THE RETURN JOURNEY TO PHARI

Autumn had already come to Kharta. The willows and the poplars under which we were camped were fast shedding their leaves, which rustled on the ground, or blew into our tents, a warning that winter was not far off. Even here there were one or two degrees of frost every night. The days, however, were still warm and sunny. The next five days were fully occupied with strenuous work. Wheeler and I took alternate mornings and afternoons in the dark room. We had each taken a large number of photographs during the past month. These had to be developed before we started on our return journey to Darjeeling, and this would be our last opportunity. An account of our last month's doings and our final reconnaissance had to be written out for The Times, and this, together with many other letters, had to be sent off to Phari as soon as possible. Our stores, tents, Alpine equipment, had all to be collected and sorted out. Lists had to be made of all of them, and most of them had to be re-packed. The coolies were perpetually worrying us for money and advances of pay in order that they might be able to buy Tibetan clothing, or have money which they could spend on drink at Kharta, where it was apparently very cheap. Our cook and most of the coolies used constantly to return to camp in the evening blind drunk, and I had to see that the cook was never allowed near the kitchen under these conditions. On such an occasion my servant, Poo, would have to do the cooking in his place. The chang, or barley beer, that they got must have been a much stronger brew than what was given to us, as what we had did not appear intoxicating at all, but the interpreters told us that coolie beer was double strength.

The Jongpen was rather sad as the moment of our departure drew near. We invited him to lunch one day, and he seemed to appreciate the beauties of Scotch whisky, which he said was very much better than his own chang. We had to pay him a return visit the following day, when he gave us a great spread. Knowing that we were anxious to collect such curios as were available, he produced all kinds of things for our inspection. I bought from him a curious old Tibetan musket, elaborately decorated with silver, and fitted with a pair of antelope horns on which to rest it when firing. Some interesting copper and silver teapots we were also able to get from him, and I remember his showing Wollaston many pieces of finely embroidered Chinese silk. Both Hopaphema and the Jongpen had a very good idea of the value of money, and were not at all afraid of asking a stiff price for any of the curios which they produced. We managed, however, to pick up some interesting Chinese snuff bottles of carved agate, some with pictures painted inside. China cups of the Chienlung and Kanghe periods we were also able to get; there were, however, many things in the monasteries which we rather coveted, but which the Lamas would not sell. Their tables were very ornamentally carved with dragons and weird designs, all painted over in brilliant colours. The Jongpen had one such table, but unfortunately I found out that he had only borrowed it from the nearest monastery for the purpose of entertaining us, and therefore he could not sell it. We left behind us a good many stores which it was not worth while to bring along. Among them was a lot of acid hypo-sulphite of soda, which the Jongpen at once seized upon, and which he said he intended to make use of in washing his clothes, knowing that soda was used occasionally for this purpose. The Jongpen, of whom we had taken many photographs, and who had seen the results, was anxious to buy one of our cameras, and to develop and print everything himself. He imagined the whole process was very easy, and was extremely anxious to get hold of one of the Expedition's cameras, but we had to disappoint him in this. Nothing small would content him—he wanted the biggest of the lot, and was quite willing to exchange a sword or any other weapon for a camera. We, however, left behind with him three pairs of skis, which we had brought out with us, but which had never been unpacked. These skis had throughout our journeys been looked upon by the Tibetans with the greatest interest. They had heard about flying machines, and they thought that these were the framework of a flying machine which we had brought with us, and on which we intended to fly to the top of the mountains. Wherever we arrived there was always a great crowd assembled round these skis, discussing the various methods by which they could be put together and describing how the white man would then fly. I left them with the Jongpen and told him that they were very good exercise for him in the winter time, when the snow was deep, and that if he wanted to reduce his weight, which was already considerable, there could be no better method than by making use of them in the snow.

At last, on October 5, we managed to leave Kharta. There were no pack animals available; we had therefore to make use of coolies for our transport for the first march; it took 140 of them to carry all our loads. For some time the scene of confusion was very amusing. The Jongpen himself came down, and it was only owing to his help that by mid-day we got all the loads sorted out and put on the backs of the coolies. Before he was able to do this he had to have recourse to the system of drawing lots by putting garters on each load, a system which I have already described in a previous chapter. Before we left, the Jongpen and Hopaphema brought us presents of sheep and vegetables, and they and all the people of the valley seemed genuinely sorry that we were departing. Throughout our long stay at Kharta they had been most helpful and had done everything they could for our comfort. They were both of them very human, with a delightful sense of humour, and we quickly became great friends. It was with much regret that we turned our backs on Kharta.

We started off without a cloud in the sky, but with a strong South wind blowing. High up on the mountains we could see the snow still being blown off in white clouds. Our route lay up the valley of the Bhong-chu for about 10 miles until the river suddenly turned to the East to go through a deep and impassable gorge. We had then to follow the valley of the Zachar-chu for 4 miles to Lumeh, where we camped beside the great poplar trees. The bridge by which we had crossed the Zachar-chu in July no longer existed. It had been washed away in August, but now that the snows were no longer melting higher up, and the rainy season was over, the river was very much lower, and it was possible to ford it. The people at Lumeh were very pleased to see us again; we found tents pitched and food prepared for our reception. From here there were two routes open to us. We could either, by crossing two passes, drop down to Tsogo in the valley of the Bhong-chu, and after fording the river there, follow our previous route (of the outward journey) to Tingri, or we could cross a small pass just above Lumeh, meeting the Bhong-chu again immediately above the gorge, where there was a bridge across it. We chose the latter route, as it was probably a couple of days shorter and would take us through new country. On leaving Lumeh, for the first time for several days we had a cloudy morning, which was unfortunate, as from the top of the Quiok (Cuckoo Pass) we had hoped for a fine view. Our transport to-day consisted of yaks and donkeys, which came along very well. There was a steep climb of 2,000 feet to the top of the pass, 15,000 feet, where we just managed to get a glimpse of Makalu in the clouds, but Everest was hidden. We thought that this would be our last chance of a view of the Everest and Makalu group, but it turned out not to be so. By going over this pass we had avoided the curious and impassable gorge by which the Bhong-chu cuts through a high range of mountains. It was only a little over 6 miles to the famous rope bridge at Gadompa. I could not help laughing when I first saw the bridge. It was such a comical, ramshackle-looking affair, and everything about it seemed torn and ragged and uneven. Two crooked wooden posts set up in piles of stones supported the ropes of raw hide which spanned the river. During the rainy season one of these posts and all the ropes had been buried deep under the water, but now that the river had dropped over 10 feet, the posts were out of the water. Between these two wooden posts were three raw hide ropes, very frail and much frayed, and looking as though they might break at any moment. On these ropes was laid a semi-circular piece of wood, like the framework of a saddle, to which were attached two leather thongs. The person or bale of goods that had to be pulled across was tied by these two thongs to the framework, and this was allowed to slide rapidly with its load down to the point at which the “bridge” sagged most—somewhere about the middle of the river—which here rushed along in a formidable rapid. If the Tibetans on the far side failed to pull up the passenger or load and he or it was left for a minute, either would certainly get the full benefit of one of the ice-cold waves of the rapids and get thoroughly soaked before reaching the far side. The Tibetans had great fun with our coolies in transit, and very few of them were allowed to get over dry. The villages on either side are exempt from the duty of producing transport, and have instead to make themselves responsible for working the bridge. On one side the operators were all women and on the other all men. It took an average of five minutes to get each load or person across, and we spent twelve hours before we got all our loads over. For part of the time I superintended while Wheeler went to get some dinner, and after dinner, owing to there being a certain amount of moonlight, Wheeler carried on until the last load was brought over at midnight. It was a very chilly proceeding, as the wind blew very cold, with a suspicion of snow every now and then. It was a weird experience to see the loads of baggage suddenly appearing out of the darkness and then being unloaded and transferred to the yaks, who apparently were able to find their way about in the dark. We got everything over in safety without losing anything except a few eggs, which I saw drop out during the passage across, and I felt very much relieved that we had had no accident.

That night we camped in a pleasant willow grove at the village of Kharkhung. In the morning we awoke to find fresh snow on the ground, but this speedily disappeared when the sun came out. Our new transport consisted of donkeys and some very wild yaks, which rapidly got rid of their loads. The march was only a short one of about 12 miles up the valley of the Bhong-chu. The valley was uninteresting and stony, with practically no undergrowth, and we eventually camped in a windy spot near the village of Lashar, nearly opposite to the sandy camp at Shiling where we had halted on our outward journey after crossing the quicksands. The night proved much colder here, with 18° of frost, but the wind luckily died down and the next morning was beautiful. We continued up the sandy valley of the Bhong-chu, which is here several miles wide, until we came to its junction with the Yaru, where we regained the route which we had followed on the outward journey. Just before leaving the main valley we found, on looking behind us, that we were in full sight of Mount Everest and its great South-eastern ridge, and also of the Lhakpa La where we had camped. This was our final view of Mount Everest, and knowing the geography of these peaks as we now did, this view gave us an added interest in them. We had climbed slowly and had not realised the great height which we had reached or the conspicuous position of our camp on the Lhakpa La which we now saw sharply defined against the horizon from a distance of 50 miles.

We rode up the gorge of the Yaru, and at the village of Rongme we met the Phari Jongpen's brother. He was busy collecting the harvest rents, which are a fixed percentage of the crops. I gave him some of the photographs that I had taken of him and his house on the way up and very soon after a big crowd collected around. The Tibetans are very quick at recognising persons in a photograph, and they at once picked out all the people by name in a group. I then rode on past his house to the village of Shatog, where we camped. On the way I shot a couple of snipe and also saw a number of teal, wild geese and kulan (grey crane), but they were very wild and I could not get near enough for a shot. Heron joined us here. He had been exploring some of the valleys to the North, but had found nothing interesting or remarkable, geologically, and he accompanied us back as far as Khamba Dzong. We were anxious to push on as fast as possible, and determined to do a double march from here to Tinki Dzong, which our transport drivers said they could do quite easily. We started on a beautiful day after a sharp frost at night, causing many of the ponds to be frozen over. We crossed the broad swampy plain to Chushar. Wheeler, going on ahead at first, had a shot at some geese, but did not succeed in getting anything. We crossed the Yaru River by a very deep ford, and then kept along the North side of it, past numerous ponds on which were swimming many bar-headed geese; these were, however, very wily and would not allow us to approach within shot. We now had a steep 3,000-foot climb to the Tinki Pass. On the way up I came across some partridges; they were terrible runners, but after a good chase I managed to collect two. They turned out to be the ordinary Tibetan partridge (Perdrix hodgsoniÆ). I then rode on down to Tinki, to which place I had sent on Chheten Wangdi in order to make arrangements for our reception and to have transport ready for us on the following day. The two Jongpens rode out to meet us; the elder of the two had been at Tinki when we passed through on the way out, but the other one I had not seen before as he had been away. I had very pleasant recollections of our reception there before, and was delighted to see the elder Jongpen, who was a most pleasant and agreeable gentleman. They presented us with a couple of hundred eggs, rice and some grain for the ponies, and had tents already pitched for us under the walls of the fort. Here the Jongpens came and sat talking with us for a long time. Our transport showed no signs of turning up, so we were very glad to make our dinner off the rice and eggs that had been given us. The bulk of the transport did not arrive till midnight. They had made every effort to stop at Chushar, and it was with great difficulty that Gyalzen Kazi had induced them to go on. The animal which was carrying Wheeler's kit died on the way, and his bedding did not arrive till noon the following day, another animal having been sent to bring it in. I had had my maximum and minimum thermometers exposed as usual under the fly of my tent, but during the night some wretch came and stole them. What good they could have been to him I cannot imagine, but it was very annoying and I hope he will drink the mercury. The weather had now changed again for the worse: all day there were heavy snow showers with snow falling on the mountains around and preventing any views. The march was only a short one to Lingga. The wild birds in the lake beside the fort were as tame as ever, the Brahminy ducks (ruddy sheldrake) almost waddling into our tents and not paying the slightest attention to us. On the water were swimming about thousands of duck, bar-headed geese and teal which the Jongpen's little dog used to have great fun in chasing. We were not able to follow our former route from Tinki to Lingga as the country had altered considerably. Most of the plain was now a broad lake several miles long, and we had to follow the North side of the water along the foot of the hills. On these big lakes were many duck, but they were very wild. I managed on the way, however, to shoot two bar-headed geese, a couple of Garganey teal and a pochard, which proved a very welcome addition to our bill of fare. One shot was a most extraordinary one. I was stalking some geese which were getting very restless and starting to fly away, when just in front of me got up two teal close together. I fired at the teal and both fell to my shot, and at the same time, to my great surprise, a goose, which was in the direct line of fire, and about 40 yards away, also fell.

We found the people at Lingga busy thrashing. The thrashing time in Tibet is a favourite one for drinking, and often the whole village after a day's harvest will be completely incapacitated as the result of too great an indulgence in chang. Their thrashing floors consist of an area of about half an acre of hard beaten earth on which the barley is spread to a depth of 6 to 8 inches. Fifty or sixty yaks are then driven into this enclosure, followed by thirty people or more, beating drums, rattling kerosene oil tins, ringing bells and shouting and yelling in order to frighten the yaks, who, tail in air, are driven backwards and forwards over the barley. This they continue doing until every one is tired and hoarse, when the whole of the workers, both male and female, adjourn for a long drink of beer, after which the same process is repeated.

On October 11 we arrived at Khamba Dzong. We were having sharp frosts now every night, and the mountains, both to the North and South of us, were covered low down with a thick white coating of snow. It was not, however, unpleasantly cold, and the cloud effects were very beautiful. On the way I shot two goa—Tibetan gazelle—with good heads, and horns over 14 inches long. We had to halt here in order to rest our coolies. All day to the South there was a furious storm raging along the Himalayas, and when it cleared up in the evening there had evidently been a heavy snowfall. In the course of the afternoon we put up over Dr.Kellas's grave the stone which the Jongpen had had engraved for us during our absence. On it were inscribed in English and Tibetan characters his initials and the date of his death, and this marks his last resting-place.

Raeburn, Wheeler and Heron now left us, as they wanted to return to Darjeeling by the short way over the Serpo La and down the Teesta Valley. This route is only possible for small parties; with all our transport we were unable to return that way as the villages on the way and in the Teesta Valley are small and can supply but very few animals or coolies. Wollaston and I had therefore to return to Phari and then to follow the main trade route, along which it is always possible to pick up any amount of hired transport. We left Khamba Dzong on October 13 in 20° of frost. Kanchenjunga and the Everest group were just visible, but ominous clouds were rapidly coming up. Our march was the same as on the outward journey to Tatsang (Falcon's Nest)—a distance of about 21 miles. We rode through the fine limestone gorge behind the fort, shooting on the way several Tibetan partridge (Perdrix hodgsoniÆ). On reaching the top of the pass, I climbed another thousand feet on to the ridge to the South of the pass, where I had a wonderful panorama of snowy peaks, both to the South and to the North. Snow storms appeared to be raging on either side and the wind was extremely cold. I came across a fine flock of burhel (Ovis nahura), and had an easy shot at a fine ram, but missed him hopelessly, and they never gave me another chance. A little further on I missed a gazelle. On the plain below were grazing numerous kiang (Equus hemionus), their reddish-chestnut coats being well shown off by their white bellies and legs. Their mane appears to be of a darker colour, which is continued as a narrow stripe down the back. On the same plain I could see also a large flock of nyan (Ovis hodgsoni), all fair-sized rams. I had a long chase after the latter, but they never allowed me to approach close to them. Snow began to fall now and a regular blizzard set in, the fine powdery snow being blown along the ground into our faces. While riding along in this storm, I saw two fine nyan which I stalked. My 2·75 rifle was rather small for such a large animal, and though the larger of the two was badly hit by the first shot, he went off as though he were untouched and gave me a long chase after him. It was only possible to get a glimpse of him every now and then in the blizzard, and whenever I lay down to try and get a shot, the fine powdery snow blown along the surface of the ground nearly blinded me, so that it took five more bullets before he finally expired. He was a magnificent old beast with a grand head and horns, well over 40 inches in length and of great thickness. The weight of the body was enormous. I had only Ang Tenze with me. With much difficulty we cut off the nyan's head and then tried to lift the carcass, which must have weighed well over 200 lb., on to one of the ponies. With the greatest trouble we eventually managed to get the carcass on to the pony's back, but the pony seemed gradually to subside on to the ground under the weight and was quite unable to move. While we were doing this, my pony took it into his head to run away, and though we made every attempt to catch him, he completely defeated us, and was last seen galloping away towards his home. I had therefore an 8 mile trudge through the snow to get back to camp, not arriving there till well after dark. Five of the coolies went back after dark to get the meat. They cut off as much as they could carry, and the remainder had to be left for the nuns, who sent out their servants to bring it in. I was cheered up, however, by getting an English mail and many letters. Among these was one from Sir Charles Bell from Lhasa, who wrote to ask the Expedition not to do any more shooting in Tibet, as the Tibetans did not approve of it; for the remainder of the time, therefore, the guns had to be put away.

During the night there were 32° of frost, and everything inside our tents was frozen solid in the morning; but the wind luckily died down, and the next day was a most beautiful one. We knew that there was a long march before us, so our transport was off by eight o'clock. At Tatsang we were already 16,000 feet, and we gradually climbed higher, spending most of the day between 17,000 and 18,000 feet. For several miles we rode across a snow-covered plain over which the tops of Pawhunri, Chomiomo, and Kanchenjhow appeared to the South. As we rose higher, the snow gradually deepened to 6 inches and made the going very heavy. We had to cross three spurs of Pawhunri by passes of over 17,500 feet. Here the snow had been blown by the wind into drifts over 2 feet deep. We had arranged to camp at a place called Lunghi, but on our arrival there found that the nomads, who ordinarily spent the summer there, had already left and were encamped some 4 miles further down the valley. In a side valley I found some of their tents where I was able to warm myself and get some hot milk before moving on down the valley, where we were told that preparations had been made to receive us. There was luckily a bright moon and we rode on down to the spot, where we found some Tibetan tents which had been pitched for us; their owners had, moreover, had the forethought to have great braziers of cow dung burning in these tents. The smell was not agreeable, but we sat and warmed ourselves, waiting for our transport, which did not arrive until eleven o'clock that night. It was a bitterly cold wait, as the wind got up and blew down the valley with 25° of frost behind it. We were very glad to see our transport and coolies when they arrived; they had really come along very well, as a march of 23 miles in soft snow and at a great height all the time is no light feat.

Breakfast the next morning was very comfortless, as the wind was still blowing with 28° of frost, and everything—boots and foodstuffs of all kinds—was frozen inside our tents. We looked forward with no little pleasure to finding ourselves inside once more and sitting in front of a fire out of the everlasting wind which makes Tibet so trying. The march was a fairly easy one of about 20 miles over gentle undulating country until we reached the West side of the Tang La; there was, however, a bitterly cold strong South wind which blew with great violence all day and penetrated through everything. Many of our coolies had much difficulty in coming along, as they were suffering from snow blindness and their feet were also very tender from the cold and the deep snow of the last few days. Chomolhari was a glorious sight all the way. We were gradually approaching it, and it seemed to rise directly from the plain in front of us. From its summit and from its ridges great streamers of snow were being blown off and the gale—apparently from the Northwest—still continued. Nearly every day since we left Kharta we saw along the higher peaks of the Himalayas the snow being blown off in great wisps, showing that a strong Northwesterly current of air sets in at great heights after the monsoon is over. After reaching Darjeeling we noticed the same thing; every day, from Kanchenjunga and Kabru, could be seen the same great wisps of wind-blown snow. That night at Phari we were once more in a bungalow and out of the wind, and able to spend a very comfortable and pleasant evening reading our letters and papers in front of a fire which, though still mostly yak dung, was in a fireplace. October 16 we spent resting at Phari. Our coolies were much exhausted by the three days' march from Khamba Dzong, in which we had covered 65 miles, most of the time at considerable heights and in deep snow. We had returned by the short way, which the people of Phari had told us in the spring was impassable, and over which they would not go, sending us instead around by the long way to Dochen, which took us six days instead of three.

Phari is a place unfortunately too near civilisation. The Tibetans there have lost their good manners, such as we had been accustomed to meet in the more distant and out-of-the-way parts of the country. Much trade passes through the town, and the people there are too well off. They had an idea that the Expedition was a kind of milch cow out of which money could be extracted to their hearts' content. Of this view we had to disabuse them, and in consequence found them all very tiresome. The transport turned up the following morning, but they refused to load up unless they were paid in full beforehand and at a most exorbitant rate. This I refused to do, telephoning at the same time to the trade agent at Yatung. I sent for the Jongpen, and both Jongpens turned up. I rather imagine that they were at the bottom of this trouble, for one of them owed the Expedition some money; he had also, when forwarding on stores to us, seized the opportunity to charge five times the ordinary rate, on the pretext that he had supplied some of his own mules. After long arguments I eventually induced them to accept part of the payment, the remainder to be paid at Yatung, whereupon the Jongpens gave orders for the animals to be loaded. It was not, however, until the afternoon that we were able to leave Phari and to start on our downward march to Yatung.