Pale

The Blue Sheep - Nepal EXIT

Pale shadows in the pre-dawn light ghost gently along the steep hillside. Daintily picking their way, feeding on the sparse, dew-moistened grass the females and young of the herd graze their way cautiously down the valley towards the glacier below. For the blue sheep this is dangerous territory. The erratic, late-changing season has forced them from their rocky fastness to find water and food lower down on the glacial slopes. On a rock high above the male stands guard, the huge, splayed horns turning slowly in his watch. But his vigilance is useless; neither the snow leopard nor the slowly stirring camp on the valley floor below brings danger today.

Suddenly the herd scatters as one of their number goes into convulsions, throwing itself wildly into the air, scrabbling furiously at the rocky ground. But there is no sound, no sign of danger. The puzzled herd stops, staring as the dying animal weakens.

Equally puzzled we stand below, our early morning tea steaming in the freezing dawn air, roused by the excited cries of our porters pointing out the drama on the hillside far above. "It's a snow leopard," they say, but we see only the lone victim's body. With one last convulsion it hurls itself clear off the ground, hanging vertically in the air, then finally collapses. After a few moments the nervous herd continues to graze, as if Death had passed invisibly through their midst.

The Yalung. Three great glaciers radiate out from Kanchenjunga, the world's third highest mountain. To the north west the Kanchenjunga glacier forms the head of the Ghunsa valley; to the east the Zemu glacier drains into the Teetsa of Sikkim. And to the south the Yalung: twenty kilometers of heaving geography, more rock than ice, an endlessly creaking world of perpetual avalanches and yawning crevasses, cherished by connoisseurs as the worst glacier in the world.

Lying deep in its ice-carved valley, falling fifteen hundred meters in its course, the great glacier is yet overshadowed by its flanking guardians. Boktah, Jannu and White Wave march up the west side; on the east Koktang, Rathong, Kabru and Talung separate Nepal from Sikkim. Between them, at the head of the valley, Kanchenjunga itself, the five great peaks of the treasuries of the snow.

Isolated in this far corner of northeast Nepal, on the border of both Tibet and India, until recently the Kanchenjunga area has been a closed, politically sensitive region. Now as it opens up, with trekking permitted on the Nepal side, the Kanchenjunga Conservation Area Project has been formed to try to protect the environment from over-exploitation whilst encouraging responsible development by local people. The project's northern centre is at the Sherpa village of Ghunsa, lying at 3400 meters, eight days walk up from the road head.

From Ghunsa we had walked up to the Kanchenjunga glacier and the north side of the mountain but, after seven days, bad weather had forced us back to the village to lie up as it snowed and snowed. After another week it cleared enough to tempt us to force the Mirgin La pass leading to the southern approach to the mountain, descending into the Yalung valley at Tseram.

An old established trading post, Tseram lies on the trade route from southern Tibet into Sikkim. Two days south from here, over the Lamitje pass lies Yamphudin, the last village at the head of the prosperous Kabeli valley and the southern base for the conservation project. To the north the terminal moraine of the glacier blocks the valley. Powerful streams thundering from the tumble of rock combine to form the river, giving Tseram a permanent background roar.

Coming south from Kanchenjunga the glacier sweeps round in a great turn to the west at Ramche before turning back south again at Lapsang towards Tseram. Here, going up from Tseram on the right bank, past the ancient, ruined monastery at Dachenrol, the gap between the lateral moraine and the valley side opens out into a wide flat plain studded with yaks and the tents of nomadic herders. Our camp lay at 4400 meters, near Lapsang, the southward swing of the glacier forming a wind-sheltered, sun-exposed corner, snow free for us to dry out and relax after crossing the pass.

Standing that morning scanning the hillside, optimism willed us to see that rarest of predators – the snow leopard. But it didn't look right and reluctantly we had to ascribe that explanation to overheated imagination. However something had killed the sheep lying 500 meters above us on the mountain. Fortunately well acclimatized, a long, slow climb brought us to the carcass and the silent killer was revealed, a snare. A strong rope around the neck was fastened to a stake in the ground.

The trap had been set under an overhanging rock. The sides of the overhang were blocked off with cut branches of juniper leaving a narrow gap at the front. The noose had hung from a stick over the gap and the ground within baited with salt. Tempted by the salt the sheep pushed her head through the gap and noose, dislodging the rope which dropped across her neck. As she felt it and tried to retreat the short horns prevented the noose from coming back across the head and the pull closed it. Thrashing around in panic tightened the rope more and more and, with choking, frantic lunges for freedom, she strangled herself to death.

The fully grown female had stood some 80 cm high, weighing about 60 kilos. Looking more like a stocky deer this odd survival is thought to be a bridge between the sheep and the goats. A beautiful short, fawn, summer coat covered the back, pure white undersides and with distinctive 'black socks' running down the front of each leg. In the winter the coat grows longer and can turn to the slate blue-gray which gives the animal its name.

Perfect camouflage in both winter and summer makes them almost impossible to spot unless moving rapidly or silhouetted against the skyline. Intensely wary they seldom let anyone approach within 500 meters, escaping uphill where no man can follow. The herds normally inhabit the high ground, only when it is very dry or severe do they descend to the glaciers for water, usually at dawn, before retreating back up the mountain for the day.

The blue sheep, or Bharal, is widely distributed over the Himalayan chain and the Tibetan plateau. The main natural predator is the snow leopard, a rare nocturnal hunter, but the limitations of habitat and food supply keep numbers low, particularly in Nepal where the advanced development of trekking pushes into its range bringing hunters and poachers in its wake. Studied over many years by George Schaller it is thought to be really a goat, though lacking some goat-like characteristics, such as a beard. Behaviourally however it tends to be more like a sheep, though its scientific name 'Pseudois Nayaur' indicates its false credentials as such. (The story of Schaller's expedition to determine the status of the Bharal is told in the finest Himalayan classic "The Snow Leopard" by Peter Matthiessen)

The sheep is hunted for its meat; apart from yaks and a few, scrawny domestic goats it is the only source of the red meat in great demand from the trekkers. Yaks are too valuable for this trade and so the pressure is on the 'free' wild animal. Thus the intent of the conservation project to protect the animals is being defeated by its success in developing trekking which stimulates demand for the meat. Its high range, up to 6500 meters, and deceptive colouring give some protection against hunters but against the poachers' traps there is no defence.

As we stood by the body a man came up the valley and stopped, looking at us from a distance, before disappearing behind some rocks. It seemed reasonable to think that he may be one of the poachers and that our presence was keeping him off. Any authorities being too far off to contact we decided on two objectives: 1) to scare off the poachers, and 2) to see if the corpse would attract a lammergeier, the solitary, high altitude eagle vulture. I hadn't seen one this year but on previous expeditions to the area one usually turned up, a single dot, high in the sky, cruising the glaciers for carrion.

The first order of the day was to search the hillside, two more snares being found and disabled. After breakfast gear was hauled up the mountain to make a hide, using the dull green inner side of a tent fly sheet. Equipped with camera, plentiful water and biscuits I lay down amongst the edelweiss to wait the day out. The mountainside here formed an empty, shallow bay between two rocky promontories, the blue sheep having retreated to the top of the slope, invisible against the rock and grass. In the early morning the wind blows down from the high mountains, southwards keeping the skies clear and cold. By mid morning the pressure balance begins to turn the other way and the wind comes up from the south, warmer and bringing the clouds with it. By midday the valleys are usually overcast and frequently enshrouded in mist but fortunately today the cloud stays high and leaves a clear view. The warmer air brings some thermals and the yellow billed alpine choughs start wheeling and chattering amongst the steep rocks.

I pass the hours watching a kestral haunting the slopes until, in mid afternoon, a larger shape cuts across my vision and lands on a cliff ledge. So exact is its colouring that even though I marked where it landed I cannot see it, even with binoculars. Then a rock moves, and soars into the sky above. A lammergeier, the huge king of the Himalayan air, riding the thermal, circling higher and higher until it disappears over the mountain top. Nearly three meters across the wingspan this aerial master is similar to the Griffon Vulture, its pale brown head and underside difficult to distinguish high against the sky, but the long, wedge shaped tail marks it out.

After a short, anxious wait it reappears from my left circling high above the mountainside, over the promontory and then back around the cliff to land again on its rocky perch. Now I have it. Through the binoculars I cannot see the perfectly blended body but the paler head is slowly turning as it surveys the land. After twenty minutes it is off again, searching over the mountain bay, lower this time, slowly round and round, near enough to confirm the identification, before it returns to its perch. Once again it takes off, this time circling the cliff top.

As I watch, willing it nearer, another shape flashes across from behind me and wheels behind the cliff. A moment later it joins the first; two lammergiers, something I have never seen before. Riding the thermal slowly upwards they spiral around one another, a beautiful aerial dance cutting and swooping in elegant harmony, two graceful giants against the stark blue sky climbing into the heavens. There is something more interesting than my bait in the air today. As they fade from human sight I can at least reflect that I've seen something for my wait.

The afternoon passes, the sun beating down through the thin air making my hide a hot and uncomfortable place and I envy the yaks in the valley below standing in the stream to drink and cool their feet . As the shadows lengthen the choughs show more interest in the carcass, gathering round it in inquisitive twos and threes whilst two twenty strong flocks scour the hill.

Then from behind me, low over the ground a lammergeier appears, soars up, over the cliff face and glides directly towards the dead sheep. But as I frantically try to frame it in the viewfinder the choughs decide against me. Rising, they mob the giant bird, wheeling and diving, their raucous cries filling the air they force it off over the mountainside where the great wings catch a thermal and carry it upwards, away from its tormentors. Once again it tries, gliding downwards towards the sheep but the choughs are determined to repulse it. Elegant in its dimension the lammergeier is too slow and cumbersome for this kind of low level fight and, giving up, it disappears sailing down the valley leaving the carcass to the black crows and the lowering darkness.

But although one quarry had escaped us there was yet another to be sought this day. It seemed reasonable to think that the poachers would try for their spoil in the dark. It would have to be after sunset, about five thirty p.m. but before the full moon rose at about eight thirty. As the light became too low for photography we lugged the gear back down to the camp leaving the field open for whoever came. After dinner we prepared for a sortie, my excited crew keeping a watch from the rocks above the camp. Sure enough about seven thirty a soft cry reported three men coming up the valley and cutting off up the mountain some distance below our camp. We immediately set off, stealthily climbing the steep slope directly upwards, armed with cameras and flash guns in my case though I couldn't help noticing in the dark that some of my crew seemed somewhat bulkier than usual.

Luckily we timed it perfectly. Arriving about twenty meters below the slight hollow where the sheep lay a head suddenly appeared above us, a startled cry and a man ran off sideways across the mountain pursued by camera flashes and cries of 'Got him!'. We never saw the other two but scrambling up to the carcass found that they had only had time to take off the rope, the body remaining uncut. Another day in the sun without being gralloched would spoil the meat, all we had to do now was hide it for the rest of the night. With one man on each leg we dragged the carcass along the hillside, staggering, falling and breathlessly laughing in the dark for about 300 meters. Over a slight rise we hid it in bushes on the side of a small gully, invisible from the ground but open to the searchers from the air above.

Resting on the hill, retelling the day's events and speculating on what the poachers thought of us, we sat as the moon rose up from behind the ranges. At first behind thin cloud the lunar light cast pastel shadows across the snow covered land then, clearing, the full moon's beam illuminated the sugar loaf mountain of Rathong and the knife edge ridge of Koktang, the beautiful peak. Below the valley was lost in mysterious shadows; the moon, the mountains, the stars and us alone inhabited the universe. We sat in silent wonder until we froze and reluctantly stumbled back down to the camp. Hot chocolate and sleeping bags have their attractions too.

The next dawn came cold and clear. After a slight territorial dispute with a yak who wanted to graze under my tent, I sat warming up in the sunlight watching the hill. Moving the carcass had made it much easier to get into a position to watch it and we were prepared to give it another day to see what happened. Not much in the morning although about midday the choughs began to gather round the corpse in larger numbers. Then in the early afternoon the lammergeier appeared, far, far above, just a speck in the sky. We waited. Half an hour later it was back, circling over the mountain crags coming lower and nearer.

But unknown to us a new actor was preparing its entrance onto the stage. From nowhere a single raven appeared, just above and behind the gliding vulture in the classic six o'clock position of aerial combat. It dived seeming almost to collide with the lammergier's head. The great bird lurched upwards in shock, stalled and had to flap its wings strongly to stay airborne. The raven attacked again and without height in which to manoeuvre the lammergeier fled at ground level, round the cliff and away.

Twenty minutes later it was back, cautiously coming in high but the raven rose again to meet it. This time with height to spare the fight was longer. The lammergeier rolled and dived trying to free itself from its attacker. Turning tight in its circle it wheeled back at the raven which, with a short flap of its wings, sprang upwards, away from the great talons and, rolling over, came down once again from above and behind. The dogfight swirled on, the two black silhouettes spinning and dodging through the air. But the raven was giving no quarter, repeatedly coming in forcing the lammergeier downwards, off its path until it ran out of height and fled away across the mountain slopes.

The raven sat alone on a high rock as the choughs, who had taken no part in the fight, flocked around the corpse. It was almost as if they had called in a mercenary to fight for them. Then once more the lammergeier appeared, coming in around the cliff face to lodge on its old perch amongst the crags. The raven took off circling slowly, high above the slope before coming to land on the opposite cliff top. Across the mountainside the two birds waited, facing each other but making no move. The tension, tangible across the slope, stilled the choughs until, in the silence, the lammergeier launched itself downwards, straight at the carcass. But the raven was too quick for it. After a brief struggle the heart seemed to go out of the lammergeier, it turned, swooped down the hillside and flew away, low across the glacier, a dark shadow slowly diminishing against the ice, to disappear for the last time. The triumphant raven returned to its vantage point, its black stance proclaiming its hegemony. The field belonged to the corvidae, the king had abdicated.