CHAPTER VI

TO THE EDGE OF THE TIBETAN TABLELAND

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.

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