This morning we went on down the Shyok Valley, passing all the time through the same indescribably grand scenery. The majestic channel of the valley, enclosed between high walls of granite, seems to become more and more vast as it unfolds its wide and tortuous length. Small terraces, here and there, continue to mark the ancient level at which the river ran, and great slabs of clay, remaining as though stuck to the steep slopes of rock, are a witness of the time when this valley framed the blue mirror of a lake. We went rapidly on, across the sand and shingle spread all over the bottom. The sky was overcast; squalls of dust-laden wind darkened the air and raised small whirlwinds here and there, which, after circling at one spot, moved quickly over the flat ground and sometimes even mounted the sides. Signs were still visible of the disastrous flood-wave which last year came right down the valley. There is another sign—a negative one: there is no trace left of the bridge across the Shyok, which was built years ago to encourage caravan-trade from Yarkand. No trace whatever; and the rock on which it was supported looks as though denuded and picked dry of the alluvial deposit which used to cover it.