THE THIRD ATTEMPT
The project of making a third attempt this season was mooted immediately
on the return of Finch and Geoffrey Bruce to the Base Camp. There in
hours of idleness we had discussed their prospects and wondered what
they would be doing as we gazed at the mountain to make out the weather
on the great ridge. We were not surprised to learn when they came down
that the summit was still unconquered, and we were not yet prepared to
accept defeat. The difficulty was to find a party. Of the six who had
been already engaged only one was obviously fit for another great
effort. Somervell had shown a recuperative capacity beyond the rest of
us. After one day at the Base he had insisted on going up again to Camp
III in case he might be of use to the others. The rest were more or less
knocked out. Morshead’s frostbitten fingers and toes, from which he was
now suffering constant pain, caused grave anxiety of most serious
consequences, and the only plan for him was to go down to a lower
elevation as soon as possible. Norton’s feet had also been affected; he
complained at first only of bruises, but the cold had come through the
soles of his boots; his trouble too was frostbite. In any case he could
not have come up again, for the strain had told on his heart and he now
found himself left without energy or strength.
Geoffrey Bruce’s feet also were so badly frostbitten that he could not
walk. Finch, however, was not yet to be counted out. He was evidently
very much exhausted, but an examination of his heart revealed no
disorder; it was hoped that in five or six days he would be able to
start again. My own case was doubtful. Of my frostbitten finger-tips
only one was giving trouble; the extremity above the first joint was
black, but the injury was not very deep. Longstaff, who took an interest
which we all appreciated in preventing us from doing ourselves permanent
injury, pointed out the probability that fingers already touched and
highly susceptible to cold would be much more severely injured next
time, and was inclined to turn me down, from his medical point of view,
on account of my fingers alone. A much more serious matter was the
condition of my heart. I felt weak and lazy when it was a question of
the least physical exertion, and the heart was found to have a “thrill.”
Though I was prepared to take risks with my fingers I was prepared to
take none with my heart, even had General Bruce allowed me. However, I
did not abandon hope. My heart was examined again on June 3, no thrill
was heard, and though my pulse was rapid and accelerated quickly with
exertion it was capable of satisfactory recovery. We at once arranged
that Somervell, Finch, and I, together with Wakefield and Crawford,
should set forth the same day.
It was already evident that whatever we were to do would now have to
wait for the weather. Though the Lama at the Rongbuk Monastery had told
us that the monsoon was usually to be expected about June 10, and we
knew that it was late last year, the signs of its approach were
gathering every day. Mount Everest could rarely be seen after 9 or 10
a.m. until the clouds cleared away in the evening; and a storm
approaching from the West Rongbuk Glacier would generally sweep down the
valley in the afternoon. Though we came to despise this blustering
phenomenon,—for nothing worse came of it than light hail or snow, either
at our camp or higher,—we should want much fairer days for climbing, and
each storm threatened to be the beginning of something far more serious.
However, we planned to be on the spot to take any chance that offered.
The signs were even more ominous than usual as Finch and I walked up to
Camp I on the afternoon of June 3; we could hardly feel optimistic; and
it was soon apparent that, far from having recovered his strength, my
companion was quite unfit for another big expedition. We walked slowly
and frequently halted; it was painful to see what efforts it cost him to
make any progress. However, he persisted in coming on.
We had not long disposed ourselves comfortably within the four square
walls of our “sangar,” always a pleasant change from the sloping sides
of a tent, when snow began to fall. Released at last by the West wind
which had held it back, the monsoon was free to work its will, and we
soon understood that the great change of weather had now come. Fine,
glistening particles were driven by the wind through the chinks in our
walls, to be drifted on the floor or on our coverings where we lay
during the night; and as morning grew the snow still fell as thickly as
ever. Finch wisely decided to go back, and we charged him with a message
to General Bruce, saying that we saw no reason at present to alter our
plans. With the whole day to spend confined and inactive we had plenty
of time to consider what we ought to do under these conditions. We went
over well-worn arguments once more. It would have been an obvious and
easy course, for which no one could reproach us, to have said simply,
The monsoon has come; this is the end of the climbing season; it is time
to go home. But the case, we felt, was not yet hopeless. The monsoon is
too variable and uncertain to be so easily admitted as the final
arbiter. There might yet be good prospects ahead of us. It was not
unreasonable to expect an interval of fine weather after the first heavy
snow, and with eight or ten fair days a third attempt might still be
made. In any case, to retire now if the smallest chance remained to us
would be an unworthy end to the Expedition. We need not run our heads
into obvious danger; but rather than be stopped by a general estimate of
conditions we would prefer to retire before some definite risk that we
were not prepared to take or simply fail to overcome the difficulties.
After a second night of unremitting snowfall the weather on the morning
of June 5 improved and we decided to go on. Low and heavy clouds were
still flowing down the East Rongbuk Glacier, but precipitation ceased at
an early hour and the sky brightened to the West. It was surprising,
after all we had seen of the flakes passing our door, that no great
amount of snow was lying on the stones about our camp. But the snow had
come on a warm current and melted or evaporated, so that after all the
depth was no more than 6 inches at this elevation (17,500 feet). Even on
the glacier we went up a long way before noticing a perceptible increase
of depth. We passed Camp II, not requiring to halt at this stage, and
were well up towards Camp III before the fresh snow became a serious
impediment. It was still snowing up here, though not very heavily; there
was nothing to cheer the grey scene; the clinging snow about our feet
was so wet that even the best of our boots were soaked through, and the
last two hours up to Camp III were tiresome enough. Nor was it a
cheering camp when we reached it. The tents had been struck for the
safety of the poles, but not packed up. We found them now half-full of
snow and ice. The stores were all buried; everything that we wanted had
first to be dug out.
The snow up here was so much deeper that we anxiously discussed the
possibility of going further. With 15 to 18 inches of snow to contend
with, not counting drifts, the labour would be excessive, and until the
snow solidified there would be considerable danger at several points.
But the next morning broke fine; we had soon a clear sky and glorious
sunshine; it was the warmest day that any of us remembered at Camp III;
and as we watched the amazing rapidity with which the snow solidified
and the rocks began to appear about our camp, our spirits rose. The side
of Everest facing us looked white and cold; but we observed a cloud of
snow blown from the North Ridge; it would not be long at this rate
before it was fit to climb. We had already resolved to use oxygen on the
third attempt. It was improbable that we should beat our own record
without it, for the strain of previous efforts would count against us,
and we had not the time to improve on our organisation by putting a
second camp above the North Col. Somervell, after Finch’s explanation of
the mechanical details, felt perfectly confident that he could manage
the oxygen apparatus, and all those who had used oxygen were convinced
that they went up more easily with its help than they could expect to go
without it. Somervell and I intended to profit by their experience. They
had discovered that the increased combustion in the body required a
larger supply of food; we must arrange for a bountiful provision. Their
camp at 25,000 feet had been too low; we would try to establish one now,
as we had intended before, at 26,000 feet. And we hoped for a further
advantage in going higher than Finch and Bruce had done before using
oxygen; whereas they had started using it at 21,000 feet, we intended to
go up to our old camp at 25,000 feet without it, perhaps use a cylinder
each up to 26,000 feet, and at all events start from that height for the
summit with a full supply of four cylinders. If this was not the correct
policy as laid down by Professor Dryer, it would at least be a valuable
experiment.
Our chief anxiety under these new conditions was to provide for the
safety of our porters. We hoped that after fixing our fifth camp at
26,000 feet, at the earliest three days, hence on the fourth day of fine
weather, the porters might be able to go down by themselves to the North
Col in easy conditions; to guard against the danger of concealed
crevasses there Crawford would meet them at the foot of the North Ridge
to conduct them properly roped to Camp IV. As the supply officer at this
camp he would also be able to superintend the descent over the first
steep slope of certain porters who would go down from Camp IV without
sleeping after carrying up their loads.
But the North Col had first to be reached. With so much new snow to
contend with we should hardly get there in one day. If we were to make
the most of our chance in the interval of fair weather, we should lose
no time in carrying up the loads for some part of the distance. It was
decided therefore to begin this work on the following day, June 7.
In the ascent to the North Col after the recent snowfall we considered
that an avalanche was to be feared only in one place, the steep final
slope below the shelf. There we could afford to run no risk; we must
test the snow and be certain that it was safe before we could cross this
slope. Probably we should be obliged to leave our loads below it, having
gained, as a result of our day’s work, the great advantage of a track.
An avalanche might also come down, we thought, on the first steep slope
where the ascent began. Here it could do us no harm, and the behaviour
of the snow on this slope would be a test of its condition.
The party, Somervell, Crawford, and I, with fourteen porters (Wakefield
was to be supply officer at Camp III), set out at 8 a.m. In spite of the
hard frost of the previous night, the crust was far from bearing our
weight; we sank up to our knees in almost every step, and two hours were
taken in traversing the snowfield. At 10.15 a.m., Somervell, I, a
porter, and Crawford, roped up in that order, began to work up the steep
ice-slope, now covered with snow. It was clear that the three of us
without loads must take the lead in turns stamping out the track for our
porters. These men, after their immense efforts on the first and second
attempts, had all volunteered to “go high,” as they said once more, and
everything must be done to ease the terrible work of carrying the loads
over the soft snow. No trace was found of our previous tracks, and we
were soon arguing as to where exactly they might be as we slanted across
the slope. It was remarkable that the snow adhered so well to the ice
that we were able to get up without cutting steps. Everything was done
by trenching the snow to induce it to come down if it would; every test
gave a satisfactory result. Once this crucial place was passed, we
plodded on without hesitation. If the snow would not come down where we
had formerly encountered steep bare ice, a fortiori, above, on the
gentler slopes, we had nothing to fear. The thought of an avalanche was
dismissed from our minds.
It was necessarily slow work forging our way through the deep snow, but
the party was going extraordinarily well, and the porters were evidently
determined to get on. Somervell gave us a long lead, and Crawford next,
in spite of the handicap of shorter legs, struggled upwards in some of
the worst snow we met until I relieved him. I found the effort at each
step so great that no method of breathing I had formerly employed was
adequate; it was necessary to pause after each lifting movement for a
whole series of breaths, rapid at first and gradually slower, before the
weight was transferred again to the other foot. About 1.30 p.m. I
halted, and the porters, following on three separate ropes, soon came up
with the leading party. We should have been glad to stay where we were
for a long rest. But the hour was already late, and as Somervell was
ready to take the lead again, we decided to push on. We were now about
400 feet below a conspicuous block of ice and 600 feet below Camp IV,
still on the gentle slopes of the corridor. Somervell had advanced only
100 feet, rather up the slope than across it, and the last party of
porters had barely begun to move up in the steps. The scene was
peculiarly bright and windless, and as we rarely spoke, nothing was to
be heard but the laboured panting of our lungs. This stillness was
suddenly disturbed. We were startled by an ominous sound, sharp,
arresting, violent, and yet somehow soft like an explosion of untamped
gunpowder. I had never before on a mountain-side heard such a sound; but
all of us, I imagine, knew instinctively what it meant, as though we had
been accustomed to hear it every day of our lives. In a moment I
observed the surface of the snow broken and puckered where it had been
even for a few yards to the right of me. I took two steps convulsively
in this direction with some quick thought of getting nearer to the edge
of the danger that threatened us. And then I began to move slowly
downwards, inevitably carried on the whole moving surface by a force I
was utterly powerless to resist. Somehow I managed to turn out from the
slope so as to avoid being pushed headlong and backwards down it. For a
second or two I seemed hardly to be in danger as I went quietly sliding
down with the snow. Then the rope at my waist tightened and held me
back. A wave of snow came over me and I was buried. I supposed that the
matter was settled. However, I called to mind experiences related by
other parties; and it had been suggested that the best chance of escape
in this situation lay in swimming. I thrust out my arms above my head
and actually went through some sort of motions of swimming on my back.
Beneath the surface of the snow, with nothing to inform the senses of
the world outside it, I had no impression of speed after the first
acceleration—I struggled in the tumbling snow, unconscious of everything
else—until, perhaps, only a few seconds later, I knew the pace was
easing up. I felt an increasing pressure about my body. I wondered how
tightly I should be squeezed, and then the avalanche came to rest.
My arms were free; my legs were near the surface. After a brief
struggle, I was standing again, surprised and breathless, in the
motionless snow. But the rope was tight at my waist; the porter tied on
next me, I supposed, must be deeply buried. To my further surprise, he
quickly emerged, unharmed as myself. Somervell and Crawford too, though
they had been above me by the rope’s length, were now quite close, and
soon extricated themselves. We subsequently made out that their
experiences had been very similar to mine. But where were the rest?
Looking down over the foam of snow, we saw one group of porters some
little distance, perhaps 150 feet, below us. Presumably the others must
be buried somewhere between us and them, and though no sign of these
missing men appeared, we at once prepared to find and dig them out. The
porters we saw still stood their ground instead of coming up to help. We
soon made out that they were the party who had been immediately behind
us, and they were pointing below them. They had travelled further than
us in the avalanche, presumably because they were nearer the centre,
where it was moving more rapidly. The other two parties, one of four and
one of five men roped together, must have been carried even further. We
could still hope that they were safe. But as we hurried down we soon saw
that beneath the place where the four porters were standing was a
formidable drop; it was only too plain that the missing men had been
swept over it. We had no difficulty in finding a way round this
obstacle; in a very short time we were standing under its shadow. The
ice-cliff was from 40 to 60 feet high in different places; the crevasse
at its foot was more or less filled up with avalanche snow. Our fears
were soon confirmed. One man was quickly uncovered and found to be still
breathing; before long we were certain that he would live. Another whom
we dug out near him had been killed by the fall. He and his party
appeared to have struck the hard lower lip of the crevasse, and were
lying under the snow on or near the edge of it. The four porters who had
escaped soon pulled themselves together after the first shock of the
accident, and now worked here with Crawford and did everything they
could to extricate the other bodies, while Somervell and I went down
into the crevasse. A loop of rope which we pulled up convinced us that
the other party must be here. It was slow work loosening the snow with
the pick or adze of an ice-axe and shovelling it with the hands. But we
were able to follow the rope to the bodies. One was dug up lifeless;
another was found upside down, and when we uncovered his face Somervell
thought he was still breathing. We had the greatest difficulty in
extricating this man, so tightly was the snow packed about his limbs;
his load, four oxygen cylinders on a steel frame, had to be cut from his
back, and eventually he was dragged out. Though buried for about forty
minutes, he had survived the fall and the suffocation, and suffered no
serious harm. Of the two others in this party of four, we found only
one. We had at length to give up a hopeless search with the certain
knowledge that the first of them to be swept over the cliff, and the
most deeply buried, must long ago be dead. Of the other five, all the
bodies were recovered, but only one was alive. The two who had so
marvellously escaped were able to walk down to Camp III, and were almost
perfectly well next day. The other seven were killed.
This tragic calamity was naturally the end of the third attempt to climb
Mount Everest. The surviving porters who had lost their friends or
brothers behaved with dignity, making no noisy parade of the grief they
felt. We asked them whether they wished to go up and bring down the
bodies for orderly burial. They preferred to leave them where they were.
For my part, I was glad of this decision. What better burial could they
have than to lie in the snow where they fell? In their honour a large
cairn was built at Camp III.
A few words must be added with regard to this accident. No one will
imagine that we had pushed on recklessly disregarding the new conditions
of fresh snow. Three members of the Alpine Club, with experience of
judging snow for themselves, chiefly, of course, in the Alps, had all
supposed that the party was safe. They had imagined that on those gentle
slopes the snow would not move. In what way had they been deceived? The
fact that the avalanche snow came to rest on the slope where they were
proves that their calculation was not so very far wrong. But the snow
cannot all have been of the quality that adhered so well to the steep
ice-slope lower down. Where the avalanche started, not from the line of
their steps, but about 100 feet higher, it was shaded to some extent by
a broken wall of ice. There, perhaps, it had both drifted more deeply
and remained more free and powdery, and the weight of this snow was
probably sufficient to push the other down the slope once its surface
had been disturbed. More experience, more knowledge might perhaps have
warned us not to go there. One never can know enough about snow. But
looking up the corridor again after the event, I wondered how I ever
could be certain not to be deceived by appearances so innocent.
The regret of all members of the Expedition for the loss of our seven
porters will have been elsewhere expressed. It is my part only to add
this: the work of carrying up our camps on Mount Everest is beyond the
range of a simple contract measured in terms of money; the porters had
come to have a share in our enterprise, and these men died in an act of
voluntary service freely rendered and faithfully performed.
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