Diary of a Pedestrian in Cashmere and Thibet

by W. H. Knight

Arriving at the many-branching river, I was for some time quite at a loss for a ford, until a native, seeing the dilemma I was in, crossed to my assistance. Finding me stripping to the work, he insisted on my mounting upon his back, and in an evil moment I consented. The consequence was that, after passing safely a couple of the streams, in the deepest spot of the whole torrent, he tottered and fell, and down we both came, he in the most ungraceful position in which man can fall, and I, luckily, upon my [[239]]feet. The sensation, however, on suddenly finding the water rushing past, and one’s feet slipping about among the clinking stones, was anything but pleasant, and it was with difficulty that I collected myself together and completed the uncomfortable passage. The tent being luckily pitched about a mile farther on, the loss of dignity in the eyes of the bystanders was the only evil result of the misfortune. Towards night it came on again to snow, and the coolies and retainers had another hard bivouac of it, while F. and I were obliged to keep all hands at the pumps, or, in other words, to fasten all available rags and wraps under our canvas, to keep out the soaking wet.

The cold was very great, and everything gave token of coming winter, and testified to what the Himalayas can do in the snow and ice line of business when their full time shall arrive.

September 5.—After a damp night’s bivouac, we awoke to find “a mixture as before” falling—a mixture of rain, sleet, and snow—anything but promising for the comfort of our day’s march. To avoid having to wait in the wet for breakfast, we sent on the kitchen and the cook, and, after some time, followed leisurely ourselves.

An overhanging ledge of rock afforded us some shelter for our meal, and, after warming [[240]]and drying ourselves to some extent in this smoke-blackened and not very commodious little Himalayan hotel, we again pressed on. This was our third day away from either villages or regular shelter of any sort, and the retainers were naturally anxious to reach some settlement where they could, for a time at least, protect themselves from the rain and snow which still continued to fall. The consequence was, they pressed on some sixteen miles farther at a good pace, to reach a little wooden village at the head of the Wurdwan valley, and we saw nothing of them on the road. On reaching our halting-place, however, lo and behold, our unfortunate cook was absent, and nobody seemed to know anything whatever about him! The cooking things and the larder were all present, and dinner-hour was at hand; but, alas! the pots and kettles were without a lord, and the question of where was our dinner began to give way in point of interest to where was our cook. At the time F. and I left the “cave-hotel,” the whole of the coolies, Rajoo, the three goats, and the two sheep, had all gone on ahead, as also the “Invincible One,” the sepoy.

The bhistie and the missing cook had therefore only remained behind. The road, soon after leaving, entered a wooded gorge, and, as the valley [[241]]narrowed, the torrent began to get considerably more rapid and boisterous, as it took to leaping down the giant rocks, which bound it in between their iron grasp and formed its only bed.

The path was wet and sloppy, and led in parts along the tops of rather dangerous precipices. Passing cautiously over these, and through wooded paths lined with mosses and wild flowers, whose perfume scented the entire air, we came upon a curious bridge of well-packed snow, which spanned the torrent. A treacherous-looking specimen it was, and after taking its likeness in my pocket-book, I was [[242]]passing it as a matter of course, when I suddenly heard a shout, and perceived F. and the mate at the other side of the torrent beckoning me to cross the snow. I accordingly, with no very good grace and some astonishment, essayed the passage. The snow I found hard as ice, and not liking the look of its treacherous convex sides, I held my course straight up the centre, and then descended with great care and deliberation along the junction of the snow and the mountain. So slippery was the passage, that without grass shoes I should have been sorry to have attempted it, and, as I halted to regard the curious structure from a distance, I could not help thinking what a likely spot it was for a traveller to lose his life without anybody being the wiser, and what a small chance he would have in the deep and rapid torrent below if he should happen to slip into its remorseless clutches. The path from this continued its perilous character, in one place traversing a precipitous face of rock only passable on all fours, beneath which a thick cover of long grass and weeds hung over the deep, treacherous-looking pools of the torrent. Having on a pair of grass shoes which had already done one day’s work, I had broken down about half way, and was now nearly bare-footed. I consequently did [[243]]not arrive till nearly the last of the party, and found the tent pitched and fires lit under a group of large trees, in the wooden village of about a dozen houses, called Sucknez. It was then getting dusk, and after waiting a reasonable time, we sent out a party from the village to make search for our missing man, while F. and I, lighting a fire almost in the tent door, proceeded to cook our own dinner.

The materials consisted of an unlimited supply of eggs and a box of sardines, hitherto neglected, and despised among the artistic productions of our lost professor. F. superintended the frying of the eggs, and produced a conglomeration of some eight of them, which we pronounced unusually delicious, while I laid the table and looked after the kettle, for we thought it better, under our bereaved circumstances, to knock tea and dinner into one meal. Although we had made a longish march, we managed, with the aid of the kettle and the brandy, to sit up by the light of a roaring pine fire until late, in the hopes of some news arriving of our searching party. None however came, and we went to bed hoping that the man had lost his way, and fearing that he had fallen either over the slippery snow-bridge or down one of the many precipices into the torrent. [[244]]

September 6.—Morning came, but neither news of our cook nor of the party who went out in his search, and, after breakfast, donning a pair of grass shoes, and provided with some matches and a small bottle of cherry-brandy, I sallied out with the mate on a voyage of discovery. Outside the village I met the searching party, who had been out all through the bitter night, but had found no traces of the object of their search.

Sending a note to F. to dispatch all the coolies to search, I pressed on to the most dangerous precipice of our yesterday’s route, and, descending to the torrent, searched about the grass and weeds at the bottom, but without finding any traces. About this place I met three lonely travellers, laden with meal, who had come along the entire path, but had seen no sign of a human creature anywhere. I now gave up our man as lost, but still held on, in a pouring mixture of sleet and snow, which added considerably to the gloom of the scene. Every now and then the old mate, who was in very low spirits, would raise a lugubrious wail at the top of his voice of “Ai Khansaman Jee! Ai Khansaman Jee?” “Oh, cook of my soul! oh, cook of my soul, where art thou?” at the same time apparently apostrophizing the deepest whirlpools of the torrent, while the roar of the waters effectually [[245]]prevented his magnificent voice from reaching more than a dozen yards from the spot where he stood. Arriving at the snow-bridge, we examined it closely for signs of footmarks; it was, however, so hard that it baffled all our efforts.