The persons who brought the animal to Nepaul informed Mr. Hodgson that the tchirou mostly frequented the beautiful valley or plain of Tingri, situated in the southern part of the Thibetian province of Tsang, and watered by the Arroun. To go from Nepaul to this valley, you pass the defile of Kouti or Nialam. The Nepaulese call the valley of Arroun Tingri-Meidam, from the town of Tingri, which stands there on the left bank of the river; it is full of salt-beds, round which the tchirous assemble in herds. They describe these animals as extremely fierce, when they are in their wild state; they do not let any one approach them, and flee at the least noise. If you attack them, they resist courageously. The male and the female have generally the same aspect.
The form of the tchirou is graceful, like that of all the other animals of the antelope tribe, and it has likewise the incomparable eyes of the animals of that species; its colour is reddish, like that of the fawn in the upper parts of the body, and white below. Its distinctive features are, first a black horn, long and pointed, with three slight curvatures, and circular annulations towards the base; these annulations are more prominent in front than behind; there are two tufts of hair which project from the exterior of each nostril, and much down round the nose and mouth, which gives the animal’s head a heavy appearance. The hair of the tchirou is rough, and seems hollow, like that of all the animals north of the Himalaya that Mr. Hodgson had the opportunity of examining. The hair is about five centimetres long, and so thick that it seems to the touch a solid mass.
Beneath the hair, the body of the tchirou is covered with a very fine and delicate down, as are almost all the quadrupeds that inhabit the lofty regions of the Himalaya mountain, particularly the famous Cashmere goats.
Doctor Abel has proposed to give to the tchirou the systematic
name of Antelope Hodgsonii after the name of the learned person who has placed its existence beyond a doubt. [248]
At Atdza we changed our oulah, although we had only fifty lis to go before we reached the residence of Lha-Ri. We required fresh animals accustomed to the dreadful road we had below us. One single mountain separated us from Lha-Ri, and to cross it it was, we were told, necessary to set out early in the morning, if we wished to arrive before night. We consulted the Itinerary, and we found there the following agreeable account of the place: “A little further on you pass a lofty mountain, the summits of which rise in peaks. The ice and snow never melt here throughout the year. Its chasms resemble the declivitous shores of the sea; the wind often fills them with snow; the paths are almost impracticable, the descent is so rapid and slippery.” It is obvious that this brief but emphatic sketch did not hold out to us any very agreeable pleasure trip for the morrow. Oh, how readily we would have given up our places to some of those intrepid tourists, whom the love of ice and snow, of rocks and precipices, leads every year amidst the Alps, those mountains of Thibet in miniature.
Another thing, very little calculated to encourage us, was, that the people of the caravan, the villagers, everybody seemed anxious and uneasy. They asked one another whether the snow, which had fallen in abundance for five days, and had not had time to settle, would not render the mountains impassable; whether there was not a danger of being buried in the chasms, or of being overwhelmed by the avalanches; whether, in a word, it would not be prudent to wait a few days, in the hope that the snow would be dispersed by the wind, or partly melted by the sun, or consolidated by the cold. To all these questions, the answers were anything but encouraging. In order to guard against the effects of mere pusillanimity of presumption, we held, before going to bed, a council, to which we summoned the old mountaineers of the country. After long deliberation, it was decided first, that if, on the morrow, the weather was calm and serene, we might set out without temerity; secondly, that in the supposition of departure, the long-haired oxen laden with the baggage, and conducted by some people of the district, should precede the horsemen, in order to trace out for them,
in the snow, a more easy path. The matter being thus determined, we tried to take a little rest, relying little on the advantages of this plan, and much on the Divine protection.
When we rose, a few stars were still shining in the heaven, contending with the first rays of light; the weather was wonderfully beautiful. We quickly made our preparations for departure, and as soon as the last shades of night were dissipated, we began to ascend the formidable Mountain of Spirits (Lha-Ri). It rose before us like a huge block of snow, whereon we perceived not a single tree, not a blade of grass, not a dark spot to interrupt the uniformity of the dazzling whiteness. As had been arranged, the long-haired oxen, followed by their drivers, went first, advancing one after the other; next came the horsemen, in single file, in their steps, and the long caravan, like a gigantic serpent, slowly developed its sinuosities on the mountain side. At first the descent was by no means rapid, for we encountered frightful quantities of snow, that threatened every instant to bury us. We saw the oxen at the head of the column, advancing by leaps, anxiously seeking the least perilous places, now to the right, now to the left, sometimes disappearing all at once in some deep rut, and struggling amidst those masses of moving snow, like porpoises amid the billows of the ocean. The horsemen who closed the cavalcade found a more solid footing. We advanced slowly along the steep and narrow furrows traced out for us between the walls of snow, that rose to the height of our breasts. The air resounded with the bellowing of the oxen; the horses panted loudly, and the men, to keep up the courage of the caravan, raised, every now and then, a simultaneous shout like that of mariners at the capstan. Gradually the route became so steep, so precipitous, that the caravan seemed suspended from the mountain’s side. It was impossible to remain on horseback; every one dismounted, and each clinging to his horse’s tail, resumed his march with renewed ardour. The sun, shining in all its splendour, darted its rays on these vast piles of snow, and caused them to emit innumerable sparks, the flashing of which dazzled the eyes. Fortunately, our visuals were sheltered by the inestimable glasses that the Dheba of Ghiamda had given us.
After long and indescribable labour, we arrived, or rather, were hauled up to the summit of the mountain. The sun was already on the decline. We stopped for an instant, both to re-adjust the saddles and fasten the baggage, and to remove from the soles of our boots the masses of snow that had accumulated upon them, and become consolidated into the form of cones reversed. Every one was transported with joy. We felt a sort of pride in being mounted so high, and in finding ourselves standing on this gigantic