The Snow leopard

by Matthiessen, Peter

  In days to come, they will bring in the remaining loads, one trip a day, and for all of this period, from the Cave Camp onward, they will be paid as porters as well as sherpas. No matter that they are wasteful and careless, and neglect to bring goggles into the snow mountains, or even good winter clothes—their spirit is wonderful. These three, at least, have decent boots, but Gyaltsen, who was given money to buy boots in Kathmandu, spent it on something less crucial, and Tukten, as is the sherpa habit, sold his boots after his last expedition and started this one barefoot; they will cross the Kang Pass in the cheap Oriental sneakers that were issued to the porters to get them across the ice crusts of Jang La.

  We cross the bridge to the island in the river, then jump stones across the shallows to the farther side.

  Sun and a high cirrus cast metallic light on the Black River, and in this light, Shey with its two stupas and its flags is emblematic on its barren bluff, in lonely silhouette against the snows. We watch the sherpas descend the steep path from the bluff; they cross the bridge at cheerful speed, like boys. We shall track the bands of blue sheep on the western slopes, and hunt for sign of snow leopard along the cliffs; we shall also visit the red hermitage, known as Tsakang, and collect firewood.

  Descending from steep snowfields under Crystal Mountain is a series of ridges that terminate in buttresses or points where the mountain falls away into Black River; between these ridges, each one higher than the next as the path goes north, lie deep ravines. Winding in and out of these ravines, the path follows the contour around the outer points, which like all eminences in the region are marked by prayer flags and a wall of prayer stones. In an hour we are opposite the red hermitage, which sits high against the cliff across the gorge: three huge Himalayan griffons turn and turn on the cold updrafts from Black River Canyon. The path continues round the point and into the ravine, which is still in shadow, and sheeted with ice and snow on this north exposure; here the incline is so steep that any misstep might be fatal. At the head of the ravine, the trail crosses an icy stream and climbs up to the hermitage, which is perched on a ledge against bright cliffs of blue and red. A smaller hermitage, more isolated still, sits on the comer of a precipice still farther north. Such locations are traditional for spiritual pursuit in the Tibetan region, "proudly isolated on summits beaten by the wind, amidst wild landscapes, as if bidding defiance to invisible foes at the four corners of the horizon."9

  Tsakang itself consists of four stone structures plastered to the rock wall, like nests of swifts. One is a cell with a single narrow window slot that looks out on a world of snow and sky, pure white, pure blue; another has crooked doors and windows of carved wood. A tiny potato plot has been constructed on a ledge, and sliced potatoes lie drying on a stone. By the cliff wall are stacks of dung and juniper for winter fuel, and water issues from a cave, dripping sonorously onto slate conduits that conduct it to a copper caldron; in the cave a small stupa has been built in honor of the water.

  This hermitage is a true gompa, which is not really a monastery but "a dwelling in the solitude,"10 located wherever possible against a cliff that overlooks a lake or stream, and often inhabited by a solitary monk. Tsakang is bedecked with prayer flags, white and blue, and has an astonishing ornate balconied window painted in red and fire-orange, blue, and turquoise; carved Buddha stones adorn its sunny walls.

  The hermitage is situated so that nothing may be seen but snow peaks rising to a shining sky; even Shey is hidden by the slopes above the village. The effect is so hallucinatory that GS, disturbed, is stirred to protest at the hermit's life, and solitary meditation: "You have to have something coming in!" But the point of meditation is to let everything go: "When your mind is empty like a valley or a canyon, then you will know the power of the Way."11

  On a ledge, two bronze-skinned monks sit quietly, as if in wait. One is patching his wool boots, the other is curing a boat hide in a yellow mix of goat brains and rancid yak butter. Smiling, calm, they let our greetings wander; perhaps they live here under vows of silence. The boot-mender is a clear-faced youth, little more than twenty, while the other, curiously ageless, is a handsome cripple in strange rags of leather. When we say goodbye, the two figures bow slightly, smile again, and keep their silence.

  A steep path climbs to the slope above the cliffs, where the only color is a lichen of unearthly yellow-green; all else is thorn and the shale of mountain desert. On the stones of a large stupa we eat discs of greasy dough that Phu-Tsering identifies as "pancakes"; on other days there are dry-dough chapatis, or "breads," made with green buckwheat flour, unleavened, unadorned—no matter. At supper in the cooking hut, the dull food is disheartening, but here in the mountain sun and wind, in the bright cold, whatever is at hand tastes pure and vital.

  Leaving GS to observe the Tsakang sheep, I descend the trail again, to gather fuel. On my way I meet a wild-haired stranger, bound for the hermitage, it seems, since this trail leads nowhere else. Chanting, he comes up the mountain to the ridge point where I have paused to let him pass, and there slings down his basket, steps behind a boulder, squats, returns, and says aggressively, "Timi kaha gani?" (You where go?) "Shey Gompa," I say, and he repeats it: we both point at Somdo, to make sure. This wayfarer is clad in blackened sheepskins, with the usual assortment of beads and amulets, silver pouch, silver flint case, silver dagger. Demanding a smoke, he laughs loud in disbelief when I say that I have none, and raises the dagger toward my throat in demonstration of my fate, were he but given to low banditry. Without goodbyes, we go our separate ways.

  Farther down, where the wolves chased the sheep, lie mats of recumbent juniper, and I cull the tough brush for dead branches. The juniper is the only firewood available, though a stunted birch lives in the deep ravines, beyond the reach of man. With the line I carry in my rucksack, I tie up a big bundle of faggots, and humping it onto my back, descend the mountain, cross the river, and climb the bluff to Shey. The monastery is lively, for as it turns out, the man on the trail is a member of a Saldang group that has come in pursuit of eleven yaks: the beasts had summered here, taken a liking to the place, and returned spontaneously of their own accord. Several animals are visible on the hillside, and others have made their way down to the river islands, where there is more grass.

  The visitors crowd into our cook hut to watch the sherpas unload the broken food baskets brought down from Kang La. These herders say that nine or ten wolves pass through Shey regularly on their hunting circuit, and that two or three snow leopards live along the river cliff. They also say there is a police check post at Saldang, which makes it inadvisable for us to go there. One man has taken advantage of our absence to reach into my tent and pilfer a pair of drying socks, knocking over my B'on Buddha in the process; while they remain, someone must stay on guard all day. Jang-bu believes that the herders will report our presence to the police at Saldang, and since foreigners are not welcome in this remote region of Dolpo, we may have a visit in the next few days.

  NOVEMBER 5

  The snow stopped just at dark last evening, and soon the moon appeared, then stars. This morning the sky is clear: at dawn, the black and shaggy yaks stand motionless by the ice river.

  For the first time since September, GS is entirely happy. Like myself, he is stunned by Shey, which has more than repaid the long, hard journey; he scribbles his data even while he eats. I keep thinking. How extraordinary!—knowing that this adjective is inadequate and somehow inaccurate, as well; it's not so much that what we have found here is extraordinary as that all has the immediate reality of that region of the mind where "mountains, wolves .. . snow and fire had realized their true being, or had their source."12 And yet I grow uneasy every day, when dark clouds build in the north and south. At the Kang Pass and southward, it looks as if it is snowing. To waste time in worry that the snow will trap us makes me feel ashamed, all the more so since GS shows no concern. Yet this morning he said that the night view of those icy peaks over which we came was enough to scare him back into his sleeping
bag, and of course he knows as well as I do that the monastery has no food to spare us, or not enough, at least, to get everyone through the winter.

  In midafternoon, there comes a sudden hail. Soon the hail has turned to snow, and after dark, it is still snowing. Returning from Black Pond, Jang-bu reports that our track down from the Kang Pass has disappeared, and the Saldang people tell iis that the tredl to Samling, where we hoped to visit in the next few days, is blocked by drifts. As long as the Shey Pass to the east is open, one can cross over to Saldang in a single day, and these people speak of a lower route from Saldang across to Tarap and the Bheri River that usually is passable all winter. However, we have no permit for the Tarap region, nor any wish to spend a winter in the Tarap jail. GS speaks of "passing the Tarap police post at night" but it would be difficult to do this undetected by the dogs. Usually he refers obliquely to the problem, and then when I take it up, will say offhandedly, "Well, let's not dwell on it; let's just do our work, and see what happens."

  Toward midday, a wind comes from the southeast and the sky thickens. It is heavy cold. Yesterday the Saldangs slaughtered a yak and offered to sell us meat, but our shrunken funds cannot absorb their bandit prices; another man offered rancid yak butter wrapped in skin, but we cannot afford this, either. Now some of the Saldangs have departed, fetching away meat and potatoes on the backs of their renegade animals, and also one of GS's two thermometers. Since the thermometer is part of his professional equipment, he is naturally outraged, and has threatened those who stayed behind with the Saldang police; they have offended emissaries of His Majesty's Government in Kathmandu, he says, here to explore the possibilities of a national park! Though this is true, it means nothing at all to these wild, rude, long-haired men, so many centuries away across the Himalaya.

  The man with bold earrings and mustache who offered us butter is named Tundu, and his companion is a youth named Tasi Fintso. Helped by Namu and Tasi Fintso, he loads yak meat and potatoes on the four remaining yaks and dzos that stand hobbled in front of the gompa. With their short noses and short fluffy tails, yaks have an appealing air, but they are shaggy brutes of a half-ton or better, with rude temperaments to match. Tasi Fintso is gingerly in their presence, but Tundu is firm and gentle with the balky animals, talking to them in a soft no-nonsense way as he straps on pack saddles of wood and leather, hoists cargo sacks of striped brown-and-white homespun, and lashes down the lot with braided rope. There is a quiet in his actions that gives him a strong presence, and apparently he is the headman here: he will bring the key to the gompa in five days or so, when he comes back from Saldang. Without a word, he leads his yaks into the east, leaving behind his litde girl, Chiring Doma, who sits on a blanket with Nyima Poti, eating potatoes in the sun. The gompa yard is windy and cold, yet Nyima Poti is naked, while her brother, Karma Chambel, is clad in a rag smock. In her dust and burlap, the red-cheeked Chiring Doma looks like a smiling potato given life. Once Tundu is gone, Namu resumes her work of spreading yak-dung fuel to dry along the prayer walls and abandoned houses.

  NOVEMBER 6

  The nights at Shey are rigid, under rigid stars; the fall of a wolf pad on the frozen path might be heard up and down the canyon. But a hard wind comes before the dawn to rattle the tent canvas, and this morning it is clear again, and colder. At daybreak, the White River, just below, is sheathed in ice, with scarcely a murmur from the stream beneath.

  The two ravens come to tritons on the gompa roof. Gorawk, gorawk, they croak, and this is the name given to them by the sherpas. Amidst the prayer flags and great horns of Tibetan argali, the gorawks greet first light with an odd musical double note— a-ho — that emerges as if by miracle from those ragged throats. Before sunrise every day, the great black birds are gone, like the last tatters of departing night.

  The sun rising at the head of the White River brings a suffused glow to the tent canvas, and the robin accentor flits away across the frozen yard. At seven, there is breakfast in the cook hut—tea and porridge— and after breakfast on most days I watch sheep with GS, parting company with him after a while, when the sheep lie down, to go off on some expedition of my own. Often I scan the caves and ledges on the far side of Black River in the hope of leopard; I am alert for fossils, wolves, and birds. Sometimes I observe the sky and mountains, and sometimes I sit in meditation, doing my best to empty out my mind, to attain that state in which everything is "at rest, free, and immortal. . . . All things abided eternally as they were in their proper places . . . something infinite behind everything appeared."13 (No Buddhist said this, but a seventeenth-century Briton.) And soon all sounds, and all one sees and feels, take on imminence, an immanence, as if the Universe were coming to attention, a Universe of which one is the center, a Universe that is not the same and yet not different from oneself, even from a scientific point of view: within man as within mountains there are many parts of hydrogen and oxygen, of calcium, phosphorus, potassium, and other elements. "You never enjoy the world aright, till the Sea itself flows in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens, and crowned with the stars: and perceive yourself to be the sole heir of the whole world, and more than so, because men are in it who are every one sole heirs as well as you."14

  I have a meditation place on Somdo mountain, a broken rock outcrop like an altar set into the hillside, protected from all but the south wind by shards of granite and dense thorn. In the full sun it is warm, and its rock crannies give shelter to small stunted plants that cling to this desert mountainside—dead red-brown stalks of a wild buckwheat (Polygonum), some shrubby cinquefoil, pale edelweiss, and everlasting, and even a few poor wisps of Cannabis. I arrange a rude rock seat as a lookout on the world, set out binoculars in case wild creatures should happen into view, then cross my legs and regulate my breath, until I scarcely breathe at all.

  Now the mountains all around me take on life; the Crystal Mountain moves. Soon there comes the murmur of the torrent, from far away below under the ice: it seems impossible that I can hear this sound. Even in windlessness, the sound of rivers comes and goes and falls and rises, like the wind itself. An instinct comes to open outward by letting all life in, just as a flower fills with sun. To burst forth from this old husk and cast one's energy abroad, to fly. ...

  Although I am not conscious of emotion, the mind-opening brings a soft mist to my eyes. Then the mist passes, the cold wind clears my head, and body-mind comes and goes on the light air. A sun-filled Buddha. One day I shall meditate in falling snow.

  I lower my gaze from the snow peaks to the glistening thorns, the snow patches, the lichens. Though I am blind to it, the Truth is near, in the reality of what I sit on—rocks. These hard rocks instruct my bones in what my brain could never grasp in the Heart Sutra, that "form is emptiness, and emptiness is form"—the Void, the emptiness of blue-black space, contained in everything. Sometimes when I meditate, the big rocks dance.

  The secret of the mountains is that the mountains simply exist, as I do myself: the mountains exist simply, which I do not. The mountains have no "meaning," they are meaning; the mountains are. The sun is round. I ring with life, and the mountains ring, and when I can hear it, there is a ringing that we share. I understand all this, not in my mind but in my heart, knowing how meaningless it is to try to capture what cannot be expressed, knowing that mere words will remain when I read it all again, another day.

  Toward four, the sun sets fires on the Crystal Mountain. I turn my collar up and put on gloves and go down to Somdo, where my tent has stored the last sun of the day. In the tent entrance, out of the wind, I drink hot tea and watch the darkness rise out of the earth. The sunset fills the deepening blues with holy rays and turns a twilight raven into the silver bird of night as it passes into the shadow of the mountain. Then the great hush falls, and cold descends. The temperature has already dropped well below freezing, and will drop twenty degrees more before the dawn.

  At dark, I walk past lifeless houses to the cooking hut where Phu-Tsering will be baking a green loaf; t
he sherpas have erected two stone tables, and in the evenings, the hut is almost cozy, warmed by the dung and smoking juniper in the clay oven.

  As usual, GS is there ahead of me, recording data. Eyes watering, we read and write by kerosene lamp. We are glad to see each other, but we rarely speak more than a few words during a simple supper, usually rice of a poor bitter land, with tomato or soy sauce, salt and pepper, sometimes accompanied by thin lentil soup. After supper I watch the fire for a time, until smoke from the sparking juniper closes my eyes. Bidding goodnight, I bend through the low doorway and go out under the stars and pick my way around the frozen walls to my cold tent, there to remain for twelve hours or more until first light. I read until near asphyxiated by my small wick candle in its flask of kerosene, then lie still for a long time in the very heart of the earth silence, exhilarated and excited as a child. I have yet to use the large packet of Cannabis that I gathered at Yamarkhar and dried along the way, to see me through long lightless evenings on this journey: I am high enough.

  "Regard as one, this life, the next life, and the life between," wrote Milarepa. And sometimes I wonder into which life I have wandered, so still are the long nights here, and so cold.

  NOVEMBER 7

  High on the mountain, I come upon a herd of twenty-seven blue sheep that includes males and females of all ages; until today the Somdo rams formed their own herd.

  At the sight of man, the bharal drift over a snow ridge toward the north. I trail this promising mixed party, hoping to make observations for GS, who is working near Tsakang. Eventually, the sheep lie down on a steep grassy slope that plunges toward the mouth of Black River Canyon, and I withdraw to a point where they cannot see me, letting them calm themselves before attempting to go closer.