At the foot of the sacred mountain--The temple grounds--My
Mongol guide--A south-west track--A treacherous stone--A violent
shock--Anxious moments.
Finally we reached Tku-fo-pu, and later we came to the foot of the
sacred mountain which rejoices in the name of Siao-ou-tai-shan. We did
not put up in the village, as there were no inns, but continued up
the slope of the mountain to the temple of Tie-lin-tsen, and halted
in the temple grounds, where accommodation for pilgrims is provided,
similar to, and certainly no better than, that of the poorest inns. The
altitude of the temple above the sea was 4350 feet.
Even as low down as the temple there were still patches of snow and a
bridge of solid ice over a torrent. The majestic Siao towered against
the blue sky--now that the sand-storm was over--snow-clad here and
there on its slopes, yet with much less snow than I expected to find on
it at that time of the year.
I prayed for a bright morning the next day, when I intended to ascend
the highest peak, and my prayers were rewarded. The next morning came
crisp and clear, a lovely day for the ascent.
At 5 +A.M.+ I set out on the steep track, accompanied by a Mongol
guide, a man no longer very young, who took plenty of time over
everything he did, and who did nothing without stopping every few
moments to have a smoke. According to his ideas smoking could not
be enjoyed unless he squatted on his heels, a process which further
involved endless sighs and significant glances at the top of the
mountain when he had to get up again.
[Sidenote: A PRECIPICE]
Detesting guides at all times as I do, I soon left him behind and
proceeded by myself, sure that I could find my way without him.
Things went well until I had reached an altitude of over 9000 feet,
when the track which I had so far followed seemed to branch off in
two directions--one to the south-west, the other to the north-west,
apparently skirting one of the lower peaks.
I took the south-west track. It led me to a point where no human being
could go further. Even where I stood the slope of the mountain was
so steep that it required a steady foot not to slide down into the
underlying precipice. A little further, a long ice-field, extending
to the foot of the mountain, barred my way, so I decided to leave
the track, and attempted to climb the peak above me, in order to
see whether from that point of vantage I could perceive the right
trail. I was carrying a water-colour paint-box and a block slung on a
strong strap that crossed one shoulder and went under my arm. After
a considerable amount of toiling I managed to crawl to the top on my
hands and knees.
Although this was, as yet, merely one of the lower peaks, the view was
enchanting, and after all my hard work I was so hot that I sat on a
most inviting stone on the edge of the slope, and opened my paint-box
to take a sketch. Next came the sorting-out of the brushes, when
unexpectedly the treacherous stone on which I had comfortably settled
gave way with a sudden jerk, and began sliding--with me still sitting
on it--down the extremely steep slope.
No effort on my part to stop the involuntary tobogganing was of any
avail. I tried in vain to clutch the ground and seize any projecting
stone in hopes of stopping my precipitous descent, but at the speed I
was going it was no easy matter to hold on even to anything I managed
to clutch, especially as I was sliding with my back to the mountain,
and was unable to turn round. With some alarm I realised that another
hundred yards would bring me to the edge of the precipice. Over I
should have gone, taking a fatal leap of several hundred feet.
My hair stood on end as every second of my precipitate descent drew me
nearer and nearer the dreaded spot, and how well engraved on my mind
is the ghastly hollow sound of my heavy paint-box, which had preceded
me by long leaps and bounds in my disastrous descent, and as it banged
from boulder to boulder further down, the echo from mountain to
mountain magnified the sound a thousand times. Then there was a final
bang, far, far down below. The echo repeated it, and all was silence
once more, except for the stones rolling down with me.
Another half-minute.... What fearful anxiety!... I closed my eyes....
A violent shock, which seemed nearly to tear my body in two, made
me think that I had gone over. But no; as luck would have it, I had
suddenly stopped. I dared not move, for I was still in a precarious
position--only some ten or fifteen yards from the edge of the
precipice, and trembling all over with excitement. I was very young
in those days, and the prospect of the approaching leap had given me
quite a shock. I was half unconscious, and it took me some minutes
to realise where and how I was. I felt that I was suspended from
somewhere, but, as I hung from behind, I did not know to what I was
hanging, or for how long my tobogganing would be delayed.
[Sidenote: ANXIOUS MOMENTS]
One thing I grasped, and that was that only the greatest caution would
or could extricate me from the perilous position I occupied.
My terror was not lessened when, on getting my wits back, I discovered
that the weight of my body was supported by a portion of my coat and
the strong leather strap which was slung under my arm, both of which,
in dragging, had caught over a projecting stone. That had stopped me
from certain death, but the slightest movement on my part, or a jerk,
might still place me in great danger.
Slowly, and with my back resting on the steep slope, I managed to
get a footing, however slight. Then came the difficulty of turning
round. Several anxious minutes, which seemed ages, and this feat also
was successfully accomplished. Then I half lay with my body flat on
the ground, clutching with both hands the rock that had saved my
life, until my commotion had entirely passed away, and I crawled up
cat-fashion, as I had done before, until I reached the treacherous
trail again, following it back to where it parted. There I found the
old guide squatting on his heels and quietly smoking his pipe, for he
said he had seen that I had gone the wrong way, and should have to come
back to that point.
I never told him what had happened; he would have been too much amused.
I also pretended not to hear when he asked me what I had done with my
paint-box.