Having seen that all my instruments were in good condition, I selected
about a dozen of my strongest men to accompany me on my ascent on one
of the Lumpa peaks. It had been sleeting and snowing during the night,
and when I roused my men shortly before five in the morning there was a
thick mist which seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of one’s bones.
With chattering teeth and a chilly nose, we got all things ready, and
brewed a parting cup of hot tea, after which we set out on our errand,
the other men remaining to take care of the camp.
Every now and then the wind cleared the mist, and we could see a
bright, clear sky above us which gave us hope that we might have a fine
day. I am not a believer in early rising; as a rule eight or nine
o’clock is my favourite hour for starting on a march, when the sun is
already high above the horizon. You then start off in comfort, instead
of waking with an angry feeling that you are being done out of some
hours’ sleep. On this occasion, however, we had such a long distance to
cover, and in all probability troublesome and dangerous marching before
us, that I wished to have as many hours of daylight before me as
possible.
No sooner had we started, following the main glacier in a direction of
120°, than a thick fog set in which made progress somewhat troublesome.
It seemed to get thicker and thicker as we were rising higher upon the
glacier. We had to find our way among numerous pits and crevasses. We
kept as close together as was practicable, but we were not roped
together. It has ever been my rule when mountaineering that every man
must look after himself. I take all sensible precautions to avoid all
accidents, and collective accidents in particular. If there has to be a
mishap, which is not likely, and some unfortunate man slips into a
crevasse, do not let him by any means drag down the whole party, as is
frequently the case when roped together. Besides, the rope in itself is
a great hindrance to one’s progress, and on very rough marching
exhausts much of the traveller’s strength, being either too tight or
too slack, and always getting in the way when it should not.
We tramped along as best we could over a great many transverse waves of
ice, covered here and there with débris—most fatiguing work. In the
first portion of the main glacier, on which we were, and which lay from
W. to E., the transverse waves followed a parallel direction of N.W. to
S.E. until we reached an altitude of 15,000 feet with a temperature of
42°; but in the upper part of the glacier, which lay from N.W. to S.E.,
these parallel waves lay in a direction of from S. W. to N.E. In the
higher portion of the glacier, 15,400 feet above sea-level, we came to
a regular maze of huge pits in close succession, and we were glad when
the sun shone brightly on us and little by little dispelled the fog, so
that we could see what we might expect ahead of us.
On our left we had precipitous mountains of grey rock; on our right
somewhat gentler slopes, mostly covered with snow. We at last reached
the crescent-shaped Lumpa basin, walled all round with two higher peaks
joined by a semicircular high barrier of snow-clad rock.
We were particularly fortunate as we approached. The mist lifted like
the curtain of a theatre and unexpectedly disclosed a magnificent view
before us, brilliantly illuminated by the light of the sun. I was lucky
enough to obtain several excellent photographs and sketches, one giving
a panoramic view of the scene being reproduced in this book.
I possess some negatives taken on that occasion that are of particular
interest, as showing the idiocy of certain people who maintain that
clouds do not form above an altitude of 20,000 feet. The very fact that
you find snow up to the summits at Nanda Devi (25,660 feet), and Mt.
Everest (29,000 feet), might, I think, be sufficient proof to the
contrary to any one except possibly a Royal geographer; but in my
negatives the clouds themselves show as they were forming on the summit
of one of the Lumpa peaks, which has an elevation of 23,490 feet.
A few negatives of lesser importance were injured owing to a most
uncommon occurrence. In my magazine camera the plate-holders were of
metal, and slid one on the top of the other when being changed for
exposure. Owing to the dryness of the atmosphere the friction of metal
on metal produced an electric spark inside the camera, which marked
some of the plates across like a streak of lightning, and somewhat
fogged them. Of course, I only discovered this on developing them.
My object in making the ascent of this high peak was not so much for
the sake of getting there as for the purpose of making some
observations on the effects of great altitudes upon human beings, a
subject in which I was then rather interested. We continued climbing
upon the glacier until we came to a big stretch broken into huge and
tortuous crevasses of immense depth. When you stooped over the edge and
looked down, the ice-walls on either side showed most beautiful tints,
from intense blue at the bottom fading in most delicious tones to pale
green and to the pure white of the surface snow. These crevasses were
very wide in some places, but here and there they were close together,
and we could easily jump across.
We then left the glacier, and proceeded climbing along the mountain
side to our right, upon extensive snow-fields. The first portion of the
ascent was in no way difficult, and we proceeded quickly enough
considering the great elevation. But on reaching 20,000 feet some of my
men were taken with mountain sickness, and they had great difficulty in
keeping up with us. They bled considerably from the nose, and were
eventually seized with such violent pains that we had to leave them
behind—to be picked up on our return. Out of twelve men only four were
still in good condition, and having seen to the comfort of the sick men
we left them, wrapped up in their blankets, in a sheltered hollow upon
the mountain side.
We next came to a patch of very troublesome loose débris, so steep that
even snow would not stop on it, and we sweated and sweated for some
time trying to get on. Every time you took a step you started a mass of
débris, sliding with a great roar down the mountain side, and you went
sliding back yourself almost to where you had moved from.
When we managed to get higher we were among bigger rocks, also quite
loose, and it seemed as if the sound of one’s voice was sufficient to
start dozens of them on a bounding race for lower elevations. We were
resting for a while when a lot of these stones came rolling and
bounding towards us with great force, and on the loose stuff upon which
we stood it was impossible to get out of the way quickly. One big rock
particularly came bounding down in such an erratic fashion that we saw
its approach with some concern. One of my men, in whose direction it
seemed bound, shouted for help and tried to get aside, but he was hit
with great vehemence in his legs and sent flying some feet into the
air. He was much shaken and bruised, but after some rubbing and
thumping he was able to continue.
When we were about to leave the débris we witnessed a most attractive
sight—a sight which, nevertheless, caused me considerable anxiety for
some minutes. It was the birth of an avalanche. Some snow having got
loose higher up upon the mountain, it began rolling down in little
balls, thousands of them, which got bigger and bigger as you were
looking at them, owing to the snow they collected on their precipitate
career. The avalanche passed in a furrow only a few yards from us,
affording a magnificent view; but this furrow, unhappily, led to the
very spot where I had left my sick men, down, down below, and we could
see them, as big as ants, lying wrapped in their red blankets on the
white snow, unconscious of the approaching danger. The myriad of
snowballs, which were no bigger than ping-pong balls when they started,
were as big as decent-sized buildings when they had gone some hundreds
of yards, and when two of them clashed in their descent it seemed like
an explosion of a mine, the scattered snow in powdered form being
thrown up to a great height and looking not unlike smoke. The hollow,
whirling sound as the avalanche whizzed past was quite impressive, and
I must confess that I was never so relieved as when I saw it just miss
my invalided men down below, and end its run with a great clash upon
the glacier at the bottom. It seemed like heavy thunder when it struck,
which was echoed for some minutes in the mountains all round and down
the passage through which we had approached the glacier.
When we reached the crest of the range we came to a difficult passage
where the rock, just like the blade of a knife, was so sharp and its
sides so steep that even the snow would not remain on it. We had to get
across somehow, and the only way to do it was to balance oneself on the
top of it—less than a foot wide—or, if one’s head was not steady
enough, proceed astride of it. It was only a few feet long, but the
drop, had one fallen, was several thousand feet on either side. Apart
from the fact that it was so high, there was no real difficulty in
getting across, and, panting and blowing, stopping every few feet for
breath, we proceeded higher and higher.
My men were suffering considerably, their hearts beating in a most
irregular fashion with occasional violent throbs, which caused me much
anxiety. These throbs, when they occurred, caused such sudden
exhaustion that the men fell down half-fainting, and it took some
minutes to revive them and bring them further. They were, however, most
plucky, and struggled like men, uncomplainingly. They never once asked
to give in and go back.
From an altitude of about 22,000 feet their sufferings took a somewhat
acute form, nausea and profuse bleeding from the nose causing them much
inconvenience. They complained of intense pains and abnormal pressure
in the centre of the chest as well as along the fissures in the skull,
particularly where the skull is thinner on the top at the point of
junction, and at the temples; also of a severe pressure low in the back
of the skull. They were much worried over the maddening buzzing caused
by the rarefied air, which they heard and could not explain. They
attributed it to something having got inside their ears. Their hearing
was temporarily affected when we got higher still, and they experienced
difficulty in hearing me speak at all.
When we had got to 23,000 feet, my nose, too, bled like a fountain, and
I could not stop the flow, but, contrary to my expectation, it seemed
to cause me relief rather than discomfort. I could breathe more freely,
and my heart did not beat in such a reckless manner as before. It
caused me a slight pain and pressure on the top of the skull, but
nowhere else.
Of course the exhaustion was indescribable. It was all one could do to
go four or five yards at a time, although the ascent after a certain
point was in no way difficult, because on looking at the mountain I had
instinctively chosen the easiest way to go up. One panted so
convulsively and the heart beat so hard and quick that it rather made
one reflect.
Possibly the most trying consequence of travelling so high up was the
weight which one’s limbs seemed to assume. One hardly had the strength
to lift them up. The effort of moving one’s legs in succession three or
four times exhausted one temporarily as much as if one had walked
thirty miles under ordinary circumstances.
Well, on we struggled, with an occasional grin at our plight. The last
few hundred feet of our ascent were indeed hard work.
One of my men, the strongest-looking lad in my party, who had been
panting most terribly and gasping for breath, unluckily burst a
blood-vessel when we were within a few feet of the top. He was in
intense pain. We screened him in a sheltered nook. He suffered very
much, poor fellow, and although on our return we brought him down
again, he eventually died.
At last we reached the summit—23,490 feet (measured by me with the
hypsometrical apparatus with three different boiling-point thermometers
checked at the Kew Observatory before my departure and after my return.
Two excellent aneroids which I also carried gave a similar figure
within a few feet).
The day was a beautifully clear one up there, but down below there was
much mist and many clouds, which took away a good deal from the beauty
of the panorama. There were, however, a great many high snowy peaks
towering above the mist like majestic white islands rising out of the
sea of clouds. The view was soon almost entirely obscured by clouds,
and with the exception of Api Mt., to the N.N.W., another peak, 20,280
feet, in Nepal, peeping through to the N.E. of us, one of the Lumpa
group and other mountains close by, we could see very little.
The peak on which we were was in a steep gradient on the side on which
we had climbed, but was most precipitous on the other side. In fact, it
was almost vertical right down to the glacier at its foot, some 6500
feet below. It looked as if one half of the mountain had at some remote
period collapsed, leaving the sharp-edged peak standing. There was not
as much snow on the top as lower down, as the wind blows a good deal of
the surface snow away, some melts with the heat of the sun, and the
slope of the mountain, even on the side we had climbed, being somewhat
steep, whenever sufficient snow had accumulated on the top its weight
caused it to slide down in avalanches. Even the day I went up we
counted some five or six avalanches in various parts of the mountain,
but none came quite so near as the first I described.
The rock was exposed in one or two places, and was so rotted that with
our fingers we could remove large slabs. When we had taken a good rest,
which restored us wonderfully—as soon as you sat down and did nothing
you felt well and relatively happy, except the lungs, which seemed not
to work quite so regularly—we took advantage of the rock at hand to
construct a cairn on the summit. After having inscribed the names of my
men and my own on a stone and on a piece of paper, we placed them in a
receptacle on the south side of the cairn and built them up all round
and above, so that they might be preserved as long as possible.
I then proceeded to take all the necessary observations—not, however,
before having devoured two whole pounds of chocolate, which I ate with
some snow to allay my thirst as well as my appetite.
I had been consuming on that ascent a great many lozenges of highly
concentrated meat,—each one was supposed to be as good as a meal,—and I
ate at least fifty in the space of eight hours and a half. I suppose
they were sustaining, but you had to eat lots of them for one lozenge
to sustain the previous one, or they left an awful feeling of emptiness
in one’s inside. An empty inside, I firmly believe, is a mistake for
reaching high elevations, or at any other time, so I had started with
my pockets full of chocolate, and what the lozenges could not do the
huge chunks of chocolate I chewed all the way up the mountain certainly
accomplished.
I think it was partly due to the constant nourishment I took all the
way up that I was able to break the world’s record in mountaineering,
going several hundred feet higher than other mountaineers, with
comparative ease. Had the peak which we climbed been higher, I could
have gone even higher and reached a considerably greater elevation. But
perhaps Nature gave me quite an abnormal constitution for work of that
kind, as people who know me can testify.
It is interesting to note that the strongest and most athletic-looking
man in my party on that particular expedition was the only one who
broke down badly and died; and the weakest, smallest-framed—almost
girlish in appearance, he looked so delicate—was the only one out of
all the followers I had employed who throughout stood the hardships and
sufferings without a flinch, showed the greatest endurance, and
eventually returned home in excellent condition.
Perhaps I should also mention that neither myself nor any of the men
who came up with me wore hobnailed boots in making the ascent, I
wearing some comparatively light boots of medium weight such as I would
wear in London on a wet day. In the way of clothing, too, I made no
difference between going up on a world’s record-breaking expedition and
taking a stroll down Piccadilly. I mean that I wore my Piccadilly
clothes up there—clothes of the thinnest tropical material, no
underclothing to speak of, a straw hat, and a small bamboo stick in my
hand.
It has always been my practice to simplify everything. One cannot get
away from the fact that the simpler you are in everything you do the
better, and with mountaineering particularly, the less you carry, the
less muffled up you are, the freer in your movements, the more you will
accomplish. That is to say, if your constitution is so made that you
can stand it.
I cannot get away from the fact that one can do no better than wear
such comfortable clothes as one is generally in the habit of wearing,
and I could never understand the object of parading in clumsy tweeds
strapped all over, when you need your movements as little impeded as
possible.
I will refer you to one of the coloured plates, copied from a
photograph taken at an altitude of some 20,000 feet on Lumpa by one of
my men before we left them on the mountain side. The picture shows the
author and the four men who accompanied him to the summit of the
mountain.