We went across the plain until we came to a hill range, which we crossed over a pass 17,450 feet high. Then, altering our course, we descended and ascended several hills, and at last found ourselves in the sheltered grassy valley of the large Gunkyo Lake, extending from south-east to north-west. With a temperature of 68° Fahrenheit the water in the hypsometrical apparatus boiled at 183° 3-1/2' at 8.30 in the evening. The lake was of extraordinary beauty, with the high snowy Gangri mountains rising almost sheer from its waters. On the southern side lofty hills formed a background wild and picturesque, but barren and desolate beyond words. At the other end of the lake, to the north-west, were lower mountains skirting the water.
We encamped at 16,455 feet. The Tibetan soldiers pitched their tent some fifty yards away.
During the evening the Tibetans came to my camp and made themselves useful. They helped us to get fuel, and brewed tea for me in Tibetan fashion. They professed to hate the Lamas, the rulers of the country, to whom they took special pleasure in applying names hardly repeatable in these pages. According to them, the Lamas took all the money that came into the country, and no one else was allowed to have any. They were unscrupulous, cruel, and unjust. Every man in Tibet, they said, was a soldier in case of necessity, and every one a servant of the Lamas. The soldiers of the regular army received a quantity of tsamba, bricks of tea and butter, but no money. Usually they were provided with ponies to ride. When travelling on duty they had a right to obtain relays of animals at post-stations and villages, and they were also entitled to claim supplies of food, saddles, or anything else they required, to carry them as far as the next encampment. The weapons (sword and matchlock) generally belonged to the men themselves, but occasionally, in the larger towns, such as Lhassa and Sigatz, the Lamas provided them. Gunpowder and bullets were supplied by the authorities. The weapons were manufactured mostly in Lhassa and Sigatz. Although the Tibetans boasted of great accuracy in shooting with their matchlocks, which had wooden rests in order to allow the marksman to take a steady aim, I never saw even the champion shots of the country hit the mark. For sporting purposes and for economy's sake, the Tibetan soldiers hardly ever used lead bullets or shot, but preferred to fill the barrels of their matchlocks with pebbles. Gunpowder was so scarce that they seldom practised firing at a target.
At sunrise the view of Gunkyo was magnificent, with the snow-covered mountains tinted gold and red, and reflected in their smallest detail in the still waters of the lake.
We loaded our yaks, the Tibetans giving us a helping hand, and started toward the Maium Pass, following a river which throws itself into the Gunkyo Lake.
The valley was narrow, and with many sharp turns. Although the elevation was great, there was abundance of grass. The green was quite refreshing to the eyes, tired as we were of snow and reddish barren mountains and desert-like stretches of land. We came to a basin where, on the opposite bank of the stream, was a large Tibetan camping-ground with a high wall of stones. Behind it I could see smoke rising, which made me suspect that there were people concealed.
Our Tibetan friends asked what were our intentions, and begged me to stop to talk and drink tea. I said I had had quite enough of both, and would proceed.
"If you go on we will kill you!" shouted one soldier, getting into a temper, and taking advantage of our politeness toward him and his companions.
"Nga samgi ganta indah" (If you please), I answered, with studied courtesy.