Wednesday, May 22, 1929
Got the boats underway at 4:30, but we were all asleep. The stop for breakfast was made in a beautiful spot of green pastures and big trees, with an unbroken line of snow mountains in the distance.
The stream up which we were traveling was very swift and cold, rushing down from the mountains and fed by melting snow. It meandered this way and that, cutting away its banks at the turns and rushing through a country of green trees and fields. Shortly after breakfast Frank and I got out on the ropes to help tow. It was a tough job for the first few minutes until you got used to it—then not so bad. In some places, four of us could hardly pull against the current. In front of us was the dunga of an Englishman. We caught up to them in a hurry, followed behind for a time and, at last, tried to pass them. This started a hot race and we labored along for a long time, unable [able?] to pass only their cook-boat but keeping right behind the dunga. We came to the Denver man’s boat and passed it—then shortly our rival boat—by process of wearing down.
We passed under the Veshau Bridge and shortly after came to anchor in the mouth of a canal in the mouth of a stream. The 6 or 7 miles of towing was a good workout. Our present place is a dandy for scenery. There is very little traffic up this canal, and so we are not bothered—except by a barber who wants to cut my hair.
Good-sized fish were jumping up all afternoon, so just before dinner I went around on the opposite bank and dropped a line in. Some passers-by went to the village and told the cop or fishing warden who came down past me, went on down the road a quarter of a mile and then came back. In the meantime I had cut the hook off and had only a string and a small stick. He grabbed this from me and I got hot—jumped up and tried to get it back. He hung on, which made me madder than ever. Couldn’t hit a cop, so just bounced my fist on his nose and around his face generally lightly, threatening to pop him one. But the leech held on and finally his friend came up with rules and regulations for fishing. I read them all, about 6 pages, in the meantime hanging on to my end of the stick. Abdulla and his mother were yelling across stream; so were Frank and Mort; the cop and I were yelling at each other, he in Hindustani and I in English.
While I was reading the rules, etc., Mort and Abdulla came across and there ensued another argument. Abdulla mentioned baksheesh and the man wanted to forget it for two rupees, otherwise he would go in town and make a case against me. When we went back to the boat, he sat 
on the opposite shore for 5 minutes waiting for baksheesh. When we yelled over and told him to go on and make the case, that he would get no baksheesh, off he went in a big hurry, and some time later, while at dinner, we saw him returning. Might have a little change of scenery as penalties include a fine up to Rs. 100 or imprisonment for one or two months, with or without hard labor. Probably nothing much will come of it, but one thing is dead certain, they’ll get no fine from me—I’ll go to jail first and if this latter interferes with the trip to Ladakh, I shall appeal to the American Consul. The whole thing is a bunch of baloney, though. Seems as though the Maharaja is a Hindu and until very recently has not permitted any fishing at all for the reincarnation of his grandfather is swimming around these parts somewhere. As this fish migrates to a certain lake at a certain time of year, people are allowed to fish in certain places at certain times of the year and day, and with prescribed fishing tackle and nets.
The moon is getting near full again and is gorgeous over this stream, trees, and mountains.