In the evening of the same day we arrived at the Sacred Lake of Teri Noor, a sheet of water eight kilometres across, muddy and yellow, with low unattractive shores studded with large holes. In the middle of the lake lay what was left of a disappearing island.
On this were a few trees and some old ruins. Our guide explained to us that two centuries ago the lake did not exist and that a very strong Chinese fortress stood here on the plain. A Chinese chief in command of the fortress gave offence to an old Lama who cursed the place and prophesied that it would all be destroyed. The very next day the water began rushing up from the ground, destroyed the fortress and engulfed all the Chinese soldiers. Even to this day when storms rage over the lake the waters cast up on the shores the bones of men and horses who perished in it. This Teri Noor increases its size every year, approaching nearer and nearer to the mountains. Skirting the eastern shore of the lake, we began to climb a snow-capped ridge. The road was easy at first but the guide warned us that the most difficult bit was there ahead. We reached this point two days later and found there a steep mountain side thickly set with forest and covered with snow. Beyond it lay the lines of eternal snow--ridges studded with dark rocks set in great banks of the white mantle that gleamed bright under the clear sunshine. These were the eastern and highest branches of the Tannu Ola system. We spent the night beneath this wood and began the passage of it in the morning. At noon the guide began leading us by zigzags in and out but everywhere our trail was blocked by deep ravines, great jams of fallen trees and walls of rock caught in their mad tobogganings from the mountain top. We struggled for several hours, wore out our horses and, all of a sudden, turned up at the place where we had made our last halt. It was very evident our Soyot had lost his way; and on his face I noticed marked fear.
"The old devils of the cursed forest will not allow us to pass," he whispered with trembling lips. "It is a very ominous sign. We must return to Kharga to the Noyon."But I threatened him and he took the lead again evidently without hope or effort to find the way. Fortunately, one of our party, an Urianhai hunter, noticed the blazes on the trees, the signs of the road which our guide had lost. Following these, we made our way through the wood, came into and crossed a belt of burned larch timber and beyond this dipped again into a small live forest bordering the bottom of the mountains crowned with the eternal snows. It grew dark so that we had to camp for the night. The wind rose high and carried in its grasp a great white sheet of snow that shut us off from the horizon on every side and buried our camp deep in its folds. Our horses stood round like white ghosts, refusing to eat or to leave the circle round our fire. The wind combed their manes and tails. Through the niches in the mountains it roared and whistled. From somewhere in the distance came the low rumble of a pack of wolves, punctuated at intervals by the sharp individual barking that a favorable gust of wind threw up into high staccato.
As we lay by the fire, the Soyot came over to me and said: "Noyon, come with me to the obo. I want to show you something."We went there and began to ascend the mountain. At the bottom of a very steep slope was laid up a large pile of stones and tree trunks, making a cone of some three metres in height. These obo are the Lamaite sacred signs set up at dangerous places, the altars to the bad demons, rulers of these places. Passing Soyots and Mongols pay tribute to the spirits by hanging on the branches of the trees in the obo hatyk, long streamers of blue silk, shreds torn from the lining of their coats or simply tufts of hair cut from their horses' manes; or by placing on the stones lumps of meat or cups of tea and salt.
"Look at it," said the Soyot. "The hatyks are torn off. The demons are angry, they will not allow us to pass, Noyon. . . ."He caught my hand and with supplicating voice whispered: "Let us go back, Noyon; let us! The demons do not wish us to pass their mountains. For twenty years no one has dared to pass these mountains and all bold men who have tried have perished here. The demons fell upon them with snowstorm and cold. Look! It is beginning already. . . . Go back to our Noyon, wait for the warmer days and then. . . ."I did not listen further to the Soyot but turned back to the fire, which I could hardly see through the blinding snow. Fearing our guide might run away, I ordered a sentry to be stationed for the night to watch him. Later in the night I was awakened by the sentry, who said to me: "Maybe I am mistaken, but I think I heard a rifle."What could I say to it? Maybe some stragglers like ourselves were giving a sign of their whereabouts to their lost companions, or perhaps the sentry had mistaken for a rifle shot the sound of some falling rock or frozen ice and snow. Soon I fell asleep again and suddenly saw in a dream a very clear vision. Out on the plain, blanketed deep with snow, was moving a line of riders. They were our pack horses, our Kalmuck and the funny pied horse with the Roman nose. I saw us descending from this snowy plateau into a fold in the mountains. Here some larch trees were growing, close to which gurgled a small, open brook. Afterwards I noticed a fire burning among the trees and then woke up.
