The little village of Wangat, perched upon a steep spur above the river,
was woefully deficient of anything like a good camping-ground. We finally
selected a small bare rice patch, which, though extremely "knubbly," had
the merits of being almost level, moderately remote from the village and
its smells, and quite close to a perfect spring.
Yesterday we achieved a really early start, leaving Wangat at 4.15, the
path being weirdly illuminated by extempore torches made of pine-wood
which the shikari had prepared. A moderately level march of some three
miles brought us to the ruined temples of Vernag and the beginning of our
work, for here the path, turning sharply to the left, led us inexorably up
the almost precipitous face of the mountain by means of short zigzags.
It was a stiff pull. The sun was now peering triumphantly over the hills
on the far side of the valley, and the path was (an extraordinary thing in
Kashmir) excessively dusty. Up and on we panted, Jane partly supported by
having the bight of the shikari's puggaree round her waist while he towed
her by the ends.
There was no relaxation of the steep gradient, no water, and no shade, and
the height to be surmounted was 4000 feet.
If the longest lane has a turning, so the highest hill has a top, and we
came at last to the blissful point where the path deigned to assume an
approach to the horizontal, and led us to the most delightful spring in
Kashmir! The water, ice-cold and clear, gushes out of a crevice in the
rock, and with the joy of wandering Israelites we threw ourselves on the
ground, basked in the glorious mountain air, and shouted for the tiffin
basket.
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