Our camels picked their way most cautiously, moving their ears constantly, as is their habit in such stress.

The trail zigzagged into mountain ravines, passed over the tops of ridges, slipped back down again into shallower valleys but ever made higher and higher altitudes.

At one place under the grey clouds that tipped the ridges we saw away up on the wide expanse of snow some black spots.
"Those are the obo, the sacred signs and altars for the bad demons watching this pass," explained the guide.

"This pass is called Jagisstai.

Many very old tales about it have been kept alive, ancient as these mountains themselves." We encouraged him to tell us some of them.
The Mongol, rocking on his camel and looking carefully all around him, began his tale.
"It was long ago, very long ago.