In 1920, Henry Thompson, an Alberta newspaperman, began interviewing 87-year-old Peter Erasmus, who lived near him in the area of Whitefish Lake, Alberta. Erasmus, who had been born in 1833 in the Red River settlement of what is now Manitoba, told him his life story, an account later published in book form by the Glenbow Institute as Buffalo Days and Nights, by Peter Erasmus as told to Henry Thompson.
(It’s not an easy book to find in print. You can obtain a copy from McNally Robinson, in Winnipeg.)
Erasmus’s life covered a period of radical change in the northern prairies of what is today Alberta. When he was born, this area was dominated by the bison-hunting cultures of the Cree and Blackfoot, with the isolated Hudson Bay Company post at Fort Edmonton (in what the HBC thought of as “Rupert’s Land”) holding an absolute monopoly over doing business with them. By the time of his death in 1931, it was fenced, plowed and gridded with roads, a province called Alberta in a country called Canada. The population was dominated by Euro-Canadian settlers and their descendants, while the indigenous people were corralled into a reserve system.
Erasmus was Métis (his father was a Dane and his mother was a Cree) and he had a genius for languages. He spoke Swampy and Plains Cree, Ojibway, English, Blackfoot and Stoney (Assiniboine), not to mention the Ancient Greek he had also studied as part of a half-hearted attempt to become a minister. At the age of twenty-four he was hired as the interpreter for a missionary based in Pigeon Lake, southwest of Fort Edmonton. Travelling with voyageurs going up the North Saskatchewan river in boats, it took Erasmus weeks to get there in the summer of 1856.
He had excellent rapport with the Plains Cree, and worked for a series of prominent missionaries over the years: the Reverend Henry Bird Steinhauer, (another Métis, operating a mission at Whitefish Lake), and John and George McDougall. He also worked for the Palliser Expedition, sent from Britain to survey the southern Plains in 1858-1860. Erasmus’s accounts of the tactics used while hunting bison are compelling and extraordinary.
Several processes converged to end this era. The number of bison declined sharply due to over-hunting, a phenomenon for which the Americans were frequently blamed. In 1870 the new nation of Canada asserted control over Rupert’s Land, and the number of settlers moving west began to increase. The government of Canada anticipated that the indigenous nations of the plains would have to become farmers in order to survive, and signed a series of treaties with them to bring this about. In 1876 Erasmus was hired by two prominent Cree chiefs, Mista-wa-sis (Big Child) and Ah-tuk-a-kup (Star Blanket), to interpret during negotiations for what is today known as Treaty Six.
In his later years, Erasmus worked as an independent trader, a fur buyer, a government agent and as a farmer.
Many of the places mentioned in his account still have the same names today, such as Lac Ste. Anne, Whitefish Lake and the North Saskatchewan River. There’s no need for a special map for these. But other places, such as Jasper House, the Victoria Mission, and the location of Fort Edmonton within the modern city of Edmonton, are historic locations that do not show up on most maps. It’s also quite remarkable to contemplate that where the present-day town of Vegreville sits, Erasmus hunted buffalo in 1871.
I’m wrapping up my work on Gottfried Merzbacher—a sort of back-burner project that’s been active and then dormant, on and off, for about seven years. It’s been a pleasure to learn about places like the Bayumkol valley, the relationship between the Saryzhaz and Kum-erik Rivers, and the placement of peaks around the head of the amazingly long Enylchek Glacier. This geography, while not unknown to residents of the Kyrgyz Republic or the Chinese province of Xinjiang, is downright obscure for North Americans—except perhaps among mountaineers and specialist geographers—so it’s been exotic and, during the COVID-19 epidemic, a pleasant way to spend my additional time.
I first discovered Mr. Merzbacher when I encountered a satellite photo of Lake Merzbacher. It might have been one of those puzzles where someone shows you a bit of a satellite image and you have to figure out where it is. This is a lake on a glacier in Kyrgyzstan that comes and goes according to how the ice impedes the flow of meltwater. Some years it’s there, and some years it’s not.
The lake is named for the German geologist, Gottfired Merzbacher, who first described it in the European press when he returned in 1904 from a two-year expedition in the Tian-Shan mountains. He had been there, trekking through alpine valleys, over passes, and up and down glaciers, to answer a deceptively simple geographic question: “Where the hell is the base of Khan Tengri?”
Khan Tengri is a major world peak. Its name means “Lord of the Sky” in Kyrgyz, and at 7010 metres, it rises above the centre of the Tian Shan range, towering over nearby summits, and is distinctively visible from great distances. Yet only a hundred years ago the location of its base was a mystery, because Khan Tengri had the frustratingly elusive property of disappearing from view as one entered the range.
Did Khan-Tengri rise at the spot, where in the forty-verst map and in all other maps, it is represented, its pyramid must inevitably have been seen from our standpoint. All we learned by our excursion was therefore only the confirmation of the opinion, previously suggested, namely, that in this cardinal point the maps were all of them at fault. The task therefore devolved on us to determine the actual situation of Khan-Tengri. [Merzbacher, pp. 17-18]
In the summer of the second year, in a complex maze of steep walled valleys, he finally stood at the foot of Khan Tengri.
We had now been traversing the icefield for nearly five hours at high speed ; the enclosing escarpments began to fall away; the lateral glacial valleys grew shorter, broader, mostly rounded off at their heads, and still the dark bluff mysteriously concealed the riddle of Khan- Tengri from our prying eyes. Then, suddenly, something white began to assume prominence behind the black edge of the promontory — nothing yet very conspicuous, but with every step forward the white object grew bigger and bigger. A fine snowy summit, glittering in the sun, appeared aloft, colossal white marble buttresses projecting from it ; a few steps farther, and a huge pyramid stood out freely, its base also soon coming into view. The giant mountain, the monarch of the Tian-Shan, revealed himself to my enraptured gaze in all his naked majesty, from his feet, rooted in the glacier ice, up to his crown, wrapt in sunlit shifting mists. Nothing whatever intervened to conceal any part of the so long mysteriously masked base of the mountain. I found myself standing close to its southern foot, and contemplated in wonder, with amazed and searching glance, the sublime spectacle. The strain of the last few weeks, which had at last grown almost unbearable, was relieved in an instant ; the goal had been reached, which I had eagerly struggled for with all the strength of mind and will. My feelings at that moment baffled all description. [pp. 207-8]
Merzbacher told of these adventures in his 1904 book, Forschungsreise in den zentralen Tian-Sehan, which was translated into English and published in London the following year as The Central Tian-Shan Mountains, 1902-3. Although it sounds dry and technical, it is a delightful read, especially if you happen to enjoy a bit of geologic observation thrown in with your travelogue.
The downward route from Narynkol through the Tekes valley leads through one of the best-defined basins of the old frontal lakes which formerly lay at the base of the mountain range. On the southern border the outlines of the old terraced beaches have been excellently preserved. At the wide entrance to the Musart valley beds of fluvioglacial deposit form five ancient terraces, and for several miles, follow the course of the valley as longitudinal banks, nearly up to the foot of the mountain mass. (p. 82)
Yes, it’s a bit like travelling with Professor Calculus from Tin-Tin. Merzbacher also has an endearing and obtuse fussiness about logistics that probably made him a bit difficult to live with.
This mound of detritus necessarily makes the exploration of the lower section of the glacier extremely toilsome and fatiguing. In a day’s march one can cover only a few miles. Being unmindful of this circumstance, and also unprepared for the vast dimensions of the glacier from the hitherto published reports of its magnitude, and moreover unaware that at this season the valley is not even visited by the nomad Kirghiz, I had not brought sufficient supplies to meet the wants of the party for eight or ten days, the minimum of the time, required for profitable work on the glacier. The number of porters was also insufficient for such undertakings, while these fellows themselves struck work at critical moments, and broke out into open revolt against me. Under such circumstances I was fain to confine myself to a short excursion in the region of ice. [p. 73]
However imperial all this sounds, Merzbacher distinguishes himself from other contemporary explorers in that not a single person or animal dies on his Central Asian expedition. (Sven Hedin, in contrast, loses all his men and camels just a decade later).
To follow Merzbacher’s journey, though, is a little bit tricky. He is intimately familiar with this part of Central Asia, and assumes his readers are as well. He sets off from Przhevalsk (the book begins with the sentence, “A serious drawback to the progress of our expedition was the delay for nearly a week of the arrival of our luggage at Przhevalsk…”), and we immediately reach for the atlas to find out where that is. And we have trouble, because Przhevalsk, the main town at the east end of Lake Issyk-Kul in Kyrgyzstan, has been renamed to Karakol.
The map Merzbacher includes in his book is not very detailed, and of course uses these older names. (It also, understandably, contains a few errors that today we can easily see with the help of satellite images.) So we need a better map. Being a superb observer and detail-oriented, Merzbacher gives us the names of many small valleys, passes and plateaux. It’s not easy to find maps that show where these features are today. His transcriptions of Kyrgyz and Turki names (Kyrgyz being spoken on the north side of the Tian Shan range, and Turki, or Uyghur, being spoken on the south side) are often different from those used today. So a little detective work is needed, a little linguistic knowledge, and a pile of maps from the last century.
As well, Merzbacher is not your casual travel writer who mentions the names of some landmarks and towns. Merzbacher is there to map, and he describes everything: every ridge, river, plateau, mountain, lake, glacier and pass. This makes it easier to follow where he went, but the number of named places in the end is much larger.
Although he was 60 years old, Merzbacher covered a ridiculous amount of ground in two years. Keeping up with his team, which included Austrian mountain guides, would have been a challenge. Not only does he explore all of the glaciers that seem to lead up to Khan Tengri, but he then crosses over into China and surveys the mountain ranges and basins on the north side of the Tarim Basin. His goal is nothing short of a complete understanding of the geology of the central Tian-Shan.
From Ya-Hu to Hami, we can see that Younghusband now has to turn south, as his own map shows.
The journey takes from June 23rd to July 4th, or twelve days. His mapmaker places Ula Khutun almost halfway from Ya-hu to Hami, but I think this is likely wrong, as Younghusband tells us he arrives in Ula Khutun only two days after reaching Ya-hu.
On June 25 we reached Ula-khutun, where the road to Hami leaves the road to Guchen. It is merely a camping-ground, situated in a stony plain, surrounded by low mounds or heaps of gravel, at the southern base of a branch from the main range of the Altai Mountains, from which it is separated by a gravelly plain about twenty miles in width—the extension westward of the same plain in which Ya-hu is situated. The height of this southern ridge must be considerable, for a heavy snowstorm was falling on it even so late in the year as this (June 25), and the snow seemed to remain there.
After Ula Khutun, Younghusband reports one more day of travel through “low hills” before they begin the arduous crossing of the “desert of Zungaria” on the 27th. For these reasons (plus the fact that Younghusband says Ula Khutun is in a westward extension of the same plain as Ya-hu is in) I think it makes sense to provisionally place Ula Khutun as shown below. The only additional evidence for this (there is nothing on any map I have found that contains anything remotely like the word “Khutun”) is that what I have shown as the route to Guchen is also the present day road.
Younghusband gives no indication of what route he took from Ya-hu to Ula Khutun, so that must be regarded as hypothetical as well.
On the days of June 27–29, Younghusband gives us an uncharacteristically long paragraph describing crossing the desert of Zungaria. I have added emphasis to certain phrases within the quote to highlight the important landmarks.
Our next march, however, was the most trying of all, for we had to cross the branch of the Gobi which is called the desert of Zungaria, one of the most absolutely sterile parts of the whole Gobi. We started at eleven in the morning, passing at first through the low hills, which were perfectly barren, but the hollows had a few tufts of bushes, and one hollow was filled with white roses. After seven and a half miles we left the hills, and entered a gravel plain covered with coarse bushes, but no grass. There was no path, and we headed straight for the end of the Tian-shan range. After passing over the plain for fifteen miles, we struck a path and followed it along till 1.3o p.m., when we halted to cook some food and rest the camels. It was of no use pitching camp, for there was neither water, fuel, nor grass ; not a bush, nor a plant, nor a blade of grass—absolutely nothing but gravel. I lay down on the ground and slept till Liu-san brought me some soup and tinned beef. We started again [June 28th] at 4 a.m., and marched till 3.15 p.m. through the most desolate country I have ever seen. Nothing we have passed hitherto can compare with it —a succession of gravel ranges without any sign of life, animal or vegetable, and not a drop of water. We were gradually descending to a very low level, the sun was getting higher and higher, and the wind hotter and hotter, until I shrank from it as from the blast of a furnace. Only the hot winds of the Punjab can be likened to it. Fortunately we still had some water in the casks, brought from our last camping-ground, and we had some bread, so we were not on our last legs; but it was a trying enough march for the men, and much more so for the camels, for they had nothing to eat or drink, and the heat both days was extreme. We at last reached a well among some trees. The guide called the distance two hundred and thirty li, and I reckon it at about seventy miles. We were twenty-seven hours and three-quarters from camp, including the halt of four and a half hours. We had descended nearly four thousand feet, and the heat down here was very much greater than we had yet experienced. We were encamped on the dry bed of a river, on the skirts of what looked like a regular park—the country being covered with trees, and the ground with long coarse grass. It was most striking, as on the other bank of the river there was not a vestige of vegetation.
Although the region of Dzungaria (Younghusband’s “Zungaria”) is 350 miles to the northwest, Soviet topographic maps agree in calling the arid basin between the Altai mountains and the extreme east end of the Tian Shan the the “Dzungarian Gobi” (Джунгарская гоби).
“Gobi,” is discussed by Owen Lattimore in a 1973 article as the Mongolian term for “a land of thin herbage, more suitable for camels than for cows, but capable also, if herds are kept small and moved frequently, of sustaining horses, sheep, and goats.” However Younghusband’s repeated emphasis on the barrenness of the area (“absolutely sterile,” “the most desolate country I have ever seen,” “neither water, fuel, nor grass; not a bush, nor a plant, nor a blade of grass—absolutely nothing but gravel”) indicates what a formidable crossing this is. The DEM shows it as essentially a big hole, with the very eastern end of the Tian Shan on the south side.
Incidentally, one doesn’t usually find the mountains adjacent to Hami labelled as being part of the Tian Shan. The Tian Shan (sometimes written Tien Shan) are a major range of central Asia, but the name is usually found running just from Kyrgyzstan (on the west end) to the Turfan Depression (on the east end).
However, occasionally you do find a map extending the Tian Shan all the way to Hami, which is clearly how Younghusband sees it.
Now, we don’t know exactly where the party entered the Dzungarian Gobi, but we do know that after fifteen miles of heading “straight for the end of the Tian-shan range” they struck a path, which then presumably led them in a less straight line to the next landmark: a well, among trees, 4000 feet lower (1200 metres) than where they started. It is now the afternoon of June 28th.
It’s a fair bet that the elevation of the place they left the hills on the 27th was close to 1500 metres elevation, as shown by the map below. The lowest area in the Dzungarian Gobi is at about 400 metres, so this roughly agrees with Younghusband’s “We had descended nearly four thousand feet.”
Today there is a settlement in the bottom of this arid depression named Naomaohu. In satellite imagery it really jumps out in this desert because of its green fields, which presumably rely on extensive irrigation from pumped groundwater. Yet outside of town, here in the bottom of the basin there are not only scattered trees occurring naturally, but also, Google tells us, the “Yiwu Naomaohu Populus Forest Ecological Garden Scenic Area (伊吾淖毛湖胡杨林生态园景区).” Populus is the genus of cottonwoods and aspen, and the special designation as a scenic area suggests that trees are, well, special in this area.
But, to be fair, the extent of trees in this bottomland goes on for some distance, so we can’t know exactly where the party spent the night of the 28th.
From here, on June 29th, they begin to ascend and pass by a remarkable house.
…we had to start at 1:30 in the afternoon, and march till three the next morning.
For nearly two miles we passed through a country well covered with trees, and patches of coarse grass and bushes. The soil was partly clay and partly sand. This ended as suddenly as it had begun, and we passed over the gravel desert again, where there was no vestige of grass or scrub. The hot wind blowing off this seemed absolutely to scorch one up; but yesterday’s order of things were now reversed—we were ascending while the sun was descending, and it gradually became cooler. About ten at night we suddenly found ourselves going over turf, with bushes and trees on either side, and a shrill clear voice hailed us from the distance. We halted, and the guide answered, and the stranger came up and turned out to be a Turki woman, who led us through the bushes over some cultivated ground to a house, the first I had seen for nearly a thousand miles… Flowing by the house was a little stream of the most delicious water. It was scarcely a yard broad, but it was not a mere trickle like the others we had passed in the Gobi, but was flowing rapidly, with a delightful gurgling noise, and was deep enough for me to scoop up water between my two hands.
This water occurs only here, however, and it is two more hours across gravel to a distinctive gorge.
…hardly fifty yards from the stream the vegetation disappeared, and we were again on gravel desert, and we had still to travel for five hours, gradually ascending as before—at twelve passing through a gorge two and a half miles long, in a range of little hills running parallel to the slope. We halted as the day was dawning, on a part of the slope where there was enough scrub for fuel and for the animals to eat. No water.
At dawn on June 30th they are about three hours beyond the gorge.
There’s only one “gorge two and a half miles long, in a range of little hills running parallel to the slope.” Today the the road from Naomaohu to Hami goes through it.
The house with the trickling stream that they encountered two hours before the gorge should be, given their typical rate of travel, about four miles before it. There are several candidates of small, isolated areas with intense vegetation growth in the middle of the gravel plain that leads up towards the gorge. These can be seen on images taken by the Sentinel-2 satellite, using its “NDVI” band combination, which causes vegetation to jump out as green.
The leftmost site appears to be irrigated by a ditch coming from the gorge, so it perhaps did not exist in 1887. The centre and rightmost sites both have many trees and are equally good candidates. The dotted red line indicates possible travel from the present-day site of Naomaohu, but Younghusband’s party could easily have crossed the bottom of the depression further east, putting these sites on a line with the mouth of the gorge.
On June 30th they continue to somewhere called Morgai.
Next day we continued to ascend the long lower slopes of the Tian-shan, gradually rounding the eastern extremity of these mountains. We passed a cart-track leading from Barkul to Hami, which makes this detour round the Tian-shan to avoid crossing them. The going was bad on account of the stones, and because the whole slope was cut up by dry watercourses. These were seldom more than a foot deep, but the slope was covered with them. They were formed by the natural drainage from the mountains, which, instead of running in deep valleys, spreads over the slope. The whole country was still barren, being covered with scrub only; but in the depression at the foot of the slope was a small Turki village, surrounded with trees and cultivation.
That night we encamped near a Turki house called Morgai, surrounded with fields of wheat and rice, watered from a small stream which appeared above the surface just here, and which, lower down, spread out and was swallowed in the pebbly slopes of the mountain.
The pass that they will cross the next day to Ching-cheng is fairly obvious (again, a road runs through it today), so we can feel pretty confident that on this day they work their way southeast and across the slope to the northern end of the pass. They would not gain much elevation as they traverse to the top of the debris fan issuing from the mountains.
Google Hybrid shows a small settlement bearing the Chinese name of Shangmaya at this site, but the Soviet 1:500,000 scale map from 1985 (K-46-2) shows “разв. Могой [razv. Mogoi], meaning “the развалины [razvaliny]” i.e., ruins “of Mogoi.” This, I think we can feel fairly confident, is Morgai.
The next day, July 1st, they cross the east end of the Tian-shan.
Starting early, we ascended the stream, but it soon disappeared again, and we saw nothing more of it. The hillsides were at first rather bare, but the higher we got the greener they became; and after five or six miles were covered with rich green turf, most delightful to look upon after the bare hills of the Gobi; while here and there through an opening in the hills we could catch a glimpse of the snowy peaks above. There are, however, no trees nor even bushes, either on the hills or in the valleys… We crossed the range at a height of eight thousand feet [2400 m]. Except the last half-mile the ascent was not steep, but led gradually up a narrow valley. The last mile or two was over soft green turf, and near the summit there was a perfect mass of flowers, chiefly forget-me-nots; and I am sure I shall not forget for a very long time the pleasure it was, seeing all this rich profusion of flowers and grass, in place of those dreary gravel slopes of the Gobi Desert.
…a curious characteristic of these hills is that there is absolutely no water. For twelve miles from Morgai to the summit of the pass we had not seen a drop of water… Five miles on the southern side a small stream appeared, and the valley bottom was partitioned off into fields, round which irrigation ducts had been led ; but these were all now deserted, and the water was wasted in flowing over uncultivated fields. Trees now began to appear near the stream, and at 11:10 p.m. we pitched camp on a little grassy plot near a stream of cold clear water, and under a small grove of trees.
The pass (summit elevation 2580 metres, or 8450 feet) is just twelve miles of ascent from Morgai. Five miles down on the south side, water indeed appears, in the form of irrigated fields today.
The next day is July 2nd, and the presence of “July 22” in the text is surely a misprint.
On July 22 we passed a small square-walled town called Ching-cheng, surrounded by fields of wheat and some good grass land, but when these ended the desert began again directly.
Ching-cheng is easy to locate even on Google Terrain, where it shows up as Qinchengxiang. (Xiang is a Chinese word for township.)
A long way off over the desert we could see a couple of poplar trees rising out of the plain. These poplars are very common all over Chinese Turkestan, and they make excellent landmarks. We reached these at twelve at night, and found a few soldiers stationed there, who said that Hami was still a long way off. Now, as my constant inquiry for the last month had been, ” How far are we from Hami?” and as the guide for the last few days had each time said we were only sixty miles off, I was rather exasperated to find that, instead of having ten or twenty miles more to get over, there was still a good fifty.
Consequently in the map above I have placed them, at the end of July 2nd at a line of poplars, fifty miles out of Hami.
Two days later it is not entirely with good grace that Younghusband reaches the end of the first leg of his journey.
So on striking camp at two the following afternoon [July 3rd], I told my men that my tent would not be pitched again till Hami was reached, so they had better prepare themselves for a good march. We travelled on all through the afternoon—a particularly hot one; then the sun set before us, and still we went on and on through the night till it rose again behind us.
We halted for a couple of hours by the roadside to ease the camels, and then set out again. At eight o’clock [July 4th] the desert ended, and we began to pass through cultivated land, and at last we saw Hami in the distance, and after traversing a tract of country covered with more ruined than inhabited houses, we reached an inn at 11 a.m., and it was with unspeakable relief that I dismounted from my camel for the last time.
To wrap up, let’s look now at the full route from Peking to Hami.
A solid line on this map indicates the portions of the route I’m confident about, and a dotted line indicates the parts that seem right but we can’t really be sure.
This would be a very interesting route to re-create today, although the way it crosses from China into Mongolia and back at remote places might make it politically challenging to do so.
From here to the Ya-hu oasis (which Younghusband reaches on June 23rd) the route is obscure, and we find old maps less useful. We have to rely more upon comparing his route description with images of the landscape. Let’s work backwards from Ya-hu, which he describes quite precisely.
The name of this oasis is Ya-hu. It is about five miles in extent from west to east, and rather more from north to south. Some twelve miles to the west is a remarkable hill, called by the guide Ho-ya-shan. It rises very abruptly out of the plain to a height of about two thousand feet, and is a perfectly solid mass of rock of a light colour.
Satellite imagery reveals an area of outcropping surface water of about the right dimensions some 300 miles to the northwest of the Hun-kua-ling sandhills. Geonames.org identifies a populated place there called Dzahuy, for which Ya-hu is a reasonable misunderstanding, and Google Terrain has a community about 10 km away called Zakhui, more or less where the Soviet map L-47-3 places a settlement labelled Бригада Дзахуйн [Brigada Dzakhuyn]. There is a distinctive peak to the west, which geonames calls Hatan Hayrhan, the Soviets labelled as Хатин-Хайрхан [Khatin-Khayrkhan] and Google Terrain calls Eej Khairkhan.
You can see Ho-ya-shan, rising “abruptly out of the plain,” quite well in Google Earth.
We can feel confident about the location of the Ya-hu oasis, but how does Younghusband get here over the next fifteen days? Looking at the DEM, the route appears straightforward.
However, there are a few indications that he might not have taken this shortest, lowest route. One is that, about a third of the way along, Younghusband describes himself as going “west-by-south,” which the shortest, lowest route route doesn’t really do. Another is that the Soviet topographic maps don’t show tracks or trails (which they are usually quite thorough about) along the route of travel in the eastern half this corridor. Finally, Younghusband’s own map, in this section, shows him continuing northwest after the Hun-kua-ling, and passing north of a range of mountains as he visits “Man-chin-tol” and “Liang-ko-ba,” before returning to the big valley that leads to Ya-hu.
I would propose the following route, suggested by Younghusband’s map, but also supported by landscape features he describes along the way.
Let’s start on the day he leaves the end of the Hun-kua-ling, probably on June 8th.
After passing the end of the sand-range, we entered a country different from any we had yet gone through. In origin it was probably a plain of sand, but the wind’s action has broken it up into sandhills and depressions, making up a scene which, for its extreme wildness and desolation, surpasses anything I have ever seen.
There is just such terrain off the west end of the sand dunes, as shown in a Google Earth view looking back southeast at the Hun-kua-ling.
On the travel day of June 9th…
an hour later reached the dry bed of a river flowing south, one hundred feet below the camp, and the lowest point I have yet reached in the Gobi (probably two thousand eight hundred feet).
No place in the local area is actually this low (853 metres) but there is a distinctive dry riverbed running south at an elevation of 1045 metres with low hills before and after it. (see below in Google Earth looking northwest.)
Two days later they come to a large encampment…
on the 11th we reached a large Mongol encampment named Man-chin-tol, in a plain at the foot of the first spurs of the Altai Mountains… Water was plentiful, being found in small pools all over the plain. It had, however, a brackish taste, and there was soda efflorescence on the margin of the pools.
It is hard to say which hills Younghusband would have meant by the “first spurs” of the Altai, and there is nothing like “Man-chin-tol” on any map I have found. However, the oasis of Hatansuudal (called Khatansuudal / Хатансуудал on Google Terrain) is in roughly the right place, provides surface water and is in a plain abutting some spurs of the Altai. The same can be said of the wet area about ten miles southeast of it. Here are both sites, looking west in Google Earth.
Incidentally, Google Translate tells us that tal (тал) is the Mongolian word for valley.
On June 13th (two more days later) Younghusband gives some specific observations on distances to landmarks, as well as his direction of travel…
To the north, at a distance of twenty-five miles, are the Altai Mountains, rising to about nine thousand feet above the sea. …We started at 3.45, and passed over a gravel plain in a west-by-south direction. This plain is bounded on the south by a range at a distance of about eight miles. The range runs in a general easterly by westerly direction, and is about six hundred feet high on the average.
These distances (25 miles north, 8 miles south) are generally true along the entire trek going west-southwest from Hatansuudal, if we assume that by “the Altai Mountains” he here means the mass of Tergun Bogd, which at 3900 metres (almost 13,000 feet) is the highest peak in the Altai Mountains; and by the range that “runs in a general easterly by westerly direction” he means the distinctive, dark-coloured ridge which rises to 2086 metres (= 6800 feet) south of his presumed route.
At the end of the day on the 14th …
We camped at 11.35 at Liang-ko-ba, a collection of four Mongol yurts on the plain, round a patch of green.
I cannot find a specific place called Liang-ko-ba, so we must assume he is continuing west, paralleling the main chain of the Altai
On the 15th…
We started at 4:40, and still passed over gravelly plain, keeping along the edge of a low range of hills parallel to the road on the right.
A low range of hills does occur roughly where we would expect Younghusband to be at this point, although to be fair there are many such low ranges of hills in the area.
Finally, on the morning of the 16th Younghusband climbs a hill and gives us measurements of features he sees, with specific bearings to them.
In the morning I climbed a hill and had a fine view of the country round for about eighty miles in every direction. The main range of the Altai Mountains is not at all of a uniform height, but, on the contrary, consists of distinct high ridges connected by lower hills. To the eastward I could see the snow-capped ridge which forms the butt end of the Altai Mountains. It is about twenty-five miles in length, and north-west of it is a second ridge, which also had some slight snow on it. In the space between the two ridges—fifty or sixty miles—is a succession of lower hills, rising about one thousand feet above the plain. The two ridges rise abrupt and clear from the surrounding hills. Between my route and the Altai Mountains is a succession of low, narrow ridges with intervening plains running in a southeasterly direction. … To the south the same succession of ridges and plains extends. The ridges are from three hundred to five hundred feet in height, and five or six miles apart.
We should be able to figure out where Younghusband was standing, and there are two locations that fit the description.
The “butt end of the Altai Mountains,” with the “second ridge” to its northwest, can only be Tergun Bogd (which is indeed 25 miles long) and Bayan Tsagan Nuru. The two are indeed separated by fifty miles, and connected by a “succession of lower hills.” If we take Younghusband’s bearing of “to the eastward” literally, then he needs to be at the point above labelled “Best viewpoint suggested by bearings,” a place where Tergun Bodg is truly east of him. To have come this far north, however, he would have travelled much closer to Tergun Bogd than the 25 miles he reported on the 13th. The other point, (“Best viewpoint suggested by route so far”) seems like a reasonable alternative.
His other observation, that between him and the Altai Mountains are a “succession of low, narrow ridges with intervening plains running in a southeasterly direction” suggests this second location as well.
During travel that day…
… we followed down the gravelly bed of a stream which appeared occasionally in a small trickle above the surface, and the margin of which was covered thickly with the soda efflorescence which seems invariably to mark the presence of water in the Gobi.
On the 17th we emerged from the hills again, on to another great plain running between two parallel ranges of bare hills.
There are many possible candidates for the “gravelly bed of a stream,” but there is one major one that could bring the party out into the large plain to the south.
From here the travel to Ya-hu is straight northwest along this plain.
They lose a day of travel due to mud, and on June 20th Younghusband notes the heights of the ranges on either side.
We started the next morning, and for a few days continued along the plain between the two parallel ranges, that to the north rising some one thousand five hundred feet [450 metres], and the one to the south about eight hundred feet [250 metres] above the plain.
The area where I place Younghusband agrees with this observation in that the southern range is lower than the northern, but it does not agree with his estimates of height, the northern range actually being closer to 800 metres above the plain and the southern 400 metres.
Comparing this with Younghusband’s estimate of the elevation of Tergun Bogd a few days earlier, it seems fair to observe that he is consistently underestimating the height of features. This is hardly surprising for a 24-year-old in an unfamiliar environment; and indeed approaching the Hurku Hills, he wrote, “We can realize how deceptive the distances are here. Some days ago we first saw this range, and I thought that we should reach it at the end of that march, but we have taken four days to do so.”
On the 23rd they arrive at the Ya-hu oasis, as quoted at the top of this page.
On the 13th we passed through some low hills, and then descended a valley in which were some gnarled and stunted elm trees, the first trees I have seen in Mongolia. They were about thirty feet high, and evidently very old. We then passed over a sandy, barren waste, the beginning of the Galpin Gobi, the very worst part of the whole desert.
(p. 89, 13-May-1887)
Three pages later Younghusband will write:
The Galpin Gobi, where I crossed it to the Hurku Hills, could be seen extending as far as the eye could reach to the N.E. Where Prjevalsky crossed it its width was eighteen miles only, and it was 3570 feet above the sea. The Mongols there told him that it extended to the east and to the west for twenty days’ march. It forms a marked depression in the great Mongolian plateau, and is a distinct dividing-line between the Altai and the In-shan mountain systems, for I will show presently that the Hurku Hills may be regarded as the prolongation of the former mountains.
It’s clear that the Galpin Gobi is a depression of some length, and that to figure out where Younghusband is heading we need to also locate the large-scale feature of the Altai Mountains, plus the local feature of the Hurku Hills.
One again the 1922 Times Atlas comes in handy. Here we have the Galpin Gobi showing up as the Galbyn-Gobi, and the Hurku Hills as the Khurkha Range. (I might note that KH and H seem to be freely equivalent in transliterations of Mongolian names.)
Some version of the name “Galpin Gobi” also appears on other maps, albeit in slightly different places. Bearing in mind Younghusband’s description of the Galpin Gobi as forming “a marked depression in the great Mongolian plateau,” it’s illuminating to see that although these maps don’t place their versions of the words “Galpin Gobi” in the same place, they do all place them in the same depression visible on a digital elevation model (DEM).
It’s also good to look again at the map which accompanied Przhevalsky’s book, Mongolia, in its English edition. Przhevalsky made his journey through this area in 1873, twelve years before Younghusband, and for the 1876 English translation the publisher (Sampson Low, Marston, Searle & Rivington) had a new map executed. This was probably the most recent map of the area Younghusband had seen.
Przhevalskiy crossed the Galpin Gobi on a North–South line, and there on his map are the “Hurku Mts” and “Bortson Spr” (which Younghusband will shortly mention), as well as a note that here Przhevalsky crossed a Trade route from Peking to Hami, Urumchi & Ili, via Kuku Khoto & Bautu—the very trade route Younghusband is on.
So we can feel confident that this depression between the Lang Shan on the south east and the Hurka Hills to the northwest is the feature known as the Galpin Gobi.
Now, if we back out, we can see both the Galpin Gobi and the Altai Mountains, a major feature that dominates southwestern Mongolia.
As a reference for the Altai Mountains, we can go to this 1967 Soviet Atlas.
If we copy that label onto Google Terrain it would show up like this:
The Hurku Hills are, as Younghusband argues, a prolongation of the Altai mountains to the southeast. But the name Hurku only turns up, in various forms, on the extreme southeast end of this prolongation. The rest of it has other names; Younghusband is the only one who thinks of the whole thing as the Hurku Hills.
Here we can see the “Hurha Uula” (уул [uul] is the Mongolian word for a mountain) on the IMW sheet K-48, and we can see the хребет [khrebet] (mountain range) хурхэ-ула [khurkhe-ula] on the Soviet 1:500,000 scale K-48-3.
On neither map does the labelled range extend very far northwest, whereas on Younghusband’s map the “Hurka Hills” go all the way up to meet the Altai.
So, with the Galpin Gobi, Hurku Hills and Altai Mountains all located relative to one another, let’s go back to Younghusband on May 19th as he reaches the west side of the Galpin Gobi.
we pushed on for the next well, gradually ascending the range, which I now found to be the eastern extremity of the Hurku Hills, the highest part of which was 700 feet above the plain, the track crossing it at 630 feet. We can realize how deceptive the distances are here. Some days ago we first saw this range, and I thought that we should reach it at the end of that march, but we have taken four days to do so. We passed over a plateau at the top of the range for three and a half miles, and then descended very gradually to the plain again, camping at 7:10 p.m. near a well.
We can visualize this by zooming in on the southernmost point of the Hurka Hills, where they meet the Galpin Gobi depression, and adding contour lines (at 20 metre intervals) to the map.
It is roughly seven contour lines, or 140m (about 450 feet), from the low point of the plain to the pass itself, which does not agree with Younghusband’s estimate of 650 feet, but on the other hand there is, in the pass, a flat area which could creditably be three and a half miles wide. The high points on either side of the pass are up to 250 metres (about 800 feet) higher, not the 70 feet Younghusband implies.
However this pass makes sense because the Bortson well is just around the corner from it.
For two marches we kept gradually ascending towards a watershed, connecting the Hurku with a similar but somewhat lower range running parallel to the road, eight or ten miles to the south. Crossing this connecting ridge, we arrived at the Bortson well in the early hours of the morning of the 22nd. (p. 92)
The Bortson well is quite easy to find on our maps, lying just on the southwest slope of the Hurku Hills: IMW K-48 has it as “Bordzon Bulag (spring)”—“bulak” being a Turki word for a spring), and the Soviet K-48-2 has it as род. Бордзонийн-Булак [rod. Bordzonijn-Bulak], where род. [rod.] is an abbreviation for родник [rodnik], meaning spring or well. The Soviet map also contains the useful note “дебит 2500 л/час” [debit 2500 l/chas] meaning “Flow 2500 litres/hour.”
Bortson well is in a shallow basin, so we can see on the DEM the watershed Younghusband describes himself as crossing: he ascends and then, just before the well, he begins descending.
On the next move (they typically begin travel around noon and end after midnight)…
we continued along the southern base of the Hurku Hills, passing over an almost level plain of an extremely desolate appearance…After this we crossed some low hills running down from the Hurku range, and arrived on the banks of a delightful small stream, about a foot wide and a few inches deep, with some patches of green grass on its margin. Here we halted for three days to buy a couple of new camels.
It’s unclear where the delightful small stream is. Satellite imagery shows some surface water at a band of rock outcrops about 25 miles beyond Bortson well, which is approximately their daily travel distance.
From here there are not many good landmarks for a few days. In the course of May 28th through June 4th they encounter bad weather, lay over on the 29th, pass over “undulating country” on the 31st, and Younghusband says
to the south there appeared to be good grass-land in the depression between the Hurku Hills and a parallel range, ten or twelve miles to the south. According to a Mongol who visited us, there is some land cultivated by Mongols four miles to the south at Huru-su-tai.
I have not found any settlement or well that might be Huru-su-tai.
In the next few days we passed along a plain lying between the Hurku Hills and the southern parallel range, for which I could get no name. We saw a peak of the Hurku Hills, which my Mongol called Baroso-khai.
Of this peak, Younghusband later writes,
the prominent mountain, for which I obtained the name Barosakhai, but which I have not the slightest doubt is identical with the mountain called by the Russian traveller Pevstof, Gourbaun-Seikyn.*
and in the footnote,
* I found it very hard to get at the proper pronunciation from the Mongols. The n’s are scarcely heard, and it is possible I may not have caught them.
Younghusband seems to be saying here that he might have heard “Gourbaun-Seikyn” as “Barosakhai.” Certainly if one drops the first syllable of Gourbaun, as well as the terminal n’s, this seems plausible: “Bau-seiky” becomes “Barosakhai.”
In any case, Gourbaun-Seikyn is easily found on our maps: it’s a term presently used for the highest portion of what Younghusband is calling the Hurku Hills—the northwest end of the range. Today it is protected as Mongolia’s Gobi Gurvansaikhan National Park. The 1952 IMW K-48 labels this part of the mountains as “Gurban Sayhan,” and the 1972 Soviet K-48-1 has it as ГУРБАН-САЙХАН [Gurban-saikhan].
The high point of the Gurvansaikhan, at just over 2800 metres, is today called Дунд Саикни-Нуру [Dund Saikin-Nuru] and is just northeast of the settlement of Bayandalai.
On June 4th
we reached a Mongol encampment, called Tu-pu-chi. This is the most thickly populated part I have seen in the Gobi, as there were several other yurts scattered over the plain.
On the following day we crossed a ridge connecting the Hurku Hills with the southern range, and descended a wide valley or plain between those two ranges on the western side of the connecting ridge. Between us and the southern range was a most remarkable range of sandhills, called by my guide Hun-kua-ling. It is about forty miles in length, and is composed of bare sand, without a vestige of vegetation of any sort on it, and I computed it in places to be as much as nine hundred feet in height, rising abruptly out of a gravel plain.
This forty-mile-long range of sand hills (“Hun-kua-ling“) is one of the most confident identifications we can make along Younghusband’s route. It is recognizably the Khongoryn Els, a notable feature of Gobi Gurvansaikhan National Park. The sandhills (i.e., dunes) are readily seen on satellite images.
This suggests that the encampment Younghusband reached in June 3rd, which he called Tu-pu-chi, is in fact at the site of the present settlement of Bayandalai.
Let’s step back now and compare what we’ve mapped so far to Younghusband’s map.
On the whole they are similar, and there are some interesting features worth mentioning on Younghusband’s map, features that suggest that Younghusband did not himself make the map that appeared in his book.
For one, his mapmaker labels the Kara Narin Ula mountain range curving along the north bank of the Hoang-Ho (Yellow River). Younghusband does not mention this range is his text, but somehow it found its way onto the map. It also shows the Shara Murin river. These features both turn up in Przhevalsky’s expedition account, Mongolia.
Another is that the map has the “Hurka Hills,” while in the text the they are always the Hurku Hills.
Younghusband’s map shows as continuous the secondary range paralleling the Hurku Hills on the south. Yet the DEM shows us that things are not quite so simple. Although Younghusband frequently notices that there are hills to his left, in reality they are not a continuous range until he gets to the basin where Tu-pu-chi/Bayandalai is located.
At the end of Chapter 4 of The Heart of a Continent, it is April, 1887, and Younghusband has travelled northwest from Peking to a town called Kalgan, and then to a further town—from which caravans to the far West depart—called Kwei-hwa-cheng.
I’ll begin by pulling in one of the most useful maps for following his route, Plate 62 from the 1922 edition of the Times Atlas (John Bartholomew and Son, London). We can obtain a scan of this at David Rumsey, and although it was published fully thirty-five years later than Younghusband’s journey, it seems to have continued to reflect British place naming for China, which is often what we need to know.
Zooming in on its northeast corner, to the area between Peking and the province of Inner Mongolia, we can see that in 1922 Kalgan was still shown as a variant name for the city of Chang-kia-kow. Today, in pinyin transcription, this is written Zhangjiakou (张家口 zhāngjiākǒu), and that’s how it shows up on Google Terrain.
Kwei-hwa-cheng had not yet in 1922 been renamed to Hohhot (呼和浩特 hūhéhàotè). But Hohhot has a Wikipedia page, and here we learn that one of its former names was Guihua, which in the 19th century transcription system used by the Times Atlas and Younghusband would have been Kwei-hwa. Cheng is a Mandarin word for “city,” so we can think of Kwei-hua-cheng as Guihua City.
Its name was changed for a time from Guihua to Guisui (this would have been Kwei-sui in Younghusband’s transcription), and then eventually, in 1949, to Hohhot. Hohhot is a variant on the Mongolian name Хөх хот [Höh hot] (which Younghusband writes as Kuku-khoto ) or Blue City.
So we can see that Younghusband’s initial direction from Beijing is west-northwest, which makes sense given that his ultimate destination is Hami. In fact, we can use the Times Atlas map to frame the area Younghusband must cross, from Kwei-kwa-cheng (far lower right) to Hami (mid far left).
What happens next? As he leaves Kwei-hwa-cheng on April 26th, Younghusband records that they ascend into the In-shan mountains:
We left Kwei-hwa-cheng by the north gate of the town, and, after passing for some five miles over a well-cultivated plain, began to ascend the great buttress range on to the Mongolian plateau. This range, called the In-shan, is, as it were, a support to the highlands of Mongolia, and forms the step up on to them.
Viewed through Google Terrain, Hohhot/Kwei-hwa-cheng sits on a plain with mountains quite close to the northwest.
Google Terrain has no label for these mountains just north of Hohhot, but many maps label them the Daqing Shan, or the In-chan, Inchan or Yin Shan (阴山)—shan being the Chinese world for mountain range. We can easily see it on Tactical Pilotage Chart (TPC) F-8C (1996: Edition 3. See the Perry-Castaneda Library) as Yin Shan. Like Hohhot, the Yin Shan have a Wikipedia page, at “Yin Mountains.”
The next landmark, a stream called the Moli-ho, and a sighting of the Sheitung-ula mountains, does not come until May 7th.
On May 7 we emerged from the undulating hilly country, and, after crossing a small stream called the Moli-ho, came on to an extensive plain bounded on the north, at a distance of five or six miles, by a barren, rugged range of hills, at the foot of which could be seen some Mongol yurts, and a conspicuous white temple; while to the south, at a distance of about twenty miles, were the Sheitung-ula Mountains (called by the Chinese, the Liang-lang-shan, or Eurh-lang-shan), which lie along the north bank of the Yellow river, and were explored in 1873 by Prjevalsky.
This should be straightforward to find: the stream, the plain, the range of hills five or six miles to the north, the mountains twenty miles south.
Let’s begin with the Sheitung-ula mountains. Przhevalsky shows these on his map as being the range immediately north of and parallel to the Munni-ula, which lie just northwest of the city of Baotu [Baotou]. (Ula is the Mongolian term for a mountain or range.)
The Munni-ula show up quite obviously on Google Terrain, so if we take Przhevalsky’s map literally, we get something like this for the Sheitung-ula.
The later Times Atlas agrees, placing the “Sheiten-ula” northwest of Baotou (“Pao-tow”) and distinct from the Lang-shan.
Now it’s time to pull out the local International Map of the World (IMW) sheet, and the corresponding larger-scale Soviet topographic map. (For more details on what these map series are, see my page on Finding historical place names.) Here, between 108° E and 114° E, we are in IMW zone 49. Between latitudes 40°and 44° north, we are in IMW row K—hence we want the IMW mapsheet K-49. Perry-Castañeda Library at the University of Texas provides us with a 1952 edition from the US Army Map Service, entitled (fittingly) Kwei-Sui.
Looking roughly twenty miles north of what we’ve identified as the Sheitung-ula, we find all the requisite elements. On the Soviet map there is a stream called the Мулэнхэ [Mulen-he]. (Hé 河 is one of the Chinese words for river, and it is frequently rendered “ho” in European mapping.)
There is a plain to the west of the Mulen-he, with hills on the north side. The Sheitung-ula are distantly to the south, and shown in this Google Earth image.
There is even a temple (although we cannot say if it is conspicuous or white) shown on the IMW sheet, west of what it calls the Mu-leng Ho and just north of the “road” (at least, it was a route in the 1950s). The temple is called the Khatun Süme. The glossary on this IMW sheet informs us that “Süme” is the Mongolian word for temple.
Younghusband’s route between where he entered the In-shan and arrived here at the Moli-ho is purely conjecture, but now we do know where he is after the first ten days.
The next landmark is a stream that Younghusband calls the Ho-lai-liu. This is on the 10th of May.
A small stream—here a few inches deep only, flowing over a wide pebbly bed—runs down from these hills. My guide called it the Ho-lai-liu, and it is probably identical with the stream which Prjevalsky crossed on the southern side of the Sheitung-ula.
(p. 85, 10-May-1887)
The Soviet K-49-3 has a town called Халют [Khalyut]—which is similar to Ho-lai-liu—about 25 miles to the west of the Moli-ho.
But on Google Terrain this town is mysteriously called “Urad Middle Banner,” as well as 乌拉特中旗 (Wūlā tè zhōng qí).
Obviously place names change over 150 years, but let’s just digress a moment and look into this.
Looking nearby we see other towns with “Banner” in their names, such as Dorbod Banner and Qahar Right Middle Banner.
In the Chinese name for Urad Middle Banner, the “Wūlā tè” part seems to be a Chinese version of the Mongolian world “Urad,” and the last two words, 中旗 zhōng qí mean “middle banner.”
This is a hint of the political structure in the Inner Mongolian Autonomous Region. “Banners” (the word 旗 qí also means “flag”) are in effect the counties of Inner Mongolia, and they are in turn divided into sumu, which might be thought of as townships.
Flowing through this settlement, the Soviet map shows a stream called Халют-гол [Khalyut-gol]. Gol is the the Mongolian word for river. It seems a reasonable conclusion that Younghusband’s stream called Ho-lai-liu was in fact this watercourse.
Another confirming factor is that, just prior to reaching the Ho-lai-liu, Younghusband notes, “we passed close by a spur from the northern range of hills.” This too can be seen in the contour lines on the Soviet map, which shows the road coming into Haliut from the east wrapping around a spur of the hills.
Three days after the Ho-lai-liu, Younghusband notes the beginning of the Galpin Gobi, a section of desert that he seems to be dreading a bit:
On the 13th we passed through some low hills, and then descended a valley in which were some gnarled and stunted elm trees, the first trees I have seen in Mongolia. They were about thirty feet high, and evidently very old. We then passed over a sandy, barren waste, the beginning of the Galpin Gobi, the very worst part of the whole desert.
In 1887, Francis Younghusband travelled across China, a tale he told in his 1896 book, The Heart of a Continent. Although the book describes Younghusband’s entire journey overland journey from Peking to British India, the part we’re going to look at is specifically the first leg of his trip, the crossing of the Gobi desert from Peking to the town of Hami.
At this point in his life, Younghusband is only 24 years old. He will later—much later—be remembered as the leader of the ill-fated 1903 British military incursion into Tibet, but at this point he is merely a lieutenant, and has taken a leave of absence from his regiment in the Indian Army so that he can travel in China. In Peking he meets a senior British officer—one wonders to what extent these things are actually chance—named Colonel Mark Bell, who tells him of his plan to return to India by travelling overland through regions of western China, areas the British at this time call Chinese Turkestan and Kashgaria. Younghusband asks him if he can accompany him, and Bell offers him one better. Bell would like to take the southern route to Turkestan, going through the city of Xi’an and up through the Gansu corridor, the standard route, if you will, for travel out to Turkestan. Younghusband, he proposes, should take the caravan trade route across the Gobi and meet him in Hami, and then will continue on together from there.
This meets Younghusband’s agenda perfectly, inasmuch as he now has both the blessing of a senior officer for this adventure, and he gets to go on his own. In the end, Bell and Younghusband arrive in Hami on different days, and each completes the journey on to India on his own, an arrangement that, you get the impression, both of them preferred anyway.
Younghusband makes quite a lot out of how he is heading into unknown territory and a blank upon the map, but in reality he wasn’t doing anything new at all—and certainly not “exploring” or “discovering” anything. He hires a camel driver who has been doing the route for the past twenty years, and along the way they find themselves camping with other large caravans going to Hami, or to Guchen, a town northwest of Hami. It’s apparently rather a beaten track across the Gobi. In fact, Bell probably knew all this: his main purpose in sending Younghusband this way was perhaps actually just to document the route. In 1890 we find Colonel Bell giving a paper to the Royal Geographic Society on “The Great Central Asian Trade Route from Peking to Kashgaria,” and there, on his map, is more or less the caravan route Younghusband took to Hami.
Nor is Francis the first European to venture into this area. In 1870, seventeen years before, Nikolai Przhevalsky (Никола́й Пржева́льский) and a party of Cossacks had spent three years knocking about in much the same area, although emphasizing north-south routes rather than east-west. Younghusband had in fact read Przhevalsky’s book, Mongolia and the Tangut Country, which had already been translated into English. So, for all the bold, “Into the unknown” tone he puts on it, Younghusband is really just trying be the first to see this caravan route for his team, as it were.
Nonetheless, The Heart of a Continent is a good read, and he did do a useful thing by making the journey and writing about it. Younghusband is, not surprisingly, a classic Victorian traveller: he is inclined to make sweeping generalizations about the Mongols and the Chinese, invariably thinking of them as having racial characteristics and then comparing them unfavourably with Europeans and the British in particular. But this kind of nonsense is so common in the nineteenth century that we don’t really need to focus on it.
It is doubtful that Younghusband could have imagined that he was leaving, for the 21st century armchair traveller, a wonderful geographical puzzle. We can not only download his book to read for free from archive.org, but we can also open up Google maps, OpenTopoMap or Google Earth and compare it with his map. We can try to figure out exactly where he went, and along the way we learn a great deal about the geography of this area. We can ask What’s in those places today? and If I went there, where would I tell people I was going?
In particular, tracing the Gobi portion his journey is a a challenge, the part where he travels from Kwei-hwa-cheng to Hami, crossing what is today southern Mongolia.
There are eight camels and four men (the camel-man and assistant, plus Younghusband and his Chinese servant) and they are on the journey for seventy days, from April 26th to July 24th. He names many places on the way, but when we go to follow his route on, say, Google maps, we can find almost none of them. Only Hami and the Altai Mountains are there. We cannot find Kwei-hwa-cheng, nor the city of Kalgan, which is his first stop after leaving Beijing. There is no river called the Moli-ho, no desert called the Galpin Gobi.
There are multiple reasons for this. For one, there was no standardized transcription method for converting Mandarin into Roman characters in 1887. It looks like Younghusband uses the Wade method, which was coming into use among Europeans at the time, but he may also simply be copying names off the European maps he has, and making the spelling up when he learns new names. In any case it looks rather different from the pinyin transcription method we use today. He writes Peking; we write Beijing.
Second, many place names have changed. Kalgan isn’t Kalgan anymore: it’s Zhangjiakou. Kwei-hwa-cheng is called Hohhot. A reference work on the changing names of places in China over the past hundred and fifty years would be terrifically useful, but as far as I know it does not yet exist.
Finally, the 21st century online mapping services, point-oriented and focused on the wired world as they are, don’t have a lot of labelling on the linear and areal features (rivers, deserts and mountain ranges) of what is today the Chinese province of Nei Mongol (Inner Mongolia), or of southern Mongolia proper.
But, by working back and forth between old maps and new, we can figure out a lot of the details of this journey.
On the 10th of February, 1911, Gertrude, who is forty-two years old, sets out across the Syrian desert from Damascus to go to Hit, some 600 km east, on the Euphrates River. Both of these cities are, at this time, in the Ottoman Empire, so there are no international borders to be crossed.
She begins on a horse.
I rode my mare all day, for I can come and go more easily upon her, but when we get into the heart of the desert I shall ride a camel. It’s less tiring. (Feb 10)
Not alone, Gertrude (who is fluent in Arabic) is in part of a party of fifteen, some of whom are her employees. She describes them as…
myself, the Sheikh, Fattuh, ‘Ali and my four camel men, and the other seven merchants who are going across to the Euphrates to buy sheep.
For much of this journey they are outside of the zone of Ottoman control.
In half an hour we passed the little Turkish guard house which is the last outpost of civilization and plunged into the wilderness.
Their exact route is not easy to trace from her letters—she does not give many landmarks—but on February 16th she reports that
We came to the end of the inhospitable Hamad today and the desert is once more diversified by a slight rise and fall of the ground. It is still entirely waterless, so waterless that in the Spring when the grass grows thick the Arabs cannot camp here.
She uses the term Hamad to denote the core of the Syrian desert, the highest, flattest part—although other writers call the entire the Syrian Desert the Hamad. On the next day (17th) she writes that they have deviated from their route, which, up to this time, had been almost due east.
So it happened that we had to cut down rather to the south today instead of going to the well of Ka’ra which we could not have reached this evening… the whole day’s march was over ground as flat as a board, flatter even than the Hamad…We had a ten hours march to reach the water by which we are camped.
we got off half an hour before dawn and after about an hour’s riding dropped down off the smooth plain into an endless succession of hills and deep valleys – when I say deep they are about 200 ft deep and they all run north into the hollow plain of Ka’ra.
This is the last we hear about the hollow plain of Ka’ra, which apparently has a series of north-flowing canyons running into it from the south. On the 20th they arrive at the ruins of Muḩaywir in the Wādī Ḩawrān.
We rode today for 6 and a half hours before we got to rain pools in the Wady Hauran, and an hour more to Muhaiwir and a couple of good wells in the valley bed.
The Wādī Ḩawrān and Muḩaywir are not difficult to locate. They show up on this 1959 Times Atlas map of the Middle East, along with the sites she now visits on her way to Hit: Amij, Khubbaz and Kubeisa.
But Ka’ra (or “Kara” as it is spelled in the printed edition of Bell’s letters, rather than the online archive of her diaries and letters) is not there.
Now, if you’re quicker than me, you probably already picked up that on this map, just to the west of Wādī Ḩawrān, there is a “Jumat Qa’ara”—and reasoned that this might be what Gertrude referred to as the hollow plain of Ka’ra. But I missed that, and began a pointless search of Google Maps, OpenstreetMap, geonames.org and Wikipedia for something called the Ka’ra. (There is a Wikipedia entry for “Kara Depression,” but this is a Kara Depression in northern Russia.)
I did, however, noticed on the shaded relief of OpenTopoMap that 40 km west of Muḩaywir there was a 50-km-wide depression with a series of canyons flowing into it from the south. Was this the “the hollow plain of Ka’ra?”
But this feature goes unnamed on online mapping sites.
This shows the weakness of much of online mapping: it is point-based. Area features, which are readily labelled on what we can call “static maps” (maps designed to be printed, or to be a single image you can’t zoom in on) do not make it into the database that underlies slippy maps. Neither do linear features, like rivers. I do not know why OSM, Google et al. try to make everything into points, but points dominate online mapping.
(As an amusing exercise, try typing “Yangtze River” in the search box on Google Maps. You don’t get a very satisfying result.)
However, by luck I found an article by another famous British archaeologist, Sir Aurel Stein, written some twenty-nine years later. He was writing about his search for Roman forts along the line from Hit to Palmyra. A lot had changed. World War I had happened; the British had created the mandate state of Iraq; they had built the pipeline to carry the oil from Kirkuk to the Mediterranean, and put pumping stations along it; aircraft were in common use. Stein wrote…
after gaining the pipe-line station H2 for a base, we resumed the survey of the ancient trade route which had led from Hit to Palmyra. I was able to recognize its line clearly both from the air and on the ground also over long stretches right up to where Pere Poidebard had before determined its continuation beyond the Syro-‘Iraq frontier. The line proved to have led with characteristic Roman straightness right across the wide sandy depression of Qa’ara, and not as had been supposed before past the ruins of Qasr Helqum.
Ah, “the wide sandy depression of Qa’ara!” And on his map, there it is, just north of the H2 pumping station, and northeast of Mlosi, labelled as “Al Qa’ara”.
Ironically, the online mapping sites do not even show the H2 pumping station and airfield, although it used to be a standard feature on static maps, like this National Geographic 1960s map of the Middle East.
Bell doesn’t indicate whether she had heard of the Ka’ra before, but Stein refers to “the wide sandy depression of Qa’ara” as if it is well-known. How did he learn about it? What maps was he using? It would also be nice to know how it is spelled in Arabic, so we could know how it should be transliterated to the Latin alphabet.
Well, it turns out, if I look at more static maps, the hollow plain is consistently labelled.
A 1944 by British Naval Intelligence, from the Perry-Castaneda Library: shows it as “JUMAT QAARA.” (And this is what I see, looking back at the Times Atlas, above.)
And the 1942 map from the US Army Map Service (NJ-43-11 “Rutba”), calls it JUMAT AL QAARA
There are also a number of recent geological papers about this feature. Mustafa and Tobia have one called Modes of Gold Occurrences in Ga’ara Depression, Western Iraq, in the Iraqi Bulletin of Mining, 2010. Their map leaves no doubt that the Ga’ara Depression is the same as Bell’s Ka’ra and Stein’s Al Qa’ara.
The paper’s abstract is in Arabic, so we can see how they render “Ga’ara Depression” in Arabic.
“In Ga’ara Depression” is , which uses the unusual letter gaf-with-line (گ), a variant on kāf (كـ ) which is regularly used in Persian, a language that has a /g/ sound. منخفض Munkhafidun is a depression.
It’s a confusing variety of transliterations: Ka’ra, Qa’ara, Ga’ara. What helps make sense of it is that (as I learn at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Varieties_of_Arabic), the letter ق, pronounced /q/ in classical Arabic, has become a /g/ in both the Iraqi and Nejdi dialects. Typically they still spell these words with a ق (as in Qa’ara), but sometimes they are using the gaf-with-line (as in Ga’ara).
Poking through an Arabic-English dictionary I see that the Q-‘-R triliteral root in Arabic means to be deep, or hollowed out. So, ironically, Qa’ara may simply mean the deep, hollowed out place. This may be why Gertrude Bell called it “the hollow plain of Ka’ra.”
So, now I know where this hollow, sandy plain is, but I am left with one mystery that I can’t solve. On the maps where it is labelled Jumat Al Qaara, or Jumat Qa’ara, what does Jumat mean? Jum’ah (جمعة) is the word for Friday, but it seems unlikely that this is the Friday of Hollows. The J-M-‘ root means to gather or collect, so conceivably this is the Collection of Hollows? I could not find other Jumats to compare this to. Any ideas from Arabic speakers would be welcome.
The “Ring of Kerry” is a 180 km tourist route around one of the rugged peninsulas on the west coast of Ireland. Although its moniker probably arose in a 20th century tourism promotion, the route itself is one that travellers in the neighbourhood of the Irish town of Killarney have been encouraged to go round since the 1800s.
Here is Samuel Carter Hall, in his 1858 traveller’s guide, A Week At Killarney, expanding in full Victorian eloquence on why one might make this journey:
We shall ask the reader to accompany us to the wild sea-coast of the South-west, and the Tourist to follow us into a district where the graceful beauties of Killarney may be contrasted with the wild grandeur of scenery certainly unsurpassed in Ireland. That district is now visited by a large number of those who visit Killarney; and one of our special objects in our latest tour–in 1858– was to describe the routes to it, with the facilities for travelling and accommodation; and at the same time to picture its peculiarities as well as our limited space and opportunities permit us to do.
The district Hall is referring to is the Iveragh peninsula, jutting west into the Atlantic from the area around Killarney. Hall’s tourist is to begin from Killarney and proceed south to the town of Kenmare — which anchors the southeast corner of the peninsula; then out along its southern coast, up around the end, and back along the north coast to Killarney. With horse and jaunting cart the tour took the Victorian traveller two days. (Hall recommended hiring a single set of horses for the entire journey.) Today most visitors drive it in one.
But not all visitors have explored the Iveragh peninsula by horse-drawn car or horseless carriage. Some 35 years after Hall published his guide, a new option appeared: rail. The West Kerry Branch of the Great Southern and Western Railway began its service in 1893, running along the north coast of the Iveragh from Farranfore to Reenard Point. Farranfore was a connection with the main line running from Tralee to Killarney and on to Cork; Reenard Point was a ferry terminal on the outermost coast where passengers could board a boat and continue out to Valentia Island, a place sometimes promoted with the tantalizing (but geographically incorrect) fact of being the westernmost point in Europe. However it is fair to say that the GS&W was the westernmost railway in Europe.
Tourism was only one reason for this thirty-mile rail line out to the end of the world. Valentia Island hosted both famous slate quarries and an active fishing industry, and there was demand for the products of both in Ireland’s big neighbour to the east. No less a symbolic building than the Houses of Parliament in London was floored with Valentia slate.
This branch line ceased operations in 1960, and today most stations and track – which was the Irish Gauge, spaced 5′ 3” apart – have been removed. But, if you’re paying attention, you can still encounter bits and pieces of the railway, which visited the towns of Killorglin, Glenbeigh and Cahersiveen on its way.
For example, in the village of Glenbeigh, if you cross the River Behy on the old bridge and go just a short distance left, you find the road cutting through the old railgrade, still some ten feet high. The Gleensk Viaduct looms above your head as the road does a tight turn to contour through a small drainage on the steep-sided hill. At Cahersiveen the old rail bridge stands just upstream as you cross the river Ferta.
In many ways though the most remarkable remains of the railway are the mute raised railbeds that run through farmers’ fields.
As well, the railway is detectable in small kinks in present-day roads, like the one in the Caragh Lake Road 200m from where it meets the Ring of Kerry. Here the line crossed over the road, which jogs briefly to pass under a viaduct that is now completely gone.
There’s a remarkable web resource for tracing this old route. The Historic Environment Viewer of the Irish government’s Department of Arts, Heritage, Regional, Rural and Gaeltacht Affairs features a detailed basemap from Ordnance Survey Ireland (OSI) which shows the current status in superb detail at large scales.
But here’s the magic: you can change the base map to the Cassini 6″ mapping. This is mapping at six inches to the mile (or 1:10,560) from the late nineteenth or early twentieth century, perfect for seeing where the railway ran. It turns out that, as one drives the Ring of Kerry from Glenbeigh to Cahersiveen, the old rail grade is never far away, sometimes running on the right, sometimes the left, side of the road.
As well, there are two other historic map layers here. The Historic 6″ dates from between 1829 and 1841; the Historic 25″ (twenty-five inches to the mile, or 1:2534!) from the end of the nineteenth century.
There was a hope at one time that trans-Atlantic vessels would depart from Valentia Island, passengers preferring to go as far towards North America as possible by rail before boarding ship. It never came to pass, but today the old rail line may perhaps have another life. Between Glenbeigh and Reenard Point the rail bed is presently the locus of debate about whether it will be turned into a cycleway. The conflict focuses on how local landowners will be compensated. If this can be worked out, yet a fourth mode of transport will be added to the choices travellers have had for exploring that peninsula west of Killarney.