242 The Last of the Mekong 
Shweli. Not far to the south-west the T‘eng-yueh volcano 
was sharply outlined against the glowing sky, looking very 
real, as though it had been recalled to life and was itself 
reddening the wisps of cloud with the reflection of its 
incandescent rocks. Here too were ancient beds of lava, 
the freshly ploughed fields being coloured a rich ochre from 
the decomposition of iron-containing compounds. 
It was quite dark before we reached the scattered village 
of Chii-ch‘th, where we found shelter in a small house 
situated by the entrance to the chain suspension bridge 
over the western or main branch of the Shweli. Here a 
nice old man, who was a confirmed opium smoker but 
seemed hale and hearty in spite of his fifty years, made me 
welcome, prepared tea and a big fire, gave up his bed to 
me, and chatted away about T’‘eng-yueh and recent events. 
We were off again at daylight on the following morning 
and again without waiting for breakfast, crossing the river 
by the chain bridge, which was not much shorter than the 
bridge spanning the combined streams lower down, on the 
main road; a dense white mist hung over the valley and 
the air was as keen as a knife-blade. After ascending for 
an hour we reached some little flat pockets of cultivated 
land wedged in amongst low wooded hills, and stopped 
shortly afterwards at a village for breakfast, eating our meal 
in the open. To say that | was excited would be putting 
it mildly, for we were only a dozen miles from T‘eng-yueh, 
and leaving the men to finish their breakfast and pack at 
leisure, I hurried ahead. 
What did it matter now that I had just tramped three 
hundred miles; that my hair was long and unkempt, my 
face pinched and bearded; that my feet were sticking out 
of my boots, my riding breeches torn, my coat worn through 
at the elbows? What did it matter that I had not changed 
my clothes for three weeks, nor bathed, nor combed my 
hair? What did anything matter! In another hour I stood 
at the summit of the low pass which separates the Shweli 
basin from the T‘eng-yueh river and looked down on the 
charming little lake called Ch‘ing-hai, surrounded by wooded 
hills. I was across the last watershed. 
