The Best Adventure and Exploration Stories Ever Told

by Stephen Brennan

  Dinner was served and for the first time I entered my tent which was shared with two cute puppies, Brown and White Puppy.

  At last I was ready for bed and snuffed the candle. Sleep was slow in coming. Reflections from the fires danced on the tent canvas, and the murmur of voices was audible for a long time.

  A new expedition had started. In fancy I heard the roar of mighty rivers, howling of raging snowstorms and temple songs in adoration of Buddha. Endless Asia was stretching yonder, waiting for me, and mysterious Tibet with its last geographic secrets, its temple cities, Lamas and incarnated gods. My head was like the workshop of a smith, where marvelous conquests and wild adventures were being hammered out. I knew which parts of earth’s highest and most expansive mountain region had remained absolutely unexplored by the Western World. The most recent maps of Tibet still showed three large white areas, in the north, in the center, and in the south, marked “unexplored.” The southern area of 65,000 square miles, situated north of the Brahmaputra, was the largest, and was exceeded in size only by the polar regions and interior Arabia. I wanted to cross these unknown expanses and fill out the blank spaces on the map with mountains, rivers and lakes and I had an ambition to be the first white man to stand at the source of the Indus, which Alexander the Macedonian believed he had discovered 2300 years ago. I also dreamed of going through to Tashilunpo, the monastic citadel, where the holiest man of Tibet resides, the Tashi Lama. In the previous year he had visited India and its Viceroy, who had given me a most sympathetic account of him. By the course which I had outlined, I could not reach the Tashi Lama’s holy temple-city without traversing the three white areas. In 1904 the Dalai Lama had fled to Urga and Peking, when the British army of invasion under Younghusband forced itself into Lhasa, leaving four thousand slain Tibetans along the way. The Tashi Lama was now the foremost man in Tibet. I had an almost superstitious conviction that he alone had the power to open all gates for me. Thinking upon these matters did not induce sleep. I also wondered what would be the fate of all the men and animals that I had taken with me upon these roads of great adventures. Little could I then divine that not a man not an animal now stirring noisily around my tent, would be with me upon my return to Simla, two years and two months later. They were scattered as chaff before the wind. But now, as the fires died and silence enveloped the grove, all of them slept peacefully under the plane trees of Ganderbal. Our winding road led among willow, walnut and apricot trees up through the valley of the Sind and rural villages, over swaying bridges to the music of the roaring white-foamed river. Alternately, the sun burned, or darkness followed the rapid marshaling of masses of clouds by the monsoon. We were refreshed by soft summer filled the air. At night we listened to the mournful howls of jackals and, by day, to the tinkling bells of the caravan. The march was ever upward toward snow-capped peaks, that were dyed in purple as the day dawned.

  In hundreds of precipitous bends of the mountain road, we moved up the pass, Zoji-la. It became necessary to reorganize the caravan completely in the village of Kargil on the other side. The Kashmirians and Afghans, who, in true bandit fashion, had stolen sundry articles from peaceable villagers along the road, were now dismissed together with their horses. Other men were engaged and seventy-seven horses were hired for the journey to Leh.

  We were now at the Indus, where we rode on narrow, breakneck paths. The Himalayas were in the rear and we were getting deeper and deeper into new labyrinths of magnificent mountains. We had left the world of Hindoos and Mohammedans and were now riding through sections where Lamaism is supreme. Here and there we passed by a picturesquely located Lamaistic monastery. Along the road long stone walls had been erected, capped with slabs of green slate, in which the sacred phrase had been inscribed : “Om mani padme hum.” Lizards, as green as the slabs, darted unconcernedly over the sacred words.

  I had ridden over this road twice previously, but in winter, when the ground was covered with snow. Now, the mountains were caressed by warm breezes and foaming, white, wild brooks tumbled from their sides into the Indus, to die in its embrace. I cast longing glances along the course of the mighty river and wondered if fortune would favor me by raising my tent up yonder by its source. No white man had ever been there.

  Leh is one of the most charming cities of Asia, situated at no great distance from the banks of the Indus and surrounded by regal mountains. The old picturesque royal castle rises high above its stone houses, Lamaistic temples, mosques, bazaars and poplars. The body of the main caravan of invasion was to be set up and organized here, in which work I had the invaluable assistance of the Joint Commissioner, Captain Paterson, and of the lovable Moravian missionaries, who had become my friends in earlier expeditions.

  But the greatest help came from Mohammed Isa, who had traveled with several European expeditions in innermost Asia and who was to be the leader of my caravan. He spoke Tibetan, enjoyed a good reputation in entire Ladakh, maintained excellent discipline, but was also good-natured and had a sense of humor. I greeted him in a friendly manner and within five minutes he was enlisted in my employ. He was given the following order:

  “Engage twenty-five reliable Ladakhs, buy about sixty prime horses and provisions for at least three months.”

  On the following day my yard was transformed into a market and we were soon the owners of fifty-eight horses. The caravan also numbered thirty-six mules, thirty hired horses and seven yaks, that were led by their owners.

  A few days later Mohammed Isa announced that twenty-five men were on exhibition in the yard for inspection. Eight were Mussulmans, seventeen acknowledged faith in Buddha and the holy men of the Lamaistic religion. Guffaru, the oldest man in the company at sixty-two years, had brought his own funeral shroud to be assured of honorable obsequies in the event of being overtaken by death during the journey. Tsering, a brother of Mohammed Isa, also advanced in years, was to be my cook. The others will be introduced later, as they appear in their own rôles. All were Ladakhs, with the exception of Rub Das, who was a Gurkha from Nepal. All spoke Tibetan and East Turkish. During the years I had become sufficiently familiar with the latter language to express myself and could therefore use any one of my servants as interpreter.

  Gulam Rasul, a rich merchant in Leh, helped us to make our purchases for the men and animals. My yard was a workshop, packsaddles were sewed for the animals, tents were made for the men, rice, flour, barley, corn, brick-tea, preserves and numberless other articles were weighed and put in sacks, while the bells tinkled and the men talked. The sunshine filtered through the leaves of the apricot trees and cast green shadows on my floor. On an appointed day the excitement of the camp rose higher than usual. The bells on the mules gave the signal for the departure of the first division under Tsonam Tsering. Mohammed Isa followed with the main caravan.

  On the fourteenth of August I started with a few men and nine baggage horses. The whole city was out to bid us farewell. Our road led out through the gate of the city by the Mohammedan burial place. Two horses shied , threw off their burdens and ran away among the markers on the graves, under which the sons of Islam await resurrection and the joys of Paradise.

  After this incident all went well. Majestic mountains were rising to the left, at the right was the mighty waterway of the Indus.

  The tents had already been pitched at the base of Tikse, a Lamaistic monastery, and Muhammed Isa pointed out the arrangement of the camp and the long rows of pack animals standing there, munching grain from their feed-bags. Night came with rest, and silence was broken only by the songs of the sentinels.

  The train proceeded deeper into Asia. On the crest of the pass, Chang-la, 17,580 feet above sea-level, a cairn stood, with sacrificial sticks, covered with tattered streamers, torn by the wind. Skulls of antelopes and yaks adorned the cairn. When hailstorms beat upon the whitened foreheads, the illusion was almost complete of the whining and moaning of the dead animals.

  Villages were less frequent and finally there were none. In the last ones we purchased t
hirty sheep, ten goats and a pair of large half-wild watch dogs. The two puppies from Srinagar, irritated by the first snowfall, stood in the opening of the tent and barked themselves hoarse at the falling flakes.

  In the very last village the men of Ladakh celebrated a farewell feast in honor of their homeland. The entire population gathered around our camp fire. Men played flutes and beat drums while the women danced.

  From this point we penetrated the wilderness. On the pass, Marsimik-la, 18,340 feet above the sea, the first horse collapsed. The next pass was called Chang-lung-yogma and had an altitude of 18,960 feet. The ascent was incredibly steep and hours were needed to climb the dizzy height.

  The view, that opens to the south, defeats any attempt of description by words. The valley that we had followed narrows into a mere furrow in a confusion of cliffs and ridges. The silver-white, sun-lit peaks of Himalaya tower over and above one another to the rim of the horizon. Fields of eternal snow glitter in color tones of blue, while the light-green armor of the glaciers reflects the rays of the sun in dazzling daylights of splendor.

  We were on the mountain chain Karakorum. Toward the south we beheld Himalaya, in the north, Kuen-lun, the border-wall to Chinese Turkestan. Desolate Tibet expanded toward the east and southeast.

  This wonderful scenery’ was quickly blotted out by chilling snowstorm, while the long dark line of the caravan proceeded to the Tibetan Highland. We encamped on a spot as desolate as the surface of the moon, twenty-five hundred feet higher than the peak of Mt. Blanc. Not a blade of grass grows here. The rainfall in the area does not reach the Indus, but runs into small basins without any outlets. Geographical names are totally wanting and I shall designate our camping places by numerals.

  The tents had already been pitched at the base of Tikse, a Lamaistic monastery, and Muhammed Isa pointed out the arrangement of the camp and the long rows of pack animals standing there, munching grain from their feed-bags. Night came with rest, and silence was broken only by the songs of the sentinels.

  The train proceeded deeper into Asia. On the crest of the pass, Chang-la, 17,580 feet above sea-level, a cairn stood, with sacrificial sticks, covered with tattered streamers, torn by the wind. Skulls of antelopes and yaks adorned the cairn. When hailstorms beat upon the whitened foreheads, the illusion was almost complete of the whining and moaning of the dead animals.

  Villages were less frequent and finally there were none. In the last ones we purchased thirty sheep, ten goats and a pair of large half-wild watch dogs. The two puppies from Srinagar, irritated by the first snowfall, stood in the opening of the tent and barked themselves hoarse at the falling flakes.

  In the very last village the men of Ladakh celebrated a farewell feast in honor of their homeland. The entire population gathered around our camp fire. Men played flutes and beat drums while the women danced.

  From this point we penetrated the wilderness. On the pass, Marsimik-la, 18,340 feet above the sea, the first horse collapsed. The next pass was called Chang-lung-yogma and had an altitude of 18,960 feet. The ascent was incredibly steep and hours were needed to climb the dizzy height.

  The view, that opens to the south, defeats any attempt of description by words. The valley that we had followed narrows into a mere furrow in a confusion of cliffs and ridges. The silver-white, sun-lit peaks of Himalaya tower over and above one another to the rim of the horizon. Fields of eternal snow glitter in color tones of blue, while the light-green armor of the glaciers reflects the rays of the sun in dazzling daylights of splendor.

  We were on the mountain chain Karakorum. Toward the south we beheld Himalaya, in the north, Kuen-lun, the border-wall to Chinese Turkestan. Desolate Tibet expanded toward the east and southeast.

  This wonderful scenery was quickly blotted out by chilling snowstorm, while the long dark line of the caravan proceeded to the Tibetan Highland. We encamped on a spot as desolate as the surface of the moon, twenty-five hundred feet higher than the peak of Mt. Blanc. Not a blade of grass grows here. The rainfall in the area does not reach the Indus but runs into small basins without any outlets. Geographical names are totally wanting and I shall designate our camping places by numerals.

  Only a few days before we had enjoyed summer. We had now been received by the most inhospitable winter. We were wrapped in darkness in the middle of the day while hail pelted us and finally turned to snow. We marched in four columns quite close to each other. The animals with their burdens and the men on their horses were chalky white—we resembled sculptures in alabaster. We were able to see our nearest neighbor only, and simply followed the tinkling of the closest bell.

  All changed in a few days. The weather cleared to radiance and the ground dried. We even suffered from the lack of water, but later discovered a spring at the foot of a mountain to the northeast, glistening like silver in the sunlight.

  Our chosen course then led eastward in a valley, twenty miles wide, where antelopes and wild asses had undisturbed grazing and where our own animals found nourishment. We were not yet in an unknown land.

  We camped several days on the western shore of a large lake that was discovered by Captain Wellby in 1896. While here we dismissed the owners of the hired horses and yaks, as well as the men from India, who could not stand the severe climate. And now the final tie that bound me to the outer world was severed. The returning men carried my last mail back with them.

  The large lake is oblong, running east and west. Kuen-lun rises in the north, while in the south is a chain of wild, precipitous cliffs, changing in red and flaming yellow colors with the same wild intensity as in the Grand Canyon at sunset, The peaks are shaped like pyramids and cupolas with shining caps of eternal snow and in the valleys between the mountains, blue and green glaciers extend their armors of ice toward the lake. The sky is turquoise blue; not even the slightest breeze ruffles the lake, whose smooth surface reflects the fantastic contours and brilliant colors of the mountains.

  We moved our camp to the north shore. While Mohammed Isa was conducting the caravan to the east end of the lake, we put our boat in condition. I sat at the helm and Rehim Ali was my oarsman. The distance to the south shore looked to be short. I should have time to make a series of soundings and reach the camp at the eastern shore before nightfall. A signal fire was to be kept burning in the camp if we were delayed.

  We started off. The depth was one hundred and sixty feet. A little later the sounding-lead of the line, two hundred and thirteen feet long, did not touch bottom.

  A deathly silence surrounded us, broken only by the splash of the oats and the ripples around the stern.The smooth mirror-like sheet was cut by the boat. We were gliding along in a landscape of dreams. It was perplexingly difficult to determine where the fiery-red mountains ended and the reflection began. The mirrored image of the heavens at nadir was just as exquisitely blue as in zenith. One became dizzy and had the sensation of soaring through crystal-clear space within a ring of glowing volcanoes. Finally we reached the desolate shore. It was late in the afternoon. We again put out and steered toward the east. An hour passed, Rehim Ali looked uneasy. Upon my question about the reason, he answered: “Storm.”

  I turned around. The horizon in the west darkened and yellowish-gray dust clouds swept over the mountains. A roar was heard in the distance. The lake was still as smooth as glass. But the heralds of the storm were over us.

  “Hoist the mast and sail.” The boat was rigged in a moment. I grasped the sheet and the tiller. At the first gust of wind the sail filled and our light craft shot like a frightened duck over waves that soon grew to billows. Swiftly as an arrow we glided by the flat sandy points that jutted out from the shore. A flock of wild geese sat on one of the points amazed at the big bird that used only one motionless wing.

  The next point extended far out into the lake, encircled by seething breakers. If we failed to clear it, we would be shipwrecked, for the oiled canvas was stretched like a drumhead over the wooden braces and would be rent in colliding with the bottom in this mad spee
d. The storm raged in all its fury. The mast was bent like a bow. Foam-crested waves raced by us and the water in our wake seethed in millions of boiling bubbles.

  The atmosphere had cleared. The sinking sun resembled a ball of glittering gold. Scarlet skies were driving eastward. As if illuminated from within, the mountains glowed like rubies. The storm atomized the foam on the waves and scarlet plumes floated like flying veils over the lake. Shadows were lengthened, only the highest peaks still being gilded by the setting sun.

  Over the fore-top the white breakers were seen around a new point. We must veer to starboard and land alee to await dawn. But the maneuver was impossible. The sea was too high and the wind too strong. In a few seconds the booming around the point was inaudible, for we were being driven out on endless wastes of water, over which the wings of night were spread.

  The moon rose over the mountains to give a silvery touch to the foamy wreaths on the crests of the waves, which were chasing one another like threatening specters. We were flying directly, east. The life belts were ready, for if the boat were filled it would immediately be drawn down by the center board.

  All my strength was needed to prevent the boat from steering against the wind. I looked in vain for the beacon fire. The moon set. The darkness was impenetrable, the stars alone twinkled. It was killing cold. The spray from the crests of the waves turned into an armor of ice on our garments. The whole night was ahead of us; in the east an unknown shore, where we might be hurled against perpendicular rocks and crushed in the darkness and breakers.

  A dull roar was heard over the foretop. It was from the breakers on the beach. We were hurled ashore by the roll and suction of the waves. Everything was saved. We were soaking wet. It was –16°c. We tilted the boat against an oar and had shelter. We kindled a small fire with difficulty. My feet had become numb and Rehim Ali rubbed them.