Up the River

The first day we had an easy time, following up the great flats by the river side, which had already been twice burned, so that there was no dense undergrowth to check us, though the ground was often rough, and we had to go a good deal upon the riverbed. Towards nightfall we had made a matter of some five-and-twenty miles, and camped at the point where the river entered upon the gorge.

The first day was easy. We followed the broad flats beside the river, which had already been burned twice. So there was no dense undergrowth to slow us down. But the ground was often rough, and we had to travel along the riverbed for much of the way. By nightfall, we had covered about twenty-five miles. We camped at the point where the river entered the gorge.

The weather was delightfully warm, considering that the valley in which we were encamped must have been at least two thousand feet above the level of the sea. The river-bed was here about a mile and a half broad and entirely covered with shingle over which the river ran in many winding channels, looking, when seen from above, like a tangled skein of ribbon, and glistening in the sun. We knew that it was liable to very sudden and heavy freshets; but even had we not known it, we could have seen it by the snags of trees, which must have been carried long distances, and by the mass of vegetable and mineral débris which was banked against their lower side, showing that at times the whole river-bed must be covered with a roaring torrent many feet in depth and of ungovernable fury. At present the river was low, there being but five or six streams, too deep and rapid for even a strong man to ford on foot, but to be crossed safely on horseback. On either side of it there were still a few acres of flat, which grew wider and wider down the river, till they became the large plains on which we looked from my master’s hut. Behind us rose the lowest spurs of the second range, leading abruptly to the range itself; and at a distance of half a mile began the gorge, where the river narrowed and became boisterous and terrible. The beauty of the scene cannot be conveyed in language. The one side of the valley was blue with evening shadow, through which loomed forest and precipice, hillside and mountain top; and the other was still brilliant with the sunset gold. The wide and wasteful river with its ceaseless rushing—the beautiful water-birds too, which abounded upon the islets and were so tame that we could come close up to them—the ineffable purity of the air—the solemn peacefulness of the untrodden region—could there be a more delightful and exhilarating combination?

The weather was delightfully warm, considering that the valley where we camped must have been at least two thousand feet above sea level. The riverbed was about a mile and a half wide here and completely covered with gravel. The river ran over it in many winding channels. Seen from above, they looked like a tangled bundle of ribbon, glistening in the sun. We knew the river was prone to sudden, heavy floods. But even if we had not known, we could have seen the evidence. Tree snags lay there, carried from far away, with piles of plant and mineral debris banked against their downstream sides. These showed that, at times, a roaring torrent must cover the whole riverbed. It must be many feet deep and impossible to control. The river was low now, with only five or six streams. They were too deep and fast for even a strong man to cross on foot, but could be crossed safely on horseback. On either side of the river, there were still a few acres of flat land. These grew wider farther downstream, until they became the great plains we could see from my master’s hut. Behind us rose the lowest foothills of the second range, climbing steeply to the range itself. Half a mile away, the gorge began, where the river narrowed and became wild and terrifying. Words cannot convey the beauty of the scene. One side of the valley was blue with evening shadow. Forests, cliffs, hillsides, and mountain peaks loomed through it. The other side was still brilliant with the gold of sunset. The wide, sprawling river rushed on without pause. Beautiful water birds were plentiful on the small islands, and so tame that we could come close to them. The air was pure beyond words, and the untouched region was solemn and peaceful. Could there be a more delightful and exhilarating combination?

We set about making our camp, close to some large bush which came down from the mountains on to the flat, and tethered out our horses upon ground as free as we could find it from anything round which they might wind the rope and get themselves tied up. We dared not let them run loose, lest they might stray down the river home again. We then gathered wood and lit the fire. We filled a tin pannikin with water and set it against the hot ashes to boil. When the water boiled we threw in two or three large pinches of tea and let them brew.

We set up camp near a large patch of bush that stretched from the mountains onto the flat. We tethered our horses on the clearest ground we could find, away from anything they might wind their ropes around. We did not dare let them run loose, because they might wander down the river and back home. Then we gathered wood and lit a fire. We filled a tin cup with water and set it against the hot ashes to boil. When the water boiled, we added two or three large pinches of tea and let it brew.

We had caught half a dozen young ducks in the course of the day—an easy matter, for the old birds made such a fuss in attempting to decoy us away from them—pretending to be badly hurt as they say the plover does—that we could always find them by going about in the opposite direction to the old bird till we heard the young ones crying: then we ran them down, for they could not fly though they were nearly full grown. Chowbok plucked them a little and singed them a good deal. Then we cut them up and boiled them in another pannikin, and this completed our preparations.

We had caught half a dozen young ducks during the day. They were easy to catch because the adults made such a fuss trying to lure us away. They pretended to be badly hurt, as plovers are said to do. So we could always find the ducklings by going in the opposite direction until we heard them crying. Then we chased them down. They were nearly full grown, but they could not fly. Chowbok plucked them a little and singed them thoroughly. Then we cut them up and boiled them in another small pot. That completed our preparations.

When we had done supper it was quite dark. The silence and freshness of the night, the occasional sharp cry of the wood-hen, the ruddy glow of the fire, the subdued rushing of the river, the sombre forest, and the immediate foreground of our saddles packs and blankets, made a picture worthy of a Salvator Rosa or a Nicolas Poussin. I call it to mind and delight in it now, but I did not notice it at the time. We next to never know when we are well off: but this cuts two ways,—for if we did, we should perhaps know better when we are ill off also; and I have sometimes thought that there are as many ignorant of the one as of the other. He who wrote, “O fortunatos nimium sua si bona nôrint agricolas,” might have written quite as truly, “O infortunatos nimium sua si mala nôrint”; and there are few of us who are not protected from the keenest pain by our inability to see what it is that we have done, what we are suffering, and what we truly are. Let us be grateful to the mirror for revealing to us our appearance only.

By the time we finished supper, it was completely dark. The night was silent and fresh, broken by the occasional sharp cry of a wood-hen. The fire glowed red, and the river rushed quietly past the dark forest. Our saddles, packs, and blankets lay close by. Together they made a picture worthy of a Salvator Rosa or a Nicolas Poussin. I remember it with pleasure now, but I did not notice it at the time. We hardly ever know when we are well off. But that cuts both ways. If we did know, we might also know better when we were badly off. I have sometimes thought that as many people are unaware of the one as of the other. The writer who said, “O fortunatos nimium sua si bona nôrint agricolas,” might have said just as truly, “O infortunatos nimium sua si mala nôrint”. Few of us are not protected from the sharpest pain by our inability to see what we have done, what we are suffering, and what we truly are. Let us be grateful to the mirror for showing us only our appearance.

We found as soft a piece of ground as we could—though it was all stony—and having collected grass and so disposed of ourselves that we had a little hollow for our hip-bones, we strapped our blankets around us and went to sleep. Waking in the night I saw the stars overhead and the moonlight bright upon the mountains. The river was ever rushing; I heard one of our horses neigh to its companion, and was assured that they were still at hand; I had no care of mind or body, save that I had doubtless many difficulties to overcome; there came upon me a delicious sense of peace, a fulness of contentment which I do not believe can be felt by any but those who have spent days consecutively on horseback, or at any rate in the open air.

We found as soft a patch of ground as we could, though it was all stony. We gathered grass and settled ourselves with a little hollow for our hip bones. Then we strapped our blankets around us and went to sleep. When I woke in the night, I saw the stars overhead and the moonlight shining brightly on the mountains. The river was rushing all the while. I heard one of our horses neigh to its companion, which reassured me that they were still nearby. I had no worries of mind or body, though I doubtless had many difficulties to overcome. A delightful sense of peace came over me, a complete contentment. I do not believe anyone can feel it unless they have spent days in a row on horseback, or at least outdoors.

Next morning we found our last night’s tea-leaves frozen at the bottom of the pannikins, though it was not nearly the beginning of autumn; we breakfasted as we had supped, and were on our way by six o’clock. In half an hour we had entered the gorge, and turning round a corner we bade farewell to the last sight of my master’s country.

The next morning, we found that the previous night’s tea leaves had frozen at the bottom of our tin cups. Yet autumn was still some way off. We ate the same food for breakfast as we had for supper, and set out by six o’clock. Half an hour later, we entered the gorge. As we turned a corner, we said goodbye to the last view of my master’s country.

The gorge was narrow and precipitous; the river was now only a few yards wide, and roared and thundered against rocks of many tons in weight; the sound was deafening, for there was a great volume of water. We were two hours in making less than a mile, and that with danger, sometimes in the river and sometimes on the rock. There was that damp black smell of rocks covered with slimy vegetation, as near some huge waterfall where spray is ever rising. The air was clammy and cold. I cannot conceive how our horses managed to keep their footing, especially the one with the pack, and I dreaded the having to return almost as much as going forward. I suppose this lasted three miles, but it was well midday when the gorge got a little wider, and a small stream came into it from a tributary valley. Farther progress up the main river was impossible, for the cliffs descended like walls; so we went up the side stream, Chowbok seeming to think that here must be the pass of which reports existed among his people. We now incurred less of actual danger but more fatigue, and it was only after infinite trouble, owing to the rocks and tangled vegetation, that we got ourselves and our horses upon the saddle from which this small stream descended; by that time clouds had descended upon us, and it was raining heavily. Moreover, it was six o’clock and we were tired out, having made perhaps six miles in twelve hours.

The gorge was narrow, with steep sides. The river was now only a few yards wide, and it roared and thundered against rocks weighing many tons. The noise was deafening because so much water was rushing through. It took us two hours to travel less than a mile, and the journey was dangerous. Sometimes we were in the river, and sometimes on the rocks. There was the damp, dark smell of rocks covered in slimy plants, like the smell near a huge waterfall where spray constantly rises. The air was clammy and cold. I cannot imagine how our horses kept their footing, especially the one carrying the pack. I dreaded having to go back almost as much as going forward. I suppose the gorge continued like this for three miles. It was well past midday when it widened a little and a small stream joined it from a side valley. We could go no farther up the main river because the cliffs came down like walls. So we followed the side stream. Chowbok seemed to think that the pass his people spoke of must be here. We were now in less danger, but the journey was more tiring. Only with endless difficulty did we get ourselves and our horses past the rocks and tangled plants. At last we reached the saddle from which the small stream flowed. By then clouds had descended around us, and heavy rain was falling. It was also six o’clock, and we were exhausted. We had covered perhaps six miles in twelve hours.

On the saddle there was some coarse grass which was in full seed, and therefore very nourishing for the horses; also abundance of anise and sow-thistle, of which they are extravagantly fond, so we turned them loose and prepared to camp. Everything was soaking wet and we were half-perished with cold; indeed we were very uncomfortable. There was brushwood about, but we could get no fire till we had shaved off the wet outside of some dead branches and filled our pockets with the dry inside chips. Having done this we managed to start a fire, nor did we allow it to go out when we had once started it; we pitched the tent and by nine o’clock were comparatively warm and dry. Next morning it was fine; we broke camp, and after advancing a short distance we found that, by descending over ground less difficult than yesterday’s, we should come again upon the river-bed, which had opened out above the gorge; but it was plain at a glance that there was no available sheep country, nothing but a few flats covered with scrub on either side the river, and mountains which were perfectly worthless. But we could see the main range. There was no mistake about this. The glaciers were tumbling down the mountain sides like cataracts, and seemed actually to descend upon the river-bed; there could be no serious difficulty in reaching them by following up the river, which was wide and open; but it seemed rather an objectless thing to do, for the main range looked hopeless, and my curiosity about the nature of the country above the gorge was now quite satisfied; there was no money in it whatever, unless there should be minerals, of which I saw no more signs than lower down.

On the saddle there was coarse grass in full seed, which made it very nourishing for the horses. There was also plenty of anise and sow-thistle, which the horses loved. So we turned them loose and prepared to camp. Everything was soaking wet, and we were half dead from the cold. Indeed, we were very uncomfortable. There was brushwood around, but we could not start a fire until we had shaved the wet outer wood from some dead branches and filled our pockets with dry chips from inside. Once we had done this, we managed to start a fire and made sure it did not go out. We pitched the tent, and by nine o’clock we were comparatively warm and dry. The next morning was fine. We broke camp, and after going a short distance, we saw that we could descend to the riverbed again. The ground was less difficult than it had been the day before, and the riverbed had opened out above the gorge. But it was clear at a glance that there was no usable sheep country. There were only a few flats covered with scrub on either side of the river, and the mountains were completely worthless. But we could see the main range. There was no mistaking it. Glaciers tumbled down the mountainsides like waterfalls and seemed to reach the riverbed itself. The river was wide and open, so there could be no serious difficulty in following it upstream to the glaciers. But there seemed little point in doing so. The main range looked hopeless, and my curiosity about the country above the gorge was now completely satisfied. There was no money to be made there, unless there were minerals. But I saw no more signs of minerals than I had farther downstream.

However, I resolved that I would follow the river up, and not return until I was compelled to do so. I would go up every branch as far as I could, and wash well for gold. Chowbok liked seeing me do this, but it never came to anything, for we did not even find the colour. His dislike of the main range appeared to have worn off, and he made no objections to approaching it. I think he thought there was no danger of my trying to cross it, and he was not afraid of anything on this side; besides, we might find gold. But the fact was that he had made up his mind what to do if he saw me getting too near it.

However, I decided to follow the river upstream and not return until I had to. I would follow every branch as far as I could and pan carefully for gold. Chowbok liked watching me do this, but it never came to anything. We did not find even a trace of gold. His dislike of the main mountain range seemed to have faded, and he did not object to approaching it. I think he believed there was no danger of my trying to cross it. He was not afraid of anything on this side, and besides, we might find gold. But in fact, he had decided what to do if he saw me getting too close to the range.

We passed three weeks in exploring, and never did I find time go more quickly. The weather was fine, though the nights got very cold. We followed every stream but one, and always found it lead us to a glacier which was plainly impassable, at any rate without a larger party and ropes. One stream remained, which I should have followed up already, had not Chowbok said that he had risen early one morning while I was yet asleep, and after going up it for three or four miles, had seen that it was impossible to go farther. I had long ago discovered that he was a great liar, so I was bent on going up myself: in brief, I did so: so far from being impossible, it was quite easy travelling; and after five or six miles I saw a saddle at the end of it, which, though covered deep in snow, was not glaciered, and which did verily appear to be part of the main range itself. No words can express the intensity of my delight. My blood was all on fire with hope and elation; but on looking round for Chowbok, who was behind me, I saw to my surprise and anger that he had turned back, and was going down the valley as hard as he could. He had left me.

We spent three weeks exploring, and I had never known time to pass so quickly. The weather was fine, though the nights grew very cold. We followed every stream but one. Each led us to a glacier that was clearly impassable, at least without a larger party and ropes. I would have followed the remaining stream already, but Chowbok had told me he had explored it. He said he had risen early one morning while I was still asleep and gone three or four miles upstream. There, he had seen that it was impossible to go farther. I had long ago discovered that Chowbok was a great liar, so I was determined to go up the stream myself. In short, I did. Far from being impossible, the journey was quite easy. After five or six miles, I saw a mountain pass at the end of the valley. It was deep in snow but had no glacier, and it really did seem to be part of the main range itself. No words can express how delighted I was. My blood was on fire with hope and excitement. But when I looked around for Chowbok, who was behind me, I was surprised and angry to see him heading back. He was going down the valley as fast as he could. He had left me.