On April 10 we travelled 8½ miles up the Buptsang-tsangpo, and we were astonished to find so voluminous a river up on the isolated plateau country. On its banks ducks and geese cackled in large numbers. Tubges shot several of them; it was a sin to disturb their dreams of spring and love. No human being was seen this day. I had a feeling of repose when we could see no black tents, and for the sake of peace I would readily abstain from sour milk. The view to the south-south-east was magnificent; the peaks of Lunpo-gangri stood out against the pure blue sky in dazzling white, with shades of light blue indicating ice. On the east also of our route appeared a whole world of mountains. Most unexpectedly the summits of Lunpo-gangri have a much grander and more imposing appearance from the northern side, towards the plateau country, than from the south side, the valley of the Brahmaputra, most probably because on the southern side they are too near. Up in the north we saw them at all distances, and for several days we had them right in front of us.
| 319, 320, 321. The Summits of Lunpo-gangri from Camps 379, 381, and 383. From Water-Colours by the Author. |
In the night of April 11 the temperature sank to −1.7°, and on the preceding nights to 3.7°, 13.5°, and 17.2°. The cold increased as we mounted higher. We came to an expansion in the valley where three glacier streams unite to form the Buptsang-tsangpo, just as in the case of the Brahmaputra, and also on the northern flank of one of the world’s mightiest mountain systems. Our camp 379 (16,112 feet) was pitched close to the river in Bupyung-ring. The eastern headwater comes partly from the Samye-la, partly from mountains adjoining on the south-west. The middle one descends from a massive called Yallak-mallak, and the western from Chomo-gangri; south-east of this mountain is Lunpo-gangri, which is drained to the sea, both from its northern and its southern flank (Illusts. 319, 320, 321).
Bupyung-ring is one of the finest and most beautiful regions I have seen in Tibet. The flat wide valley, surrounded by mountains with ice and snow, is clothed with abundant grass and traversed by numerous water-courses. Everywhere are seen traces of camping-places. At the time we passed through only a few tent villages remained, but the valley is full of life in summer when the nomads come down from the north. When the melting of the snows properly sets in during summer, and afterwards in the rainy season, the Buptsang-tsangpo swells up so tremendously that the river cannot be crossed for three months, and communication between the banks is interrupted. From its source to its outlet in the Tarok-tso the river is probably nearly 100 miles long, and is possibly the largest river in Tibet which does not flow to the sea. The only rivers that can vie with it are the Sachu-tsangpo, which flows into the Zilling-tso, and the Soma-tsangpo, which falls into the Teri-nam-tso. The Sachu-tsangpo was far larger than the Buptsang when I crossed it in the rainy season in 1901. But the Buptsang is also a large river in spring, and in the rainy season must swell as much as the Sachu. The Buptsang-tsangpo has hitherto been unknown to Europeans, but we find the Tarok-tso on D’Anville’s map, and a river entering the lake from the south, which no doubt is identical with the Buptsang-tsangpo. The Jesuits who resided in Pekin two hundred years ago, and were ordered by the Emperor Kang Hi to compile a map of the whole Chinese Empire, procured information even about this remote region from Chinese and Tibetan sources.
During the past days our two yaks had become so wearied and footsore that we had to get rid of them at any price. We therefore stayed a day in Bupyung and bartered them for nine sheep, which took over the loads of the yaks. Now we had again thirty-one sheep and some goats.
On the 13th we came to the foot of the mountain where commenced the actual steep ascent to the pass itself. Here were four tents inhabited exclusively by women and children. The men had gone a couple of days before to Gova Tsepten’s tent. It is incumbent on this chief to collect a certain number of men and yaks, which for about three months are posted on the tasam ready to transport goods on behalf of the Devashung without compensation. This is a kind of corvée which is exacted not only all along the road between Lhasa and Ladak, but on all other great high-roads in Tibet. Naturally this injudicious system is a great annoyance to the nomads, who have to leave their flocks in the meantime to the care of women and children. If any one wishes to escape this compulsory service he must supply a substitute, pay him, and furnish him with yaks and provisions. The year before, when we travelled with hired horses from Shigatse, the poor nomads served us, but we always paid them honourably and gave them handsome gratuities as well.
After a night temperature of −0.8° we rode up to the pass on the 14th, over and between hills and across the brook which brings its tribute from the Samye-la to the Buptsang-tsangpo. Solid rock could not be found, but all the detritus and boulders were of grey granite; seldom was a piece of porphyry noticed. The usual observations were made on the pass, and the boiling-point thermometer was read off. The view of Lunpo-gangri was grander than ever, now that its peaks were quite near. The distinctly marked valley of the Buptsang-tsangpo disappeared in the distance to the north-north-west, while to the south-east nothing could be seen but a flat saddle, whence I concluded that we were not yet on the actual water-parting pass. We had not followed the track of the caravan far, before we saw a brook coming from the south-east, which also belonged to the Buptsang-tsangpo. On its bank, where we also halted, was encamped a caravan of 8 men and 350 yaks, which was carrying salt to Saka-dzong, six days’ march farther. These men could not understand why we, merchants from Ladak, chose such a way, and asked how we found it out. They were treated to the usual story about the wool-trade in summer, and they regretted that they could not serve us with their yaks, as they were called out for Government transport on the great high-roads. Now we wondered whether they would let the Governor of Saka-dzong know that they had met with a party of Ladakis on byways, and if this news would injure us. Perhaps, after all, it would be best to avoid Saka-dzong altogether.
On April 15 it was our chief desire to get in advance of the yak caravan. Before they had begun to load up their animals I started off with the sheep, and came in good time to the summit of the Samye-la with its streamer-decked poles. Though we were all the way in sight of the yak-men’s camp, I must, at any cost, determine the height of the pass, and the distance was so great that they could not see what we were doing. After boiling the thermometer, whence we obtained a height of 18,133 feet, I also drew a panorama. To the south and south-east was a world of mountains belonging to the Lunpo-gangri range, which lay to the south, and to Nien-chen-tang-la on the north. We were therefore standing on the actual watershed between two gigantic ranges, which are both members of the Trans-Himalayan family. And this pass, the Samye-la, occupies the highest and most important rank from a hydrographic and orographical point of view that any pass in Asia can lay claim to, for it is a divide between the isolated drainage area of the plateau on the north and the boundless ocean, on the south. It ranks, then, with the Sela-la, Chang-la-Pod-la, and Angden-la, and is much more important than the Tseti-lachen-la, which is only a watershed between the Sutlej and the Indus, and than the Jukti-la, which parts the waters between the two arms of the Indus. At the Samye-la I attained my chief desire, to cross the Trans-Himalaya between the Tseti-lachen-la and the Ang-den-la, and gain another point on the immense boundary line on the north of the basins of the great Indian rivers, and I succeeded in proving the unbroken continuance of the Trans-Himalaya for 118 miles west of Angden-la. A most extraordinarily interesting discovery also was that the Angden-la and the Samye-la, though of exactly the same value as watersheds, do not lie on the same chain. The Angden-la is situated on the western prolongation of the chain which stands on the southern shore of Tengri-nor and is known by the name of Nien-chen-tang-la, but the Samye-la lies in a longitudinal valley between this chain and Lunpo-gangri. Accordingly, I could strike out once and for all the continuous mountain range which Hodgson and Saunders constructed at their writing-table, and represented as running north of the upper Brahmaputra. Here also I considered what name I should give to the colossal mountain system which runs in the north parallel to the Himalayas. The name Lunpo-gangri had at least as much claim as Nien-chen-tang-la, but both were unsuitable, as they only denoted certain ranges in a whole system, and therefore had only local significance. Then it came to me like a flash—Trans-Himalaya is the name which I will attach to this gigantic mountain system.
While I sat and pondered over the great idea which had come to me this day without any merit of my own, I was recalled to the business of the moment by Lobsang, who informed me that the yaks were moving in a black line up to the pass. Then we got up and went on foot down the slopes bestrewn with troublesome rubbish and granite boulders. Soon trickling rivulets collected into a small brook. I regarded with pleasure this little stream leaping among the stones, and listened to its purling song. It was the old melody, and we had recently heard it from the brooks of the Buptsang-tsangpo. And yet I seemed to hear an undertone of another kind, a sound in the water which suggested a new aim. The Buptsang-tsangpo is doomed to final annihilation in the Tarok-tso and Tabie-tsaka, where the water is evaporated and dispersed to the four winds of heaven. But the brook we now followed debouches into the Chaktak-tsangpo and Brahmaputra, and its destiny is the Indian Ocean, over which runs the way to my home.
We had just set up our tents before the yaks came tramping up in close order, followed by their whistling and singing drivers. They went round, not to come too near us. Were they afraid of us or were they suspicious? Were they a cloud, no larger than a man’s hand, from which, in due time, a destructive tornado was to burst over our little band, which now for the second time crossed the forbidden land without leave?