Two

Dák Bungalow. Scardu.
Thursday, August 22nd 1895. Baltistan.
On Friday morning, 16th, 5 ponies were brought round, and together with Neve’s old white pony, which was coming with us, were loaded up, and started off early. We have about 12 Coolie-loads of stuff with us, including (1) a small double fly tent, and a smaller tent for our cook and general factotum, Gulám Mahomed by name, a down-country man, of very mild appearance, (2) a holdall containing my bedding and clothes (3) Neve’s ditto, (4 & 5) large baskets of medicines, one for a missionary at Shigar, where we are going (6) Kilter (leather covered basket with books etc) (7, 8, 9) Kilters and bags of food stores and cooking utensils (10, 11, 12) camp beds, camera, oil, servants’ bedding, ice axes, tent poles etc etc.


It was a wet morning, so we waited till 12.30, and then made a start on ponies provided by Mr Mitchell.
The first six miles were up the Gurais Valley, very fertile, about a mile wide between very steep mountain slopes of green grass and very red-coloured rock. At the end of the valley, the road turned sharp north, still following up the left bank of the Kishanganga stream.. The entrance to this section of the Kishanganga Mullah is very fine. Magnificent rocks rising precipitously on either side to the height of 5000 feet.
In the next 20 miles the valley is bounded on the west side by hills with steep grassy slopes. On the east they are covered with pine forest, with now and then a cliff face rising several 100 feet from the river bed.
The road crossed the river several times. Every few miles, where the valley widened out a little, were villages and cultivated fields. After riding about 9 miles, we found our pack ponies unloaded by the road side, waiting for a sheep which the headman at Gurais had promised to provide, but failed to do so. There we sent back our 2 ponies, had some tiffin and walked on. We met many camels, besides trains of ponies on their way back from Gilghit, also mules and bullocks.
That night we stopped at a small Dák Bungalow (note by Stephen T-B: dak bungalows provide simple way-side accommodation for travellers - some more primitive than others) called Pishwari, and were glad we hadn’t to camp that night in the rain.
This bungalow is the best on the road, substantially built and boasting glass windows. It contained, like most others, 2 rooms with walls whitewashed and mud floors, fire places, and little bathrooms behind. We had a fire lighted, but the smoke apparently objected to going up the chimney, so the atmosphere became rather thick.
Gulám Mahomed, who is a very slow person, didn’t get our dinner served till 10 o’clock, after we had already given up hope. He did the cooking in the next room, in a dense atmosphere of smoke, while the 3 pony men sat round watching the proceedings.
Next morning, Saturday, we got away about 9 o’clock and marched six miles to Mini Merg (now Minimarg), where the valley widens out to about a mile. Here was a telegraph office, at which we called, and found the 3 clerks just about to be relieved and go down country, after spending the winter here. They had had a pretty poor time of it. The snow for 4 months was lying 8 feet deep, during which time they had to keep the line open. The next office on one side is 24 and on the other 56 miles away, so they hardly saw a soul all winter and got no fresh food. They were delighted to be getting away. We stopped there an hour or so, and at their invitation partook of breakfast: tea, ship’s biscuits - the hardest things I have ever eaten - with fish paste. They also presented us with a leg of mutton, which, failing our sheep, we were grateful for, as we only had 3 small chickens to last us 4 days.
From Mini Merg, the road turned up a side valley enclosed by granite mountains on either side, the green slopes being strewn with debris of rock.
Sir Martin Conway, in his book, described the scenery here as resembling Scotch scenery on a large scale.
A great granite wall blocks the valley at the end where the next rest house is situated at the foot of a high pass, the Burzil leading up to Gilghit. It is 16 miles from the last one and stands at 11300 feet above the sea, so it was cold at night.
The next morning, Sunday, 18th August, the mountains were all covered with clouds, but as the sun got up, the clouds began to melt away, one granite peak after another looming into sight, the tops just covered with fresh fallen snow.
From this point we left the Gilghit road and took a path to the right which zig zagged up the rough hill side for 1500 feet, and brought us into a bare stony valley without a vestige of a tree of any description. Passing the head of it, we descended gradually into a broad green vale called the Chota Deosai. Enclosed on the further, North side, by a range of bare brown hills. Our way led up a spur of these hills to another pass a little over 1400 feet, from which there was a fine view of the Chota Deosai and long vistas of mountains.
A keen cold wind was blowing there, so we didn’t wait long. Just beyond the summit of the pass we came upon a lovely blue lake about half a mile long. It was rather rough going here as the pass was strewn with large pebbles and boulders..
Beyond this range we were crossing lie the Deosai Plains, a tract of land about 30 miles across in all directions, and from 12 to 13 thousand feet above sea level. Part of it rolling moorland, and in other parts hills, more or less rocky ( a sort of Dartmoor). It is well watered by streams which flow along strips of green grass land, but away from the steams the country is generally bare of any vegetation and just covered with loose stones. There are a good many hardy sort of flowers about, and it is the home of marmots. They are about as big as large hares, and have splendid brown fur coats. You see them sitting on their hind legs at the mouth of their burrows, with their fore legs hanging straight down in front, and making a loud whistling noise. I got quite close to several by stalking. They scuttle down their holes at one’s approach, but quickly come out again when one is passed.
Well, this is the sort of country we had to track over for 2 or 3 days, and I shouldn’t care to live there for long. On the pass we met a party of Baltis, small ugly looking men, with round cloth caps and garments and elfin locks standing out on each side of their heads, and carrying enormous baskets full of dried apricots which they were taking down to the plains. They all stopped as we passed, resting themselves on short crossed-topped sticks, and saluted us with “Ju”.
At 12.30 we halted for breakfast, having kept ourselves going since starting with 2 Kola biscuits each and some dried apricots which we got from the Baltis.
After refreshing the inner man, we joined in a short morning service, the day being Sunday. It was very cold and hailing and later on we came in for a sharp snow storm. We marched about 18 miles that day, and camped that evening by a stream at a place called Chanda Kut, where was a collection of about half a dozen stone shelters which the Baltis use when crossing the Deosai. They merely consist of a little semi-circular wall built of large rounded stones, about 2 feet high, and facing the windy quarter. In these the Baltis sleep, sitting with their faces behind their knees. It was very cold at night, and I found the stream frozen over when I went to have a wash in the early morning. It was a lovely morning: a perfectly clear blue sky, and everything that could, gleaming and sparkling.

On a low place in the near hills there appeared what seemed to me at first to be an enormous lump of pure white marble. In reality it was the upper 10,000 feet of Mnt Nanga Parbat (26,000 feet) some 60 miles away.
This day we marched 17 miles over the plains, having to cross several streams. Two I crossed on Neve’s old pony, one on a pony man’s back and one I forded. As before, we had breakfast off to Kola biscuits about the size of a gingerbread nut, and halted for tiffin at 3 in the afternoon. Kola is wonderfully sustaining.

At one place there was a view of the whole plateau which seemed to be girt right round by rugged mountains, some of the peaks being covered with snow, but none, I think, more than 18,000 feet.
That night our camp was at another place of shelter, Ali Malek (“Ali Malek Mur” according to Neve’s account in his book) by name, where a good many Baltis were stopping for the night. Unlike the Kashmiri, though very poor, they are an honest and respectful lot.
Two official persons from Scardu were at this place, having come to meet a British officer who was behind us, and they had orders to assist us if they met us, so we got some milk and meat from them. (in Neve’s account, they were sent specifically to meet him and his party).
As there is no fuel of any kind on the Deosai, we had to bring all the fire wood we wanted with us from Burzil.