CHAPTER III

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.

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