On the pass we make the usual halt for observations; the height is 18,409 feet; it blows and snows, with 18 degrees of cold. We perceive, however, some sign of the saddle to the south-east which Robert reconnoitred yesterday, and which is supposed to lead down into level country. But Muhamed Isa has taken his own way down a valley running north-east, and that is serious for us. Far in front as he is, we must, though much against our will, follow his track, lest we should lose one another. It is now difficult to see whither the caravan had marched. If we lose one another in such country, and the snow continues to fall, we are done for.
So we follow him down the valley. The pass behind us looks weird—a white saddle against a background of blue-black clouds, which resemble whirling, suffocating smoke. Tsering reaches the pass with his two men and four horses, and salutes it with a loud salaam. Treacherous frozen rivulets are crossed, as hard as glass and as smooth as cooling grease; our riding horses stumble and slide. It is very seldom that a small hill of dark schist peeps out above the snow.
As the valley runs too much to the north, the caravan perceives its mistake, turns aside to the east, and buries itself in a labyrinth of hills where not a blade of grass grows. We ride past the shepherd with the 16 sheep and the goats; the white puppy teases them as usual, till a bold wether puts her to flight. The goats are remarkably hardy and get on splendidly, and yield me a cup of milk every morning and evening.
We found the caravan behind a second saddle. The camp was formed, but in a most unfavourable spot; there was neither grass nor yapkak, neither dung nor water—absolutely nothing. The animals stood in a dark group, standing out sharply against the white snow. Thus they had to stand, quietly and patiently, all night long, and doubtless felt how slowly the time passed, how hunger and thirst increased, and the cold again diminished. They had to wait standing for the morning red, which might perhaps fail to appear, for dark masses of cloud still covered the sky.
Robert and I took refuge in the tent of the Ladakis, where a fire burned, which was fed with fragments of a box and antelope dung. We could at any rate obtain water by melting snow; my dinner consisted of parched meal, bread, and coffee, for nothing else could be cooked. In the twilight Rabsang appeared and asked me to come outside. Two large wild yaks stood on a neighbouring hill and gazed at our camp with astonishment. But we left them in peace, for we did not want their flesh, and would not add to our loads. They trotted slowly away when they were convinced that we were not of their species. The night was pitch dark, so that I had to inspect our weary beasts with a lantern.
We set out early from this unlucky camp, where a mule had fallen at his post. The footprints between the tents, made in the snow the evening before, were filled up with fresh snow, and a new set of paths had been formed. Scarcely two minutes’ walk from the camp a horse lay dead, which had carried his load only the day before, and the black corpse-watch was beside it. A dead wild-duck also lay in the snow. Is there a lake in the neighbourhood? No; the ducks come long distances, and this one had probably lost its way.
Now the sun burns, now a snowstorm envelops us in its fine dust, now we are roasted, now chilled through—regular Tibetan weather, unreliable and changeable. Another dead horse! The men had cut its throat to shorten its sufferings; swiftly whirling snow covers the stream of blood that congeals in the cold. We make our way up to a pass, and then follow a ridge, but the ground is frightful. At length we ride down a flat valley which gradually winds round to the north; on the south rises a formidable crest. Muhamed Isa had orders to take, if possible, a south-easterly direction, but as he was not sure of the way, he had encamped at the bend of the road. He had gone forwards with two men to reconnoitre. Towards four o’clock he returned, and reported that we should reach open country within three hours. My first thought was to set out at once, for in camp No. 46 there was no grass, and the animals were so hungry that they bit one another’s tails and the pack-saddles. One horse had actually not a hair left on his tail, but that one had been eaten up the night before. The old, experienced hands, however, gave their opinion that it would be better to start in the early morning.
I therefore gave orders to reserve as much rice as we should require for forty days, and to give the rest, mixed with barley and maize, to the animals. While, however, they were eating from their nose-bags, the men changed their minds, and Muhamed Isa asked if they might make a start.
“I am quite willing, but it will be pitch dark in an hour.”