hunger overcame our natural sporting instincts, we
dragged a pool with a half-inch mesh net, with the
result that over 10 lb. weight of fish were handed
over to the cook.
On the following day we reached Phobrang, the
last civilised spot we should see for months. It
consists of about eight huts, lying in a sheltered nullah
to the north-east of the Pangong Lake, at an altitude
of nearly 14,500 feet. It is inhabited all the year
round, but the people must experience the most bitter
cold, for the deep salt lake of Pangong, which lies
600 feet below the village, is frozen hard for three
or four months in the year.
A strong stream, rising in the mountains close by,
flows through the flat, grassy lands in front of the
village and empties itself into the Pangong Lake. This
river was alive with fine snow-trout, so Hargreaves
and I at once set to work to catch them. It was an
ideal trout-stream—the swift water broken into eddies
and pools by sharp-angled rocks, and the sight of the
game, hard-fighting fish made us long for a light ten-
foot rod. The net proved too short to be of use, so
we proceeded to poach, in spite of the bitter cold, in the
regular native fashion. Wading down the river, the
fish were frightened into taking refuge under the overhanging
and broken banks, where they lay in dense
masses with their noses close to the shore. In this
position it was an easy matter to grasp them gently
round the gills and cast them high and dry on
the bank. I am sorry to have to record that by
this unsportsmanlike trick we captured in the course
of the afternoon 250 trout, averaging 1 lb. in weight,
the largest turning the scale at 2 lbs. From one hole
alone, about six feet by three, the cook and I drew
out 150 fish. These were at once cleaned, sun-dried,
and then strung on ropes, thus making a welcome
addition to our larder for many a day afterwards.
We had been told that we should find everything
ready at Phobrang, and baggage animals collected ; but
we were again doomed to disappointment, for not a
single beast of burden was to be seen. The people
seemed listless and sulky, and declared that there
were no animals in the district at all. The winter
had certainly been a severe one, but even that would
not account for the total disappearance of the large
herds of yak, ponies and donkeys which I had seen
grazing on the low-lying flats in the previous year.
We were quite unable to account for this state of
things and called upon Khalik for an explanation; he
at once declared that the natives had bribed the
khardar not to compel them to go with us. This,
however, only increased the mystery, as these same
people had been willing enough to go last year, and had
appeared to be well satisfied; moreover, we required
them this time for only thirteen marches, and# were
offering baksheesh in addition to their pay. It was
not until four months later that we discovered that it
was Khalik himself who was at the root of the trouble.
He had so intimidated the unfortunate villagers that
they had handed over to him money, sheep, wool and
clothes; he had also told them that we' were going
to China and that if they went with us, they would
never return—there was, therefore, some reason for
their reluctance, though we were at a loss to account
for -it at the time.
A long conversation with the khardar and the
lumbadars in the evening resulted in a promise that
a search should be made the following morning for the
necessary animals, and if found they should accompany
us on our journey.