After four-and-a-half hours we are up on the small terrace-shaped halting-place, Singrul, and the bluish-grey smoke of the fires of yak dung floats over the soil, scantily carpeted with grass and traversed by a rivulet of crystal clear water. An alpine, cold, barren landscape surrounds us. Muhamed Isa sits enthroned like a pasha in his fortress of boxes and provender sacks, the usual sheep is killed and cut up, and is then thrown into the general cauldron, stomach, entrails, and everything. The head and feet are broiled before the fire on stones. Some of the men take possession of the skin, and spend the evening in rubbing it and making it soft—probably it is for use as bed furniture.
The two Rajputs sit a little apart from the rest by their own small cooking-pot, and, I perceive, make a very light meal of spinach, bread, and rice. The rarefied air seems to be of no consequence to them, nor the cold; the puppies, on the other hand, were very down-hearted when the thermometer in the evening marked only 45°; they howled piteously, and, crawling under my tent bed, rolled themselves up together. The four coolies, who carried the boat, went beyond Singrul to a cave, where, they said, they would be more protected from the cold in the night. Towards evening the brook rose, and one of its arms made straight for my tent, which had to be protected by a temporary dam. The Ladakis sat till late and sipped their red tea mixed with butter, and at many points reddish-yellow fires illumined the night.
The temperature fell to 21°, and it was really very uncomfortable in this high, raw region where the wind had free play and the sun had not yet got the better of the snow; rather large snowdrifts still lay on the ground, and clear streamlets trickled down from their edges, juicy moss and grass sprouting up beside them and forming a fine grass lawn. Accustomed to the heat of India, we feel the cold particularly severe on rising, when the snow particles beat like grains of sugar against the tent. A bluish-black raven sits on a stone, sometimes flying down to examine what we have left, snaps his beak loudly, and seems contented with his morning’s catch.
Slowly and heavily the horses and mules zigzag up through the grey granitic detritus and round the boulders on the way. Our troop is considerably strengthened, for the animals need help on the acclivities and the loads easily get out of place. To climb up these heights with loads on their backs, as our coolies do, they must have especially constructed lungs, good chests, and strong hearts. We mount higher and higher to the pass in the mighty range which separates the Indus from its great affluent, the Shyok. We still see the green fields down below at the bottom of the valley, the bird’s-eye view becomes more and more like a map, and the landscape behind us grows more distinct and extensive. Sharply marked orographical lines indicate the direction of the Indus valley, and the great range on its farther side rises darkly before us and covered with snow. Fifty mules from Rudok laden with salt threaten to block our way, but are driven to one side by our men. From time to time we call a halt to allow our animals to recover their wind. Then we go on a little farther; the rests become more frequent; the horses puff and pant and distend their nostrils. And then on again to the next halt.
At last we were at the top, 17,585 feet above sea-level. Certainly the thermometer marked 41.4°, but the wind was in the north, thick clouds obscured the sky, sweeping over the crest of the mountains, and soon hail came down, slashing us like a whip. On the summit of the Chang-la Pass stands a stone heap with sacrificial poles, which are decked with ragged streamers torn by the wind. All these streamers bear in Tibetan characters the prayer of the six sacred letters; coloured or faded, they flap and rustle in the wind as if they would drive the prayers up higher and higher by unknown paths to the ears of the gods. Horns and skulls adorn this elevated altar. Here all our Ladakis in turn come to a halt, raise a cheer, dance, swing their caps, and rejoice at having reached this critical point without mishap.
| 42. From Singrul,
looking towards
the Pass,
Chang-la. Sketch by the Author. |
| 43. View from
Sultak,
August 17, 1906. Sketch by the Author. |
| 44. Drugub. Sketch by the Author. |
The descent, however, on the eastern side of the pass, is still worse: nothing but detritus, boulders of all sizes, sharp-edged pieces of granite, and between a muddy paste in which our horses flop and splash at every step. Sometimes the path is more like a rough staircase, where you might fall headlong, but our horses are sure-footed and accustomed to bad ground. It is cold, dreary, raw, and grey—how different from the warm, sunny country we have so lately left!
At the foot of the descent from the actual pass old Hiraman, a friend of mine on former journeys, was waiting. The old man was just the same, perhaps a little more wrinkled than before (Illustration 45).