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 ‘Just
as a white summer cloud, in harmony with heaven and earth freely
floats in the blue sky from horizon to horizon following the breath
of the atmosphere-in the same way the pilgrim abandons himself to
the breath of the greater life........ that leads him beyond the
farthest horizons to an aim which is already present within him,
though yet hidden from sight.’
‘The Way of the White Clouds,’ by Lama Govinda quoted
in the prologue to ‘The Snow Leopard,’ by Peter Matthiessen
I have always loved travel writing, those books and writers that
take me out of my armchair and transport me to other cultures, places,
peoples, mountains, oceans, deserts, mysterious cities or the desolate
ruins of lost empires. The very best of this type of writing is
‘layered,’ with the author’s acute observations
and inner reflection that take the reader beneath the surface of
the lands and peoples through which he/she is travelling. An outstanding
example of this is Peter Matthiessen’s book ‘The Snow
Leopard’ which won the American National Book Award for Non-Fiction
in 1980.
By the time this was written in 1974 Matthiessen was already a major
figure in the fields of biology and literature. His seminal book
‘Wildlife in America,’ and being co-founder of the highly
influential Paris Review of Literature during the 1950’s in
Paris ensured this.
In 1972 he was invited by the renowned field biologist George Schaller
to make a 250-mile journey through the remote Himalaya from Kathmandu
to the ‘Crystal Mountain,’ in the Land of Dolpo trekking
below the towering peaks of Annapurna and Dhauligiri. This Crystal
Mountain is an ancient holy place much revered in Tibetan Buddhism
whilst the Lama in the monastery of Shey Gompa was reputed to be
a reincarnation of the 12th century Lama Marpa.
Matthiessen was studying buddhism and much later became a priest
of the White Plum Asanga. However before coming to the practice
he along with his wife Deborah Love were early pioneers of LSD and
he has said his Buddhism evolved fairly naturally from these drug
experiences.
Deborah died in 1972 from cancer and one night during a weekend
retreat the author describes how he had a premonition of her death
and during the following morning service:
‘I chanted the Kannon Sutra with such fury that I ‘lost’
myself forgot the self-a purpose of the sutra, which is chanted
in Japanese over and over, with mounting intensity. At the end the
sangha gives a mighty shout that corresponds to OM, this followed
instantly by sudden silence, as if the universe had stopped to listen.
And on that morning, in the near darkness-the altar candle was the
only light in the long room- in the dead hush, like the hush in
these snow mountains, the silence swelled with the intake of my
breath into a Presence of vast benevolence of which I was part:’
The Snow Leopard then is a journey, not one journey, but the many
journeys on which the author embarks as he leaves his young sons
behind to observe the rut of the Himalayan blue sheep and perhaps
to see the almost mythical snow leopard of these remote regions.
However his teacher reminds him before his departure ‘expect
nothing.’
Almost anywhere as the reader turns the pages there are beautiful
succinct descriptions of places;
‘The village creaks to the soft rhythm of an ancient treadle,
and under the windows babies sway in their wicker baskets. In the
serene and indiscriminate domesticity of these sunny village, sow
and piglet,cow and calf, mother and infant,hen and chicks, nanny
and kid commingle in a common pulse of being.’
With the eye of a trained observer he watches the fauna of the region;
‘Higher where the the snow has melted, a hill fox jumps from
the tussock grass and runs to a group of rocks, then turns to watch.
Its black points and rich red coat are set off by the frosty face
and chest and an extraordinary long thick tail, dark brown and black
with a white fluffy tip. The tip remains visible long after the
creature’s glowing colours sink among the stones.’
Magical landscapes are spread out before us;
‘After two hours of hard climbing I am higher than Black Pond
and the whole canyon of the Black river ascending towards the Kang
Pass lies exposed to view. Beyond the Kang soars a resplendent wall
of white that dominates the sky to the south west; it is the great
ice wall of Kanjiroba, a rampart of crystalline escarpments and
white-winged cornices well over 22,000 feet in height. Here there
is only a light air from the east, but the high wind on Kanjiroba
is blowing clouds of a fine snow from points and pinnacles that
turn into transparency against the blue.’
All this and deep inner reflection as well;
‘my foot slips on a narrow ledge: in that split second, as
needles of fear pierce heart and temples, eternity intersects with
present time. Thought and action are not different, and stone, air,
ice, sun,fear and self are one. What is exhilirating is to extend
this acute awareness into ordinary moments, in the moment by moment
experiencing of the lammergeier and the wolf, which, finding themselves
at the centre of things have no need for any secret of true being.’
Another thread woven into this vivid tapestry is the history of
Buddhism in Dolpo:
‘Shey Gompa,’ in Tibetan Shel dgon-pa is a monastery
of the Kagyu sect, which was established in the eleventh century
as a departure from the Kalacahkra Tantrism of the Old Sect or Nyingma.
Kalachakra (Circle of Time) came to Tibet in the same century; it
traditionally derives from a tantra or treatise known as Journey
to Shambala, which teaches the adept how to transcend time (death)
and is supposed to be the ‘Book of Wisdom,’ that appears
in the portarits of the Bodhisattva called Manjushri.’
There are many wonderful descriptions of the people Matthiessen
and Schaller meet along the way as well as the porters who trek
along with them:
‘Laughing the baby’s mother dances holding hands with
cat faced laughing Chirjing. The lute player, a dashing handsome
fellow in short smock and boots, smiles at me wholeheartedly in
welcome, as if I were his dearest friend on earth. Soon others come,
including a man wh appears to be Chirjing’s suitor. Jang bu
is playing his harmonica and Dawa and Gyaltsen laugh indiscriminately
at all they see, but the only one of the Shey party who will dance
is Tukten -Tukten Sherpa, cook and porter, alleged thief, bad drunk,
old Gurkha is a dancer too, and dancing, he smiles and smiles.’
Throughout the journey they search for the hidden mystery that lies
deep within this isolated region which the modern world has barely
touched whilst the Snow Leopard tantalises, always watchful, a chimaera,
almost mythical.
I have read this book many times since I first came across it in
the eighties. Like a great picture every time I return to it it
reveals hidden depths, new colours emerge. If you only read one
book this year read ‘The Snow Leopard,’ I am certain
you will not regret it!
Michael
Ko Gan Mu Ju
Radiant Light Vow No Abode Dwelling
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