THE HIGHEST CAMP
IV
The situation of Camp III when we reached it early in the afternoon was
not calculated to encourage me, though I suppose it might be found
congenial by hardier men. We had turned the corner of the North Peak so
that the steep slopes of its Eastern arm rose above us to North and
West. Our tents were to be pitched on the stones that have rolled down
these slopes on to the glacier, and just out of range of a stone fall
from the rocks immediately above us. A shallow trough divided us from
the main plateau of the glacier, and up this trough the wind was
blowing; since the higher current was hurrying the clouds from the
normal direction, North-west, we might presume that this local variation
was habitual. But wind we could hardly expect to escape from one
direction or another. A more important consideration, perhaps, for a
mountain camp is the duration of sunshine. Here we should have the sun
early, for to the East we looked across a wide snowy basin to the
comparatively low mountains round about the Lhakpa La; but we should
lose it early too, and we observed with dismay on this first afternoon
that our camp was in shadow at 3.15 p.m. The water supply was
conveniently near, running in a trough, and we might expect it to be
unfrozen for several hours each day.
[Illustration:
SERACS, EAST RONGBUK GLACIER, ABOVE CAMP II.
]
Whatever we might think of this place it was undoubtedly the best
available. Very little energy remained among the party, most of whom had
now reached 21,000 feet for the first time in their lives. However, a
number soon set to work levelling the ground which we chose for two
tents. It was necessary to do this work thoroughly, for, unlike the
smooth, flat stones at Camp I, these, like those at Camp II, of which we
had obtained sufficient experience during the previous night, were
extremely sharp and uncomfortable to lie on. After it was done we sent
down the main body of the porters, keeping only one man for cook and
each the man specially attached to him as servant by Geoffrey Bruce’s
command long ago in Darjeeling. With these we proceeded to order our
camp. The tents were pitched, some sort of a cookhouse was constructed
from the wealth of building material, and we also began to put up walls
behind which we could lie in shelter to eat our meals. Perhaps the most
important matter was the instruction of Pou, our cook, in the correct
use of the Primus stove; with the purpose of giving him confidence a
fine fountain of blazing paraffin was arranged and at once extinguished
by opening the safety valve; for the conservation of our fuel supply we
carefully showed him how the absolute alcohol must be used to warm the
burner while paraffin and petrol were to be mixed for combustion.
Fortunately his intelligence rose above those disagreeable agitations
which attend the roaring or the failure to roar of Primus stoves, so
that after these first explanations we had never again to begrime our
hands with paraffin and soot.
In our tent this evening of May 12, Somervell and I discussed what we
should do. There was something to be said for taking a day’s rest at
this altitude before attempting to rise another 2,000 feet. Neither of
us felt at his best. After our first activities in camp I had made
myself comfortable with my legs in a sleeping-bag, Somervell with his
accustomed energy had been exploring at some distance—he had walked as
far as the broad pass on the far side of our snowy basin, the Rápiu La,
at the foot of Everest’s North-east ridge, and had already begun a
sketch of the wonderful view obtained from that point of Makalu. When he
returned to camp about 5.30 p.m. he was suffering from a headache and
made a poor supper. Moreover, we were full of doubts about the way up to
the North Col. After finding so much ice on the glacier we must expect
to find ice on those East-facing slopes below the Col. It was not
unlikely that we should be compelled to cut steps the whole way up, and
several days would be required for so arduous a task. We decided
therefore to lose no time in establishing a track to the North Col.
It was our intention on the following morning, May 13, to take with us
two available porters, leaving only our cook in camp, and so make a
small beginning towards the supply of our next camp. But Somervell’s man
was sick and could not come with us. We set out in good time with only
my porter, Dasno, and carried with us, besides one small tent, a large
coil of spare rope and some wooden pegs about 18 inches long. As we made
our way up the gently sloping snow it was easy to distinguish the line
followed to the North Col after the monsoon last year—a long slope at a
fairly easy angle bearing away to the right, or North, a traverse to the
left, and a steep slope leading up to the shelf under the ice-cliff on
the skyline. With the sun behind us we saw the first long slope, nearly
1,000 feet, glittering in a way that snow will never glitter; there we
should find only blue ice, bare and hard. Further to the North was no
better, and as we looked at the steep final slope it became plain enough
that there and nowhere else was the necessary key to the whole ascent;
for to the South of an imaginary vertical line drawn below it was a
hopeless series of impassable cliffs. The more we thought about it the
more convinced we became that an alternative way must be found up to
this final slope. We had not merely to reach the North Col once:
whatever way we chose must be used for all the comings and goings to and
from a camp up there. Unless the connection between Camps III and IV
were free from serious obstacles, the whole problem of transport would
increase enormously in difficulty; every party of porters must be
escorted by climbers both up and down, and even so the dangers on a big
ice slope after a fall of snow would hardly be avoided.
Endeavouring to trace out a satisfactory route from the shelf of the
North Col downwards, we soon determined that we should make use of a
sloping corridor lying some distance to the left of the icy line used
last year and apparently well covered with snow. For 300 or 400 feet
above the flat snowfield it appeared to be cut off by very steep ice
slopes; nevertheless the best hope was to attempt an approach more or
less direct to the foot of this corridor; and first we must reconnoitre
the steepest of these obstacles, which promised the most convenient
access to the desired point could we climb it. Here fortune favoured our
enterprise. We found the surface slightly cleft by a fissure slanting at
first to the right and then directly upwards. In the disintegrated
substance of its edges it was hardly necessary to cut steps, and we
mounted 250 feet of what threatened to be formidable ice with no great
expenditure of time and energy. Two lengths of rope were now fixed for
the security of future parties, the one hanging directly downwards from
a single wooden peg driven in almost to the head, and another on a
series of pegs for the passage of a leftward traverse which brought us
to the edge of a large crevasse. We were now able to let ourselves down
into the snow which choked this crevasse a little distance below its
edges, and by means of some large steps hewn in the walls and another
length of rope a satisfactory crossing was established. Above this
crevasse we mounted easy snow to the corridor.
So far as the shelf which was our objective we now met no serious
difficulty. The gentle angle steepened for a short space where we were
obliged to cut a score of steps in hard ice; we fixed another length of
rope, and again the final slope was steep, but not so as to trouble us.
However, the condition of the snow was not perfect; we were surprised,
on a face where so much ice appeared, to find any snow that was not
perfectly hard; and yet we were usually breaking a heavy crust and
stamping down the steps in snow deep enough to cover our ankles. It was
a question rather of strength than of skill. An East-facing slope in the
heat and glare of the morning sun favours the enemy mountain-sickness,
and though no one of us three was sick our lassitude increased
continually as we mounted and it required as much energy as we could
muster to keep on stamping slowly upwards.
We lay down at length on the shelf, not yet shaded by the ice-cliff
above it, in a state of considerable exhaustion. Here presumably was the
end of a day’s work satisfactory in the most important respect, for we
felt that the way we had found was good enough, and with the fixed ropes
was suitable for use under almost any conditions. It occurred to us
after a little interval and some light refreshment that one thing yet
remained to be done. The lowest point of the North Col, from which the
North ridge of Everest springs a little way to the South of our shelf,
is perhaps ten minutes’ walk. We ought to go just so far as that in
order to make quite sure of the way onward.
In the direction of the North-east shoulder, now slightly East of South
from us, the shelf slopes gradually upwards, a ramp as it were alongside
the battlements almost attaining the level of the crest itself. In the
whirl of snow and wind on that bitter day of September 1921, Bullock,
Wheeler, and I had found it necessary, in order actually to gain this
level, to take a few steps to the right round the head of a large
crevasse slanting across our line to the North Col. Somervell and I soon
found ourselves confronted by this same crevasse, and prepared to evade
it by the same manœuvre. But during those intervening months the crack
had extended itself some distance to the right and prevented the
possibility of getting round at that end. It was also much too wide to
be leapt. The best chance was in the other direction. Here we were able
to work our way down, before the steep slopes plunge over towards the
head of the East Rongbuk Glacier, to a snow bridge within the crevasse
giving access to a fissure in its opposite wall. We carefully examined
the prospects of an ascent at this point. Our idea was to go up in the
acute angle between two vertical walls of ice. A ladder of footsteps and
finger-holds would have to be constructed in the ice, and even so the
issue would be doubtful. When we set against the severe labour our
present state of weakness and considered the consequences of a step into
the gulf of the crevasse while steps were being cut—how poor a chance
only one man could have of pulling out his companion—it was clear that a
performance of this kind must wait for a stronger party. In any case, we
reckoned, this was not a way which could safely be used by laden
porters. If it must be used we should apply to General Bruce for a
15-foot ladder, more permanent than any we could make in the ice, and no
doubt the mechanical ingenuity so much in evidence at the Base Camp
would devise a ladder both portable and strong. Even this thought failed
to inspire us with perfect confidence, and it seemed rather a long way
to have come from England to Mount Everest, to be stopped by an obstacle
like this.
[Illustration:
PARTY ASCENDING THE CHANG LA.
]
But was there no possible alternative? On this side of the crest we had
nothing more to hope; but on the far side, could we reach it, there
might exist some other shelf crowning the West-facing slopes of the Col,
and connecting with the lowest point. We retraced our steps, going now
in the opposite direction with the battlement on our left. Beyond there
was a snow slope ascending towards the formidable ridge of the North
Peak. The crevasse guarding it was filled with snow and presented no
difficulty, and though the slope was steep we were able to make a
staircase up the edge of it and presently found ourselves on the broken
ground of the Northern end of the crest. As we turned back toward
Everest a huge crevasse was in our way. A narrow bridge of ice took us
across it and we found we were just able to leap another crevasse a few
yards further.
We had now an uninterrupted view of all that lies to the West. Below us
was the head of the main Rongbuk Glacier. On the skyline to the left was
the prodigious North-west ridge of Everest, flanked with snow, hiding
the crest of the West Peak. Past the foot of the North-west ridge we
looked down the immense glacier flowing South-westwards into Nepal and
saw without distinguishing them the distant ranges beyond. Near at hand
a sharp edge of rocks, the buttress of Changtse falling abruptly to the
Rongbuk Glacier, blocked out vision of the two greatest mountains
North-west of Everest, Gyachung Kang (25,990) and Cho Uyo (26,367). But
we could feel no regret for this loss, so enchanted were we by the
spectacle of Pumori; though its summit (23,190) was little higher than
our own level, it was, as it always is, a singularly impressive sight.
The snow-cap of Pumori is supported by splendid architecture; the
pyramidal bulk of the mountain, the steep fall of the ridges and faces
to South and West, and the precipices of rock and ice towards East and
North, are set off by a whole chain of mountains extending
West-north-west along a frail, fantastic ridge unrivalled anywhere in
this district for the elegant beauty of its cornices and towers. No more
striking change of scenery could be imagined than this from all we saw
to the East—the gentle snowy basin; the unemphatic lines of the slopes
below and on either side of the Lhakpa La, dominated as they are by the
dullest of mountains, Khartaphu; the even fall of rocks and snow from
the East ridge of Changtse and from the North-east ridge of Everest.
Pumori itself stood only as a symbol of this new wonderful world before
our eyes as we stayed to look westwards, a world exciting, strange,
unearthly, fantastic as the sky-scrapers in New York City, and at the
same time possessing the dignity of what is enduring and immense, for no
end was visible or even conceivable to this kingdom of adventure.
However, even Somervell’s passion for using coloured chalks did not
encourage him to stay long inactive in a place designed to be a funnel
for the West wind of Tibet at an elevation of about 23,000 feet. We sped
again over snow-covered monticules thrust up from the chaos of riven
ice, and at last looked down from one more prominent little summit to
the very nape of the Chang La. We saw our conjectured shelf in real
existence and a fair way before us. In a moment all our doubts were
eased. We knew that the foot of the North Ridge, by which alone we could
approach the summit of Mount Everest, was not beyond our reach.
Dasno meanwhile was stretched in the snow on the sheltered shelf, which
clearly must serve us sooner or later for Camp IV. As we looked down
upon him from the battlements, we noticed that their shadow already
covered the greater part of the shelf. It was four o’clock. We must
delay no longer. The tent which Dasno had carried up was left to be the
symbol of our future intentions, and we hastened down. Since 7 a.m.
Somervell and I had been spending our strength with only one
considerable halt, and latterly at a rapid rate. For some hours now we
had felt the dull height-headache which results from exertion with too
little oxygen, a symptom, I am told, not unlike the effect of poisoning
by carbon monoxide. The unpleasing symptom became so increasingly
disagreeable as we came down that I was very glad to reach our tent
again. As it was only fair that Somervell should share all my
sufferings, it now seemed inconsiderate of him to explain that he had a
good appetite. For my part, I took a little soup and could face no food;
defeated for the first and last time in either expedition before the
sight of supper. I humbly swallowed a dose of aspirin, lay my head on
the pillow and went to sleep.
V
For three days now we made no expedition of any consequence. The
question arises, then, what did we? I have been searching the meagre
entries in my journal for an answer, with no satisfactory result. The
doctrine that men should be held accountable for their days, or even
their hours, is one to which the very young often subscribe as a matter
of course, seeing in front of them such a long way to go and so little
time: the futility of exact accounts in this sort is apparent among
mountains; the span of human life appears so short as hardly to be
capable of the usual subdivisions, and a much longer period than a day
may be neglected as easily as a halfpenny in current expenditure; and
while some hours and days are spent in doing, others pass in simply
being or being evolved, a process in the mind not to be measured in
terms of time. Nevertheless, it is often interesting to draft a
balance-sheet covering a period of twenty-four hours or seven days if
only to see how much must truthfully be set down as “unaccounted.”
In the present instance my first inclination is to write off in this
bold fashion a full half of the time we spent in Camp III. But I will
try to serve my accounts better cooked. The largest item in a balance of
hours, even the least frank, will always be sleep. Here I prefer to make
the entry under the heading Bed. This will enable me to write off at
once a minimum of fourteen or a maximum of sixteen hours, leaving me
only eight to ten hours to account for. It is also a simplification,
because I am able by this means to avoid a doubtful and perhaps an ugly
heading, Dozing. No one will ask me to describe exactly what goes on in
bed. At Camp III it will be understood that supper is always included,
but not breakfast, for as the breakfasting hour is the most agreeable in
the day, it must be spent out-of-doors in the warm sun. Supper, unlike
most activities, takes less time than in civilised life. Wasted minutes
allow the food to cool and the grease to congeal. The porter serving us
would not want to be standing about longer than necessary, and the whole
performance was expeditious. Perhaps the fashion of eating among
mountaineers is also more wolfish than among civilised men. The
remaining 13½ or 14½ hours were not all spent in sleep. Probably on the
night of May 13–14 I slept at least ten hours after the exertions of our
ascent to the North Col. But though one sleeps well and is refreshed by
sleep in a tent at an altitude to which one is sufficiently
acclimatised, the outside world is not so very far away. However well
accustomed to such scenes, one does not easily lose a certain excitement
from the mere presence beyond the open tent-door of the silent power of
frost suspending even the life of the mountains, and of the black ridges
cutting the space of stars. The slow-spinning web of unconscious thought
is nearer consciousness. One wakes in the early morning with the mind
more definitely gathered about a subject, looks out to find the stars
still bright, or dim in the first flush of dawn, and because the
subject, whatever it be, and however nearly connected with the one
absorbing problem, commands less concentrated attention—for the unwilled
effort of the mind is more dispersed—one may often fall asleep once more
and stay in a light intermittent slumber until the bright sun is up and
the tent begins to be warm again. No sleeper, so far as I know on this
second expedition, could compete either for quantity or quality with the
sleep of Guy Bullock on the first; but all, perhaps with different
habits from either his or mine, but at all events all who spent several
nights at this camp or higher, slept well and were refreshed by sleep,
and I hope they were no less grateful than I for those blessed nights.
[Illustration:
PEAK, 23,180 FEET (KELLAS’ DARK ROCK PEAK) FROM THE RONGBUK GLACIER
ABOVE CAMP II.
]
I often remarked during the Expedition how large a part of a day had
been spent by some of us in conversation. Down at the Base Camp we would
often sit on, those of us who were not expert photographers, or
painters, or naturalists, sit indefinitely not only after dinner, but
after each succeeding meal, talking the hours away. When a man has
learned to deal firmly with an imperious conscience, he will be neither
surprised nor ashamed in such circumstances to enter in his diary, “so
many hours talking and listening.” It is true that conscience has the
right to demand, in the case of such an entry, that the subjects talked
of should also be named. But our company was able to draw upon so wide a
range of experience that a fair proportion of our subjects were worth
talking of. Perhaps in the higher camps there was a tendency to talk,
though from less active brains, for the sake of obliterating the sense
of discomfort. However, I believe that most men, once they have faced
the change from armchairs and spring mattresses, and solid walls and hot
baths, and drawers for their clothes and shelves for their books, do not
experience discomfort in camp life except in the matter of feeding.
However good your food and however well cooked, sooner or later in this
sort of life meals appear messy. The most unsatisfactory circumstance of
our meals at the Base Camp was the tables. In a country where wood is so
difficult to obtain you cannot construct solid tables, still less can
you afford to carry them. Our ingenious “X” tables had thin iron legs
and canvas tops. On the rough ground they were altogether too light, too
easily disturbed, and for this reason too many of our victuals erred on
to these tables; their surfaces appeared under our eyes with constantly
accumulating stains, but half rubbed out by a greasy rag. Efforts truly
were made to control the nightly flow, proceeding from X and Y in their
cups—had they been cups of beer or whisky, we might have minded little
enough, but the sticky soiling mess was soup or cocoa; offenders were
freely cursed; tables were scrubbed; table-cloths were produced. In the
long run, no efforts availed. If the curry were tasty and the plate
clean, who would complain of a dirty table-cloth at the impurification
of which he had himself assisted? But I have little doubt that this
circumstance, more than any gradual drift of the mountaineer back
towards the Stone Age, was to be held accountable for the visible
deterioration of our table manners. With no implication of insult to
General Bruce and Dr. Longstaff, I record my belief that our manners at
Camp III were better than those at the Base Camp. It may suggest a lower
degree of civilisation that men should be seated on the ground at boxes
for eating rather than on boxes at a table. On the contrary, the nice
adjustment of a full plate upon one’s lap, or the finer art of conveying
and forking in the mouthfuls which start so much further from the face,
requires a delicacy, if it is to be accomplished at all, which
continually restrains the grosser impulses. And, though it might be
supposed that as we went higher up the mountain we should come to
feeding entirely _sans façon_, it was my experience that the greater
difficulties at the higher altitudes in satisfying the appetite
continually promoted more civilised habits of feeding. To outward
appearance, perhaps, the sight of four men each with a spoon eating out
of a common saucepan of spaghetti would not be altogether reassuring.
But one must not leave out of the reckoning the gourmet’s peculiar
enjoyment in the steamy aroma from things cooked and eaten before any
wanton hand has served them on a dish, still less the finer politeness
required by several persons sharing the same pots in this manner.
On the whole, therefore, we suffered, either morally, æsthetically, or
physically, little enough in the matter of meals; still less from any
other cause. The bitter wind, it is true, was constantly disagreeable.
But such wind deadens even the senses that dislike it, and the wind of
Tibet was admirable both as an excuse for and necessary contrast with
luxurious practices. Just as one most enjoys a fire when half aware of
unpleasant things outside, or is most disgusted by a stuffy room after
breathing the soft air of a South-west wind, so in Tibet one may delight
merely in being warm anywhere. Neatly to avoid the disagreeable is in
itself a keen pleasure and heightens the desire for active life. It was
only rarely, very rarely, that one suffered of necessity, and generally,
if a man were cold, he was himself to blame; either he had failed to put
on clothes enough for the occasion, or had failed, having put them on,
to stimulate circulation. In a sleeping-bag such as we had this year,
with soft flannel lining the quilted eiderdown, one need not be chilled
even by the coldest night; and to lie in a tent no bigger than will just
hold two persons, with 20° of frost inside and 40° without, snugly
defying cold and wind, to experience at once in this situation the keen
bite of the air and the warm glow in one’s extremities, gives a
delicious sensation of well-being and true comfort never to be so
acutely provoked even in the armchair at an English fireside.
But to return to the subject from which I have naughtily digressed, time
passed swiftly enough for Somervell and me at Camp III. We did not keep
the ball rolling so rapidly and continuously to and fro as it was wont
to roll in the united Mess; but we found plenty to say to one another,
more particularly after supper, in the tent. We entered upon a serious
discussion of our future prospects on Mount Everest, and were both
feeling so brave and hardy after a day’s rest that we decided, if
necessary, to meet the transport difficulty half-way and do without a
tent in any camp we should establish above the North Col, and so reduce
the burden to be carried up to Camp IV to three rather light or two
rather heavy loads. Our conversation was further stimulated by two
little volumes which I had brought up with me, the one Robert Bridges’
anthology, _The Spirit of Man_, and the other one-seventh of the
complete works of William Shakespeare, including _Hamlet_ and _King
Lear_. It was interesting to test the choice made in answer to the old
question, “What book would you take to a desert island?” though in this
case it was a desert glacier, and the situation demanded rather lighter
literature than prolonged edification might require on the island. The
trouble about lighter literature is that it weighs heavier because more
has to be provided. Neither of my books would be to every one’s taste in
a camp at 21,000 feet; but _The Spirit of Man_ read aloud now by one of
us and now by the other, suggested matters undreamt of in the philosophy
of Mount Everest, and enabled us to spend one evening very agreeably. On
another occasion I had the good fortune to open my Shakespeare at the
very place where Hamlet addresses the ghost. “Angels and Ministers of
Grace defend us,” I began, and the theme was so congenial that we
stumbled on enthusiastically reading the parts in turn through half the
play.
Besides reading and talking, we found a number of things to do. The
ordering of even so small a camp as this may occupy a good deal of
attention. Stores will have to be checked and arranged in some way so as
to be easily found when wanted. One article or another is sure to be
missing, too often to be retrieved when it lies on the stones only after
prolonged search, and even to find a strayed stocking groped for on
hands and knees in the congested tent may take a considerable time.
Again, the difficult and important problem of meals will have to be
considered in connection with the use of available food supplies. We
have one ox tongue. Shall we open it to-day, or ought we to keep it to
take up with us? And so on. But with a number of details to be arranged,
I was impressed not so much by the amount of energy and attention which
they demanded as by the time taken to do any little thing—and most of
all to write. Undoubtedly one is slower in every activity, and in none
so remarkably slower as in writing. The greater part of a morning might
easily be consumed in writing one letter of perhaps half a dozen pages.
In referring to my own slowness, particularly mental slowness, I must
hasten to exclude my companion. His most important activity when we were
not on the mountain was sketching. His vast supply of energy, the number
of sketches he produced, and oil-paintings besides, was only less
remarkable than the rapidity with which he worked. On May 14 he again
walked over the uncrevassed snowfield by himself to the Rapiu La. Later
on I joined him, and, so far as I could judge, his talent and energy
were no less at 21,000 feet than on the wind-swept plains of Tibet.
VI
On May 16 Somervell and I spent the morning in camp with some hopes of
welcoming sooner or later the arrival of stores, and sure enough about
midday the first detachment of a large convoy reached our camp. With the
porters, somewhat to our surprise, were Strutt, Morshead, and Norton.
The whole party seemed rather tired, though not more than was to be
expected, and when a little later Crawford, the responsible transport
officer, came in, he told us he had been mountain-sick. We were
delighted to learn that General Bruce was now much happier about
transport—hence these reinforcements; twenty-two Tibetan coolies were
now working up to Camp I, more were expected, and the prospects were
definitely brighter. A start had even been made, in spite of Finch’s
continued sickness, with moving up the oxygen cylinders. We at once
proceeded to discuss with Crawford how many porters could remain with us
at Camp III. Taking into consideration the oxygen loads, he suggested a
number below the hopes I had begun to entertain. It was agreed that
eight could be spared without interfering with the work lower down. We
had two before, so we should now have ten in all.
It was clear that all must carry up loads to Camp IV with the least
delay in reason. But in view of the tremendous efforts that would be
required of these men at a later stage, it was a necessary act of
precautionary wisdom to grant the porters a day’s rest on the 16th; and
in any case an extra day was advisable for the acclimatisation of us all
before sleeping at 23,000 feet. Meanwhile we should be able to formulate
exact plans for climbing the mountain. It had hitherto been assumed that
the first attempt should be made only by Somervell and me, and General
Bruce had not cancelled our orders; but he had now delegated his
authority to Strutt, as second-in-command, to decide on the spot what
had best be done. The first point, therefore, to be settled was the
number of climbers composing the party of attack. Strutt himself took
the modest rôle of assuming that he would not be equal to a considerable
advance above Camp IV, but saw no reason why the other four of us
(Crawford returned on the 15th to a lower camp) should be too many for
one party provided our organisation sufficed. Norton and Morshead were
evidently most anxious to come on, and for my part I had always held,
and still held, the view that four climbers were a sounder party than
two for this sort of mountaineering, and would have a better chance of
success. It remained to determine what could be done for a party of four
by the available porters. To carry the whole of what we should need up
to Camp IV in one journey was clearly impossible. But we reckoned that
twenty loads should be enough to provide for ourselves and for nine
porters, who would have to sleep there and carry up another camp. The
delay in making two journeys to the North Col was not too great; the one
sacrifice involved by this plan was a second camp above the North Col.
In my judgment, the chances of establishing such a camp, even for two
climbers, with so small a number as ten porters, without reckoning
further loss of time, would be small in any case. We were necessarily
doubtful as to how much might be expected of our porters before the
North Ridge had been explored, and before we had any evidence to show
that these men were capable of much more than other porters had
accomplished before. It was right, therefore, for the advantages of the
stronger party, to sacrifice so uncertain a prospect. Nevertheless, we
realised the terrible handicap in this limitation.
I shall perhaps appear as affirming or repeating what is merely
commonplace if I venture to make some observations about the weather,
but I must here insist upon its importance to mountaineers; and though I
cannot remember that the subject was much discussed among us at Camp
III, it remained but a little way below the surface of consciousness. In
settled weather among mountains one has not a great deal to observe. The
changing colours at sunrise and sunset follow an expected sequence, the
white flocks of fleecy clouds form and drift upwards, or the midday haze
gathers about the peaks, leaving the climber unperturbed. He has sniffed
the keen air before dawn when he came out under the bright stars, and
his optimism is assured for the day. On Mount Everest it had been
supposed that the season preceding the monsoon would be mainly fair; but
we knew that the warm moist wind should be approaching up the Arun
Valley, pushing up towards us during the month of May, and we must
expect to feel something of its influence. Moreover, we did not know
very well how to read the signs in this country. We anxiously watched
and studied them; each of us, I suppose, while he might be engaged upon
one thing or another, or talking of matters infinitely and delightfully
remote from Mount Everest, like a pilot had his weather-eye open. And
what he saw would not all be encouraging. The drift of the upper clouds,
it is true, was fairly consistent; the white wisps of smoke, as it
seemed, were driven in our direction over the North Col, and
occasionally the clear edge of the North Ridge would be dulled with
powdery snow puffed out on the Eastern side. But looking across the
snowfield from near our camp to where the head of Makalu showed over the
Rapiu La, we saw strange things happening. On May 16, our day of rest, a
number of us paid a visit to this pass, and as we stood above the head
of the Kama Valley, the clouds boiling up from that vast and terrible
cauldron were not gleaming white, but sadly grey. A glimpse down the
valley showed under them the sombre blue light that forebodes mischief,
and Makalu, seen through a rift, looked cold and grim. The evidence of
trouble in store for us was not confined to the Kama Valley, for some
clouds away to the North also excited our suspicion, and yet, as we
looked up the edges of the North-east arête to its curving sickle and
the great towers of the North-east shoulder, here was the dividing-line
between the clear air and fair weather to the right, and the white mists
to the left streaming up above the ridge and all the evil omens. The
bitterest even of Tibetan winds poured violently over the pass at our
backs. We wondered as we turned to meet it how long a respite was to be
allowed us.
Preparation for what we intended to attempt was not to be made without
some thought, or at all events I do not find such preparation a
perfectly simple matter. It requires exact calculation. The first thing
is to make a list—in this case a list of all we should require at Camp
IV, with the approximate weights of each article. But not every article
would be available to be carried up on the first of the two journeys to
the North Col; for instance, we must keep our sleeping-bags for use at
Camp III until we moved up ourselves. It was necessary, therefore, to
mark off certain things to be left for the second journey, and to
ascertain that not more than half of the whole was so reserved. It might
be supposed that the problem could now be solved by adding up the
weights, dividing the total by ten (the number of our porters), and
giving so many pounds, according to this arithmetical answer, to each
man for the first journey. In practice this cannot be done, and we have
to allow for the fallibility of human lists. However carefully you have
gone over in your mind and provided for every contingency, you may be
quite sure you have omitted something, probably some property of the
porters regarded by them as necessary to salvation, and at the last
moment it will turn up. The danger is that one or two men will be
seriously overloaded, and perhaps without your knowing it. To circumvent
it, allowance must be made in your calculations. On this occasion we
took good care to carry up more than half of what was shown on our list
on the first journey. Another difficulty in the mathematical solution is
the nature of the loads. They cannot be all exactly equal, because they
are composed of indivisible objects. A tent cannot be treated like a
vulgar fraction. The best plan, therefore, is to fix a maximum. We
intended our loads to be from 25 to 30 lb. They were all weighed with a
spring balance, and the upper limit was only exceeded by a pound or two
in two cases, to the best of my remembrance.
On May 17 the fifteen of us, Strutt, Morshead, Norton, Somervell, and I,
with ten porters, set off for Camp IV. The snow was in good condition,
we had our old tracks to tread in, and the only mishap to be feared was
the possible exhaustion of one or more porters. It was necessary that
all the loads should reach their destination to-day; but the five
climbers were comparatively unladen, and constituted a reserve of power.
My recollections of going up to the North Col are all of a performance
rather wearisome and dazed, of a mind incapable of acute perceptions
faintly stirring the drowsy senses to take notice within a circle of
limited radius. The heat and glare of the morning sun as it blazed on
the windless long slopes emphasised the monotony. I was dimly aware of
this puzzling question of light-rays and the harm they might do. I was
glad I wore two felt hats, and that Strutt and Somervell had their solar
topis. Morshead and Norton had no special protection, and the porters
none at all. What did it matter? Seemingly nothing. We plodded on and
slowly upwards; each of us was content to go as slowly as anyone else
might wish to go. The porters were more silent than usual. They were
strung up to the effort required of them. No one was going to give in.
The end was certain. At length our success was duly epitomised. As he
struggled up the final slope, Strutt broke into gasping speech: “I wish
that—cinema were here. If I look anything like what I feel, I ought to
be immortalised for the British public.” We looked at his
grease-smeared, yellow-ashen face, and the reply was: “Well, what in
Heaven’s name _do_ we look like? And what do we do it for, anyway?”
At all events, we had some reason to feel hopeful on our subsequent
day’s rest, May 18. Somervell more particularly pronounced that his
second journey to Camp IV had been much less fatiguing than the first. I
was able to say the same, though I felt that a sufficient reason was to
be found in the fact that far less labour had been required of me. It
was more remarkable, perhaps, that those who went for the first time to
23,000 feet, and especially the laden men, should have shown so much
endurance.
On May 19 we carried up the remainder of our loads. And again we seemed
better acclimatised. The ascent to the North Col was generally felt to
be easier on this day; we had strength to spare when we reached the
shelf. With all our loads now gathered about us at Camp IV, the first
stage up from the base of the mountain was accomplished. To-morrow, we
hoped, would complete the second. The five light tents were gradually
pitched, two of them destined for the climbers a few yards apart towards
the North Peak, the remaining three to accommodate each three porters in
the same alignment; in all, a neat little row showing green against the
white. The even surface of the snow was further disturbed by the muddled
tracks, soon to be a trampled space about the tent-doors. For the safety
of sleep-walkers, or any other who might feel disposed to take a walk in
the night, these tent-doors faced inwards, toward the back of the shelf.
There the gigantic blocks of ice were darker than the snow on which
their deep shadow was thrown. Their cleft surfaces suggested cold
colours, and were green and blue as the ocean is on some winter’s day of
swelling seas—a strange impressive rampart impregnable against direct
assault, and equally well placed to be the final defence of the North
Col on this section, and at the same time to protect us amazingly,
entirely, against the unfriendly wind from the West.
Other activities besides demanded our attention. It had been resolved
that one more rope should be fixed on the steep slope we must follow to
circumvent the ice-cliffs. Morshead and Somervell volunteered for this
good work; Norton and I were left to tend the cooking-pots. As we had
not burdened the porters with a large supply of water, we had now to
make provision both for this evening and for to-morrow morning. The
Primus stoves remained at Camp III, partly because they were heavy and
partly because, however carefully devised, their performance at a high
altitude must always be a little uncertain. They had served us well up
to 21,000 feet, and we had no need to trust them further. With our
aluminium cooking sets we could use either absolute alcohol in the
spirit-burner or “Meta,” a French sort of solidified spirit, especially
prepared in cylindrical shape and extremely efficient; you have only to
put a match to the dry white cylinders and they burn without any
trouble, and smokelessly, even at 23,000 feet, for not less than forty
minutes. The supply of “Meta” was not very large, and it was considered
rather as an emergency fuel. The alcohol was to do most of our heating
at Camp IV, and all too rapidly it seemed to burn away as we kept
filling and refilling our pots with snow. In the end six large thermos
flasks were filled with tea or water for the use of all in the morning,
and we had enough for our present needs besides.
Morshead and Somervell had not long returned, after duly fixing the
rope, before our meal was ready. As I have already referred to our table
manners, the more delicate-minded among my readers may not relish the
spectacle of us four feasting around our cooking-pots—in which case I
caution them to omit this paragraph, for now, living up to my own
standard of faithful narrative, I must honestly and courageously face
the subject of victuals. As mankind is agreed that the pleasures of the
senses, when it is impossible they should be actually experienced, can
most nearly be tasted by exercising an artistic faculty in choosing the
dishes of imaginary repasts, so it might be supposed that the state of
affairs, when those pleasures were thousands of feet below in other
worlds, might more easily be brought to mind by reconstructing the
associated menus. But such a practice was unfortunately out of the
question, for it would have involved assigning this, that, and the other
to breakfast, lunch, and supper; and when, calling to mind what we ate,
I try to distinguish between one meal and another, I am altogether at a
loss. I can only suppose they were interchangeable. The nature of our
supplies confirms my belief that this was the case. Practically
speaking, we hardly considered by which name our meal should be called,
but only what would seem nice to eat or convenient to produce, when we
next wanted food and drink. Among the supplies I classify some as
“standard pattern”—such things as we knew were always to be had in
abundance, the “pièce,” as it were, of our whole ménage—three solid
foods, two liquid foods, and one stimulant.
The stimulant, in the first place, as long as we remained at Camp III,
was amazingly satisfactory, both for its kind, its quality, and
especially for its abundance. We took it shamelessly before breakfast,
and at breakfast again; occasionally with or after lunch, and most
usually a little time before supper, when it was known as afternoon tea.
The longer we stayed at this camp, the deeper were our potations. So
good was the tea that I came almost to disregard the objectionable
flavour of tinned milk in it. I had always supposed that General Bruce
would keep a special herd of yaks at the Base Camp for the provision of
fresh milk; but this scheme was hardly practicable, for the only grass
at the Base Camp, grew under canvas, and no one suggested sharing his
tent with a yak. The one trouble about our stimulant was its scarcity as
we proceeded up the mountain. It diminished instead of increasing to the
climax where it was needed most. Fortunately, the lower temperatures at
which water boils as the atmospheric pressure diminishes made no
appreciable difference to the quality, and the difficulty of melting
snow enough to fill our saucepans with water was set off to some extent
by increasing the quantity of tea-leaves.
The two liquid foods, cocoa and pea-soup, though not imbibed so
plentifully as tea, were considered no less as the natural and fitting
companions of meat on any and every occasion. At Camp III it was not
unusual to begin supper with pea-soup and end it with cocoa, but such a
custom by no means precluded their use at other times. Cocoa tended to
fall in my esteem, though it never lost a certain popularity. Pea-soup,
on the other hand, had a growing reputation, and, from being considered
an accessory, came to be regarded as a principal. However, before I
describe its dominating influence in the whole matter of diet, I must
mention the solid foods. The three of “standard pattern” were ration
biscuits, ham, and cheese. It was no misfortune to find above the Base
Camp that we had left the region of fancy breads; for while the chupatis
and scones, baked by our cooks with such surprising skill and energy,
were usually palatable, they were probably more difficult of digestion
than the biscuits, and our appetite for these hard wholemeal biscuits
increased as we went upwards, possibly to the detriment of teeth, which
became ever more brittle. Ham, of all foods, was the most generally
acceptable. The quality of our “Hunter’s hams” left nothing to be
desired, and the supply, apparently, was inexhaustible. A slice of ham,
or several slices, either cold or fried, was fit food for any and almost
every meal. The cheese supplied for our use at these higher camps, and
for expeditions on the mountains besides, were always delicious and
freely eaten. We had also a considerable variety of other tinned foods.
Harris’s sausages, sardines, herrings, sliced bacon, soups, ox tongues,
green vegetables, both peas and beans, all these I remember in general
use at Camp III. We were never short of jam and chocolate. As luxuries
we had “quails in truffles,” besides various sweet-stuffs, such as mixed
biscuits, acid drops, crystallized ginger, figs and prunes (I feel
greedy again as I name them), and, reserved more or less for use at the
highest camps, Heinz’s spaghetti. More important, perhaps, than any of
these was “Army and Navy Rations,” from the special use we made of it. I
never quite made out what these tins contained; they were designed to
be, when heated up, a rich stew of mutton or beef, or both. They were
used by us to enrich a stew which was the peculiar invention of
Morshead. He called it “hoosch.” Like a trained chef, he was well aware
that “the foundation of good cooking is the stock-pot.” But such a maxim
was decidedly depressing under our circumstances. Instead of accepting
and regretting our want of a “stock-pot,” Morshead, with the true genius
that penetrates to the inward truth, devised a substitute and improved
the motto: “The foundation of every dish must be pea-soup.” Or if these
were not his very words, it was easy to deduce that they contained the
substance of his culinary thoughts. It was a corollary of this axiom
that any and every available solid food might be used to stew with
pea-soup. The process of selection tended to emphasise the merits of
some as compared with other solids until it became almost a custom,
sadly to the limitation of Morshead’s art, to prefer to “sliced bacon,”
or even sausages, for the flotsam and jetsam of “hoosch,” Army and Navy
Rations. It was “hoosch” that we ate at Camp IV, about the hour of an
early afternoon tea on May 19.
We had hardly finished eating and washing up—it was a point of honour to
wash up, and much may be achieved with snow—when the shadow crept over
our tents and the chill of evening was upon us. We lingered a little
after everything was set in order to look out over the still sunlit
slopes of Mount Everest between us and the Rapiu La, and over the
undulating basin of snow towards the Lhakpa La and Camp IV, and to pass
some cheerful remarks with the porters, already seeking shelter, before
turning in ourselves for the night. It had been, so far as we could
tell, a singularly windless day. Such clouds as we had observed were
seemingly innocent; and now, as darkness deepened, it was a fine night.
The flaps of our two tents were still reefed back so as to admit a free
supply of air, poor and thin in quality but still recognisable as fresh
air; Norton and I and, I believe, Morshead and Somervell also lay with
our heads towards the door, and, peering out from the mouths of our
eiderdown bags, could see the crest above us sharply defined. The signs
were favourable. We had the best omen a mountaineer can look for, the
palpitating fire, to use Mr. Santayana’s words, of many stars in a black
sky. I wonder what the others were thinking of between the intervals of
light slumber. I daresay none of us troubled to inform himself that this
was the vigil of our great adventure, but I remember how my mind kept
wandering over the various details of our preparations without anxiety,
rather like God after the Creation seeing that it was good. It was good.
And the best of it was what we expected to be doing these next two days.
As the mind swung in its dreamy circle it kept passing and repassing the
highest point, always passing through the details to their intention.
The prospects emerging from this mental movement, unwilled and
intermittent and yet continually charged with fresh momentum, were
wonderfully, surprisingly bright, already better than I had dared to
expect. Here were the four of us fit and happy, to all appearances as we
should expect to be in a snug alpine hut after a proper nightcap of
whisky punch. We had confidence in our porters, nine strong men willing
and even keen to do whatever should be asked of them; surely these men
were fit for anything. And we planned to lighten their burdens as far as
possible; only four loads, beyond the warm things which each of us would
carry for himself, were to go on to our next camp—two tents weighing
each 15 lb., two double sleeping-bags, and provisions for a day and a
half besides the minimum of feeding utensils. The loads would not exceed
20 lb. each, and we should have two men to one load, and even so a man
in reserve. To provide a considerable excess of porters had for long
been a favourite scheme of mine. I saw no other way of making sure that
all the loads would reach their destination. As it was, we should start
with the knowledge that so soon as any man at any moment felt the strain
too great he could be relieved of his load, and when he in his turn
required to be relieved the other would presumably be ready to take up
his load again. Proceeding in this way we should be free of all anxiety
lest one of the loads should be left on the mountain-side or else put on
to a climber’s back, with the chance of impairing his strength for the
final assault. _Ceteris paribus_, we were going to succeed at least in
establishing another camp. This was no mere hope wherein judgment was
sacrificed to promote the lesser courage of optimism, but a reasonable
conviction. It remained but to ask, Would the Fates be kind?
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