OVER THE LOFTY PASSES OF THE HIMALAYAS TO YARKAND
“March by march I puzzled through ’em, turning flanks and
dodging shoulders,
Hurried on in hope of water, headed back for lack of grass.”
—RUDYARD KIPLING.
Leh, where we were to make the final “bundobust” for our climb over
the Himalayas, is a little village of two or three thousand people.
As our caravan approached over a sandy plain, the clustered foliage
almost concealed the town. On every side brown barren foot-hills
stretch away, and the lofty snow-crowned mountains, rampart-like,
surround all. Leh in the summer months is a busy place, and its
population swells to five or six thousand. It is then that “the
snow-bound trade of the north comes down” through the high passes.
Caravans from Yarkand, Khotan, and Lhassa wind in, to barter with
those that come north from India through the Zoji Pass. Then the Leh
bazaar is a seething throng of the races of central Asia, and the
gossip of the hinterlands is exchanged as the hookah passes from hand
to hand.
Our entrance into Leh was a problem, not to us, but to our
shikaries. The evening before we reached the town, they came to
us and politely suggested that, in accordance with our dignity,
we should get out our “store clothes” from the yakdans and enter
in style. We explained to them that all we had with us were the
dinner-coats and opera-hats we had brought for the benefit of the
Ambans and Begs of Turkestan, and that as missionaries lived in Leh
and other English people came there quite often, these clothes would
not do for eleven o’clock in the morning. To this they reluctantly
agreed, but said something must be done. Of course we would not
shave, as our beards were being grown for utility, not ornament.
However, we did rummage around in our yakdans and take out what we
could find. Kermit put on a very heavy pair of knickerbockers and a
black four-in-hand cravat. Cutting and Cherrie each wore an equally
heavy pair of long trousers intended for autumn in the Tian Shan, and
I borrowed an exceedingly large pair of long trousers with a hole in
one knee from Cherrie, and set off my brown canvas shirt with a black
evening bow cravat. So clad, we rode majestically into Leh. The best
that could be said for us is what was said of the native girl in the
“Bab Ballads”:
“And tho’ the clothes he made her don
Sat awkwardly a maid upon,
They were a great improvement on
The ones he found her in.”
In Leh the three officials with whom we had to deal were the
Tesildar, representing the Kashmir Government, the Bahadur Khan,
representing the Indian Government, and the Aksakal, under whom
is the traffic north. Of these the latter was by far the most
interesting. His title, Aksakal, is Turki and means “white-bearded
one.” His name was Abdullah Shah. He was a lean, brown, fine-featured
fellow. His family is Mohammedan. It has been the great family in Leh
for generations. Though Mohammedans, they hold a license to trade
with the forbidden city, Lhasa. Their home is in Leh, where the head
of the family lives, but they have members in the principal cities
with which Leh trades. Two more brothers live at Yarkand and Khotan,
respectively, and there is a cousin at Lhasa. In a small way, they
are the Warburgs of this part of Asia.
As soon as the Eastern interchange of civilities permitted, we got
down to business. At first we were told that the passes would not
be open for two weeks, then that perhaps in a week some of our
party might start if we would buy ponies, not rent them. By gentle
obduracy, however, we finally succeeded in getting away from Leh, not
in two weeks or even a week, but in four days, and arranged to rent
ponies for all the party.
[Illustration: LEH]
[Illustration: A KIRGHIZ YOURT NEAR THE SANJU PASS]
While we were in Leh a number of entertainments were given for us.
These were in the nature of teas with frills. The most interesting
was that of the Bahadur Khan. He is a thin, wizened little Punjabi
with a long white beard and blue glasses, but he is a good shikary
and a real sportsman. We all sat in a row on the piazza of his house.
In the garden in front of us a band, consisting of flutes and drums,
played whining melodies that all seemed much the same to me. From
time to time dancers stepped out from the crowd of people who were
watching and danced for us. First came three old women. They wore
the native perak, a heavy head-dress of turquoises sewed on cloth
extending from a peak on the forehead more than half-way down the
back. With it are worn wing-like pieces of black wool that stand
out from the ears. The story is that long ago a queen of Ladakh had
earache. She thought ear-muffs would help her and had some of this
type made. Hence the fashion. These old women did what to me was a
very dreary dance. It consisted mainly in hesitant poses and slow
shifting of the feet. The natives seemed to enjoy it thoroughly.
Then followed native men who performed in much the same manner. The
high lights, as far as I was concerned, were a sword-dance and a
dance by a Kanjuti. The latter was a fine-looking, light-colored,
aquiline-featured man from that race of gallant fighters and stout
mountaineers that inhabit the Hunza Valley. He danced with a snap and
swagger entirely lacking in the others.
Tea over, we adjourned to the polo-field, where a game was played in
our honor. The field was a long, narrow, rather irregular strip of
sand. The sides were about five men apiece. I asked of what a team
consisted, and was told from four to eleven, so I judge that polo
here is like the shinny of my youth, plastic and not cramped with
too many rules. Here the Bahadur Khan showed in his proper colors.
Stout old sportsman that he was, he turned out in his riding-clothes
on a white Balkh stallion and played a good game, white beard, blue
glasses, and all. The players ranged from Abdullah Shah, the Aksakal,
who played in his fez, to Mongol-looking Ladakhis with pigtails,
whose loose robes flapped in the wind as they charged furiously up
and down the field. For mounts they had everything from the Balkh
stallion, which must have stood fifteen hands high, down to little
mouse-like creatures which could have crawled under the average bed
without trouble. There was one poor animal that was very lame. Of
a necessity, his rider stayed mainly in one place. When the ball
happened to come his way he hit it, and the crowd cheered loudly.
The best player of the lot was the son of a local Rajah. He rode a
little, sausage-shaped pony that galloped like the wind.
The Moravian Mission has been established at Leh for a long time. The
members of its staff, Doctor and Mrs. Kunick, and Doctor and Mrs.
Asboe, were really fine examples of the practical missionary. They
loved their work and there was never a murmur from them about the
hardships they have to undergo. Mrs. Kunick, in particular, was the
smooth-browed, courageous, frontier type to which is due in large
measure the credit for building our own country.
While we were at Leh, George Cherrie continued his collecting.
Every morning at five he was off with his gun. He shot a number of
large blue rock-pigeons. They are very good to eat, so after being
skinned they were given to Jemal Shah, our cook. Once Cherrie shot a
sparrow-hawk, and over my protest turned it over also to the kitchen.
When the stew arrived that evening, we could not tell it from the
pigeons, and no one to this day knows who ate the hawk.
Saturday, June 6, both our parties started. Cherrie and Cutting,
with the larger part of the caravan, went by the winter route where
yaks could be used. Kermit and I set out for the Khardong Pass,
over which it was reported only coolies could travel. Abdullah
Shah, the Aksakal, accompanied our party in order to help in making
arrangements beyond the pass. We rode about ten or twelve miles the
first day, camping at the foot of the pass at a height of about
15,400 feet. The horses seemed to feel the altitude greatly, and
we had to get off and lead them the last part of the way. It was
very cold in the stony little nullah where we camped, and our heavy
sleeping-bags stood us in good stead.
Next morning we were awake by one o’clock, for that was the time we
expected the coolies who were to carry our baggage over the pass.
It was cold, but a gorgeous moon was shining and the snow summits
that surrounded us seemed quiet and austere. We waited shivering.
The coolies did not come. At last about five-thirty we decided they
were not coming. There were some yaks belonging to the villagers
browsing on one of the slopes near by. We commandeered nine of them,
and started as sunrise was flushing rose-pink a few of the highest
mountain peaks. We walked ahead. The shaggy black yaks lumbered
behind. The first mile or so we scrambled over steep bare rocks. Then
we hit the snow-line, and slipped and floundered upward through great
drifts. At last we reached the top, 17,800 feet in altitude, higher
than either Kermit or I had ever been. The air was really thin and
the work of climbing thoroughly winded me. From the top we looked
down and watched those who were following us struggling along. Among
the first to arrive was old Jemal Shah, the cook. In spite of his
gray hair, he stood the work well. Following the men came the great
yaks. How they made it, sinking belly-deep in the snow at every other
step, I do not see.
[Illustration: YAKS CLIMBING THE KHARDONG PASS]
[Illustration: A THIBETAN ANTELOPE]
As soon as the party had gathered on the crest we started the
descent. For those on foot this was moderately easy, though it was
over a small snow-covered glacier, but for the animals, carrying
from 160 to 180 pounds apiece, it was very hard work. Again the
yaks proved their worth and plodded down without accident.
Kermit and I felt no mountain-sickness when we were on the top of the
pass. Curiously enough, however, we developed splitting headaches
when we stopped for a rest and something to eat at an altitude of
about 16,000 feet. When we camped for the night at Khardong at
a height of only 13,500 feet, we really felt we were in the Low
Countries.
On the way up to the pass, Kermit had killed a little
mountain-rabbit. He chased it over the rocks and finally got it by
knocking it over with his khudstick. It was a chunky little gray
animal with crop ears. It would have made an interesting specimen
for the museum, and assumed an additional importance in our eyes
through the difficulty of its capture. We planned to skin it as soon
as we got to camp. When we arrived at the village of Khardong and
searched for it through the pockets of Kermit’s coat, we could not
find it. We decided that it must have fallen out during the climb. It
speaks volumes for Kermit’s coat that we found it again in those very
pockets some ten days later, squashed quite flat from being sat on.
A pathetic instance of the fatalism of the East occurred here. Our
two shikaries came from a town in Kashmir named Bandipur. We knew
that cholera was raging there and that they were worried about their
families. Word reached them via Leh that the daughter and the first
cousin of one of them had died. They were naturally heart-broken. In
trying to comfort them we suggested that a man be sent back to Leh to
send a message to the two families to move to some safer place. To
this, Rahima replied sadly: “No, why move them? It is as God wills.”
We had encountered the “It is Kismet” of the East, to which there is
no answer.
At Karthar we were met by Cherrie and Cutting, who had come through
safely. At Taghar, one of the little villages at which we camped,
we found a ruined palace on the hill back of the town. No one could
tell us to whom it had belonged. Probably when the valley was more
thoroughly populated some small Rajah had his local seat there. The
main building was in fair repair. On one side of the great balcony,
which overlooked the surrounding country, there was a partly ruined
fresco of Buddha surrounded by various symbolic figures. Below
the main palace ruined outbuildings with only the walls standing
stretched like a labyrinth over an acre of ground.
At Panamik, where there are hot mineral springs, we had a bath.
The natives have a mud bath-house which they use, I am inclined
to believe, not so much for cleanliness as because they think the
springs have medicinal properties. Farther up the hillside there is
a little open basin in which we bathed. The mineral, I believe,
is soda. The bath was a great luxury, for it was the first hot
water we had had for about four weeks. The overflow from the stream
ran down the hill in a little channel. In the channel we noticed
a green seaweed, about six inches long and fan-shaped. It was the
only water-plant we saw, for in the cold snow-streams nothing seemed
to grow. Where this weed came from in the high Himalayas I am not
botanist enough to say. Perhaps it survives from some remote period
when the country was totally different geologically.
We were to make the final arrangements for ponies at Panamik. On our
arrival, we went into the usual Eastern conference, the principals of
which were Kermit and I, Abdullah Shah, our shikaries, and an amusing
old rascal called Shaitan, who owned the ponies. As usual, “there was
a lion in the way,” and our plans seemed impossible. However, in some
inexplicable fashion, at the end of the second day the yaks which
Shaitan said could not be brought in from the hills for eight days,
were there. The ponies necessary for the balance of the caravan were
to be produced in another couple of days, and Kermit and I started
ahead for two days’ burrhel-shooting.
The burrhel is a member of the sheep family and lives in the high
mountains. He is a little larger than a donkey. His color is fawn
and white, except in the cases of old males, who have a strong tinge
of black. For any one whose eyes are not trained, he is exceedingly
difficult to see, for he blends in with the brown rock and dirt on
his native mountainside.
Sometimes we hunted together, sometimes we hunted separately. In
addition to our regular shikaries, Rahima and Khalil, we each had a
native. These natives were real “jungli wallahs,” mountain-men, bred
and born in the high Himalayas. They were as tough as old leather.
They had eyesight that would shame a telescope. Their clothes were
voluminous folds of drab homespun. They ate a curious grain compound.
Their skin, garments, and food were all of varying shades of brown.
For the first day’s hunt we drew a blank, though we saw quite a
number of burrhel. This was due to a combination of long ranges and
mediocre shooting on our part.
The second day we started out in different directions. All day I
toiled up steep slopes, sometimes slipping on slide rock, sometimes
floundering in snow. I saw some cunning little crop-eared rabbits
like the one Kermit got on the Khardong Pass. From time to time we
saw herds of burrhel, but there were either no large males or we
could not get close to them. At last, about six, I came back to
camp quite tired. It is one thing to walk all day on the level, and
another to climb hills at a height of from 15,000 to 17,000 feet
where there is only a hatful of air to go around, and each breath is
a gasp. I had not been sitting down more than half an hour, when
Khalil ran up to say that he had just sighted, through the telescope,
a herd of burrhel with some good rams near the top of a neighboring
nullah. We started at once. On the way out we picked up Kermit, who
was just coming in from his hunt. Then the ascent began. It was now
nearly dark, so we could lose no time. I must have sounded like a
grampus. Kermit, who was making better weather of it, encouraged me
once by saying we could not go much higher, as the mountain top was
only a short distance away. At last we topped the ridge behind which
the animals were feeding, waited a moment to catch our breath, and
then advanced. As we reached the last boulders we saw them, a flock
of eight rams some hundred yards away. In the gathering dusk it was
difficult to judge the size. We picked our animals at once and fired.
For a few seconds they were dazed and milled around. Then they made
off. Those few seconds gave us an additional opportunity, and two
rams dropped dead. We made our way slowly down the mountain in the
dark, slipping at every few steps, but satisfied with the evening’s
work. We got to camp at nine, had some hot cocoa and a drink of
brandy which warmed us, and then slept like logs. As so often
happens, it was the eleventh-hour effort that got the game.
These burrhel we found in very bad pelage. They were just changing
from their winter to their summer coats. When we skinned them the
hair came out in handfuls. They were in such condition that they
would not make proper specimens for mounting in the museum. This
confronted us with a very serious problem, for it was evident that we
would find the poli in much the same shape if we went to the Pamirs
immediately after crossing the Himalayas. As the poli were to be used
for setting up in a group in the museum, this would never do. We
decided, therefore, to change our plans and to strike directly for
the Tian Shan mountains. On our way back we could hunt poli, as in
late autumn or early winter their skins would certainly be good.
As Cherrie and Cutting had joined us with the balance of the
pack-ponies, we started next day for the second great pass, the
Sasser. This route has been used through the ages, and yet it is
one of the most dangerous. It is difficult for the average person
to realize the height of these mountains. The Karakoram Pass, which
still lay before us, is more than 19,000 feet, or nearly half again
as high as Pike’s Peak. What might be an easy climb at 10,000 feet,
at 17,000 sets the heart beating like a trip-hammer and the lungs
gasping for air. At night it is very difficult to sleep. You wake
every few moments, struggling for breath, and feel as if you had been
long under water. The severity of the journey is mutely witnessed by
the bones of the pack-animals which lie everywhere. At many places
there are huge piles six and eight feet high. They are scattered
and gnawed by the gray wolves of the mountains, which, with the
snow-leopards and birds of prey, are the only beneficiaries.
After a hard day’s march over glacial streams half covered with
ice, and through snow-drifts which pushed right across the valley,
we came to our camp at the head of the Sasser glacier. The glacier
itself bounded our bivouac so closely on two sides that you could
hit it with a stone. On the other sides rose the snow-covered
mountains through which we had come by a narrow defile. We were in
a natural ice-box. Early in the afternoon the sunshine left us, and
an icy breath from the glacier sent the thermometer below freezing.
Withal it was very beautiful, for though we were in the shadow, the
sun still shone on the encircling peaks whose “silent pinnacles of
ancient snow stood sunset flushed.”
We pitched no tents that night, but rolled up in our sleeping-bags.
The ponies and yaks were kept close together, each beside his load.
A few small dung-fires glowed, over which the men cooked their tea.
There was little sleep for any of us, as the altitude prevented it.
Through the night the men talked and moved around. At one time, Kadi,
the Yarkandi, droned a religious chant that went on interminably; a
rapidly mumbled monotone of jumbled words punctuated at intervals by
a sort of sing-songy chorus. We marvelled that he had the breath to do
it. About three-thirty the camp was astir for the day. At the first
light, four-thirty, we were under weigh, for if the sun once thawed
the snow-fields on the glacier we would never get over. Once the
crust on the snow is melted, the pack-ponies break through and travel
becomes impossible. Kermit and I were to shepherd the rear of the
caravans. In the faint gray light, we stood and watched the animals,
small black dots, climb laboriously up the trail to the top of the
glacier. Some fell and had to be set on their feet again. Most of
them suffered from the height and had to go slowly. At these heights
the ponies should bleed at the nose. If they do not, the men pierce
the nostril with a sharp bodkin-like instrument that they carry.
On top was a gently rounded snow-field over which we got without much
trouble. Once we had to climb down and up again, where a fissure
had separated the ice-field. Here a small black pony fell and could
not rise. He carried no pack. He died simply from the height, and
was the only casualty of the day. Until seven-thirty we rode down a
gradually descending snow slope, when we dropped to a reasonably good
trail in the valley, and the glacier was passed. We had played in
extraordinarily good luck. The weather had been fine throughout, but
we got across none too soon. As the tail of our caravan left the ice
a bitter wind arose, snow fell, and a miniature blizzard raged. The
camp site lay only a few miles down the valley. When we sat down to
a hot breakfast at nine, we were very happy to know that the Sasser
was behind us and our caravan safe.
Next day we sent back the yaks we had used over the pass, and started
up the Shyok River with our permanent train of slightly over sixty
animals. The danger anticipated here was deep water. We had to ford
some five times during the day. The first ford was girth-deep, but
the ponies took it in fine shape, and all came through. Fezildin,
who had charge of the dogs, dragged one across by the collar. After
some hesitation the other three, led by Raleigh, the black hound
from Mississippi, who was unusually stout of heart, plunged in and
swam over. With our caravan were three little donkeys, who, to my
surprise, took it as a matter of course, and got through about as
well as the larger animals.
Then we headed for the next ford. There was much protest from some of
the pony men, but Rahima Loon and the Yarkandi helped to still it. We
told them we would follow our usual policy. We would go and look at
it. If it were impossible, we would not try it. This ford is around a
jutting shoulder of rock and not across the river. When we got there
it looked bad. The water was swirling down in a yellow torrent. Even
Rahima said: “Bura pani” (bad water). The Yarkandi, however, said he
thought it could be done. He got on a horse and tried it. It was just
passable and no more. We directed that the horses be led over by ones
and twos. The men rolled up their dun-colored clothes to the waist
and plunged in, towing the horses behind them. The water was icy,
but neither horses nor men seemed to mind it. In an hour they were
all safely through. When the last man and horse struggled out on the
beach on the far side, I thought of some lines from “Kinmont Willie”
that mother used to read me when I was little:
“The river was spate and full of hate,
But never a horse nor a man we lost.”
From the ford we marched up the trail. It was gloomy but impressive.
There was not even a sprig of green to rest the eye. On every side
rose brown, rugged mountains that seemed to brood over the valley.
Great glaciers marched down to the very bank of the stream. Their
pinnacled white ice-blocks seemed like the soldiers of the elder
gods. A cold wind blew fitfully from the snow.
We passed the next fords without trouble. Just when we thought the
worst of the difficulties were behind us, we turned a bend and saw
the Remo glacier stretched across the entire valley. This was a very
unpleasant surprise. We halted and camped on the spot. Kermit and I
set out at once with a few men to see if we could find a way across.
We climbed interminably over slippery crags of ice incrusted with
slime and rocks. Between were deep crevasses stretching downward
until lost in a greenish-blue dimness. There was a constant
muttering and groaning. Occasionally some great chunk would break
off and crash down, starting a legion of echoes that reverberated
hollowly through the ice corridors. Some of the men refused to go on,
and turned back. Two hours’ fruitless search convinced us that there
was no possibility of getting the ponies across.
This decided, there was but one course open to us, and that was to
return as rapidly as possible and attempt the other and longer route.
Speed was essential, as the river was rising daily. Moreover, this
delay seriously affected our ponies. Baggage-animals are scantily
rationed while crossing the Himalayas, for they have to carry their
own provender. In addition they lose their strength quickly in the
high altitudes. We knew this mischance would cost us ponies.
We had to spend the night where we were, but in order to take
advantage of the low period in the stream before the sun melts the
snow and ice, we started off very early. One by one the chill waters
of the fords were safely negotiated. After the last, we met two men
who were part of the first caravan of the year from Yarkand, just
as we were the first people to attempt the crossing from Leh. They
told us they had had a bad time. Like us, they had tried the route
down the Shyok River, only to be stopped by the same glacier. They
had stayed there four days trying to force a way through without
success. As a result one man and eleven animals had died, and they
had been forced to eat horse-flesh. They told us, however, that the
Karakoram Pass was in good shape.
We pushed on as rapidly as possible and during the next few days
passed the Depsang Plain, a bit of barren rolling country 18,000
feet high. A bitter-cold wind swept over it continuously. At last
we reached Daulat Beg Oldi, the point from which the Karakoram Pass
is usually made. Our ponies had suffered considerably and six more
had died. As a result we decided to turn some of the riding-animals
into pack-ponies and to use them to relieve those who were weakening.
Accordingly, we grouped in pairs the men who had been mounted and
assigned one horse to each pair. Kermit and I had one horse between
us, and so on.
The approach to the Karakoram was up a long stretch of gradually
rising, shale-covered valley. On both sides the trail was lined with
the skeletons of dead pack-animals. There were camels, their padded
feet sticking stiffly out and patches of skin with brown hair on it
clinging to the bones. There were ponies and donkeys in grotesque and
hideous positions. There were countless whitened and disassociated
skulls and bones. Overhead three great lammergeyers sailed. Around
on rocks were perched coal-black ravens that eyed our caravan with
sinister interest. The tracks of wolves were everywhere.
On the last steep ascent to the crest of the pass a pack-pony fell
off the trail, which brought the number of animals lost to eight.
About two o’clock the last of the caravan reached the top and started
down the long, gradual slope to the north. “The King of Passes,” as
one of the shikaries put it, was behind us.
On the Depsang Plain and just beyond the Karakoram the Tibetan
antelope range. They are graceful animals, about the size of the
American prongbuck which used to live on the plains of our West in
millions. They are fawn-colored, dark on the back and almost white on
the belly. The male has beautiful tapering horns, sometimes in the
shape of a lyre. How they lived in this barren country was a constant
source of wonder to us. Their only food seemed to be the sparse tufts
of dried grass that were scattered over the surrounding country at
very infrequent intervals. They seemed to thrive on this meagre diet,
for those we killed were as fat as butter-balls.
The morning after we crossed the Karakoram we saw a herd of seven
grazing on our left. They were startled by our approach and fled like
shadows across the path of the caravan. I was walking with my rifle
at the head. As they went by about 200 yards away I shot and killed
the buck and a doe. A little later in the same day Kermit killed
another fine buck. This gave us not only our group for the museum but
fresh meat.
The fourth of the five great passes, the Suget, we made quite easily
during a twenty-six-mile march. The map we used gives it as 16,610
feet high, but our aneroid made it 18,200 feet, and I am inclined
to believe our instrument. All through the country in which we were
travelling the maps showed blank areas marked unexplored. The names
they gave even to the explored parts were often unrecognized by the
natives who used other names. They show nicely marked points which
to the uninitiate would mean towns. As a matter of fact, they are
nothing but a few fire-blackened rocks where caravans stop, and
where no one has lived or ever will. Indeed, in spite of the maps,
travelling here is a good deal as described in “The Three Sealers”:
“Half steam ahead, by guess and lead.”
At the end of our march over the Suget we came to grass. It was the
first bit of green we had found for nearly nine days. I have rarely
seen anything that seemed prettier to me. All the animals were turned
out to graze during the evening. Here we had our first visit from the
wolves, whose signs we had been seeing all along. During the night
one of our three little donkeys was killed and partly eaten by wolves
within less than one hundred yards of our camp. None of us heard a
sound. I suppose we were sleeping unusually heavily on account of
the long march. The next day as we walked down the valley we found
it scored not only with the tracks of wolves, but with those of
snow-leopards.
In spite of the fact that it was very small and rocky, and would
be considered in the United States as almost barren, this valley
seemed to us “fair as the garden of the Lord.” We had spent nine
days in almost total desolation, where the brown rocky stretches
were relieved only by patches of snow. The green grass and the tiny
sweet-scented spring flowers were to us like a drink of cold water
after a long hot trek.
The following day, after a short march, we came to Suget Karaul.
It is a square, covering perhaps an acre of ground, surrounded by
a mud-and-stone wall with a rampart on top. Inside is a little hut
where the Chinese custom officer lives during the summer months. We
were too early for him and there was no one at the post. We sent
out men to the Kirghiz Begs in order to get some camels to help us
over the fords, for the Karakash River was deep. We also needed
yaks to assist us over the last big pass, for our ponies were worn
out. We armed each man with a note in English, which the Begs could
not read, and splendid credentials in Chinese with a gold seal and
ribbons given us by the museum, which the Begs could not read either.
In a short time a couple of Kirghiz arrived in camp. They were
light-colored, wild-looking men who rode camels.
This was the first inhabited country we had seen since we left
Panamik. For nearly two weeks we had been travelling through a great
stretch of wilderness and mighty mountain fastnesses, which are “no
man’s land” in every sense of the term.
For the next two days we worked down the Karakash River. It is
bordered by scrub thorn-bushes and scant grass. There is practically
no wild life. I did not see over a dozen birds in the two days. We
struck one really bad ford. It was on a swift-flowing tributary of
the Karakash. As usual, it was Kadi, the Yarkandi, who attempted it
first. Kermit and I followed right after him, for we felt that once
we were on the other side, no argument was possible, the caravan had
to follow. We were right, for as we stood on the far shore we could
see the men stripping in preparation. Then came the usual shouts,
and in they all plunged. One horse fell and was almost drowned, but
staggered up and came through after they finally managed to get his
pack off.
At the end of the second day we came to a ford before which
even stout-hearted Kadi quailed. The water was rough, swift and
breast-high. We had to turn aside and go over a mountain ridge
instead. Cutting, Kermit, and I scrambled around over the edge of
the cliff and waited. It took the train two hours and a half to do
about half a mile of map distance. Cherrie, who was with them, said
that in all the thirty-eight expeditions he had made, he never saw
pack-animals go over so bad a trail. One mule turned five somersaults
and got up unhurt.
We camped at Ali-Nazar Kurgan. The town consists of one Kirghiz
family, composed of two men and two women. The women were rather
pretty, and not at all shy. They were dressed in pink, a rather
grimy pink, and wore huge head-dresses shaped like the busbies of
grenadiers. They lived in two miserable little caves hollowed out
of the dried earth of the hillside. Near by were a few tombs. One
of them, evidently that of a well-known chief, was surrounded by
horse-heads, burrhel horns, and poli horns. We were much puzzled over
the latter until we found that the Kirghiz family had brought them
when they moved here from the Tagdum Bash Pamirs.
This day’s march brought us to our last pass in the Himalayas. During
the entire march from Leh, Cherrie collected wherever opportunity
afforded. At Panamik, where he stopped for four days, he had obtained
not only a number of birds but also two different kinds of rabbits,
some mice, and a shrew which he trapped. The birds were moderately
numerous until we reached the high altitudes, where there were
practically nothing but birds of prey. Our constant companions from
the valley of the Sind were a sparrow resembling the English sparrow,
a black and rusty brown warbler, the blue rock-pigeon, and the chukor
partridge. All of these disappeared when we reached the Depsang
Plain. The last two reappeared shortly after the Karakoram Pass. The
dividing barriers, as far as bird life is concerned, I should call
the Zoji and Karakoram Passes.
Just before we reached the Depsang Plain, we came on a small salt
lake in a hollow. On it were at least a dozen ducks. We had no
shotguns, so we could not collect any specimens, but we saw them
clearly. Their predominating color was light brown, and they were
large birds. I believe they were ruddy sheldrakes. A day later, while
riding down a barren little mountain stream, Kermit and I flushed
five geese. Where the water-birds lived, I cannot say. It did not
seem possible that the bodies of water where they were could support
them.
After a good night’s sleep we got up early and roused the camp for
the march on the last pass, the Sanju. This pass, though lower than
the others, was more dreaded by our men. It was very difficult to get
definite information about it. There were apparently two trails, one
very bad on account of a glacier, and the other almost invariably
closed at this time of year. Our ponies were all pretty well done up.
The grain brought for them by their drivers had given out a couple of
days before, and there was nothing for them but grass. We knew they
could not get us over. We had, therefore, sent a couple of Kirghiz
ahead with fifty rupees to hire fifty yaks to meet us at the foot of
the pass and relieve the ponies. This would have settled our worries
had we been at all sure the yaks would materialize, but, as Rahima
Loon remarked when discussing it: “Who knows? I give yesterday a
Kirghiz four anna to get milk. He get the four anna; I no get the
milk.” For four hours we marched up a rocky valley, incidentally
climbing nearly 4,000 feet. Suddenly, on turning a bend, we saw the
yaks before us. There they were, all fifty of them, standing in a
group with their drivers. They were a thoroughly welcome sight, for
already four ponies had given out. In addition to the men, there was
one woman sitting on the hillside. She was evidently the wife of
the chief and had come merely “for to admire and for to see.” After
looking us all over, she mounted a pony and galloped away.
As rapidly as we could we shifted loads and turned to the pass.
Fortune favored us and we found the better of the two trails open.
This convinced our men that we were under some special providence,
as it had not been open this early for fifteen years. Even though
better, it was none too good, for it was slide rock and gravel and
rose 2,500 feet in a little over two miles. There was, of course,
no question of riding ponies, for those poor animals had all they
could do to take themselves over, let alone to carry anything.
Cherrie rode a yak—the rest of us walked. Kermit and I were by this
time thoroughly toughened and acclimated to the altitude, so we
went on ahead and waited on the crest for the rest to come. Again
I wish to pay tribute to the yaks. They pushed unfalteringly up
that hill, carrying 150 pounds or more. At times the slope was at
least forty-five degrees. Their tongues hung out and their breathing
sounded like the exhaust-valve of a steam-engine, but on they went
until one by one they heaved themselves over the last rock and
reached the top.
There was a gorgeous view. The mountains on either side were
mist-cloaked, and their outlines blurred and softened. Below,
zigzagging upward, was the train of more than a hundred animals, and
the voices of the drivers, as they shouted, came faintly to us on the
gusty wind.
When the train reached the top, we turned to the descent. After a
short distance the mist rolled away and we saw spread beneath us
rolling green hills. On them were black dots. As we got closer we saw
they were flocks of yaks and goats feeding. There were many varieties
of bright-colored flowers “star-scattered on the grass.” Marmots
whistled at us from their holes.
As we rounded a hill we saw some clustered yourts with a group of
Kirghiz around them. A yourt is a circular hut with perpendicular
walls and a dome roof. Its framework of wood is covered with felt.
We went to the principal one, where they were expecting us. Inside
there was a fire burning in the centre, over which an old woman and
two younger ones were preparing a sort of cruller. Beside it tea was
stewing in the usual black-incrusted, pitcher-like copper vessels.
The women were dressed in gay colors and had long ribbons hanging
down their backs from head-dresses. The room was clean. Around the
walls were bridles, cooking-utensils, and a gun with an antelope horn
rest to be used in firing. On one side stood a great churn.
We seated ourselves on bright-colored woollen blankets and were
served tea, crullers, and some excellent curds. I felt as if I were
in the times of Abraham. In a short time the caravan came in safely
as far as the men and baggage were concerned, but the last pull had
been too severe for four of the ponies. This brought to thirteen
the number of animals lost on our twenty-five-day climb over the
Himalayas. We had much for which to be thankful, however. Hardly any
one had believed it was possible for us to make the journey so early
in the season. I know of no other white expedition which has done so.
Then there were times when a change in weather or a rise of a few
inches in a river would have placed us in a very serious situation.
As it was, the Sanju Pass was closed by snow the day after we went
through it.
In spite of all this, without the loss of a man or an important piece
of baggage we had crossed “the everlasting hills,” and were on our
way down to the plains of Turkestan.