The first part of our day’s work was easy enough.  The sun was still hidden from us behind the mountain flange on our left; the snow patches on the sky-line ahead seemed comparatively near, and the diabolical swiftness of the shikari’s stealthy walk was yet to be fully realised.

Up and up we went, first through a thick scrub or jungle of a highly prickly description, over a few small streams, then out upon a grassy ridge, up which we slowly panted.  The gradient became sharper, and I began to feel a little anxious about Jane, as the short, brown grass was slippery with frost—­a slip would be very easy, and the results unpleasant.  However, with the able assistance of the shikari, she did very well, and, having crossed a shelving patch of snow by cutting steps with our khudstick, we found ourselves, after an hour and a half’s stiff climbing, on the sky-line of the ridge that had seemed but an easy stroll from below.  The heights and distances are most deceptive, partly on account of the crystal clearness of the air, and partly because of the magnitude of everything in proportion.  The mountains are not only high themselves, but their spurs and foothills would rank as able-bodied mountains were they not dwarfed by peaks which average 15,000 feet in height above the sea.  The pines which clothe their sides, the chenars and poplars in the valley, are all enormous when compared with their European cousins.

The view was most remarkable as we gained the crest of the ridge—­a sea of white cloud came boiling up from the valley to the east, and, pouring over the saddle upon which we stood, gave only occasional glimpses of snow and pine and precipice above, or the glint of water in the rice-fields far below.  Once, between the swirling cloud masses, the near hills lay clear in the sunshine for a few moments and revealed a party of five bara singh hinds, crossing the slope in front of us, and not more than 150 yards away.  Alas! there was no stag.

This was not satisfactory weather for stalking.  However I was hopeful, as I have noticed that in the fine forenoons a thick white belt of cloud often forms about the snow level—­roughly, some 8000 feet above the sea, or 3000 above the Wular Lake—­and hangs there for an hour or two, to disappear entirely by midday.  And so it came about to-day; after a halt for tiffin, I set forward in brilliant sunshine, while Jane remained quietly perched on the hillside, as the shikari said the road was not good for a lady.  The shikari was right, as, within ten minutes of starting, we had to drop from the crest of the ridge to circumvent a big rock which barred our way, to find ourselves confronted by a very unpleasant-looking slope of short brown grass, which fell away at an angle of about 50 deg. to what seemed an endless depth.  This grass, having only just become emancipated from its winter snow, had all its hair—­so to speak—­brushed straight down, and there was mighty little stuff to hold on to!  Carefully digging little holes with our khudsticks, and not disdaining the help of my shikari, I got across, and thankfully scrambled back to the safety of the ridge.