We had obtained three new horses fairly cheaply, on which Robert, Muhamed Isa, and Tsering rode, while I kept to my small Ladak white. Accompanied by the post-messenger and his two comrades, we rode in a south-easterly direction down to the lake, and along the eastern shore to the southern part, where we bivouacked near two black tents. Kiangs and wolves were frequently seen. A kiang had been torn in pieces by the wolves, and the white puppy and the Pobrang dog remained by the body to enjoy a good feast. We were terribly starved during the long march of 13.2 miles, and in the night the thermometer marked 61.9 degrees of frost, the worst cold of the whole winter.
The next day’s march took us up a transverse valley of the mountains which rise on the south shore of the Ngangtse-tso. It was rather narrow, and a small source murmured under its covering of ice. We followed a plainly marked path, leaving a couple of tents behind us, and passed sheepfolds, grassy plots, and dark spots where tame yaks had lain and worn off the grass; everything was black, the tents, the Tibetans, the half-naked children, and the dogs. At length the gully turned westwards; just at the bend was a waterfall congealed into milky white ice. Far up the valley we encamped on a plateau, where we had a very interesting view to the north-east. We could see almost the whole of the lake which Nain Sing left at some distance to the south of his route, and which he called Daru-tso. I cannot dispute its correctness, but none of the Tibetans whom I questioned had ever heard this name for the lake; they called it Marchar-tso, and it now figures in my map under this name. It often happens that a lake has different names among different nomad tribes. In camp No. 109 it lay just below us as on a map; its form is not so simple as on Nain Sing’s map, but abounds in peninsulas and bays, and it is extremely narrow in the middle. The isthmus between the Ngangtse-tso and the Marchar-tso is only a few miles broad; at the highest point the old shore terraces of the two lakes touch one another. At the time when the water stood higher the two lakes were therefore connected. The Marchar-tso is said to be as salt as its neighbour, but its ice was smooth and blue, and we saw no fields of free salt on its surface.
We had seen nothing of the white puppy and the Pobrang dog after we had left them behind, so I sent the Hajji back to the lake. But he came back without having found any sign of them. We never saw them again, and I sorely missed the white puppy, who had been a faithful friend in the tent and on the march. Either they had had a fight with wolves and got the worst of it, or they had lost our track and had been adopted by nomads. The former was the more probable, for the Hajji when he came to the lake saw a troop of wolves careering over the ice.
On the 19th we surmounted the neighbouring pass, the Chapka-la (17,474 feet), on which a stone pyramid is erected in honour of the gods. As a watershed it is only of secondary importance, for the water from both sides flows to the Ngangtse-tso. The valley leading down makes a curve to the south; in the Lamblung valley we had eleven tents as neighbours, and were able to provide ourselves with all we needed for several days. The country was still in the Naktsang territory, but the nomads were subjects of the Labrang, and paid their taxes to Tashi-lunpo.
We remained here two days, which we ought not to have done, and we would not if I had properly considered the matter. It was not the furious snowstorm which caused us to waste forty-eight hours, but Ngurbu Tundup, the postman. I had intended to keep him with us as long as possible, for it would evidently be an advantage to us, and would increase our dignity, to have with us a servant of one of the highest officials of Shigatse. He was our living passport; if he were not with us, we might perhaps again be regarded as freebooters, and be ordered to stop by some despotic chief. But Ngurbu Tundup was deaf to our entreaties, and declared that he had strict orders to return immediately his task was accomplished, and give in his report. He had already disobeyed his orders and had lost several days, but he consented to remain with us if we would rest in the Lamblung valley. I had great need of the time to get all my huge correspondence ready. On January 20 I wrote for sixteen hours, and by noon of the 21st the mail was ready and packed up. Ngurbu received a present of 82 rupees for his excellent service, and if he handed over the packet of letters to the British commercial agent in Gyangtse he was to receive further especial reward, when we met again at Shigatse. But he was to make all speed, changing his horse several times a day. If he loitered and covered only 18 miles a day, that is, reaching Gyangtse in ten days, he was to expect only 10 rupees. If he completed the journey in nine days, he was to receive 20, and if he accomplished his task in eight days, I would give him 30 rupees, and so on, at the rate of 10 rupees for every day saved. He actually arrived in eight days. I really committed a blunder in making this arrangement, for I gave notice of our approach to the south, and it might have happened that the Tibetans might have conceived evil designs against us. Nay, had the Chinese received news of our march, we should most certainly have been very soon stopped.
When Ngurbu had ridden off over the hills, we were again cut off from contact with the outer world, and were left to ourselves.
The following morning we ascended eastwards along the valley in which we had encamped, and where some mani cists stand, the longest of which measures 33 feet, and is covered with slabs of sandstone bearing the holy formula in incised letters. Continual snowstorms and huge masses of cloud with or without snow—that was the characteristic weather in January.
The Pongchen-la (17,621 feet) is a low threshold, like the preceding of secondary importance. On its summit stands a votive stone heap, with a bundle of rods, on which pennants, cloth rags, and ribands flutter. Smaller cairns radiate out from it. Here we had a last glimpse of our dear old Ngangtse-tso, and to the north-east a valley ran down to the Marchar-tso. To the south-east rose a dark range with several snowy peaks, which is called Pabla. The valley we traversed is broad and open, and is enclosed in low mountains. We saw no tents all the day, but numerous traces of summer encampments. Namgyal, however, who is a quick intelligent man, spied out two tents in the neighbourhood of our camp No. 111, which was pitched in a district called Namachang, and there bought some sheep, parched meal, barley, milk, and sour milk. He also brought a young Tibetan with him, who was good-looking, honest, and gentle, and did all we asked him willingly and pleasantly. His accent was so soft and refined that it was a pleasure to hear him speak. He gave me a quantity of credible information and promised to accompany us a day’s journey.
It snowed so thickly all night and the following day that I frequently could not see Rabsang, who marched with the Tibetan guide just in front of my horse. The snow enveloped us, whirled about us, and piled itself into small drifts on the sheltered side of every stone, grassy hillock, and hollow. The valley slopes gently to the south-east, and its frozen river is called Buser-tsangpo, and is a tributary of the Tagrak-tsangpo, which debouches into the south-western corner of the Ngangtse-tso. We are therefore still in the basin, of which the lake occupies the lowest part, and of which the border on the north-west and east lies close to the lake, but on the south is removed many days’ journey from it. The camping-ground this day is called Kapchor; eastwards extends an open longitudinal valley, through which runs the road to Shansa-dzong; on the north side also of the Ngangtse-tso and Marchar-tso a road runs thither, and by this Hlaje Tsering had reached our camp in twelve days. This road is known from Nain Sing’s journey in 1873-74.
On the morning of the 24th we were nearly blinded on going out of our tents, so brilliant was the reflexion from the thousands of small facets of the snow crystals which had spread their white cloak over hill and valley in a thick continuous sheet. The sky was clear, and blue as the purest turquoise from Nishapur, but the wind swept bitterly cold over the snowfields a night old. Our route ran south-eastwards to the exit of the narrow valley where the Tagrak-tsangpo, now frozen to the bottom, rested mute and motionless in the arms of winter. We followed the river, the largest watercourse that we had seen since the Chang-chenmo, upwards. At some places small nomad communities had their winter pastures, and there large herds of yaks and flocks of sheep roamed over the slopes. The name of the valley is Kayi-rung, of the spot where camp 113 was pitched Kayi-pangbuk, and of the district Tova-tova. Nain Sing’s Dobo Dobá Cho, from which he brings the river Para-tsangpo to the Kyaring-tso, was not known to the inhabitants. The Pundit makes the water drain eastwards, but as a matter of fact it runs westwards and north-westwards to the Ngangtse-tso. This is due to his not having been here himself, for the statements of the natives are usually very unreliable.