The terrace on the left bank, on which we ride, is washed by a branch of the stream which is very muddy, forms small rapids, and usually divides into several arms. The whole of the valley bottom is grey with rubbish; the river water has much the same colour, and therefore is not conspicuous in the landscape. There is no living thing anywhere around, neither tame yaks nor wild animals, and not a sign of men. But a faintly beaten footpath shows that mountaineers occasionally wander here. It guides us down to the river again, at a point opposite the narrow, deep, and boldly sculptured transverse valley Kadsung with the usual terraces, from which emerges a brook of clear, blue, beautifully fresh water and mingles with, and is lost in, the dirty grey water of the main stream. Here the path again turns upwards and affords a short cut over a small pass to our camp for the night. We could see at a distance that in the middle of the steep slope where the path runs there had been a landslip, and a deep fissure formed which we could hardly cross until some alterations had been effected. A troop of men were sent in advance with spades and pick-axes, and meanwhile the various sections of the caravan collected together on the bank.
Some men examined the ford on foot, for here we had to cross the main stream. The water certainly foamed up to the houghs of the horses as they were led over in long files, but the depth was nowhere more than 2½ feet, and all came safely to the other bank. The yaks evidently liked the bath; they waded through the water as slowly as possible, and my boat was poised over its own element without touching it. The most difficult task was to get the sheep and goats over. The whole flock was driven to the water’s edge, and some were seized by the horns and thrown into the river, though they struggled frantically. But the rest found the situation too disagreeable, turned tail and made a wild dash up the nearest terrace. Again they were all driven to the bank, and were there shut in by a line of men and pushed into the water, and as the first had now made up their minds to wade, the others followed and bravely struggled against the current (Illustrations 51, 52).
Immediately after, the caravan was seen labouring up the steep slope; it was a pretty sight, but not without danger. The sheep did not keep to the path, but climbed about in search of food.
| 52. Muhamed Isa in the River Chang-chenmo near Pamzal. |
A couple of minutes after the little pass Mankogh-la is left behind there is a bird’s-eye view of the valley of the Kograng-sanspol, at any rate of the upper part, which we had followed from Pamzal; it makes here a sharp turn, and we came over hills and spurs down again to the river-bank. The camping-ground, which has fairly good pasturage, is called Gogra. From here two valleys run up to the main crest of the Karakorum range, the Chang-lung-barma and the Chang-lung-yogma or “the middle and the lower north valleys.” Both valleys would take us to a nasty pass; we chose the second. We must get over somehow or other, and at dangerous places the most valuable baggage could, if necessary, be carried by men. With his cap on the side of his head, his fur coat thrown negligently over his shoulders, and the inevitable pipe in his mouth, Muhamed Isa stalked like a field-marshal through the smoke of the camp-fires and issued his orders for the next day’s march. None of our men, indeed, knew the road, but from their uncertain reports we could gather that we had a nasty bit of work before us.
We did not reach a much greater height during our march, but we had to go up and down over so many hills and steep declivities that the day’s journey was as trying as though we had surmounted a number of passes. The river was now considerably smaller, as many of its tributaries had been left behind. Nevertheless, it was more troublesome to ford than before, for the whole volume of water was confined to one channel, and the fall was greater. It seemed hopeless to drive the sheep into the cold water where the current would carry them away. The shepherds were at a loss what to do when I lost sight of them, and I do not know how the passage was accomplished; but they came across somehow, for they reached the camp all safe and sound. The dark-green schists in this neighbourhood are partly much weathered, partly hard and untouched. A large cairn stands on a hill, and one of the men asserted that an old road to Yarkand ran past here, while Guffaru affirmed that some, at least, of Forsyth’s companions travelled through this country.
The headwaters of the river flow from a large valley to the north-west, its background formed by snow mountains, while we follow the heights above a side valley, which, seen from above, has a grand and almost awesome aspect. A small, clear brook murmurs melodiously along the bottom. Then again we descend over soft red dust and rubbish. Small cairns mark the route, and guide us down to the bottom of the valley, here very narrow, and confined between steep, dark schistose rocks. A little higher up the rocky walls are perpendicular, and the river finds its way through a dark gorge. We therefore have to climb up the right side to avoid the difficult spots, and the ascent is very steep. Here the caravan came to a standstill; Muhamed Isa’s gigantic form was seen at the worst point of the ascent. Every horse had to be assisted up by five men. One tugged at the bridle, two supported the load at either side to prevent it slipping off, and two pushed behind; as soon as somewhat easier ground was reached the baggage was put to rights and the cords tightened, and then the horse had to get along the track without help.
In the Chuta district, where we again find ourselves at the valley bottom, warm springs of sulphurous water rise out of the earth. One of them has built up a pyramid 10 feet high, somewhat like a toad-stool; the water bubbles up from the centre of the crown, and drops down the sides, forming a circle of stalactites around. The water as it leaves the orifice has a temperature of 124° F. Another spring, which sends a jet of water right into the river, has a heat of only 108°. At many places on the bank and in the river-bed the water bubbles up with a simmering noise.
After more rugged slopes of rubbish and loose yellow dust we arrived at last in the Chang-lung-yogma valley, where the pasturage was very scanty. In the evening it snowed hard, and the valley was veiled in a mystic light, which was perhaps a faint reflexion of the moon. A couple of fires flashed out of the mist and lighted up the large tent of the Ladakis. Only the murmur of the brook broke the silence. Suddenly, however, repeated shouts resounded through the stillness of the night—perhaps some horses had taken into their heads to stampede to more hospitable regions.
| 53. Rabsang, Adul, Tsering, and Muhamed Isa. |
| 54. Our Horses at the Karakorum. |