The sun shone out brightly the next morning, and I dried my clothing and the collection I then had of the sacred Scriptures. The latter I still have in my possession, and every time I take them out, I cannot help wondering how my life was spared when those things got wet. By one o’clock in the afternoon I was ready to proceed, although I had not half recovered from the effect of my experience of the day before, and my things were far from being dry. Consequently even my own share of the luggage proved heavier than before, while circumstances compelled me to relieve my sheep of a part of theirs. To make things worse, I had managed to get a painful cut on one of my feet during my last effort to cross the Chema-yungdung-gi-chu, and altogether it was an inauspicious start which I made on that afternoon. After all, however, a step forward meant a step nearer to my destination, and with that philosophical reasoning I dragged myself onward. In that way I had proceeded for about five miles, when, to increase my difficulties, snow began to fall thick and fast. When I had arrived near a small pond and stopped to bivouac for the night, fire and tea were entirely out of the question, for the elements were now engaged in a fearful strife—the dazzling lightning, the deafening thunder, the shrieking wind and the blinding blizzard were at war all at once. That which I had managed to dry tolerably the day before became thoroughly wet again, and the whole of the following morning was spent in repeating the process of the preceding morning. No fire was obtainable even then, and consequently no tea; so I allayed my hunger with some raisins before resuming my journey shortly after noon. And little I dreamt of the danger that was in store for me that afternoon and the day following.

I was still heading for the north-west, and in order to adhere to that course I must now climb a snow-clad peak towering into the sky; I saw no way of avoiding the task, and encouraged by an uncertain hope—still a hope—of emerging upon or near Kang Rinpoche, or in the neighborhood of Mount Kailasa, I began the ascent of that great hill, which I afterward ascertained to be a peak called Kon Gyu-i Kangri, that rises twenty-two thousand six hundred and fifty feet above sea-level. By five o’clock in the afternoon I had made an ascent of about ten miles, and then it began to snow and to blow a gale. I thought it dangerous to continue my ascent under these conditions, and turning first north and then east, I essayed to make a rapid descent. The sun had now gone down, and snow was falling faster than ever. But I had not yet found a shelter and so continued my descent, having made up my mind to go on until I found a hospitable shelving cliff, or some such haven. It was, however, nothing but snow, snow, everywhere and all around—and presently there were twelve inches on the ground. By and by my sheep refused to proceed further, whether owing to hunger or not I could not tell, though it was plain that they had not fed the whole afternoon, because of the snow. At first I succeeded in getting them to move on a little as the result of some physical reasoning, but presently even that process of pleading failed. But the prospect of being frozen to death prevented me from yielding to their not unreasonable obstinacy, and putting all my strength into the ropes I dragged them onward. The poor animals reluctantly obeyed me and walked on for about a hundred yards, at the end of which, however, they came to a dead stop and began to breathe heavily. Thereupon I felt no little alarm, thinking that the animals might die that night. But what could I do? I knew that I was many a days’ journey at least from the nearest human habitation. A few more miles either way would not make much difference: so let fate decide. Once in that frame of mind, I took out my night-coverings and wrapped myself up and, protecting my head with a water-proof coat, I sat myself down between my two sheep, with the determination to pass the night in religious meditation.