February 27. A thousand wild asses were seen on the plain which sloped down gently to the east-south-east. They formed dark lines, sometimes large, sometimes small, sometimes spots like a rosary. Some herds galloped off to a point about two hundred yards in front of the caravan, where they stood and gazed and then dispersed, springing away in graceful movements. Perhaps they were here for a great spring congress, to decide questions relating to their territory and pastures. It is certain that, like the nomads, they migrate at fixed seasons, for they also are dependent on the occurrence of grass and its varying abundance at different heights and different times of the year.
Farther down the plain, beyond a small cliff, were five herds of kiangs, the nearest of which numbered 133 head. They came galloping almost up to us. Lobsang ran towards them. Then they set off in wild flight one after another, their hoofs thundering over the ground, made a wide curve behind us, and vanished in a dense cloud of dust, the hard beat of their hoofs being still audible. A strong puff of wind dispersed the cloud, and they came into sight again; they stood quaking with fear, and looked at us, pricked up their ears, dilated their nostrils, and sniffed the wind.
To the south of our route we perceived two tents among small scattered heights. Abdul Kerim and two men went off to them while we pitched camp 341. On their return they reported that the tents were the property of a certain Tsering Ngorpel from Gertse, who had come hither with his family for two months and was going back in a month. They were poor people, and owned only 70 sheep and goats, 6 yaks, and 1 dog. The neighbourhood of camp 341 the man called Senes-yung-ringmo, and he said that if we marched south-eastwards we should almost daily meet with nomads from Gertse and Senkor, districts in the south which I had passed through in 1901. They were afraid of our men and would not let them enter the tents. Two fine sheep and a lump of butter were bought, and rescued us from starvation for a time. The hare meat was discarded and given to the dogs.
We made the two sheep carry themselves our newly-acquired store of meat to camp 342; we had no room for extra loads. We mounted slowly to a flat pass. Three tents stood in a side valley and some men came out to look at us, but we passed on without exchanging questions and answers. On February 29 the wind raged furiously all day long. Clouds swept ceaselessly over the country, and at one o’clock the temperature was 22.1°, quite low enough to chill a rider down to the bones and marrow.
In front of us lay a large flat hollow, in the midst of which two small lakes shone white with ice. We slowly approached the isthmus between them. A herd of antelopes took to flight and nearly fell over a lonely wild ass, which looked at them uneasily, but at the last moment they turned off in another direction as though they were afraid of him. On the left, in a deep trough running towards the lake, a flock of sheep was driven along by two shepherds. Wait one moment. Hand me the turban. Gulam wound it round my head, and then I went on foot like the rest. Along the shore a young man was driving six yaks. Abdul Kerim and Gulam went up to him while we set up the tents on the shore (15,200 feet).
After a while they returned with the yak-driver, a boy of fourteen in a large white skin hood. He was terribly frightened, and could with difficulty be persuaded to come to our tents; our intention was that he should guide two of our men to his dwelling. He called the lake Lumbur-ringmo. As my disguise was now complete, I went to look at the boy, who did not seem at all suspicious.
Lobsang and Tubges followed the boy to his tent, and after a long time returned with unwelcome news. Two Tibetans had rushed out of the tent, stopped them, and asked roughly what they wanted. They replied very quietly that they wished to buy food; but there was nothing of the kind for sale.
“But who are you?” an elderly man asked.
“We are Ladakis in the service of a merchant, and we are on the way to Saka-dzong,” they answered.
“No,” the Tibetan exclaimed; “you lie. No merchant travels this way, least of all in winter; there is no trade in Chang-tang.”