Snow Leopard: Stories from the Roof of the World

8. Tears of the Karakorum

— 69 — 009 August 1982. I left camp at dawn, awed by the morning sun reflecting off the snowy white peaks of the Karakorum range that engulfed me. Cool, crisp mountain air held spirits high as young legs eagerly took to the trail in search of the rare Marco Polo sheep. I had been in these mountains before, but on the trail out of camp I realized that I knew little of this iconic bighorn sheep named after the famous Venetian explorer who opened Europe’s eyes to the wonder and grandeur of central Asia. In Pakistan they live on the high shoulders of the Karakorum Mountains, a range that boasts sixty peaks above 23,000 feet—including K2, the second-highest mountain in the world. It had been a wish, a dream, to see these magnificent animals someday. A smile framed my face this glorious morning, as I realized it was now my job as wildlife specialist for the Pakistan Forest Institute to study these remarkable animals. With each step up the rugged trails toward the high grazing slopes, my excitement welled up just imagining a glimpse of this rare animal. My accompanying wildlife watcher had warned earlier that it was Tears of the Karakorum A s h i q A h m A d K h A n PAKistAn—A young girl’s grief becomes the guiding light for a wildlife manger driven to find a way for humans and snow leopards to coexist. A s h i q A h m A d K h A n — 70 — rare to actually see one in this location, but my strong desire could not be quelled. After an hour or so we caught a distant view of several herders’ huts, with smoke coming from one of them. I thought to myself, “If people are about, how could the illusive Marco Polo be nearby?” My hopes began to fade, knowing that if there were sheep about, they would be at least an hour or more away. With this in mind, we moved toward the huts to seek the herders’ opinion about where the sheep might be. As we approached the huts, an unexpected scene unfolded. A small family of meager means was mourning the loss of dead and injured sheep in the corral. An elderly man, perhaps the owner or tender, though visibly upset himself, comforted a little girl barely five years old who was openly sobbing. Tears streamed down her reddened cheeks. One of the dead lambs had been her pet. As is the case with most children in herding families, the daily interaction with livestock from birth creates close bonds, filling lonely days with fun and companionship. Others in the family roamed the corral aimlessly, their sad and empty faces overwhelmed by the loss. Confused, I couldn’t image what animal could have done such a thing—wolves, leopards, or some new predator unfamiliar to me. The herder family, however, knew with absolute certainty what had perpetrated this horrible carnage—it was a snow leopard. I knew nothing about snow leopards, having only seen one in the zoo. The death and emotional distress before my astonished eyes caused me to immediately frame an opinion of this night stalker: a cruel animal of no use, a killer of the domestic livestock of poor people, rendering them even poorer. Bleeding animals and a little girl’s tears moved me to join hands with the family in a wish to eliminate such animals altogether. Thoughts of Marco Polo sheep evaporated among these good people’s anguish. My life and career would forever circle back to this unfortunate incident in the high Karakorum. I learned that, over the years, local people had cleverly devised a number of techniques to kill snow leopards. Villages also accepted the “help” of outsiders who T e a r s o f t h e K a r a k o r u m — 71 — would kill snow leopards, taking the luxuriant pelt in exchange. The herders had no idea what eventually happened to the pelts but focused only on the relief of another stock killer gone. Thus, I became convinced that locals were in some ways better equipped than I, a neophyte biologist, for dealing with snow leopards. They were more familiar with their habits; they knew how to use poisons and traps; and, if they had guns, they knew how to shoot them. It...