CHAPTER. XI 
THE WONDERFUL MEKONG 
Looxinc back as we rode up the valley on the follow- 
ing morning I quickly realised how it was that the forest 
stopped short here at 11,000 feet, for the low undulating 
hills offered no protection whatever to the fierce winds 
which sweep down from the high plateau and rush through 
the narrowing jaws of these valleys. Grass-land alone 
could withstand such a scourge, and even so the rib-like 
sills of harder rock stand out bare and barren on the 
steeper slopes. 
To the north the sky was as black as ink, and we had 
no sooner turned off westwards just above the village— 
the main road to Lhasa continuing northwards—than a 
drenching rain-storm was upon us. Several Tibetan horse- 
men, wearing long red cloaks of rich cloth and broad- 
brimmed felt hats with red crowns—altogether a quaint 
garb—passed us, but there was little traffic on the road. 
At length we reached the plateau-watershed, our direction 
being about S.S.W.; in the distance immense patches of 
blue indicated the brilliant Eritrichium, and JZeconopszs 
Wardiz was abundant. 
We had scarcely begun the descent of the richly-forested 
western slope than there burst upon us the most terrific 
rain-storm I have ever experienced either within or without 
the tropics. The noise made by this deluge was extra- 
ordinary; in an incredibly short space of time rivers were 
rolling down the hill side, the ponies could hardly keep 
their feet on the slippery turf, and we were all drenched to 
the skin and so numbed by the cold that I could with 
difficulty clutch the sodden reins in my swollen fingers. It 
was useless to seek shelter beneath the trees, for the wind 
drove the rain straight at us, but it was equally impossible 
