The Ssikkis Trail on Desert Plains of the Boggi

Throughout my youth, I was always fascinated with the stories of the great Ssikkis Trail that stretches thousands of miles through many dangers and wonders of the natural world. I always could see those great caravans of rich fabrics, jewels and precious metals, traveling along the highways of the mountain passes and the long desert trails that shifted with the sands. Truly, one of the great passages for a traveler to try to explore was this ages-old trail that won so many their fortunes, and others their demise. Therefore, finding myself once more in a state of restlessness, I decided to venture out alone to trace back the footsteps of so many generations of intrepid explorers and merchants...and warrior kings.

I set out with a few dromedaries, several packs and bales of supplies, and my trusty diary and camera. This was the season to go! The sun was shining, the air crisp and clean as I commenced my journey over the soft green grass of the great city of Baltra-bur, once the home to the prince regent of Khun Gelbebba - one of the many grandsons of the Great Khun Gebal. For many days, I traveled in perfect conditions, speaking to locals wherever I passed by, and camping in one of the many rest hostels for merchants that still run today; for, did I not tell you? The trail is still in use today. Though it may be old and other methods of transport available, the route is still used by many merchants great and small. The tradition is too deeply ingrained, the geography too perfect an opportunity for more discoveries to be made. The experiences that one gains on such a route, the other people one meets, are too invaluable an asset for those that deal in the most exotic of things. And here I was! traveling along it's beaten path as thousands of others had done before me.

I catalogued everything I could for my diary; noting the strange plants and animals that I passed by. Slowly, however, the scenery began to change from the deep beautiful lush grass to a more barren and rocky landscape until, not too gradually, I stood before the great desert plains of the Boggi. Or, rather, it was a sudden shift for, quite surprisingly, there seemed to almost be a natural geological line that I could see with my own eyes, separating the two conditions. Here was an entity of great danger that had claimed so many hapless souls. All along the route so far, there had been rest stops and inns for merchants and the caravans that followed them. Here, however, for the next month or more, there would be emptiness. A flat, soft baked dirty stretched out before me like a surreal painting of unnatural beauty. Here, where the sands would shift, a person might be lost for months before coming out at the other side - if he ever did. Here was danger, boredom, travail...and beauty.

I set out.

I had been warned, of course, of the many dangers that existed here - poisonous snakes, scavenging animals, the great swallowing pits of sand. And, of course, the thirst. Yet I had provisioned myself and was determined. I too would come out unharmed. I would survive. I had enough water for two months travel. I had studied the methods of collecting dew overnight should I become lost and require more. I had studied the few edible plants and the animals that provided the best provender. My dromedaries were fit and well fed (and watered). I was well equipped for the scorching hot days and freezing quiet nights. My equipment was the best that money could buy: compass from LaSar in Froof, charts and maps made by Edwan Ffelks in Lud, spyglass made with the finest Ventenian glass. I was prepared better than most who have survived. Yet, it was with a touch of temerity that I set my first footstep upon the sand, for even the best and the wisest have failed here. The great plain is a tempting offer for the gambler, and there is always a chance that one could lose.

Of course, I knew that chances were that I would survive. I had no doubts about that. And, I might even meet other travelers during my trek. Still, I was wary.

The beginning was wonderful. I made many plain sketches, but soon that passed into a numbness for the landscape changed not. The eye became accustomed to the subtle changes in browns and blacks that I had so recently thought as beautiful. I had not lost my wonder for it, but drowned even in the greatest of beauty for so long, one will feel a need for change. And this place never changes. Save for the individual grains of dirt and sand that shifted with the slightest wind beneath my feet, this place was as unchanging and uneventful as anything could ever be.

To keep myself entertained, I would hum tunes of great symphonies to myself, playing them over in my mind, note by note. Sometimes, I would ride for days upon the back of one of my beasts of burden, doing nothing but playing out the greatest of the performances I had ever seen. I would relive my life's greatest pleasures. It became so routine that I could lose myself in that world as a whole day passed and barely be aware of what went on around me. My skin developed a deep tan. Everything I possessed was saturated with the grains of sand and dirt from the air.

The path that I had chosen had cunningly avoided the rather large patches of dried salt plains towards the south, for those could be a danger indeed - the corrosive material rubbing into the hoof of an animal, rendering him lame in a matter of minutes. And likewise, it would dry out the skin faster with the salts in the air than this fine powder sand and dirt ever could. While traveling through those patches could be done, and done faster than the trail I had selected, I had no great many men and beasts as a backup and I would not risk such an endeavor alone.

Dear readers, you might of course call this journey foolhardy, as many others did, but I assure you that I was prepared. I knew the way and, being quite an experienced traveler from my previous adventures, I decided that I would be most remiss in not essaying this great attempt. So there I was, day after day, riding the beasts. A week passed. And another. And yet another. I started to wonder if I would ever reach the end. Only on occasion would I see some animal in the distant, or trails left by some passing snake or beetle that I would hastily sketch in my book as a memento of this journey. I passed few bushes and a few watering hole - most of them dry. And, dear friends, this was the winter! O! how the summer must burn the journey into an endless toil. But I also knew that few, if any, would ever pass during the summer months.

Towards the end of the third week, I finally did meet somebody! A traveling caravan coming in the opposite direction. I was very wary at first, holding on to my scimitar of finest steel, trembling, hoping against all odds that these people would be friendly. I must attest to my feeling of complete nakedness. Here, I was powerless to their whims. I would pass carefully by. But they were friendly. We exchanged some news, what little we had, and passed each other quickly by. Two days later, I met another caravan, but we did not stop to talk, just riding by each other in mute acknowledgment. And then, again, the silence. I found myself, not yet two days out from my last encounter, thinking fondly for a moment of the fear I felt. It had been a change, an event, and my mind craved change. The courage that those warriors of the great Khun Gebal had shown in traveling this plain back and forth filled me with awe. How staunch their belief in their leader must have been to volunteer - yes, volunteer! - for active duty in patrols that would scour this trail and make it safer for those that would use it to enrich the empire. And all with but a single horse each and enough to carry on their backs. How I wondered at what they did to entertain themselves.

But then, they were not alone.

It had been a month now. I was setting up camp for the evening when the wall hit. I had been spending a few minutes setting up my small tent, unpacking the beasts, settling down. A particular tent peg had been giving me trouble. There was a rock beneath the sand and I was trying to rectify the situation. I must have been daydreaming again, toiling in the hot sun, taking longer than expected for, suddenly, I felt - and heard - the loudest tearing sound I had ever heard, approaching me. It sounded like tearing paper and cracking pops from nearby. I had no idea what it was. Quickly turning around, my sword instantly in hand, I saw before me a huge wall of sand. A sandstorm. Only a few miles away. Maybe closer. No advance warning at all. I dropped my sword and went cold.

Of course, everyone knows about the power of these sandstorms in the great plain. They can tear into rock and steel as if it were butter. Luckily, this was not the season for the greater storms, yet I knew the danger was imminent and I suddenly wished I was someplace quite distant from here. However, quickly collecting my wits, I remembered my training. I covered my bales of luggage with a thick tarp, wrapping it tightly with cord and burying the edges of my belongings into the loess dirt as quickly as I could. This would prevent them from flying away and hopefully, the canvas would protect the contents inside the bales and boxes. I was not quick enough, however, to finish my job with the tent before it hit. I knew the dromedaries would survive, burying their bodies in such a manner as to let the hardest of the wind pass over them. Their skin was thick like the hide of a bull, or even like the bark of a tree. I, however, was not similarly equipped! The wall of sand hit like a golden stream. The light changed. The howling was around me. That tearing sound and the popping, I could now identify as the sand ripping through the topsoil and snapping against the loose rocks. My tent, flapping wildly with my sleeping bag inside, was un-pegged and I thought that I surely would not survive this onslaught. But, something inside me was fascinated. My mouth and face were covered with my turban. My clothes would protect me for a little while. All around me was a golden light, streams of it going past with such a violence that it blurred everything before me only a few feet away. It was, dear readers, one of the most beautiful and terrifying sights I have ever witnessed. Being of the habit of keeping one of my cameras in my belt pack, I quickly took it out. The sand stung my hands, but I kept as steady as I could and took the above picture. And here, you see this wonderful and dangerous scene that I myself witnessed! I know that I should have rushed to save the tent as soon as I could, but I had to catalog this sight. My mind was aflame with the newness of the experience, the change in the daily drudgery. It only took a few seconds to take the picture and then I flung myself towards the tent, grabbing a peg from the inside, slamming it down into ground. Around me, the sand blasted against the heavy canvas. I realized that my hastily set up tent would collapse soon enough. Staying in there was a death trap. I tried to remain calm, and it took quite a bit of effort to finally slow down my thinking enough to think rationally. But I knew then what to do. Risking everything, I grabbed the two main poles, pulling up the entire tent with all of my strength, and ran, unprotected save by my clothes, against the heavy canvas-covered packs. Quickly, on the leeward side against the wind, I set up a "lean-to", using the bales as my "wall" against the wind. Then, as I listened to the idle braying of the dromedaries huddling slowly together to survive the storm, I sat, panting heavily in repose against my wall. Outside my little cocoon, the wind screeched, the tent walls shaking the entire time. All I could do was wait...and wait...and wait.

It took a long time, and I finally fell asleep during the worst of it, I imagine, but when I awoke, the sun was shining once more. Everything I had was covered in sand. But, oh the joy I felt at seeing my trusted dromedaries calmly sunning themselves in the morning light! I thought I had been lost, but everything was as it should have been. I rested that day, cleaning the worst of the sand from my possessions, and resting myself. The next day, I set out - proud of my actions and of the test that I had survived. And, only three days later, I came to the end of the great plain. An inn was my reward. A hot meal and a bath. A long and luxurious bath, and tales to regale the others I met there around the table as we shared the meal together and they listened in awe at how I had survived alone. Maybe not through any great feat other than luck and quick thinking. But they knew the dangers of the sandstorms and they understood the same feelings I had experienced, and those joys afterwards, and counted me as one of their own for ever after.

 

- Traveling Uncle Nat. :)

07/21/00

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