A Holiday in the Happy Valley with Pen and Pencil

by T. R. Swinburne

Every one remarked that Jane was simply too lovely for words, as, with the sweet simplicity of an ingénue, en combinaison with the craft of a Machiavella (I beg to point out that I know my Italian genders), she draped her lissom form in the clinging folds of an enormous habit de peau de brebis—portions of ear and the tip of her nose tilted over the edge of the deep turned-up collar, which, on one side, supported the coquettish droop of the hairy “Tammy” that, dexterously pinned to the spikes of a diamond fender, gave a clou to the entire “sac d’artifice.”

Walter, having already shot two bara singh and a serow, came under the “statute of limitations” of the Kashmir Game Laws, and had to sound the “cease firing” as regards these animals; but Charlotte and I, having “khubbar” of game, started at 7 A.M. in pursuit. She, attended by Walter and in tow of Asna (the best shikari in all Kashmir), followed up the nullah which lay to our right, while I deflected to the north. Having donned grass shoes, I started off up a very steep slope which rose directly behind the camp. Reaching snow within a few minutes of leaving my tent, I was glad to find it hard and the going good, the early sun not yet having had time to soften and destroy the crisp surface.

Up and up we toiled, I puffing like any grampus—partly by reason of not yet being in good condition, and partly on account of the height, which was probably nearly 9000 feet above sea level. As we rose to the shoulder of the hill the gradient became much easier, and I had leisure to admire the panorama that stretched around the snowy ridge, which fell away abruptly on either side through dense pine forests. The day was quite glorious…. The sun, blazing in a cloudless sky, cast sharp steel-blue shadows where rock or tree stood between the snow and his nobility. The white peaks that rose around in marvellous array seemed so near in the bright air that it seemed as though one could see the smallest creature moving on their distant slopes. But there was little life observable in this still and silent world—nothing but an occasional pair of crows flapping steadily over the woods, or a far vulture circling at a giddy height in the “blue dome of the air.” Silence everywhere, except for the distant and perpetual voice of many waters murmuring in the unseen depths below.

To the south—showing clear above the serrated back of the ridge beyond the camp—stood the Pir Panjal; pale ivory in the pale horizon below the sun. At the foot of the valley up which we had come yesterday, and partly screened by the intruding buttresses of its enfolding hills, the Wular Lake lay a shimmering shield of molten silver.

In front, the sheeted mountains which guard Gurais and flank the icy portals of the Tragbal stood, a series of glistening slopes and cold-crowned precipices, while to the east Haramok reared his 17,000 feet into a threefold peak of snowy majesty.

It was a sight to thank God for, and to remember with joy all the days of one’s life. Doubtless there are many views as wonderful in this lovely land, but this was the first, and therefore not to be effaced nor its memory dimmed by anything that may come after.

The shikari had not climbed the mountain’s brow to waste time over scenery; so, having apparently gone as far as he wanted on the ridge, he plunged down among the silver firs to the right, and I, with my heart in my mouth, went after him. At first it seemed to the inexperienced that we were slithering down the most awful places, and that, should the snow give way, I should have to swiftly embrace the nearest tree to avoid being shot down, a human avalanche, farther than I cared to think. However, I soon found it was all right. A welcome halt for lunch brought the tiffin coolie to the front. A blanket spread upon the hard snow at the foot of a fir made an excellent seat, and a cold roast teal, an apple, and a small flask of whisky were soon exhumed from the basket. Water, or rather the want of it, was a difficulty, for I was uncommonly thirsty, and no sign of any water was to be seen. A judicious blending of the dry teal with bits of succulent apple overcame the drought, and the half-hour for refreshment passed all too quickly.

The men considered it now time to get up some “shikar,” so they invented a bear. This was exciting! They had separated (there were four of them) in search of traces of bara singh, &c., and some one found the bear, or its den, or a lock of its wool—I really couldn’t quite ascertain which—but fearful excitement was the immediate result.

A consultation took place in frenzied whispers. My rifle was peeled from its case, and we proceeded to scramble stealthily down a horribly steep face much broken by rocks. The shikari being in front with my rifle over his shoulder, I was favoured with frequent glimpses down its ugly black barrel as I, like Jill, “came tumbling after,” and I rejoiced that all the cartridges were safely stowed in my own pocket. Well! we searched like conspirators for that bear, peeped round rocks and peered into holes, and anxiously eyed all possible and impossible places where a bear might be supposed to reside, but there was no bear; and at length we arrived on the bank of the torrent which rioted noisily down the bottom of the nullah.

I now began to realise that plunging about in snow, often over one’s knees, and scrambling among the fallen tree-trunks and great rocks selected by the torrent to make its bed, was distinctly tiring work!