OUR JOURNEY OUT TO NANGA PARBAT
'And go
Eastward along the sea, to mount the lands
Beyond man's dwelling, and the rising steeps
That face the sun untrodden and unnamed.--
Know to earth's verge remote thou then art come,
The Scythian tract and wilderness forlorn,
Through whose rude rocks and frosty silences
No path shall guide thee then, ...
There as thou toilest o'er the treacherous snows.'
R. BRIDGES.
Amongst mountaineers, who has not at some time or another looked at the
map of India, wishing at the same time for an opportunity to visit the
Himalaya? to see Kanchenjunga, Devadhunga, Nanda Devi, Nanga Parbat,
or any of the hundreds of snow-clad mountains, every one of which is
higher than the loftiest peaks of other lands? to wander through the
valleys filled with tropical vegetation until the higher grounds are
reached, where the great glaciers lie like frozen rivers amidst the
white mountains, while the green pasturages and pine woods below bask
in the sunshine? to travel through the land where all natural things
are on a big scale, a land of great rivers and mighty mountains, a
land where even the birds and beasts are of larger size, a land that
was peopled many centuries ago with civilised races, when Western
Europe was in a state of barbarism? But these Himalaya are far away,
and often as one may wish some day to start for this marvellous land,
yet the propitious day never dawns, and less ambitious journeys are
all that the Fates will allow. Although it had seemed most unlikely
that I should ever be fortunate enough to visit the Himalaya, yet at
last the time arrived when my dream became a reality. I have seen
the great mountains of the Hindu Kush and the Karakoram ranges, from
Tirach Mir over Chitral to K^{2} at the head of the Baltoro glacier; I
have wandered in that waste land, the marvellous gorge of the Indus.
I have stopped at Chilas, one of the outposts of civilisation in the
wild Shinaki country, where not many years ago no white man could
venture. I have passed through the defile at Lechre, where in 1841 a
landslip from the northern buttress of Nanga Parbat dammed back the
whole Indus for six months, until finally the pent-up masses of water,
breaking suddenly through the thousands of feet of debris, burst with
irresistible force down through that unknown mountain-land lying below
Chilas for many hundreds of miles, till at last the whirling flood,
no longer hemmed in by the hills, swept out on to the open plains
near Attock, and in one night annihilation was the fate of a whole
Sikh army. Also I have seen the northern side of the mighty Nanga
Parbat, the greatest mountain face in the whole world, rising without
break from the scorching sands of the Bunji plain, first to the cool
pine woods and fertile valleys five thousand feet above, next to the
glaciers, and further back and higher to the ice-clad avalanche-swept
precipices which ring round the topmost snows of Nanga Parbat itself,
whose summit towers 26,629 feet above sea-level, and 23,000 feet above
the Indus at its base: whilst further to the northward Rakipushi and
Haramosh, both 25,000 feet high, seem only to be outlying sentinels of
grander and loftier ranges behind.
It was in 1894 that the late Mr. A. F. Mummery and Mr. G. Hastings
arranged that if they could obtain permission from the Indian
Government to visit that part of Kashmir in which Nanga Parbat lies,
they would start from England in June 1895, and attempt the ascent.
Early in 1895 I made such arrangements (owing to the kindness of
Professor Ramsay of London University College) that I was able to join
the expedition.
We left England on June 20, joining the P. and O. steamer _Caledonia_
at Brindisi. The voyage was delightful till we left Aden--even in
the Red Sea the temperature never rising above 90°,--but once in the
Indian Ocean we experienced the full force of the monsoon; and it was
exceedingly rough from there to Bombay, which we reached on July 5. Two
days later we arrived at Rawul Pindi, having had a very hot journey on
the railway, a maximum of 103° being experienced between Umballa and
Rawul Pindi.
At the latter place the foothills of the Himalaya were seen for the
first time, rising out of the plains of the Panjab. And that night,
amidst a terrific thunderstorm, the breaking of the monsoon on the
hills, we slept in dak bungalow just short of Murree. From Rawul Pindi
to Baramula, in the vale of Kashmir, an excellent road exists, along
which one is able to travel in a tonga. These strongly built two-wheel
carriages complete the journey of about one hundred and seventy miles
in two or three days. Owing, however, to the monsoon rain, we found the
road in many places in a perilous condition. Bridges had been washed
away, great boulders many feet thick had rolled down the mountain-side
sometimes to find a resting-place in the middle of the road, sometimes
to go crashing through it; in one place the whole mountain-side was
slowly moving down, road and all, into the Jhelum river below at the
bottom of the valley. But on the evening of July 9 we safely reached
Baramula.
[Illustration: MAP OF KASHMIR J. Bartholomew & Co., Edin^r.]
Beyond Baramula it is necessary to take a flat-bottomed boat or punt,
called a dunga, traversing the vale of Kashmir by water. This valley of
Kashmir, about which so much has been written, is beyond all adequate
description. Situated as it is, 6000 feet above sea-level, in an old
lake basin amongst the Himalaya, its climate is almost perfect. A
land of lakes and waterways, splendid trees and old ruins, vines,
grass-lands, flowers, and pine forests watered by cool streams from the
snow ranges that encircle it, with a climate during the summer months
like that of the south of France--no wonder this valley of Kashmir is
beautiful.
In length about eighty miles, and twenty-five miles in breadth, it lies
surrounded by giant peaks. Haramukh, 16,903 feet, is quite close; to
the eastward rise the Nun Kun peaks, 23,447 feet; whilst to the north
Nanga Parbat, 26,629 feet high, can be seen from the hill stations.
The atmospheric colours in the clear air are for ever changing, and
no better description of them can be given than one by Walter R.
Lawrence in his classical work on the _Valley of Kashmir_, where as
settlement officer he spent several years. He says, 'In the early
morning the mountains are often a delicate semi-transparent violet,
relieved against a saffron sky and with light vapours clinging round
their crests. Then the rising sun deepens shadows and produces sharp
outlines and strong passages of purple and indigo in the deep ravines.
Later on it is nearly all blue and lavender with white snow peaks and
ridges under a vertical sun, and as the afternoon wears on these become
richer violet and pale bronze, gradually changing to rose and pink
with yellow and orange snow, till the last rays of the sun have gone,
leaving the mountains dyed a ruddy crimson, with snows showing a pale
creamy green by contrast. Looking downward from the mountains, the
valley in the sunshine has the hues of the opal; the pale reds of the
Karéwá, the vivid light greens of the young rice, and the darker shades
of the groves of trees, relieved by sunlit sheets, gleams of water, and
soft blue haze, give a combination of tints reminding one irresistibly
of the changing hues of that gem. It is impossible to do justice to the
beauty and the grandeur of the mountains of Kashmir, or to enumerate
the lovely glades and forests visited by so few.'
Nowadays Kashmir is a prosperous country. But before the settlement
operations were taken in hand (1887) by Lawrence the country-people
were suffering from every kind of abuse and tyranny. Now it is all
changed, and under the rule of Maharaja Pratab Singh, who resolved
that this settlement should be carried out and gave it his loyal
support, the country-folk are contented and prosperous; the fields are
properly cultivated, without fear that the harvest will be reaped by
some extortionate official; the houses are rebuilt, and the orchards,
gardens, and vineyards are well looked after. It was not till my return
from the mountains that I had a chance of spending a few days in this
fascinating valley.
After leaving Baramula our route lay for some time up the Jhelum river,
which drains most of the vale of Kashmir; but soon we emerged on the
Woolar lake, and in the grey morning light the hills that completely
encircle the valley could be partly seen through the long streams of
white mist that draped them. The lake was perfectly calm, and reflected
on its surface the nearer hills. Soon we came to miles of floating
water-lilies in bloom, whilst on the banks quaint mud houses and farms,
encircled with poplar, walnut, and chenar trees, were visible; and,
beyond, great distances of grass lands and orchards stretched back to
the mountains.
But we were not across the lake. From the westward a rain-cloud was
approaching, and soon the whole face of nature was changed. Small waves
arose; then a blast of wind swept down part of the matting which served
as an awning to our boat, and in a moment we were in danger of being
swamped. The rowers at once began to talk wildly, evidently in great
fear of drowning. Several other dungas, which were near and in the
same plight as our own, came up, so all the boats were lashed together
by ropes. Meanwhile the women and children (for the Kashmiri lives on
the dunga with his wife and family) were screaming and throwing rice
on the troubled waters, presumably to propitiate the evil beings who
were responsible for the perilous state of affairs, and seemingly
this offering to the gods was effective, for the angry deity, the
storm-cloud, passed on, the wind dropped, and without further adventure
we made land at Bandipur on the northern shore of the lake in warm
sunshine.
Here we found ponies which had been hired for us by Major C. G. Bruce
of the 5th Gurkhas. He had travelled all the way from Khaghan to
Kashmir in order to engage servants, ponies, etc., and had spent a
fortnight out of a month's leave in arranging these matters for us who
were strangers to him. Since that time I have seen much more of Bruce,
but I shall always remember this kindness. I may also say that during
the whole of our expedition the military and political officers, and
others whom we met, invariably helped us in every way possible.
On July 11 we loaded the ponies with our baggage and started for Nanga
Parbat. Our route lay over the Tragbal or Raj Diangan pass, 11,950
feet. On the further side we descended to Kanjalwan in the valley of
the Kishnganga river. Up this valley about twelve miles is the village
of Gurais, where we were nearly stopped by the tahsildar, a most
important village official. We wanted more ponies, which he of course
promised, but next morning they were not forthcoming. Messages were
useless, and seemingly persuasion also was of no avail, he assuring
us that there were no ponies, and telling us every kind of lie with
the utmost oriental politeness. Mummery was, however, equal to the
occasion. He wrote out a telegram, which of course he never intended
to send, the contents of which he had translated to the tahsildar. It
was addressed to the British Resident at Srinagar, asking what should
be done with a miserable official at Gurais who would give us neither
help nor ponies. The effect was magical. In less than ten minutes we
had three times as many ponies as we wanted, and that too in a district
where everything with four legs was being pressed into the service of
the Gilgit commissariat. The tahsildar rode several miles up the valley
with us, finally insisting that Mummery should ride his pony, and
return it after two or three days when convenient.
Just above Gurais we left the valley of the Kishnganga, and turned to
the left or north-east up the valley of the Burzil. From this valley
two passes lead over the range into the country that drains down
the Astor nullah to the Indus: the first is the Kamri, 12,438 feet,
the second the Burzil or Dorikoon pass, 13,900 feet, over which the
military road to Gilgit has been made. Both these passes ultimately
lead to Astor. We chose the Kamri, for we were told that better forage
for our ponies could be obtained on the northern slopes. We crossed the
pass on July 14, finding still some of the winter snows unmelted on the
top.
From the summit we had our first view of Nanga Parbat, over forty miles
away, but rising in dazzling whiteness far above all the intervening
ranges. There is nothing in the Alps that can at all compare with
it in grandeur, and although often one is unable to tell whether a
mountain is really big, or only appears so, this was not the case
with Nanga Parbat as seen from the Kamri. It was huge, immense; and
instinctively we took off our hats in order to show that we approached
in a proper spirit.
Two days later we camped at Rattu, where we found Lieutenant C. G.
Stewart encamped with his mountain battery. He showed us the guns
(weighing 2 cwt. each) which he had taken over the Shandur pass in
deep snow when accompanying Colonel Kelly from Gilgit to the relief of
Chitral. During this passage he became snow-blind.
The forcing of the Shandur pass was one of the hardest pieces of work
in the whole of the relief of Chitral, and the moral effect produced
was invaluable. For the Chitralis were under the impression that
even troops without guns could not cross the pass. Imagine their
consternation when a well-equipped force, together with a mountain
battery, was at the head of the Mastuj river leading down to Chitral.
After we had been hospitably entertained by Lieutenant Stewart, and
duly admired his splendid mule battery, we left the next day, July
16, and finally, in the dark that night, camped at the base of Nanga
Parbat. During the day the ponies that we had hired only came as far as
a village named Zaipur, where we paid off our men, and sent them and
the ponies back to Bandipur.
We did not, however, wish to camp at Zaipur, which lay on the south
side of the Rupal torrent, but were anxious to cross to Chorit, a
village opposite, and then go on to Tashing. How this was to be
accomplished was not at first sight very plain. But the villagers were
most willing to help, and those of the Chorit village came down on the
further bank, in all about fifty to sixty men. Then bridge-building
began; tons of stones and brushwood were built out into the raging
glacier torrent; next pine trunks were neatly fixed on the cantilever
system in these piers on both sides, and when the two edifices jutted
far enough out into the stream, several thick pine trunks, about fifty
feet long, were toppled across, and prevented from being washed down
the stream by our Alpine ropes, which were tied to their smaller ends.
Several of these trunks were then placed across between the two piers,
and after three hours' hard work the bridge was finished. For this
magnificent engineering achievement the headmen of the two villages
were presented with two rupees. We did not camp at Tashing, but crossed
the glacier immediately above the village, and in a hollow amongst a
grove of willows set up our tents.
We had taken twenty-seven days from London travelling continuously, but
the weather was perfect. We were on the threshold of the unknown, and
the untrodden nullahs round Nanga Parbat awaited us.