THE PAMIRS AND THE POLI
“And now there came both mist and snow
And it grew wondrous cold.”
—COLERIDGE.
We stayed four days at Kashgar, and gathered ourselves for the last
effort of the trip—our hunt for ovis poli. Round the horns of this
great sheep, story and legend have clustered for ages. Forgotten
for six hundred years after Marco Polo first noticed him, he was
rediscovered in the late thirties of the last century by a British
officer. Since then he has been the lodestar of big-game hunters. We
could get but little late news of him. Indeed, many of those best
posted considered the ovis poli nearly extinct.
During these four days we replenished our supplies, and packed the
heads and skins to be taken out by Cutting and Cherrie. These two
were following us more slowly, collecting as they travelled. At this
point our trails finally split, as they planned to go out through
Russia.
Every one was kind and helpful. Major Gillan, the British Consul, did
all in his power to aid us. The Dotai, the Chinese Governor of the
province, also was most kind. He was a cheerful old boy with a plump,
round face like a russet apple. We exchanged the usual formal calls,
our dinner-jackets making their last appearance. Mrs. Gillan did
her best to make them moderately presentable, but they were too far
gone. In spite of her efforts, we looked like dissipated waiters in a
third-class restaurant on the Bowery.
The social round finished with a luncheon given us by the Dotai on
the day of our departure. At the luncheon were the official family
of Kashgar. The talk turned on the long-haired tiger. The Chinese
General, a fine-looking old fellow with a strong, clean-cut chin,
told us how some twenty years before, a tiger was supposed to have
jumped into an araba just outside of Maralbashi. The driver jumped
out as the tiger jumped in, evidently feeling that in this case two
was not company but a crowd. The horses then bolted and dragged the
tiger through the city and out the other side. Other stories followed
of much the same type, interesting but suggesting Munchausen rather
than George Washington. As a matter of fact, we found that none of
the company had ever seen a tiger, alive or dead, and that their
information was mere hearsay.
After the meal was over, we took off our draggled finery, put on our
hunting-clothes, and rode after our caravan. It had started off in
the morning, so we did not catch up until night.
With our pony caravan there were, as usual, two Chinese soldiers.
This time, however, they were better men, or the natives of the
country were of a higher social status, for there were no cases
of oppression with which to deal. Our head pony man was a draggled
old gray-bearded Beg, who looked like Time in a primer. He wore a
long, faded red wrapper, which flapped around his thin shanks in
the bitter mountain wind like a torn sail round spars in a gale. He
fluttered along behind the caravan like a piece of paper in a windy
city street. Last but not least was Rah Tai Koon Beg, a fat, bearded,
jolly fellow, with a bright-blue coat belted in with a yellow scarf.
Very often he rode with us and carried one of the rifles. The
rifle-sling was not long enough to suit his figure, and the rifle was
half hidden in the clothes and fat that covered his broad back.
For a couple of days we travelled through the plains. We passed from
oasis to oasis. Burned and forbidding, the desert lay between. There
was an endless succession of scrub bushes and sun-scorched rock, with
dust-devils dancing between. Time and again we passed small oases
on which the desert was marching. On their outskirts were houses
half buried in sand, and dead trees whose gray, gnarled upper limbs
alone stuck out of sand-dunes. Closer in, where the sand had not yet
conquered, were half-submerged fields and partially covered trees
whose tops were still green with leaves.
On the third day we turned due south. Soon we were among the
foot-hills. The plains of Turkestan were behind us.
Turkestan, though it has been comparatively civilized for a long
time, has changed but little in the last thousand years. The leaders
still practise mediæval directness in dealing with those they
dislike. Last year the General at Kashgar became too efficient and
raised too large an army. The Governor of Turkestan descended on
Kashgar unannounced, and the General’s head presently appeared over
one of the gates of the city.
Perhaps the most unpleasant sight we saw in this country were the
prisoners. The state considers that it has done its duty when it has
thrown them into prison. It does not provide them with food. They are
led each day to the gates of the city, chained there, and left to beg
their food from charitable passers-by. Mowing and gibbering in their
chains, their wild eyes peering from beneath their tangled black
hair, their gaunt limbs showing through the filthy rags in which they
were clothed, they were a gruesome sight.
The hills were more than welcome after the long weeks we had spent in
the plains. Bare and red, they suggested the buttes of Colorado. We
marched up the bed of a rocky stream, the trail weaving from side to
side over numerous fords. About noon we saw two men approaching on
horseback, who turned out to be Nadir Beg and the mail-runner from
India.
Nadir Beg was the native that Gillan had got us as a guide for the
ovis poli country. He was an important citizen of the town of
Tashkurgan, a fine-looking man with a light complexion, a black
beard and a hawk-like nose. He was a Sarikol, one of a people who
live in the valleys and mountains of that name. These Sarikoli,
because of their Aryan features and light complexions, are said to be
descendants of the soldiers of Alexander the Great, whose “distant
footsteps” still echo down the corridors of time in northwestern
India. In the East, where nothing is entirely forgotten, and little
remembered with accuracy, the tradition of the great Macedonian
remains as the myth of a demigod.
That evening we camped by a little Kirghiz settlement on a small
plain in the valley. The principal building was a mud-walled square
around a great cottonwood-tree. In it was bivouacked a caravan from
Tashkurgan on its way to Kashgar. The men were good-looking lean
fellows and very friendly.
Around the camp-fire we worked out our plans for the poli-hunting.
Nadir Beg said that though goolja (rams) were scarce, he had seen
a fine head shot by a Kirghiz near Subashi the previous winter. We
accordingly decided to try that point first.
For the next two days we pushed on up the river. At times the trail
was very bad. It wound along the steep sides of the mountain.
The valley narrowed into a gorge through which the stream rushed
so rapidly that fording was very difficult. A small boy, perhaps
fourteen years old, led the head pony of our caravan. At one of the
fords he fell in, but was pulled out by Nadir Beg and some of the
others. After the water had been tilted out of him he seemed all
right. His clothes, however, could not be worn wet in the bitter
cold, so he was fitted out from various surplus stores. As he was
by all odds the smallest of the party, the fit was far from good.
The final touch to his attire was given by an enormous pair of
knee-high boots which made him look, as he paddled along, like the
Puss-in-boots of the fairy-tale.
After crossing the ford where the boy fell in, I noticed the head
pony man stoop down and put a stone on a small pile that was there.
That was Tauism, or nature-worship. The people of this country
are nominally Mohammedans, but, like most people who live in the
lonely places of the world, their religion is largely overlaid with
primitive nature-worship. Wherever there was a bad ford we saw these
piles of rocks. At times we saw trees with bits of rag or paper
fluttering from their branches.
At one place we were delayed many hours because a part of a bridge
had been destroyed. Before we could get the caravan over, we had to
rebuild much of the road. Even then it took the efforts of three or
four men, pushing and pulling, to get each pack-pony across. Just
beyond, on the other side of the river, there were holes sunk in the
rocks. I asked Nadir Beg what they were. He told me they were the
remains of a bridge built in Yakoob Beg’s time. Yakoob Beg was a very
competent Mohammedan who headed a successful revolt some sixty or
seventy years ago. He ruled in Turkestan for a number of years. It
was only after his death that China regained her control. I noticed
that improvements and public works were very often credited to him by
the natives. It would seem that he must have been a very able man,
but perhaps it is only a case of the far hills being the greenest.
As we wound our way along, we met an occasional caravan moving toward
the plains. The men were generally so bundled up that they looked
like animated bolsters. A number of times we noticed poli-skins,
either on their saddles or covering their bales. This encouraged us
very much. When we questioned them they told us that these were the
skins of arkal (female sheep) from both the Chinese and the Russian
Pamirs.
Sometimes we came on great woolly Bactrian camels, which lifted
their heads from their grazing and eyed us incuriously. They were in
splendid shape, fat and strong. It was a constant source of wonder to
us that these great animals were able to keep in such good condition
feeding on the withered bushes and scant dry grass of the country.
Here we saw a type of shelter we had not seen before, a mud-and-stone
yourt. The bottom was built of rough rocks, the top was of dry clay.
Generally they clustered in the lee of some large rock, like chickens
around a hen.
One bitter cold morning Loosa brought in a small gray mouse
that he had caught in his hands. It was a new species so Kermit
conscientiously skinned it, though skinning is far from pleasant when
the steel cleaves to your hands from cold.
One afternoon as we were riding along we noticed a hawk pursuing
a large blue rock pigeon. The latter took refuge in a hole in a
crumbling mud-bank by the side of the trail. Nadir Beg and Fezildin
galloped up, and a chase for the pigeon started. They scrambled down
and tried to catch it by reaching into the hole where it had gone. It
was really very heavy odds, for whenever they scared the pigeon out
of the hole the hawk would swoop at it. At last, I am glad to say,
it got off scot-free, eluding all pursuers bird and man alike, and
disappeared behind a cliff.
It had now begun to be bitterly cold. The snow lay thick on the
mountains. Snow flurries and sleet-storms swept across the valley
nearly every afternoon. The wind blew with gusty fury. At night the
tin cup of water that Kermit and I had left between us in the tent
froze solid. As the trees and large bushes had all disappeared, our
fires consisted nearly entirely of yak dung, with occasionally a few
scrub-bush roots called burtsa by the natives. Yak dung burns with a
pungent odor that is rather pleasant. It serves only for cooking, and
does not warm you when the weather is really cold. It is one thing
to camp in our own North woods where fuel is plentiful, and where,
when the hunter comes in chilled and tired, he builds a roaring fire
of birch and pine; but it is a very different matter in the Pamirs,
when he arrives in camp to no fire at all. We went to bed immediately
after getting to camp, for it was the only place where we could be
reasonably comfortable. Even there all we could do was to lie still
and think, for it was too cold to hold a book even if a candle could
be kept alight in the wind. Getting up in the gray light of early
morning was also far from pleasant. Everything was frozen. Very often
the snow was deep outside of the tent. Every piece of clothing was
damp and cold. As time wore on, we took off less and less when we
went to bed, until the phrase “undressed for the night” might better
have been changed to “dressed for the night.”
The evening of the fourth day out we reached Bulun Lake. Our caravan
had been travelling very slowly, and we had decided to speed it up.
Accordingly, we marched ahead and told the leaders not to stop until
they caught up with us. We reached the lake just before dusk. There
was but little water in it. Indeed, it consisted mainly of sand-bars
with shallow channels between. At sunset the brown of the sand, set
off by the shining winding strips of water, made the whole seem like
some gigantic plaque of bronze inlaid with silver.
It was after dark when we reached the small settlement that goes
by the name of Bulun. In the gloom we saw the shadowy shape of a
square, half-ruined mud fort, with a few yourts clustered around it.
After much chattering of shadowy figures that flitted through the
dark, we got off, and were shown into one of the yourts to await the
arrival of the caravan now well behind us.
Inside the yourt a Kirghiz family was gathered around the dung fire,
which cast a glow rather than a light upon them. There were the man,
his wife, a rather handsome, worn woman, and three brown, bright-eyed
children, who sat as quiet as little mice. The air was so filled with
smoke that it was almost impossible to keep our eyes open. This is
the way these Kirghiz must spend fully twelve to fourteen hours a day
through many of the winter months. There was neither room nor light
in the yourt to do anything. I do not believe they think much, so
like the North country farmer, I suppose they “just set.”
We and our men crowded in, completely filling the yourt. We were very
grateful for the shelter from the wind, and the comparative warmth
from the huddled humanity and the tiny fire. When the caravan arrived
some hours later, we were sorry to have to go to our flimsy canvas
tent.
Next morning we were up at daylight. The lake was cupped by
snow-covered hills. Frost lay heavily on the brown sparse grass.
Suddenly, through a gap in the mountain wall, a great level ray of
sunlight fell, painting the low-lying clouds gold. A flock of ducks
flew over, their wings flickering in the golden morning light.
While the cold-stiffened ponies were being caught and loaded, I
noticed the old, white-bearded Beg in charge of the pony-train
standing near a building around which swallows were flying.
Unexpectedly he stretched out his hand and caught one as it flew
by. He looked at it for a second and then threw it into the air,
and away it sailed. Though these swallows swooped very close to me,
it would have been impossible for me to have duplicated his feat.
Unfortunately, as our ability to communicate with the natives was, to
put it mildly, limited, I was unable to find out whether this was the
first time he had done anything of the sort, or whether he was in the
habit of doing it.
We marched to the Little Kara Kul, where, after talking with the
natives, we decided to stop and hunt for a day. The village of
Little Kara Kul consisted of a stone karal in which are three or
four yourts. We were now in the land of the yak again, and the great
shaggy beasts grunted and shuffled around our tent all night.
A yak is not an uncomfortable animal to ride, but patience is
necessary. He goes very slowly though his gait is reasonably smooth,
and he always gets there. Also, he goes over the most impossible
country imaginable about as fast as he goes over level ground.
He plods unconcernedly through snow up to his belly, or up a
boulder-strewn slope of forty-five degrees. He moves over obstacles
with the same deliberate unconcern with which I have seen a tank in
the war negotiate a shell-hole. He is guided with a rope through
his nostrils, and steers like a dray. He blows like a porpoise,
keeps his mouth open a large part of the time, and lolls a long
anteater-like tongue from side to side. I have seen a small icicle
form from the saliva on the tip of his tongue, but could not see that
it inconvenienced him at all. Once we rode our yaks into a valley
where there was a herd of the same animals. The beast I was riding
began to give curious throaty bellows. The old bulls of the herd at
once waltzed up, holding their tails in the air like feather dusters.
They made no attempt to attack, but played around us like ungainly
puppies. There were dust wallows near by in which the great shaggy
creatures would lie and roll.
[Illustration: KICHIK KARA KUL]
[Illustration: AN EARLY MORNING START AFTER OVIS POLI]
When we got up next morning it was bitterly cold. The sky was the
monotonous gray of winter. Everything was white from a light snow.
After a hurried breakfast, we started for the hunting-grounds,
mounted on yaks. Their black woolly backs were incrusted with frost.
On the first lake we passed a flock of geese settled, spiralling
down from the sky with a musical honking. They stood in a row on a
sand-bar like sentinels. The next lake was frozen except at one
end. In the open water were myriads of ducks and geese. As we came
up they rose into the air with a sound like ocean surf on a shingle
beach.
It was typical Pamir country, sandy valleys dotted with tufts of
dried grass, and snow-covered hills and mountains. For so barren
a country there was a surprising amount of wild life. We saw
snow-buntings, pigeons, vultures, and hawks. There were many tracks
across the snow. I noticed much wolf sign, tracks of marmots, tracks
like those of some small cat, and the trail where a little mouse
had run hither and yon, dragging its tail in the snow, evidently in
search of roots. We flushed four or five large hares which loped off
with deceptive speed. To the latter Kermit and I, mindful of the old
Southern custom, solemnly took off our caps in order that we might
have luck with the poli.
As we were plodding along, Khalil jumped off his yak, calling out
“goolja!” and pointing to a slope some 600 yards away. Along it were
running two small poli rams, with horns about twenty inches long.
They were too small to shoot, but it gave us a thrill to see the ovis
poli in the flesh for the first time. Though they had seen us they
seemed but little frightened, and, cantering gently up the slope,
disappeared over the crest. They were very handsome with their gray
backs and white chests and legs.
Shortly after this we separated, Kermit going to the left and I to
the right. Only a few moments after I left him I saw some animals
among the rocks about 700 yards away. After studying them with the
field-glasses, I found them to be six female poli with four young.
Our first care was for the males, so we left them undisturbed, and
hunted up a nullah to one side. We found nothing and worked our way
back in the hope that some male poli had joined the females. None
had, and, as we wished to hunt the country beyond, we walked toward
them over a great snow-bank. They soon saw us and cantered gracefully
away over the mountain. We then plodded through the deep snow to the
crest of a saddle. Again we saw females but no males. We tramped
along the ridges without success until dusk began to fall. Two native
hunters were with us. They seemed to tire quicker than either Rahima
or I, and at intervals protested that the hunting should end for the
day. Just as the sun was setting we caught a glimpse of Kermit, who
was following the same tactics with the same lack of success. He and
his shikaries showed up as tiny black dots against the white of the
opposite mountain crest. Night fell as it falls in the mountains,
suddenly. The shadows lengthened, and we found ourselves in the cold
darkness. Far across the valley white mountains still blazed in a
golden light. Ten minutes more and night closed like an extinguisher
over all. Kermit and I met in the valley and rode to camp together.
As we passed the lakes, we heard from the black the querulous
quacking of the ducks who had settled there again.
On the whole we were not discouraged by the day’s work, for though we
had seen no good heads, we had seen enough females and young to make
us reasonably certain that there were some mature males near by. That
evening, after talking with the natives in camp, we decided that the
ravines we had hunted that day contained no mature rams and agreed to
move to Subashi the next day. Accordingly, we sent a native forward
that night to look the country over with a pair of our binoculars and
to report when we arrived there.
We got to Subashi about one o’clock the following day. It was a
valley with a little stream in the centre from which the land sloped
up rather abruptly to surrounding hills. The ground was sandy, the
vegetation sparse, but camels, sheep, and yaks seemed to be able to
eke out a reasonable existence there. As it was evidently a place
where there was no room for two separate guns, we decided to hunt
together. Twice on our way up the valley we saw herds of female and
young poli on the hillsides.
Soon we met the “jungli wallah” sent out the night before. He was in
a state of great excitement. He told us that he had found a herd of
eight goolja. We were delighted, and pushed forward cautiously to
a point where the nullah forked. With our field-glasses we could
just see them lying among some rocks toward the end of the right
branch. The ravine, where the poli were, ended in some stiff-looking
mountains. The left fork, slightly longer, ended near a divide beyond
which lay the Russian Pamirs. Between the two branches was a high
ridge of slide rock covered with snow.
Two stalks were possible, neither good; one over the top of the
mountain on the extreme right, the other up the left nullah and over
the dividing ridge. We chose the latter, for we were afraid we would
not have time to complete the former. After riding a short way up the
nullah, we left our horses and started climbing. As we approached the
foot of the hill a very handsome red fox jumped up and trotted off.
We wanted it for our collections, but did not shoot at it for fear
of scaring off our poli. Somehow in hunting this very often happens.
Smaller game always seems to show up during a stalk for big game.
[Illustration: A 53-INCH OVIS POLI]
The hill was a steep one. We zigzagged to and fro, floundering in
snow and slipping on rock. The altitude was high, over 16,000 feet,
and it cut our breath badly. At last, after an hour and a half of
hard work, we reached the summit and peered over. To our sorrow we
found that the poli, for some reason unknown to us, had moved and
were slowly filing up a shoulder nearly 800 yards away. They were not
really frightened, they were apprehensive. As it was now four-thirty,
and there was no chance to try another stalk, we settled ourselves
on the ridge for what Rahima called a “lookum see.” Through the
field-glasses and telescopes we could see the sheep plainly. They
were very handsome as they stepped delicately along, now stooping
to nibble a tuft of grass, now halting to glance around and sniff
the wind. Occasionally one would clamber on a rock and stand
sentinel-like, his head thrown back until the massive spiral horns
seemed to rest upon his shoulders. Standing thus they looked like the
very spirit of the mountains. We studied them carefully. They were
eight in number. Six had horns about forty-five inches in length. Two
were splendid animals with horns measuring fifty or better.
A knife-like wind had risen and we were getting the full force of it.
To make the climb we had stripped off our heavy coats. We were soaked
with sweat and were soon chilled through and through. Every one was
shivering. It was hard to hold the telescope steadily enough to see
the game. Kermit and I agreed that if we had had to shoot then, we
would have been as likely to hit the moon as a poli. In spite of
this, we stayed until almost dark in order to mark down where our
game stopped.
Through the dusk we plodded down the hill. When we reached the foot,
we saw down the valley the red glow of some yak-dung camp-fires. This
at once explained the behavior of the rams. Our caravan had moved up
to where the valley forked, and were in plain sight of the heights
where the poli had been. Cold, weary, and rather disconsolate, we
made our way to camp, determined to start again early next morning.
All night long the wind blew down the valley, singing and whistling
around our camp. Our light canvas tent bellied in the wind, and time
and again we thought it would blow over. The cold from the ground
came right through our bedding-rolls. Toward midnight it began to
snow, and fine powdery flakes whirled in on us. I had my shoes in bed
with me to prevent them freezing stiff.
At 4.30 A. M. we got up. The snow had stopped, but the whole country
was sheeted in white. We pulled on with numb fingers, the few clothes
we had taken off, gulped down some coffee, and started up the nullah
where we had last seen the animals. Soon day began to break. A
cold, steely-gray sky, heavy with unshed snows, arched over us. We
dismounted and walked, partly from caution, partly because it was too
cold to ride even clothed as we were.
About six o’clock we saw our game. Unfortunately, one of the men had
turned a bend of the ravine too quickly and they had glimpsed him.
Again they were not frightened but only apprehensive, and they made
off slowly across the end of the valley and up the steep slope of
the mountain. We lay still and watched. At last they breasted the
crest, showed for a moment outlined against the sky, and one by one
disappeared on the other side.
As soon as they were out of sight we started to follow them. One
of the Kirghiz was sent back with our yaks, while Kermit, Rahima,
Khalil, a local hunter, and I tramped ahead. It was about half past
six. At first the way was only moderately steep. Then it changed and
we had to climb. We floundered through snow-drifts waist-deep on
slopes where it was difficult to believe snow could rest. We climbed
over shoulders of rock where the loose shale under its white covering
made every step a slip.
The altitude rapidly increased, and soon we were at least 17,000
feet high. We snatched gasping at every mouthful of thin air. When
we stopped to rest I threw myself flat, though Kermit only seemed
to need to lean on his stick. About eight we reached the crest. Our
hopes were high, for we felt from the way the poli were travelling
they might be just the other side. Very cautiously we worked our way
up to some jutting rocks and looked over. We saw nothing. By this
time the sun was shining. After looking around for ten or fifteen
minutes, the shikaries decided that they had gone beyond the next
range, and suggested that we start down the slope. Fortunately, at
this moment Kermit picked them up with the field-glasses. They were
on the opposite side of the valley, perhaps a mile away, lying on a
patch of snow. Had we gone down the slope, they surely would have
seen us and run off.
With the wind as it was, only one stalk was possible. This entailed
about five miles as the crow flies, during which we crossed two
mountains and numerous spurs. The stalk began at once. We struggled
across snow-banks many feet deep; we zigzagged over rock drifts; we
stumbled through corries where the snow concealed deep holes between
boulders into which we fell. We climbed hand over hand up rock
shoulders. At one place Kermit and I tobogganed down a steep snow
slope and nearly started a snowslide.
The sun on the snow had made a heavy mist that hung curtain-wise
across the valley. At last we reached a little ravine flanked by a
steep ridge from which we felt we would get a shot at our game. Up
the slope we toiled, looking about for the poli. It was a hard task,
for we had to snatch moments when gaps occurred in the mist as it
rolled by before the wind. We had sweated heavily and our clothes
were drenched. Now the knife-like wind cut us to the bone. More than
six hours had passed while we were climbing. In the beginning I had
consistently brought up the rear of the column, but toward the end,
one of the shikaries and the “jungli wallahs” dropped behind me.
After watching carefully for about twenty minutes, we made sure the
rams were not where we had last seen them. As Rahima put it, we
were “very mad-going,” for we had labored mightily on this stalk.
Suddenly the fog began to thin, shredded away, and we saw the sheep
opposite us in the Russian Pamirs. They were perhaps 700 yards
distant, but, as we were in plain sight on a snow-drift, we lay quite
still. It looked as if we were doomed to “the long day’s patience,
belly down on frozen drift,” when a cloud drifted up, and under cover
of the dim light we were able to crawl cautiously out of sight. We
started at once for a point nearer our quarry. The clouds began to
bank over us in real earnest.
When we had reached a position somewhere between three or four
hundred yards from the rams, we realized that a snow-storm, sweeping
up the valley, would be on us in a very few minutes, and make
shooting impossible. It was now or never. I had won the first shot,
so settling myself very carefully in the snow I fired at the animal
which seemed to me to present the best target. Kermit immediately
followed suit. At the crack of the rifles the rams were up and away,
but we thought our shots had hit. Fortunately they did not know where
we were, and headed back in our general direction toward the Chinese
Pamirs.
Running as hard as we could over the snow, we came to a point which
would give us a clear view of them when they passed. I had snatched
off my gloves to get a better grip on the rifle, and now my hands
were so cold that I could not feel the trigger. Suddenly the sheep
came into view from behind a huge buttress of rock. They were in
single file, the big rams leading. They were about 250 yards away,
going at a plunging canter through the drifts. Their great spiral
horns flared out magnificently, their heads were held high. Every
line was clear cut against the white of the snow.
We began firing at once at the two leaders. First one and then the
other staggered and lost his place in the line. Though hard hit, they
pulled themselves together, joined the herd, and all disappeared
over a near-by ridge. Clutching our rifles, we stumbled after them.
When we reached the trail we found blood-stains. We put every ounce
of strength we had into the chase, for these were the trophies we
had travelled 12,000 miles to get. The going was very bad. Every
few steps we floundered arm-pit deep in the snow. It was like the
foot-tied race of a nightmare. Try as we would, we could not make
time. Suddenly the wind rose, snow began to drift down, and the trail
was blotted out in the swirling white of the storm. We could do no
more and had to give up and make for camp.
Working our way down to the valley we found our yaks, so frosted
with snow that they looked like animated birthday-cakes. The two
native hunters with them had seen the rams cross the ridge and were
confident they were mortally wounded. They felt sure we would find
them next day if the storm did not obliterate their trails. This was
but poor comfort, as a blizzard was then raging, and even if we were
lucky enough to find the sheep the wolves would have destroyed the
body skins. From the sportsman’s standpoint, of course, the great
horns are the trophy, but for mounting in the museum the whole skin
is necessary.
It was growing late. Thoroughly tired out we rode back through the
storm to camp. The snow drifted in stinging particles against our
faces. It was a moment when we fully appreciated the beards we had
grown. Though far from ornamental they were a great protection. When
we got to our tent they were stiff and heavy with snow and ice. After
as hot a supper as we could get, we rolled up in our bedding. Storm
or shine, we made up our minds to be off early next morning to the
point where we had last seen our poli.
In the gray dawn we were up again. The storm had blown over during
the night. Stars were glittering coldly over the white mountains.
On our grunting yaks we plodded up the valley to the scene of
yesterday’s stalk. When we arrived the sun was just rising. Its rays,
as they came through the mountain clefts, struck the snow slantwise
and gave it a queer, unreal, coppery glow. The wind had blown much of
last night’s fall clear of the mountain slope in front of us. There
we could see fragments of the poli trail which led up and over the
crest.
The one thing to do was to follow the trail. Here we struck an
unexpected snag. Two of the three Kirghiz with us said that the
slope ahead was too dangerous to climb, because we would almost
certainly be caught in a snowslide. As these men had had a hard time
the previous day, we felt that in this case their wish was father to
their thought. Though the mountain looked steep and high, we insisted
that the climb could be made.
Rahima Loon was really tired, so we left him with the yaks and began
climbing. Our party consisted of Kermit, myself, Khalil, and three
jungli wallahs, one of whom was as game as a bantam, while the other
two were very sad. For four hours we plodded in zigzags up through
the snow. It was back-breaking work. The trail had to be broken
through drifts four to eight feet deep. The altitude was high, the
air thin, and when at last we panted to the top we looked as if we
had been in a Turkish bath.
On the other side of the ridge stretched a wide valley. It was seamed
with rocky spurs from the surrounding mountains. The snow lay thick
and undisturbed, for this side was sheltered from the wind which had
swept the slope up which we had climbed. We could see no tracks,
though we searched the country with our field-glasses for a long
while. The animals might be lying dead behind any one of a thousand
rocky shoulders, or be covered with snow.
The wind blew colder and colder. Even the Kirghiz huddled shivering
in the lee of some rocks. Apparently the poli were hopelessly lost.
Of the party, all shared our view but the cheerful “jungli wallah.”
He said he thought he stood a chance of finding them by circling back
and up the valley into which we were looking. By so doing he could
look up the ravines that ran down from the mountains. He said also
that he hoped to mark them by wolf-tracks.
As there seemed little else to do we told him to go ahead, though we
had but little faith in the result. Tramping down the slope again we
reached camp in the late afternoon, very downhearted.
The “jungli wallah” followed out his plan. He went up the other
valley, and, with some field-glasses we had lent him, studied the
country. He saw seven wolves near the head of a small ravine and knew
at once that one of our rams lay there. Going there he found not
one, but two. The sheep had lain down close together after passing
the ridge, and had died during the night. They were the two leaders
and had fine heads. The horns of one measured fifty-one and a half
inches, and the other forty-nine and a half. He brought them into
camp late in the evening. We were delighted. They were our first poli
and had good heads.
Though the wolves had served us well by making it possible for us to
find our game, they had, as we feared, completely destroyed the body
skins which made the rams of little value for exhibition purposes in
the museum.
We had, of course, to get mountable specimens not only of adult males
but of females and young males. If, however, we were not fortunate
enough to get adult males with large heads, these big heads could be
mounted on body skins of animals who were adult but whose horns were
smaller.
There seemed to be no more poli in this nullah, so we decided to
move our camp. We marched during the morning over the desolate plain
which stretches south from the Little Kara Kul. To east of us towered
Mustagh Ata in all the majesty of his 24,000 feet. Before us rose
occasional flocks of gray snow-birds that flitted away like dead
leaves before a November wind.
About noon we came to the village of Kara Su. Like the other Pamir
villages which figure in bold type on the maps, it consists of four
or five yourts. It lies at the foot of the valley of that name which
leads, after four or five miles, over a low pass into the Russian
Pamirs. Here the news we heard from the natives made us feel that
this would be a good place to hunt. Moreover, the Russian Pamirs
where we decided the poli would be were so close at hand that we were
able to camp in the village. This had the real advantage of giving us
a yourt to live in, which far outstrips a six-by-nine canvas tent as
a winter residence in the Pamirs.
The inhabitants of Kara Su were very friendly. They came and squatted
around our fire and nodded and smiled at us. We particularly liked
one small boy. He was clothed in a single cotton wrapper-like
garment. Just what its function was we could not decide. It certainly
was not ornamental, for if dropped among the refuse by the yourt it
could have been distinguished only with difficulty. It could not have
been worn for warmth, as it was of the flimsiest material. Nor was
it prescribed by modesty, for when standing by the fire the little
fellow generally wound it around his neck and toasted his bare brown
body before the coals. He was very friendly and cheerful, and much
delighted by an empty tobacco tin and some colored buttons that we
gave him.
As soon as we had made up our minds to camp at Kara Su, we left
word for the caravan to stop at the yourts, and we started for the
hunting-grounds. Our way up the valley of the Kara Su led through
heavy sand and snow-drifts. The going was so bad and the altitude
so high that the ponies we were riding were thoroughly blown, and
we longed for yaks. At the end of about two hours we came to the
pass, a low, sandy, wind-swept ridge. Beyond stretched rolling hills
separated by barren valleys.
Almost immediately after we crossed the divide, one of the Kirghiz
made out a herd of poli feeding on the dry grass-tufts in one of the
bottoms. A short easy stalk brought us to a point above them on the
hillside.
Something had alarmed them, and they were making off at a decorous
canter across the valley. The herd was composed of young males and
females. We wanted one or more of each for the museum so we fired,
killing one and hitting two others. The herd broke into a gallop and
disappeared. We trotted across the valley, and found that the animal
we had killed was a young male. Leaving Khalil to skin him we started
on the trail of the wounded. About a quarter of a mile farther we
came to where another had broken off from the herd, and was lying
down in a small ravine. I followed this animal, and Kermit went off
on the remaining spoor.
When I got up to where the game was, I found it to be an adult
female. Rahima was with me and together we skinned it. Here the
balance of the party caught up with us, bringing the skin of the
young male and the ponies. The first Kirghiz to arrive I sent off
after Kermit with one of the horses. By the time we had finished it
was dark and there was no sign of Kermit. I was worried, because
to be benighted on the Pamirs at this time of year, in the intense
cold, with the bitter storms that sweep them, is a very serious
matter. The men were tired and far more philosophical as a result.
“Kermit Sahib get back to camp, God give it,” was their view of the
situation. I explained that this placid attitude would not do, and
organized search-parties. Taking our two shikaries with me, I sent
out the Kirghiz who knew the country by themselves. In this latter
disposition I made a mistake, for I found later that after letting a
couple of whoops and getting no answer, they decided that their duty
was done and returned to camp. The two shikaries and I rode up to the
crest of the mountain and along it. Every few minutes we called but
got no response. At last we found a trail through the snow leading
back toward camp. We judged this was Kermit’s and abandoned our
search.
Arriving in camp at eight-thirty we found that Kermit had come in an
hour earlier. It looked like waste effort, but in early winter in the
Pamirs it does not pay to take a chance.
Next morning at three o’clock we were up and off again. Both of us
were shivering cold in spite of wearing nearly everything we had. I
felt much like the man in “The Hunting of the Snark,” who wore seven
coats and three pair of boots. We had changed our ponies for yaks,
which made us much more comfortable. Work such as we had had the day
before would have been play to a yak.
Before dawn we were on the hunting-grounds and had selected a point
of vantage. There we waited huddled up in our coats, while black
turned to gray, gray to pink, and the first rays of sunlight struck
across the hills. Through our glasses we picked up herds of females
in several places, but no adult males. Two or three times we thought
we saw rams, but each time a close scrutiny proved that we had
been mistaken. We changed our position a half a dozen times without
result. Once we did see two small rams trotting over a hill-crest,
but though we followed them we could not find where they went.
At last about noon we made out in a valley a large herd of females,
and near them four rams. After studying the latter our men said they
had heads measuring forty inches or better. We could see that they
were adults. They were strolling leisurely along the slope toward
the head of a ravine. As usual the wind was wrong, and we had to
make a long détour to head them off. By the time we had done so, and
reached the point where we had planned to intercept them, they had
disappeared. Though we looked as carefully as we could, we could find
no sign of them. Also the snow was too much marked with trails, old
and new, to help us. We held a council of war and decided that the
sheep must have gone up the ravine.
We made another détour, and climbed the ridge again. Our judgment
proved correct, for here Khalil picked up the sheep lying among some
rocks still farther toward the head of the valley. Again we climbed
through the snow and rock for a mile or so. Crossing the ridge, we
worked down a little rocky shoulder just above where we believed
the poli were lying. We could not see them and thought they had
moved again. We started down the ridge. Suddenly one of the native
Kirghiz, who was with Kermit on the left, called out that he saw them.
There was no time to lose for the sheep had seen us and were running.
Kermit started shooting at once and, as I came running up, dropped
one. A few seconds later I hit another who rolled down the steep
slope like an enormous rabbit. We knocked over a third, but he picked
himself up again and went off.
We scrambled down the steep hillside, and found to our disappointment
that the horns of Kermit’s animal were just short of forty inches,
and mine still smaller. They were, however, adults in body, and the
skins could be used by the museum for mounting the two large heads.
Kermit went with Khalil to look for the trail of the wounded ram.
Rahima and I started to measure and skin the two dead animals. While
we were doing so a Kirghiz man, a little Kirghiz boy, and a very
large yellow dog came up and joined us. Forgetting that they were
Mohammedans, and that the meat was unclean because the animals had
not been “hallaled” before death, I told them they could have some.
Here in the back mountains where food is scarce, religious precepts
were not so strict. They solemnly cut the throats of the long-dead
carcass and sawed off great chunks of meat, which they carried away.
By the time we were well started on our work, the yaks came plodding
solemnly over the hillside, led by the man with whom we had left
them. Many hands proverbially make light work. With his help we had
the skins off and the trophies slung over the yaks, when Kermit and
Khalil came back to say that the blood-trail of the wounded ram had
been lost in a corrie of rocks.
The sky had become cloudy and overcast. The forbidding gray of an
approaching snow-storm arched over us. The natives had been hurrying
as rapidly as they could, casting apprehensive glances at the
gathering clouds. We mounted and started for camp.
A short distance up the valley a debate took place between the two
Kirghiz. One wished to go back the way we came. The other wanted to
take a short cut over a mountain and try to get to camp before the
storm broke. The latter triumphed and we started to zigzag up a steep
slope. Every hundred yards the snow became deeper, until when we
reached the top it was up to the bellies of the yaks. At just this
moment the storm broke on us like a blizzard on the Montana plains.
The wind shrieked by with such force that we could lean against
it. The snow whirled down in blinding clouds. It penetrated every
crack and cranny of our clothes. I could just make out Kermit’s
yak a few yards in front of me. One of the Kirghiz dismounted and
stumbled ahead on foot. Even these natives lost their bearings. We
plunged through banks of snow and over concealed boulders. The
great yaks, white-crusted until they looked like moving snow-drifts,
plodded sturdily along. They crossed obstacles with the even calm of
caterpillar-tractors. Once we saw huddled under the lee of a rock
some ramchukor, the snow drifting in eddies around them. At last
after an hour’s work, we suddenly found ourselves on the brink of a
steep slope. The Kirghiz recognized it. Down it we slipped and slid
to the comparative shelter of the valley. In another hour we were
back at our yourt.
We had our sportsman’s trophies, the two big heads. We had our group
of poli for the museum. The essential part of our work with the poli
was done. We stood around the small fire in the yourt, the melting
ice and snow dripping from our beards and clothes. Rahima, who had a
healthy respect for winter in the Pamirs and passes of the Himalayas,
summed up his views by saying:
“All right, good morning, going!”