THE HIGHEST POINT
My first recollection of the morning of May 20 is of shivering outside
the porters’ tents. It is not an enviable task at 23,000 feet, this of
rousing men from the snugness of their sleeping-bags between 5 and 6
a.m. One may listen in vain for a note of alertness in their response;
the heard notes will not echo the smallest zest for any enterprise. On
this occasion the replies made to my tender inquiries and encouragements
were so profoundly disappointing that I decided to untie the fastenings
of the tent, which were as nearly as might be hermetically sealed. In
the degree of somnolence and inertia prevailing I suspected the
abnormal. Soon I began to make out a tale of confused complaints; the
porters were not all well. The cause was not far to look for; they had
starved themselves of air during the night. The best chance of a remedy
was fresh air now and a brew of tea, which could easily be managed.
Meanwhile Norton had been stirring, and while I retired to “dress” he
began to busy himself with preparations for our own breakfast. Tea of
course was intended for us too, and further two tins of spaghetti had
been reserved to give us the best possible start for the day. But one
small thing had been forgotten. Those precious tins had lain all night
in the snow; they should have been cuddled by human bodies, carefully
nursed in the warmth of sleeping-bags. Now their contents were frozen
stiff and beyond extraction even by an ice-axe. Even so it might be
supposed a little boiling water would put all to rights. Had a little
sufficed I should omit to tell the doleful tale. Only very gradually
were the outer surfaces thawed, permitting the scarlet blocks (tomato
sauce was an ingredient) to be transferred to another saucepan, where
they had still to be thawed to homogeneous softness and afterwards
heated to the point required for doing justice to the genius of Mr.
Heinz. As the expenditure of treasured hot water merely for thawing
spaghetti involved more melting of snow to water and boiling of water
for indispensable tea, the kitchen-maid’s task was disagreeably
protracted; and the one among us, Norton, who most continuously and
stubbornly played the man’s part of kitchen-maid, sitting upon the snow
in the chill early morning became a great deal colder than anyone should
be with a day’s mountaineering in front of him.
Of our nine porters it was presently discovered that five were
mountain-sick in various degrees; only four were fit to come on and do a
full day’s work carrying up our camp. The whole of our reserve was
already exhausted before we had advanced a single step up the North
Ridge. But pessimism was not in the air this morning. We had won through
our various delays and difficulties, we had eaten and enjoyed our
wonderful breakfast, and after all we were able to make a start about
7.30 a.m. The reserve had already been of use; without it we should have
been obliged to remain in camp, waiting for sick porters to recover, and
counting our stores. Morshead, who by the testimony of good spirits
seemed the fittest of us all, was set to lead the party; I followed with
two porters, while Norton and Somervell shepherded the others on a
separate rope. In a short half-hour we were on the North Col itself, the
true white neck to the South of those strange blocks of ice, and looking
up the North Ridge from its foot.
The general nature of what lay ahead of us can readily be appreciated
from this point of view. To the right, as you look up, the great
Northern slopes of Mount Everest above the main Rongbuk Glacier are
slightly concave; the North-eastern facet to the left is also concave,
but much more deeply, and especially more deeply in a section of about
1,500 feet above the North Col. Consequently the ground falls away more
suddenly on that side below the ridge. The climber may either follow the
crest itself or find a parallel way on the gently receding face to right
of it. The best way for us, we soon saw, was not to follow the crest of
snow or even the snow-slopes immediately to the right; for these were
merged after a little interval in the vast sweep of broken rocks forming
the North face of the mountain, and at the junction between snow and
rocks was an edge of stones stretching upwards for perhaps 1,500 feet at
a convenient angle. Loose stones that slip as he treads on them are an
abomination to the climber’s feet and only less fatiguing than knee-deep
sticky snow. We presently found those stones agreeably secure; enough
snow lay among them to bind and freeze all to the slope; we were able to
tread on firm, flat surfaces without the trouble of kicking our feet
into snow; no sort of ground could have taken us more easily up the
mountain. The morning, too, was calm and fine. Though it can hardly be
said that we enjoyed the exercise of going up Mount Everest, we were
certainly able to enjoy the sensation so long as our progress was
satisfactory. But the air remained perceptibly colder than we could have
wished; the sun had less than its usual power; and in the breeze which
sprang up on our side, blowing across the ridge from the right, we
recognized an enemy, “the old wind in the old anger,” the devastating
wind of Tibet. The wolf had come in lamb’s clothes. But we were not
deceived. Remembering bitter experiences down in the plains now 10,000
feet below us, we expected little mercy here, we only hoped for a period
of respite; so long as this gentle mood should last we could proceed
happily enough until we should be obliged to fight our way up.
We had risen about 1,200 feet when we stopped to put on the spare warm
clothes which we carried against such a contingency as this. For my
part, I added a light shetland “woolly” and a thin silk shirt to what I
was wearing before under my closely woven cotton coat. As this outer
garment, with knickers to match, was practically windproof, and a silk
shirt too is a further protection against wind, with these two extra
layers I feared no cold we were likely to meet. Morshead, if I remember
right, troubled himself no more at this time than to wrap a woollen
scarf round his neck, and he and I were ready and impatient to get off
before the rest. Norton was sitting a little way below with his rucksack
poised on his lap. In gathering up our rope so as to have it free when
we should move on I must have communicated to the other rope some small
jerk—sufficient, at all events, to upset the balance of Norton’s
rucksack. He was unprepared, made a desperate grab, and missed it.
Slowly the round, soft thing gathered momentum from its rotation, the
first little leaps down from one ledge to another grew to excited and
magnificent bounds, and the precious burden vanished from sight. For a
little interval, while we still imagined its fearful progress until it
should rest for who knows how long on the snow at the head of the
Rongbuk Glacier, no one spoke. “My rucksack gone down the kudh!” Norton
exclaimed with simple regret. I made a mental note that my warm
pyjama-legs which he had borrowed were inside it, so if I were to blame
I had a share in the loss. A number of offers in woollen garments for
the night were soon made to Norton; after which we began to explain what
each had brought for comfort’s sake, and I wondered whether my
companions’ system of selection resembled mine;—as I never can resolve
in cold blood to leave anything behind, when each article presents
itself as just the one I may particularly want, I pack them all into a
rucksack and then pull out this and that more or less at random until
the load is not greater than I can conveniently carry; even so I almost
invariably find that I have more clothing in reserve than I actually
use.
However, we had no time to spare for discussing the dispensation of
absolute justice between the various claims of affection and utility
among a man’s equipment. We were soon plodding upwards again, and had we
been inclined to tarry the bite of the keen air would have hurried us
along. The respite granted us was short enough. The sun disappeared
behind a veil of high clouds; and before long grey tones to match the
sky replaced the varied brightness of snow and rocks, and soon now we
were struggling to keep our breath and leaning our bodies against a
heavy wind. We had not the experience to reckon exactly the dangers
associated with these conditions. We could only look to our senses for
warning, and their warning soon became obvious enough. Fingertips and
toes and ears all began to testify to the cold. By continuing on the
windward flank of the ridge just where we were most exposed we should
incur a heavy risk of frostbite and the whole party might be put out of
action. It was clear that something must be done, and without delay. The
best chance was to change our direction. Very likely we should find less
wind, as is often the case, on the crest itself, and in any case we must
reach shelter on the leeward side at the earliest possible moment.
While Morshead stopped, at last submitting so far as to put on a
sledging suit, which is reputed to be the best possible protection, I
went ahead, abandoned the rocks, and steered a slanting course over the
snow to the left. Unlike the softer substance we had met in the region
of the North Col, the surface here was hard; on this smooth slope the
blown snow can find no lodgment, cannot stay to be gathered into drifts,
and the little that falls there is swept clean away. The angle soon
became steeper, and we must have steps to tread in. A strong kick was
required to make the smallest impression in the snow. It was just the
place where we could best be served by crampons and be helped up by
their long steel points without troubling ourselves at all about steps.
Crampons of course had been provided among our equipment, and the
question of taking them with us above Camp IV had been considered. We
had decided not to bring them: we sorely needed them now. And yet we had
been right to leave them behind; for with their straps binding tightly
round our boots we should not have had the smallest chance of preserving
our toes from frostbite. The only way was to set to work and cut steps.
The proper manner of cutting one in such a substance as this is to take
but one strong blow, tearing out enough snow to allow the foot to finish
the work as it treads in the hole. Such a practice is not beyond the
strength and skill of an amateur in the Alps. But even if he can muster
the power for this sort of blow at a great altitude, he will soon
discover the inconvenience of repeating it frequently; he will be out of
breath and panting and obliged to wait, so that no time has been gained
after all. The alternative is to apply less force; three gentle strokes,
as a rule, will be required for each step. To cut a staircase in this
humble manner was by no means impossible, as was proved again on the
descent, up to 25,000 feet. But the same rules and limitations determine
this labour as every other up here. The work can be done and the worker
will endure it provided sufficient time is allowed. It is haste that
induces exhaustion. On this occasion we were obliged to hurry; our
object was to reach shelter as soon as possible. In a wind like that on
a bare snow-slope a man must take his axe in both hands to meet the
present need; future contingencies will be left to take care of
themselves. The slope was never steep; the substance was not obdurate;
but when at length we lay on the rocks and out of the wind I computed
our staircase to be 300 feet, and at least one of us was very tired.
I cannot say precisely how much time passed on this arduous section of
our ascent. It was now 11.30 a.m. The aneroid was showing 25,000 feet
compared with a reading of 23,000 on the North Col; the rise of 2,000
feet had taken us in all 3½ hours. For some reason Morshead had been
delayed with two or three of the porters, and as the rest of us now sat
waiting for them we began to discuss what should be done about fixing
our camp. It had been our intention to reach 26,000 feet before pitching
the tents. But it was evident that very few places would accommodate
them. We had already seen enough to realise how steeply the rocks of
this mountain dip towards the North, with the consequence that even
where the ground is broken the ledges are likely to prove too steep for
camping. We must pass the night somewhere on this leeward side, and we
had little hopes of finding a place above us. However, at about our
present level, well marked as the point of junction between snow and
rocks, we had previously observed from Camp III some ground which
appeared less uncompromising than the rest. A broken ledge offered a
practicable line towards this same locality.
Whether the decision we came to at this crisis of our fortunes were
right or wrong, I cannot tell, and I hardly want to know. I have no wish
to excuse our judgment. Who can tell what might have happened had we
decided otherwise? And who can judge? Then why should I be at the pains
to analyse the thoughts which influenced our decision? It is perhaps a
futile inquiry. Nevertheless it is such decisions that determine the
fate of a mountaineering enterprise, and the operative motives or
contending points of view may have an interest of their own. Among us
there was deliberation often enough, but never contention. There never
was a dissentient voice to anything we resolved to do, partly, I
suppose, because we had little choice in the matter, more because we
were that sort of party. We had a single aim in common and regarded it
from common ground. We had no leader within the full meaning of the
word, no one in authority over the rest to command as captain. We all
knew equally what was required to be done from first to last, and when
the occasion arose for doing it one of us did it. Some one, if only to
avoid delay in action, had to arrange the order in which the party or
parties should proceed. I took this responsibility without waiting to be
asked; the rest accepted my initiative, I suppose, because I used to
talk so much about what had been done on the previous Expedition. In
practice it amounted only to this, that I would say to my companions,
“A, will you go first? B, will you go second?” and we roped up in the
order indicated without palaver. Apart from this I never attempted to
inflict my own view on men who were at least as capable as I of judging
what was best. Our proceedings in any crisis of our fortunes were
informally democratic. They were so on the occasion from which I have so
grievously digressed.
It must not be forgotten that we had just come through a trying ordeal.
Nothing is more demoralising than a severe wind, and it may be that our
_morale_ was affected. But I don’t think we were demoralised, or not in
any degree so as to affect our judgment. The impression I retain from
that remote scene where we sat perched in discussion crowding under a
bluff of rocks is of a party well pleased with their performance,
rejoicing to be sheltered from the wind, and every one of them quite
game to go higher. Perhaps the deciding influence was the weather. A
mountaineer judges of the weather conditions almost by instinct; and
apart from our experience of the wind, which had already been
sufficiently menacing, we knew, so far as such things can be known, that
the weather would get worse before it got better. But we could not
imagine what might be coming without thinking definitely about the
porters. It would be their lot, wherever our new camp was fixed, to
return this same day to Camp IV. It was no part of our design to risk
even the extremities of their limbs, let alone their lives; apart from
any consideration of ethics it would not be sensible; no one supposed
that this attempt on Mount Everest would be the last of the season, even
for ourselves, and if the porters who first completed this stage were to
suffer nothing worse than severe frostbite the moral effect of that
injury alone might be an irreparable disaster. The porters must be sent
down before the weather grew worse, and the less they were exposed to
the cold wind the better. It was 12.30 p.m. before the stragglers who
had joined us had rested sufficiently to go on. To fix a camp 1,000 feet
higher would probably require, granted reasonably good fortune in
finding a site, another three hours; and if snow began to fall or the
ridge were enveloped in mist it would be necessary to provide an escort
for the porters. Had we supposed a place might be found anywhere above
us within range on this lee-side of the ridge, we might conceivably have
accepted these hard conditions and pushed on. Deliberately to choose a
site on the ridge with such a wind blowing and in defiance of every
threat in the sky was a folly not to be contemplated, and our
suppositions as to the lee side above us (they were afterwards proved
correct) were all unfavourable to going higher. The plan of encamping
somewhere near at hand, not lower than 25,000 feet, still left plenty to
hope for this time besides building the best foundation for a second
attempt. In my opinion no other alternative was sanely practicable; and
I believe this conviction was shared by all when at length we left our
niche, having conceded so much already to the mountain.
As the broken ledges we now followed presented no special difficulties
the party was able to explore more than one level in search of some
place sufficiently flat and sufficiently commodious. The nature of the
ground and the presence of cloud, though we were never thickly
enveloped, prevented any sort of extensive view. Many suggestions were
mooted and rejected; a considerable time elapsed and still we had found
no site that would serve. At about 2 p.m. Somervell and some porters
shouted the news that one tent could be pitched in the place where they
were. On the far side of a defined rib slanting up to the ridge we had
left they had discovered some sort of a platform. It was evident that
work would be required to extend and prepare it for the tent, and they
at once set about building a supporting wall and levelling the ground.
It remained to find a place near at hand for the other tent. We could
see no obvious shelf, but the constructional works undertaken by
Somervell seemed to contain such a promising idea that Norton and I in
separate places each started works of our own. Each of us very soon
reached the same conclusion, that nothing could be done where he was. We
moved away and tried again; but always with the same result; the ground
was everywhere too steep and too insecure. One soon tires of heaving up
big stones when no useful end is served. Eventually coming together, we
resolved to agree on the least unlikely site and make the best of it. We
chose the foot of a long sloping slab—at all events it was part of the
mountain and would not budge—and there built up the ground below it with
some fine stones we found to hand. Our tent was pitched at last with one
side of the floor lying along the foot of the sloping slab and the other
half on the platform we had made. It was not a situation that promised
for either of us a bountiful repose, for one would be obliged to lie
along the slope and the only check to his tendency to slip down would be
the body of the other. However, there it was, a little tent making a
gallant effort to hold itself proudly and well.
Before we had concluded these operations the porters had been sent down
about 3 p.m. and kitchen had been instituted, and a meal was already
being prepared. Presumably because their single tent would have to
accommodate the four of us (ours was too far away), when we set
ourselves down to eat and be warm, Somervell and Morshead had arranged
the kitchen outside it. Somervell had appointed himself chief in this
department and it remained only for the rest of us to offer menial
service. But so great had been his energy and perseverance, sheltering
the flame from the cold draught and by every device encouraging the snow
to melt, that almost all such offers were rejected. Like a famous
pretender, I would have gladly been a scullion, but I was allowed only
to open one or two tins and fill up a pot with snow. I have no
recollection of what we ate; I remember only a hot and stimulating
drink, Brand’s essence or bovril or something of the sort. We did not
linger long over this meal. We wanted to go to bed still warm. Norton
and I soon left the others in possession of their tent and began to make
our dispositions for the night.
To the civilised man who gets into bed after the customary routine,
tucks himself in, lays his head on the pillow, and presently goes to
sleep with no further worry, the dispositions in a climber’s tent may
seem to be strangely intricate. In the first place, he has to arrange
about his boots. He looks forward to the time when he will have to start
next morning, if possible with warm feet and in boots not altogether
frozen stiff. He may choose to go to bed in his boots, not altogether
approving the practice, and resolving that the habit shall not be
allowed to grow upon him. If his feet are already warm when he turns in,
it may be that he can do no better; his feet will probably keep warm in
the sleeping-bag if he wears his bed-socks over his boots, and he will
not have to endure the pains of pulling on and wearing frozen boots in
the morning. At this camp I adopted a different plan—to wear moccasins
instead of boots during the night and keep them on until the last moment
before starting. But if one takes his boots off, where is he to keep
them warm? Climbing boots are not good to cuddle, and in any case there
will be no room for them with two now inside a double sleeping-bag. My
boots were happily accommodated in a rucksack and I put them under my
head for a pillow. It is not often that one uses the head for warming
things, and no one would suspect one of a hot head; nevertheless my
boots were kept warm enough and were scarcely frozen in the morning.
It was all-important besides to make ourselves really comfortable, if we
were to get to sleep, by making experiments in the disposition of limbs,
adjusting the floor if possible and arranging one’s pillow at exactly
the right level—which may be difficult, as the pillow should be high if
one is to breathe easily at a great altitude. I had already found out
exactly how to be comfortable before Norton was ready to share the
accommodation. I remarked that in our double sleeping-bag I found ample
room for myself but not much to spare. Norton’s entrance was a grievous
disturbance. It was doubtful for some time whether he would be able to
enter; considering how long and slim he is, it is astonishing how much
room he requires. We were so tightly pressed together that if either was
to move a corresponding manœuvre was required of the other. I soon
discovered, as the chief item of interest in the place where I lay, a
certain boulder obstinately immovable and excruciatingly sharp which
came up between my shoulder-blades. How under these circumstances we
achieved sleep, and I believe that both of us were sometimes unconscious
in a sort of light, intermittent slumber, I cannot attempt to explain.
Perhaps the fact that one was often breathless from the exhaustion of
discomfort, and was obliged to breathe deeply, helped one to sleep, as
deep breathing often will. Perhaps the necessity of lying still because
it was so difficult to move was good for us in the end. Norton’s case
was worse than mine. One of his ears had been severely frostbitten on
the way up; only one side was available to lie on; and yet the blessed
sleep we sometimes sigh for in easy beds at home visited him too.
The party had suffered more than at first we realized from exposure in
the wind on the way up. The damage to Norton’s ear was not all. I
noticed when my hands got warm in bed that three finger-tips appeared to
be badly bruised; the symptom could only point to one conclusion, and I
soon made out how they had come to be frostbitten. At the time when the
step-cutting began I had been wearing a pair of lined leather gloves,
motor-drivers’ gloves well suited to the occasion, and my hands had been
so warm that I thought it safe to change the glove on my right hand for
a woollen one with which it was easier to grasp the axe. But wool is not
a good protection against wind, and in grasping the axe I must have
partially stopped the circulation in these finger-tips. The injury,
though not serious, was inconvenient. And Morshead had felt the cold far
more than I. It is still uncertain whether he had yet been frostbitten
in toes and fingers, but though he made no complaint about them until
much later I have little doubt they were already touched, if not
severely frozen. At all events, he had been badly chilled on the way up;
he was obliged to lie down when we reached our camp and was evidently
unwell.
When all is said about our troubles and difficulties, the night, in
spite of everything, was endurable. For distraction to pass the
sleepless intervals engaging thoughts were not far to seek; we had still
our plans for to-morrow; the climax was to come; and, might we not get
so high by such a time? Then, might not the remaining hours be almost,
even quite enough? Besides, we had accomplished something, and though
the moments following achievement are occupied more often in looking
forward than in looking back, we perhaps deliberately encouraged in
ourselves a certain complacency on the present occasion; we were able to
feel some little satisfaction in the mere existence of this camp, the
two small tents perched there on the vast mountain-side of snow-bound
rocks and actually higher, at 25,000 feet, than any climbing party had
been before. “Hang it all!” we cooed, “it’s not so bad.”
The worst of it in dimly conscious moments was still the weather. The
wind had dropped in the evening, as it often does, and nothing was to be
deduced from that; but the hovering clouds had not cleared off and the
night was too warm. I’m not meaning that we complained of the warmth;
but for fine weather we must have a cold night, and it was no colder
here than we had often known it at Camp III.[6] Occasionally stars were
visible during the night; but they shone with a feeble, watery light,
and in the early morning we were listening to the musical patter of
fine, granular snow on the roofs of our tents. A thick mist had come up
all about us, and the stones outside were white with a growing pall of
fresh snow. We were greatly surprised under these conditions when, at
about 6.30 a.m., a perceptible break appeared in the clouds to the East
of us, the “weather quarter,” and this good sign developed so hopefully
that we were soon encouraged to expect a fair day. It was even more
surprising perhaps that some one among us very quickly discovered his
conscience: “I suppose,” he said with a stifled yawn, in a tone that
reminded one of Mr. Saltena rolling over in his costly bed, “it’s about
time we were getting up.” No one dissented—how could one dissent? “I
suppose we ought to be getting up,” we grunted in turn, and slowly we
began to draw ourselves out from the tight warmth of those friendly
bags.
Footnote 6:
The thermometer confirmed our senses and showed a minimum reading for
the night of 7° F.
I do not propose to emphasise the various agonies of an early-morning
start or to catalogue all that may be found for fumbling fingers to do;
but one incident is worth recording. A second rucksack escaped us,
slipping from the ledge where it was perched, and went bounding down the
mountain. Its value, even Norton will agree, was greater than that of
the first; it contained our provisions; our breakfast was inside it.
From the moment of its elusion I gave it up for lost. What could stop
its fatal career? What did stop it unless it were a miracle? Somehow or
another it was hung up on a ledge 100 feet below. Morshead volunteered
to go and get it. By slow degrees he dragged up the heavy load, and our
precious stores were recovered intact.
At 8 a.m. we were ready to start and roped up, Norton first, followed by
myself, Morshead and Somervell. This bald statement of fact may suggest
a misleading picture; the reader may imagine the four of us like runners
at the start of a race, greyhounds straining at the leash, with nerves
on the stretch and muscles aching for the moment when they can be
suddenly tight in strong endeavour. It was not like that. I suppose we
had all the same feelings in various degrees, and even our slight
exertions about the camp had shown us something of our physical state.
In spite of the occasional sleep of exhaustion it had been a long,
restless night, scarcely less wearisome than the preceding day; we were
tired no less than when we went to bed, and stiff from lying in cramped
attitudes. I was clear about my own case. Struggling across with an
awkward load from one tent to the other, I had been forced to put the
question, Is it possible for me to go on? Judging from physical
evidence, No; I hadn’t the power to lift my weight repeatedly step after
step. And yet from experience I knew that I should go on for a time at
all events; something would set the machinery going and somehow I should
be able to keep it at work. And when the moment of starting came I felt
some little stir of excitement. If we were not going to experience “the
wild joy of living, the leaping from rock up to rock,” on the other hand
this was not to be a sort of funeral procession. A certain keenness of
anticipation is associated merely with tying on the rope. We tied it on
now partly for convenience, so that no one would be obliged to carry it
on his back, but no less for its moral effect: a roped party is more
closely united; the separate wills of individuals are joined into a
stronger common will. Our roping-up was the last act of preparation. We
had “got ourselves ready,” lacing up our boots so as to be just tight
enough but not too tight, disposing puttees so that they would not slip
down, attending to one small thing or another about our clothing for
warmth and comfort’s sake, possibly even tightening a buckle or doing up
a button simply for neatness, and not forgetting to arrange the few
things we wanted to take with us, some in rucksacks, some nearer to hand
in pockets. Two of us, Norton and I, as Somervell’s photograph proves,
appeared positively dainty; the word seems hardly applicable to
Somervell himself: but at all events we were all ready; we felt ready;
and when all these details of preparation culminated in tying on the
rope we felt something more, derived from the many occasions in the past
when readiness in mind and body contained the keen anticipation of
strenuous delights.
How quickly the physical facts of our case asserted their importance! We
had only moved upwards a few steps when Morshead stopped. “I think I
won’t come with you any farther,” he said. “I know I should only keep
you back.” Considering his condition on the previous day I had not
supposed Morshead would get very much higher; but this morning he had so
made light of his troubles, and worn so cheerful a countenance, that we
heard his statement now with surprise and anxiety. We understood very
well the spirit of the remark; if Morshead said that, there could be no
longer a question of his coming on, but we wondered whether one of us
should not stay behind with him. However, he declared that he was not
seriously unwell and was perfectly capable of looking after himself.
Somervell’s judgment as a doctor confirmed him, and it was decided he
should remain in camp while we three went on without him.
[Illustration:
MALLORY AND NORTON APPROACHING THEIR HIGHEST POINT, 26,985 FT.
]
Our first object was to regain the crest of the North ridge, not by
retracing our steps to the point where we had left it yesterday, but
slanting up to meet it perhaps 800 feet above us. Ascent is possible
almost everywhere on these broken slopes; a steeper pitch can usually be
avoided, and the more difficult feats of climbing need not be performed.
In fact, the whole problem for the mountaineer is quite unlike that
presented by the ridge of any great mountain in the Alps, which, if it
is not definitely a snow ridge like that from the Dômedu Gouter to the
summit of Mont Blanc, will almost invariably present a sharper edge and
a more broken crest. On the North ridge of Everest one has the
sensations rather of climbing the face than the ridge of a mountain; and
it is best thought of as a face-climb, for one is actually on the North
face, though at the edge of it. I can think of no exact parallel in the
Alps—the nearest perhaps would be the easier parts on the Hornli ridge
of the Matterhorn, if we were to imagine the stones to be fewer, larger
and more secure. Somervell’s photographs will convey more to the trained
eye of a mountaineer than any words of mine, and it will readily be
understood that there was no question for us of gymnastic struggles and
strong arm-pulls, wedging ourselves in cracks and hanging on our
finger-tips. We should soon have been turned back by difficulties of
that sort. We could allow ourselves nothing in the nature of a violent
struggle. We must avoid any hasty movement. It would have exhausted us
at once to proceed by rushing up a few steps at a time. We wanted to hit
off just that mean pace which we could keep up without rapidly losing
our strength, to proceed evenly with balanced movements, saving effort,
to keep our form, as oarsmen say, at the end of the race, remembering to
step neatly and transfer the weight from one leg to the other by
swinging the body rhythmically upwards. With the occasional help of the
hands we were able to keep going for spells of twenty or thirty minutes
before halting for three or four or five minutes to gather potential
energy for pushing on again. Our whole power seemed to depend on the
lungs. The air, such as it was, was inhaled through the mouth and
expired again to some sort of tune in the unconscious mind, and the
lungs beat time, as it were, for the feet. An effort of will was
required not so much to induce any movement of the limbs as to set the
lungs to work and keep them working. So long as they were working evenly
and well the limbs would do their duty automatically, it seemed, as
though actuated by a hidden spring. I remember one rather longer halt.
In spite of all my care I found that one of my feet was painfully cold,
and fearing frostbite I took off my boot. Norton rubbed my foot warm. I
had been wearing four thick socks, and now put back on this foot only
three. As it remained warm for the rest of the day I have no doubt that
the boot was previously too tight. Once again I learned the futility of
stopping the circulation by wearing one layer of wool too many.
It was our intention naturally in setting out this day to reach the
summit of Mount Everest. Provided we were not stopped by a
mountaineering difficulty, and that was unlikely, the fate of our
Expedition would depend on the two factors, time and speed. Of course,
we might become too exhausted to go farther before reaching our goal;
but the consideration of speed really covers that case, for provided one
were capable of moving his limbs at all he would presumably be able to
crawl a few steps only so slowly that there would be no point in doing
so. From the outset we were short of time; we should have started two
hours earlier; the weather prevented us. The fresh snow was an
encumbrance, lying everywhere on the ledges from 4 inches to 8 inches
deep; it must have made a difference, though not a large one. In any
case, when we measured our rate of progress it was not satisfactory, at
most 400 feet an hour, not counting halts, and diminishing a little as
we went up. It became clear that if we could go no farther—and we
couldn’t without exhausting ourselves at once—we should still at the
best be struggling upwards after night had fallen again. We were
prepared to leave it to braver men to climb Mount Everest by night.
By agreeing to this arithmetical computation we tacitly accepted defeat.
And if we were not to reach the summit, what remained for us to do? None
of us, I believe, cared much about any lower objective. We were not
greatly interested then in the exact number of feet by which we should
beat a record. It must be remembered that the mind is not easily
interested under such conditions. The intelligence is gradually numbed
as the supply of oxygen diminishes and the body comes nearer to
exhaustion. Looking back on my own mental processes as we approached
27,000 feet, I can find no traces of insanity, nothing completely
illogical; within a small compass I was able to reason, no doubt very
slowly. But my reasoning was concerned only with one idea; beyond its
range I can recall no thought. The view, for instance—and as a rule I’m
keen enough about the view—did not interest me; I was not “taking
notice.” Wonderful as such an experience would be, I had not even the
desire to look over the North-east ridge; I would have gladly got to the
North-east shoulder as being the sort of place one ought to reach, but I
had no strong desire to get there, and none at all for the wonder of
being there. I dare say the others were more mentally alive than I; but
when it came to deciding what we should do, we had no lively discussion.
It seemed to me that we should get back to Morshead in time to take him
down this same day to Camp IV. There was some sense in this idea, and
many mountaineers may think we were right to make it a first
consideration. But the alternative of sleeping a second night at our
highest camp and returning next day to Camp III was never mentioned. It
may have been that we shrank unconsciously from another night in such
discomfort; whether the thought was avoided in this way, or simply was
not born, our minds were not behaving as we would wish them to behave.
The idea of reaching Camp IV with Morshead before dark, once it had been
accepted, controlled us altogether. It was easy to calculate from our
upward speed, supposing that we could treble this on the descent, at
what time we ought to turn; we agreed to start down at 2.30 p.m., but we
would maintain our rate of progress as best we could until that time
approached.
At 2.15 we completed the ascent of a steeper pitch and found ourselves
on the edge of an easier terrain, where the mountain slopes back towards
the North-east shoulder. It was an obvious place for a halt: we were in
need of food; and we lay against the rocks to spend the remaining
fifteen minutes before we should turn for the descent according to our
bond. None of us was altogether “cooked”; we were not brought to a
standstill because our limbs would carry us no farther. I should be very
sorry to reach such a condition at this altitude; for one would not
recover easily; and a man who cannot take care of himself on the descent
will probably be the cause of disaster to his companions, who will have
little enough strength remaining to help themselves and him. It is
impossible to say how much farther we might have gone. In the light of
subsequent events it would seem that the margin of strength to deal with
an emergency was already small enough. I have little doubt that we could
have struggled up perhaps in two hours more to the North-east shoulder,
now little more than 400 feet above us. Whether we should then have been
fit to conduct our descent in safety is another matter.
While we ate such food as we had with us, chiefly sugar in one form or
another, chocolate, mintcake, or acid-drops, and best of all raisins and
prunes, we now had leisure to look about us. The summit of Everest, or
what appeared to be the summit (I doubt if we saw the ultimate tip),
lying back along the North-east ridge, was not impressive, and we were
too near up under this ridge to add anything to former observations as
to the nature of its obstacles. The view was necessarily restricted when
Everest itself hid so much country. But it was a pleasure to look
westwards across the broad North face and down it towards the Rongbuk
Glacier; it was satisfactory to notice that the North Peak which, though
perceptibly below us, had still held, so to speak, a place in our circle
when we started in the morning, this same Changtse had now become a
contemptible fellow beneath our notice. We saw his black plebeian head
rising from the mists, mists that filled all the valleys, so that there
was nothing in all the world as we looked from North-east to North-west
but the great twins Gyachung Kang and Chö Uyo; and even these, though
they regarded us still from a station of equality, were actually
inferior. The lesser of them is 26,000 feet, and we could clearly afford
to despise him; the greater Chö Uyo we had to regard respectfully before
we could be sure; his triangulated height is 26,870, whereas our aneroid
was reading only 26,800; it seemed that we were looking over his head,
but such appearances are deceptive, and we were glad to have the
confirmation of the theodolite later proving that we had reached 26,985
feet—higher than Chö Uyo by 100 feet and more.
The beneficent superiority with which we now regarded the whole world
except Mount Everest no doubt helped us to swallow our luncheon—or was
it dinner?—a difficult matter, for our tongues were hanging out after so
much exercise of breathing. We had no chance of finding a trickle here
as one often may in the blessed Alps; and medical opinion, which knew
all about what was good for us, frowned upon the notion of alcoholic
stimulant for a climber in distress at a high altitude. And so, very
naturally, when one of us (Be of good cheer, my friend, I won’t give you
away!) produced from his pocket a flask of Brandy—each of us took a
little nip. I am glad to relate that the result was excellent; it is
logically certain therefore that the Brandy contained no alcohol. The
non-alcoholic Brandy, then, no doubt by reason of what it lacked, had an
important spiritual effect; it gave us just the mental fillip which we
required to pull ourselves together for the descent.
[Illustration:
SUMMIT OF MOUNT EVEREST FROM THE HIGHEST POINT OF THE FIRST CLIMB,
26,983 FEET, 21ST MAY, 1922.
]
Happily inspired by our “medical comfort,” I announced that I would take
the lead. Norton and I changed places on the rope. I optimistically
supposed that I should find an easier way down by a continuous
snow-slope to the West of the ridge. Somervell, also moved by
inspiration, suggested that he should remain behind to make a sketch and
hurry down our tracks to catch us up later. He says that I found it
difficult to understand that he would only require a few minutes, and
that I replied irritably. I can hardly believe that my tone just then
was anything but suave, but I have no doubt I was glad to have him with
us to be our sheet-anchor, and particularly so a little later, for we
were in difficulties almost at once. We found more snow on this new
line, as I had supposed; but it was not to our liking; it lay not on a
continuous slope, but covering a series of slabs and only too ready to
slide off. We were obliged to work back to the ridge itself and follow
it down in our morning’s tracks.
At 4 p.m. we reached our camp, where Morshead was waiting. He was
feeling perfectly well, he reported, and ready to come down with us to
Camp IV. After collecting a few of our possessions which we did not wish
to abandon to the uncertain future, we roped up once more to continue
our descent. So far our pace going down had been highly satisfactory. In
the Alps one usually expects to descend on easy ground twice as fast as
one would go up. But we had divided our time of ascent by 4, and in an
hour and a half had come down 2,000 feet. Under normal conditions at
lower altitudes even this pace would be considered slow; it would not be
an exceptionally fast pace for going up these slopes; and yet the image
that stays in my memory is of a party coming down quite fast. It is
evident that the whole standard of speed is altered. On the ascent, too,
I had the sensation of moving about twice as fast as we actually were. I
imagine that the whole of life was scaled down, as it were, that we were
living both physically and mentally at half, or less than half, the
normal rate. However that may be, we had now to descend only 2,000 feet
to Camp IV, and with more than three hours’ daylight left we supposed we
should have no difficulty in reaching our tents before dark.
Meditating after the event about the whole of our performance this day,
I have often wondered how we should have appeared at various stages to
an unfatigued and competent observer. No doubt he would have noted with
some misgiving the gradually diminishing pace of the party as it crawled
upwards; but he would have been satisfied, I think, that each man had
control of his limbs and a sure balance, and as we were moving along
together over ground where the rope will very easily be caught under the
points of projecting rocks and thereby cause inconvenience and delay
while it is unhitched, this observer, watching the rope, would have
noticed that in fact it almost never was caught up. The party at all
events were “keeping their form” to the extent of managing the rope as
it ought to be managed. For a moment when they were in difficulties
after turning back, he might have thought them rather shaky; but even
here they were able to pull themselves together and proceed with proper
attention and care. Whether he would have noticed any difference when
they started off again I cannot say. A certain impetus of concentration,
a gathering of mental and physical energy, a reserve called up from who
knows where when they turned to face the descent, had perhaps spent its
force; and though the party was a stage nearer to the end of the
journey, it was also a stage nearer to exhaustion and to that state
where carelessness so readily slips in unperceived. It may be supposed
we were a degree less alert, all the more because we foresaw no
difficulty; we had not exercised the imagination to figure difficulties
on the descent, and we now came upon them unexpectedly.
The fresh snow fallen during the night had so altered appearances that
we could not be certain, as we traversed back towards the ridge again,
that we were exactly following the line by which we had approached our
camp the day before. My impression is that we went too low and missed
it. We were soon working along broken ground above a broad snow slope.
Fresh snow had to be cleared away alike from protruding rocks where we
wished to put our feet and from the old snow where we must cut steps. It
was not a difficult place and yet not easy, as the slope below us was
dangerous and yet not very steep, not steep enough to be really alarming
or specially to warn the climber that a slip may be fatal. It was an
occasion when the need for care and attention was greater than obviously
appeared, just the sort to catch a tired party off their guard. Perhaps
the steps were cut too hastily, or in one way and another were taking
small risks that we would not usually take. The whole party would not
necessarily have been in grave danger because one man lost his footing.
But we were unprepared. When the third man slipped the last man was
moving, and was at once pulled off his balance. The second in the party,
though he must have checked these two, could not hold them. In a moment
the three of them were slipping down and gathering speed on a slope
where nothing would stop them until they reached the plateau of the East
Rongbuk Glacier, 3,500 feet below. The leader for some reason had become
anxious about the party a minute or two earlier, and though he too was
moving when the slip occurred and could see nothing of what went on
behind him, he was on the alert; warned now by unusual sounds that
something was wrong, he at once struck the pick of his axe into the
snow, and hitched the rope round the head of it. Standing securely his
position was good, and while holding the rope in his right hand beyond
the hitch, he was able to press with the other on the shaft of the axe,
his whole weight leaning towards the slope so as to hold the pick of the
axe into the snow. Even so it would be almost impossible to check the
combined momentum of three men at once. In ninety-nine cases out of a
hundred either the belay will give or the rope will break. In the still
moment of suspense before the matter must be put to the test nothing
further could be done to prevent a disaster one way or the other. The
rope suddenly tightened and tugged at the axe-head. It gave a little as
it gripped the metal like a hawser on a bollard. The pick did not budge.
Then the rope came taut between the moving figures, and the rope showed
what it was worth. From one of the bodies which had slid and now was
stopped proceeded an utterance, not in the best taste, reproaching his
fate, because he must now start going up hill again when he should have
been descending. The danger had passed. The weight of three men had not
come upon the rope with a single jerk. The two lengths between the three
as they slipped down were presumably not stretched tight, and the second
man had been checked directly below the leader before the other two.
Probably he also did something to check those below him, for he was
partly held up by projecting rocks and almost at once recovered his
footing. We were soon secure again on the mountain-side, and—not the
least surprising fact—no one had been hurt.
I suppose we must all have felt rather shaken by an incident which came
so near to being a catastrophe. But a party will not necessarily be less
competent or climb worse on that account. At all events we had received
a warning and now proceeded with the utmost caution, moving one at a
time over the snow-covered ledges. It was slow work. This little
distance which with fair conditions could easily be traversed in a
quarter of an hour must have taken us about five times as long. However,
when we reached the ridge and again looked down the snow where we had
come up the day before, though it was clear enough we must waste no
time, we did not feel greatly pressed. Our old tracks were, of course,
covered, and we looked about for a way to avoid this slope; but it
seemed better to go down by the way we knew, and we were soon busy
chipping steps. It was a grim necessity at this hour of the day. I felt
one might almost have slipped down checking himself with the axe. We
were distinctly tempted. But after all, we were not playing with this
mountain; it might be playing with us. There was a clear risk, and we
were not compelled to accept it. We must keep on slowly cutting our
steps. The long toil was shared among us until the slope eased off and
we had nothing more to fear. We looked down to the North Col below us.
No difficulty could stop our descent. We had still an hour of daylight.
After all, with ordinary good fortune, we should be back in our tents
before dark.
I had been aware for some time that Morshead, though he was going
steadily and well, was more tired than the rest of us. His long halt at
our high camp can have done him little good. He had not recovered. His
strength had just served to keep him up where it was urgently necessary
that he should preserve his balance; but it was now exhausted; he had
quite come to the end of his resources, and at best he could move
downwards a few steps at a time. It was difficult to see what could be
done for him. There were places where we might sit down and rest, and we
should be obliged not only to stop often for two or three minutes, but
also to stay occasionally for perhaps ten minutes or a quarter of an
hour. Anything like a longer halt must be avoided if possible, as the
air was already cold, and an exhausted man would be particularly
sensitive. Probably a longer rest would not have helped him, and we
proceeded as best we could, so as to avoid delay as much as possible.
One of us, and it was usually Norton, gave Morshead the support of his
shoulder and an arm round his waist, while I went first, to pick out
exactly the most convenient line, and Somervell was our rearguard in any
steeper place. So we crawled down the mountain-side in the gathering
darkness, until as I looked back from a few yards ahead my companions
were distinguishable only as vague forms silhouetted against the snow.
There were long hours before us yet, and they would be hours of
darkness. Occasionally the flicker of lightning from distant clouds away
to the West reminded us that the present calm might sometime be
disturbed. Perhaps below on the col, or it might be sooner, the old
unfriendly wind would meet us once again. For the present it was
fortunate that the way was easy; the great thing was to keep on the
snow, and we found that the edge of rocks by which we had come up, and
where it was now so much more difficult to get along, could be avoided
almost everywhere. With the same edge of stones to guide us, we could
not miss our way, and were still stumbling on in the dark without a
lantern when we reached the North Col. But we had a lantern with us, and
a candle too, in Somervell’s rucksack, and we should now require a
light. I was reminded once again of the most merciful circumstance, for
the air was still so calm that even with matches of a Japanese brand,
continually execrated among us, we had no difficulty in lighting our
candle.
Two hundred yards, or little more in a direct line, now separated us
from our tents, with the promise of safety, repose, and warmth in our
soft eiderdown bags. Looking back, I never can make out how we came to
spend so long in reaching them. We had but to go along the broken saddle
of snow and ice where our tracks lay, and then drop down to our camp on
the shelf. But the tracks were concealed, and not to be found; crevasses
lay under the snow waiting for us. With nothing to guide us, we must
proceed cautiously, and once among the confusing shapes of white walls
and terraces and monticules and corridors, it was the easiest thing in
the world to lose our way. Somervell, who had covered the ground once
each way more often than any of us, held the helm, so to speak, against
a sea of conflicting opinions. Even he, now our leader, was not always
right, and we had more than once to come back along our tracks and take
a cast in another direction. To avoid the possible trouble or disaster
of having two men at once in a crevasse, we were obliged to keep our
intervals on the ropes, so that Morshead had now to take care of
himself. Perhaps the lower altitude had already begun to tell, for he
was stronger now, and came along much better than was to be expected. At
length we reached a recognisable landmark, a cliff of ice about 15 feet
high, where we had jumped down over a crevasse on our first visit here
in order to avoid a disagreeable long step over another crevasse on an
alternative route. I was very glad we had come this way rather than the
other, for though, looking down at the dimly lit space of snow which was
to receive us, I boggled a little at the idea of this leap, the
landing-place was sure to be soft, and it would be easy not to miss it.
[Illustration:
THE FIRST CLIMBING PARTY.
]
I think each of us was just a little relieved when he found himself
safely down, and I dimly remember congratulating, not Morshead, but
Longstaff. I had already transposed the names several times, and he now
protested; but it made no difference, as I could remember no other.
“Longstaff” became an _idée fixe_, and though the entity of Morshead
remained unconfused—I did not, for instance, give him Longstaff’s
beard—he was fixedly Longstaff until the following morning.
The agreeable change of finding ourselves together in that curious coign
was hardly disturbed by Somervell’s remark, “We’re very near the end of
our candle.” We felt we were all very near the end of our journey, for
we had dimly made out from the higher level we had just quitted the neat
rank of our tents still standing on the shelf below and ready to welcome
us. We had only to find the rope which had been fixed on the steep slope
below us and we should be at the end of our troubles. But the rope was
deeply buried, and we searched in vain, dragging the snow with our picks
along the edge of the fall. We were still searching when the last of our
candle burnt out. In the end we must do without the rope, and began the
abrupt descent tentatively, dubiously, uncertain that we had hit off
just the right place. The situation was decidedly disagreeable. Suddenly
someone among us hitched up the rope from under the snow. It may be
imagined we were not slow to grasp it. The blessed security of feeling
the frozen but helpful thing firmly in our hands! We positively made
some sort of a noise; unrecognisable, perhaps, it would have been to
sober daylight beings who know how to produce the proper effect, but if
a dim bat of the night were asked what this noise resembled, he might
have indicated that distantly, but without mistake it was like a cheer.
A few minutes more and then—then, at 11.30 p.m., and there on the good
flat snow as we fumbled at the tent-doors, then and there at last we
began to say, “Thank God.”
Had we known what was yet in store for us, or rather what was not in
store, we might have waited a little longer for so emphatic an
exclamation. We were in need of food, and no solid food could be eaten
until something had been done towards satisfying our thirst. It was not
that one felt, at least I did not feel, a desire to drink; but the long
effort of the lungs during the day in a rarefied atmosphere where
evaporation is so rapid had deprived the body of moisture to such an
extent that it was impossible to swallow, for instance, a ration
biscuit. We must first melt snow and have water. But where were the
cooking-pots? We searched the tents without finding a trace of them.
Presumably the porters whom we had expected to find here had taken them
down to Camp III in error. As we sat slowly unlacing our boots within
the tents, it was impossible to believe in this last misfortune. We
waited for a brainwave; but no way could be devised of melting the snow
without a vessel. Still supperless, we wriggled into our sleeping-bags.
And then something happened in Norton’s head. In his visions of all that
was succulent and juicy and fit to be swallowed with ease and pleasure
there had suddenly appeared an ice-cream. It was this that he now
proposed to us; we had the means at hand to make ice-creams, he said. A
tin of strawberry jam was opened; frozen Ideal Milk was hacked out of
another; these two ingredients were mixed with snow, and it only
remained to eat the compound. To my companions this seemed an easy
matter; their appetite for strawberry cream ice was hardly nice to
watch. I too managed to swallow down a little before the deadly
sickliness of the stuff disgusted me. My gratitude to Norton was
afterwards cooled by disagreeable sensations. In the last drowsy moments
before complete forgetfulness I was convulsed by shudderings which I was
powerless to control; the muscles of my back seemed to be contracted
with cramp; and, short of breath, I was repeatedly obliged to raise
myself on my elbows and start again that solemn exercise of
deep-breathing as though the habit had become indispensable.
The last stage of our descent to Camp III had still to be accomplished
on the following morning of May 22. I imagine that a fresh man with old
tracks to help him might cover the distance from Camp IV in about an
hour and a quarter. But no sign was left of our old tracks, and the snow
was deeper here than higher up. Only in the harder substance below the
fresh surface could new steps be cut wherever the slope was steep; and
as we began to understand that the way would be long and toilsome,
another thought occurred to us—our sleeping-bags at Camp IV would now be
required at Camp III, and porters must be sent to fetch them. Our
tracks, therefore, must be made safe for them. Half our labour was in
hewing so fine a staircase that the porters would be able to go up and
down unescorted without danger. The wearisome descent, which began at 6
a.m., continued far into the morning; the sun pierced the vapoury mists
and the heat was immoderate now as the cold had been higher up. The
fatigued party regarded the conventions until the first man reached the
snow at the foot of the final ice-slope. There, so far as I could
understand, the van became possessed of the idea that it would be more
companionable for all to finish together. I found myself deliberately
pulled from my steps and slid about 80 feet down the ice until the pick
of my axe pulled me up at the foot of the slope. I could have borne the
ignominy of my involuntary glissade had I not found Finch at the foot of
the slope taking advantage of my situation with a kodak.
[Illustration:
FROSTBITTEN CLIMBER BEING HELPED DOWN TO CAMP II.
]
The presence of Finch was easily explained. Reinforcements had arrived
at Camp III in our absence, and the transport had worked with such
wonderful speed that the oxygen cylinders were already in action. Finch,
whom we had last heard of in bed with dysentery at the Base Camp, had
shown such energy that he was now testing the oxygen apparatus with
Wakefield and Geoffrey Bruce. They were bound for the North Col with a
party of porters, so the return of our sleeping-bags was easily
arranged. The lesser injustices of fate are hard to forgive, and we
regretted labour that might have been left to others. However, Wakefield
now took us in charge, and at noon we were at Camp III once more. Strutt
and Morris had come out to meet us. Noel had stayed in camp, and, like a
tormentor waiting for his disarmed victim, there we found the “movie”
camera and him winding the handle.
However, our welcome in camp is a pleasing memory. The supply of tea was
inexhaustible. Somervell confesses to having drunk seventeen mugfuls; he
can hardly have been so moderate. Morshead probably needed to drink more
than any of us; he ascribed his exhaustion on the mountain to want of
liquid, and medical opinion was inclined to agree with the suggestion.
However that may be, the night’s rest at a lower elevation had largely
restored his strength, and Morshead arrived at Camp III no more fatigued
to all appearances than the rest of us. But he bore the marks of his
painful ordeal. His condition had made him a prey to the cold, and we
only began to realise how badly he had been frostbitten as we sat in
camp while Wakefield bound up the black swollen fingers.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE ATTEMPT WITH OXYGEN
By
CAPTAIN GEORGE FINCH
------------------------------------------------------------------------