north of Nepal, not less than 120 miles distant, and,
though heavily snowed, were below the horizon of
Donkia pass.
Cholamoo lake lay in a broad, scantily grassed,
sandy and stony valley; snow-beds, rocks, and glaciers
dipped abruptly towards its head, and on its west bank
a lofty brick-red spur sloped upwards from it, conspicuously
cut into terraces for several hundred feet
above its waters.
Donkia rises to the eastward of the pass, but its top
is not visible. I ascended over loose rocks to between
19,000 and 20,000 feet, and reached vast masses of
blue ribboned ice, capping the ridges, but obtained
no further prospect. To the west, the beetling
summit of Kinehinjhow rises at two miles’ distance,
3000 to 4000 feet above the pass. A little south of it,
and north of Chango-Khang, the view extends through
a gap in the Sebolah range, across the valley of the
Lachen, to Kinchinjunga, distant forty-two miles.
The monarch of mountains looked quite small and
low from this point, and it was difficult to believe it
was 10,000 feet more lofty than my position. I repeatedly
looked from it to the high Tibetan mountains
in the extreme north-west distance, and was more than
ever struck with the apparently immense distance, and
consequent altitude of the la tte r ; I put, however, no
reliance on such estimates.
To the south the eye wandered down the valley of
the Lachoong to the mountains of the Chola range,
which appear so lofty from Dorjiling, but from here
are sunk far below the horizon; on comparing these
with the northern landscape, the wonderful difference
between their respective snow-levels, amounting to
fully 5000 feet, was very apparent. South-east the
stupendous snowy amphitheatre formed by the precipitous
flank of Donkia was a magnificent spectacle.
This wonderful view forcibly impressed me with the
fact, that all eye-estimates in mountainous countries
are utterly fallacious, if not corrected by study and
experience. I had been given to understand that from
Donkia pass the whole country of Tibet sloped away in
descending steppes to the Yaru river, and was more or
less of a plain ; and could I have trusted my eyes only,
I should have confirmed this assertion so far as the
slope was concerned. When, however, the levelled
theodolite was directed to the distance, the reverse was
found to be the case. Unsnowed and apparently low
mountains touched the horizon line of the telescope ;
which proves that, if only 37 miles off, they must, from
the dip of the horizon, be at least 1000 feet higher
than the observer’s position. The same infallible
guide cuts off mountain-tops and deeply snowed ridges,
winch to the unaided eye appear far lower than the
point from which they are viewed ; but which, from the
quantity of snow on them, must be several thousand
feet higher, and, from the angle they subtend in the
instrument, must be at an immense distance. The
want of refraction to lift the horizon, the astonishing
precision of thè outlines, and the brilliancy of the
images of mountains reduced by distance to mere
specks, are all circumstances tending to depress them
to appearance. The absence of trees, houses, and