Tundup Sonam and Ishe were my boatmen, and we set out at half-past five o’clock. We were at first in the lee of a promontory, but when we had passed it the whole lake came down upon us with rolling, foaming billows, showers of spray, and threatening surge. The waves were crowded together in the narrows to leeward, and assumed curious irregular forms. Among them tossed masses of water-weed; the water was bright green and as clear and sweet as that of Tso-mavang. We are a little beyond the promontory; would it not be better to turn back? No; never turn back, never give in; still forwards! We were wet, but we kept our equilibrium and parried the cunning assaults of the rolling waves. “Row hard and we shall soon get into the shelter of the great point on the western shore.” I even managed to take soundings, and found that the greatest depth was 54½ feet; the lake bottom was almost level. We had fought with the waves for four hours before we landed on the north side of the promontory, where we were sheltered from the wind.
Here we draw the boat to land and reconnoitre. The cape runs north-eastwards, and is covered with driftsand which is in constant motion. On the shore plain to the south-west yellow sandspouts move about, whirling like corkscrews in the direction of the wind, and our promontory receives its share of this load of sand. On the north the dune is very steep; from time to time fresh sand falls down the slope and slips into the lake, where the waves sweep it away. From the sharp ridge of the dune the driftsand is blown like a dense plume to the lake, and the water is tinged with yellow for quite 200 yards in the direction of the wind by myriads of grains of sand, which fall to the bottom and build up a foundation under water on which the promontory can extend out into the lake. The wind has been strong, and now we have a storm. Patience! We cannot go back. The driftsand now floats so thickly over the lake that the eastern and northern shores are invisible; we might be sitting on a dune in the heart of the Takla-makan desert.
We slipped down to the sheltered side of the dune, but here, out of the wind, it was still worse. We were enveloped in clouds of sand which penetrated everywhere, into our eyes, ears, and noses, and irritated the skin where it came into contact with the body. The moaning howl of the storm was heard above and around us. My oarsmen slept or strolled about, but their footprints were at once obliterated by the wind. I played with the sand like a child—let it roll down the lee-side, built a small peninsula, which was immediately destroyed by the waves, and a harbour mole, which the sea beat over and broke up—and watched how new layers and clumps of dead seaweed appeared on the sand slope, and how the dry sand formed falls and cascades as it rolled down. But the storm did not abate.
| 265. Kailas behind Nyandi-gompa. |
| 266. My Pack-Sheep. |
We lay waiting there for four hours. On the eastern shore our men had moved the camp a little farther south. We saw the tents quite plainly. Should we venture to creep along the shore southwards so as to reach a point opposite the camp? Out beyond the promontory the dark-green lake ran uncomfortably high, but we were a match for the waves—the men had only to put their weight on to the oars. So we crept along the shore, where we got some shelter, but we had to be careful that we were not carried out into the heavy seas. After rowing round two points we landed on the lee-side of a third, where the boat was drawn ashore again. Heavy seas with thundering, towering waves dashed against the southern side of the point, so that we could go no farther, for no pilot would encounter such billows in a canvas boat. I stood on the top of the promontory and enjoyed the fine spectacle. Robert’s tent shone brightly in the setting sun. We saw the men, the horses grazing on the bank, and the smoke of the camp-fire beaten down by the storm. The crossing would barely take an hour, but between us and them yawned the dark-green abyss of tyrannical, all-conquering waves.
The sun sets and we still sit and wait, confused by the rush of the spirits of the air and water. This time they have played us a pretty trick, and we have been caught. To the north rises Kang-rinpoche, lofty and bright as a royal crown. Its summit is like a chhorten on the grave of a Grand Lama. Snow and ice with vertical and slightly inclined fissures and ledges form a network like the white web of a gigantic spider on the black cliffs.
And the day, a long day of waiting, neared its inevitable close. Shadows lengthened out over the foaming waves, the sun set, and the Pundi mountain, our old friend of Tso-mavang, glowed like fire in the sunset. Clouds of a deep blood-red colour, with edges of orange, and tinted above with reddest gold, hovered over its summit. It was as though the earth had opened and volcanic forces had burst forth. The hours passed by, the glow died out, the outlines of Pundi became indistinct and were at length swallowed up in the darkness. We were in the dark while the camp-fire blazed on the eastern shore. Our hopes were now centred on the night and the moon. The storm had raged thrice twenty-four hours, and it must end some time; but it was just as strong. And as it was useless to wait, and I could not appease my gnawing hunger with a piece of bread and a cup of tea, I wrapped myself in the sail, burrowed into the sand, and fell into a sound sleep.
The rain pelting down on the sail woke me twice, and about four o’clock in the morning the cold thoroughly roused me. A dreary, grey, rainy outlook. But Ishe proposed that we should try to get over, for the storm had slightly abated in consequence of the rain. We first made sure that the tackle was in good order, and then stepped into the boat and rowed out along the sheltered side of the promontory. But scarcely had the nose of the boat passed beyond the point when it received a shock that made all its joints crack. “Row, row as hard as you can,” I yelled through the howling storm; “we shall get over before the boat is full. It is better to be wet than suck our thumbs for twenty-four hours more.” To the south, 52° E., the tent canvas shone white in the morning grey. We strayed far out of our course, but cut the waves cleanly, and steered towards the surf. We just managed to get over. We were received on the other side by our men, who helped us to draw the boat ashore and had fire and breakfast ready for us.
Namgyal had returned from Parka and brought news that the Gova threatened to drive away my men in order to force me to leave Langak-tso. Bluff, however, has no effect on me. A more serious matter was that Puppy had not been seen for forty-eight hours, and that Shukkur Ali, who had gone the morning before to Chiu-gompa in search of her, had not been heard of since. Puppy at length found her way into camp herself, and then it was Shukkur Ali who was missing.
On the 28th the storm continued. We afterwards heard from Tibetans that stormy weather frequently prevails on Langak-tso, and the lake is agitated, when Tso-mavang is smooth and calm. Tundup Sonam concluded that Tso-mavang was a pet of the gods, while demons and devils ruled over Langak-tso. We had heard a tale in Gossul-gompa that the preceding winter five Tibetans, armed with swords and guns, had crossed the ice to reach Parka by a shorter way, but in the middle of the lake the ice had given way, and all five were dragged down by the weight of their weapons to the bottom.