Kashmir, described by Sir Francis Younghusband, painted by Major E. Molyneux

by Sir Francis Edward Younghusband

So now I put myself humbly in charge of the shikaris, for I make no pretence to be a sportsman. They thereupon proceed to whisper together with profound earnestness and dramatic action. They point out the exact spot where, on the previous afternoon, a stag was seen. They pick up little tufts of his hair brushed off, as they say, in fighting. They show his footsteps in the soft soil and on patches of snow. And they are full of marvellous conjectures as to where he can have gone. But gone he has, and that was the main fact which no amount of whispering could get over.

So on we went along the mountain-side, and now through deep snow, for we were on a northward-facing slope of an outlying spur—and all slopes which face northward are wooded, while southward-facing slopes are bare. The explanation was evident. For on the latter slopes the sun's rays fell directly and almost at right angles, and in consequence fallen snow quickly disappears: while on the northern slopes the sun's rays only slant across the surface; the snow remains much longer; the moisture in the soil is retained; vegetation flourishes; trees grow up; they in their turn still further shade the snow, and with their roots retain the moisture. And so as a net result one side of a mountain is clothed in dense forest, and on the other there may not be a single tree. Thus it is that on the southern side of Kashmir, that is, on the northward-facing slopes of the Pir Panjal range, there is, as at Gulmarg, dense and continuous forest, while on the northern side of the valley, on the slope of the hill that consequently faces southward, there is no forest except on the slopes of those subsidiary spurs which face northward.

We followed the tracks of the stag through this patch of forest, mostly of hazels, the shikaris pointing out where the stag had nibbled off the young leaf-buds and bark which seem to form the staple food of the deer at this time of year. At last we came to another shikari who said he had seen the stag that very morning. But I suspect this was merely a form of politeness to reinspire my lagging hope, for though I went down and up and along the mountain-side, and spent the whole day there, I saw no stag. Once we heard a rustling among the leaves, and hope revived, but it was merely a troop of monkeys. A little later a boar shuffled out; and again, on a distant spur, disporting himself in the sunshine, we saw a bear; but no stag.

KOTWAL FROM THE FOREST ABOVE KANGAN, SIND VALLEY

Still, in spite of the exertion and in spite of the disappointment, a day like this on the mountain-side is felt as one of the days in which one lives. The air was fresh and bracing. There was something both soothing and inspiring in the quiet of the mountains and the immense distances before me. Far away to the south majestic clouds and snowstorms were sweeping along the snowy range of the Pir Panjal. Beneath was the placid river wending its tortuous way through the peaceful valley. On one hand would be seen angry storm-clouds rolling threateningly across with numerous sun-rays piercing through and lighting up the serpentine course of the river. On the other, emerging from the black masses, would appear the sunlit snowy range, not hard, defined, and clear, and rooted on earth, but to all appearances hung from the heavens like an ethereal transparency.

Hour after hour I alternately feasted on the changing scenes displayed across the valley, and with my field-glasses searched the mountain-side for bara-singh. When evening closed in I returned to camp, where business kept me on the following day, but on the day after I again rode out while it was yet dark. As the first faint signs of dawn appeared I began the ascent of the mountain with the shikaris. The heavens were clear and cloudless. The bluey-black of the sky imperceptibly faded into grey. The mountain slowly turned from grey to brown as we steadily worked upward. The reposeful stillness which is the characteristic charm of the mountains was only broken by the cheerful chuckle of the chikor, or the occasional twitter of a bird calling to its mate. Then as we reached the summit of a ridge, and I looked out through the greys and browns, a sudden thrill struck through me as, all unexpectedly, my eye lit on the long flush of rosy pink which the yet unrisen sun had thrown upon the distant mountains, and which was the more pronounced and striking because their skyey background and their base was still the grey of night. Not often does one see a range of rosy mountains. And even now the effect lasted for a short time only. For rapidly a faint blue drowned the grey. The sky grew bluer and bluer. The valley became filled with light. But, alas! the rosy pink that had flushed the snowy summits faded imperceptibly away to barren whiteness. The whole long range of mountains showed themselves out with admirable clearness, but distinctly rooted in the unromantic brown of the valley.