The Snow leopard

by Peter Matthiessen

  For a long time I sit very still. To a nearby rock comes a black redstart, bobbing in spry agitation and flaring its rufous tail. Then choughs come squealing on the wind, lifting and dancing in a flock of fifty or more: the small black crows, in escadrilles, plummet from view, filling the silence with a rush of air.

  In my parka I find a few wild walnuts from Rohagaon, and crack them open with a stone. From this point of mountain, I can see in four directions. Eastward, the White River comes down out of the snow—this is the direction of Saldang. To the south, the Black River canyon climbs into the Kanjirobas. To the west is the great pyramidal butte of Crystal Mountain, parting the wind that bears uneasy clouds down the blue sky. Northward, beyond Somdo mountain, on a hidden plateau above the canyons, lies the old B'on stronghold at Samling.

  The Somdo herd has moved uphill, above 15,000 feet. Since the wind is from the south, bearing my scent, I traverse a half mile to the east before starting to climb; by the time the climb is finished, the wind has shifted to the north, and I can wriggle to a point not one hundred yards away from the nearest animal.

  To be right among the sheep like this is stirring. I lie belly down, out of the wind, and the whole warm mountain, breathing as I breathe, seems to take me in. All the sheep but two are lying down, and four big rams a little uphill from the rest face me without alarm. The sun glows in the coarse hairs of their blue coats as they chew their cud, carved faces sweeping back to the huge cracked horns. These males are big and heavy, broad across the back, strong, handsome animals: although I am downwind of the herd, there is no smell at all.

  One of the males senses me, for there is an elegant arch to his neck, and his eyes and ears are wide in that relaxed readiness that reminds me unaccountably of Tukten: what can our evil monk be doing now? The other sheep are dozing. Most of the young animals lie with their rumps downhill, in my direction (the reverse is true of the adults, which expect threats from below), and two sprawl out in an adolescent manner, heads laid back along their flanks. This is the morning lull, observed each day; they will not browse again for at least an hour. I back down behind the rise, to wait. An hour later, when I stalk them once again, they are just getting to their feet. A female squats to urinate, and a male thrusts his muzzle into the fluid and then into her vulva, upon which he extends his neck in seeming ecstasy and curls his upper lip, eyes closed, the better to savor his findings. Another ram follows a different female, and he, too, pokes his nose against her rump; a third turns his head along his flank as if to seek out his own penis, in the way of goats, then loses interest.

  Now the animals begin to graze, twisting their necks to search out grass tufts under the bush honeysuckle; a few browse the small yellow-green leaves of the shrub itself. Led by a female—and in this mixed herd a female usually leads—they move downhill a little as they feed, until they disappear below the rise. When they reappear, they come directly toward the hummock where I lie. Suddenly the creatures are so close that I must lower the binoculars inch by inch so as not to flare them, drawing my chin deep into the thin growth of the mountainside, hoping my brown hair may be seen as marmot. On they come, browsing a little, males sniffing ignominiously after the females, the two calves of the year bringing up the rear.

  The lead female comes out of the hollow not ten yards up the hill, moving a little way eastward. Suddenly, she gets my scent and turns quickly to stare at my still form in the dust below. She does not move but simply stands, eyes round. In her tension, the black marks on her legs are fairly shivering; she is superb. Then the first ram comes to her, and he, too, scents me. In a jump, he whirls in my direction, and his tail shoots straight up in the air, and he stamps his right forefoot, venting a weird harsh high-pitched whinny— chir-r-rit —more like a squirrel than any ungulate. (Later I described this carefully to GS—so far as we know, the first datum on the voice of the blue sheep.) Boldly this ram steps forward to investigate, and the rest follow, until the mountain blue is full of horned heads and sheep faces, sheep vibrations—I hold my breath as best I can. In nervousness, a few pretend to browse, and one male nips edgily at a yearling's rump, coming away with a silver tuft that shimmers in the sun. Unhurriedly, they move away, rounding the slope toward the east. Soon the heads of two females reappear, as if to make sure nothing is following. Then all are gone.

  On the way down the mountain, I stop outside Old Sonam's yard in the upper village. In sooty rags and rough-spun boots, wearing the coral-colored beads of her lost girlhood, Sonam is sitting legs straight out in the dry dung, weaving a blanket on a crazy handloom rigged to rocks and sticks, bracing the whole with old twine soles pushed stiff against a stone. Her wool has a handsome and delicate pattern, for there is design in the eye of this old wild one. I admire her sudden grin, strong back, and grimy hide indifferent to the cold.

  Once Sonam was an infant with red cheeks, like Sunny Poti. Now she works close in the last light, as cold descends under a faint half-moon. Soon night will come, and she will creep through her narrow door and eat a little barley; what does she dream of until daybreak, when she does out on her endless quest for dung? Perhaps she knows better than to think at all, but goes simply about the business of survival, like the wolf; survival is her way of meditation. When I ask Jang-bu why Sonam lives alone all winter in the upper village when she might use an empty house near Namu, he seems astonished. "She has the habit of that place," he says.

  NOVEMBER 8

  Namu is setting mousetraps for GS, and he soon has a series of fluffy short-tailed mice, a set of voles, and a small shrew,15 collected on the mountainside. Besides sheep and wolves, there is sign of weasel, Tibetan hare, and fox, but all of these stay out of sight, like the hibernating marmots; except for one glimpse of the hare, we have had to be content, so far, with a few droppings. This is also true of an unknown grouse— very likely, the Tibetan partridge. There is a small company of mountain birds—eagles, griffons, lammergeiers, choughs, hill pigeons, finches, redstarts, accentors, and larks—and also the hardy skinks of the sunny slopes, and an assortment of ants, bees, grasshoppers, and spiders.

  I wonder about the populations of small creatures that live just over the White River. For more than a month, they have been locked under heavy snow, and ordinarily they must spend about four more months each year in hibernation than individuals of their own species that live here on the sunny side of the same valley. It seems to me that the resulting adaptations (or lack of them) across millennia, in otherwise identical populations of the same species, would make a fascinating study, and GS agrees.

  Yesterday, more yaks appeared, and a belled pony led by Ongdi, brother of Namu and the owner of our cooking hut, who has come here with his daughter-in-law and sons. No doubt Ongdi has got word in Saldang that one of his houses has been occupied by outlanders, here to collect dead mice and wolf shit, and thought to turn this unhealthy situation to his own advantage. Impressed, perhaps, by the stone tables set up by the Sherpas, this sharp-eyed, shifty, and forever smiling fellow demands five rupees a day for his poor hut, but agrees to settle for one rupee if a pound of cheap tea is thrown in. Ongdi covets everything we have, he is possessed by the fury of acquisition: later this month, his sister says, this insatiable trader is off on a bartering expedition across eastern Dolpo to Jamoson and the Kali Gandald, and even, perhaps, as far as Kathmandu. He has been to Kathmandu before, and is much celebrated in these parts on that account. In exchange for biscuit tins, plastic containers, and other treasures that would have been left behind in any case, had Ongdi not come, Phu-Tsering acquires a good stock of potatoes and some yak butter. Last night, we had butter on potatoes baked in coals—the first butter since Pokhara, and the closest thing to haute cuisine in weeks.

  Sunrise, illuminating my thin tent, transforms it from an old refuse bag of brown plastic to a strange womblike balloon. True, it remains a wretched tent, stained, raggedy, and sagging, yet I find I have grown fond of it, for it is home. Each day I sweep out the heavy dust that comes creeping, b
lowing, seeping from the bottomless supply of dry dung in the yard. One understands better the local indifference to cleanliness when one is shrouded with dust within moments of each washing: I am grained with filth.

  By the prayer wall, in an early shaft of sun, Namu is gathering her dried yak chips, tossing them back over her shoulder into her wide-mouthed wicker basket; these chips are precious, and her brother Ongdi, when he leaves, will lug some with him over the east mountains to Saldang, where fuel is more scarce than it is here. Yak dung burns with a hot, clear flame that is almost without smoke, and in these mountain deserts above tree line, it is worth its weight in almost anything.

  This morning Ongdi's young son, Tema Tende, in his own unfathomable rhythm, is pounding stolidly on a hide drum, and the hollow sound resounds in the mountain air.

  BUM-bum-bum, BUM-BUM-BUM, bum

  With his older son, Karma Dorje, and Karma Dorje's pretty child wife, Tende Samnug, Ongdi packs potatoes, meat, and barley on his yaks for trade in Saldang, together with a small crude chest of drawers. They will be accompanied to Saldang by Jang-bu, who is to inquire about food, police, and the trail to Tarap, in case the Kang Pass should be closed down by snow.

  When Ongdi isn't looking, Tende Samnug slips me four potatoes as a gift: the gift is spontaneous and simple-hearted, and she stands there smiling in the pleasure of it, round-eyed and red-cheeked in the sun. Meanwhile Ongdi is entreating me to part with the only kerosene lantern that we have; should he return in a week or two, when our kerosene is gone, it shall be his. Karma Dorje, another smiler, is also begging me for something, and so we chatter back and forth in the greatest animation, although "Saldang" is the only word in the entire conversation that is comprehended by both sides.

  Watching sheep early this morning, GS and I agreed upon a plan. I shall leave Shey on November 18, assuming that Tukten and Gyaltsen have arrived; otherwise we must assume that one of the many imaginable mishaps has occurred. Even if Tukten fails to come, I shall leave as planned, accompanied by Jang-bu on the first part of the journey. We shall go out by way of Saldang, over the eastern mountains, hoping to meet the missing sherpas on that route. If not, Jang-bu will find a porter for me in Saldang, as GS wants him back as soon as possible. I feel better for having settled this, and now the whole subject can be put aside.

  NOVEMBER 9

  From the path that leads beyond Tsakang, along the precipices of the Black River Canyon, there is a stirring prospect of the great cliffs and escarpments, marching northward toward the point where this Yeju-Kangju flows into the great Karnali River. The path is no more than a ledge in many places and, on the northward face of each ravine, is covered by glare ice and crusted snow. Even on the southward face, the path is narrow, and concentrating hard on every step, I come upon what looks like a big pug mark. Because it is faint, and because GS is too far ahead to summon back, and because until now we have found no trace of leopard, I keep quiet; the mark will be there still when we return. And just at this moment, looking up, I see that GS has paused on the path ahead. When I come up, he points at a distinct cat scrape and print. The print is faded, but at least we know that the snow leopard is here.

  Mostly we spend the day apart, meeting over the clay oven for breakfast and supper, but whenever we act like social animals, the impulse has brought luck. A little farther on there is another scrape, and then another, and GS, looking ahead to where the path turns the cliff comer into the next ravine, says, "there ought to be a leopard scat out on that next point— it's just the sort of place they choose." And there it is, all but glowing in the path, right beneath the prayer stones of the stupa— the Jewel in the Heart of the Lotus, I think, unaccountably, and nod at my friend, impressed. "Isn't that something?" GS says; "To be so delighted with a pile of crap?" He gathers the dropping into one of the plastic bags that he keeps with him for this purpose and tucks it away into his rucksack with our lunch. Though the sign is probably a week old, we are already scanning the sunny ledges and open caves on both sides of the river that we have studied for so many days in vain.

  On the ledge path we find two more scats and a half dozen scrapes, as well as melted cat prints in the snow on the north face of the ravines. Perhaps this creature is not resident but comes through on a hunting circuit, as the wolves do: the wolves have been missing now for near a week. On the other hand, this labyrinth of caves and ledges is fine haunt for leopard, out of the way of its enemy, the wolf, and handy to a herd of bharal that is resident on the ridge above and often wanders down close to these cliffs. Perhaps, in the days left to us, we shall never see the snow leopard but it seems certain that the leopard will see us.

  Across the next ravine is the second hermitage, of earth red decorated in blue-gray and white. It lacks stacked brush or other sign of life, and its white prayer flags are worn to wisps by wind. In the cliffs nearby are smoke-roofed caves and the ruins of cells that must have sheltered anchorites of former times; perhaps their food was brought them from Tsakang. This small gompa, half-covering a walled-up cave, is tucked into an outer corner of a cliff that falls into Black Canyon, and like Tsakang it faces south, up the Black River. Because the points of the Shey stupas are just visible, its situation is less hallucinatory than the pure blue-and-white prospect at Tsakang, but the sheer drop of a thousand feet into the gorge, the torrent's roar, the wind, and the high walls darkening the sky all around make its situation more disturbing. The hermitage lies on the last part of a pilgrim's path that climbs from Black River and circles round the Crystal Mountain, striking Black Canyon once again on the north side of this point and returning to Shey by way of Tsakang; but most of the path is lost beneath the snows.

  Taking shelter on the smmy step, leaning back into the warmth of the wooden door, I eat a green disc of Phu-Tsering's buckwheat bread that looks and tastes like a lichened stone mandala from the prayer walls. Blue sheep have littered this small dooryard with their dung, a human hand has painted a sun and moon above the lintel, yet in this forlorn place, here at the edge of things, the stony bread, the dung and painted moon, the lonely tattering of flags worn to transparence by the wind seem as illusory as sanity itself. The deep muttering of boulders in Black River—why am I uneasy? To swallow the torrent, sun, and wind, to fill one's breath with the plenitude of being ... and yet ... I draw back from that sound, which seems to echo the dread rumble of the universe.

  Today GS is stumbling on the ledges. He speculates about atmospheric ions that affect depression, as in the mistral winds of southern France (there are recent speculations16 that negative ions, which seem to be positive in their effect on animals and plants, may be somehow related to prana, the "life energy"), and we agree that one is clumsy when depressed, but he feels that his own stumbling is a sign of incipient sickness, a cold coming on or the like. Perhaps he is right, perhaps I imagine things, but earlier on this same ledge, as if impelled, my boots sought out the loose stones and snow-hidden ice, and I felt dull and heavy and afraid; there was a power in the air, a random menace. On the return, an oppression has lifted, I am light and quick. Things go better when my left foot is on the outside edge, as it is now, but this cannot account for the sudden limberness, the pleasure in skirting the same abyss that two hours ago filled me with dread. Not that I cease to pay attention; on the contrary, it is the precise bite and feel and sound of every step that fills me with life. Sun rays glance from snow pinnacles above and the black choughs dance in their escadrilles over the void, and dark and light interpenetrate the path, in the all-pervading presence of the Present.

  NOVEMBER 10

  The high stone wall of the compound of this house separates my tent from the others. Therefore it is vulnerable to theft, which is not unheard of in these parts and I keep a sharp eye on two wool traders, filthier than most, who came yesterday from Saldang, bearing no wool or other evidence of honest trade. The first I saw on my way home from the west side of the river, eating barleycorns in Namu s yard; the second paid an uninvited visit to my tent, poking h
is head straight through the flap to feast his eyes upon the contents— a larcenous overture if there ever was one, so thought I. The tent is so small that in effect one wears it, and the abrupt intrusion of another head—and a strange, wolfish, dirty head at that—put our faces much too close together for my liking. That this head was not withdrawn upon discovering that the tent was occupied was, I suppose, an evidence of innocence, but all the same I made sign to it, not cordially, that it take leave at once. At this point the head spoke for the first time. In English, very gently, it inquired, "I go?" I was astounded. Then it vanished, after offering a smile that transfigured what had seemed to me a sly, distempered face, not a charming smile but a smile truly blessed in its wholehearted acceptance—approval, even—of the world and all its ways.

  I opened the tent flap to call after him, but did not know what to say; the man waved goodbye to me and my bad manners and vanished from the yard.

  I soon discovered that the other wool trader, the one who was eating barleycorns in Namu's yard, has a fine smile, too, though this man lacks the seraphic air of his companion. At supper, I decided not to talk about these smiles in the face of GS's stem conviction, shared by Phu-Tsering, that the two were temple looters wha would cheerfully make off with our last lentil. It was agreed that the wood door to the cooking hut should be locked, lest they steal poor Dawa blind in his thick sleep; tomorrow the sherpas would keep watch until this unsavory pair had slunk away.

  Now it is morning, and all precautions have been foolish, since the wool traders departed at first light, up the Black River toward the Kang Pass. I am sorry about this, as I wished to make up for my lack of trust by wishing them Godspeed in a warm way. In truth, they are our benefactors, for if they cross over the Kang La, they will reopen the trail in the high snows for Tukten and Gyaltsen, who might arrive this very day at Ring-mo. Learning that two men had crossed the Kang Pass in recent days, the sherpas would feel inspired to do the same.