DEATH IN THE JAWS OF WOLVES--OR SHIPWRECK
When we marched on September 22 over the old terraces of the lake and up
to the threshold of the pass separating its basin from that of
Yeshil-kul, the view of Lake Lighten opened up more the higher we rose,
and at length the whole of the great blue lake in all its beauty lay
before us at the foot of the snowy mountains. The pasturage was
excellent everywhere, and the Pantholops antelopes in their surprise and
perplexity often did not know in which direction to make their escape,
and prompted by curiosity came thoughtlessly to meet us. The pass has a
height of 17,392 feet. We had proceeded only a few paces on the other
side when a complete change of scenery presented itself, as though a
leaf of a large book had been turned over. The forms which had hitherto
riveted our attention vanished forever, and new mountains lay before us,
a new basin, and a new turquoise-blue lake--the Yeshil-kul. To the south
and south-west of the lake extend great flats of pure white salt;
concentric rings and isolated pools indicate that Yeshil-kul also is
contracting (Illustration 75).
During the following days we encamped in a country where the grazing was
good but the water slightly salt. On the wide, flat plains on the west
side of the lake stand long rows of cairns, heaps of earth or skulls,
piled up at a distance of two or three yards apart. They look like
boundary marks, but, in fact, have been erected by antelope hunters of
the Changpa tribe, Tibetan nomads, who are the "Northmen," or natives of
the northern plateau, Chang-tang, and who in this way drive the game
into their nooses laid in a hole. It should be explained that antelopes
have a decided objection to leaping over such lines, and will rather run
along them till they come to the end. But before they reach it one of
them has had the misfortune of putting his foot in a ditch with a noose
in it. Only a son of the wilderness, who passes his life in the open
like the wild animals, could devise such a mode of capture. My Ladakis
informed me that the Changpas no longer hunt here, for fear of the
people of Eastern Turkestan, who have often shown themselves hostile.
The 24th of September was another memorable day--my sails on Tibetan
lakes, curiously enough, almost always ended in adventures. Of my
Ladakis five had been in the service of Deasy and Rawling, and two of
them affirmed that a shiny spot east-south-east was the spring where
Captain Deasy had encamped for ten days in July 1896, and which he names
in his narrative "Fever Camp." Their indication agreed with Deasy's map;
so Muhamed Isa was ordered to lead the caravan thither, light a large
beacon fire on the nearest point of the shore as soon as darkness set
in, and keep two horses in readiness.
Our plan was to sail in an east-north-easterly direction for the
northern shore, and thence southwards again to the signal fire. Rehim
Ali was on this occasion assisted by Robert, who subsequently developed
into an excellent boatman. The lake was nearly quite calm; its water,
owing to its small depth, is greener, but quite as clear as that of its
western neighbour. It is so salt that everything that touches it, hands,
boat, oars, etc., glitters with crystals of salt. The shore and bottom
of the lake consist chiefly of clay cemented together by crystallized
salt into slabs and blocks as hard as stone, so that great care must be
exercised when the boat is pushed into the water, for these slabs have
edges and corners as sharp as knives. The lake is a salt basin of
approximately elliptical outline with very low banks; nowhere do
mountains descend to the strand. The three-foot line runs about 100
yards from the shore; but even 650 yards out the depth is only 15 feet.
We executed our first line of soundings across the lake in the most
delightful calm, and I steered the boat towards the point I had fixed
by observations. At one o'clock the temperature was 49° F. in the water,
and 50½° in the air. The depth increased very regularly, the maximum of
52.8 feet occurring not far from the northern shore. Robert was much
delighted with the sail, and begged that I would always take him with me
in future, which I the more readily granted that he was always cheerful
and lively, and that he gave me valuable help in all observations. A
little bay on the north shore served us as a landing-place. We surveyed
the neighbourhood, and then hurriedly ate our breakfast, consisting of
bread, marmalade, _pâté de foie_, and water. My companions had brought
sugar, a tea-pot and enamelled bowls, but left the tea behind; but this
forgetfulness only raised our spirits.
Then we put off again to make for the spring to the south-east. A row of
stone blocks and lumps of salt ran out from the landing-place
east-south-eastwards, and the water here was so shallow that we had to
propel our boat with great care. Just as we had passed the last rock, of
which I took a specimen, the west wind got up, the surface of the lake
became agitated, and a couple of minutes later white horses appeared on
the salt waves.
"Up with the sail and down with the lee-boards."
The lake before us is tinted with shades of reddish purple, a reflexion
from the clayey bottom; there it must be very shallow, but we shall soon
pass it.
"Do you see the small white swirls in the south-west? Those are the
forerunners of the storm, which stirs up the salt particles," I said.
"If the storm is bad, the boat will be broken on the sharp ledges of the
bottom before we can reach land," remarked Robert.
"That is not clouds of salt," said Rehim Ali; "that is the smoke of
fires."
"But Muhamed Isa should be camping at Sahib Deasy's source; that lies
towards the south-west."
"There is no smoke there," replied Robert, who had the field-glass;
"perhaps they have not been able to cross the salt flats on the south of
the lake."
"Then it is their beacon fires which we see; but we cannot cross over in
this boat in a storm."
"Master," suggested Robert, who always addressed me thus, "would it not
be more prudent to land again before the storm reaches its height? We
should be safe behind the stones, and we can gather a quantity of fuel
before sunset."
"Yes, that will perhaps be best; this lake is much more dangerous in a
storm than Lake Lighten. We have, indeed, no furs, but we shall manage.
Take in the sail and row behind the boulders. What are you gazing at?"
"Master, I see two large wolves, and we have no guns."
He was right; two light, almost white, Isegrims were pacing the shore.
They were so placed that they must be able to scent us in the boat; the
odour of fresh live meat tickled their noses. When we stopped they
stopped too, and when we began to move they went on close to the margin
of the water. "Sooner or later you must come on shore, and then it will
be our turn," perhaps they thought. Rehim Ali opined that they were
scouts of a whole troop, and said it was dangerous to expose ourselves
to an attack in the night. He had only a clasp-knife with him, and
Robert and I only pen-knives in our pockets; we had, therefore, little
chance of defending ourselves successfully. Robert, for his part,
preferred the lake in a storm to the wolves. I had so often slept out of
doors unarmed, that I no longer troubled myself about them. But in the
midst of our consultation we were suddenly compelled to think of
something else. The storm came whistling over the lake.
[Illustration: 77. DEATH IN THE JAWS OF WOLVES--OR SHIPWRECK.]
Fortunately, the sail was still standing and the centre-boards were
down; the wind caught the canvas, the water began to rush under the
stern, and we shot smoothly southwards with a side wind. Robert gave
vent to a sigh of relief. "Anything but wolves," he said. I made Robert
and Rehim Ali row to save time, and soon the two beasts were out of
sight. "They will certainly gallop round the lake, they know quite well
that we must land somewhere," said Robert. He was quite right, the
situation was exceedingly unpleasant; we had only a choice between
the storm and the wolves. We could not depend on our people; they were
evidently cut off from us by salt morasses, which it was dangerous to
venture into. We would therefore try to reach a suitable point on the
south shore before dark (Illustration 77).
The hours fled past, and the sun sank in glowing yellow behind the
mountains. For two hours we held on our course towards Deasy's camp, but
when the beacon fires became more distinct in the gathering twilight we
changed our direction and steered southwards to reach our people. The
distance, however, was hopelessly long, and just from that direction the
storm blew, and in the broken, freakish light of the moon the waves
looked as weird as playing dolphins. Sometimes I was able to take some
rapid soundings; they gave depths of 32 and 36 feet. Our fate was just
as uncertain as on the former occasion on Lake Lighten; we steered for
the shore, but did not know how far off it was. Rehim Ali judged from
the length of the path of moonlight on the water that it was a long
distance. Two more hours passed. I gave my orders to the oarsmen in
English and Turki. We had now the waves on our quarter, and if we did
not parry their rolling, foaming crests they would fill the boat and
sink it; so we had to sail straight against them.
The situation was not a little exciting, but good luck attended us. The
boat cut the waves cleanly, and we got only small splashes now and then.
The spray trickled down our necks, was pleasantly cool, and had a saline
taste. I again took soundings, and Robert read the line: 33 feet, then
25, and lastly 20.
"Now the southern shore cannot be very far," I said; but my companions
remained still and listened. "What is it?" I asked.
"A heavy storm from the west," answered Rehim Ali, letting his oar fall.
A regular humming noise was heard in the distance, which came nearer and
nearer. It was the storm, which swept over the lake with redoubled
violence and lashed up foam from the waves.
"We shall not reach the shore before it overtakes us. It will be here in
a minute. Master, we shall capsize if the waves become twice as high as
they are now."
The waves swelled with incredible rapidity, the curves in the streak of
moonlight became greater and greater, we rocked as in a huge hammock.
The sounding-line had just marked 20 feet. How long would it be before
the boat would ground on the hard, salt bottom, if it found itself in a
trough between two waves? The lee-boards beat against the sides, the
boat pitches and rolls, and any one who does not sit firmly and stiffen
himself with his feet must go overboard. A terrible wave, like an
all-devouring monster, comes down upon us, but the boat glides smoothly
over it, and the next moment we are down in a trough so deep that all
the horizon is concealed by the succeeding crest. We were not quick
enough in negotiating this new wave; it ran along the gunwale and gave
us a good foot-bath (Illustration 78).
"Master, it looks dangerous."
"Yes, it is not exactly pleasant, but keep quiet. We cannot land in such
a sea. We must turn and make for the open lake. About midnight the storm
may abate, and then we can land."
"If we can only keep on rowing so long."
"We will help ourselves with the sail."
"I am not tired yet."
To land on the southern shore would be certain shipwreck; we should all
be drenched to the skin, and that is dangerous on this night when we
cannot reckon on the slightest help from the caravan. We shall be frozen
before the dawn. To look for fuel before the sun sets is not to be
thought of, for the saline plains in the south are absolutely barren.
No, we will turn.
At the same moment we felt a violent blow, which made the boat tremble.
The larboard oar, which Rehim Ali worked, had struck against the ground
and started loose from the screw which fastened it to the gunwale. Rehim
Ali managed to catch hold of it just in time, while he shouted, "It is
only a stone's throw to the land."
"Why, how is this?--here the lake is quite smooth."
"A promontory juts out into the lake. Master, here we shall find
shelter."
"All right, then we are saved; row slowly till the boat takes ground."
That soon happened, the sail was furled, the mast unshipped. We took off
our boots and stockings, stepped into the water, and drew the boat on to
dry land. My feet were so numbed in the briny water, cooled down to 41°,
that I could not stand, and had to sit down and wrap my feet in my
ulster. We found a patch of lumps of salt, thoroughly moist, indeed,
though drier than elsewhere, and the best spot to be had; for water lay
all around us, and the bank was extremely low. How far it was to really
dry ground we could not ascertain; the moon threw a faintly shining
strip of light for a considerable distance farther towards the land.
While I endeavoured to restore life to my feet by friction, the others
carried our belongings to our wretched salt island. Then the boat was
taken to pieces, and the two halves were set up as shelters. At nine
o'clock we noted 31° on the thermometer, and at midnight 17½°; yet it
was warmer now than on the previous days, for the water of the lake
retains some of the heat of the summer air. Muhamed Isa had made a new
roller for the sounding-line, with frame and handle, out of an empty
box; it was of course immediately utilized as fuel.
The provision bags and the water-cans were brought out again, and we
drank one cup of hot sugar-and-water after another, and tried to imagine
it was tea. As long as the fire lasted we should not freeze--but then,
what a night! Towards ten o'clock the wind abated--now came the night
frost. We lay down on the life-buoys to avoid direct contact with the
briny soil; Robert had the fur coat, I the ulster, and Rehim Ali wrapped
himself in the sail. He slept huddled up together, with his forehead on
the ground, as is the Mohammedan custom, and he did really sleep. Robert
and I rolled ourselves together in a bunch, but of what use was it? One
cannot sleep just before freezing. My feet were, indeed, past feeling,
but this consolation was a sorry one. I stood up and stamped on the salt
patch, and tried to walk without moving, for the space was very
limited. I sang and whistled, I hummed a song, and imitated the howl of
the wolves to see if they would reply. But the silence was unbroken. I
told anecdotes to Robert, but he was not amused by them. I related
adventures I had had before with wolves and storms, but they had little
encouraging effect in our present position. We looked in vain for a
fire; there was nothing to be seen in any direction. The moon slowly
approached the horizon. The wind had sunk entirely. Little by little the
salt waves, splashing melodiously against the shore, also sank to
rest--an awful silence reigned around. We were too cold to think much of
the wolves. Twice we raised a wild scream, but the sound of our voices
died away suddenly without awaking the slightest echo; how could it
reach the camping-ground?
"Now it is midnight, Robert; in four hours it will be day."
"Master, I have never been so starved in my life. If I get back to India
alive, I shall never forget this dreadful night on Yeshil-kul and the
hungry wolves on the shore, though I live to a hundred."
"Oh, nonsense. You will think of it with longing, and be glad that you
were here."
"It is all very fine to look back on, but at present I should be
delighted to have my warm bed in the tent and a fire."
"Life in Tibet is too monotonous without adventures; one day's journey
is like another, and we want a little change occasionally to wake us up.
But we will take tea and firewood with us next time."
"Shall you have more of such lake voyages, Master?"
"Certainly, if there is an opportunity; but I fear that the winter cold
will soon make them impossible."
"Will it, then, be still colder than now?"
"Yes, this is nothing to what the cold will be in two months."
"What time is it, Master?"
"Two o'clock; we shall soon have been lying six hours on the morass."
[Illustration: 78. A DANGEROUS SITUATION ON THE YESHIL-KUL. IN
MOONSHINE.]
We nodded a little once more, but did not really sleep for a minute;
from time to time Robert told me how badly his feet were frozen. At
three o'clock he exclaimed, after a long silence: "Now I have no more
feeling in any of my toes."
"The sun will soon come." At a quarter past four begins a faint glimmer
of dawn. We are so chilled through that we can hardly stand up. But at
length we pull ourselves up and stamp on the ground. Then we cower again
over the cold ashes of our fire. We constantly look to the east and
watch the new day, which slowly peeps over the mountains as though it
would look about before it ventures out. At five o'clock the highest
peaks receive a purple tinge, and we cast a faint shadow on the bottom
of the boat, and then the sun rises, cold and bright-yellow, over the
crest to the east. Now the springs of life revive. Rehim Ali has
disappeared for an hour, and now we see him tramping through the swamp
with a large bundle of wood, and soon we have kindled a sparkling,
crackling fire. We undress to get rid of our wet and cold clothes, and
warm our bodies at the flames, and soon our limbs are supple again.
Then Muhamed Isa's tall figure appears on horseback in the distance. He
ties a cord to the foreleg of his horse and leaves it at the edge of the
swamp, while he proceeds on foot. When I was suffering most severely
from cold I had composed a sharp curtain-lecture for him as soon as we
met. But now when I caught sight of my excellent caravan leader I forgot
it all, for I had to admit the validity of his reasons for delay. The
caravan was long detained in dangerous, unstable ground, and the men had
to carry everything. We went together to Deasy's camp, which the caravan
reached also. When the sun attained its highest altitude at mid-day, it
found me still in the arms of Morpheus. I take it for granted that my
two companions also requited themselves for the loss of their night's
rest.
On the morning of September 26 two horses were nearing their end; they
could not get on their feet and had to be killed; one had died in the
previous camp, and one fell on the march. We had lost 15 horses out of
58, and only 1 mule out of 36; these figures are distinctly in favour of
the mules.
We now rode along the great longitudinal valley, where favourable ground
made our progress easy, and passed a salt basin, with a pool in the
middle surrounded by concentric rings of desiccation as regular as the
benches of an amphitheatre. Before us in the distance was seen the
caravan in two detachments, appearing like two small black spots in the
boundless open landscape. I was deeply impressed by my own
insignificance compared to the distances on the earth's surface, and
when I remembered that we travelled at most 13 miles a day, I was
overwhelmed at the thought of the length of way we must traverse before
we had crossed Tibet. Wolves were seen at the foot of a hill; perhaps
they were our acquaintances of yesterday. We had to leave them, much
against our will, an abundant banquet at the last camp, where six ravens
had swooped down on our fallen horses.
One of the uppermost "benches," which stood some 160 feet above the
surface of the pool, afforded a capital road. Round about the soil was
chalky white with salt. To the right of us was a low, brownish-purple
ridge. Soon, with my usual companions, Robert and Rehim Ali, I came up
with a worn-out horse. He did not look at all emaciated, but he had been
relieved from duty for several days in hopes of saving his life. His
guide came into camp in the evening, and reported that he had collapsed
on the road and expired. The country is somewhat hilly, but solid rock
seldom crops out, and then it is limestone and light-green clay-slate.
The camping-ground on this day, No. 22, had an interest of its own.
Captain H. H. P. Deasy, on his remarkable expedition through West Tibet
and Eastern Turkestan during the years 1896-1899, had great difficulties
to contend with, and lost so many animals that, in order to save the
expedition and its results, he had to leave behind a large part of his
baggage and provisions, in short, everything that could be spared at
all. In the year 1903 Captain Cecil Rawling made an equally meritorious
journey of exploration through the same parts of Tibet, and as he found
himself in a very critical situation through want of provisions, he
decided to search for Deasy's depôt, which, according to the map, must
be somewhere in the neighbourhood. Two of Rawling's men, Ram Sing and
Sonam Tsering, had also accompanied Deasy, and Sonam Tsering was able to
point out the place where the baggage and provisions had been buried.
Thanks to the stores of rice, meal, and barley, found there in the
wilderness, Rawling was able to save his horses, which would otherwise
have been lost, and a small bag of horse-shoes and nails came in very
usefully for their hoofs.
Sonam Tsering now accompanied me on my expedition. I had ordered him in
the morning to halt at Deasy's and Rawling's camp, and therefore he
marched on this day in the front with the mules. It was, of course, of
great importance for my route survey to visit a spot so accurately
fixed.
There was not the slightest difficulty in finding the spot, and when we
reached the camp, which lay on a small flat space between gently rounded
hills, Muhamed Isa had already digged out seven boxes. One of them
contained flour, which had gone quite bad in the long interval, and
probably was already spoiled when Rawling was here three years before.
Only one box was of Tibetan workmanship, for Rawling, as Sonam Tsering
informed me, had exchanged some of his worn-out Kashmir boxes for
Deasy's Turkestan chests, which were much better. But even Rawling's
boxes were better than the easily damaged wooden boxes from Leh, in
which we kept candles and tinned meats. We therefore appropriated some
of them and used our own as firewood. After all, Rawling had so
thoroughly ransacked the depôt that there was very little left for me;
but I was not in such urgent need of the goods. Some boxes of American
beef were very welcome to the dogs, but the men despised them as long as
we had fresh mutton. Cubical tins, which had contained Indian meal, lay
all about the place. One of the boxes held a quantity of empty
cartridge-cases; they had not been used, and Sonam Tsering believed that
the Changpas had been here a couple of years after Rawling, and had
picked out the powder; he pointed out to me one or two fireplaces, which
seemed much more recent. In another box we found a shipping almanac and
some map-sheets of Upper Burma--Deasy had planned to pass into that
country, but had been prevented by sickness and death in his caravan. A
packet of blotting-paper came in very handy, for Robert had started a
herbarium for me; and Muhamed Isa discovered some ropes in good
condition. Besides these things, we took only a couple of novels and
Bowers' description of his journey in Tibet in 1891, a welcome addition
to my very scanty library (Illustration 79).
We were now in a country which several travellers had visited before me.
Wellby and Malcolm, who discovered Lake Lighten, a lake already touched
by Crosby, I have already mentioned. Dutreuil de Rhins, Wellby and
Malcolm, Deasy, Rawling, and the Austrian naturalist, Zugmayer (1906),
had been at Yeshil-kul. I crossed the route of the last a couple of
months after his journey; he, like the Frenchman and the English
explorer, has written a valuable book on his observations. At the time I
knew nothing of his journey, but now I find that I crossed his route
only at one point. Wellby's and Dutreuil de Rhins' paths I crossed only
once, but Deasy's at two points. In the following days it was harder to
avoid the districts where Wellby and Rawling had been, and where the
latter especially, with the help of native surveyors, had compiled such
an accurate and reliable map that I had no prospect of improving it.
Consequently, I longed for country which had never been touched by other
travellers. My camp 22 was identical with Rawling's No. 27, and his
expedition had skirted the lake Pul-tso, which lay a day's march in
front of us, both on the northern and southern side. Therefore, to avoid
his route, I made for the middle of this lake, which stretches north and
south, an unusual orientation.
When the great caravan is loaded up, and starts at sunrise, the camp is
usually full of noise and commotion. In consequence of our daily loss of
baggage horses the loads have always to be re-arranged; when, however,
the crowd has moved off, all is quiet again, the iron brazier and the
hot bath-water are brought, and in my tent, with its opening turned to
the east, because the prevailing wind blows from the west, it is soon
as hot as in a vapour bath. This heat often tempts one to put on lighter
clothing, but one soon regrets it, for it is always cold outside. Then
we go on through the desolate country where three expeditions have
converged to the same point.
The soil is brick-red, the pasturage good everywhere. To the south lie
low hills with arched tops, to the north stretches the immense mountain
system of the Kuen-lun with several imposing mountain masses covered
with eternal snow, and just in front of us rises the colossal
dome-shaped, snow-covered massive, which Rawling named the "Deasy
Group." We had seen this gigantic elevation from Yeshil-kul, and it
would serve us for a landmark for several days to come.
The caravan encamped on the bank of the Pul-tso (16,654 feet) near a
small rock of limestone. Tundup Sonam, the "Grand Court Huntsman" of the
caravan, begged to be allowed to go out shooting, and was given four
cartridges. After a few hours he returned with three cartridges, and
showed a yak's tail as a proof that he had killed a huge beast, which he
had found grazing peacefully by itself behind the hills to the south.
Now the caravan had fresh meat to last ten days; "and when it is
consumed, Tundup will shoot us another yak," said Muhamed Isa, who was
always much pleased when men he had picked out made a good job of their
work. I had marrow from the yak's bones for dinner--a dish that would
not have disgraced the table of Lucullus (Illustrations 68, 69).