TOWARDS MOUNT EVEREST
“To make a determined effort, with every available resource, to reach
the summit” were the instructions with which the 1922 Mount Everest
expedition left England. The personnel was as follows:--
Brigadier-General the Hon. C. G. Bruce, C.B., M.V.O.,
commander-in-chief;
Lieut.-Colonel E. L. Strutt, D.S.O., second-in-command;
Dr. T. G. Longstaff, M.D., chief medical officer and naturalist;
Dr. A. W. Wakefield, medical officer;
Captain J. G. Bruce, M.C. (a cousin }
of General Bruce), }
} transport officers; and
Mr. Crawford, I.C.S., and }
}
Captain Morris, }
Captain J. B. Noel, official photographer and kinematographer.
The climbing party consisted of Mr. G. H. Leigh-Mallory, Major H.
Morshead, Major E. F. Norton, who was also artist and naturalist, Mr.
T. H. Somervell, also artist and medical officer, and myself, also
in charge of the oxygen equipment and responsible for its use on the
mountain. We had, in addition, four Ghurka non-commissioned officers,
a Tibetan interpreter by name Karma Paul, and about fifty Nepalese
porters and camp cooks.
The party assembled in Darjeeling, and two detachments moved off
towards the end of March to a _rendezvous_ at Phari Dzong, the first
considerable village on the line of march through Tibet proper. The
third detachment, consisting of Crawford and myself, had to remain
behind in Darjeeling to await the arrival of the belated oxygen
cylinders. It was not until April 2, a week later, that the apparatus
turned up, and we were able to proceed on our way.
Our route lay through the independent state of Sikkim, at first a
country of sub-tropical, or even tropical climate and luxuriant jungle
vegetation. Cool, shady, woodland streams and pools provided welcome
interludes in the hot and often dusty journeys. From the day we left
Darjeeling, I took photographs of scenes and happenings and did my
developing at the end of each day’s march. As I had to keep within a
definite baggage allowance, my photographic outfit was of the simplest.
It comprised a quarter-plate, roll-film camera fitted with a Zeiss
Tessar lens, a vest-pocket Kodak, two Kodak daylight developing tanks
with the requisite developer and fixing powders, and spools, sufficient
for fifteen hundred exposures, sealed in air-tight tins. Simple though
the equipment was, it meant my having to do without certain luxuries;
but I have always considered the sacrifice well worth the while, as the
photographic results obtained were, on the whole, pleasing.
Already on the third march out from Darjeeling, an ominous rattling was
heard coming from the boxes containing the oxygen cylinders. At the
first opportunity, the mules were off-loaded and the boxes opened, a
rather lengthy proceeding as we had no tools save our pocket-knives.
An examination of the contents showed that, even in this short space
of time, the rubbing of the cylinders against each other had caused an
appreciable amount of wear and tear--a state of affairs that called
for immediate remedy. Otherwise, sooner or later, a cylinder would have
been weakened to such an extent as to be able no longer to withstand
the pressure of the gas it contained; and the resulting explosion,
apart from the possibility of its leading to loss of, or injury to,
personnel, would have completely discredited oxygen which was already
by no means universally favoured by the members of the expedition.
Fortunately, we were able to purchase a large supply of string and
cloth which we wrapped round the cylinders. These were then repacked
in their boxes in such a manner that metal could not come into contact
with metal.
On April 8, in a snowstorm, we crossed the Jelep la, the lofty pass
on the boundary between Sikkim and Tibet, and that evening arrived at
the dâk bungalow at Yatung at the entrance to the Chumbi Valley, where
we passed our first night in Tibet. At the bungalow, we met the late
Sir Henry Hayden and his guide, César Cosson (who lost their lives
on the Finsteraarhorn in the Bernese Oberland in August, 1923). Like
ourselves, they were bound for the interior. Crawford and I continued
our journey on the following day, anxious to push on and try to catch
up the main body of the expedition; and, on arriving at Phari Dzong on
the 10th, we learned that they were only three marches ahead. After
three more days of hard marching across those vast, arid Tibetan
plains, through intense cold and in the teeth of a wind that whipped up
clouds of dust and sand into our faces, we rejoined our companions at
Kampa Dzong. On the first night out from Phari we camped in the open.
On the second, the nuns of the Buddhist convent of Ta-tsang afforded
us hospitality. Crawford and I passed the night in the roofless temple
chamber. Some of the nuns spread out my sleeping-bag on the altar,
and there I slept, awakened occasionally by the cold. A brilliant
moon shone down and lit up my weird abode. The dessicated remains of
a magnificent billy-goat hanging above the altar grinned down at me,
and prayer wheels surrounded me on every side. Next day, the 13th, we
were in camp at Kampa Dzong. In view of our somewhat travel-stained
appearance, the General decided to postpone the departure of the
expedition until the 15th, and so afford us a much-needed rest. Since
leaving Darjeeling, we had been marching hard without a single off-day.
From Kampa Dzong onwards, the yak replaced the mule as our transport
animal, owing to the difficulty of providing suitable fodder for the
latter. What the camel is to the desert, the yak is to Tibet--an animal
indispensable for human life in the country. The yak’s chief form of
nourishment is a very coarse grass, which grows in the marshy bottoms
of the valleys fed by the streams that flow down from the northern
slopes of the Himalayas. He relishes and thrives on this fodder which
apparently no other animal can palate. In appearance, the yak is a
hefty, beefy animal, somewhat resembling the Indian buffalo; but he
has a coat of long, shaggy wool to protect him against the cold and
wind. The Tibetans, who are forbidden by their religion to take the
life of wild animals, are permitted to slaughter domestic animals for
food. Thus the yak, in addition to being the national beast of burden,
supplies the inhabitants of the country with milk, butter, cheese,
meat, leather, wool and, last but not least, provides them, in the
almost complete absence of trees, with their staple fuel, dried yak
dung.
The pace of the mules was about four miles an hour, but that of the
yak is a most moderate one of less than two. To hustle a yak serves
no useful purpose; he simply gets annoyed, and proceeds to throw off
his load preparatory to running amok; and anything a yak does is
very thoroughly done. The proper way to drive yaks seems to be to let
them open out into extended order, line abreast, with the drivers
walking behind. While on the march, it is up to the drivers to whistle
soft, lullaby airs. If for lack of moisture on the lips or for lack
of breath, the whistling should cease for any length of time, the
yak objects and there is usually trouble. When treated in conformity
with his wishes, however, the yak proves a most reliable transport
animal, capable of carrying heavy loads for as much as ten to twelve
hours on end at his normal, steady pace, irrespective of the nature or
difficulty of the ground. When he comes to a river, he does not wait to
be off-loaded, but plunges in without hesitation and wades across as if
in his element.
Owing to the difficulty of obtaining a sufficient supply of yaks for
such a large caravan as ours, some of our baggage was carried by
donkeys. These little animals were extraordinarily game and tough,
but on one occasion, when our way lay across an extensive area of
quicksands, the nature of the ground had them thoroughly beat. With
their tiny hooves, the poor little donkeys would, at almost every step,
sink deeply into the quagmire; sometimes so deeply that little more
than nostrils, eyes, ears and tail remained above the slime. In such
cases the customary procedure was as follows: first of all, the loads
were removed, after which three drivers stationed themselves at all
three corners of the donkey, one at each ear and the third at the tail.
Then it was simply a case of heave-ho! until the animal emerged with a
noise resembling that of the withdrawing of a cork from a bottle.
From the European point of view the Tibetans have one great failing
which might well, considering the rigorous climatic conditions, be
deemed both excusable and incurable. If one ever wishes to talk with a
Tibetan, it is advisable to stand on his windward side. A noble Tibetan
informed me with great pride that he had had two baths, one on the day
of his birth and the other on the day of his wedding. Having neglected
to take the elementary precaution, I found it somewhat hard to credit
his statement. In this matter of physical cleanliness, the Tibetan
priests are even worse offenders than the laity; doubtless because
they do not marry. As two-fifths of the able-bodied population of the
country follow a religious calling, it will be readily understood that
the odour of sanctity is all-pervading. Only once did I see a Tibetan
having a bath. It was at Shekar Dzong, on the return journey from Mount
Everest. The day was bright and sunny and all but windless. Disporting
himself in the waters of a pool, quite close to the village, was a
Tibetan boy, stark naked. An interested crowd of his fellow-countrymen
looked on. On closer investigation it transpired that the boy was the
village idiot and, therefore, hardly responsible for his actions.
I would, in fairness, add that during our sojourn in Tibet our own
ablutions, when judged by western standards, were by no means too
thorough. We usually limited ourselves to washing the head and the arms
as far as the elbows. The tooth brush was, of course, plied regularly
by all and sundry, and it was this operation and that of shaving
that afforded most amusement to the Tibetan onlookers who invariably
supervised our morning toilet.
Apart from their one rather penetrating drawback, the Tibetans are
a most likeable people. Their love for and pride in their country,
harsh though it is, is great and sincere. They are cheerful and
good-humoured, keen and willing workers, honourable in carrying out
their bargains and scrupulously honest. During our travels in Tibet,
though we did not bother to keep close guard over all our stores and
belongings, we never lost so much as a single ration biscuit through
theft. They are most kind to their children. Unlike so many Europeans,
they do not make the mistake of talking down to them; but, from the
time their children can speak, they are treated with much the same
deference as is shown to grown-ups. The priests form the ruling class
in the country and are also the educated class, the monasteries and
similar priestly institutions being the seats of learning. The religion
of Tibet is Buddhism.
We had the good fortune to meet with a Tibetan soldier, resplendent
in a Ghurka hat and a bandolier of beautifully polished ammunition
which actually fitted the obsolete pattern of British rifle he so
proudly sported. Some of the cartridges were innocent of powder, and
the condition of many of the percussion caps was such as to guarantee
misfires. A fine, handsome figure of a man, he was, like all his
fellow-countrymen, courteous and friendly. War, a great war, was being
waged between Tibet and China, but he was now on his way home to look
after his crops. The Chinaman also had crops to tend; but in the
autumn, when the harvest had been safely gathered in, he and his enemy
were to meet once more and continue the warfare. An ideal arrangement!
To the average layman, the oxygen apparatus with which we were
supplied was perhaps slightly complicated. Being responsible both for
the apparatus and for seeing that all the climbing members of the
expedition were conversant with its use, I instituted a series of
oxygen drills. These drills were deservedly popular, being held, as a
rule, each evening at the end of a long day’s march, when everybody was
feeling particularly fit and vigorous.
On the 24th, we arrived at Shekar Dzong, the largest village we
visited in Tibet. Indeed, one might almost dignify it by the name of
“town,” with its four thousand inhabitants living in the clusters of
white-walled houses that cling to the steep sides of a rocky pinnacle
rising out of the plain. Here, owing to the necessity for changing
the transport animals, we were forced to rest for several days. It
is not to be supposed that such rest meant idleness. The General was
particularly busy interviewing the Jongpen, that is, governor, of
Shekar Dzong, regarding transport arrangements for the next stage of
the journey to the Base Camp at the foot of Everest. The transport
officers were kept busy taking stock of kit and stores. After attending
to the minor ills and ailments of the European and Indian members of
the expedition, the medical officers, headed by Dr. Longstaff, busied
themselves in strengthening the bonds of friendship between Tibet and
Great Britain by ministering to the needs of sick Tibetans. Apart
from the daily oxygen drill which never lasted very long, my time was
practically my own and was spent for the most part on photography and
sight-seeing.
We left Shekar Dzong on April 27, and two days later crossed the Pangla
Pass, about 17,000 feet in height, whence we obtained a good view of
Mount Everest and the neighbouring peaks. Everest towered head and
shoulders above its surroundings, a dark, irregular, forbidding-looking
rocky pyramid. I have never seen the mountain to better advantage. On
the 30th we pitched camp in the Rongbuk Valley, at the head of which
Everest stands. Hard by the camp was a large monastery presided over
by a very venerable old abbot who received us in audience. He was of
a lively and intelligent curiosity and asked many questions. Why were
we so eager to get to the summit of Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of
Snows? For so the Tibetans beautifully name this highest of mountains.
Why spend so much money, endure hardships, and face the dangers he
was sure had to be faced, merely for the sake of standing on the top
of this loftiest of great peaks? General Bruce, as usual, rose to the
occasion and explained with quite undeniable logic that, as the summit
of Everest is the highest point on earth, so is it the nearest point on
earth to heaven; and was it not meet that we should desire to approach
as closely as possible to heaven during our lifetime? This explanation,
which contains much more than a germ of the truth, satisfied the
reverend old gentleman completely. Henceforward he did everything
within his very wide powers to further the interests of the expedition.
[Illustration: _On the first day out from Phari Dzong._
_The mountain is Chomulhari (24,400 feet)._]
[Illustration: _Shekar Dzong._
_Facing page 290._
]
The next day’s march was destined to be our last towards the Base Camp,
the position of which was determined by its being the point beyond
which we could make no further progress with animal transport. A short
distance below the end of the Rongbuk Glacier which flows down from
Mount Everest into the valley, our tents were pitched (May 1) on a
little level patch of ground close under the steep slopes of a moraine.
We had fondly hoped that this moraine would shelter our camp from the
wind. But later, bitter experience was to teach us that the wind blows
not only up and down and across the Rongbuk Valley, but in any and all
other directions that perversity can make possible. I have always felt
rather sorry for the General, who spent the next seven weeks of his
existence at the Base Camp. He, indeed, knew something about wind by
the time his stay had come to an end.
No time was to be lost on arriving at the Base Camp, for the East
Rongbuk Glacier, over which the North Col, the real starting-point of
the climb on Everest itself, was to be approached, had not yet been
explored. On May 2, Colonel Strutt, Norton and I went up into this
valley and, quite close to the end of the glacier, selected a suitable
site for a first advanced camp. This first brief reconnaissance was
followed by a lengthier one carried out by Longstaff, Morshead and
Norton under the leadership of Colonel Strutt. This party successfully
explored the hitherto unknown regions of the East Rongbuk Glacier for
a suitable way up into the great bay that lies at the head of the
glacier and is enclosed by Mount Everest, the North Col and the North
Peak. They also selected suitable sites for the more advanced camps.
It was found necessary to pitch three such camps between the Base and
the North Col. They were known as Camp I (17,500 ft.), Camp II (19,500
ft.), and Camp III (21,000 ft.), and soon the transport officers with
the porters were busy establishing and provisioning them.
For the time being I remained at the Base. A mild form of dysentery,
which had at one time or another claimed as its victims most of the
other members of the expedition, now took hold of me, and I was some
days in shaking off its effects. By May 10, the work on the advanced
camps had progressed so well that Mallory and Somervell were able to
leave the Base in order to establish a camp on the North Col, and to
make an attempt to climb Everest without the use of oxygen.
It may be wondered why, in view of our instructions, oxygen was not
to be employed. One body of scientific opinion was most emphatic in
its view that without the assistance of a supply of oxygen carried
by the climbers it would be impossible to reach the summit of Mount
Everest. Scientists, however, do not always agree amongst themselves.
An almost equally strong body of scientific opinion declared that the
weight of any useful supply of oxygen carried by the climbers would
be so great as to counterbalance any advantages that might accrue
from the oxygen itself, and that, therefore, oxygen would not only
not be of assistance, but would actually be a grave hindrance to the
climber. Perhaps I may anticipate here by stating that the second
attempt on Everest in 1922 disproved beyond all shadow of doubt the
tenets of the second body of opinion, and, what is more important,
proved no less conclusively that Everest can positively be climbed
by men carrying a suitable supply of oxygen. So far we have no like
positive confirmation, either from climbing experience or scientific
research, of the possibility of attaining the summit of Everest
without oxygen. Personally I feel certain it never will be climbed
without oxygen. But there existed another force of oxygen antagonists,
largely unscientific, who were willing enough to admit that oxygen
might, indeed, have its uses, but condemned it on the ground that
its employment was unsporting and, therefore, un-British. The line
of reasoning of these anti-oxygenists is somewhat hard to follow,
and is inconsistent with their adoption of other scientific measures
which render mountaineering less exacting to the human frame. For
instance, they do not hesitate to conserve their animal heat by wearing
specially warm clothing; they do not deny the “legitimacy,” from the
mountaineering point of view, of the thermos flask; they fear no
adverse criticism when they doctor up their insides with special heat
and energy-giving foods and stimulants; from the sun’s ultra-violet
rays and the wind’s bitter cold they do not scruple to protect their
eyes by wearing Crookes’ anti-glare glasses; even the use of caffeïne
to supply a little more “buck” to a worn-out body is not cavilled at.
In fine, it may justly be supposed that if science could only provide
oxygen in the form of tablets, the words “artificial,” “illegitimate,”
“unsportsmanlike,” or “un-British” would no longer be applicable to its
use as an aid to climbing Everest. It was written on high authority,
and I read a copy of the article in question at the Base Camp, that
“this (the possible failure of the climbers to tolerate the restraint
of the oxygen apparatus) would be a good thing, because it seems to us
quite as important to discover how high a man can climb without oxygen
as to get to a specified point, even the highest summit of the world,
in conditions so artificial that they can never become ‘legitimate’
mountaineering.” This sentence may be taken as indicative of the change
in objective which was now becoming apparent amongst the members of the
expedition. Instead of the aim being to climb Mount Everest with every
resource at our disposal, the opponents of oxygen, of whom the writer
of the above quotation presumably is, or was, one, had so successfully
worked upon the minds of the members of the expedition as to induce
them to entertain a fresh objective, namely to see how far they could
climb without the aid of oxygen. It were pleasant to think that the
writer who could thus acclaim possible failure and, in advocating a new
objective, destroy the singleness of purpose of the expedition, was not
a mountaineer. And so it came about that, by the time we reached the
Base Camp, I found myself almost alone in my faith in oxygen. It is
true that I had had the advantage of personal teaching from Professor
Dreyer who had demonstrated, by experiments carried out upon myself,
what a powerful weapon oxygen could be when rightly used. This faith in
the lessons of my genial master was fully justified by later events.
But “faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers”; in the mountains,
the tragedy is that the odds are generally on the “unfaith.” It
has been suggested that a keen sense of rivalry existed between the
exponents of climbing with and without oxygen. As far as I am aware,
this was not so. Despite conflicting ideas on this subject, complete
harmony of feeling prevailed amongst us--too valuable a thing to be
disturbed by the friction into which, under the circumstances, a sense
of rivalry might well have degenerated.
[Illustration: _Mount Everest and the Base Camp._]
[Illustration: _Camp II._
_Facing page 294._
]
However, it was arranged that, after Mallory and Somervell had made
their attack, a second attempt should be carried out by Norton and
myself. But a few days later, on May 14, Strutt, Morshead and Norton
left to join up with Mallory and Somervell to make an onslaught in
force, but without oxygen. Hitherto, I had been sanguine in the extreme
about getting to the top, but when I saw the last mountaineers of the
expedition leave the Base Camp, my hopes fell low. Any attempt I could
now make upon Mount Everest would have to be carried out with untrained
climbers as my companions; for I felt certain that, before they could
be fit for another assault, the men of the first party would require,
not merely a few days, but weeks, to recuperate from the effects of
their initial effort.