survive such cold. The mules and horses, being less resistant than the camels and the yaks, needed special care. We
had to cover them with large felt rugs which we tied underneath, and we wrapped their heads in camelhair. In other circumstances all these bizarre accoutrements would have excited our hilarity; but
we were too miserable to laugh. Despite all these precautions, the caravan’s animals were decimated by death.
The many frozen rivers that we had to cross were an additional source of hardship and disaster. Camels are so clumsy, their gait is so unsure, that we were obliged to make a track for them by
spreading sand or earth on the ice, or by breaking up the surface with our axes. Then we had to lead them carefully in single file to keep them on the right path: if they tripped or slipped,
disaster followed; they would crash heavily to the ground, and getting them up again would be a major task. They would have to be unloaded, then dragged on their sides to the river bank; then
carpets would have to be spread on the ice; sometimes even that was useless; you could hit them or tug at them and they made no effort at all to get up. Then they had to be left to their fate, for
it was impossible to wait, in that terrible place, long enough for a camel to make up its silly mind to get on its feet again.
So many afflictions together eventually wore down the travellers into a state approaching despair. Now not only the animals were dying; men too succumbed to the cold, and were abandoned, still
alive, by the wayside. One day when the exhausted state of our animals had forced us to slow down and we had fallen slightly behind the company, we saw a traveller sitting alone beside the way on a
boulder; his head was bent, his arms were tight against his side and he was as motionless as a statue; we called him several times, but he made no reply; there was no indication that he had even
heard us. “What madness,” we said to each other, “to stop in such weather. He will certainly die of cold.” We called again, but still no movement. We dismounted and went
over to him. We then recognised him: a young Tartar lama who had often been to visit us in our tent. His face was waxen, and his half-open eyes were glazed. Icicles hung from his nose and the
corners of his mouth. There was no response when we spoke and we thought for a moment that he was dead. But then he opened his eyes and fixed them on us with a horrible expression of stupidity. He
was frozen stiff, and we realised that he had been abandoned by his companions. It seemed so dreadful to let a man die in this way without trying to save his life that without hesitation we took
him with us. We dragged him off that awful stone on which he had been put and hoisted him on to Samdadchiemba’s little mule. We wrapped him in a blanket and so led him to the camp. As soon as
the tent was up, we went to visit the poor young man’s companions. When they learned what we had done they prostrated themselves in gratitude; they praised our kindness, but said that all our
trouble would be in vain, for there was no saving him. “He is frozen,” they said, “and the cold will soon reach his heart!” We could not share their hopelessness. We
returned to our tent, accompanied by one of them, to see if the patient showed any sign of recovery, but when we arrived he was dead.
More than forty members of the caravan were left in the desert, still alive, and it was quite impossible to do anything for them. The sick were mounted on camel or horseback whilst there was
still hope; but when they could no longer eat, speak, nor keep themselves in the saddle, they were left by the wayside. How could one stop and tend them in an uninhabited waste, with the menace of
wild beasts, brigands and above all lack of food? It was heartrending to see these dying men abandoned by the way; as a final gesture, a wooden bowl and a little bag of flour were left beside each
one; then the caravan
had to cover them with large felt rugs which we tied underneath, and we wrapped their heads in camelhair. In other circumstances all these bizarre accoutrements would have excited our hilarity; but
we were too miserable to laugh. Despite all these precautions, the caravan’s animals were decimated by death.
The many frozen rivers that we had to cross were an additional source of hardship and disaster. Camels are so clumsy, their gait is so unsure, that we were obliged to make a track for them by
spreading sand or earth on the ice, or by breaking up the surface with our axes. Then we had to lead them carefully in single file to keep them on the right path: if they tripped or slipped,
disaster followed; they would crash heavily to the ground, and getting them up again would be a major task. They would have to be unloaded, then dragged on their sides to the river bank; then
carpets would have to be spread on the ice; sometimes even that was useless; you could hit them or tug at them and they made no effort at all to get up. Then they had to be left to their fate, for
it was impossible to wait, in that terrible place, long enough for a camel to make up its silly mind to get on its feet again.
So many afflictions together eventually wore down the travellers into a state approaching despair. Now not only the animals were dying; men too succumbed to the cold, and were abandoned, still
alive, by the wayside. One day when the exhausted state of our animals had forced us to slow down and we had fallen slightly behind the company, we saw a traveller sitting alone beside the way on a
boulder; his head was bent, his arms were tight against his side and he was as motionless as a statue; we called him several times, but he made no reply; there was no indication that he had even
heard us. “What madness,” we said to each other, “to stop in such weather. He will certainly die of cold.” We called again, but still no movement. We dismounted and went
over to him. We then recognised him: a young Tartar lama who had often been to visit us in our tent. His face was waxen, and his half-open eyes were glazed. Icicles hung from his nose and the
corners of his mouth. There was no response when we spoke and we thought for a moment that he was dead. But then he opened his eyes and fixed them on us with a horrible expression of stupidity. He
was frozen stiff, and we realised that he had been abandoned by his companions. It seemed so dreadful to let a man die in this way without trying to save his life that without hesitation we took
him with us. We dragged him off that awful stone on which he had been put and hoisted him on to Samdadchiemba’s little mule. We wrapped him in a blanket and so led him to the camp. As soon as
the tent was up, we went to visit the poor young man’s companions. When they learned what we had done they prostrated themselves in gratitude; they praised our kindness, but said that all our
trouble would be in vain, for there was no saving him. “He is frozen,” they said, “and the cold will soon reach his heart!” We could not share their hopelessness. We
returned to our tent, accompanied by one of them, to see if the patient showed any sign of recovery, but when we arrived he was dead.
More than forty members of the caravan were left in the desert, still alive, and it was quite impossible to do anything for them. The sick were mounted on camel or horseback whilst there was
still hope; but when they could no longer eat, speak, nor keep themselves in the saddle, they were left by the wayside. How could one stop and tend them in an uninhabited waste, with the menace of
wild beasts, brigands and above all lack of food? It was heartrending to see these dying men abandoned by the way; as a final gesture, a wooden bowl and a little bag of flour were left beside each
one; then the caravan
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