THE NORTHERN APPROACH
As a matter of history it has been stated already in an earlier chapter
of this book that the highest mountain in the world attracted attention
so early as 1850. When we started our travels in 1921, something was
already known about it from a surveyor's point of view; it was a
triangulated peak with a position on the map; but from the mountaineer's
point of view almost nothing was known. Mount Everest had been seen and
photographed from various points on the Singalila ridge as well as from
Kampa Dzong; from these photographs it may dimly be made out that snow
lies on the upper part of the Eastern face at no very steep angle, while
the arete bounding this face on the North comes down gently for a
considerable distance. But the whole angle subtended at the great summit
by the distance between the two of these view-points which are farthest
apart is only 54 deg.. The North-west sides of the mountain had never been
photographed and nothing was known of its lower parts anywhere. Perhaps
the distant view most valuable to a mountaineer is that from Sandakphu,
because it suggests gigantic precipices on the South side of the
mountain so that he need have no regrets that access is barred in that
direction for political reasons.
The present reconnaissance began at Kampa Dzong, no less than 100 miles
away, and in consequence of misfortunes which the reader will not have
forgotten was necessarily entrusted to Mr. G. H. Bullock and myself, the
only representatives of the Alpine Club now remaining in the Expedition.
It may seem an irony of fate that actually on the day after the
distressing event of Dr. Kellas' death we experienced the strange
elation of seeing Everest for the first time. It was a perfect early
morning as we plodded up the barren slopes above our camp and rising
behind the old rugged fort which is itself a singularly impressive and
dramatic spectacle; we had mounted perhaps a thousand feet when we
stayed and turned, and saw what we came to see. There was no mistaking
the two great peaks in the West: that to the left must be Makalu, grey,
severe and yet distinctly graceful, and the other away to the right--who
could doubt its identity? It was a prodigious white fang excrescent from
the jaw of the world. We saw Mount Everest not quite sharply defined on
account of a slight haze in that direction; this circumstance added a
touch of mystery and grandeur; we were satisfied that the highest of
mountains would not disappoint us. And we learned one fact of great
importance: the lower parts of the mountain were hidden by the range of
nearer mountains clearly shown in the map running North from the Nila La
and now called the Gyanka Range, but it was possible to distinguish all
that showed near Everest beyond them by a difference in tone, and we
were certain that one great rocky peak appearing a little way to the
left of Everest must belong to its near vicinity.
It was inevitable, as we proceeded to the West from Kampa Dzong, that we
should lose sight of Mount Everest; after a few miles even its tip was
obscured by the Gyanka Range, and we naturally began to wonder whether
it would not be possible to ascend one of these nearer peaks which must
surely give us a wonderful view. I had hopes that we should be crossing
the range by a high pass, in which case it would be a simple matter to
ascend some eminence near it. But at Tinki we learned that our route
would lie in the gorge to the North of the mountains where the river
Yaru cuts its way through from the East to join the Arun.
From Gyanka Nangpa, which lies under a rocky summit over 20,000 feet
high, Bullock and I, on June 11, made an early start and proceeded down
the gorge. It was a perfect morning and for once we had tolerably swift
animals to ride; we were fortunate in choosing the right place to ford
the river and our spirits were high. How could they be otherwise? Ever
since we had lost sight of Everest the Gyanka Mountains had been our
ultimate horizon to the West. Day by day as we had approached them our
thoughts had concentrated more and more upon what lay beyond. On the far
side was a new country. Now the great Arun River was to divulge its
secrets and we should see Everest again after nearly halving the
distance. The nature of the gorge was such that our curiosity could not
be satisfied until the last moment. After crossing the stream we
followed the flat margin of its right bank until the cliffs converging
to the exit were towering above us. Then in a minute we were out on the
edge of a wide sandy basin stretching away with complex undulations to
further hills. Sand and barren hills as before--but with a difference;
for we saw the long Arun Valley proceeding Southwards to cut through the
Himalayas and its western arm which we should have to follow to Tingri;
and there were marks of more ancient river beds and strange inland
lakes. It was a desolate scene, I suppose; no flowers were to be seen
nor any sign of life beyond some stunted gorse bushes on a near hillside
and a few patches of coarse brown grass, and the only habitations were
dry inhuman ruins; but whatever else was dead, our interest was alive.
After a brief halt a little way out in the plain, to take our bearings
and speculate where the great mountains should appear, we made our way
up a steep hill to a rocky crest overlooking the gorge. The only visible
snow mountains were in Sikkim. Kanchenjunga was clear and eminent; we
had never seen it so fine before; it now seemed singularly strong and
monumental, like the leonine face of some splendid musician with a glory
of white hair. In the direction of Everest no snow mountain appeared. We
saw the long base tongues descending into the Arun Valley from the
Gyanka Range, above them in the middle distance an amazingly sharp rock
summit and below a blue depth most unlike Tibet as we had known it
hitherto. A conical hill stood sentinel at the far end of the valley,
and in the distance was a bank of clouds.
Our attention was engaged by the remarkable spike of rock, a proper
aiguille. As we were observing it a rift opened in the clouds behind; at
first we had merely a fleeting glimpse of some mountain evidently much
more distant, then a larger and clearer view revealed a recognizable
form; it was Makalu appearing just where it should be according to our
calculations with map and compass.
We were now able to make out almost exactly where Everest should be; but
the clouds were dark in that direction. We gazed at them intently
through field glasses as though by some miracle we might pierce the
veil. Presently the miracle happened. We caught the gleam of snow behind
the grey mists. A whole group of mountains began to appear in gigantic
fragments. Mountain shapes are often fantastic seen through a mist;
these were like the wildest creation of a dream. A preposterous
triangular lump rose out of the depths; its edge came leaping up at an
angle of about 70 deg. and ended nowhere. To the left a black serrated crest
was hanging in the sky incredibly. Gradually, very gradually, we saw the
great mountain sides and glaciers and aretes, now one fragment and now
another through the floating rifts, until far higher in the sky than
imagination had dared to suggest the white summit of Everest appeared.
And in this series of partial glimpses we had seen a whole; we were able
to piece together the fragments, to interpret the dream. However much
might remain to be understood, the centre had a clear meaning as one
mountain shape, the shape of Everest.
It is hardly possible of course from a distance of 57 miles to formulate
an accurate idea of a mountain's shape. But some of its most remarkable
features may be distinguished for what they are. We were looking at
Everest from about North-east and evidently a long arete was thrust out
towards us. Some little distance below the summit the arete came down to
a black shoulder, which we conjectured would be an insuperable obstacle.
To the right of this we saw the sky line in profile and judged it not
impossibly steep. The edge was probably a true arete because it appeared
to be joined by a col to a sharp peak to the North. From the direction
of this col a valley came down to the East and evidently drained into
the Arun. This was one fact of supreme importance which was now
established and we noticed that it agreed with what was shown on the
map; the map in fact went up in our esteem and we were inclined
hereafter to believe in its veracity until we established the contrary.
Another fact was even more remarkable. We knew something more about the
great peak near Everest which we had seen from Kampa Dzong; we knew now
that it was not a separate mountain; in a sense it was part of Everest,
or rather Everest was not one mountain but two; this great black
mountain to the South was connected with Everest by a continuous arete
and divided from it only by a snow col which must itself be at least
27,000 feet high. The black cliffs of this mountain, which faced us,
were continuous with the icy East face of Everest itself.
A bank of cloud still lay across the face of the mountain when Bullock
and I left the crest where we were established. It was late in the
afternoon. We had looked down into the gorge and watched our little
donkeys crossing the stream. Now we proceeded to follow their tracks
across the plain. The wind was fiercely blowing up the sand and swept it
away to leeward, transforming the dead flat surface into a wriggling sea
of watered silk. The party were all sheltering in their tents when we
rejoined them. Our camp was situated on a grassy bank below which by
some miracle a spring wells out from the sand. We also sought shelter.
But a short while after sunset the wind subsided. We all came forth and
proceeded to a little eminence near at hand; and as we looked down the
valley there was Everest calm in the stillness of evening and clear in
the last light.
I have dwelt upon this episode at some length partly because in all our
travels before we reached the mountain it is for me beyond other
adventures unforgettable; and not less because the vision of Everest
inhabiting our minds after this day had no small influence upon our
deductions when we came to close quarters with the mountain. We made
other opportunities before reaching Tingri to ascend likely hills for
what we could see; notably from Shekar Dzong we made a divergence from
the line of march and from a hill above Ponglet, on a morning of
cloudless sunrise, saw the whole group of mountains of which Everest is
the centre. But no view was so instructive as that above Shiling and we
added little to the knowledge gained that day.
On June 23, after a day's interval to arrange stores, the climbing party
set forth from Tingri Dzong. We were two Sahibs, sixteen coolies, a
Sirdar, Gyalzen and a cook Dukpa. The process of selecting the coolies
had been begun some time before this; the long task of nailing their
boots had been nearly completed on the march and we were now confident
that sixteen of the best Sherpas with their climbing boots, ice axes and
each a suit of underwear would serve us well. The Sirdar through whom
coolies had been engaged in the first instance seemed to understand what
was wanted and to have sufficient authority, and Dukpa, though we could
not expect from him any culinary refinements, had shown himself a person
of some energy and competence who should do much to reduce the
discomforts of life in camp. Our equipment was seriously deficient in
one respect: we were short of words. A few hours spent in Darjeeling
with a Grammar of Tibetan had easily convinced me that I should profit
little in the short time available by the study of that language. It had
been assumed by both Bullock and myself that our experienced leaders
would give the necessary orders for organisation in any dialect that
might be required. We had found little opportunity since losing them to
learn a language, and our one hope of conversing with the Sirdar was a
vocabulary of about 150 words which I had written down in a notebook to
be committed to memory on the march and consulted when occasion should
arise.
The task before us was not likely to prove a simple and straightforward
matter, and we had no expectation that it would be quickly concluded. It
would be necessary in the first place to find the mountain; as we looked
across the wide plains from Tingri and saw the dark monsoon clouds
gathered in all directions we were not reassured. And there would be
more than one approach to be found. We should have to explore a number
of valleys radiating from Everest and separated by high ridges which
would make lateral communication extremely difficult; we must learn from
which direction various parts of the mountain could most conveniently be
reached. And beyond all investigation of the approaches we should have
to scrutinise Mount Everest itself. Our reconnaissance must aim at a
complete knowledge of the various faces and aretes, a correct
understanding of the whole form and structure of the mountain and the
distribution of its various parts; we must distinguish the vulnerable
places in its armour and finally pit our skill against the obstacles
wherever an opportunity of ascent should appear until all such
opportunities were exhausted. The whole magnitude of the enterprise was
very present in our minds as we left Tingri. We decided that a
preliminary reconnaissance should include the first two aims of finding
the approaches to Mount Everest and determining its shape, while
anything in the nature of an assault should be left to the last as a
separate stage of organisation and effort. In the result we may claim to
have kept these ends in view without allowing the less important to prey
upon the greater. So long as a doubt remained as to the way we should
choose we made no attempt to climb the peak; we required ourselves first
to find out as much as possible by more distant observations.
Mount Everest, as it turned out, did not prove difficult to find. Almost
in the direct line from Tingri are two great peaks respectively 26,870
and 25,990 feet high--known to the Survey of India as M_{1} and M_{2}
and to Tibetans as Cho-Uyo and Gyachung Kang. They lie about W.N.W. of
Everest. We had to decide whether we should pass to the South of them,
leaving them on our left, or to the North. In the first case we surmised
that we might find ourselves to the South of a western arete of Everest,
and possibly in Nepal, which was out of bounds. The arete, if it
existed, might perhaps be reached from the North and give us the view we
should require of the South-western side, in which case one base would
serve us for a large area of investigation and we should economise time
that would otherwise be spent in moving our camp round from one side to
another. Consequently we chose the Northern approach. We learned from
local knowledge that in two days we might reach a village and monastery
called Choebuk, and from there could follow a long valley to Everest. And
so it proved. Choebuk was not reached without some difficulty, but this
was occasioned not by obstacles in the country but by the manners of
Tibetans. At Tingri we had hired four pack animals. We had proceeded 2
or 3 miles across the plain when we perceived they were heading in the
wrong direction. We were trusting to the guidance of their local drivers
and felt very uncertain as to where exactly we should be aiming; but
their line was about 60 deg. to the South of our objective according to a
guesswork compass bearing. An almost interminable three-cornered
argument followed. It appeared that our guides intended to take five
days to Choebuk. They knew all about "ca' canny." In the end we decided
to take the risk of a separation; Gyalzen went with the bullocks and our
tents to change transport at the village where we were intended to stay
the night, while the rest of us made a bee line for a bridge where we
should have to cross the Rongbuk stream. At the foot of a vast moraine
we waited on the edge of the "maidan," anxiously hoping that we should
see some sign of fresh animals approaching; and at length we saw them.
It was a late camp that evening on a strip of meadow beside the stream,
but we had the comfort of reflecting that we had foiled the natives,
whose aim was to retard our progress; and in the sequel we reached our
destination with no further trouble.
[Illustration: CHO-UYO.]
On June 25 we crossed the stream at Choebuk. Tibetan bridges are so
constructed as to offer the passenger ample opportunities of
experiencing the sensation of insecurity and contemplating the
possibilities of disaster. This one was no exception. We had no wish to
risk our stores, and it was planned that the beasts should swim. They
were accordingly unladen and driven with yell and blow by a willing
crowd, until one more frightened than the rest plunged into the torrent
and the others followed. We now found ourselves on the right bank of the
Rongbuk stream, and knew we had but to follow it up to reach the glacier
at the head of the valley. An hour or so above Choebuk we entered a gorge
with high red cliffs above us on the left. Below them was a little space
of fertile ground where the moisture draining down from the limestone
above was caught before it reached the stream--a green ribbon stretched
along the margin with grass and low bushes, yellow-flowering asters,
rhododendrons and juniper. I think we had never seen anything so green
since we came up on to the tableland of Tibet. It was a day of brilliant
sunshine, as yet warm and windless. The memory of Alpine meadows came
into my mind. I remembered their manifold allurements; I could almost
smell the scent of pines. Now I was filled with the desire to lie here
in this "oasis" and live at ease and sniff the clean fragrance of
mountain plants. But we went on, on and up the long valley winding
across a broad stony bay; and all the stony hillsides under the midday
sun were alike monotonously dreary. At length we followed the path up a
steeper rise crowned by two chortens between which it passes. We paused
here in sheer astonishment. Perhaps we had half expected to see Mount
Everest at this moment. In the back of my mind were a host of questions
about it clamouring for answer. But the sight of it now banished every
thought. We forgot the stony wastes and regrets for other beauties. We
asked no questions and made no comment, but simply looked.
It is perhaps because Everest presented itself so dramatically on this
occasion that I find the Northern aspect more particularly imaged in my
mind, when I recall the mountain. But in any case this aspect has a
special significance. The Rongbuk Valley is well constructed to show off
the peak at its head; for about 20 miles it is extraordinarily straight
and in that distance rises only 4,000 feet, the glacier, which is 10
miles long, no more steeply than the rest. In consequence of this
arrangement one has only to be raised very slightly above the bed of the
valley to see it almost as a flat way up to the very head of the glacier
from which the cliffs of Everest spring. To the place where Everest
stands one looks along rather than up. The glacier is prostrate; not a
part of the mountain; not even a pediment; merely a floor footing the
high walls. At the end of the valley and above the glacier Everest rises
not so much a peak as a prodigious mountain-mass. There is no
complication for the eye. The highest of the world's great mountains, it
seems, has to make but a single gesture of magnificence to be lord of
all, vast in unchallenged and isolated supremacy. To the discerning eye
other mountains are visible, giants between 23,000 and 26,000 feet high.
Not one of their slenderer heads even reaches their chief's shoulder;
beside Everest they escape notice--such is the pre-eminence of the
greatest.
Considered as a structure Mount Everest is seen from the Rongbuk Valley
to achieve height with amazing simplicity. The steep wall 10,000 feet
high is contained between two colossal members--to the left the
North-eastern arete, which leaves the summit at a gentle angle and in a
distance of about half a mile descends only 1,000 feet before turning
more sharply downwards from a clearly defined shoulder; and to the
right the North-west arete (its true direction is about W.N.W.), which
comes down steeply from the summit but makes up for the weaker nature of
this support by immense length below. Such is the broad plan. In one
respect it is modified. The wide angle between the two main aretes
involves perhaps too long a face; a further support is added. The
Northern face is brought out a little below the North-east shoulder and
then turned back to meet the crest again, so that from the point of the
shoulder a broad arete leads down to the North and is connected by a
snow col at about 23,000 feet with a Northern wing of mountains which
forms the right bank of the Rongbuk Glacier and to some extent masks the
view of the lower parts of Everest. Nothing could be stronger than this
arrangement and it is nowhere fantastic. We do not see jagged crests and
a multitude of pinnacles, and beautiful as such ornament may be we do
not miss it. The outline is comparatively smooth because the
stratification is horizontal, a circumstance which seems again to give
strength, emphasising the broad foundations. And yet Everest is a rugged
giant. It has not the smooth undulations of a snow mountain with white
snow cap and glaciated flanks. It is rather a great rock mass, coated
often with a thin layer of white powder which is blown about its sides,
and bearing perennial snow only on the gentler ledges and on several
wide faces less steep than the rest. One such place is the long arm of
the North-west arete which with its slightly articulated buttresses is
like the nave of a vast cathedral roofed with snow. I was, in fact,
reminded often by this Northern view of Winchester Cathedral with its
long high nave and low square tower; it is only at a considerable
distance that one appreciates the great height of this building and the
strength which seems capable of supporting a far taller tower. Similarly
with Everest; the summit lies back so far along the immense aretes that
big as it always appears one required a distant view to realise its
height; and it has no spire though it might easily bear one; I have
thought sometimes that a Matterhorn might be piled on the top of Everest
and the gigantic structure would support the added weight in stable
equanimity.
On June 26 we pitched our tents in full view of Everest and a little way
beyond the large monastery of Choeyling which provides the habitations
nearest to the mountain, about 16 miles away. After three days' march
from the Expedition's headquarters at Tingri we had found the object of
our quest and established a base in the Rongbuk Valley, which was to
serve us for a month.
The first steps in a prolonged reconnaissance such as we were proposing
to undertake were easily determined by topographical circumstances.
Neither Bullock nor I was previously acquainted with any big mountains
outside the Alps; to our experience in the Alps we had continually to
refer, both for understanding this country and for estimating the
efforts required to reach a given point in it. The Alps provided a
standard of comparison which alone could be our guide until we had
acquired some fresh knowledge in the new surroundings. No feature of
what we saw so immediately challenged this comparison as the glacier
ahead of us; in so narrow a glacier it was hardly surprising that the
lower part of it should be covered with stones, but higher the whole
surface was white ice, and the white ice came down in a broad stream
tapering gradually to a point when it was lost in the waste of the brown
grey. What was the meaning of this? Even from a distance it was possible
to make out that the white stream contained pinnacles of ice. Was it all
composed of pinnacles? Would they prove an insuperable obstacle? In the
Alps the main glaciers are most usually highways, the ways offered to
the climber for his travelling. Were they not to prove highways here?
Our first expedition was designed to satisfy our curiosity on this head.
Allowing a bountiful margin of time for untoward contingencies we set
forth on June 27 with five coolies at 3.15 a.m., and made our way up the
valley with a good moon to help us. To be tramping under the stars
toward a great mountain is always an adventure; now we were adventuring
for the first time in a new mountain country which still held in store
for us all its surprises and almost all its beauties. It was not our
plan at present to make any allowance for the special condition of
elevation; we expected to learn how that condition would tell and how to
make allowances for the future. We started from our camp at 16,000
feet--above the summit of Mont Blanc--just as we should have left an
Alpine hut 6,000 feet lower, and when we took our first serious halt at
7 a.m. had already crossed the narrow end of the glacier. That short
experience--an hour or so--was sufficient for the moment. The hummocks
of ice covered with stones of all sizes--like the huge waves of a brown
angry sea--gave us no chance of ascending the glacier; one might
hopefully follow a trough for a little distance but invariably to be
stopped by the necessity of mounting once more to a crest and descending
again on the other side. Nevertheless, we were not dissatisfied with our
progress. We were now in a stream bed between the glacier and its left
bank and above the exit of the main glacier stream, which comes out on
this side well above the snout. The watercourse offered an opportunity
of progress; it was dry almost everywhere and for a bout of leaping from
boulder to boulder we were usually rewarded by a space of milder walking
on the flat sandy bed. Our pace I considered entirely satisfactory as we
went on after breakfast; unconsciously I was led into something like a
race by one of the coolies who was pressing along at my side. I noticed
that though he was slightly built he seemed extremely strong and active,
compact of muscle; but he had not yet learnt the art of walking
rhythmically and balancing easily from stone to stone. I wondered how
long he would keep up. Presently we came to a corner where our stream
bed ended and a small glacier-snout was visible above us apparently
descending from the Northwest. We gathered on a high bank of stones to
look out over the glacier. I observed now that the whole aspect of the
party had changed. The majority were more than momentarily tired, they
were visibly suffering from some sort of malaise. It was not yet nine
o'clock and we had risen barely 2,000 feet, but their spirits had gone.
There were grunts instead of laughter.
The glacier's left bank which we were following was now trending to the
right. To the South and standing in front of the great North-west arm of
Everest was a comparatively small and very attractive snow peak, perhaps
a little less than 21,000 feet high. We had harboured a vague ambition
to reach its shoulder, a likely point for prospecting the head of the
Rongbuk Glacier. But between us and this objective was a wide stretch of
hummocky ice which had every appearance of being something more than a
mere bay of the main glacier. We suspected a western branch and
proceeded to confirm our suspicion. After a rough crossing below the
glacier above us we were fortunate enough to find another trough wider
than the first and having a flat sandy bottom where we walked easily
enough. Presently leaving the coolies to rest on the edge of the glacier
Bullock and I mounted a high stony shoulder, and from there, at 18,500
feet, saw the glacier stretching away to the West, turning sharply below
us to rise more steeply than before. Cloud prevented us from
distinguishing what appeared to be a high mountain ridge at the far end
of it.
It was evident that nothing was to be gained at present by pushing our
investigations further to the West. Our curiosity was as yet unsatisfied
about those white spires of ice to which our eyes had constantly
returned. We declined the alternative of retracing our steps and without
further delay set about to cross the glacier. It was now eleven o'clock
and we were under no delusion that the task before us would be other
than arduous and long. But the reward in interest and valuable
information promised to be great, for, by exploring the glacier's right
bank during our descent we should learn all we wanted to know before
making plans for an advance. And we hoped to be in before dark.
The stone-covered ice on which we first embarked compared favourably
with that of our earlier experience before breakfast. The sea, so to
speak, was not so choppy; the waves were longer. We were able to follow
convenient troughs for considerable distances. But at the bottom of a
trough which points whither it will it is impossible to keep a definite
direction and difficult to know to what extent one is erring. An hour's
hard work was required to bring us to the edge of the white ice. Our
first question was answered at a glance. It had always seemed improbable
that these were seracs such as one meets on an Alpine icefall, and
clearly they were not. We saw no signs of lateral crevasses. The shapes
were comparatively conical and regular, not delicately poised but firmly
based, safely perpendicular and not dangerously impending. They were the
result not of movement but of melting, and it was remarkable that on
either side the black ice looked over the white, as though the glacier
had sunk in the middle. The pinnacles resembled a topsy-turvy system of
colossal icicles, icicles thrust upwards from a common icy mass, the
whole resting on a definable floor. The largest were about 50 feet high.
We were divided from this fairy world of spires by a deep boundary moat
and entered it on the far side by what may be described as a door but
that it had no lintel. An alley led us over a low wall and we had
reached the interior. A connected narrative of our wanderings in this
amazing country could hardly be true to its disconnected character. The
White Rabbit himself would have been bewildered here. No course seemed
to lead anywhere. Our idea was to keep to the floor so far as we were
able; but most usually we were scrambling up a chimney or slithering
down one, cutting round the foot of a tower or actually traversing along
an icy crest. To be repeatedly crossing little cols with the continued
expectation of seeing a way beyond was a sufficiently exciting labour;
it was also sufficiently laborious since the chopping of steps was
necessary almost everywhere; but fatigue was out of sight in the
enchanted scene, with the cool delight of little lakes, of the ice
reflected in their unruffled waters and of blue sky showing between the
white spires. We had but one misadventure, and that of no
consequence--it was my fate when crossing the frozen surface of one
little lake to suffer a sudden immersion: the loss of dignity perhaps
was more serious than the chilling of ardour, for we soon came upon a
broadening alley and came out from our labyrinth as suddenly as we
entered it, to lie and bask in the warm sun.
Our crossing of the white ice after all had taken little more than two
hours, and we might well consider ourselves fortunate. But it must be
remembered that we were far from fresh at the start and now the reaction
set in. The stone-covered glacier on this side, besides being a much
narrower belt was clearly not going to give us trouble, and after an
ample halt we started across it easily enough. On the right bank we had
noticed many hours before above the glacier a broad flat shelf,
presumably an old moraine, and a clear mark along the hillside away down
to a point below the snout. This was now our objective and no doubt once
we had gained it our troubles would be ended. But in the first place it
had to be gained. In the Alps it has often seemed laborious to go up
hill towards the end of a day: it was a new sensation to find it an
almost impossible exertion to drag oneself up a matter of 150 feet. And
further exertions were to be required of us. A little way down the
valley a glacier stream came in on our right; we had observed this
before and hopefully expected to follow our terrace round and rejoin it
on the far side of the gully. But it was late in the afternoon and the
stream was at its fullest. We followed it down with defeated
expectations; it always proved just too dangerous to cross. Finally it
formed a lake at the edge of the glacier before disappearing beneath it
and obliged us to make a detour on the ice once more. I suppose this
obstacle was mild enough; but again an ascent was involved, and after it
at least one member of the party seemed incapable of further effort.
Another halt was necessary. We were now down to about 17,000 feet and at
the head of a long passage at the side of the glacier, similar to that
we had ascended in the morning on the other bank. Those who suffer from
altitude on a mountain have a right to expect a recovery on the descent.
But I saw no signs of one yet. It was a long painful hour balancing from
boulder to boulder along the passage, with the conscious effort of
keeping up the feat until we came out into the flat basin at the glacier
end. Then as we left the glacier behind us the day seemed to come right.
One obstacle remained, a stream which had been crossed with difficulty
in the morning and was now swollen to a formidable torrent. It was
carried with a rush--this was no moment for delay. Each man chose his
own way for a wetting; for my part, after a series of exciting leaps on
to submerged stones I landed in the deepest part of the stream with the
pick of my axe dug into the far bank to help me scramble out. After this
I remember only of the last 4 miles the keen race against the gathering
darkness; fatigue was forgotten and we reached camp at 8.15 p.m., tired
perhaps, but not exhausted.
It has seemed necessary to give an account of this first expedition in
some detail in order to emphasise certain conditions which governed all
our movements from the Rongbuk Valley. We now knew how to get about.
Flat though the glacier might be, it was no use for travelling in any
part we had seen, not a road but an obstacle. The obstacle, however, had
not proved insurmountable, and though the crossing had been laborious
and long, we were not convinced that it need be so long another time;
careful reconnaissance might reveal a better way, and we had little
doubt that both the main glacier and its Western branch could be used
freely for lateral communication if we chose. It would not always be
necessary in organising an expedition to be encamped on one side of the
glacier rather than the other. And we had discovered that it was not a
difficult matter to make our way along the glacier sides; we could
choose either a trough or a shelf.
We had also been greatly interested by the phenomena of fatigue. The
most surprising fact when we applied our standard of comparison was that
coming down had proved so laborious; Bullock and I had each discovered
independently that we got along better when we remembered to breathe
hard, and we already suspected what we afterwards established--that it
was necessary to adopt a conscious method of breathing deeply for coming
down as for going up. Another inference, subsequently confirmed on many
occasions, accused the glacier. The mid-day sun had been hot as we
crossed it and I seemed to notice some enervating influence which had
not affected me elsewhere. It was the glacier that had knocked me out,
not the hard work alone but some malignant quality in the atmosphere,
which I can neither describe nor explain; and in crossing a glacier
during the day I always afterwards observed the same effect; I might
feel as fit and fresh as I could wish on the moraine at the side but
only once succeeded in crossing a glacier without feeling a despairing
lassitude.
I shall now proceed to quote from my diary:
_June_ 28.--A slack day in camp. It is difficult to induce coolies to
take any steps to make themselves more comfortable. We're lucky to have
this fine weather. The mountain appears not to be intended for climbing.
I've no inclination to think about it in steps to the summit.
Nevertheless, we gaze much through field-glasses. E. is, generally
speaking, convex, steep in lower parts and slanting back to summit. Last
section of East arete[4] should go; but rocks up to the shoulder are
uninviting. An arete must join up here, coming down towards us and
connecting up with first peak to N.[5] There's no true North arete to
the summit, as we had supposed at first. It's more like this:
[4] It had not yet been established that the true direction of this
arete is North-east.
[5] i.e. the North Peak (Changtse).
[Illustration]
G. H. B. thinks little of the North-west arm. But I'm not so sure; much
easy going on that snow if we can get to it and rocks above probably
easier than they look--steep but broken. Are we seeing the true edge? I
wish some folk at home could see the precipice on this side--a grim
spectacle most unlike the long gentle snow slopes suggested by photos.
Amusing to think how one's vision of the last effort has changed; it
looked like crawling half-blind up easy snow, an even slope all the way
up from a camp on a flat snow shoulder; but it won't be that sort of
grind; we'll want climbers and not half-dazed ones; a tougher job than I
bargained for, sanguine as usual.
E. is a rock mountain.
Obviously we must get round to the West first. The Western glacier looks
as flat as this one. Perhaps we shall be able to walk round into
another cwm[6] on the far side of North-west buttress.
[6] Cwm, combe or corry--the rounded head of a valley.
_June_ 29.--Established First Advanced Camp.
The start late, about 8 a.m., an hour later than ordered. Loads must be
arranged better if anything is to be done efficiently. Gyalzen's
response to being hustled is to tie knots or collect tent pegs--with no
idea of superintending operations. An exciting day with destination
unfixed. We speculated that the shelf on the left bank would resemble
that on right. A passage on stone-covered glacier unavoidable and bad
for coolies--perhaps to-day's loads were too heavy for this sort of
country. From breakfast place of 27th I went on with Gyalzen, following
up a fresh-water stream to the shelf; good going on this shelf for forty
minutes, with no sign of more water, and I decided to come back to the
stream. Just as we were turning I saw a pond of water and a spring, an
ideal place, and it's much better to be further on. Real good luck. Wind
blows down the glacier and the camp is well sheltered. Only crab that we
lose the sun early--4 p.m. to-day; but on the other hand it should hit
us very soon after sunrise.
Coolies in between 3.30 and 4.30. Dorji Gompa first, stout fellow, with
a big load. They seem happy and interested.... It should now be possible
to carry reconnaissance well up the main glacier and to the basin
Westwards without moving further--once we get accustomed to this
elevation.
_June_ 30.--A short day with second[7] party, following the shelf to a
corner which marks roughly the junction of the main glacier with its
Western branch. A clearing day after a good night; we found a good way
across to the opposite corner, about an hour across, and came back in
leisurely fashion. Neither B. nor I felt fit.
[7] The coolies had been divided into three parties which were to
spend four or five days in the advanced camp by turns to be
trained in the practice of mountaineering while the rest supplied
this camp from our base.