The night was dark and stormy. We encountered much difficulty on our journey forward, owing to the slippery ground. Where it was not slippery we trod over troublesome loose stones. We could not see far ahead. Though we well knew from the angle of the slope that we were travelling along a precipice, we could not distinguish anything under us except a very bright streak far, far down below—undoubtedly the river.
I could not explain the luminosity of the water. It did not seem to come from reflection of the light of stars or the moon, because the sky was cloudy at the time. The river had a curious greenish tint, closely resembling the light produced by an electric discharge. In the more dangerous spots we had to proceed for long distances on all-fours. Even then we felt hardly safe, for we could hear the sound of the stones rolling down the steep slope, and by the length of time they took to reach the bottom we knew that we were proceeding over a precipice of extraordinary height. So difficult and painful was the walking that it took us about four hours to go some three miles. We felt so exhausted that from time to time we had to lie down and rest, shivering with cold. Our hands were bleeding from cuts caused by the sharp stones. I mustered my men. Poor Mansing, the leper, was missing. When we last spoke to him he was moaning under his load, and he constantly stumbled and fell. Two men were sent in search, but after an hour's absence they failed to discover him. Faithful Chanden Sing and the Shoka Dola were then despatched to his rescue. After another hour of anxiety the two returned, bringing the unfortunate coolie with them. The poor fellow's hands and feet were badly cut. The pain in the latter was so great that he could no more stand erect. He had fallen in a faint from exhaustion, and it was by a mere chance that in the darkness Chanden Sing stumbled against his senseless body. Apart from his life, his loss would have been a serious matter to me, as he carried my bedding and photographic cameras.
Sleet and rain commenced to fall. The cold was intense. We continued to climb steadily, Chanden Sing and I helping the poor leper along. The march soon became less difficult, as we were following a depression formed by the action of melting snows. We were sheltered from the piercing wind, which had been driving the sleet hard into our faces. We slowly covered some three more miles. During that time the storm passed away, leaving the atmosphere beautifully clear. When we reached the pass (over 17,000 feet high) a curious optical phenomenon astonished us all. The larger stars and planets, of a dazzling brilliancy, such as I had never in my life seen before, seemed to swing to and fro in the sky with rapid and sudden jerks, describing short arcs of a circle, and returning each time to their normal position. The effect was so weird that I at first believed something had gone wrong with my vision, but my companions saw the same phenomenon. More curious still was the illusion of the stars nearer the horizon disappearing and reappearing behind the mountain range. The oscillations of the heavenly bodies nearer the horizon were less rapid, but the angle of the arc described measured almost double that traced by the stars directly above our heads. The oscillations of the latter were, especially at certain moments, so rapid that the star itself, instead of having its normal appearance, formed a continuous streak of light on the deep-blue background of the sky. This strange optical illusion, which began soon after the storm had cleared away, lasted some time. Gradually the oscillations became less violent, and stars and planets eventually resumed their normal steadiness, shining with great brilliancy and beauty.
We crossed the pass, and halted directly on the northern side of it. My followers suffered intense pain. Their feet were in a terrible condition. The minimum temperature was 12° Fahrenheit. We did not pitch our tent, and when we went to sleep there was only a blanket between us and heaven. When we woke in the morning we found the thermometer had risen to 30°. We were enveloped in thick mist, which chilled us to the marrow of our bones. I had icicles hanging from my mustache, eyelashes, and hair. My cheeks and nose were covered with a thin layer of ice, caused by the breath settling and congealing on my face.
During our night marches up and down mountain ranges of great height we naturally had many adventures and escapes. In constant storms of grit and snow we crossed range after range, travelling at night and hiding during the day, always camping at great elevations. We underwent considerable privations. I steered my men toward the Rakastal, or Devil's Lake. One day, having risen to 17,550 feet, we obtained a magnificent view of the two great sheets of water, the Lafan-cho and Mafan-cho, more commonly known to non-Tibetans under the names of Rakastal and Mansarowar lakes.
To the north of the lakes stood the magnificent Tize, the sacred Kelas Mountain, overtopping by some 2000 feet all the other snowy peaks of the Gangri chain. This chain extended roughly from north-west to south-east. From this spot we could see more distinctly than from Lama Chokten the band round the base of the mountain, which, according to legend, was formed by the rope of the Rakas (devil) trying to tear down this throne of Siva.
Tize, the great sacred peak, was of fascinating interest, owing to its peculiar shape. It resembled the giant roof of a temple. Perhaps it lacked the gracefulness of sweeping curves. Tize was angular—uncomfortably angular. Its height, the vivid color of its base, and the masses of snow that covered its slopes certainly gave it a peculiar attraction. Otherwise it struck me as being intensely unpicturesque—at least from the point from which I saw it and from which the entire face of it was visible. When clouds toned down and modified its shape, Tize appeared at its best from a painter's point of view. Under these conditions, I have thought it beautiful, especially at sunrise, with one side tinted red and yellow, and its exposed rocky mass standing majestic against a background of shiny gold. With my telescope I could plainly distinguish, especially on the east side, the defile along which the worshippers make the circuit at the base of the mountain. I was told that some pilgrims actually march round it on the snowy ledge directly over the base, just above the darker band of rock described before. On the south-west side could be seen, on the top of a lower peak, a gigantic obo (a pyramid of stone).
The journey round Tize usually takes three days. Some accomplish it in two days, and under favorable circumstances it has even been done in one day. It is usual for the pilgrims to say certain prayers and make sacrifices as they proceed. The more fanatical perform the journey serpentwise, lying flat on the ground at each step. Others do it on their hands and knees, and others walking backward.
Tize, or Kelas, has an elevation of 21,830 feet, and Nandiphu, west of it, 19,440 feet. North-west of the sacred mountain are visible other summits 20,460 feet, 19,970 feet, and 20,280 feet high.
While I was sketching this panorama a snow leopard bounded gracefully before us. Animal life seemed to abound. I had a shot or two at a thar (mountain goat), and we saw any number of kiang (wild horse). We found rhubarb, which seemed to be thriving at so high an elevation as 17,000 feet, and quantities of yellow flowers in the same locality and at the same elevation. At 19,000 feet I netted two couples of small white-and-black butterflies. They seemed to have great difficulty in flying.