I saw no birds, and of animals only an occasional muskdeer. Insects were scarce, and quite different from what I had seen before; chiefly consisting of Phryganea (Mayfly) and some Carabidae (an order that is very scarce in the Himalaya); with various moths, chiefly Geometrae.
The last days of June (as is often the case) were marked by violent storms, and for two days my tent proved no protection; similar weather prevailed all over India, the barometer falling very low. I took horary observations of the barometer in the height of the storm on the 30th: the tide was very small indeed (.024 inch, between 9.50 a.m. and 4 p.m.), and the thermometer ranged between 47 degrees and 57. degrees, between 7 a.m. and midnight. Snow fell abundantly as low as 13,000 feet, and the rivers were much swollen, the size and number of the stones they rolled along producing a deafening turmoil. Only 3.7 inches of rain fell between the 23rd of June and the 2nd of July; whilst 21 inches fell at Dorjiling, and 6.7 inches at Calcutta. During the same period the mean temperature was 48 degrees; extremes, 62 degrees/36.5 degrees. The humidity was nearly at saturation-point, the wind southerly, very raw and cold, and drizzling rain constantly fell. A comparison of thirty observations with Dorjiling gave a difference of 14 degrees temperature, which is at the rate of 1 degree for every 347 feet of ascent.* [Forty-seven observations, comparative with Calcutta, gave 34. degrees difference, and if 5.5 degrees of temperature be deducted for northing in latitude, the result is 1 degree for every 412 feet of ascent. My observations at the junction of the rivers alt. 10,850 feet), during the early part of the mouth, gave 1 degree to 304 feet, as the result of twenty-four observations with Dorjiling, and 1 degree to 394 feet, from seventy-four observations with Calcutta.]
The temperature of these rivers varies extremely at different parts of their course, depending on that of their affluents. The Teesta is always cool in summer (where its bed is below 2000 feet), its temperature being 20 degrees below that of the air; whereas in mid-winter, when there is less cloud, and the snows are not melting, it is only a few degrees colder than the air.* [During my sojourn at Bhomsong in mid-winter of 1848 (see v. i. chapter xiii), the mean temperature of the Teesta was 51 degrees, and of the air 52.3 degrees; at that elevation the river water rarely exceeds 60 degrees at midsummer. Between 4000 feet and 300 (the plains) its mean temperature varies about 10 degrees between January and July; at 6000 feet it varies from 55 degrees to 43 degrees during the same period; and at 10,000 feet it freezes at the edges in winter and rises to 50 degrees in July.] At this season, in descending from 12,000 feet to 1000 feet, its temperature does not rise 10 degrees, though that of the air rises 30 degrees or 40 degrees. It is a curious fact, that the temperature of the northern feeders of the Teesta, in some parts of their course, rises with the increasing elevation! Of this the Zemu afforded a curious example: during my stay at its junction with the Thlonok it was 46 degrees, or 6 degrees warmer than that river; at 1100 feet higher it was 48 degrees, and at 1100 feet higher still it was 49 degrees! These observations were repeated in different weeks, and several times on the same day, both in ascending and descending, and always with the same result: they told, as certainly as if I had followed the river to its source, that it rose in a drier and comparatively sunny climate, and flowed amongst little snowed mountains.
Meanwhile, the Lachen Phipun continued to threaten us, and I had to send back some of the more timorous of my party. On the 28th of June fifty men arrived at the Thlonok, and turned my people out of the shed at the junction of the rivers, together with the plants they were preserving, my boards, papers, and utensils. The boys came to me breathless, saying that there were Tibetan soldiers amongst them, who declared that I was in Cheen, and that they were coming on the following morning to make a clean sweep of my goods, and drive me back to Dorjiling. I had little fear for myself, but was anxious with respect to my collections: it was getting late in the day, and raining, and I had no mind to go down and expose myself to the first brunt of their insolence, which I felt sure a night of such weather would materially wash away. Meepo was too frightened, but Nimbo, my Bhotan coolie Sirdar, volunteered to go, with two stout fellows; and he accordingly brought away my plants and papers, having held a parley with the enemy, who, as I suspected, were not Tibetans. The best news he brought was, that they were half clad and without food; the worst, that they swaggered and bullied: he added, with some pride, that he gave them as good as he got, which I could readily believe, Nimbo being really a resolute fellow,* [In East Nepal he drew his knife on a Ghorka sepoy; and in the following winter was bold enough to make his escape in chains from Tumloong.] and accomplished in Tibet slang.
On the following morning it rained harder than ever, and the wind was piercingly cold. My timid Lepchas huddled behind my tent, which, from its position, was only to be stormed in front. I dismantled my little observatory, and packed up the instruments, tied my dog, Kinchin, to one of the tent-pegs, placed a line of stones opposite the door, and seated myself on my bed on the ground, with my gun beside me.
The dog gave tongue as twenty or thirty people defiled up the glen, and gathered in front of my tent; they were ragged Bhoteeas, with bare heads and legs, in scanty woollen garments sodden with rain, which streamed off their shaggy hair, and furrowed their sooty faces: their whole appearance recalled to my mind Dugald Dalgetty's friends, the children of the mist.
They appeared nonplussed at seeing no one with me, and at my paying no attention to them, whilst the valiant Kinchin effectually scared them from the tent-door. When they requested a parley, I sent the interpreter to say that I would receive three men, and that only provided all the rest were sent down immediately; this, as I anticipated, was acceded to at once, and there remained only the Lachen Phipun and his brother. Without waiting to let him speak, I rated him soundly, saying, that I was ready to leave the spot when he could produce any proof of my being in Bhote (or Cheen), which he knew well I was not; that, since my arrival at Lachen, he had told me nothing but lies, and had contravened every order, both of the Rajah and of Tchebu Lama. I added, that I had given him and his people kindness and medicine, their return was bad, and he must go about his business at once, having, as I knew, no food, and I having none for him. He behaved very humbly throughout, and finally took himself off much discomfited, and two days afterwards sent men to offer to assist me in moving my things.
The first of July was such a day as I had long waited for to obtain a view, and I ascended the mountain west of my camp, to a point where water boiling at 185.7 degrees (air 42 degrees), gave an elevation of 14,914 feet. On the top of the range, about 1000 feet above this, there was no snow on the eastern exposures, except in hollows, but on the west slopes it lay in great fields twenty or thirty feet thick; while to the north, the mountains all appeared destitute of snow, with grassy flanks and rugged tops.
Drizzling mist, which had shrouded Tukcham all the morning, soon gathered on this mountain, and prevented any prospect from the highest point reached; but on the ascent I had an excellent view up the Zemu, which opened into a broad grassy valley, where I saw with the glass some wooden sheds, but no cattle or people. To reach these, however, involved crossing the river, which was now impossible; and I reluctantly made up my mind to return on the morrow to Zemu Samdong, and thence try the other river.
On my descent to the Thlonok, I found that the herbaceous plants on the terraces had grown fully two feet during the fortnight, and now presented almost a tropical luxuriance and beauty. Thence I reached Zemu Samdong in one day, and found the vegetation there even more gay and beautiful: the gigantic lily was in full flower, and scenting the air, with the lovely red rose, called "Chirring" by the Tibetans. Neillia was blossoming profusely at my old camping-ground, to which I now returned after a month's absence.