And now for the descent. I was quite numbed with cold—you see, a thin
shirt only is not much protection against snow being driven into you
with such force, and even when I put on my coat again my teeth were
chattering so that I thought they would break. Well, I suppose that if
I had been more muffled up and wearing heavy clothing I should have
never got up there. My legs and hands had nearly lost all feeling in
them.
I loaded my rifle and all my instruments on my back, also my straw hat
which it was impossible to wear in the right place, bade Tibet a hearty
“good-bye,” and down I strode, with somewhat disjointed steps, by the
way I had come. The descent was rapid—a great deal too rapid—but partly
to get away from the intense cold, and the wind and the snow, partly
owing to the anxiety which I still felt regarding the safety of my two
men I had left behind, I really did not try to control my speed. When I
got among the loose rocks again, which started a regular landslide at
each step one took, I came very near having an accident which might
have had disastrous consequences. A stone rolled under my foot—they
nearly all did—and in slipping I got my right foot badly jammed between
two large stones. Before I had time to get it off again, several big
stones came rolling with great force from above, and one hit me so
violently in the leg, and on falling upon the other rocks squeezed my
ankle with such pressure that I really thought my leg had been
fractured. Fortunately it was not.
The pain was excruciating, my feet being still half-frozen, and I sat
down, rubbing the one foot to restore some life to it, but it swelled
considerably and hung like dead, which caused me some little
apprehension. Violent friction with snow I tried next, and this seemed
to bring some warmth and circulation, but the pain was intense. One
fact was certain, that it was getting late in the afternoon, and that
the Nui Pass was not the kind of place where I should care to be
benighted, so down I struggled, limping badly, and suffering agony
every time the foot got jammed again, which was at an average about
every minute.
Thank heavens! I then got to the snow incline, where I could practise
some tobogganing, which saved much time and labour, and down I slid,
carefully regulating my speed upon the snow with my good leg. You see,
if one had gone too fast one might have been shot into one of the big
crevasses of the Nui Glacier down below, and that I particularly wished
to avoid.
Partly through the strain of carrying up such a heavy load, partly
through the very little sleep I had obtained of late, partly owing to
the great glare of the immense white mountains before me during the
day, and also in a measure to the biting wind and snow—not to speak of
the pain I was undergoing—the vision of the only good eye I possessed
became affected and caused me additional trouble. At moments my sight
became obscured altogether.
There is no doubt that it is well worth going up any high mountain for
the sake of the relief and satisfaction one experiences on coming down
again, and on no occasion did I feel this more strongly than upon that
day. When I got down to the glacier again—which spreads from east to
west—I felt much better, and although still quite lame could proceed at
a fair pace.
I hastened down to rejoin my two men, for the evening was drawing in. I
took special care not to fall into another snare—as surely the Tibetans
might attempt some of their games again—but nothing happened. Nothing
ever does when you are on your guard.
It was getting dark when I arrived at the spot where my two followers
had remained, and I shouted myself hoarse, but got no reply. I looked
for them in several places where they might possibly be, but I could
find no signs of them. Again I shouted and shouted, but no reply. Had
they been murdered or had they gone away? This was particularly
tantalising, because not only did I feel for their loss, but I also
wanted badly to get rid of the load I was carrying.
By a mere chance, possibly suggested by my close observation of Shoka
ways, I thought that, before departing to rejoin the main portion of my
expedition, I would inspect some huge boulders some way off, behind
which the men in their long hours of waiting might possibly have taken
shelter. Had they been there, with the howling wind they could not
possibly hear my voice. In fact, under the largest boulder, where the
melting snow had formed a hollow, I discovered my two Shokas wrapped
up, head and all, in their blankets, and snoring hard. They had given
me up for lost—although the idea did not disturb their sleep—and were
waiting till the next morning to proceed up the glacier to look for me.
The four Tibetans had tried to approach them, pretending friendship,
but they wisely had driven them away with stones. Then, for safety,
they had at sunset removed their quarters to a more secluded spot. The
distance from this spot to the Nui Pass and back was six miles.
The storm was still very bad, snow was again falling plentifully, and
we decided that our best plan was to make a night march—long as it
would be—and try to rejoin the others. Relieved of the weight of rifles
and all, I was able to get along pretty well, except that after we had
gone a couple of miles it got pitch dark, and we stumbled against
everything and got terribly jerked. It snowed hard, and the wind blew
in all its fury. We eventually came upon the faint trail, now white
with snow, but on this it was considerably easier to proceed. We
travelled now on long stretches of flat country, then upon an
undulating, even hilly, portion of the valley, occasionally resting for
breath under the lee of some big rock, and drawing freely on my supply
of chocolate, which one of my men carried.
Towards midnight we reached an open space—one of the
camping-grounds—called Bedang, where the Tibetans have erected three
extensive mani or sacred walls, one with a number of images. We got on
the lee side of it, and, taking bundles of matches, lighted them up to
inspect the long row of coloured Buddhas forming a cornice to the upper
part of the wall. There were dozens of these images, evidently all made
in the same mould, and painted in combinations of yellow, red, and
blue. Then there were large stones with the usual sacred inscription,
and flying prayers wherever they could be hung.
Half-way between Bedang and the Nui camping-ground we had come across a
number of chirams (pyramids, often tombs) and chokdens.
By the time we had reached this sacred spot we were pretty well tired
out and hungry, but we had not sufficient blankets to go round nor food
enough to make us feel really happy again. We rested a while, and
before our limbs got numbed with cold we again started off on our
dreary march to rejoin the main body of my party. As we got lower down
we came in for a violent shower of hail—the pellets being of such a
size that they thumped rather too vigorously on our skulls—then
torrents of rain. We were simply soaked. It cleared for a few moments,
and the moon shone for some seconds between two ugly black
clouds—almost, it seemed, only to laugh at us. Indeed, a moment later
another downpour froze us to the marrow of our bones, and it was all we
could do to proceed at all.
There was, fortunately, a narrow trail here, which we followed, and
which frequently overhung precipices of great height. In several places
the trail was actually resting on crowbars thrust into the face of the
cliff. We stumbled along, but we were all so tired out that we really
cared little what happened to us. The hours seemed interminable.
At 3.30 A.M. we at last approached Go village. All the houses were shut
up, everything was as still as death, until we got quite close. Then
dogs barked furiously from every house, and the noise was echoed from
mountain to mountain. The weather had somewhat cleared, but nowhere
could I discern my tents. We shouted and yelled to rouse the head
village man, and eventually the scared figure of a Shoka appeared,
lighted by a red blaze from a torch he carried in his hand. He was
jovial, and most anxious to be of assistance.
Although not absolutely, I am, practically, a teetotaller, as I seldom
require stimulants, but on that particular occasion I would have given
all the money I possessed to have a glass—or, better, a bottle—of
stout! But, alas! the nearest bottle of stout was a great many days’
journey from there. Chökti, the native liquor, was the only stuff
procurable, and I more than jumped at the offer when the chieftain
suggested that we must drink some to be revived.
Now, there is nothing a Shoka admires more in a foreigner than
appreciation of the national chökti—an appreciation they seldom get,
for chökti is, indeed, the vilest concoction a human mind can conceive
or a human throat swallow.
When the Shoka and his torch disappeared we listened from the door with
ever-increasing attention to noises of dangling keys being tried, one
after the other, into a lock. Then came the snapping sound of the
opening padlock, next the loosing of the iron chain which is ever used
in bolting Shoka doors. Reproachful noises from the household,
interrupted in their sleep, and remonstrative cries of female
relatives, could be heard at intervals; then a long silence, some
rattling about, and at last the chieftain reappeared, triumphantly
nursing a huge jug of the “reviver.”
“Will you drink it here or down in your tent?” he inquired, with a
twinkle in his eye.
“In the tent,” I replied; and we all went down to where my camp had
been pitched. My men sprang out from all sides on hearing my voice,
especially several of them who, not expecting me back that night, had
thought fit to occupy my tent.
In a few moments the camp was alight with several blazing fires, there
being plenty of fuel at this place, and from the village a string of
figures with torches were running down, bringing food, more fuel, milk,
and vegetables. The natives of Go were indeed most thoughtful and
polite.
I had marched continuously for twenty-two and a half hours, covering
over forty miles, the entire time over most difficult ground and at
such great elevation that when I sat down upon my blankets I felt quite
exhausted. Nor did devouring—the word eating is hardly expressive
enough—several pounds of rice and meat and potatoes and plum-pudding
and milk and chökti make me feel any better. My appetite was
insatiable, and no sooner was my head laid on the pillow than I was
fast asleep. Oh, what a lovely sensation to go to sleep when you are so
tired!