This was early on Tuesday morning, and a sufficient number of ponies and coolies having been got together by 5.30, we started.
I may here note that, owing to a confusion between Gunderbal (the port, so to speak, of the Sind Valley, and route to Leh and Thibet) and Gangabal, a lake lying some 12,000 feet above the sea behind Haramok, our arrangement to meet the Smithsons at Gangabal was altered by a letter from them announcing their imminent arrival at Gunderbal! This was perturbing, but as the mistake was not ours, we decided not to allow ourselves to be baulked of a trip for which we had surrendered an expedition to Shisha Nag, beyond Pahlgam.
The lower part of the Sind Valley is in nowise interesting; the way was both tedious and hot, and we rejoiced greatly when, having crossed the Sind River, we found a lovely spring and halted for tiffin. After an hour’s rest we followed the main road a little farther, and then, passing the mouth of the Chittagul Nullah, turned up the Wangat Valley. The scenery became finer, and the last hour’s march along a steep mountain-side, with the Wangat River far below on our right, was a great improvement on what we had left behind us.
The little village of Wangat, perched upon a steep spur above the river, was woefully deficient of anything like a good camping-ground. We finally selected a small bare rice patch, which, though extremely “knubbly,” had the merits of being almost level, moderately remote from the village and its smells, and quite close to a perfect spring.
Yesterday we achieved a really early start, leaving Wangat at 4.15, the path being weirdly illuminated by extempore torches made of pine-wood which the shikari had prepared. A moderately level march of some three miles brought us to the ruined temples of Vernag and the beginning of our work, for here the path, turning sharply to the left, led us inexorably up the almost precipitous face of the mountain by means of short zigzags.
It was a stiff pull. The sun was now peering triumphantly over the hills on the far side of the valley, and the path was (an extraordinary thing in Kashmir) excessively dusty. Up and on we panted, Jane partly supported by having the bight of the shikari’s puggaree round her waist while he towed her by the ends.
There was no relaxation of the steep gradient, no water, and no shade, and the height to be surmounted was 4000 feet.
If the longest lane has a turning, so the highest hill has a top, and we came at last to the blissful point where the path deigned to assume an approach to the horizontal, and led us to the most delightful spring in Kashmir! The water, ice-cold and clear, gushes out of a crevice in the rock, and with the joy of wandering Israelites we threw ourselves on the ground, basked in the glorious mountain air, and shouted for the tiffin basket.
Only the faithful “Yellow Bag” was forthcoming, the tiffin coolie being still “hull down,” and from its varied contents we extracted the only edibles, apricots and rock cakes.
Never have we enjoyed any meal more than that somewhat light breakfast, washed down by water which was a pure joy to drink.