144 ACROSS MONGOLIAN PLAINS 



daisies, buttercups, and cowslips converted the entire 

 valley into a vast "old-fashioned garden," radiantly 

 beautiful. Our camp that night was at the base of a 

 mountain called the Da Wat which shut us off from 

 the Terelche River. 



On the second morning, instead of golden sunshine, 

 we awoke to a cloud-hung sky and floods of rain. It 

 was one of those days when everything goes wrong; 

 when with all your heart you wish to swear but instead 

 you must smile and smile and keep on smiling. No one 

 wished to break camp in the icy deluge but there were 

 three marshes between us and the Terelche River which 

 were bad enough in dry weather. A few hours of rain 

 would make them impassable, perhaps for weeks. 



My wife and I look back upon that day and the next 

 as one of our few, real hardships. After eight hours 

 of killing work, wet to the skin and almost frozen, we 

 crossed the first dangerous swamp and reached the sum- 

 mit of the mountain. Then the cart, with our most val- 

 uable possessions, plunged off the road on a sharp de- 

 scent and crashed into the forest below. Chen and I 

 escaped death by a miracle and the other Chinese taxi- 

 dermist, who was safe and sound, promptly had hys- 

 terics. It was discouraging, to say the least. We 

 camped in the gathering darkness on a forty-five-de- 

 gree slope in mud twelve inches deep. Next day we 

 gathered up our scattered belongings, repaired the cart, 

 and reached the river. 



I had a letter from Duke Loobitsan Yangsen to a 

 famous old hunter, Tserin Dorchy by name, who lives 



