At last we reached the pass, whence we caught sight of the plain and a small lake to the south-east. The height was 18,048 feet. At one o’clock there were 18 degrees of frost, the wind was high, and it snowed so thickly that the view disappeared again. We did not stay a minute longer than was necessary for observations, and then rode down a steep descent. We rested at the first grass we came to; the horses were almost mad with delight when they saw it—their stomachs were so empty.
Now we saw five men on a height. They were Muhamed Isa and four companions, who had come out to look for the missing men and animals—14 horses, 8 men, 16 sheep, and 2 dogs. We were able to inform them that their track ran north-eastwards, and after they had given directions how to find the camping-ground of the mules they vanished again in the snow. After searching in vain for the track and looking out for the smoke of the camp-fire, we came to a halt on a smooth plateau, where the grazing was good, and collected dung for a fire—it was high time, for Robert and I were half dead with cold.
We were in a terribly sad plight. We did not know where the mules were encamping, and had not the slightest notion where the horses had gone. The sheep, in this country swarming with wolves, were probably lost. Tsering had remained behind, and might easily miss our track in the snowstorm. We could do nothing but thaw our clothes. After we had been sitting an hour, and had somewhat recovered in the heat of the fire, the “Lama” came over the plain bringing with him Sonam Tsering, who had been camping with the mules behind some hills. The good fellow wept bitterly at our losses; Muhamed Isa had proved a bad pilot this time, he complained. Nine mules had perished within a few hours in these frightful mountains, which were probably the western prolongation of the system called by the Mongols, dwelling farther to the east, Buka-magna, or the “Head of the Wild Yak.” Twenty mules still remained, but two of them had received their death-warrant. Of the twenty-three surviving horses one was left behind with his pack-saddle in a hollow, and was probably dead by this time. At a late hour of the night only one of the missing ones, namely, Tsering, had put in an appearance.
Under these circumstances it was a matter of course that we should have a day’s rest in camp No. 47. When day broke, I was awakened by the bleating of sheep. The shepherd had at first followed the track of the horses, but soon abandoned it when he noticed that the mules were not there, and he began to look for the track of the latter. In the darkness he got completely lost, and in a pass one of the sheep had refused to go any farther. He had carried it awhile, but as he soon felt that it had become cold and stiff he threw it away as dead. Frightened of the darkness and the wolves, he had taken refuge in a gorge, tied together the sheep and goats in a circle, and set himself in the middle to keep himself warm and look out for the wolves. However, they had not ventured to attack him. In the morning twilight he had found one of the many tracks leading to camp No. 47.
Two of the missing men turned up in the forenoon, carrying boxes. A horse had been left behind. Islam Ahun, who had led the horse caravan, had cleverly conducted them down by the shortest way to the lake, and had encamped there beside good pasture. Muhamed Isa and his companions had lost themselves in the night, and had slept beside a fire, with nothing to eat or drink but snow. But they, too, found their way to us again, and so the remnants of the caravan were gathered together to one place.
Here everything was sorted out that could be spared: sacks, bags, ropes, horse-shoes, tools, and cooking utensils. Boxes were burned after their contents had been transferred to others; no one was allowed to burden the caravan with unnecessary articles. The rejected goods formed a large heap, and we thus got rid of two horse loads. Then we took stock, and found that we had still 32 loads including the boat. We had 20 mules, of which 2 were on their last legs, and 21 horses also, including 2 ready to drop, or 37 serviceable animals in all. Only Robert and I were allowed to ride, so that we had 3 spare horses; but in the evening the loads were so distributed that all the animals carried something, except the sickly ones. Four animals were to be laden with maize and barley, the rice made seven loads more, the meal five, the bread one, and the butter, which the Ladakis took in their tea, only half a load. We estimated that the meal would last a month longer; five loads of rice were to be given up to the animals, and I directed all the men to take the greatest care of the veterans. Tundup Sonam shot three antelopes just when our meat was finished. Some of the Ladakis had to cut them up, and at even when they returned with the spoil they intoned the antiphonal song they sing when they carry a dandy, or an ordinary load, at home in Ladak. One of the antelopes, however, was all devoured by the wolves before they found it.
We decided to rest a couple of days at the next camp, and Tundup Sonam undertook to conduct us to a small lake lying to the east, where the grass was particularly good.
In the night of October 24 a horse and two mules died, so we had 38 animals. “The strongest are still living,” said Muhamed Isa as usual.
To the north rose the lofty mountain system which had caused us so much suffering, and its crests were seen stretching to the east. We advanced over even ground, and after a short march reached a small round lake firmly frozen over, and surrounded by yellow grassland. Water was supplied by a spring which filled a small frozen basin; the animals drank as much as they would from a hole cut through the ice; they had had no water for three days. The sandy soil was frozen so hard that the iron tent-pegs bent when they were driven into the ground. The sky was overcast, and there was a strong wind, but the ground to the east-south-east seemed favourable. The four tents stood in a row, mine to windward, that I might not be annoyed by the smoke of the other fires.
At ten o’clock at night a flock of wild geese passed over our camp in the brilliant, silvery-white moonshine. They flew very low, and quacked the whole time. Probably they intended to settle at the spring, but went on when they found the place occupied. “There is plenty of light, and in a short time we shall be at the next spring.” Such, we may suppose, was the gist of the conversation between the leading goose and the others. No doubt it had given its orders at sunset, remarking: “To-night we will stay at the spring on the shore of the small lake, where we rested last spring.” All were agreed, and the flock, flying in a wedge, had gradually dipped lower towards the ground. But when they had passed over the hills which concealed the spot from view, and saw the frozen lake glancing like a mirror in the moonshine, the leading goose called out, “Men! we cannot stay so near to tents and fires. Up again, and onwards.” And all the flock answered: “We can rest at the next spring in the valley behind the hills to the south.” That was the conversation I heard above my tent when all was quiet in the camp. Perhaps the lively chatter was about something else, but I think that I interpreted the wild geese correctly. For it is quite certain that they hold consultations on their long journeys, and discuss their plans. And why should they not be endowed with intelligence? Why should they speed away at random like soulless flying-machines? They are just as dependent as ourselves on the earth and winds. If they can cover 120 miles on a clear, calm day, they must take a longer time over the same distance when storm and contrary winds prevail. Therefore they cannot every year pass the nights at the same springs, but must adapt their arrangements to circumstances. But the wild geese know every spring along the course they follow twice a year, and when they are tired they settle at the first they come to. On my travels in various parts of Tibet I have come to the conclusion that the same parties or tribes of wild geese, which have for generations bred at the same watercourses, follow always the same routes through Tibet. The geese which we saw on this occasion came, let us say, from one of the lakes along the Tarim river below Shah-yar, and intended to spend the winter in the neighbourhood of Khatmandu, the capital of Nepal. In spring they return to the Tarim lakes, and follow exactly the same course as in autumn, and so on from year to year. The young ones, which are born on the Tarim, make the journey over the mountains for the first time in autumn, but they remember the way in the following autumn, and afterwards the time comes when they in turn teach their young ones the position of the sources. Thus the knowledge of the route is never lost in the family, and the leading geese would never dream of trying any other course. We had already on several occasions seen wild geese flying southwards, but they had certainly taken other roads, come from other breeding-places, and had other destinations. They belonged to other tribes. If it were possible to draw on a map of Tibet all the tracks of the various tribes of geese, they would form a whole system of lines running more or less in a meridional direction. Perhaps many of these lines would in parts merge into one another like the fine ripples on the surface of a sand-dune. Perhaps now and then a line runs in sharp zigzags. It may then be taken for granted that it was thus drawn in the most remote antiquity when the patriarchs of each tribe first sought out the way from one spring to another. Each tribe is divided into a number of communities, and each of these into families. Probably all the geese of one community are closely related to one another. Each community remains together on the journey, but how do they choose a leader? It may be supposed that the oldest goose flies at the head of the flock, for it must be the most experienced, and if it dies the next oldest is its natural successor. I am fond of the wild geese, and admire their intelligence and their wonderful bump of locality; we shall hereafter come into closer contact with them.