September 21 was a memorable day in our chronicles. The boat lay on the shore ready to sail, and I resolved to spare the horses its weight once more. Eastwards the lake seemed quite small, and it could not be far to its eastern bank, near which the caravan could encamp wherever there was passable grazing. If it became too dark before they heard anything of me, they could light a beacon fire on the shore. But, of course, we should turn up in good time. We looked upon the trip as a mere trifle, and did not think of providing ourselves with food, drinking-water, fuel, and warm clothing for the night. I was dressed as usual, wore my leathern vest, and took my ulster with me, and a fur coat was spread over the back bench only to make a soft seat.
| 70. Rehim Ali, one of my Ladakis on the First Crossing of Tibet. |
Yes, we were too thoughtless on this occasion. In the forenoon I inspected the animals, as usual, and then gave Rehim Ali a lesson in rowing, for he was to come with me this time, and he did so well that he was solemnly appointed Kemibashi, or admiral of the fleet. Just at starting I decided to row across the lake, to sound its depth and ascertain its breadth. The distances, or, more correctly, the course, I measured with a log by Lyth of Stockholm, and the depths were to be sounded every quarter of an hour. We should certainly reach the rendezvous before dark. At eleven o’clock the temperature of the water was 43° F., and it rose afterwards a few degrees higher. The day was bright and quite calm; at one o’clock we noted 53° F. I took the dark opening of a bank terrace as the point to steer for. We could do without drinking-water, for the hydrometer marked 1000 in the lake; it therefore floated as low as in fresh water (Illustration 70).
The lagoons on our shore were covered with ice fully half an inch thick. Six wild yaks were seen at the foot of the mountain to the north. The lake lay deceptively quiet and smooth; only a slow gentle swell, the last reminder of the effect of the expiring night wind, could be felt. Not a wisp of cloud, not the slightest breeze—weather all the more enjoyable after the storms of the past days. The lake shone against the light turquoise-blue vault of heaven, when we looked southwards, with as bright a green as the tender foliage of birches in the spring.
For a few minutes we heard the bells of the mules as they tramped off, but the black line of the caravan soon vanished in the hilly lands along the shore. Rehim Ali rowed like a practised boatman. At the second sounding-station the depth was 115 feet, and at the third 161. When my oarsman shipped his oars the next time the sounding-line, 213 feet long, did not reach the bottom; unfortunately we had no reserve lines, for I had never found before such great depths in a Tibetan lake.
“This lake has no bottom at all,” groaned Rehim Ali.
“Of course it has a bottom, but we have no more line.”
“Does not the Sahib think it dangerous to go further when the lake is bottomless?”
“There is no danger on that account; we can row to the shore, which is not far, and then we have only a short distance to the camp.”
“Inshallah, but it may be farther than it looks. Bismillah,” he cried, and he set to work again.