A palaver--To see is to believe--Dangers and perils on the snow
and ice--_Thar_ and _Ghural_--Stalking--A tiring climb to 16,000
feet--The collapse of a snow bridge.
AT Kuti I halted and summoned the leading natives to my tent.
Would it be possible, I asked them, to get over the Lumpiya Pass or the
still higher Mangshan? The first is a rarely frequented pass on the way
to Gyanema, the other a high and most difficult pass by which it is
possible, though not easy, to reach the Rakstal Lake by the jungle
without going near a Tibetan settlement or encampment.
"No," was the decided answer from all the Shokas. "The snow is now too
deep. Fresh snow falls daily. For another fortnight at least no human
being can get across. To attempt it will mean losing one's life. At their
best during one month in summer, those two passes are arduous and
dangerous. Now it would be mere folly to attempt their ascent."
With my distressingly sceptical nature I believe little that I do not
see. I started next morning to observe for myself. My bearings were
roughly North-West. Seeing me determined, several of the Kutial Shokas
changed their mind and volunteered to follow me. They were of
considerable help in many dangerous places. Here and there a few paces of
narrow track were uncovered, otherwise we went long distances on frozen
snow, over precipices down which it was almost fatal to look.
The lucky hairbreadth escape of the previous day contributed to make me
lose confidence, not in myself, but in that white emblem of purity and
innocence, in reality the most treacherous substance in creation. I soon
found that wherever there was snow there was trouble. In spots where the
snow was particularly hard frozen we dared not attempt to walk on the
steep slippery surface, and we had to descend to the river, which was
here bridged over completely with ice and snow. Crossing, we would
attempt progress on the other side, and having proceeded with difficulty
for a few hundred yards, had to retrace our steps and try the first bank
again. We thus crossed and recrossed the Kuti River more than
half-a-dozen times, each crossing being preceded by a precipitous descent
and immediately followed by a steep ascent. The cracks in the ice by the
water-side were constant and perilous, and we did not risk remaining near
them longer than was necessary. In six or seven hours we had walked a
distance of less than four miles. Leaving the Kuti River and following
due North the course of a tributary, the Kambelshio, we crossed over to
its farther bank and pitched our tents at an altitude of 13,420 feet.
[Illustration: KUTI]
[Illustration: SNOW BRIDGES OVER THE KUTI RIVER]
There remained a few hours of daylight when we arrived, and I employed
them by going after _Thar_ or _Tehr_ and _Ghural_ (Himahlyan chamois) a
couple of miles farther. I rose to 15,000 feet on a needle-like peak
towering over the spot where, in a narrow picturesque gorge, the Tongzu
pangti enters the Kuti River. The sources of the Tongzu pangti are about
a thousand feet higher than the spot where it meets the Kuti River, and
the stream has its birth from the melting snows, descending precipitously
and in a very short distance into the larger river.
The rocks are here furred with saltpetre, and it is said to be a
favourite spot for Thar.[9]
[Illustration: OLD SHOKA WOMAN SMOKING]
I enjoyed my trip so much that, rising with the sun, I started on the
following morning to repeat my experience. Moreover, I wanted to climb to
some high point wherefrom I could make certain whether it was possible
to proceed immediately across the Himahlyan range, or whether it was
advisable to wait patiently until the snow had to some extent
disappeared. I walked four miles from camp, reaching an altitude of
16,000 feet. The ascent was rather tiring. Having wounded a Thar, I went
after it up a fatiguing snow-field at a speed too great to be comfortable
at such a very high elevation. When I reached the top, I was out of
breath and the Thar too far off for a second shot.
The view this high point commanded was stupendous. For miles and
miles--and it seemed hundreds of miles--snow, snow, nothing but snow!
There stood Jolinkan Mount rising above 19,000 feet. On either side of
the Kuti River were peaks as high as 20,000 feet and more. Here and there
the white sheet that covered the surrounding country seemed almost
greenish. Those spots were glaciers, and I saw many of them, feeding as
they do the numerous streams flowing into the Kuti River. I returned to
camp for lunch. It was useless to proceed and even more useless remaining
still. I gave orders to raise the camp, and at 2 P.M. we were under way
back to Kuti.
The day had been an unusually warm one, and the surface of the snow, so
hard the previous day, was now soft and watery. Several of the snow
bridges had already disappeared.
I had descended to the river preceded by some of my coolies. Two of them
just in front of me were crossing over the stream on a thick and broad
archway of ice. I was waiting for them to be safely across. When the men
had nearly reached the other side they noticed a peculiar vibration
underfoot. Scrambling away as best they could, they gave the alarm.
I drew back hastily. In the nick of time! for with a deafening roar like
magnified thunder echoed from cliff to cliff, down went the bridge. The
huge pieces of ice, only a moment before forming part of the vault, were
now swept away by the furious stream and thrown with tremendous force
against the next bridge, which quivered under the terrible clash.
Three days' marching over the same route brought me back to Garbyang.
[9] The _Gural_ is the Himahlyan chamois found at even comparatively low
elevations. They are generally seen in herds, with the exception of the
oldest males, which are usually met with alone. It is not uncommon to see
as many as eight or ten together, especially during their feeding time,
shortly after sunrise and an hour or two before sunset.
Tehr or Thar (male) and Jahral (female) is the true and proper wild goat
of the higher Himahlyan range. It is rarely found lower than 7000 feet
and often as high as 15,000 feet above sea level. Those found at lower
elevations do not possess quite such a luxuriant growth of hair, nor, I
am told, are their curved horns quite so long. They climb about
precipices and dangerous spots with the greatest ease.