredulous.

“Yonder, northwards, on the shore,” he replies, pointing to a feebly luminous point.

“That is a star,” I say, after searching through the darkness with a field-glass.

“No, it is on this side of the mountains.”

“Why, then, have we not seen the fire before? They would not light a beacon fire in the middle of the night.”

“It is not a fire, it is a lantern; I see it moving about.”

“Yes, indeed, it is a light which changes its position.”

“Now it is gone.”

“And it does not appear again; perhaps it was only an optical illusion.”

“No, there it is again.”

“And now it is gone again.”

And it remained so long invisible that we lost hope, and cowered over the embers of the last chips of the roller.

“Does not the Sahib hear something?”

“Yes, it sounds like the tramp of horses.”

“Yes, and like men’s voices.”

The next moment the shadowy outlines of five large horses and three men appear against the sky. The riders dismount and approach us with joyful, friendly greeting. They are Muhamed Isa, Rabsang, and Adul. They sit down by us and inform us that camp No. 18 lies an hour’s journey to the north, a little distance from the shore. As soon as the camp was pitched they had sent out men to look out for us, but had given up the search, as these men had found no signs of us and had seen no fire. Late at night, however, Robert, feeling uneasy because of the storm, had climbed a hill, and had seen our small fire. He at once sent the three men after us. They said that they had kept up a large beacon fire all the evening, but apparently the inequalities of the ground had concealed it; certainly we could not see it from the lake.

I borrowed two sashes from the men to wind round my feet. Then we mounted, and with the lantern in front the little cavalcade moved off northwards to the camp, while the billows continued their ceaseless race towards the shore.

74. Camp at the Yeshil-kul.

75. The Pul-tso, looking East.

76. Horses and Mules in Open Country.