After stopping for a few moments at the Kírghis encampment and making some inquiries with regard to the condition of the trail from there to the Rakmánofski hot springs, we tightened our saddle-girths and plunged into the wilderness of steep foothills and wild ravines that lies between the headwaters of the Búkhtarmá and the headwaters of the Katún. The northern slope of the mountain upon which the Kírghis encampment stood was much barer, bleaker, and more rocky than the slope that we had ascended. The yellow flowers that had given a sunny and cheerful glow to the latter suddenly disappeared, and their places were taken by a star-like purple blossom growing in long, slender spikes, and a very striking and showy species of dark-blue campanula. At the same time a new kind of shrub with silvery-gray leaves made its appearance, and grew so abundantly among the rocks as to change the whole tone of the landscape. I cannot remember to have seen in any other part of the world so sharp and sudden a transition from one aspect of nature to another under the very same atmospheric conditions. The northern exposure, the hoary, lichen-stained rocks, the dark-purple flowers, and the cool, silvery-gray foliage of the sage-like shrubs gave me the impression of a landscape seen by moonlight.
Soon after leaving the Kírghis encampment we crossed for the first time in Siberia the terminal moraine of an extinct glacier. It was an immense mass of loose rocks and boulders of all shapes and sizes thrown together in the wildest confusion, and extending far up and down one of the lateral ravines. At the point where we crossed it, it seemed to me to be at least an eighth of a mile wide, and it presented obstacles that brought out all the best qualities of our Kírghis horses. They made their way over the loose slabs and boulders with the judgment and agility of mountain sheep, rarely slipping, and, when they did slip, recovering their foothold without the least nervousness or excitement.
