THE RETURN BY KHARTA
On June 14 we were cheered with the news that our transport was
approaching, and I think a good many sighs of relief were uttered. We
had quite made up our minds to cross over into the Kharta Valley, and,
having had a sufficiency of rest, to explore the Kama Chu more
completely than had been done in 1921, and, if possible, to examine the
whole gorge of the Arun where it breaks through the great Himalayan
range; but our first idea was to get down to a decent elevation where
some rest could be obtained, where we could get adequate bathing and
washing for our clothes and get everybody into a fairly respectable
condition again. Living continuously for many weeks at elevations never
below, and generally far above, 16,500 feet, does not tend to general
cleanliness, and it also, after a time, I think, tends to general
degeneration. At the same time, we were by no means convinced that at
medium elevations there is any particular loss of physical powers or
that acclimatisation takes long to complete. I found, personally, that I
was getting better and better when exerting myself at the medium heights
to which I went. I found, during the march that was in front of us, that
I could walk at elevations of over 16,000 feet very much more easily
than when I first arrived at the Rongbuk Glacier, and this certainly
does not show that one had been degenerating physically. I think,
really, that the strain was more a mental one; and this remark probably
also applies to every member of our party. At the same time, it was most
exhilarating to think that one was descending to a low altitude.
We made our first march back to the Rongbuk Glacier, and that evening we
were left in peace—by the Lamas, that is to say, but not by the wind,
which howled consistently, bringing with it thin driving sleet.
[Illustration:
THE CHIEF LAMA, RONGBUK MONASTERY.
]
On the following morning we arranged that we should all meet the Rongbuk
Lama; and so, having got our kit packed, we left it to be loaded by the
Tibetans, and the whole party, including all our followers, porters, all
the Gurkhas who were with us (with the exception of Tejbir, who had gone
on in advance with Geoffrey Bruce and Norton), went up to the monastery.
There we waited in the courtyard until the Lama himself descended from
his inner sanctuary in state. Tea was first served in the usual way,
ordinary tea being provided, I am glad to say, for the others and myself
by special arrangement of the interpreter. I think Noel, however, a man
of infinite pluck, took down a bowl or two of true Tibetan tea. The Lama
made special inquiries after the Expedition, and then began the
blessing. He offered us his very best wishes, and presented me, through
Paul, with a special mark of his goodwill, a little image of one of the
Taras, or queens, of Tibetan mythology. My special one was the Green
Tara, who takes precedence among all ladies. This was a mark of very
great favour. Paul was also presented with another little mark and many
little packets of medicine, which were to preserve him from all and
every description of the illnesses which afflict and worry humanity. The
Buddhistic side of Paul came up on this occasion, and he received his
blessings and the medicines in the most humble and reverent spirit. The
Gurkhas all went up too, and were suitably blessed, being even more
humble in their aspect than the very much overcome and reverent porters
themselves; they could hardly be induced to approach his Holiness.
However, we all parted on the most friendly terms, and left our own good
wishes, for what they were worth, with the old gentleman.
By three o’clock in the afternoon we arrived at Chodzong. But what a
difference there was in our march! The few days of the monsoon and the
small amount of rain which had fallen, even this little way back from
the mountains, had changed the whole aspect of the valley. Flowers had
begun to show, and in places there was even a little green grass. At
Chodzong there was quite a considerable amount of grass, and we enjoyed
here what was more pleasant than anything we had experienced for a long
time—a shower of rain. We had almost forgotten the existence of rain,
and the relief from the very trying dryness of the Tibetan atmosphere,
which parches one’s skin as if one was in the Sahara, was immense.
Still, at Chodzong it was cold at night and the temperature below
freezing-point. Here we found all our ponies and their saises returned
from taking Norton and Geoffrey Bruce over to the Kharta Valley. Also
the gigantic D(r)ubla and his small Gyamda very fit and well.
This camp at Chodzong was a place particularly impressed on our minds on
our way up, as we had there the very coldest breakfast that we anywhere
indulged in. The wind was blowing half a hurricane, and the temperature
nearly at zero, while our breakfast was actually being brought to us in
the morning, and the misery and discomfort of that particular
temperature was in great contrast to the delightful weather we were now
experiencing. From this place we diverted a large convoy of our spare
baggage to Shekar, to await our return after we had finished our further
wanderings in Kharta. The following day took us up the Rebu Valley. It
was a fairly long and very windy march, but the climate was so greatly
improved that, generally speaking, it was very enjoyable, and again we
camped in a very pleasant spot in grassy fields—such a change from our
late life. Not only that, but in the evening, as the people up here had
no prejudices, we caught a sufficient number of snow-trout, really a
barbel, to make a dish. My own servant, Kehar Sing, the cook, always had
a reputation for being, and always was, a first-rate poacher. At any
form of netting or tickling trout he was a great hand. However, he was
completely eclipsed later on by one of Macdonald’s servants, to whom I
am quite certain no fish-poacher that ever was could have given a
wrinkle. He was also quite a good hand at catching fish with
rod-and-line. The Gurkhas, as usual, took a hand; they are immensely
fond of fish, and their methods are primitive. Tejbir, who came along
with us, was nearly recovered from his exertions with Finch and
Geoffrey; he had lost a good deal of skin from seven or eight fingers
and a large patch off his foot, but though his frostbites were many,
they were slight. He was really suffering from being rather overdone,
and took at least a fortnight to recover.
The next day’s was an interesting march, though very long, and tiring
for the animals. Our way led over the high ridge which divides the
Dzakar Chu country from the Kharta district. Although the rise was not
very great from our camp at approximately 13,500 feet, still the pass
itself was just 17,000 feet, or rather, to be absolutely accurate, just
3 feet under. The way led for several miles, hardly rising at all, up a
grassy valley, and then over the strangest and wildest and most
completely barren of hillsides. From here, no doubt, we should have a
fine view of the great supporters of Everest, but clouds completely
obliterated the mountains. We had the ordinary balmy Tibetan breezes
through the snows, but modified to what they would have been quite a
short time before.
The descent from the Doya La was very fine indeed; the colour wonderful,
and very soon giving promise of a greener land. The first 300 feet on
the Kharta side is down a very steep rocky track, and I was told
afterwards by Geoffrey Bruce that he never dismounted, and that the
wonderful Gyamda had carried him down without making a mistake. On that
day we all of us well overtopped 17,000 feet. There was a little joke
about Crawford, who was not very tall, but who certainly did not deserve
his nickname of the “Two-and-a-half-footer” given him by the porters. It
was a joke among them afterwards, when told the height of the pass, that
he had just missed the 17,000 feet by 6 inches.
It was a very long descent, but into a valley rapidly changing from bare
hillsides to grassy banks. Never was there a more welcome change, and
here we came into a real profusion of Alpine flowers. It was a full
20-mile march to our halting-place at Trateza, and as we got down where
the valley narrowed we passed the very picturesquely situated village of
Teng. Everybody was delighted with the change. Our camp was pitched near
the village on quite thick and beautiful green grass, and the hillsides
were green and covered with bushes. We were absolutely happy and
intensely relieved, and pleased with our surroundings. The ponies and
animals simply pounced on the green grass, and were even more happy than
their masters.
The following morning we all started off in wonderful spirits, shared in
by the yaks, several of whom took it into their heads to run amuck, and
we had a first-class scene of confusion in the rather tight camp before
we could get matters straightened out. One yak especially was peculiarly
gay here, and took to the hillside after throwing his load on three or
four occasions. We had, in fact, a real hunt after him; everybody joined
in the fun, and I am afraid on one or two occasions some of the more
light-hearted of the porters kept him going on purpose. This march,
however, was even pleasanter than the one before. The part we were
travelling down grew richer and richer; the hillsides were thickly
clothed in cedar trees and in shrubs of many kinds; the valley itself,
wherever possible, was cultivated. We passed on our way two or three
small villages extremely well situated, and finally debouched into an
open valley full of fields and cultivation, where we joined the main
Arun Valley and the district of Kharta proper. Kharta is a fairly large
district, and not a village. The largest settlement is called Kharta
Shika, and it is there that the Dzongpen has his abode. The whole of
this district, also, is under the Dzongpen of Shekar Dzong, and the
Dzongpen of Shika apparently has not as full powers by any means as the
Dzongpen at Shekar Dzong. However, for all that, he appears to be quite
a little autocrat.
It was quite delightful riding out into the main valley, and there also
we were cheered by meeting Geoffrey Bruce and John Macdonald, who had
come out some miles from where our camp had been established at the
small village of Teng. We passed, also, the old gentleman, known, I
think, in the last year’s Expedition as “the Havildar,” but whom
Geoffrey and Norton had promptly christened Father William. He was a
rather officious, but at the same time most helpful, old man, and on our
way back he asked us to come in for a meal into his very attractive
garden; but as it was only a mile or so from Teng, where our camp was
pitched, we did not think it was worth while then, knowing we should see
a good deal more of the old gentleman. He brought us plenty of what we
were yearning for—fresh green vegetables, the very greatest boon.
We found our invalids very nearly recovered; Norton’s feet, however,
were tender, and Geoffrey’s toes still in a distinctly unpleasant
condition. It was wonderful, nevertheless, how well both were able to
get about with the help of plenty of socks. Our camp was pitched in
fields at a height of about 10,800 feet, and below us, at about the
distance of 3 miles, we could see the entrance to the great Arun Gorge
where it cuts through the Himalaya. On the opposite side of the Arun the
two mountains, old friends of ours that we had noticed on our way up,
looked down on the camp. On the whole of my way down I was struck with
the resemblance between these valleys and parts of Lahoul and Kailang.
They were less rich, however, and the forests of pencil cedar not so
fine, but still the whole character of the country and of the hillsides
was very much the same.
[Illustration:
TIBETAN DANCING MAN.
]
[Illustration:
TIBETAN DANCING WOMAN.
]
Above the camp at Teng was a very well situated monastery, which Noel
afterwards photographed. Soon after our arrival during the afternoon,
the Dzongpen from Kharta Shika arrived to meet us. He was reported at
first to be very suspicious of the party, and such, indeed, appeared to
be the case. However, after a long conversation, and having presented
him with pictures of the Dalai Lama and of the Tashilumpo Lama, as well
as with the ubiquitous Homburg hat, he became much more confidential,
and we finished up very good friends. He also told us that on the
following day he would bring down some Tibetan dancers and acrobats to
give us a performance.
The rapidity with which the whole party seemed to recover at Kharta was
perfectly wonderful. Everybody was in first-class health and spirits,
especially all our porters, and that night their high spirits were not
only due to the atmospheric conditions, but were taken into them in a
manner they thoroughly approved of and of which they had been deprived
for some time. However, after all their very hard work and the wonderful
way in which they had played up, it is not altogether to be wondered at
if they did occasionally “go on the spree” on their way back.
So attractive was the whole country, and so strong was the call of the
Kama Valley, that we were all very soon anxious to get a move on again.
Tejbir was still not quite recovered, and would be all the better for
further rest, so he was detailed with one of the other Gurkhas,
Sarabjit, to stay behind and take charge of our camp and spare
equipment. The rest of us all set to work and planned an advance into
the Kama Valley, and, we hoped also, an exploration of it, both towards
the snows up and to the Popti La, which is the main road into the valley
of the Arun, and, if possible, up the great Arun Gorge itself. But this
year’s monsoon never gave us a chance of carrying out more than a small
portion of that programme. We were now living in an entirely different
climate. We had many showers of rain, which were hailed with delight by
the people of the country, as their crops were now fairly well advanced.
The crops at Kharta consist chiefly of peas and barley, as usual, but
there is a certain amount of other grain and vegetables to be obtained
from the gardens.
Having arranged the transport, we started our caravan off to Kharta
Shika. Norton had issued a large-hearted invitation for us to lunch with
him at the mouth of the Arun Gorge. Previously Norton and Geoffrey had
explored, while they were waiting, the country round as far as they
could go on horseback, and Norton had discovered at the mouth of a gorge
an alp like those on the Kashmir Mountains, surrounded with a forest
which he described as equal to a Southern Himalayan forest, and we
positively must go and see it, and climb up the hillsides and look down
into the gorge itself.
We all accepted his invitation with the greatest alacrity. On the
afternoon of the day before starting, the Dzongpen, as he had promised,
produced us his acrobats and dancers, and we had a very hilarious
afternoon. They were not particularly good either as actors or as
acrobats, but they danced with prodigious vigour, and it was altogether
great fun. Before all the dances and the little plays they covered their
faces with masks of an extremely primitive kind. They failed at most of
their tricks once or twice before accomplishment, and these failures
were invariably greeted both by the spectators and by the actors with
shrieks of laughter.
On the following day (June 19) we all set off, the luggage proceeding
direct to Kharta Shika under the charge of the interpreter and the
Gurkhas, while we switched off to Norton’s alp. It really was
delightful, and though the forest was rather a dwarfed forest, it
contained several kinds of fir trees, birch, and rhododendron scrub,
and, after Tibet, was in every way quite charming. We climbed up the
hillsides and suddenly came round the corner on to great cliffs diving
straight down into the Arun Valley, and we could see further down how
enormously the scale of the mountains increased. It was a most
attractive gorge, but on our side it appeared to be almost impossible to
have got along, so steep were the hillsides. On the far bank, that is,
the true left bank, the East bank, there was a well-marked track, and it
appears that lower down it crosses to the right bank and then continues
on the right bank to the junction with the Kama Chu. Later on Noel and
Morris were able to explore and photograph the greater part of the
gorge. We all sat on the top of the cliffs and indulged in the very
pleasant amusement of rolling great rocks into the river a thousand feet
below us—always a fascinating pursuit, especially when one is quite
certain that there is no one in the neighbourhood. The lunch did not
turn up for some time, when an exploring party discovered that our
porters, who had been detailed to carry it, had dropped in at a village
and visited the Barley Mow, and could hardly get along at all in
consequence; finally, however, the lunch was rescued and an extremely
pleasant time passed. It was absolutely epicurean: Gruyère cheese,
sardines, truffled yaks, and, finally, almost our last three bottles of
champagne. It was intended to be an epicurean feast—and it was so.
By the evening we arrived in Shika, and found our camp pitched in
beautiful grassy fields high above the village of Shika. The Dzongpen
was very anxious to entertain the whole party, but we were rather lazy
and did not want to go down to his village, which was some way off, but
promised him that we would pay him a visit on our return from Kama. The
Dzongpen, however, imported his cooks and full outfit and gave us a
dinner in our own tent, himself sitting down with us and joining in. He
was a plump and very well dressed little man, and by now had completely
recovered his confidence in us. He was, however, very anxious that we
should do no shooting, and this anxiety of his was no doubt very largely
occasioned by the fact that he had only arrived from Lhasa about a
fortnight before our arrival. We were to reach in two marches
Sakiathang, in the Kama Valley, where Colonel Howard-Bury and his party
had encamped the year before. Our first march led us over the Samchang
La to a camp called Chokarbō. It was a steep and rough walk over the
pass, but knowing the wonderful capacity of the Tibetan pony, several of
the party took ponies with them. It was necessary both for Geoffrey and
for Norton to rest their feet as much as possible until completely
cured, and so on arrival at Chokarbō they took their ponies on over our
next pass, the Chog La, which is no less than 16,280 feet, and down into
the Kama Chu. This is a very rough road indeed.
We had here reached the most perfect land of flowers, and in the low
land which lies between the Samchang La and our camp at Chokarbō we
found every description of Alpine flora, reinforced by rhododendrons—the
very last of the rhododendrons. We also found several kinds of iris.
The road leading up to the Samchang La was extremely steep and rough,
but the path was well marked, and it was evident there was a
considerable amount of traffic leading into the Kama Chu. The local
people stoutly denied that yaks could cross, but later on we actually
found yaks carrying loads over this road. I can quite understand their
reason for not wishing to send their yaks, as the road from one end to
the other is very bad for animals. At Chokarbō all the riding ponies
were dispensed with, with the exception of Geoffrey’s and Norton’s;
these two ponies they particularly wished to look after, as they had
bought them, knowing that they must assure mounts, probably to the end
of the journey. They had certainly picked up the most useful little
couple. All the same, they had to walk most of the way, as it was quite
out of the question for anyone to have ridden at all, except over short
pieces of open ground, and it was perfectly wonderful the way in which
these two ponies got over the most shocking collection of rocks, big and
little, and how they negotiated the extremely slippery and rocky path
which led down from the Chog La. The ascent to the Chog La was easy, and
the latter half of it still under winter snow, as also was the first
thousand feet of the descent. The mountains were interesting on each
side, so much so that Somervell and Crawford went off for a little climb
on the way. The descent was delightful, although the road was, as I have
said, very stony indeed. One passes through every description of Eastern
Himalayan forest and wonderful banks of rhododendrons of many kinds. We
were, unfortunately, much too late for their full bloom, but a month
earlier this descent must be perfectly gorgeous, the whole hillsides
being covered with flowering rhododendrons.
[Illustration:
OLD TIBETAN WOMAN AND CHILD.
]
The descent to Sakiathang is at least 5,000 feet, and may be a little
more. Thang means “a flat bench,” and such was Sakiathang, set in
gorgeous forest, and deep in grass and flowers. But the weather was
breaking fast, and by evening the clouds had descended and wiped out the
whole of the valley. Before it was quite obliterated we got glimpses of
what it must be like in fine weather.
In the early morning of the following day (Thursday, June 22), when I
woke up and looked out of my tent, the mouth of which looked straight up
the valley between the big mountains, the clouds had lifted somewhat,
and the whole end of the valley was filled with the gorgeous Chomolönzo
peak, and for an hour or so I was able to watch it with the clouds
drifting round its flanks, and then, just as the sun lit up the valley
for a moment, the great monsoon clouds coming up from the valley of the
Arun, driven by the wind up the Kama Chu, completely wiped it out again.
It was a glorious glimpse, and the only one we obtained during our stay
of more than a week in Sakiathang.
We found encamped in the neighbouring woods Nepalese shepherds, with
their flocks of sheep, and saw for the first time the very fine type of
sheep which these men own—a far bigger and better breed of sheep than
exists in Tibet, and also carrying a very much finer coat of wool. They
were rather strange to look at at first, as the whole fore-part of their
body was black and the hind-part white. We also found that the Nepalese
shepherds thoroughly understood the value of their own sheep. They keep
them all to make butter from their milk, which they collect and sell in
the bazaars in Nepal. All these shepherds were Gurkhas belonging either
to the Gurung tribe or Kirantis, and, curiously enough, one of them was
related to my servant Kehar Sing, he having gone through the “mit”
ceremony with his relations, and that is quite sufficient for him to be
also a “mit.” This “mit” ceremony is rather difficult to explain. It is
not exactly blood-brotherhood, it is more of the nature of religious
brotherhood; but it is quite binding, as much so as an ordinary
relationship. This eased the situation for us pretty considerably in the
matter of obtaining milk and butter. As I have before mentioned, I do
not myself eat butter in an uncooked state, but the remainder of the
party reported that this sheep’s butter was of very fine quality, and it
was certainly very clean. These shepherd establishments are known as
gôts. Naturally forgetting that certain terms are unfamiliar, I told
Wakefield that I had bought two sheep from the gôts. He seemed more
confused than usual by the strangeness of the country.
As we were rather short of provisions, we despatched Noel’s servant and
our excellent Chongay Tindel to obtain supplies for us; the first down
to the junction with the Arun, and the second over the Popti into
Damtang, a large Nepalese settlement.
The remainder of the party stayed behind, hoping for better weather in
order to explore the upper valley of the snows, and up to the Popti to
get a view of the country into Nepal, if possible. It was no use
attempting to move unless the weather cleared to a certain extent.
Meanwhile we were living in a smother of cloud, mist, and rain. But how
delightful it was to have an ample supply of firewood and to be able to
build, for the first time since we had entered Tibet, a reckless
camp-fire round which we could all sit! It is a real hardship in Tibet
never to have a good roaring fire, and it is a little damping to one’s
spirits having always to go to bed in order to get warm. Whenever it
cleared, we went for short walks through the neighbouring forests and
into the neighbouring valleys, and saw quite enough to fill us with a
desire for much more exploration. The forest of the Kama is unbelievably
rich; the undergrowth, especially the hill bamboo, of a very vivid
green, and the cedar and fir appear very dark, almost black, against it.
But the forest also contains every other kind of tree and shrub proper
to the Eastern Himalaya, and the river-banks were, in places, overhung
with the most glorious Himalayan larch, identical with the European
larch in appearance, but with possibly a greater spread of branch.
The weather got worse and worse, and our food supplies lower and lower.
There were no signs of the return either of Noel’s servant or of the
Chongay from Nepal, and so, with the greatest reluctance, we gave up
further exploration as a body. We were reduced to only half a day’s
grain-food for our following, and not only that, but the Tibetan porters
whom we were expecting to help us back, and who had been ordered, showed
no signs of arriving. Having searched the country round, we managed to
rope in a few local people, mostly Tibetans, who had come over from
Kharta for wood. There is considerable traffic from the Tibetan side, as
in this well-wooded country they cut most of the timber required for
their houses and carry it over on their own backs, or else on the backs
of unfortunate yaks, when they can bring themselves to risk their yaks’
legs over this awful road. We carried as much luggage as we possibly
could with us, not knowing how many men we should be able to obtain to
send for the remainder. We had not enough men with us to carry the whole
camp, and so two Gurkhas were left here in charge of what remained. They
were also to meet Chongay and bring him back with them, and it was
considered an absolute certainty that he would be in time to save them
from a shortage of rations; also, they would be able to get enough to
keep themselves alive from the Gurkha gôts, although these gôts
themselves are on a very short ration of grain, living largely on
sheep’s milk.
Our own porters and a few local people, with the help of a little chaff
to excite them, vied with each other in the size of the loads they could
carry, and they certainly gave us a first-class exhibition of
load-carrying. One girl, about eighteen years of age, actually carried a
160-lb. tent by herself from Sakiathang to Chokarbō, over the top of the
Chog La. Moreover, this tent had been wet for the last ten days, and
although we did our best to dry all our camp as much as possible before
starting, it must have been at least 20 to 30 lb. heavier than it ought
to have been. I am quite certain that not a single man or woman carried
less than 100 lb. that day over the pass, and this they did apparently
without undue fatigue, arriving quite cheerful at Chokarbō. We started
in fairly fine weather—a break, we thought; but before we had gone
half-way up the hill the clouds descended on us, and it was raining hard
when we got to our camp. The day before we left we came to the
conclusion that it would be quite possible for a very small party to get
down to the junction of the Kama Chu over the Arun, and Noel himself was
intensely anxious to photograph the Kama Chu and the gorges of the Arun
itself. He had also a plan, if possible, to get up the gorge and to
cross up over the high cliffs and hillsides, which would bring him down
almost to the alp where we had our picnic with Norton. This was a
magnificent conception, but, considering the weather, we thought that he
would have a very rough time of it. He chose Morris as his assistant; he
took off his own particular porters, reinforced by some Tibetans, and
left on the 27th, we leaving on the 28th.
While we had been over there, Geoffrey’s feet had completely recovered,
and he was able to walk now as of old. Norton could walk uphill, but his
feet pained him when descending; his ear had by this time completely
recovered.
On the 29th, Geoffrey and I, leaving the remainder of the party, went
down to see the Dzongpen of Kharta, with a view to making arrangements
for our final return. I had, previous to this, written to the Maharajah
of Nepal with a scheme by which Mallory should be allowed to cross the
upper end of the Wallung and Yallung valleys and to cross into British
territory by the Khang La, returning to Darjeeling by the ordinary route
along the Singalela Ridge. The Maharajah gave his consent to this
expedition, but unfortunately it had to be modified, owing to
difficulties of transport and to the very bad weather; but as Mallory
was rather pressed for time, it was arranged that he, Somervell, and
Crawford, should return direct to Tinki, crossing the Arun by the rope
bridge which was utilised in 1921 for the return of the party, and from
thence descending into Sikkim and travelling viâ Lachen and Gangtok back
to Darjeeling. The remainder of the party, with the heavy luggage, would
have to return viâ Shekar and the way we came in order to square up our
various accounts with the different Dzongpens and with the authorities,
postal and other, in Phari Dzong and the Chumbi Valley. All this
required a certain amount of arrangements. Before going into Kama, we
had given the Dzongpen an outline of our requirements, but everything in
Tibet, as elsewhere, requires a considerable supervision, and so
Geoffrey and I went down before the rest of the party to complete our
arrangements. On our way down we met a large contingent of Tibetan
porters coming over to move our camp. This eased matters off very
considerably. They were sent off into the Kama to bring the remainder of
the camp, and on their return to move the full camp down to Teng.
Meanwhile we descended and had a long and very interesting interview
with the Dzongpen, who by this time had quite lost all suspicion of us.
He entertained us splendidly, and presented us each with a jade cup
before leaving.
On July 1 we were all assembled in Teng, and packing up and dividing our
luggage preparatory to the return of the party by the different routes.
On July 3 Mallory’s party set off, and we did not see him nor the rest
of the party again until our arrival in Darjeeling, more than a month
later. We were now joined by Noel and Morris, back from their
adventurous journey up the Arun. They gave me a report of their travels.
I think it would be worth while once more to point out what the course
of the Arun is. The Arun is one of the principal tributaries of the Kosi
River (that is evident from the map), and has a very long journey
through Tibet, where it is known as the Bhong Chu.
It rises near and drains the plains of Tingri and Khamba, and then
turning due South, forces its way through the main chain of the Himalaya
directly between the mountain passes of the Everest group on the one
side, and of the Kanchengjanga group on the other. Between our camp at
Kharta and the village of Kyamathang, which is on the actual Nepal
frontier, a distance of some 20 miles, the river drops a vertical height
of 4,000 feet; and therefore we were particularly interested in the
exploration of this wonderful gorge, and we wished to find out, if we
could, whether this tremendous vertical drop consisted of a series of
great rapids and waterfalls or a steady fall in the bed of the river. It
was also clear, from first glimpses that we had had of the Arun Gorge,
that lower down they must be of the greatest possible grandeur and
interest. I have before described how we looked down from our picnic
into the Arun and hoped we should be able to explore it.
When we despatched Noel and Morris it was in terribly bad weather, the
whole of the Lower Kama being a smother of mist and the jungle dripping
with moisture. We had most of us been down as far as a place called
Chotromo, where the river is crossed by the road which leads up to the
Popti La, and this is the common road down into Nepal. From there the
road is far less well known, and is not so well marked.
I will now give Noel’s description of his journey.
[Illustration:
FORDING THE BHONG CHU.
]
“On the evening of the 27th June, at the end of our first day’s march,
we pitched our camp on a little pleasant grassy shelf situated in a
small clearing in the forest near empty shepherd huts, which comprise
the camp at Chotromo. The hot, damp atmosphere of the Ka(r)ma here at
9,000 feet harbours a world of insect life. No sooner had the sun set
that evening than swarms of tiny midges emerged. They annoyed us for
most of the night, except when, in moments of exasperation, we got out
of bed and drove them away by lighting a small fire of juniper-wood at
the mouth of our tent. From Chotromo a little shepherd track leads down
the left bank of the river to Kyamathang. In actual distance Kyamathang
is not far, but the road is scarcely level for more than a few yards. It
zigzags precipitously a thousand feet up and down in order to avoid the
ravines through which the river rushes, thus trebling the marching
distance. The forest here becomes more tropical; bamboos and ferns are
thick in the undergrowth, the trees increase enormously in size, and
leeches make their appearance. The path where it descends to the river
passes through bog and marsh, where the Nepalese shepherds, who mostly
use this road, in order to reach the upper grazing grounds, have cut and
laid tree-trunks along the path. The forest here darkens owing to the
height of the trees, junipers being particularly noticeable; most of the
trees being festooned with thick grey lichen. Here and there on level
spots beside the river-bank one marches from the forest into delightful
glades carpeted with moss and thick with banks of purple irises in full
bloom.
“Ascending and descending precipitously the hillsides, and covering all
the time horizontal distance at a despairing rate, we came at last,
tired out, to the bridge which leads across the Kyamathang, and there
found that another climb of some 1,500 feet remained before reaching the
village, which is perched on a small plateau overlooking the junction of
the rivers. Kyamathang, though, strictly speaking, in Tibet, is a
typical Nepalese village. The neat little chalets are each surrounded by
well-kept fields of Indian corn, wheat, and barley. The fields are
bounded by stone walls, and each contains a small machan (a small raised
platform), from where a look-out is kept for bears at night. Kyamathang
and the surrounding villages are so inaccessible that the people do not
appear to come under the influence of Tibet or Nepal, leading an
independent life. The village boasts of five Gembus (headmen), all of
whom, so excited at seeing Europeans for the first time, did all they
could to help us, and insisted on accompanying us on our first march up
the gorge.
“The road from Kyamathang, after passing the fields of Lungdo, plunges
once more into the forest. The path mounts up over cliffs, hiding the
view of the river in the gorge below, but revealing across the valley
the magnificent waterfalls of Tsanga, some thousand feet in height.
“At our first halting-place we met a fine old Gurkha shepherd, Rai or
Karanti by tribe, a man of some seventy years of age, who many years ago
had been employed by the Survey of India. He was able to tell us much
about our route ahead. This stretch of country, although inhabited by
Tibetans, is yearly visited by Nepalese shepherds, who use the rough
track in order to reach the grazing grounds on the mountain-tops above
the gorge. He told us we should find a track of sorts along the right
bank of the river, which would eventually bring us out at Kharta again.
“The Arun has no great waterfalls, but passes through three deep gorges,
one at Kyamathang and one near Kharta, where it enters the main chain.
There is another also between these two. For the rest it is a raging
torrent running through a narrow forested defile.
“In order to pass these gorges, the path ascends and descends many
thousands of feet. Looking down from the ledges of the precipices, one
gets occasional glimpses of the torrent below; the cliffs above
frequently rising as much as 10,000 feet above the river-bed, and ending
in snow-capped peaks. Here and there the promontories of the cliffs
afford a grandiose panorama, which rewards the exertions of the terrific
ascents, but as these alternate ascents and descents are not single
occurrences, but the normal nature of the track, ever climbing up by
crazy ladder-paths and plunging amongst tangled undergrowth, one ceases
to revel in the scenery, and would forego those bird’s-eye views from
the cloud-level for the sake of a few yards of marching on the flat.
“At the end of our second march, where the track appeared to come to an
end, while pitching our camp in a small clearing, swarms of bees
descended upon us, scattering our porters in all directions; they did no
harm, however. Our third march was a struggle through pathless jungle,
and, mounting over the great central gorge, on the far side of which we
dropped down to the river-bed, we found a narrow strip of sand, just
room enough to pitch our camp. This was one of the most beautiful spots
seen in the valley. Wild flowers grew here in great profusion, the most
conspicuous amongst them being some great white lilies fully 6 feet in
height. That evening the rain, which had been falling most of the day,
cleared, and the rising clouds revealed the luxuriant walls of the
valleys, which seemed to rise almost vertically above us, with black
caverns beneath, where the trees trailed and projected over the water’s
edge.
“During the fourth march we again struck the track which is apparently
used by Tibetans who come down from the Kharta end of the valley to get
wood. This led us up the side valley, descending from the mountains
round about Chog La. We camped towards the top of the valley, and next
day crossed by a new pass, which we judged to be about 16,000 feet in
height, and then crossed the Sakia Chu, which descends from the Samchang
Pass across the Yulok La, and descended on Kharta.”
Well, I think that is a very fine description of an intensely
interesting journey. One thing the party was quite certain of, and that
was that they never would have got through had they numbered any more.
It was very difficult to get supplies even for themselves, as the roads
were so very, very bad, and camping grounds so very, very small. They
said all their men had worked like horses, but it was so warm that they
took nearly all their clothes off and worked almost entirely naked. It
is an extraordinary thing how, when one gets far back into the Himalaya
at altitudes at 7,000, 8,000, and 9,000 feet, one is often extremely
warm. This is generally due to the fact that most of these places are
usually between mountains and in confined conditions; such altitudes on
the lower spurs of the Himalaya are by no means so warm. We all envied
Noel and Morris their trip and the gorgeous country which they had seen,
and, further than that, I in particular envied them the occasional
glimpses which they could get right down the Arun Valley into Nepal,
glimpses of country which I believe no European has yet looked on.
As a matter of fact, I had also written to the Maharajah to find out
whether it would not be possible for me to return to Darjeeling viâ this
same Arun Valley. It was a mere _ballon d’essai_; I had no real hope
that the rules and regulations of the Nepal Durbar would be overridden
in my favour, but it is probably not more than 50 miles from Kyamathang
down the Arun Valley to Dhankuta, which is a large Nepalese town, and
only some five or six days’ travel from Darjeeling itself. What a
wonderful experience it would have been! The Maharajah was extremely
kind about it, but quite firm.
At the same time as Noel and Morris arrived, our Chongay also came from
the Popti route, and he brought with him quite a number of chickens and
vegetables and excellent potatoes. He had been delayed at Damtang by the
weather. There was quite a change in Chongay on his arrival. We were
filled with admiration. He wore a Seaforth Highlander’s bonnet and a
Seaforth Highlander’s tunic, both of which he had obtained from some
demobilised Gurkha who had sold his effects in the Upper Arun Valley. We
joined hands and danced round him with cheers; Chongay bridled from head
to foot.
Soon after Mallory’s party left, a note arrived from Crawford to say
that his pony and his pony-man had run away during the night, and asking
us to find out about it, as he had been paid for the full journey. This
was reported immediately to the Dzongpen. He knew exactly what to do.
Without a moment’s hesitation he seized the man’s elder brother, down
with his clothes, and gave him a first-class flogging, and nearly
flogged old Father William himself, so angry was he, as this man was one
of Father William’s underlings. Father William was humbler than ever
after this, and produced more and more green vegetables.
On July 4 the main body set off, even now very considerable. We were to
march direct by a road up to the present date untravelled, our first
march being to Lumeh, which was also on the road used by Mallory and by
last year’s Expedition. From there we marched up the Dzakar Chu instead
of turning to our right and crossing the Arun. We had been largely in
summer in Kharta, but on our way to Lumeh we came in, for a time, to
some of the very strongest winds we had met since leaving the Rongbuk
Glacier. Crossing a little gully, I was nearly blown off my pony. Our
camp at Lumeh has been described by Colonel Howard-Bury, and is a very
charming spot.
The following march to Dzakar Chu was quite new ground, not travelled by
any European, and was very interesting indeed, but extremely rough. It
led for part of the way through a steep and deep gorge, extraordinarily
like the gorges in the Hindu Kush in Gilgit and Chambal. The gorge,
owing to its elevation, is of less depth, but the whole colour and form
of the mountains, their bareness and barrenness, and the smell from the
wormwood scrub, brought back to me the Hindu Kush in very vivid
recollection. Those gorges, however, as so often in the West, are
terribly and oppressively hot, but here, at 12,500 to 13,000 feet above
the sea, we were in a fresh and exhilarating air. We camped at a village
called Dra, at the foot of the pass we were to cross, which is called
the Chey La. Our camp was pitched in a very pleasant grove, and here we
had, for the last time until we arrived at the Chumbi Valley, a gorgeous
and glorious camp-fire. Curiously enough, the wood was willingly given
to us by the inhabitants.
The following morning there was a long march and a continual pull to the
top of the Chey La, about 17,000 feet, the last thousand feet being a
very rapid ascent, but from the top we were almost in sight of Shekar
and the Arun Valley. The camp at which we stopped was a very short
morning’s walk from our old camp at Pangli, and separated from it by a
low ridge.
The next morning, after crossing the Arun at the Arun Bridge, we reached
Shekar, where we had a great reception. The Dzongpen played up, and he
had no less than 160 mules all collected and ready for us the following
morning; and not only that, but every one turned out the evening, and we
had a little race meeting of our own and a great tea with exchange of
cakes and compliments with the Dzongpen himself. Altogether we were
evidently in very good favour both with the Dzongpen and with the great
Lama of Shekar. Noel and others paid a very interesting visit to the
great Lama, and were shown by him his collections of curios of all
kinds. They thought at first that the old gentleman prized and guarded
these as Gömpa property, but they were rather surprised to discover that
he was perfectly ready to sell at a price—and that his own. He was by
far the shrewdest trader that we had come across in Tibet. Most of the
things that he was ready to part with, however, were beyond the pockets
of our party.
John Macdonald, who has a very good eye for a pony, took out a likely
mount in the horse-races and himself won no less than three races that
day. He bargained for it, as he was looking forward to the Darjeeling
pony-races in the autumn, and before we left Macdonald, to his great
joy, had concluded a very respectable bargain.
[Illustration:
PANORAMA AT SHEKAR DZONG.
]
The following morning we got off not quite as well as we should. We had
difficulty in loading and some difficulties on the march. Shekar had
proved altogether too much for the porters and the following morning
they were not of much use; in fact, it was with the greatest difficulty
that many of them were produced at the next camp. The place was called
Kyishong. It had not been a very promising little camp, so we thought of
stopping down by the river on a very pleasant plot of grass, but on
arrival there we found a dead Tibetan in a basket moored to the bank in
the water about a hundred yards above our camp, so that was no place for
us. Instead of marching back exactly the same way we had come, viâ our
camp at Gyangka-Nangpa, we determined to follow up a smaller branch of
the Arun which would bring us finally down on to Tinki itself. By so
doing we avoided wading the Yaru in two places, and also the rather high
and steep Tinki Pass. On our way across the plains of Teng, before one
arrives at the great sand dunes of Shiling, we passed a Sokpo, a true
Mongolian, whose home was in Northern Mongolia, near Urga, a religious
devotee. He was travelling from Lhasa to Nepal, that is, to Khatmandu,
on a pilgrimage, by the time-honoured method of measuring his length on
the ground for every advance. He was a young man and apparently well
fed, trusting to the kindness of the villages through which he passed
for his food. He told us that he had been continually travelling and
that it had taken him one year to reach the place where we found him
from Lhasa, and that he hoped to get to Khatmandu in another year, if he
was lucky and able to cross the mountains. We encouraged him the best
way we could and left him to his work.
Our halt that night was in a very pleasant camp surrounded by low cliffs
at a place called Jykhiop. Our march up this valley was a great contrast
to our march into Tibet. A warm sun and a pleasant cool breeze blowing;
the clouds drifted across us and we had some rain, which only added to
our comfort. We camped one night at a place called Chiu, where we all
bathed, and bathed the ponies into the bargain.
Our last march before reaching Tinki was over an interesting pass, which
suffers under the terrible name of the Pharmogoddra La, down to a
pleasant little camping ground with a very dirty village near it. Here
we caught an enormous number of fish, the inhabitants proving quite
ready to help us do so. Every one fed freely on fresh fish that night.
An easy pleasant pass the following morning led us down in 2½ hours to
Tinki. Here we met the Dzongpen of Tinki for the first time. He was an
extremely pleasant individual, and the most friendly and intelligent
official we met in Tibet. He helped us in every way, and had previously
helped Strutt’s party on their journey through. We heard excellent
reports also of him afterwards from the advance parties. When we had
gone through in the spring this Dzongpen had been away collecting his
dues for the Tibetan Government. Tinki was a very different place, very
green, and altogether very lovely. Before travelling in Tibet we had
heard so much of the wonderful colour of Tibetan scenery. It was only on
our return journey when there was a considerable amount of moisture in
the air, when clouds rolled up from the South, that one obtained a real
notion of what Tibet could be like when at its best, and Tinki, which
had been an absolute sandy waste when we marched up, was now covered
with beautiful green grass and flowers. Nor was the air of that horrible
and rather irritating dryness, but was almost balmy, considering the
height of the country.
Two days later we reached Khamba Dzong. The Dzongpen was absent, but his
two head men helped us in his place. We had pouring rain the whole of
the following night. There must have been from 1½ to 2 inches of rain, a
most surprising experience in Tibet and one for which we were hardly
prepared. The men had been breaking out a little again, and one
sportsman had broken out considerably more than anybody else. For
purposes of letting the porters down easily we never considered a man
was inebriated as long as he could lie on the ground without holding on,
but this man for three days in succession had been hopeless, giving no
reaction whatever to the smartest smacks with our sticks, and finally
having to be brought into camp and giving a great deal of trouble. So we
determined on an exemplary punishment. The other men who had broken out
badly had all been given loads to carry for a march, but the next day
this man was condemned to carry an enormous load from Khamba Dzong to
Phari. Considering what his condition had been we were absolutely
astounded when the following day he carried the whole of well over 100
lb. for a 20-mile march to Tătsăng, over a pass of 17,000 feet, grinning
and smiling the whole way as if it was the finest joke he had heard of.
Everybody “pulled his leg” on the way, but nothing could possibly
interfere with his good temper. He was condemned to carry this load
right into Phari Dzong, crossing the three high ridges of the Donka La,
and never for a moment did he lose his temper or bear any ill-will. This
is characteristic of the people: as long as your treatment of them is
understood by them to be just they bear no ill-will whatever, nor does
it interfere in any way with one’s friendly relations; but still, for
all that, it seems to me that they are unkillable. After his behaviour
and the condition he was in for so long, to do such terrific hard labour
as we condemned him to do without the smallest sign of fatigue was
pretty remarkable. But, after all, my own particular Angturke had only
complained of being a little dazed after falling 60 feet on to his head
at the time of the accident.
We camped at Tătsăng, and here we parted with Noel, who carried off his
own people and left us for Gyantse; he was very much afraid of bringing
his cinema films down into the warmth and damp of Sikkim until they were
properly developed, but not only this: it was now the season of the
great meetings and dances of Gyantse, and he hoped to get first-rate
studies of Tibetan life generally. The climate and accommodation also at
Gyantse would just suit him, and he would be able there to put in a full
month’s work completing his films and adding immensely to his collection
of pictures of Tibetan life. He accompanied us for 5 miles, almost up to
the camp we had occupied on our arrival in the spring, and we left him
with great regret.
[Illustration:
IN KAMPA DZONG.
]
We had a long march that day from Tătsăng, and again crossing the ridges
of the Donka La a very cold wind and sleet and rain overtook us. It was
the last shot at us the typical Tibetan weather had, and considering the
time of year it did its very best for us, but we camped that night under
the Donka La at a great height, not far from 17,000 feet. While we were
waiting for our luggage we took refuge in a Tibetan encampment. The
Tibetans were out with their herds of yaks, grazing them over the
hillsides. We were rather amused to find that they had guns in their
encampment, which they evidently used for sporting purposes, and we
thought regretfully of the limitations which had been put on our
expedition.
Next morning we had a delightful march crossing the last and highest
ridge of the Donka La and camped half-way to Phari, finally reaching
Phari Dzong after a very pleasant morning’s ride over delightful green
turf and passing immense flocks of sheep grazing on the hillsides.
Here, on July 20, we found a welcome post and spent the day in great
comfort in the Phari Dzong bungalow. Two days later we reached Chumbi
and met the Macdonalds again, and were, as usual, sumptuously
entertained by them. Here our transport had to be reorganized to take
our still rather large convoy down to India. Geoffrey and I climbed the
neighbouring hills and really revelled in the whole journey down, which
had been very reminiscent of the Western Himalaya in summer. Chumbi is
wonderful; even in the rains the climate is delightful. It cannot have
more than one-third of the rainfall which falls only 20 miles away on
the other side of the Jelep: in fact, when two days later we crossed the
Jelep, we were immediately involved again in the mists and rains and
sleets, and were again in a completely and absolutely different type of
country.
We arrived at Gnatong on July 27 in pouring rain, but next morning it
had cleared, and on the way down as we started the clouds showed signs
of really lifting. On arrival at the ridge over which the road crosses
before beginning the long descent to Rongli Chu, about 400 feet above
Gnatong, we were lucky enough to come in for one of those sudden breaks
which occasionally occur during the monsoon, and if one is at the moment
in a position to profit by them one obtains one of the most glorious
sights to be found in this world. Such was our luck this morning.
Standing on the ridge we were able to see the plains of India stretched
out beneath us to the South, the plains of Kuch Behar with the Mahanadi
River running through them quite clear, while on our right Kanchengjanga
rose through the clouds—a perfectly marvellous vision of ice and snow,
looking immeasurably high. The clouds were drifting and continually
changing across the hillsides and the deep valleys. The extremely deep
and, in places, sombre colour, the astonishingly brilliant colour where
the sun lit up the mountains, and the prodigious heights, made a
mountain vision which must be entirely unsurpassed in any other portion
of the globe. It was a moment to live for; but the moment was all too
short. In half an hour the vision of the plains and the mountains was
completely blotted out.
At Lungtung we visited the little tea-shop where we had all collected,
as we had promised the patroness on our way up. There she was again,
full of smiles, with her family round her, and we all stayed there and
drank hot tea, which we thoroughly enjoyed after the cold and driving
mist, and the flow of chaff I think even surpassed that of our first
visit. So exhilarated were we that Geoffrey and I ran at top speed down
to Sedongchen, which is only 6,000 feet, tearing down the hillsides, and
by so doing, although we occasionally took short cuts over grassy banks
and through forest where it was not too thick, we arrived at Sedongchen,
having entirely baffled the leeches which swarm in this part of the
forest. Not so, however, Wakefield; he also had been exhilarated and had
taken a short cut down, but he had been too trusting, and he arrived
with his legs simply crawling with leeches.
The rest of our journey through Sikkim requires no particular comment,
except that the weather behaved itself in a wonderful way, and we
escaped any real heavy duckings. The heat, although considerable in the
lower valleys and moist, was not at all oppressive. So much so that we
were able to travel at a great pace down to Rongli bridge, which is only
700 feet above the sea.
We arrived in Darjeeling on August 2, every one by now in thoroughly
good health. Here we were to await the arrival of Crawford and
Somervell, who were making tremendous attempts, considering that it was
the height of the monsoon, to see something of the South face of
Kanchen, and even, if possible, to do a little climbing—a rather
ambitious programme under the circumstances. Five or six days later they
arrived, quite pleased with themselves and having had a very strenuous
time, but naturally having seen a minimum of the country they travelled
over. At Darjeeling the party rapidly broke up, although the Staff of
the Expedition had about a fortnight’s work clearing up business
matters, which included the proper provision for the families of the
unfortunate porters who had been lost in the avalanche.
[Illustration:
LINGGA AND THE LHONAK MOUNTAINS.
]
Thus ended the first attempt to climb Mount Everest. I think on the
whole we may be quite satisfied with the results. It would have been
almost unthinkable if a great mountain like Everest—the highest in the
world, almost the greatest in scale as well—had yielded to the very
first assault. After all, it took a very long time, many years in fact,
to climb the easier of the great mountains of the Alps. It took many
years to find the way, even, up the North face of the Matterhorn, a
problem which would now only be considered one of the second class. How,
then, could we expect on the very first occasion to solve all the
different problems which are included in an assault on Everest? It is
not merely a case of mountaineering, or of mountaineering skill, nor
even of having a most highly-trained party; there are many other
problems which we also have to consider. Our methods had almost to be
those of an Arctic expedition; at the same time our clothing and outfit
in many ways had to be suitable for mountain climbing. Our climbing
season was extraordinarily short, far shorter than it would have been in
any mountains in the West.
Not only that, but all the warnings of the scientists tended to show
that no very great height could probably be reached without oxygen, and
that even with an oxygen apparatus there were a great many dangers to be
faced. Among other things we were told that having once put on the
oxygen apparatus, and having once for any continuous period worked on an
artificial supply of oxygen, the sudden cessation of that supply would
certainly cause unconsciousness, and probably would cause death. Luckily
for us this was proved not to be in accordance with actual practical
experience, as the height reached by our climbing party which had not
used oxygen was more than 2,000 feet higher than any point yet reached.
For the Duke of Abruzzi, in his great attempt on the Bride Peak on the
Baltoro Glacier in Baltistan, did not quite reach 24,600 feet. While
Mallory, Somervell, and Norton reached 26,985 feet.
In the whole range of the mountains of the world there are only four
peaks that top this great height, namely, Mount Everest itself, K^2 in
the Karakorum in Baltistan; Broad Peak on the Baltoro Glacier, and
Makalu in the Everest group. Therefore this climb stands actually as the
fifth of the great altitudes of the world. It is a perfectly prodigious
performance, and taken simply as a _tour de force_ stands in the front
rank in no matter what department of sport or human endeavour. The men
who took part in this climb have every reason to be proud of themselves.
As I have pointed out, Finch and Geoffrey Bruce, using oxygen, took a
route traversing the face of the mountain to the West, and before they
were completely played out and conditions were such that they had to
return, reached a height of 27,235 feet. If they had directly mounted up
the ridge they would undoubtedly have reached the point on the main
Everest crest which is marked at 27,390 and have progressed along it to
a greater altitude. There is no doubt in my mind whatever of this: not
only would their route have been far more direct, but the actual ground
over which they would have to climb would have been easier. It is quite
certain that with the same exertions on the same day they could have
reached a higher point than they did. That does not, however, in the
least detract from their performance. Their experiences, as has been
pointed out by Finch, ease the oxygen question immensely. It was shown
that it was quite possible to remove the oxygen apparatus altogether,
having used it fully and having reached a height of 25,500 feet, nor was
the accident to Geoffrey’s apparatus attended with any of the terrible
consequences which we were led to expect. These conclusions are all very
satisfactory from the point of view of our final success in climbing
Everest. There is no doubt that the height will be attained provided the
very best men, the best apparatus, and an outfit of porters equally as
good as our own, attempt it. And there are plenty of men to draw from
for porters. We could probably obtain without difficulty a team as good,
or better. Of that I am quite certain.
It was pretty evident that one of the secrets of living with immunity
high up is that the actual clothes on the men’s backs should be as light
as possible and as windproof as possible. Proper protection should be
taken against the wind for the head also, and the greatest care must be
taken and the necessity for care be understood by everybody in the
protection of their hands and feet. It is quite possible that with a
little more care we might have escaped this year without any serious
consequences from that point of view.
These remarks apply equally to the outfit for the porters. Men who
worked with so little experience, and took camps for us to a height of
25,500 feet, would, if correctly outfitted, take the camp 500 to 1,000
feet higher: of that I am quite convinced. An improved and lighter
oxygen apparatus is under construction; when this has been completed I
have every reason to believe that an oxygen depôt could be well
established at 26,000 feet, thus allowing a full time for the attempt on
the greater heights. This year there was always at the back of the
oxygen-carriers’ minds a slight doubt that their oxygen might give out
and that the consequences to them would be most unpleasant.
Another problem that must always be borne in mind when one’s object is
the assault of a great mountain in the Himalaya, is to bring one’s whole
party there in first-class health and training. This sounds an
unnecessary remark to have to make, but as a matter of fact the task is
not as easy as it appears. The great danger lies in fatiguing and
exhausting one’s party before the real test comes. This year there was
great danger of our working the porters out, and this question gave me a
good deal of anxiety. But they were all absolute gluttons for work, and
I never would have believed that men could have carried out such
tremendous hard labour in establishing our high camps and apparently
continuing fit and well, showing no signs of staleness and quite ready
to continue up the mountain.
Before we left Darjeeling I forwarded to the Dalai Lama, on behalf of
the Mount Everest Committee, a letter of thanks for all the assistance
which he had given to our Expedition, and sent with it, for him and for
the Tashilumpo Lama also, a silk banner on which was printed a coloured
picture of the Potālā, the great palace of the Dalai Lamas in Lhasa.
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THE FIRST ATTEMPT
By
GEORGE LEIGH-MALLORY
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