of rough narrow zigzags, rarely, if ever, wide enough for laden
animals to pass each other, composed of broken ledges often nearly
breast high, and shelving surfaces of abraded rock, up which animals
have to leap and scramble as best they may.

Trees and trailers drooped over the path, ferns and lilies bloomed in
moist recesses, and among myriads of flowers a large blue and cream
columbine was conspicuous by its beauty and exquisite odour. The
charm of the detail tempted one to linger at every turn, and all the
more so because I knew that I should see nothing more of the grace
and bounteousness of Nature till my projected descent into Kulu in
the late autumn. The snow-filled gorge on whose abrupt side the path
hangs, the Zoji La (Pass), is geographically remarkable as being the
lowest depression in the great Himalayan range for 300 miles; and by
it, in spite of infamous bits of road on the Sind and Suru rivers,
and consequent losses of goods and animals, all the traffic of
Kashmir, Afghanistan, and the Western Panjab finds its way into
Central Asia. It was too early in the season, however, for more than
a few enterprising caravans to be on the road.

The last look upon Kashmir was a lingering one. Below, in shadow,
lay the Baltal camping-ground, a lonely deodar-belted flowery meadow,
noisy with the dash of icy torrents tumbling down from the snowfields
and glaciers upborne by the gigantic mountain range into which we had
penetrated by the Zoji Pass. The valley, lying in shadow at their
base, was a dream of beauty, green as an English lawn, starred with
white lilies, and dotted with clumps of trees which were festooned
with red and white roses, clematis, and white jasmine. Above the
hardier deciduous trees appeared the Pinus excelsa, the silver fir,
and the spruce; higher yet the stately grace of the deodar clothed