Eastwards the high range appears more uniform, as though planed down, and no prominent summit rises above the crest. The descent from the pass is bestrewn with pebbles and small blocks, which may be said to swim in mud. The snow thaws, and a continual trickling murmuring sound is heard. The route of the caravan is marked by an endless succession of small deep ditches filled with water, and meandering in dark lines through the white surface. Numerous trickles of water collect into a rivulet, which rushes down among the stones. Where the ground is level a swamp is formed, dome-shaped clumps of moss render it uneven, and between these stand pools, often of deceptive depth. For a long distance we follow a perfectly bare slope, and we are almost impatient at descending so slowly to the layers of denser air.
At length we go down steeply into the valley over a disagreeable slope of detritus crossed by a number of small water channels. On the left opens a large trough-shaped valley, where we can perceive in the upper part three snow-covered glacier tongues with fissures in the ice-front standing out clearly. From these a large brook issues, which unites with the brook from the pass into a greenish-grey foaming river. From their confluence we see the whole length of the valley which we must traverse to reach our camping-ground. It is deeply and boldly eroded; the foaming river occupies the whole of its bottom. We must therefore keep to the steep banks on the right side, 300 to 600 feet above the river. Here the ground is detestable—coarse, sharp pebbles forming the edge of a terrace—and as we have to ride along the outer edge we should roll down the slope and break our necks if the horses made a false step.
Here one of the Pobrang dogs came towards us; he made a wide detour to avoid us, and did not once look at us when we tried to coax him. Probably he suspected that we were on the way to inhospitable regions, and thought he could lead a more peaceful life at the miserable huts of Pobrang. At length we came down over swampy moss-grown rubbish mounds to the camp, which was situated just where our valley ran at an angle into the Spanglung valley, in the midst of lofty mountains where nothing could be heard but the monotonous roar of the two streams. Wearied out, we threw ourselves into our tents and enjoyed the pleasant heat of the brazier. Bikom Sing went up the mountains and shot at an antelope, but missed. Muhamed Isa said jestingly that hitherto the Rajputs had done no more than the puppies. He did not include them at all in our muster roll; in his opinion they did nothing but consume our stores of meal and rice; but he was unjust in condemning them before they had had an opportunity of distinguishing themselves (Illustrations 48, 49).
The moon shone, a cold pale sickle, over the mountains, and we were glad to get to rest; after such a day the night comes as a friend and deliverer.
Our route to Pamzal continued downwards along the Spanglung valley, sometimes about 150 feet above the bottom, where some snowdrifts resisted the warmth of the short summer, sometimes on sharply defined terraces forming several steps. The road was bad, for the whole country was full of detritus. On the right opened the Lungnak valley with small snowy peaks in the background, and before us towered the great dark range lying on the north side of the Chang-chenmo valley. The Manlung valley runs up from the south-west, and its stream contributes a large addition of muddy water to our valley.
| 49. Spanglung. |
| 50. Camp near Pamzal. |
| 51. The Chang-chenmo and the Way to Gogra. |
As we advanced farther, other grand snowy mountains and jagged peaks came into view—these are the heights that enclose the Chang-chenmo valley. At last the path turned into this valley, and we bivouacked on the small strip of vegetation on the left bank of the river (Illustration 50).
Towards evening the river rose considerably; when we measured its volume next morning we found the discharge to be 494 cubic feet a second, and large strips of the stony bed were still wet from the high-water in the night. In summer one cannot ride through the river at this place; then it rolls enormous floods down to the Indus. Its name is Kograng-sanspo, while Chang-chenmo denotes rather the whole country around. The Ladakis said that the summer would here last twenty days longer; after that the nights would become cold but the days remain fairly warm; then, however, winter would come with ever-increasing rigour.
Eastwards five days’ march brings one to the pass Lanak-la, which belongs to the colossal ridge of the Karakorum mountains running right through Tibet. Some English travellers have crossed this pass. To me the road was closed. I had promised Lord Minto not to act against the wishes of the English Government, but I should like to know who could have prevented me now.
On August 28 we left this pleasant, quiet spot, and now it would be long before we came again to so low a level. We were constantly increasing the distance from roads and human dwellings; for some time yet we were to remain in known country, and then the vast unknown land in the east awaited us. The day was fair and warm when I set out with my usual companions, Robert, Rehim Ali, one of our Mohammedans, and the two drivers from Tankse and Pobrang.