The HJ/54/13 TRACES OF SILK JOURNEY TO THE KARAKORAM PASS (original) (raw)
AS I OPENED THE NOW defunct zip on my tent fly, there was Tashi grinning over a steaming cup of tea and singing pleasantly off-key — He saved his best arias for loading the ponies. His morning ritual usually continued with a swift kick to one of the ponies which regularly entangled itself in the guy ropes, threatening to drag me off to some high rocky pasture. The previous afternoon I’d watched our muleteers, Chhewang and Tashi making butter rotis and stew in their weather-beaten parachute tent on a stony bluff above the Shyok river in the Eastern Karakoram and I knew we were in safe, if not artistic, culinary hands.
Those hardy souls of the trade caravans in whose footsteps and hoof prints we were following would have understood this need as they gathered in the markets of Leh and Kashgar to prepare for the perilous journeys which lay ahead across the Himalaya.
For centuries merchants, travellers and pilgrims plied the traditional silk routes between Ladakh and Central Asia. They were the lifeblood of trade between the North Indian plains and the vast, high altitude plateau of Western Tibet and Chinese Turkestan. In the wake of China’s Communist Revolution in 1949, the border was sealed, severing a vital and lucrative trade. In the 19th century these trails were seen by colonialists as conduits for empire building. Only recently have they been revived for serious mountain exploration.
In her quest to further a Ph.D. study on the history of trade in the Western Himalaya, Amita Satyal managed to secure permits for our expedition to enter the restricted region of the upper Nubra and Shyok valleys with the aim of retracing one of the principal summer silk routes from Leh to the Karakoram Pass on the border with China.
Our small ‘caravan’ of eight horses assembled in Sasoma (3000 m) after the long and bumpy truck ride from Leh, across the Khardung la (5362 m), where we were joined by Phunchok and Thupstan, our two Ladakhi scouts. On the eve of our departure, the setting sun illuminated the initial trail rising steeply through smooth granite slabs and pinnacles above the Tulumputi river and I hoped that Longstaff’s experience of continuous August rain of 1909 would not plague our journey.
Colour Plates 7 to 10
7. Camp above Chip Chap river, upper Shyok valley.
Article 13 (Paul Harris)
8. Caravan in the Rongo river gorge, upper Shyok valley.
Article 13 (Paul Harris)
9. Spring water, Kalon Chumik, upper Shyok valley.
10. Daulat Beg Oldi on Chip Chap river, upper Shyok valley.
Article 13 (Paul Harris)
11. On Karakoram Pass, looking southwest.
12. Raksha Urai I from north, view from base camp.
Note 7 (Guenter Mussning)
It took three hours to reach the Tulumputi la and the warmth of the morning sun. Here the old trail descends into the river gorge, but has become too dangerous to follow due to the blasting of a new army road 300 m above. We duly joined the new road for two kms rejoining the trail near the river to discover ancient ‘petroglyphs’ carved into a water-eroded rock alcove. Clearly marked hunting scenes of men on horseback with bow and arrows chasing Ibex made it difficult to date the carvings. Yet other examples in Ladakh have been dated as far back as 1200 A.D.
Climbing out of the gorge through steeply eroded conglomerate cliff faces we emerged onto the level pastures of Jhingmoche (4200 m) by early afternoon where we made our first camp among giant granite boulders. Small, clear, glacial streams running through the camp had dried up by early evening as Tashi and Chhewang prepared rice and dal, and Amita concocted her ‘100 km tea’.
The following morning, we balanced precariously across ice-covered boulders in the Tulumputi river continuing north above the widening valley. Wild rose bushes emerged from the base of huge granite slabs. To the east, 500 m rock towers continued a parade of fine rock architecture. To the north and west lay the Mamostong Kangri peaks and South Terong range respectively as we continued alongside the river basin for another five kms on a northeasterly rising traverse to a cluster of ‘Theyars’ (stone cairns) and the meadows of Skyangpoche.
Skyangpoche (4600 m) means ‘Place of the wild ass’ but we were met by an inquisitive herd of Dzo on their way down the valley. Huge terminal moraines from the Mamostong glacier across the river dwarfed our sheltered camp.
On 11 August, we left Skyangpoche for the gradual ascent to Tutyailak and now beginning to feel the effects of the rapid rise in altitude. To the north, retreating glaciers and their accompanying moraines indicated the first signs of the Saser Kangri massif stretching away to the southeast.
Tut-yailak (4750 m) is also known as Bongro’chan or ‘Place littered with ass bones.' It was common for these sites to have two names given by traders from both Central Asia and Ladakh. As a camp site it was constricted and rocky, but retains its usefulness from being less than 3 km from the Saser la. Glacial snouts trapped small lakes adjacent to the camp resulted from the convergence of several glaciers from the northern end of the Saser Kangri range, a section of which had to be crossed in ascending to the pass.
By the evening of the 11th, Amita had developed symptoms of high altitude sickness which were causing concern. Her condition had not improved by the following morning, so the decision was made to return to Skyangpoche. In the morning her condition had not improved enough to consider a return to Tut-yailak and make an attempt to cross the Saser la.
Additional rest days at Skyangpoche were considered, but using up food and fuel supplies at this stage meant a risk of running short further along the route. There was no guarantee that a few rest days would be enough time to acclimatise and expediting a rescue from the north side of the Saser la would be a serious proposition. Very reluctantly, Amita decided that if the expedition was to continue, she must go down still further. Naturally this was a great disappointment for all concerned. She returned to Sasoma with Thupstan, one of the Ladakhi scouts and the expedition returned the same day to Tut-yailak.
By nightfall a keen westerly wind brought snow, depositing nearly 30 cm by dawn making the initial crossing of Saser la’s moraines cold and slippery. It took three hours to reach the crest of the pass (5395 m); the final 500 m traversed another glacial snout and sharp penitents. Judging from the scattering of bones and skulls, it was clear that this broad exposed saddle had proved to be a serious obstacle for the trade caravans.
Sonam Wangyal, an old trader we met in Panamik in the Nubra valley usually went as far as the Shyok river but remembered numerous crossings of the Saser la and being constantly worried about losing the horses in his charge.
Saser La to Depsang La
The initial descent from the pass followed the edge of the glacier, but we were soon forced onto unstable screes which made for a long, tiring descent to Saser Brangsa (4625 m), above the Shyok river valley. Directly across the river lay the narrow black entrance to the Rongo river gorge — our intended route, but the many swift channels in the river turned us upstream another three kms to Garari.
We camped on a raised pebble beach above the Shyok river and the following morning crossed in four waves held aloft by the suspension basket. At the head of the valley, cathedrals and pulpits of red rock laced with thin ice falls forced the Shyok (lit. `river of death') to turn almost at right angles into a gorge of churning muddy eddies. In 1926, a devastating flood overtook the Shyok valley when a natural dam caused by the advancing Chong Kumdan glacier near the source of the Shyok gave way. The resulting tidal wave obliterated all in its path as far as Skardu in Baltistan.
Returning along the north bank, we entered the Rongo river gorge. Yarkandi traders had named the gorge, ‘stream of 80 fords’. We had to make some 30 crossings of the river channels between high, black shale and carboniferous rock walls before reaching a narrow waterfall and a steep trail leading eastward toward the Chhongtash plateau. (There is an alternative trail high above the gorge to the west which was, and still is used during high water).
The trail gained little height over the next ten kms as we turned into a broader valley then gradually descending to Chhongtash (Place of the Stone). To the west, the peak Mamostong reared above brown and red cliffs which enclose the valley. To the East, higher peaks were visible toward the border with China. Maps show that a lake had existed near Chhongtash, but we found no trace of it except a few salt deposits.1
Footnote
- The lake was certainly there in 1989. We enjoyed a lovely boat-ride on its waters — ed.
An army camp has now replaced what used to be a staging post for traders. Those from Leh would drop their loads here or two km further at Murgo (4450 m) — a junction of the winter and summer routes, and return over the Saser la. Central Asians would load up their fine Kalmukia horses and head north for the Karakoram Pass continuing on to Yarkand and Kashgar.
We camped at Chhongtash on Indian Independence Day and celebrated with Phunchok’s finest butter rotis and kheer. Continuing eastward, led into the upper Shyok where Amita had found evidence of two trails along the winter route in 1993; In the first decade of this century, British army garrisons had attempted to carve out a summer route on the precarious slopes to complement the existing winter route, but it proved to be impractical.
From Murgo we branched north into the Burtse Rongo nala — a narrow canyon whose entrance is capped by a `folded' plateau named Kalon Chumik. Springs bubble from its western edge sending small rivulets of clear water through fluorescent green algae across the dry, flaky ground. Several old Nubra traders confirmed Kalon Chumik as being one of the most important caravan sites and ideal for extended stays.
During the next few days, the reasons for this became apparent. The few grazing pastures disappeared and Murgo’s ‘Gateway to Hell’ led to a sparse, barren, red landscape. The trail veered eastward again crossing scree slopes of chunky red rock, occasionally dropping to crystal waters in the canyon where Turkman pigeons disappeared into wall caves. Faint traces of the original trail could be seen high on the southern cliffs while we continued to the end of the gorge, choked with massive conglomerate boulders.
Beyond the boulder garden were two days of flat, endless valleys past the ruined shelters of Burtse Yongma, Burtse Gongma and finally ending at a small camp at Qizil Langar (4800 m). The streams through these valleys usually ran clear in the morning, slowly turning red during the day from silt brought down by melt water; High, red walls, inaccessible caves and a riot of colours in the stream pebbles made for a surreal, mesmerising landscape.
Frequently, Phunchok would linger on the trail and describe great battles fought by mythical gods, pointing out individual rocks high on the crags where their victims had been turned into massive stone monoliths. Phunchok’s own aura revolved around his rigid Koflach boots which he wore continuously — a feat I believed was deserving of several medals and fine callouses !
On 18 August, we climbed out of another red canyon, ascending to the Depsang la (5420 m). Once completely submerged, this vast brown plain now stretched several hundred sq. kilometres around us to the summits of the Rimo peaks to the west and the Chinese border to the east, devoid of any signs of life. Yet evidence of the caravans was everywhere. Bleached camel bones and horse skulls strewn along the trail left me with a slight sense of uneasiness. It took its toll on human life as well. It is said that no horseman left Yarkand for Leh without including a shroud among his personal effects.
Journeying to Kashgar in 1889, Francis Younghusband had described the Depsang Plains -as bare ‘as a gravel walk to a suburban villa.’
Another great adventurer, Sven Hedin venturing along the route in the winter of 1907 bore witness to the `Bone Trail'. Some horses lay `with outstretched legs, resembling an overturned gymnasium horse ..........other had fallen in a curious cramped position, but most of them lay as though death had surprised them when they were composing themselves to rest after violent exertion .....If any road in the world deserves the name ‘Via Dolorosa,’ it is the caravan road over the Karakoram Pass. Like an enormous Bridge of Sighs.
Death and suffering became an accepted part of trading along these routes; goods lying along side dead animals and men were rarely picked up; frostbitten travellers were regularly abandoned and those who became desperately short of food resorted to boiling, roasting and chewing leather from their boots. A surprising element of black humour could be found in prose and poems of the day:
Above the yawning chasm
He tried to pass a yak
But it took a sneezing spasm
And blew him off the track
To the Karakoram Pass
A full moon illuminated the encampment of Daulat Beg Oldi (4990 m) perched on a bluff above the Chip Chap river. As the ruler of Kashgar, Daulat Beg Oldi had made several attempts to invade Tibet through Ladakh, but had died and was buried here in 1532.
Totems of death continued to haunt me as we approached the Karakoram Pass. Lightening fractures from an earthquake in 1995 opened the hard, dry earth; Headwinds increased as the valley narrowed, raising dust devils around old polus (shelters). As the wind gusted, tuneless notes emanated from holes in the increasing number of scattered, skeletal remains. As we approached Chiajozilqa — our final camp before the pass, I was brought out of my reverie by the sight of four bharal deer racing across the barren slopes on the far side of the stream.
Chiajozilqa featured prominently in the memory of Haji Benares, an old Muslim trader I had met in Leh. His father had entertained many Yarkandi friends here as a prelude to their onward journey. He also gave the impression that conditions were harsh even in comparison to his other travels across the Changthang plateau to Lhasa.
The wind died sharply at dawn as we set out for the pass on 20 August. I winced at Phunchok’s self-assured strides in Koflachs across the granite-hard ground. It took two hours to reach the pass. A final 200 m scramble up a broad steep gully led to a black gravel saddle and a relatively undistinguished view into China.
The pass (5575 m) was marked by a simple ‘Obo’ of rounded stones and horse skulls hanging on wooden staves. Mutup, our liaison officer, Phunchok and I wove a string of prayer flags into this ominous ‘sculpture’ hoping to appease some of the demons and spirits from the trail. Mutup echoed his Buddhist chant, ‘Ki Ki So So Larghialo !
Frequent journeys across the Karakoram Pass and similar offerings had proved insufficient protection for one Scottish trader named Andrew Dalgliesh. Granted permission by the Chinese to stay and trade in Turkestan in 1883, he had married into a Yarkandi family. He was foremost an agent of the Central Asian Trading Company but also played his part in the ‘Great Game’ player gathering information on political and commercial manoeuvering in the region. In 1888 on one of his expeditions, he was attacked and killed by a Kakkar Pathan (Afghan) attached to another caravan they had met near the Pass — perhaps an unnecessary fate given the punishment of making the journey itself.
The only sign of the Chinese presence at the pass was a tin of peaches which we duly consumed leaving boiled sweets and chocolate bars in return. It was another five or six days beyond the Pass before reaching the first permanent Chinese settlement on the route to Kashgar.
We had hoped to return to the Saser la by turning east from Daulat Beg Oldi and following the Chip Chap river and Shyok river downstream, but in early August the river had washed out much of the trail.
Retracing our steps across the Depsang la with balls of Tsampa, dried apricots, and heavy blue skies, it was clear that the caravans had offered a hard way of life with no guarantee of riches. At the height of the trade route in the mid 19th Century, it is estimated that approximately 10,000 horses passed this way carrying - silk, tea, precious stones and pashmina wool from Sinkiang to the Punjab and Srinagar, and cotton piece goods, leather, skins, spices and most lucratively, opium from the Kangra Hills.
Turquoise stones now litter the bazaars of Leh, Srinagar and Calcutta. We watched some of them being sewn into the unique ‘Perak’ headresses in the Nubra Valley, each stone appearing to relate its own perilous journey across the Himalaya.
The cloud base lowered and snow fell for only the second time as we recrossed the Saser la. Rain persisted on the descent and a heavy mist veiled the rock pinnacles and buttresses below Jhingmoche. I imagined that this turn in the weather would have suited another traveller on this route in August 1869.
The ‘Mirza’, a Muslim pundit (native explorer) from Peshawar had barely escaped from Kashgar on suspicion of spying and had joined a `kafila' of mostly pilgrims on their way to Mecca. Employed by the Survey of India, he was returning to Dehra Dun to deliver records of his extraordinary two year journey across the Hindu Kush and Pamirs. We had completed a mere fraction of his journey, but the spirit of these arduous trails is still very much alive.
SUMMARY
A journey to the historic Karakoram Pass (5569 m) in August 1997.