Alas! it soon became apparent that our troubles were not over. The cliffs above us became steeper, and the familiar boulder reappeared upon the road. Small landslips gave us a good deal of trouble, although we had no serious difficulty before reaching Ghari. Here we were told that a complete “solution of continuity” in the road at Mile 46 would prevent our reaching Chakhoti, so we reluctantly decided to remain where we were for the night. Although a cold and dull spring afternoon is not exciting at Ghari, where distractions are decidedly scanty, we found interest in the discovery of the Smithsons’ heavy luggage, which had been sent on from Rawal Pindi ages ago. Here it lay in the peaceful backwater of a native caravansary, piled high on a bullock-cart, whose placid team lay near pensively chewing the “cud of sweet and bitter fancy,” and apparently quite innocent of any intention of moving for a week or two!
We extracted the charioteers from a neighbouring hut, and gave them to understand, by means of Sabz Ali, that hanging was the least annoyance they would suffer if they didn’t get under way “ek dam” at once. They promptly promised that their oxen—like Pegasus—should fly on the wings of the wind, and, having seen us safely round a corner, departed peacefully to eat another lotus.
The luggage arrived in Srinagar towards the end of the month.
Sunday morning saw us again battling with a perfect coruscation of landslips; so “jumpy” was it in many places that we sat with the carriage doors ajar, in hopes that a timely dart out might enable us to evade a falling rock. At Mile 46 we were held up for an hour until a ramp was made over a bad slide, and the carriage and ekkas were unloaded and got across. The landau looked for all the world like a great dead beetle surrounded by ants, as, man-handled by a swarm of coolies, it was hauled, step by step, over the improvised track. A landau is not at all a suitable or convenient carriage for this sort of work, and had we guessed what was before us we should most certainly have employed the handier tonga.
The road to-day, cut as it was out of the steep flank of the mountain, was magnificent, but, in its present condition, nerve-shattering. Fallen boulders and innumerable mud-slides constantly forced us to get out and walk, while the sturdy little horses tugged the carriage through places where the near wheels were frequently within a few inches of the broken edge of the road, while far below Jhelum roared hungrily as he foamed by the foot of a sheer precipice.
Reaching Chakhoti about four o’clock, we decided to remain there for the night, as it was growing late and the weather looked gloomy and threatening. Although we had only achieved a short stage of twenty-one miles, there was no suitable place for a night’s halt until Uri, distant some thirteen miles and all uphill.
About half a mile above Chakhoti there is a rope bridge over the Jhelum, and after tea we set forth to inspect it.
The river is here about 150 yards wide and extremely swift, and I confess the means of crossing it, although practised with perfect confidence by the natives, did not appeal to me.
From two great uprights, formed from solid tree-trunks, three strong ropes were stretched—the upper two parallel, and the third, about four feet lower, was equidistant from each.
These three ropes were kept in their relative positions by wooden stretchers—something like great merrythoughts, lashed at intervals of a few yards—