The
pass which we should have had to tackle, had we carried out our original
intention of going into Astor for markhor and ibex, is nearly 12,000 feet
above sea level, and is still securely and implacably closed to all but
the hardiest sportsmen. A short cut, which we took up the hill face, led
us through a rough scrub of berberis and wild daphne (the former just
showing green and the latter in flower) until, somewhat scant of breath,
we regained the road, and followed it to the left up a gorge. As the
mountains closed in on either side, we began to look out for the camp,
which we knew was not far up the nullah. Presently, turning off the Gilgit
road, along a track to the left, we came upon Walter--bearded like the
pard--a pard which had left off shaving for about a week. He was pensively
sitting on a big sun-warmed boulder, beguiling the time while awaiting us
by contemplating the antics of a large family of monkeys, which he pointed
out to Jane, to her great joy.
Tender inquiries as to camp and consequent lunch revealed the sad fact
that some miles of exceedingly rough path yet lay betwixt us and the haven
where we would be.
So we pricked forward, along a sort of cattle track, across dirty
snow-filled little gullies, and over rock-strewn slopes, until the white
gleam of Walter's tent showed clear on its perch atop of a flat-roofed
native hut.
Crossing the stream which tumbled down the valley, by a somewhat "wobbly"
bridge, and picking our way through the mixen which forms the approach to
every well-appointed hut, we arrived upon the roof which supported the
tent.
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