Discouraging reports--A steep ascent--How I came to deserve the
name of "monkey"--Hard at work--Promoted in rank--Collapse in a
gale of wind--Time and labour lost.
THE weather again became rainy and cold. The reports that I received of
the state of the roads farther up were not encouraging.
"The track is impassable," said an old Shoka who had just arrived from
Garbyang. "The Lippu Pass by which you wish to enter Tibet is still
closed, and there is much snow on it still. Then the Jong Pen of Taklakot
in Tibet, having been left unpunished for his last years' attack on
Lieutenant Gaussen, has now a strong guard of three hundred men to
prevent foreigners entering the country. The _Dakus_ (brigands) infesting
the region of the Mansarowar Lake seem to be more numerous this year than
ever."
I shall come in for a lively time, I thought to myself.
My next camp was at Shankula, 7450 feet above the sea level. It was
reached by going over a delightfully cool track, not unlike a shady path
through a picturesque park, among tall cedars of Lebanon, beeches and
maples, with here and there a stream or spring of water, and hundreds of
black-faced, white-bearded monkeys playing and leaping from tree to tree.
I encamped by the river. The day was glorious. In front of me, north-east
by east, stood, gigantic and majestic, some high snowy peaks. The valley
was narrow, and the remainder of the snowy range of mountains was hidden
from sight. What a lovely subject for a picture! I was tempted to halt
and get out my paint-box and sketch-book; and abandoning my lunch, which
was being cooked, I climbed to the summit of a high peak in order to
obtain a more extensive view. The ascent, first on slippery grass, then
over slaty rocks, was by no means easy, nor devoid of a certain amount of
danger; but so keen was I to get to the top that I reached the summit
very quickly, leaving half-way down the mountain slope the two men who
had followed me. In places near the top there were rocks to climb that
stood almost perpendicular, and it was necessary to use hands as well as
feet. It was not unlike climbing up a rough wall. I was nevertheless well
repaid for my trouble. The view from that high point of vantage was
magnificent, and I confess that I felt almost too ambitious when, having
unslung my paint-box, I attempted to reproduce on paper the scene before
me.
"I am a fool," said I to myself, "to try and paint that! What painter
could do those mountains justice?"
I dashed off the picture as usual very hastily, but never was a rash
venture rewarded with poorer result, and those eternal giants remained
unpainted.
Disconsolate, I made my way down. It was more difficult even than the
climb up. A false step, a slip, and it might have cost my life,
especially along the steep precipice, where I had to cling to anything
projecting in the wall-like rock. I had gone four thousand feet higher
than the camp, reaching an elevation of 11,450 feet above sea level.
It was this performance, watched anxiously from my camp down below, as
well as by the army of men belonging to the Deputy Commissioner of
Almora, who was also here encamped, that won me the name among the
natives of "Chota Sahib," the "Langur," the "small sir," the "monkey," a
name of which I have been proud ever since.
Some seventy-three miles from Pithoragarh the Shankula River enters the
Kali, the course of the Shankula being roughly from N.N.W. to S.S.E.
The track once crossed, the Shankula stream tends towards the South-East
and with a gentle incline rises to 8570 feet at Gibti, where I encamped
somewhat above the Gala Daramsalla. I had gone through forests of maple,
beech, oak and rhododendrons, with a thick undergrowth of scrub and
bamboo.
The Kali River, about two thousand feet down below my camp, marks the
boundary between Nepal and Kumaon. From this high point the foaming
stream can be seen for miles, winding between thickly wooded hills and
mountains like a silver ribbon on a dark reposeful background.
The march from my last camp was a very short one, so I had the greater
part of the day left for work. Previously I had usually halted in
Daramsallas (stone-walled shelters), and in default of these my men put
up for me a neatly-made "Chahna"[5] or "chöpper," a hut of mats and
branches of trees, in the construction of which the Paharis are
wonderfully dexterous. I had also my small "mountain tent," a _tente
d'abri_, quite comfortable enough for ordinary requirements.
[Illustration: THE TENT]
It seems, however, that this style of travelling is not considered _comme
il faut_ by the officials of India. It is the number and size of one's
tents, according to these authorities, that make one a greater or a
smaller gentleman! I had put up my tent--three feet high, seven feet
long, and four feet wide--by the side of the two double-leaf eighty pound
tents of the Deputy Commissioner, but this official and his companions
were far from pleased with this act of familiarity. For a double-tented
sahib to be seen in company of another sahib whose bijou tent rose from
the ground hardly up to one's waist, was _infra dig_ and a serious threat
to the prestige of the British in India. I was therefore politely
requested to move from my cosy quarters to a more dignified abode lent
me by the one-eyed Lal Sing, a Tokudar[6] and brother of the Patwari.[7]
Being thus promoted in everybody's estimation except my own, I wrote and
copied out my first article for _The Daily Mail_, and, having done this,
I dined and spent a pleasant evening with Mr. G.
The night was stormy; the wind shook my tent. I went to sleep wrapped in
my solitary camel-hair blanket. Some hours later a sharp knock on my head
woke me. It was the centre pole of the tent that had moved out of its
sockets and had fallen on me. This was followed by a rushing noise of
canvas, and I found myself in a moment uncovered and gazing at the stars.
There were white things flying about in the air, and, to my horror, I
discovered the leaves of my _Daily Mail_ article scattered in the wind.
I jumped up, but of the ten or twelve foolscap leaves on very thin paper,
I only managed to recover two or three. The others soared gracefully to
and fro in the air, and I suppose settled eventually in the Kali. This
meant recopying the article next day, a tedious job when you are burning
to get on.
The sun rose. The camp began to wake up. All were shivering with cold. I
took my usual cold bath surrounded by a half-frozen crowd of astonished
onlookers, wrapped up in their thick woollen blankets, crouching round me
with their chins on their knees.
The tent was recovered after a while, and soon all was ready to start.
[5] _Chahna_--Pahari. _Chöpper_, Dehsi--Hindustani.
[6] _Tokudar_--Head-village man.
[7] _Patwari_--Accountant for a Pargana.