High in the Tibetan regions of the Himalayan Mountains, the sun beats powerfully down almost from dawn to dusk. Dry atmosphere makes the climate even less bearable, and the rapid heating of the plateaus causes howling winds to tumble from the mountain tops. Trees cannot grow here, nor can shallow-rooted grasses. Almost the only vegetation consists of two-foot high shrubs.
The usual range of Tibetan fauna is also absent. Nowhere to be found is the langur (a monkey), rhinoceros, elephant, tiger, or even the goat-like serow or goral. Not even the butterfly, the anteater or the python live here. Who does live here? Only the yak, the Yeti, and Clyde Darjeeling, the White Hunter.
The Yeti—the Abominable Snowman—is said to be mythical. The yak looks more like a mop than an animal, and is hunted only for sport, as he has little in the way of useful byproducts. (The female yak gives yak milk, as might be expected, but it is not easy to tell a female yak from a male yak. Of even from a haystack.) Clyde Darjeeling is relatively abominable, and does not give yak milk (he does sell it).
We approached Darjeeling’s little hut, Dr. Alfred Stonewhistle, F.R.S, and I. The sign said “Native Bearers, Cash and Carry,” and soon we had seven Sherpas to pack our gear on an upland yak hunt.
We are told by our guide that hunting the yak is fairly simple. In the first place, it is difficult to miss a yak when the only other feature on the landscape is a two-foot bush or a bamboo-rat. Further, if one moves before the wind, he is rather likely to come upon a yak, and perhaps even undetected, as the yak always stands with his hindquarters to the wind. Thus, the tail serves as a unique windscreen; however, he is able to smell only yak.
We found our yak at 12,000 feet (we had lost our bearers at 10,000 when we heard what they supposed to be a Yeti. We agreed it was best, as we had been paying them 20 cents an hour}. Unfortunately, the temperature ranges 60 degrees a day in the Tibetan mountains, and we spotted the yak at a moment when we were changing from our heavy morning clothes to our midday garb of Hawaiian shorts and polo shirts. We were clad in our woolen longjohns when simultaneously there appeared the yak and the monsoon rains.
The Indian monsoon provides most of the annual rain for the Himalayas, although only about ten inches a year reaches Tibet. However when it arrived, it caused our woolens to shrink and immobilize us. By the time the Sherpas returned to cut us loose, our yak had departed, having eaten our summer clothing before leaving.
We decided to abandon the yak hunt and return to Darjeeling’s hut and indulge in a ghastly cocktail of vodka and yak milk. The Stonewhistle expedition—its continuing mission to go where noone had ever wanted to go before—retired to home base to consider its next venture...
Very humorous. But I can't believe the yak ate all your summer clothing while you were immobilized
in your shrunken woolens. I enjoyed it - thanks again.