Chapter 10 - On the Way of the White Clouds

Before settling down at Ghoom --- where later on I had taken a solitary little country house, in order to live undisturbed in the vicinity of the monastery --- the urge to follow the Guru beyond the snow-covered passes into the forbidden land beyond the horizon was such that soon I found myself on the caravan road across the mountains to have my first glimpse of Tibet.

Though it was late in the season and I knew that I could not proceed far, as otherwise the passes might get blocked by snow and prevent my return within the time that was at my disposal (and within the restrictions of a limited travelling permit), I shall never forget the first impression of the `promised land' --- for that was what Tibet had become to me since the Guru had left.

The journey had a dream-like quality: rain, fog, and clouds transformed the virgin forest, the rocks and mountains, gorges and precipices into a world of uncannily changing, fantastic forms, which appeared and dissolved with such suddenness that one began to doubt their reality as well as ones own. Mighty waterfalls hurled from invisible heights into an equally invisible bottomless depth. Clouds above and clouds below the narrow path, surging up and sinking again, revealing views of breathtaking grandeur for one moment and blotting them out in the next.

Trees appeared like many-armed giants with long grey beards of moss, entangled in creepers and festooned with delicate light green garlands that swung from tree to tree. In the lower altitudes, blossoming orchids and ferns sprouted from tree-trunks and branches, while an impenetrable undergrowth hid the ground from view. Clouds, rocks, trees, and waterfalls created a fairyland worthy of the imagination of a romantic Chinese landscape painter, and the small caravan of men and horses moved through it like miniature figures in a vast landscape scroll.

Up and up the caravan went, through one cloud-layer after another. What was yesterday our sky, lay today at our feet like a vast turbulent ocean, at the bottom of which the human world was hidden. It was like a journey through different world-planes into the Far Beyond. The ascent seemed to have no end --- indeed, even the sky was no more the limit! --- and each stage revealed a new type of landscape, climate and vegetation.

The exuberant, moist-warm, leech-infested, and fever-laden tropical virgin forest, in which ferns grew to the size of trees and bamboos exploded like green fireworks into gracefully curved bunches of feathery-leaved tall stalks, gave way to the more sober forests of subtropical and temperate zones, where trees regained their individuality and flowers were able to compete with the lighter undergrowth until they formed carpets of bright yellow, orange, and purple colours under the sombre needle-trees of weatherbeaten alpine forests.

Soon even these were left behind, and we entered the near-arctic zone, in which only stunted fir and dwarf rhododendron, besides heather, mosses, and lichen, could survive in a world of titanic rocks, snow-covered peaks, and deep green lakes, among which low-hanging clouds and sudden bursts of sunshine created a constantly changing play of light and shadow. The landscape was in a continual state of transformation, as if it was being created from moment to moment. What was here a minute ago had disappeared in the next, and a new feature of the landscape revealed itself before our eyes.

And then came the great miracle --- a miracle that repeated itself and thrilled me each time I crossed over to Tibet: on the highest point of the pass the clouds that in huge masses surged angrily and threateningly dark against the mountain walls, dissolved into thin air as if by magic, the gates of heaven were opened, and a world of luminous colours under a deep blue sky stretched before ones eyes and a fierce sun lit up the snow-covered slopes on the other side of the pass so that one was almost blinded by their brilliance.

After the cloud and fog-veiled landscapes of Sikkim it almost went beyond one's capacity to take in so much colour and light. Even the deep colours of the shadows seemed to radiate, and the isolated white summer-clouds which blissfully floated in the velvety dark blue sky and between the far-off purple-coloured mountain ranges only enhanced and intensified the feeling of the immensity and depth of space and the luminosity of colours.

It was in this moment, when for the first time I set eyes upon the sacred land of Tibet, that I knew that from now on I would follow the Way of the White Clouds into this enchanted land of my Guru, to learn more of its wisdom and to find inspiration in the immense peace and beauty of its nature. I knew that from now on I would ever be drawn back into this luminous world and that my life would be dedicated to its exploration.

Like many a pilgrim before me, I solemnly circumambulated the cairn that marked the highest point of the pass, and, repeating the Guru's mantra, I gratefully added a stone to the monument as a token of gratitude for having been safely guided up to here, as a pledge for the future pursuance of the path I had chosen, and as a blessing to all the pilgrims and travellers who would pass this way after me. And then the words of a Chinese stanza, ascribed to Maitréya, the future Buddha, when he roamed the world as a wandering monk, came to my mind: ‘Alone I wander a thousand miles …and I ask my way from the white clouds.’

All the way down into the Chumbi Valley I was filled with happiness. Soon the snow gave way to carpets of flowers and the storm-beaten crippled fir trees to magnificent forests of needle-trees with birds and butterflies flitting about in the sunny, clear atmosphere. The air felt so unearthly light and exhilarating that I could hardly contain my joy though I was conscious that soon I would have to turn back into the sombre shadow-world on the other side of the pass and to descend again into the steamy tropical jungles. But I felt confident that sooner or later I would be able to follow the way of the white clouds beyond my present horizon, on which the white pyramid of the sacred mountain Chomolhari, the throne of the goddess Dorjé Phagmo, seemed to beckon me.

And, indeed, through circumstances of the most unexpected kind --- which, when looking back, I can only conceive as the effect of a directing force, both within me as in those who were instrumental in removing all existing difficulties --- I soon found myself again on the caravan path into the unknown regions beyond the Himalayas.

This time, however, my aim was the north-western part of Tibet, and in the spring of 1933, I joined for the first part of my journey a caravan in the Yarkand Sarai at Srinagar, travelling through Kashmir, Baltistan, and Little Tibet (Ladak), which latter was formerly part of the kingdom of Gugé. Leaving the caravan at Kargil and my travel-companion, the well-known Indian scholar Rahula Sankrityayana (who at that time was still a Buddhist monk), at Leh I travelled on alone, accompanied by only two Tibetans, whose horses carried my scanty luggage and food-supplies.

During the previous weeks I had hardened myself to the climatic conditions, sleeping in the open without a tent, protected against snow and rain only by a more or less waterproof namda (a large felt rug) which I spread over my camp-cot. Rahula was inclined to regard the latter as a luxury, until when crossing our first pass over the main Himalayan range we got into a thunderstorm, accompanied by rain and sleet, which finally turned into a heavy snowfall during the night. The next morning, when peeping out from under my heavy, snow-covered and solidly frozen namda I could not discover my companion --- until he emerged shivering and rather crestfallen from what had appeared to me as a snowdrift.

Fortunately on the whole the weather was dry and sunny, in fact the sun proved to be fiercer than in India, though on account of the cold air one did not realise it until ones skin came off in flakes from face and hands in spite of the use of protective ointments.

However, now I was on my way to the Chang-Thang, the vast northern highlands of Tibet, the country of blue lakes, goldand copper-coloured hills and wide valleys with green grazing-grounds, where the nomads of the north live with their flocks and their black yak-hair tents. I felt fresh and rested, after having spent some time in the hospitable monasteries of Ladak, and now I looked forward to the uncharted solitudes of the land beyond the snow-covered mountain ranges that stretched between the upper reaches of the Indus and the Karakorum.

A pass of more than 18,000 feet lay ahead of us, and we followed a wide, slowly rising valley The sun, which for weeks without end had mercilessly beaten down upon the arid country, had been hidden behind dark clouds since the early hours of the morning, and a cold drizzling thin rain lashed with a thousand fine needles against our faces. Everything had suddenly taken on a sinister, threatening aspect, and the valley, leading up into the darkness of clouds and flanked by the rocky teeth of mountains whose peaks were lost in the gloomy vapours, appeared like the open mouth of a gigantic monster.

The two men who accompanied me seemed gripped by the same mood. Nobody spoke a word. Everybody was absorbed in his own thoughts, and even the horses were walking on mechanically in a dreamlike state. I felt rather uneasy when thinking of the coming night and the prospect of being caught in a blizzard while crossing the dreaded pass, one of the highest on our present journey.