Jelep la, and away to the south-west Ling-tu, on the
crest of the 6,000 feet precipice up which the road is
zigzagged, can be seen in the clear air. The Jelep Pass
itself is hidden by the bulk of the range, though only
three miles away. A little lake lies frozen in the stony
bowl up the sides of which we have just come. Far
below its edge falls another mighty hollow, and yet we
do not see a blade or leaf. Only beyond and below,
peering through one of the little crevasses in the ringed
hills, there is the dark mantle of the Sikkim woods. One
turns one’s back upon it for the last time, and gains the
summit, where three heaps of stones, piled b y pious
travellers, support a flagged bush, the usual ornament of
every pass in the country. One takes another step, and
one is in the Chumbi Valley.
The first sight of Tibet, thus seen, is not without a
sombre interest of its own. It is at once obvious that
the general level of the country is very much higher than
that of Sikkim. The mass of Chumolhari fills in the
end of the valley. Glittering in the bitter air, it rises
thirty-five miles away, though the richer aquamarine of
its crevasses can be seen from where we stand. The
ridges and ranges swarm between, intersected with the
courses of rivers invisible. All is bare and dull, but a
thousand feet below us the dripping pines send their
single spies up towards the barren and unlovely path.
There is something fascinating about the mere sight
of a long, slow line of burdened coolies, in spite of the
miserable cold that almost prevents your watching
anything. Up there, high above the most venturesome
pines, where only the dwarf rhododendron, two
or three inches high, survives here and there beneath
the shelter of a friendly rock just piercing the twoinch
snow that fell last night, the laden team crawls
slowly to the top. The green and golden lichen spreads
over the dull and bitter crags of gneiss, and under foot
the tense stiff bents of frozen grass prick themselves
scantily through the dirty ice. Up hither the coolies
thrust their way painfully, and the thick, duffle-clad
The first sight of Tibet from the crest of the Natu la. Chumolhari (24,000 ft.) in the
distance.
figures in a long line zigzag up the side of the pass,
swaying from side to side under their burdens as they
gain a bare foothold on the blunt rocks ; the sky is
overcast and this vivid cold searches through everything,
in spite of the thick winter clothing which has been
liberally supplied. Butterflies, birds and beasts are alike
fled. Only a lammergeier floats still in the air some