Long ago our tent
had gone like a dead leaf in an autumn gale, and at times it seemed as
if we must follow.
The boulders hurtled over and past us; one of them, fell full upon the
little peak, shattering its crest and bursting into fragments, which
fled away, each singing its own wild song. We were not touched, but
when we looked behind us it was to see the yak, which had risen in its
terror, lying dead and headless. Then in our fear we lay still, waiting
for the end, and wondering dimly whether we should be buried in the
surging snow or swept away with the hill, or crushed by the flying
rocks, or lifted and lost in the hurricane.
How long did it last? We never knew. It may have been ten minutes or
two hours, for in such a scene time loses its proportion. Only we became
aware that the wind had fallen, while the noise of grinding snow and
hurtling boulders ceased. Very cautiously we gained our feet and looked.
In front of us was sheer mountain side, for a depth of over two miles,
the width of about a thousand yards, which had been covered with many
feet of snow, was now bare rock. Piled up against the face of our hill,
almost to its summit, lay a tongue of snow, pressed to the consistency
of ice and spotted with boulders that had lodged there. The peak itself
was torn and shattered, so that it revealed great gleaming surfaces
and pits, in which glittered mica, or some other mineral.
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