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                             THE ASSAULT ON
                             MOUNT EVEREST,
                                  1922




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[Illustration:

  The Second Climbing Party descending from their record climb.
  LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD & C^{o.}
]

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                             THE ASSAULT ON
                             MOUNT EVEREST
                                  1922


                                   By

            Brigadier-General Hon. C. G. BRUCE, C.B., M.V.O.
                  AND OTHER MEMBERS OF THE EXPEDITION




                      WITH MAPS AND ILLUSTRATIONS




                                NEW YORK
                         LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.
                      LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD & CO.
                                  1923

                          All rights reserved




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                  Made and Printed in Great Britain by
                 Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London




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                                PREFACE


The Mount Everest Committee desire to take this opportunity of thanking
General Bruce, Mr. Mallory, Captain Finch, Mr. Somervell and Dr.
Longstaff for having, in addition to their labours in the field, made
the following contributions to the story of an expedition whose chief
result has been to strengthen our confidence that the summit of the
highest mountain in the world can be attained by man.


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                                CONTENTS


                                                       PAGE

             INTRODUCTION. By SIR FRANCIS                 3
               YOUNGHUSBAND, K.C.S.I., K.C.I.E.


                    THE NARRATIVE OF THE EXPEDITION
          By BRIGADIER-GENERAL HON. C. G. BRUCE, C.B., M.V.O.

            CHAP.
                I TO THE BASE CAMP                       17
               II THE ASSAULT ON THE MOUNTAIN            50
              III THE RETURN BY KHARTA                   77


                           THE FIRST ATTEMPT
                       By GEORGE H. LEIGH-MALLORY

               IV THE PROBLEM                           121
                V THE HIGHEST CAMP                      150
               VI THE HIGHEST POINT                     183


                        THE ATTEMPT WITH OXYGEN
                        By CAPTAIN GEORGE FINCH

              VII THE SECOND ATTEMPT                    227
             VIII CONCLUSIONS                           251
               IX NOTES ON EQUIPMENT                    262


                           THE THIRD ATTEMPT
                       By GEORGE H. LEIGH-MALLORY

                X THE THIRD ATTEMPT                     273
               XI CONCLUSIONS                           287


                                 NOTES
                         By T. HOWARD SOMERVELL

              XII ACCLIMATISATION AT HIGH ALTITUDES     299
             XIII COLOUR IN TIBET                       309
              XIV TIBETAN CULTURE                       313


                            NATURAL HISTORY
                      By DR. T. G. LONGSTAFF, M.D.

               XV NATURAL HISTORY                       321
                  INDEX                                 338


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                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


            The Second Climbing Party descending     Frontispiece
              from their Record Climb

                                                       PAGE

            Frozen Waterfall, Chumbi Valley              28

            Nuns at Tatsang                              34

            Rongbuk Monastery and Mount Everest          44

            The Expedition at Base Camp                  46

            View at Base Camp                            50

            Camp II at Sunset                            54

            Mount Everest from Camp III                  60

            Watching the Dancers, Rongbuk Monastery      72

            The Chief Lama, Rongbuk Monastery            78

            Tibetan Dancing Woman                        84

            Tibetan Dancing Man                          84

            Old Tibetan Woman and Child                  90

            Fording the Bhong Chu                        98

            Panorama at Shekar Dzong                    106

            In Khamba Dzong                             110

            Lingga and the Lhonak Mountains             114

            Base Camp and Mount Everest in Evening      124
              Light

            Serac, East Rongbuk Glacier                 140

            View from Ice Cavern                        146

            Seracs, East Rongbuk Glacier, above Camp    150
              II

            Party ascending the Chang La                156

            Peak, 23,180 feet (Kellas’ dark rock        162
              peak), from the Rongbuk Glacier, above
              Camp II

            Mallory and Norton approaching their        204
              Highest Point, 26,985 feet

            Summit of Mount Everest from the Highest    210
              Point of the First Climb, 26,985 feet,
              May 21, 1922

            The First Climbing Party                    218

            Frost-bitten Climber being helped down      222
              to Camp II

            Mount Everest from Base Camp                232

            East Rongbuk Glacier, near Camp II          236

            Oxygen Apparatus                            242

            Captain Noel kinematographing the Ascent    242
              of Mount Everest from the Chang La

            The British Members of the Second           248
              Climbing Party

            Chang La and North-east Shoulder of         290
              Mount Everest

            Religious Banners in Shekar Monastery       314

            Romoo, the Lepcha Collector who assisted    322
              Dr. Longstaff and Major Norton

            Karma Paul, the Expedition’s Interpreter    322


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                                  MAPS


            Sketch Map of Mount Everest and the         366
              Rongbuk Glaciers

            The Route of the Mount Everest              367
              Expedition, 1922


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                              INTRODUCTION

                                   By
                       SIR FRANCIS YOUNGHUSBAND,
                           K.C.S.I., K.C.I.E.




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                              INTRODUCTION


Colonel Howard-Bury and the members of the Expedition of 1921 had
effected the object with which they had been despatched. They were not
sent out to climb Mount Everest. It would be impossible to reach the
summit in a single effort. They were sent to reconnoitre the mountain
from every direction and discover what was for certain the easiest way
up. For it was quite certain that only by the easiest way possible—and
only if there were an easy way—would the summit ever be reached. In the
Alps, nowadays, men look about for the most difficult way up a mountain.
Hundreds every year ascend even the Matterhorn by the easiest ways up.
So men with any turn for adventure have to look about for the difficult
ways. With Mount Everest it is very different. The exhaustion produced
from the difficulty of breathing in enough oxygen at the great heights
is so fearful that only by a way that entails the least possible
exertion can the summit be reached. Hence the necessity for spending the
first season in thoroughly prospecting the mountain. And this was all
the more necessary because no European so far had been within sixty
miles of Mount Everest, so that not even the approaches to the mountain
were known.

During 1921, under the leadership of Colonel Howard-Bury, this
reconnaissance was most thoroughly carried out. Mr. Mallory found what
was quite certainly the easiest—indeed the only practicable—way up the
mountain, and Major Morshead and Captain Wheeler mapped the mountain
itself and the country round. They brought back also much valuable
experience of the conditions under which a definite “all-out” attempt to
reach the summit might be made. Ample data were therefore now at the
disposal of the Mount Everest Committee for organising an expedition to
make this attempt.

And first the question of leadership had to be decided. This was a
definitely climbing expedition, and a climbing expert would be needed to
lead it—and a climbing expert who had experience of Himalayan
conditions, which are in so many ways different from Alpine conditions.
The one obvious man for this position of leader was Brigadier-General
Hon. C. G. Bruce. He could not be expected at his age to take part in
the actual climbing. But for the command of the whole Expedition no
better could be found. For thirty years he had devoted himself to
climbing both in the Himalaya and in the Alps. He was an expert climber,
and he knew the Himalayan conditions as no other man. And, what was of
scarcely less importance, he knew the Himalayan peoples, and knew how to
handle them. Any climbing party would be dependent upon the native
porters to carry stores and equipment up the mountain. But climbers from
England would know nothing about these men or how to treat them. It was
essential, therefore, that there should be with the Expedition some one
who could humour and get the best out of them.

This was the more necessary as one of the chief features of these
expeditions to Mount Everest was the organisation of a corps of porters
specially enlisted from among the hardiest men on that frontier for the
particular purpose of carrying camps to high altitudes. This idea
originated with General Bruce himself. So far Himalayan climbing
expeditions had been dependent upon coolies collected at the highest
villages and taken on for a few days while the climb lasted. But this
was never very satisfactory, and coolies so collected would be of no use
on Mount Everest. General Bruce’s plan was very different. It was,
months beforehand, to select thirty or forty of the very best men who
could be found in the higher mountains, to enlist them for some months,
pay them well, feed them well and equip them well, and above all to put
into them a real _esprit de corps_, make them take a pride in the task
that was before them. But to do all this there was needed a man who knew
and understood them and who had this capacity for infusing them with a
keen spirit. And for this no one could be better than General Bruce
himself. He had served in a Gurkha regiment for thirty years. He loved
his Gurkhas, and was beloved by them. He spoke their language; knew all
their customs and traditions, and had had them climbing with him in the
Alps as well as the Himalaya. And Gurkhas come from Nepal, on the
borders of which Mount Everest lies.

For organising this corps of porters, for dealing with the Tibetans,
and, lastly, for keeping together the climbers from England, who were
mostly quite unknown to each other, but who all knew of General Bruce
and his mountaineering achievements in the Himalaya, General Bruce was
an ideal chief.

This being settled, the next question was the selection of the climbing
party. General Bruce would not be able to go on to the mountain itself,
and he would have plenty to do at the main base camp, seeing after
supplies and organising transport service from the main base to the high
mountain base. As chief at the mountain base, and as second-in-command
of the Expedition to take General Bruce’s place in case of any
misadventure to him, Lieutenant-Colonel E. L. Strutt was selected. He
was an Alpine climber of great experience and knowledge of ice and snow
conditions. But for the actual effort to reach the summit two men were
specially marked out. One, of course, was Mr. George Leigh-Mallory, who
had done such valuable service on the reconnaissance of the previous
year; and the other was Captain George Finch, who had been selected for
the first Expedition, but who had, through temporary indisposition, not
been able to go with it. Both of these were first-rate men and well
known for their skill in mountaineering. These two had been selected in
the previous year. Of new men, Major E. F. Norton was an experienced and
very reliable and thorough mountaineer. He is an officer in the
Artillery, and well known in India for his skill and interest in
pig-sticking. But in between his soldiering and his pig-sticking and a
course at the Staff College he seems to have found time for Alpine
climbing and for bird observation. A man of high spirit, who could be
trusted to keep his head under all circumstances and to help in keeping
a party together, he was a valuable addition to the Expedition. Mr.
Somervell was perhaps even more versatile in his accomplishments. He was
a surgeon in a London hospital, who was also skilled both in music and
painting, and yet found time for mountaineering, and, being younger than
the others, and possessed of exuberant energy and a fine physique, he
could be reckoned on to go with the highest climbers. Another member of
the medical profession who was also a mountaineer was Dr. Wakefield. He
was a Westmorland man, who had performed wonderful climbing feats in the
Lake District in his younger days, and now held a medical practice in
Canada. He was bursting with enthusiasm to join the expedition, and gave
up his practice for the purpose.

As medical officer and naturalist of the Expedition, Dr. T. G. Longstaff
was chosen. He was a veteran Himalayan climber, and if only this
Expedition could have been undertaken some years earlier, he, like
General Bruce, would have made a magnificent leader of a climbing party.
As it was, his great experience would be available for the climbers as
far as the high mountain camp. And this time it was intended to send
with the Expedition a “whole-time” photographer and cinematographer,
both for the purpose of having a photographic record of its progress and
also to provide the means by which the expenses of this and a future
expedition might be met. For this Captain J. B. Noel was selected. He
had made a reconnaissance towards Mount Everest in 1913, and he had
since then made a special study of photography and cinematography, so
that he was eminently suited for the task.

The above formed the party which would be sent out from England. And
subsequently General Bruce, in India, selected four others to join the
Expedition: Mr. Crawford, of the Indian Civil Service, a keen
mountaineer, who had long wished to join the Expedition; Major Morshead,
who had held charge of the survey party in the 1921 Expedition, and now
wanted to join the present Expedition as a climber; and two officers
from Gurkha regiments, to serve as transport officers, namely, Captain
Geoffrey Bruce and Captain Morris.

This completed the British personnel of the Expedition. It had been my
hope that a first-rate artist might have accompanied it to paint the
greatest peaks of the Himalaya, but the artists whom we chose were
unable to pass the medical examination, though the examination was, of
course, not so severe as the examination which the actual climbers had
to pass.

While these men were being selected, the Equipment Committee, Captain
Farrar and Mr. Meade, were working hard. Taking the advice of Colonel
Howard-Bury and Mr. Mallory, and profiting by the experience gained on
the previous Expedition, they got together and had suitably packed and
despatched to India a splendid outfit comprising every necessity for an
Expedition of this nature. The amount of work that Farrar put into this
was enormous; for as a mountaineer he knew well how the success of the
Expedition depended on each detail of the equipment being looked into,
and he spared himself no trouble and overlooked nothing. The stores were
of the most varied description, in order to meet the varying tastes of
the different members. The tents were improved in accordance with the
experience gained. Most particular attention was paid to the boots.
Clothing and bedding, light in weight but warm to wear, were specially
designed. Ice-axes, crampons, ropes, lanterns, cooking-stoves, and also
warm clothing for the porters, were all provided, and much else besides.

But about one point in the equipment of the party there was much
diversity of opinion. Should the climbers be provided with oxygen, or
should they not? If it were at all feasible to provide climbers with
oxygen without adding appreciably to the weight they had to carry, the
summit of Mount Everest could be reached to a certainty. For the purely
mountaineering difficulties are not great. On the way to the summit
there are no physical obstacles which a trained mountaineer could not
readily overcome. The one factor which renders the ascent so difficult
is the want of oxygen in the air. Provide the oxygen and the ascent
could be made at once. But to provide the oxygen heavy apparatus would
have to be carried—and carried by the climbers themselves. It became a
question whether the disadvantage of having to carry a weight of at
least thirty pounds would or would not outweigh the advantages to be
gained by the use of the oxygen.

And the Mount Everest Committee were warned of another feature in the
case. They were told that if by any misfortune the oxygen were to run
out when the climbers were at a considerable height—say 27,000 feet—and
they suddenly found themselves without any preparation in this
attenuated atmosphere, they might collapse straight away. It was a
disagreeable prospect to anticipate. But Captain Finch, who was himself
a lecturer on chemistry at the Imperial College of Science, Mr.
Somervell, and Captain Farrar, pressed so strongly for the use of
oxygen, and Mr. Unna was so convinced he could construct a reasonably
portable apparatus, that the Committee decided that the experiment
should be made. The value of using oxygen could thus be tested, and we
should know what were the prospects of reaching the summit of the
mountain either with or without its aid. Captain Farrar, Captain Finch,
and Mr. Unna therefore set about constructing an apparatus which would
hold the lightest procurable oxygen cylinders, and which could be
carried on the back by the climbers.

This final question having been settled, all the stores and equipment
having been purchased, packed, and despatched, the members of the
Expedition left England in March. But before I leave General Bruce to
take up the tale of their adventures, I must say yet one word more about
“the good” of climbing Mount Everest. These repeated efforts to reach
the summit of the world’s highest mountain have already cost human life.
They have also cost much physical pain, fatigue, and discomfort to the
climbers. They have been very expensive. And there is not the slightest
sign of any material gain whatever being obtained—not an ounce of gold,
or iron, or coal, or a single precious stone, or any land upon which
food or material could be grown. What, then, is the good of it all? Who
will benefit in the least even if the climbers do eventually get to the
top? These are questions which are still being continually asked me, so
I had better still go on trying to make as plain as I can what is the
good of climbing Mount Everest.

The most obvious good is an increased knowledge of our own capacities.
By trying with all our might and with all our mind to climb the highest
point on the earth, we are getting to know better what we really can do.
No one can say for certain yet whether we can or cannot reach the
summit. We cannot know till we try. But if—as seems much more probable
now than it did ten years ago—we can reach the summit, we shall know
that we are capable of more than we had supposed. And this knowledge of
our capacities will be very valuable. In my own lifetime I have seen
men’s knowledge of their capacity for climbing mountains greatly
increased. Men’s standard of climbing has been raised. They now know
that they can do what forty years ago they did not deem in the least
possible. And if they reach the summit of Mount Everest, the standard of
achievement will be still further raised; and men who had, so far, never
thought of attempting the lesser peaks of the Himalaya, will be climbing
them as freely as they now climb peaks in Switzerland.

And what then? What is the good of that? The good of that is that a
whole new enjoyment in life will be opened up. And enjoyment of life is,
after all, the end of life. We do not live to eat and make money. We eat
and make money to be able to enjoy life. And some of us know from actual
experience that by climbing a mountain we can get some of the finest
enjoyment there is to be had. We like bracing ourselves against a
mountain, pitting our mettle, our nerve, our skill, against the physical
difficulties the mountain presents, and feeling that we are forcing the
spirit within us to prevail against the material. That is a glorious
feeling in itself and a real tonic to the spirit—even when it does not
always conquer.

But that is not all. The wrestling with the mountain makes us love the
mountain. For the moment we may be utterly exhausted and only too
thankful to be able to hurry back to more congenial regions. Yet, all
the same, we shall eventually get to love the mountain for the very fact
that she has forced the utmost out of us, lifted us just for one
precious moment high above our ordinary life, and shown us beauty of an
austerity, power, and purity we should have never known if we had not
faced the mountain squarely and battled strongly with her.

This, then, is the good to be obtained from climbing Mount Everest. Most
men will have to take on trust that there is this good. But most of the
best things in life we have to take on trust at first till we have
proved them for ourselves. So I would beg readers of this book first
trustfully to accept it from the Everest climbers that there is good in
climbing great mountains (for the risks they have run and the hardships
they have endured are ample enough proof of the faith that is in them),
and then to go and test it for themselves—in the Himalaya, if possible,
or if not, in the Alps, the Rockies, the Andes, wherever high mountains
make the call.


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                          THE NARRATIVE OF THE
                               EXPEDITION

                                   By
                  BRIGADIER-GENERAL HON. C. G. BRUCE,
                              C.B., M.V.O.




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                               CHAPTER I

                            TO THE BASE CAMP


The precursor of the present volume, _The Reconnaissance of Mount
Everest in 1921_, sets forth fully the successful and strenuous work
which was accomplished in that year and which has rendered possible the
Expedition of the present year. The whole of our work lying in country
which had never previously been explored by Europeans, it was rendered
absolutely necessary for a full examination of the whole country to be
made before an attempt to climb Mount Everest could possibly be carried
out. We have to thank Colonel Howard-Bury and his companions, especially
his survey officers, for their important work, which rendered our task
in arriving at our base comparatively simple.

The object of the Expedition of 1922, of course, was the actual attack
on the mountain in an attempt to climb it; but no great mountain has
ever succumbed to the first attempt on it, and therefore it is almost
inconceivable that so tremendous a problem as the ascent of Mount
Everest should succeed at the very first effort. In fact, I myself am
more than satisfied, almost astounded, at the extraordinary success
attained by my companions in this endeavour. The problem that lay in
front of us, I think, should be first explained.

Mount Everest, as all know, lies on that part of the Himalaya which is
narrowest. It is, therefore, exposed very rapidly to the first assaults
of the South-west monsoon, and this monsoon advances up the Bay of
Bengal at an earlier period in the year than that of its Western branch,
the Gulf current. It is this fact which supplies the greatest difficulty
to be faced in an attack on any of the great peaks which lie in this
region, giving one an unusually short season. However, to a certain
extent this is counteracted by the fact that the winter climate in this
portion of the Himalaya is far drier than it is in the West. There is
less deposit of snow on the mountains in this section of the Himalaya
than there would be, for instance, in the Kashmir mountains, and this,
to some extent, makes up for the early advance of the monsoon, and
consequent bad weather, which renders any exploration of the great
heights during the time that the monsoon blows an impossibility.

Towards the end of May the monsoon arrives in Darjeeling, and then,
according to the strength of the current, quickly approaches the
Southern faces of the Himalaya, and, as the current strengthens, drifts
across their summits and through the gorges and over the lower ridges.
The problem, therefore, of any party exploring in these mountains
resolves itself into the rapidity with which they can establish their
base of operations in a suitable locality to explore the mountains and
to climb them. During the period of the very great cold, naturally, the
upper heights are impossible, and camping on the upper glaciers is in
itself also almost impossible. Travelling across Tibet in March,
crossing high passes of over 17,000 feet is such that, although it might
be perfectly possible to do, it would be a great strain on the stamina
of the party, and likely to detract from their condition. We had,
therefore, to adapt our advance into Tibet so as to make it at the
latest possible moment, in order to avoid the very worst of the weather,
and yet at the earliest possible moment, so that we could arrive at the
foot of our mountains with sufficient time to attack them before the
weather broke up and rendered mountaineering an impossibility at a great
height. It resolves itself, then, almost into a race against the
monsoon.

This was our problem, and it is my special province in these opening
chapters to show how we tackled it.

During the winter of 1921–2, the Mount Everest Committee, owing to the
lateness with which the party had returned after the reconnaissance, had
to work at very top speed. They had to collect all the necessary stores
for the party, and not only that, but also to select a suitable
mountaineering team; this was a considerable difficulty. Finally the
party was made up as follows: myself as leader, Colonel E. L. Strutt as
Second-in-Command, and Dr. Longstaff the official doctor and naturalist
of the Expedition. The climbing party pure consisted of Mr. Mallory (of
last year’s Expedition), Dr. Somervell, Dr. Wakefield, and Major Norton.
We had three transport officers, one of whom belonged to the Alpine
Club, and was considered an assistant of the climbing party, Mr. C. G.
Crawford, of the Indian Civil Service. The official photographer was
Captain Noel. Two officers in the Indian Army were attached to the
Expedition as transport officers—Captain J. G. Bruce and Captain C. G.
Morris. Later, on our arrival in Darjeeling, the party was further
reinforced by Major Morshead, who had been one of the survey party of
the previous year, and whose general knowledge of Tibet and of Tibetans
was of great service to us; and last, but not least, Captain George
Finch, who came not only as a most important member of the climbing
party, but also as the scientific expert in charge of the entire oxygen
outfit.

This large party was collected in Darjeeling by the last week in March,
and in a few days we were all ready to make a start. I myself preceded
the party by about a month, arriving in Delhi to interview the Indian
authorities about the 25th of February. Through the kindness of the
Commander-in-Chief, Lord Rawlinson, we were supplied with four young
non-commissioned officers of Captain Bruce’s regiment, the 2nd Battalion
6th Gurkha Rifles, and an orderly of the 1st Battalion 6th Gurkha
Rifles, and right well all these five Gurkhas carried out their duties.
As will be seen later, one of them, Lance-naik Tejbir Bura, very highly
distinguished himself.

I arrived in Darjeeling with Captain Bruce on March 1, and there I found
that our agent in India, Mr. Weatherall, had carried out the
instructions which he had received from England in the most efficient
manner. The large quantity of stores which we had ordered previously
were all beautifully packed and ready for transportation; the tents of
the previous year all mended and in good order; the stores of different
kinds, such as there were, which had been left also from the previous
year, had been put into order; and last and most important, 150 porters
had been collected for our inspection and from whom to make a selection.
He had also for us a large number of cooks to choose from, a most
excellent individual to look after the tents, Chongay, who proved quite
invaluable to us, and a local cobbler who had expressed his willingness
to come with the Expedition.

Owing to the tremendous hurry in which all arrangements had to be made
in England, the stores were forwarded in different batches. On our
arrival in Calcutta, we interviewed Mr. Brown, of the Army and Navy
Stores, whose work, both for the Expeditions of 1921 and of 1922, has
been quite beyond praise. He told us that only one instalment of stores
had yet arrived, but that the ships containing the remainder were
expected shortly. Luckily for us, we had at the Army and Navy Stores,
and acting in the interests of the Expedition, a most capable agent. As
the ships containing the stores arrived, the latter were unloaded,
rapidly passed through the Customs, and forwarded on to Kalimpong Road,
which is the terminus of the Darjeeling Railway and the Teesta Valley.
On arrival there they were met by our representative in no less a person
than Captain Morris, handed over to the contractors who were moving our
stores, and forwarded on to Tibet in advance of the Expedition. This
naturally required a great deal of arranging.

I must mention that, shortly after our arrival in Darjeeling, we were
joined by Captain Morris, who immediately left for Kalimpong, two stages
on our journey, to which place the whole of the outfit of the Expedition
was sent. We could not spare the time to wait for the arrival of the
oxygen, and therefore, when the party finally left Darjeeling, Captain
Finch, the scientist in whose charge the whole of the oxygen and
scientific apparatus had been put, remained behind with Mr. Crawford to
bring it up. Luckily, the ship arrived in Calcutta just as we were
leaving, and therefore the delay was less than we had anticipated.

The people of Darjeeling, both the British and the native
inhabitants—whether Tibetans or Hillmen—were all immensely interested in
our Expedition, and Mr. Laden La, the Deputy Superintendent of Police,
was, if anything, the most enthusiastic of them all. Mr. Laden La has
himself rendered excellent service to Government, and has travelled
greatly in Tibet. He is himself a Tibetan, and, I believe, is an
Honorary General in the Tibetan Army. His influence in Darjeeling and
the district is great, and his help to the Expedition was invaluable. He
arranged in Darjeeling, both as head of the Buddhist Association of
Darjeeling, and in conjunction with the Committee of the Hillmen’s
Association, that the whole of the party should be entertained by these
two Associations, and that the chief Lamas and Brahmins of the district
should bless and offer up prayers for the well-being and success of the
party. The entertainment went off most excellently, and it was
altogether a most interesting function. The Nepalese members of the
party were blessed by the Brahmins, but also, in order to confirm this
blessing, further received the blessings of the Lamas. I think there is
every reason for supposing that this small function assisted in bringing
home to all our porters and followers what was expected of them by their
own people, and it was very likely a good deal in consequence of this
that they behaved on the whole so extremely well. For it must be
understood that all these hill people, whether Nepalese or Tibetan, are
very light-hearted, very irresponsible, very high-spirited, and up to
the present time prohibition as a national measure is not exactly a
popular outlook; in fact, none of them on any occasion, unless well
looked after, lost any opportunity of looking on the wine when it is
red—or any other colour.

Our cooks had to be chosen with a good deal of care. Captain Bruce and
myself took the most likely candidates out into the hills and gave them
a good trial before we engaged them. One of them, who was a Nepalese,
had been an old servant of my own for many months; he was the only
Gurkha among them. The other three (for we gave ourselves an ample
outfit of four cooks) were Bhotias (Tibetans). They were the greatest
success, mostly because they are hard-working and ready to do any amount
of work; but they were good cooks too. Captain Noel also engaged an
excellent servant (also a cook), and Major Norton’s private servant
(another Tibetan) was very capable in the same way; so that we were
thoroughly well provided with an ample outfit, and wherever we were we
could count on having our meals properly prepared. This is one of the
important points in Tibetan travel, from the want of which I believe a
certain amount of the illness that was experienced in the previous year
was due.

We also engaged almost the most important subordinate member of the
Expedition—the interpreter, Karma Paul. He was quite young, and had been
a schoolmaster in Darjeeling. He had also worked, I believe, for a time
in an office in Calcutta. He was quite new to the kind of work that he
would have to do. But he was a great acquisition to the Expedition,
always good company and always cheerful, full of a quaint little vanity
of his own and delighted when he was praised. He served us very well
indeed from one end of the Expedition to the other, and it was a great
deal owing to his cheerfulness and to his excellent manners and way with
the Tibetans that we never had the smallest possible misunderstanding
with any officials, even of the lowest grades, to disturb our good
relations with the Tibetans of any kind or class. He also was bilingual,
for he had been born in Lhasa, and still had relations living there.

On March 26 the whole Expedition started off for Kalimpong by rail, with
the exception of Captain Finch and Mr. Crawford, who remained to bring
on the oxygen. Owing to the kindness of the Himalayan Railway Company,
we were all taken round by rail to Kalimpong Road free, the whole
Expedition travelling up the Teesta Valley in the normal manner, with
the exception of Captain Noel, who elected to ride on the roof of the
carriages in order to take pictures with his cinema camera of the Teesta
Valley. The junction at Siliguri, where the Teesta railway branches off
from the main line, is only 300 feet above the sea, the terminus at
Kalimpong Road about 700 feet above the sea, and therefore as one dives
down from the hills one enters into tropical conditions and passes
through the most magnificent tropical jungle and the steepest gorges and
ravines. It is a wonderful journey. Even the long spell of hot and dry
weather and the heat haze at this time of year were unable to spoil the
scenery. And though we saw it almost at its worst time, it remained
gorgeous.

At Kalimpong the Expedition broke up into two parties, but before we
left we had a very pleasant function to attend. I had been charged by
Sir Robert Baden-Powell to deliver a message to the scouts of Dr.
Graham’s Homes for European Children at Kalimpong. Not only that, but
incorporated with these scouts was the first small body of Nepalese
boy-scouts. It was a very interesting function indeed, and a most
enthusiastic one.

From there we pushed on stage by stage over the Jelep La into the Chumbi
Valley. Of course, journeys through Sikkim have often been described.
Again we were disappointed. On my first arrival in Darjeeling, the cold
weather had hardly finished, but now (March 28) we were well into the
hot weather of Bengal, and in consequence we were also in the
hot-weather haze. During the whole of our journey we never got a single
view of the gorgeous Southern faces of the Himalaya, of Kanchenjanga and
of its supporters, and especially of the wonderful Siniolchum peak. This
was a very great disappointment, as from several points on our road a
view of the Southern face can be obtained. Nevertheless, a journey
through Sikkim is always a wonderful experience. The steep and deeply
cut valleys, the wonderful clear mountain streams, and the inhabitants
and their means of cultivation, are all full of interest. The depth of
the valleys is always striking, and can never be anything else. When one
thinks that from Rongli Chu, situated only at 2,700 feet above the sea,
one rises in one continuous pull to close on 13,000 feet on the ridge
which looks down on the Gnatong bungalow, and travels through
cultivation and forest the whole way, passing through every phase of
Eastern Himalayan landscape, one cannot cease to be continually
impressed by the scale of the country. We were too early for the
rhododendrons on the way to Gnatong, but there were just sufficient in
flower to give us a mental vision of what these wonderful rhododendron
forests would be like in another three weeks.

On the way to Gnatong, at a height of 11,500 feet, we came to the little
village of Lungtung. Here there was a tea-house kept by some Nepalese.
It was spotlessly clean, or at least all the cooking arrangements were,
and here, as we came up, we all indulged in tea and the local cakes, and
found them both excellent. Not only that, but the little lady who kept
the shop was full of talk and full of chaff, and we all sat down and
enjoyed ourselves for more than an hour, keeping up a continuous flow of
conversation. All the men joined us as they came up, and I am afraid we
made rather a noise. As a matter of fact, all through Sikkim these
little tea-shops are to be found, and the tea is generally quite
drinkable. This little lady’s shop, though, was particularly well run
and attractive. When we left we promised to call and see her again on
our return, which promise we were able to fulfil.

The higher portions of the road from Gnatong over the Jelep are a very
great contrast. It is almost like a march through the Highlands of
Scotland, and hardly represents or brings to one’s mind the fact that
one is among great mountains. The Jelep, which is 14,300 feet above the
sea, is a perfectly easy pass, crossed by a horrid pavé road, very much
out of repair, the descent into the Chumbi Valley being, for animals,
the last word in discomfort. We employed altogether in our two parties
about eighty mules from the Chumbi Valley, and we were all immensely
struck by this wonderful transport. There is a considerable trade
carried on between Tibet and Chumbi in particular for seven or eight
months in the year, as on this road quantities of Tibetan wool are
brought down for sale at Kalimpong, very nearly all of it being brought
by the Chumbi muleteers, and most efficient they are. They thoroughly
understand the loading and care of mules, and the pace they travel at is
something to see. It is only understood if one walks for long distances
with, or often behind, a train of laden mules. No doubt, owing to the
continual changes from cold to warmth and heat, many sore backs are
occasioned, and further, owing to the tremendous stress and continuous
labour involved, many mules are worked that have no business to be
worked. The muleteers themselves, when talked to about it, say that it
distresses them, but they are hard put to it to carry out their work,
and see no method very often of being able to fulfil their contracts and
at the same time lay up their mules.

After crossing the Jelep La, and leaving Sikkim, it is almost like
diving into Kashmir, so great is the difference in the general
appearance of the country and in its forests. While we were sitting on
the top of the Jelep we had the most splendid view of Chomolhari (23,800
feet). It showed itself at its very best; the day was quiet and very
warm. Chomolhari stood out clearly, and still with plenty of atmosphere
round it. Snow-streamers were blowing out from its summit. It showed its
full height, and did full justice to its shape and beauty. It is a great
mountain which completely dominates Phari and its plain, and is the
striking feature as one enters Tibet from the Chumbi Valley. We all
admired it enormously, but the enthusiasm of the party was somewhat
damped when I pointed out to them that our high advanced base on
Everest, in fact, the camp that we hoped to establish on the North Col,
called the Chang La, which had been marked out the year before by Mr.
Mallory, was, in fact, only about 600 feet lower than the top of
Chomolhari itself.

[Illustration:

  FROZEN WATERFALL, CHUMBI VALLEY.
]

On arrival at Richengong, which is at the foot of the valley which forms
the junction between the Jelep Valley and the valley of the Ammu Chu,
which is the Chumbi Valley, we were met by Mr. Macdonald, the British
Trade Agent, who lives at Chumbi, and his wonderfully dressed
chuprassis, and also by a guard of honour of 90 Panjabis, who supplied a
small guard both at Yatung, in Chumbi, and also at the British post in
Gyantse, on the road to Lhasa. We had a very pleasant ride by the Chumbi
Valley to Yatung. I had previously supplied myself in Darjeeling with a
treasure of a pony, Gyamda by name, who was locally very well known in
Darjeeling. He was only 12½ hands, but had the go and the stamina of a
very much bigger animal. He was attended by a sais who was nearly twice
as big as himself, and was one of the finest-built Tibetans I saw the
whole time. Gyamda himself hailed from the town of Gyamda, which is
about 12 miles South of Lhasa. His enormous sais hailed from Lhasa
itself, and, unfortunately, could hardly speak a word of anything but
Tibetan. However, he improved by degrees, and very soon we got on very
well. He adored the pony Gyamda, but had the habit of giving it, unless
looked after, at least a dozen eggs mixed with its grain. When we
stopped him doing this, he was caught hugging the pony round the neck
and saying to it, “Now they have cut your eggs, you will die, and what
shall I do?” Gyamda carried me right through the Expedition, and could
go over any ground, and came back as well as he left, never sick or
sorry, and always pleased with life.

We marched from Chumbi on April 5, accompanied by Mr. Macdonald and his
son, who had come to help us make all our transport arrangements when we
should arrive in Phari. Mr. Macdonald helped us on all occasions, and we
cannot thank him enough for all the trouble he took from now on and
during the whole time the Expedition was in Tibet. It was owing very
largely to his help that we were able in Phari to get our Expedition on
so soon, for he warned the two Dzongpens of Phari Dzong beforehand to
obtain adequate transport for us.

Again, the march from Yatung to Phari has been described on many
occasions, but it is quite impossible to march through it without
mentioning its character. It is, especially at the time of year we went
through, one of the darkest and blackest and most impressive forested
gorges that I have ever seen, and almost equally impressive is the
debouchment on to the Phari Plain at the head of the gorge, dominated as
it is by our old friend Chomolhari.

We arrived in Phari on April 6, and made our first real acquaintance
with the Tibetan wind. Phari is 14,300 feet, and winter was scarcely
over; the weather also was threatening. Luckily, there is a little
British Government rest-house and bungalow and serai at Phari, and there
we found comfortable quarters. We were joined on the following day by
the rest of the party. This really formed the starting-point of the
Expedition, and, further, it was my birthday, and the bottle of old rum,
120 years old, specially brought out for this occasion, was opened and
the success of the Expedition was drunk to. If we had known what was in
front of us, we should have put off the drinking of this peculiarly
comforting fluid until the evening of the day of our first march from
Phari. The two Phari Dzongpens, probably owing to the fact that Phari is
on the main route between Lhasa and India, were far and away the most
grasping and difficult of any officials that we met, but no doubt their
difficulties were pretty considerable. Although there is a great
quantity of transport to be obtained in Phari, at this time of the year
it is in very poor condition. Grazing exists, but one would never know
that it existed unless one was told, and also unless one saw herds of
yaks on the hillsides apparently eating frozen earth. Everything was
frozen hard. We had difficulty, therefore, in obtaining the transport
required. We found here collected the whole of our stores, with the
exception of the oxygen. Our excellent tindel,[1] Chongay, who had gone
on ahead, had got it all marshalled; the tents were also pitched and in
good order.

Footnote 1:

  Tent-mender.

On April 8 we set out from Phari, but had been obliged to reinforce the
local transport by re-engaging fifty of the Chumbi mules. We had been
obliged to do this because we were unable to get a sufficiency of
transport that was capable of carrying loads in Phari itself. But these
fifty mules were our salvation; without them, as it turned out, we
should have been in a bad way.

There are two roads that lead from Phari to Khamba Dzong, our next
objective; the short road passing over the Tang La and the Donka La, and
a long road which starts first on the road to Lhasa and turns finally
after two marches to the West. On account of the short time at our
disposal, and having regard to the fact that we had now in earnest begun
our race with the weather, we chose the shorter route. Owing to the
condition of the animals, all had agreed that the yaks could not
possibly, even by the short road, get to Khamba Dzong under six days. We
therefore divided our party again into two. The advance party, with
fifty Chumbi mules and a large collection of donkeys and particularly
active bullocks, and even some cows, were to march to Khamba Dzong in
four days, and were to be followed by 200 yaks in charge of our sardar,
Gyaljen, and two of the Gurkha non-commissioned officers, to wit, Naik
Hurké Gurung and Lance-naik Lal Sing Gurung, the other two Gurkhas being
in charge of the treasure-chest which accompanied the first party;
Lance-naik Tejbir Bura and Lance-naik Sarabjit Thapa were to march with
the first party.

The sardar Gyaljen had accompanied Colonel Howard-Bury’s party on the
first Expedition, and had, apparently, from the accounts given of him in
last year’s volume, not been a very great success. I, however, gave him
a second chance. He was a thoroughly capable man, and I had every hope,
as he knew that I had heard about him and had also seen the report that
had been made of him by Colonel Howard-Bury, that on this occasion he
would pull himself together and do well; in this we were not
disappointed. Of course, as all sophisticated men in his position are
likely to do, he was out to benefit himself; but we were able pretty
successfully to cope with this failing, and, generally speaking, his
services were of great value, especially on certain occasions.
Altogether, I think, he was a success.

Of course, we were rather well qualified from this point of view—both
Morris and Geoffrey Bruce had an excellent knowledge of Nepal and of the
Nepalese, and Nepalese is the one Eastern language which I may say that
I also have a good knowledge of. All Sherpas are tri-lingual—that is to
say, they talk their own Sherpa dialect of Tibet, Tibetan as a
mother-tongue, and nearly all of them Nepalese as well. Owing to their
being subjects of Nepal, the official language (that is, Nepalese) is
the one they are obliged to employ in dealing with the authorities. Also
nearly every one of the Tibetans we employed and who came with us from
Darjeeling spoke Nepali as their second language. In consequence of
this, nearly the whole of the work usually done by a sardar of coolies
in Darjeeling was carried out by the officers of the Expedition, who
dealt directly both with the men and with the people of the country.

On April 8 we started out. There was for a good long time a tremendous
scrimmage getting all the different loads packed on to the animals, and
dividing the animals, especially as the Tibetans had no idea of being
punctual, and in consequence the yaks, ponies for riding, mules and
bullocks, all drifted in at different times during the morning. Finally,
however, our two large mixed convoys were got off. It was really a great
piece of luck being able to keep the fifty Chumbi mules. These were
laden in the early morning with what was necessary for our camp and
despatched well before the rest of the luggage. The great convoy of 200
yaks was finally marshalled and sent off under the charge of the Gurkhas
and the sardar, but the advance party’s luggage was spread over miles of
country. In consequence of this, Geoffrey, Morris, and myself were
delayed until quite late in the morning.

[Illustration:

  NUNS AT TA-TSANG.
]

Our first march was about 16 miles, and the day was very threatening. We
pushed along on ponies at a good pace and crossed the Tang La, which is
a little over 15,000 feet, in rough, but not actually wet, weather.
Luckily, the country is very open, over plains of more or less frozen
grass. Over the main chain of the Himalaya the clouds had settled, and
it was evident that the weather was breaking. A little after noon it
broke with a vengeance. The clouds settled down, it began to snow
heavily, and the wind increased to half a hurricane. Luckily, however,
most of our local men knew the road well, otherwise in this great open
and undulating country one could very easily get lost. The track, which
was fairly well marked otherwise, was completely and rapidly obliterated
in places. It was certainly a rather disheartening start. Morris was
delayed for a time to look after some luggage; Geoffrey and myself
pushed on. Going pretty quickly, we were able to pick up different
parties, and were lucky enough to pass one small encampment of Tibetans.
It was curious to see yaks contentedly chewing the cud, the whole of
their weather-side being a mass of frozen snow. They seemed to be quite
as happy lying out in a blizzard as though they had been ordinary
civilised cows in a barn.

About what is usually known as tea-time we sighted the camp. Our
excellent followers had got a few tents up, and I was fortunate enough
myself to find that the porter who was carrying my big coat had already
arrived. Nearly all Indian camp servants who are accustomed to
travelling in the Himalaya are good in a crisis, and, when things get
bad, come to the fore; but on this occasion they surpassed themselves.
It must be understood that, in Tibet, very, very seldom can anything but
dried yak-dung be found to make a fire with. On this occasion the snow
had obliterated everything, and in consequence a fire had to be
otherwise improvised. Some tents had been pitched, a fire had been got
going, and very soon a hot meal and hot tea were forthcoming. The rest
of the party gradually collected, but it was not until well after
nightfall that the whole of the advance transport had managed to arrive.
As a first march it certainly gave the party a very good idea of what
they might have to put up with in Tibet; it was a real good entry into
Tibetan travel. However, nobody was much the worse, and, the weather
having cleared during the night, we had a brilliant sight the following
morning.

On April 9, we made what I think was the hardest march undertaken on the
Expedition. Our path led us over the ridge in its three bifurcations
which runs North from Pawhunri and rapidly rises from our last camp,
each of these ridges being just 17,000 feet, slightly more or less, and
most of the path being at about 16,000 feet of elevation. At any time
early in April great cold would be expected at such a height, but on
this day the wind was blowing right over the Himalaya direct from the
snows across these passes, and howling down the gorges between them. It
was painfully cold, and the wind never abated from morning to night. We
left about seven o’clock in the morning, and it was well after nightfall
again before our transport was collected at our next camp at
Hung-Zung-trak. Longstaff and myself pushed on in search of the camp for
most of the day together, arriving before any of the animals at about
4.30 to five o’clock in the evening, and made our camp at the
above-named place under some overhanging cliffs with fairly good
grazing—such as grazing is in April—and with a stream beneath the camp
from which water could be obtained. We were very shortly followed by our
magnificent Chumbi transport, which had been pushing along at a
tremendous pace the whole day long. I do not know what we should have
done without it.

What was very much brought home to us was the absolute necessity of
windproof material to keep out the tremendous cold of these winds.
Fortunately, I had a very efficient mackintosh which covered everything,
but even then I suffered very considerably from the cold. It simply blew
through and through wool, and riding without windproof clothing would
have been very painful. It was also very fortunate for us that the
weather was really fine and the sun shone all day. I think we should
have been in a very bad way indeed if the blizzard had occurred on the
second day out from Phari, and not on the first.

However, by night we were all comfortably settled down, although the
whole of our advance stores did not arrive until after ten o’clock at
night again. Unfortunately, three of our porters who had stayed behind
with the slowest of the bullocks lost their way after dark. They stayed
out the whole night without bedding or covering, and in the morning
continued to the nunnery of Tatsang, which was about 4 or 5 miles
further down the valley and rather off our direct route. We here heard
of them and retrieved them. These men had not yet been issued with their
full clothes, and how they managed to sit out the night clothed as they
were and without any damage of any kind passes one’s comprehension. So
low was the temperature that night that the quickly flowing stream
outside our camp was frozen solid.

We halted the next day, as the transport was overdone, and the following
day (April 11) made another long, but very interesting, march direct to
Khamba Dzong, leaving the monastery of Tatsang on our right and crossing
high plains on which were grazing large herds of kyang and gazelle. The
mounted men had great fun trying to round up and get as close as
possible to the herds of kyang; they were trusting up to a point, but
never let us go close enough to get a good snap photograph of them.
Finally, the road led from the high plateau down to Khamba Dzong,
through what to several of us immediately became astonishingly familiar
country; for the whole surroundings of the Khamba Dzong Valley reminds
one very much of the scenery on the North-west frontier of India. But
what a difference in climate!

We camped at Khamba Dzong where last year’s Expedition had camped, and
were very well received by the same Dzongpen. We were gratified to find
Dr. Kellas’ grave in good order, and we further added to it a collection
of great stones. The inscription on the grave in English and Tibetan was
clear and clean. We were delayed in Khamba Dzong for three whole days,
partly because of the difficulty in collecting animals; also two days to
allow our main convoy of 200 yaks to catch us up, and we had the good
luck to be joined by Finch and Crawford, who had pushed on at a great
pace with the oxygen apparatus. They showed evident signs of wear and
tear, being badly knocked about by the weather. The storm had caught
them on the Jelep La, and as this is more South, there had been a very
much greater fall of snow, so much so that the Chumbi Valley was inches
deep in it. They spoke very highly indeed of all their followers, cooks
and Tibetans, and especially of a capital boy, Lhakpa Tsering, who had
come along with them as their special attendant. He was quite a young
boy, but had made the march in two days with them to Tatsang, where they
stayed for the night, without showing any particular signs of fatigue,
running along beside their ponies. I make a considerable point of the
following: I think great exertions and long marches at these high
altitudes before acclimatisation is complete would have tended to
exhaust, and not to improve, the training of the party, whereas to have
a pony with one and be able to walk or ride when one felt tired or
blown, gradually allowed the body to adjust itself. At any rate, I am
perfectly certain that if every one had been obliged to walk instead of
being able to ride, even on the terribly inadequate ponies that were
supplied to them in Tibet, but which, at any rate, gave them the
much-needed rest, they would not have arrived at the Rongbuk Glacier fit
to do the work which they afterwards successfully tackled.

Our march from Khamba Dzong to Tinki and from Tinki to Shekar was
exactly by the route followed by Colonel Howard-Bury in the previous
year, and calls for no particular comment on my part, with the exception
that two small parties of Finch and Wakefield and Mallory and Somervell
made a good attempt at Gyangka-nangpa to climb a 20,000-foot peak,
Sangkar Ri, on the way. This they were not quite able to do.

We had no difficulty in crossing the great sand-dunes where the Yaru
River joins the Arun, as we were able to cross it in the early morning
before the wind had arisen. But on that morning, when we came to the
junction of the valley of the Arun, we had a most wonderful and clear
view of Mount Everest to the South. Although it was over 50 miles
distant in a straight line, it did not look more than twenty. The whole
of the face that was visible to us was smothered in snow. The entire
setting of the piece was very strange; the country was almost bare
enough to remind one of a crumpled Egyptian desert, and the strangeness
and wonder was hugely increased by the South of the valley being filled
with this wonderful mountain mass.

At Shekar, where we arrived on April 24, we were again delayed for three
days getting transport. We found the Dzong filled with Lamas. There is a
great monastery in Shekar itself, and one of less account a little
further beyond. The great Lama of Shekar is an extremely cunning old
person and a first-class trader. In his quarters at the monastery he had
immense collections of Tibetan and Chinese curios, and he knew the price
of these as well as any professional dealer. We saw a great deal, in
fact, a great deal too much, of the Lamas of Shekar. They were the most
inconceivably dirty crowd that we had met in Tibet; the dirt was quite
indescribable. Although the people in Lhasa in good positions are
reported to be generally cleanish, here in the more out-of-the-way parts
of Tibet washing appears to be entirely unknown, except to the
Dzongpens, and I believe that the ordinary Dzongpen only has a
ceremonial bath on New Year’s Eve as a preparatory to the new year, and
I should not be at all surprised if Mrs. Dzongpen did too. At any rate,
the Dzongpens’ families were always infinitely better cared for in this
respect than anyone else. These people, however, have the most terribly
dirty cooks it is possible for the human imagination to conceive. For
this reason I never was very happy as a guest, and although the food
provided for one’s entertainment was often quite pleasant to eat, it was
absolutely necessary not to allow one’s imagination to get to work.

The three days’ delay at Shekar was greatly due to the movement of
officials and troops marching by the same route from Tingri to Shigatse,
and as they had commissioned every available animal, they interfered
considerably with our movements. Shekar was not comfortable during these
days; the wind was not continuous, but came in tremendous gusts, and
dust-devils were continually tearing through the camp and upsetting
everything. Shekar, as Colonel Howard-Bury has described it, is
wonderfully situated. The pointed mass of rock rises direct from the
plains, and the white monasteries and white town are built on its sides.
The illustration will describe it much better than I can. Shekar means
“Shining glass.” All the towns and houses on the sides of the mountain
are brilliantly white and show up very clearly against the dark browns
and reds of the hillside. It is no doubt this appearance which gives it
its name.

The Dzongpen at Shekar was a most important official. The whole of the
country South of Shekar and the Rongbuk Valley where we were going were
in his jurisdiction. We hoped that if we could only gain his own
goodwill as well as his official goodwill, it would be of very great
advantage to us. We entertained each other freely, and he was very
pleased with the lengths of kin kob[2] which I gave to himself and his
wife, and also with the photographs of the Dalai and Tashi Lamas which I
gave to him. By showing him pictures and taking his own picture, we were
able to make great friends with him, to our great advantage. He sent
with us his agent, Chongay La, who served us well during the whole of
our time in the Rongbuk Glacier; in fact, without him we should have had
great difficulty in obtaining the large amount of stores, grain, and
Tibetan coolies which were necessary for us in order to keep our very
large party properly provisioned when we were high up on the
mountain-side.

Footnote 2:

  Brocade.

Among our other presents was the inevitable Homburg hat. Wherever we
went we presented a Homburg hat. I had provided myself with a large
number of these hats from Whiteaway and Laidlaw before leaving
Darjeeling. These were a cheap present, but very much valued. Any high
man of a village known as a Gembo La would do anything for a Homburg
hat; it was ceremoniously placed on his head and was invariably well
received. In fact, all recipients visibly preened themselves for some
time afterwards.

From Shekar our route differed slightly from Colonel Howard-Bury’s. He
had taken the direct road to Tingri, but our objective was the Rongbuk.
Therefore we crossed the Arun for the first time, and, crossing by the
Pang La, descended into the Dzakar Chu. This was one of the pleasantest
marches that we had made. The country was new—even Mallory had only been
over part of it. The Pang La (meaning “the Grass Pass”) was altogether
very interesting, and from its summit, where we all collected and
lunched, we had again a fine view of Everest, and on this occasion the
mountain was almost clear of snow and gave one a very different
impression. We here recognised the fact that Everest, on its North face,
is essentially a rock peak. Unfortunately for us, it did not remain
clear of snow for long, rough weather again coming up; the next time we
saw it we found it again clothed from head to foot in snow.

Four marches from Shekar found us at Rongbuk, the final march from
Chodzong to the Rongbuk Monastery being extremely interesting. There is
only one word for it: the valleys of Tibet leading up to the Rongbuk
Monastery are hideous. The hills are formless humps, dull in colour; of
vegetation there is next to none. At our camp at Chodzong, however, on
the hillside opposite our camp, there was quite a large grove of
thorn-trees. We had visions of a wood fire very quickly damped when we
were told that this grove was inhabited by the most active and most
malicious of demons, and that he would promptly get to work if we
interfered and carried away any sticks from his grove.

The Upper Rongbuk Valley is an extremely sacred valley; no animals are
allowed to be killed in it. In fact, the great Mani at the mouth of the
valley opposite the village of Chobu marks the limit beyond which
animals are not allowed to be killed. We were told that if we wanted any
fresh meat it was all to be killed lower down the valley and carried up
to us. The Tibetans themselves live very largely on dried meats, both
yak meat and mutton. I have never tried it myself, and its appearance
was enough to put off anyone but a hungry dog, but I am told that when
cooked it is by no means bad. Most Tibetans, however, eat it raw in its
dried state. I bought quantities of both sorts for the porters. They
cooked it as they would cook fresh meat, and it seemed to suit them very
well. For the sake of their health, however, I gave them, whenever
possible, fresh meat, and with the very finest results.

[Illustration:

  RONGBUK MONASTERY AND MOUNT EVEREST.
]

Rongbuk means “the valley of precipices or steep ravines.” The Lepchas
of Sikkim are occasionally called “Rong Pa,” i.e., the people of steep
ravines. It is also used for Upper Nepal, or rather for the people on
the Southern faces of the Himalayan heights, as they are people of the
steep ravines. I have also heard it used to mean Nepal itself. Some five
miles up the valley one comes out on to a plateau and is suddenly almost
brought up against the walls of the Rongbuk Monastery. Here also, as we
came out to the Rongbuk Monastery, we found the whole Southern end of
the valley filled with Mount Everest and quite close to us—apparently.
In any European climate one would have said that it was a short march to
its base, and one would have been terribly wrong. The air is
astonishingly clear; the scale is enormous. The mountain was 16 miles
off.

We pitched our camp just below the monastery with considerable
difficulty, as the wind was howling rather more than usual. Then we went
up to pay our respects to the Rongbuk Lama. This particular Lama was
beyond question a remarkable individual. He was a large, well-made man
of about sixty, full of dignity, with a most intelligent and wise face
and an extraordinarily attractive smile. He was treated with the utmost
respect by the whole of his people. Curiously enough, considering the
terrible severity of the climate at Rongbuk, all his surroundings were
far cleaner than any monastery we had previously, or indeed
subsequently, visited. This Lama has the distinction of being actually
the incarnation of a god, the god Chongraysay, who is depicted with nine
heads. With his extraordinary mobility of expression, he has also
acquired the reputation of being able to change his countenance. We were
received with full ceremony, and after compliments had been exchanged in
the usual way by the almost grovelling interpreter, Karma Paul (who was
very much of a Buddhist here), the Lama began to ask us questions with
regard to the objects of the Expedition. He was very anxious also that
we should treat his people kindly. His inquiries about the objects of
the Expedition were very intelligent, although at the same time they
were very difficult to answer. Indeed, this is not strange when one
comes to think how many times in England one has been asked—What is the
good of an exploration of Everest? What can you get out of it? And, in
fact, what is the object generally of wandering in the mountains? As a
matter of fact, it was very much easier to answer the Lama than it is to
answer inquiries in England. The Tibetan Lama, especially of the better
class, is certainly not a materialist. I was fortunately inspired to say
that we regarded the whole Expedition, and especially our attempt to
reach the summit of Everest, as a pilgrimage. I am afraid, also, I
rather enlarged on the importance of the vows taken by all members of
the Expedition. At any rate, these gentle “white lies” were very well
received, and even my own less excusable one which I uttered to save
myself from the dreadful imposition of having to drink Tibetan tea was
also sufficiently well received. I told the Lama, through Paul, who,
fortunately enough, was able to repress his smiles (an actual record for
Paul, which must have strained him to his last ounce of strength), that
I had sworn never to touch butter until I had arrived at the summit of
Everest. Even this was well received. After that time I drank tea with
sugar or milk which was made specially for me.

[Illustration:

  THE EXPEDITION AT BASE CAMP.
  _Left to Right, Back Row_: MAJOR MORSHEAD, CAPTAIN GEOFFREY BRUCE,
    CAPTAIN NOEL, DR. WAKEFIELD, MR. SOMERVELL, CAPTAIN NORRIS, MAJOR
    NORTON.
  _Front Row_: MR. MALLORY, CAPTAIN FINCH, DR. LONGSTAFF, GENERAL BRUCE,
    COLONEL STRUTT, MR. CRAWFORD.
]

A word about Tibetan tea: the actual tea from which it is originally
made is probably quite sufficiently good, but it is churned up in a
great churn with many other ingredients, including salt, nitre, and
butter, and the butter is nearly invariably rancid, that is, as commonly
made in Tibet. I believe a superior quality is drunk by the upper
classes, but at any rate, to the ordinary European taste, castor-oil is
pleasant in comparison. One of the party, however, had managed to
acquire a taste for it, but then some people enjoy castor-oil!

The Lama finally blessed us and blessed our men, and gave us his best
wishes for success. He was very anxious that no animals of any sort
should be interfered with, which we promised, for we had already given
our word not to shoot during our Expedition in Tibet. He did not seem to
have the least fear that our exploring the mountain would upset the
demons who live there, but he told me that it was perfectly true that
the Upper Rongbuk and its glaciers held no less than five wild men.
There is, at any rate, a local tradition of the existence of such
beings, just as there is a tradition of the wild men existing right
through the Himalaya.

As a matter of fact, I really think that the Rongbuk Lama had a friendly
feeling for me personally, as he told the interpreter, Karma Paul, that
he had discovered that in a previous incarnation I had been a Tibetan
Lama. I do not know exactly how to take this. According to the life you
lead during any particular incarnation, so are you ranked for the next
incarnation; that is to say, if your life has been terrible, down you go
to the lowest depths, and as you acquire merit in any particular
existence, so in the next birth you get one step nearer to Nirvana. I am
perfectly certain that he would consider a Tibetan Lama a good bit
nearer the right thing than a Britisher could ever be, and so possibly
he may have meant that I had not degenerated so very far anyhow. I
should have liked to know, however, what the previous incarnations of
the rest of the party had been!

I think in my present incarnation the passion that I have for taking
Turkish baths may be some slight reaction from my life in the previous
and superior conditions as a Tibetan Lama.

The following morning, in cold weather, as usual, we left to try and
push our camp as high up as possible. Our march now became very
interesting, and we passed on our road, which was fairly rough, six or
seven of the hermits’ dwellings. These men are fed fairly regularly from
the monasteries and nunneries, and do not necessarily take their vows of
isolation for ever all at once. They try a year of it and see how they
get on before they take the complete vows, but how it is possible for
human beings to stand what they stand, even for a year, without either
dying or going mad, passes comprehension. Their cells are very small,
and they spend the whole of their time in a kind of contemplation of the
ōm, the god-head, and apparently of nothing else. They are supposed to
be able to live on one handful of grain per diem, but this we were able
successfully to prove was not the case; they appear, as far as we could
make out, to have a sufficiency of food always brought to them. However,
there they are in little cells, without firing or warm drinks, all the
year round, and many of them last for a great number of years.

Our march took us right up to the snout of the main Rongbuk Glacier, and
on arrival there we vainly endeavoured to get our yak-men to push up the
trough between the glacier and the mountain-side. There was promptly a
strike among the local transport workers, but the employers of labour
were wise enough to give in to their demands. If we had pushed further
up, we must have injured a great number of animals, and finally have
been obliged to return. So we found a fairly good site, protected to a
small extent from the prevailing West wind, and there we collected the
whole of our outfit and pitched our camp. I do not think such an
enormous cavalcade could possibly have mounted the Rongbuk Glacier
before. There were over 300 baggage animals, about twenty ponies, fifty
or sixty men in our own employ, and the best part of 100 Tibetans,
either looking after us or coming up as representatives of the Shekar
Dzongpen. Finally, all were paid off, and the Expedition was left alone
in its glory. The date was the 1st of May.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER II

                      THE ASSAULT ON THE MOUNTAIN


Now began in earnest our race against the monsoon. I have often been
asked since my return, whether we should not have done better if we had
started sooner. I think none of us would have cared to have arrived at
our Upper Rongbuk camp a fortnight earlier in the year, nor, having done
so, would any good purpose have been served. As it was, the temperature
and the coldness of the wind was as much as any of us could keep up with
and still keep our good health. This was to be our Base Camp at a height
of 16,500 feet. We made suitable dumps of stores, pitched our mess
tents, put all our porters in tents at their own particular places, and
made ourselves as comfortable as circumstances allowed, strengthening
the tents in every way to resist the wind. Noel also pitched his
developing tent near the small stream that issues from the Rongbuk
Glacier. On our arrival water was hardly available; all the running
streams were frozen hard, and we drove the whole of our animals over
them. Where the glacier stream flowed fastest in the centre, we got
sufficient water for drinking purposes.

[Illustration:

  VIEW AT BASE CAMP.
]

The establishment and support of such a large party (for we were
thirteen Europeans and over sixty of what may be termed other ranks) in
a country as desolate and as bare as Tibet is a difficulty. There is, of
course, no fuel to be found, with the exception of a very little scrubby
root which, burnt in large quantities, would heat an oven, but which was
not good enough or plentiful enough for ordinary cooking purposes.

Our first work, beyond the establishment of the Base Camp, was
immediately to send out a reconnaissance party. Strutt was put in charge
of this, and chose as his assistants Norton, Longstaff, and Morshead.
The remainder of the party had to work very hard dividing stores and
arranging for the movement up to the different camps we wished to make
on the way up the East Rongbuk Glacier to the North Col. It was pretty
apparent from Major Wheeler’s map that our advance up the East Rongbuk
to the glacier crossed by Mr. Mallory in 1921, which is below the Chang
La, would not be a very difficult road. But it was a very considerable
question how many camps should be established, and how full provision
should be made for each? We were naturally very anxious to save our own
porters for the much more strenuous work of establishing our camp at the
North Col, and perhaps of further camps up the mountain. I had,
therefore, on our march up, made every possible endeavour to collect a
large number of Tibetan coolies in order that they should be employed in
moving all the heavy stuff as far up the glacier as possible; in fact,
until we came to ground which would not be suitable to them, or, rather,
not suitable to their clothing. They were perfectly willing to work on
any ground which was fairly dry, but their form of foot-covering would
certainly not allow of continual work in snow. We had a promise of
ninety men.

We further had to make full arrangements for a regular supply of
yak-dung, the whole of which, as in fact everything to burn in Tibet, is
called “shing,” which really means wood; all our fuel, therefore, from
now on, will be referred to as “shing.” All tzampa,[3] meat, and grain
for the men had to be procured as far down as Chobu, Tashishong, and
even from other villages still further down the Dzakar Chu; that is to
say, very often our supplies were brought up from at least 40 miles
distant. We required a pretty continuous flow of everything. It is
wonderful how much even seventy men can get through.

Footnote 3:

  Flour.

The preliminary reconnaissance had fixed an excellent camp as our first
stage out. Geoffrey Bruce and Morris, with our own porters went up, and,
so as to save tents, built a number of stone shelters and roofed them
with spare parts of tents. This camp was immediately provisioned and
filled with every kind of supply in large amounts in order to form again
a little base from which to move up further. Strutt returned with his
reconnaissance on May 9, having made a complete plan for our advance and
having fixed all our camps up to the flat glacier under the North Col.
During this period Finch had also been very active with his oxygen
apparatus, not only in getting it all together, but continuing the
training of the personnel and in making experiments with the Leonard
Hill apparatus as well. He also gave lectures and demonstrations on the
use of our Primus stove, with which everybody practised. Primus stoves
are excellent when they are carefully treated, but are kittle cattle
unless everything goes quite as it should, and are apt to blow up.

Longstaff suffered considerably on the reconnaissance, and was brought
down not too fit. We also had a real set-back—our ninety coolies did not
eventuate, only forty-five appearing, and these coolies only worked for
about two days, when they said that their food was exhausted and they
must go down for more. We took the best guarantee we could for their
return by keeping back half their pay. They went for more food, but
found it in their houses and stopped there; we never saw them again.
However, it is not to be wondered at. If ploughing in the upper valleys
is to be done at all, it is to be done in May. They were, therefore,
very anxious to get back to their homes. Ninety men is a big toll for
these valleys to supply, but their behaviour left us rather dispirited.
We had to turn every one on to work, and then we had to make every
possible exertion to collect further coolies from the different
villages. The Chongay La who came with us, and who understood our needs,
was frantic, but said he could do nothing. However, we persuaded him to
do something, at any rate, and further offered very high prices to all
the men who had come. He certainly played up and did his very best. Men
came up in driblets, or rather men, women, and children came, as every
one in this country can carry loads, and they seem to be quite
unaffected by sleeping out under rocks at 16,000 or 17,000 feet.

For the whole time we remained at the Rongbuk Base Camp the equipping
and supply of our first and second camps up the East Rongbuk was mostly
carried out by local coolies, and the supply of these was very difficult
to assure. We never knew whether we should have three or four men
working, or thirty; they came up for different periods, so that we would
often have a dozen men coming down and four or five going up, and in
order to keep their complete confidence, they were received and paid
personally by myself or the transport officers. By degrees their
confidence was restored, and a very fair stream of porters arrived. Not
only that, but many of the men’s own relations came over from
Sola-Khombu, which is a great Sherpa Settlement at the head of the Dudh
Kosi Valley in Nepal. To reach us they had to cross the Ngangba La,
sometimes called the Khombu La, which is 19,000 feet in height. Often
the men’s relations came and were willing to carry a load or two and
then go off again. The mothers often brought their children, even of
less than a year old, who did not apparently suffer. It is evidently a
case of the survival of the fittest.

[Illustration:

  CAMP II. AT SUNSET.
]

We had brought also large stores of rice, sugar, tea, and wheat grain,
both for the use of the officers of the Expedition and of the porters,
for fear we should run short of grain, and this proved a great stand-by.
The very rough tzampa of Tibet is often upsetting even to those most
accustomed to it. It was found to be an excellent policy to feed our
porters on the good grain when they came down to the Base Camp, and to
use the tzampa, which is cooked and ready for eating, at the upper
camps. Meat also had to be bought low down, sheep killed low down in the
valleys, and brought up for the use of the officers and men, and often
fresh yak meat for the porters. The Gurkhas got the fresh mutton. Dried
meat was brought up in large quantities for the porters, and proved of
the greatest use.

On the return, having received a full report from the reconnaissance
party, we tackled in earnest the establishment of the different camps.

Camp III, which was under the North Col, was first established in full.
This was to be our advance base of operations; and Mallory and Somervell
established themselves there, their business being to make the road to
the North Col while the rest of the Expedition was being pushed up to
join them. On May 13, Mallory, Somervell, and one coolie, together with
a tent, reached the North Col and planted the tent there.

This must be described as the beginning of the great offensive of May,
1922. Owing to the lack of coolies, all our officers and men had been
working at the highest possible speed, pushing forward the necessary
stores, camp equipage, and fuel to Camps I and II, and from thence
moving on to Camp III, Gurkhas being planted at each stage, whose
business it was to take the convoys to and fro. Finally, Camps I, II,
and III were each provided with an independent cook.

The duties of the cook at Camp III were the duties of an ordinary cook
in camp; those of the cooks at Camps I and II were to provide all
officers passing through or staying there with meals as they were
required, and right well all these three men carried out their duties.
The distance from the Base Camp to the advance base at Camp III was
fairly evenly divided, Camp I being at about three hours’ journey for a
laden animal at a height of 17,800 feet; Camp II a further four hours up
the glaciers at a height of 19,800 feet, and directly below the lesser
peak which terminates the Northern ridge of Everest; Camp III on moraine
at the edge of the open glacier below the Chang La, at a height of
21,000 feet, about four hours again beyond Camp II.

As our supply of Tibetan coolies improved, and as the main bulk of the
necessary supplies was put into Camp III, and the oxygen and its
complete outfit had been deposited in this camp, the hard work of
supplying rations and fuel to Camps I and II was entirely in the hands
of the local Tibetans. From Camp II to Camp III one encounters real
mountaineering conditions, as crevassed glaciers have to be crossed,
requiring in places considerable care. The road from the Base Camp to
Camp II, rough enough in all conscience, was such as could very easily
be negotiated by mountain people.

On May 14, Strutt, Morshead, and Norton left to join the advance party
at Camp III. The weather was even worse than before, the wind blowing a
perfect hurricane during the daytime, and the thermometer sinking to
zero even in the Base Camp. I asked the Chongay La why it should be that
as summer was approaching the weather should be continuously worse. He
accounted for this without any difficulty. He said in the middle of the
month, each month, in fact, at the Rongbuk Monastery there were special
services held. These services invariably irritated the demons on the
mountains, and they attempted to put a stop to them by roaring more than
usually loud. As soon as the services stopped, these winds would stop
too. The services stopped on May 17, and the Chongay La said we could
expect better weather on that date.

On May 16 the last of the oxygen, with Finch, left for the upper camps,
and it is a curious thing that about that time the weather did slightly
improve. On May 20, I received a letter from Strutt telling me of the
establishment of the camp on the North Col; he himself also accompanied
the party that reached the North Col. Here they made a very considerable
encampment, and put in it such light stores and cooking apparatus as
would be available for parties stopping there and attacking the mountain
from that spot. It is very curious how on this Expedition the standard
of what we expected from all our members went up. It was looked upon as
a foregone conclusion that any member of the party could walk with
comfort to the North Col (23,000 feet). It is quite right, no doubt,
that the standard should have been set so high; but it is a little
amazing, when one comes to think, that only on one occasion before has a
night been spent as high as 23,000 feet, and that on very, very few
occasions has this height been even attained. Strutt was quite by way of
looking upon himself as a worn-out old gentleman because he felt tired
at 23,000 feet. No doubt that is the standard we should set for
ourselves; but even 23,000 feet is a tremendous undertaking, and no one
at any time or at any age of life need be anything but pleased with
himself if he can get there.

The party established at Camp III made little expeditions to the Lhakpa
La and Ra-piu-la, and obtained a fine view of Makalu and the Northern
face of Everest; but the views so obtained also gave them a sight of the
approaching monsoon, and this made every one very nervous about the
length of time there was left to us for our actual attack on the
mountain. It was this very point, including also the evidence of rough
and uncertain weather which had been experienced round the mountain
itself, that decided Strutt to allow four members to make an attempt on
the mountain without oxygen. Certain defects had been found in the
oxygen apparatus, and Finch was employed in rectifying these
difficulties, and at the same time he was not quite ready to proceed
further. Geoffrey Bruce was also working with him at Camp III, and made
great progress in the use of the oxygen. They also roped in as their
assistant the Gurkha Tejbir, having for him a special rôle.

It is not for me to describe in detail the great attempt on the mountain
made by the party consisting of Mallory, Somervell, Morshead, and
Norton, but I must point out quite clearly that as a _tour de force_
alone it stands, in my opinion, by itself. It was the most terrific
exertion, carried out during unfavourable weather and in the face of
that dreadful West wind. Not only did they reach the prodigious height
of 26,985 feet without the assistance of oxygen, but they passed a night
at 25,000 feet.

I think it is pretty clear from their accounts that any further
expedition must be clothed in windproof suitings, and these of the
lightest, when attacking Everest, or probably any other great mountain
in this particular part of the world. Morshead, who suffered far more
than any of the others from the cold, did not employ his windproof
suiting in the early part of the climb, and I believe by this omission
he very greatly decreased his vitality, and it was probably this
decrease which was the reason of his terrible frostbites.

It was a tremendous effort, unparalleled in the history of mountain
exploration, but it gave immense confidence to all that the mountain was
not unconquerable. If on the first occasion such a gigantic height could
be reached, we were pretty certain that later, with the experience so
gained, and with the weather in the climbers’ favour instead of the
horrible conditions under which this climb was undertaken, the mountain
would in time yield to assault.

The following day, notwithstanding their fatigue, they determined to get
down to Camp I. They certainly were a sight on arrival; I have never
seen such a crowd of swollen and blistered and weary mountaineers
before, but they were all naturally tremendously elated with their
performance. Strutt came down with them, and quite rightly too; he had
been a very long time living above 21,000 feet, and this in itself is a
great strain. I thoroughly endorse his judgment in making this great
attempt without oxygen. At first sight it would seem that it was not
wise to send so many of the best climbers at once on to the mountain
before the oxygen apparatus was ready, but he felt (and I consider he
was quite right) that as the weather was so bad and the monsoon was
evidently arriving before its time, and as at the moment the oxygen
apparatus was in such a doubtful condition, it was far better to make an
attempt than possibly to fail in making any attempt at all.

[Illustration:

  MOUNT EVEREST FROM CAMP III.
]

During the time that the great attempt on the mountain without oxygen
was being made, Finch was employed in getting the oxygen apparatus into
order. It had suffered in a good many ways, and the method of inhaling
the oxygen appeared to be deficient, the face-masks, in fact, causing a
feeling of suffocation and not allowing a sufficiency of ordinary air to
be inhaled. Finch had a very difficult time getting all this apparatus
into order in this very high camp. It would have been difficult
anywhere, but up here in the great cold and the great height it was
infinitely more troublesome. As soon as the apparatus was in working
order, they made numerous training walks up on to the passes, looking
down into the heart of the Kharta Valley, from where they were able to
see the Southern faces of the Himalaya and to know the way in which the
clouds were pushing up from the South.

They had also instructed, to a certain extent, the Gurkha Tejbir Bura in
the use of oxygen, as they intended him to help them in their advance on
the mountain.

About the time the other party left for the Base Camp, Finch and
Geoffrey Bruce set off for the camp on the Chang La, Camp IV, taking
with them twelve laden coolies to carry their outfit. I will not attempt
to describe their subsequent mountaineering operations in detail, as
these must be left to Finch’s narrative in a subsequent chapter, but
there are a great many points to which attention might be drawn. First,
although Geoffrey Bruce is thoroughly accustomed to work on the
hillside, he had never before this big attempt, and before the few
practice walks that he had with Finch, attempted a snow mountain in his
life; the nearest thing he had been to it was following game in Kashmir.
It was, therefore, for him a very great test. The same also applies to
the Gurkha; although he is a born mountain man and has hardly been off
the hillside the whole of his life, up to the time of the climb he knew
nothing about snow and ice as understood by a Swiss mountaineer.
However, they had a first-rate leader, and his trust in them proved
anything but ill-placed.

Owing to a terrific gale, they had to spend two nights at 25,500 feet.
They were all short of food, and no doubt greatly exhausted, and I think
they would have been perfectly justified, after two nights spent at this
tremendous altitude, if they had given up their attempt and returned,
but they had too much grit for that. Here should have come in the use of
Tejbir if he had been quite himself. He was given extra oxygen to carry,
and their intention was that, after proceeding as far as the ridge, he
should be sent back to their camp to wait their descent. However, Tejbir
was completely played out when he had reached 26,000 feet.

The party continued until they reached a point which has been found to
work out at 27,235 feet. Here Geoffrey had an accident to his oxygen
apparatus, and, far from becoming immediately unconscious (as we had
been warned would be the case before we left England if climbers were
suddenly deprived of their artificial oxygen supply), he was able to
attach himself to Finch’s instrument while Finch was repairing the
damaged apparatus. Slightly higher than this point they were completely
exhausted, and had to beat a retreat, the whole party finally descending
to the North Col, where food was found ready for them, and by the
evening got down to Camp III itself—a great performance, considering the
altitude and that the descent was over 6,000 feet. I think it is pretty
certain that Tejbir’s breakdown was largely due to his not having a
windproof suit. This biting West wind goes through wool as if it was
paper, and he was exposed to it for a great period of time, and no doubt
it very largely sapped his vitality.

One result of this last attempt is that it increases our hopes, almost
to the point of certainty, that, with luck and good weather, and when
the oxygen apparatus has been further improved, the summit of Everest
will be attained.

All the time the porters were working from our Base Camp and up there
was great competition between them, and also considerable betting as to
who would do the hardest work—the true Tibetan-born porters or the
Sherpas from the South. It was rather amusing to see the superior airs
which the Sherpas invariably gave themselves in travelling through
Tibet. They considered Tibetans undoubtedly jăngli,[4] and treated them
very much from the point of view that a clever Londoner does the
simplest form of yokel when he appears in London. At any rate, they
backed themselves heavily to beat the Tibetans. It was a pretty good
race, but finally they came out well on top; in fact, I think all but
one who reached 25,000 feet and over were Sherpas. Paul, the
interpreter, and Gyaljen, had a great bet also about the officers, Paul
favouring Finch and Gyaljen Mallory. As a matter of fact, there was
quite a little book made among all the followers with regard to who
would go highest among the officers. I did not even belong to the “also
rans” between them. Oxygen was looked upon as a matter of no particular
importance, and I believe Paul made Gyaljen pay up, as he had won with
Finch against Mallory.

Footnote 4:

  Wild.

On May 27 we welcomed the arrival of John Macdonald with a further
supply of money, as, owing to the large calls of our enormous transport,
we had been afraid of running short. This was very cheering to us
indeed, and also a very great help, for, besides the money, Mr.
Macdonald brought with him two or three servants very well accustomed to
travel in Tibet and knowing all the people of the country. These we were
able to use as special messengers, and we sent off immediately by them
an account of the climbs that had occurred. The second of them was
unfortunately delayed by illness, and this accounted for the slight
delay in letting the world know of our great second “oxygen” climb. The
first messenger rode through in ten days from Rongbuk to Phari, and by
so doing almost caught up the previous letters which had been despatched
through the Dzongpens. Arrangements are, after all, not so bad in Tibet.
When one considers that Tibetans themselves have no understanding or
care for time, the promptness with which the different communications
were sent through was rather wonderful. There were, on occasions, no
doubt, hitches, but, generally speaking, the postal arrangements worked
very well.

The weather had become more and more threatening, but we could not bring
ourselves absolutely to give up for this year the attempts on Everest;
at the same time, the casualties were heavy. Our medical members had all
got to work and had tested thoroughly each member of the Expedition that
had been employed. It was evidently absolutely necessary that Morshead
should return as quickly as possible into hospital in India, and there
were also several other members who were suffering from their hard work.
Longstaff had “shot his bolt” as far as this year’s work was concerned,
and it was also most important that Morshead should have a doctor with
him. Strutt, too, was very much overdone, and it was time for him to
return. Norton was strained and tired, and Geoffrey’s toes, though not
so bad as Morshead’s, required that he should quickly go down to a
warmer climate. We therefore made up two convoys, which were to start
together from the Base Camp. Longstaff, Strutt, and Morshead to go with
the sardar Gyaljen direct to Darjeeling, travelling viâ Khamba Dzong,
and from Khamba Dzong directly South to Lachen and Gangtok and
Darjeeling by the shorter and quicker route. This would bring them quite
a week sooner to Darjeeling than the route by which we entered Tibet. It
was most important that Morshead should be got back as quickly as
possible; in fact, we were all very nervous about his condition, and we
were afraid that it might be necessary for some operation to be carried
out actually on the march.

It had always been our idea that as soon as we had finished with our
summer attack on Everest, the whole Expedition should go into the Kharta
Valley, where Colonel Howard-Bury in 1921 made his camps, and there
recover from our labours. The Kharta Valley is far lower than any other
district in this part of Tibet, lying between 11,000 and 12,000 feet
above sea-level; there are also many comforts which do not exist in
other parts. There is good cultivation, trees and grass to a certain
extent, and even some vegetables are obtainable. It is altogether a
charming spot—very charming compared with any other country we were
likely to see. The road was very high for sick men, as it led over the
Doya La, which is only 3 feet under 17,000 feet, but having once got
there, they would be in comfort compared with the Rongbuk Glacier.

Having decided on sending off this large convoy of invalids and
semi-invalids, we then began to organise our third attempt on Everest,
but so doubtful was the weather that the party was organised for two
complete purposes. It was fully provided with porters, far more than
would in the ordinary way be necessary for an attempt on the mountain
itself, considering that the camps were all fully provisioned. We had
brought every single man off the glacier after the last attempt in order
to give them all a complete rest. Every one had now had a long rest,
with the exception of Finch, who had only had five days. He, however,
was very keen to join the party.

The second rôle of this party was to evacuate as many camps as possible,
according to the condition of the weather, and it was carefully
explained to them that if in their opinion the weather was such as to
preclude an attempt on the mountain, they were to use the greatest
possible care and run no undue risks. It was organised as follows: The
climbing party to consist of Finch, Mallory, and Somervell; the
backing-up party, Crawford and Wakefield, to remain at Camp III; and
Morris, in whose charge the whole of the transport arrangements were,
was to take charge of the evacuation of camps either after the attempt
had been made, or if no attempt was made, immediately. Such was the
condition of the weather that I had no very great hope that even the
Chang La camp could be evacuated, but it was most necessary to recover
all stores left at the great depôt at Camp III. This was of the utmost
importance, as not only was the oxygen apparatus there, but also a great
number of surplus stores—stores which we should be in need of. We had,
of course, rationed these camps with a view to staying there probably a
fortnight longer, but this year the monsoon had evidently advanced at
least ten days earlier than usual. That, however, we could not foresee,
nor could we foresee the very great severity of the 1922 monsoon of the
Eastern Himalaya. This we only heard about on our return to India later
on. It was a curious thing that the Rongbuk Lama had sent up to
congratulate the porters, and ourselves also, on having come back safely
from the earlier attempts, but he warned the porters to leave the
mountain alone, as he had had a vision of an accident.

On June 3 the great convoy set off and spent the night at Camp I. On
June 4 we were rather overwhelmed to see Finch staggering into camp. He
was very much overdone, and had by no means recovered from his terrific
exertions on the mountain. It was quite evident that he was finished for
this year, and he was lucky to be just in time to join the detachment
returning to India direct. It was a very great loss to the party. Not
only would he have been of special assistance as the oxygen expert, but
his experience and knowledge of snow and ice under the conditions then
prevailing would have been of the greatest advantage to the party.

The weather now had completely broken. It was snowing hard; even at our
Base Camp we had 2 inches of snow; the whole of the mountains were a
complete smother of snow. Notwithstanding this, and, under the
conditions, quite rightly, the convoy pushed on to Camp III. On arrival
at Camp III the weather cleared. The wind temporarily went round to the
West, and one perfect day of rest and sunshine was enjoyed.

Morris all this time was on the line of communication. He had the whole
of the service of evacuation to arrange, and was laying out his convoys
of Tibetan coolies and others with that point of view in his mind. It
was lucky he did so. The great foe, generally speaking, on Everest
during the dry period is the horrible West wind, but now the monsoon had
to all intents and purposes arrived. The West wind now was our one and
only friend. If it would again blow for a short period, the mountain
would probably return temporarily to a fairly safe condition. The South
wind is a warm and wet, though fairly strong, current, but the result of
even a short visit from it absolutely ruins the mountain-side. However,
at Camp III they enjoyed one full day of sunshine, followed by a very
low temperature (12° below zero) the following night, and it was
considered, owing both to the strength of the sun and to the fact that
the West wind had temporarily got the better of the South wind, that the
mountain would in all probability be safely solidified so as to render
an attempt justifiable. Therefore on the morning of June 7 a start was
made to reach the North Col, with the object of spending a night there
and making an assault on the mountain the following day. It was also
proposed to carry up as much oxygen as possible to the greatest height
they could get the porters to go, and from that point only to use the
remaining oxygen to make a push over the summit. I think this was a
thoroughly sound proposition. They were all acclimatised, and it seems
to me that it is probably better, especially if there is any chance of a
shortage of oxygen, to use one’s acclimatisation to go as high as one
can without undue fatigue, and from thence on to use the oxygen. No
doubt it would be possible and of advantage, if the oxygen apparatus
should ever be improved, to use it for the whole of an ascent, say, from
20,000 feet or so, but against that comes the chance that, in case of
any cessation of the oxygen supply, the danger would be very much
greater.

The caravan consisted of Mallory, Somervell, and Crawford, who was going
with them as far as the North Col to assist them and to relieve them of
the hard labour of remaking the path up to that point. Mallory will
relate further on how at about one o’clock, when about half the journey
had been completed, the snow suddenly cracked across and gave way, and
the whole caravan was swept down the hillside, and seven porters killed.

On return to Camp III, a porter was despatched to take the news down to
the Base Camp, and arrived that same night at about nine o’clock, having
travelled at full speed—really a wonderful performance. There was
nothing to be done—that was quite evident—and all I could do was to
await the return of the party for a full account, sending news at the
same time to Morris to evacuate the camps at the greatest possible
speed. Mallory arrived by himself, very tired, and naturally very upset,
on Thursday, the 8th. Again was shown what a terrible enemy the great
Himalaya is. Risks and conditions which would appear justifiable in the
Alps can never be taken in the Himalaya. So great is the scale that far
greater time must be allowed for the restoration of safe conditions.
When once the condition of a mountain is spoiled, the greater size
requires more time for its readjustment. The odds against one are much
greater in the Himalaya than in the smaller ranges. Its sun is hotter;
its storms are worse; the distances are greater; everything is on an
exaggerated scale.

Mallory was followed next morning by Wakefield, Crawford, and Somervell,
who brought down with them a certain amount of the lighter equipment.
Morris was all this time working to salvage as much as he possibly could
from the different camps. We had a large number of Tibetans pushed up as
far as Camp II, and as many of our own porters as were available (not
very many, I am sorry to say, by now) working with Morris in the
evacuation of Camp III. In this work the cooks and orderlies also
joined.

It was perfectly evident by now that the monsoon had set in in full
force. On his return, Morris gave me a very vivid description of how,
even during the one day that he stayed up after the others had left at
Camp III, although the weather was fairly fine, the whole face of the
mountain sides began to change; how under the influence of the soft
South wind the mountains seemed to melt and disintegrate. Not only that,
but even the great teeth formed by the pressure of the collateral
glaciers, probably great séracs that spring out like the teeth of a huge
saw on the glacier, and which seemed solid enough to last for all time,
were visibly crumbling up, and some of them were even toppling over. The
great trough of black ice up the centre of the glacier which Strutt has
described had turned into a rushing torrent—and all this in an
incredibly short period of time. Snow also fell at intervals, and it was
quite apparent that when the monsoon settled down the whole of Camp III
would be under a great blanket of fresh snow. Under these conditions a
good deal of stuff, especially the supplies of grain, tzampa, and so on,
for our porters, had to be abandoned. As for Camps IV, V, and VI, there
was naturally no chance of rescuing anything from them. Thus was
occasioned a fairly large loss of outfit; nor was there any possibility
that any of it could have stood under any conditions more than a month’s
exposure to the weather. There was a considerable loss in the oxygen
apparatus, but Morris managed to bring down three full outfits in more
or less dilapidated condition.

On Morris’s return to the Base Camp, the party was completed. One of the
difficulties in having so large an outfit as ours was the difficulty of
obtaining transport when necessary. Therefore, as soon as we saw signs
of the monsoon, it was necessary to make arrangements for our return, as
at least fifteen days were required to collect the still large number of
animals required for our moving. These animals have to be searched for
all down the Dzakar Chu, collected, and brought up; nor when once
collected could they be kept waiting for very long, as the supply of
fodder in the upper valley was absolutely nil—fodder did not exist. When
we sent off the previous party they travelled as lightly as possible,
but even then the small number of animals which was required for their
transport had not been obtained with any great ease. Fortunately, John
Macdonald was with us and was free, and it was owing to his help (for he
speaks Tibetan as well as Nepali, and is thoroughly accustomed to deal
with the people) that the two parties of Strutt and Norton were able to
proceed with such little delay. It had required a full fifteen days to
collect enough animals to move the main body. I had arranged for a
latitude of one or two days, which meant that they should have spare
food up to that extent, but beyond that it would be quite impossible,
naturally, to make provision. Of course, as one of our secondary objects
we had hoped, if our party had not been exhausted, to have explored the
West Rongbuk and the great glens on the Western faces of Everest. And
besides this most interesting piece of exploration, of which really not
very much more than glimpses were obtained during 1921, there is the
prodigious and fascinating group of Cho Uyo and Gyachang Kang to be
explored.

[Illustration:

  WATCHING THE DANCERS, RONGBUK MONASTERY.
]

As I before pointed out, of course, not only was our major work and the
whole object of the Expedition the tackling of the great mountain, but
also it was a race against the weather, so we could let nothing
interfere with our main object. It was quite clear now, as we were
situated, that an exploration of the West Rongbuk was entirely beyond
consideration. Not only was the whole party fairly played out, but to
get up enthusiasm in a new direction after what we had gone through was
pretty nearly out of the question. Somervell, the absolutely untireable,
had very strong yearnings in that direction, but it would have been
nothing more than a scramble in the dark if he had gone. The weather was
broken and was getting worse and worse every day. Snow fell occasionally
even at our camp. Further up everything was getting smothered. Everest,
when we had glimpses of it, was a smother of snow from head to foot, and
no one who saw it in these days could ever imagine that it was a rock
peak.

I am afraid also that most of us had only one real idea at the time, and
that was to get out of the Rongbuk Valley. However, during our wait for
the transport the annual fête of the Rongbuk Monastery occurred. There
was a great pilgrimage to the monastery to receive the blessing of the
Lama and to witness the annual dances. Most of our party went down to
see dances, and Noel especially to cinematograph the whole ceremony,
dances as well as religious ceremonies. I have not done justice up to
this point to Noel’s work. He was quite indefatigable from the start,
and had lost no opportunity during our march up, not only of taking many
pictures of the country and Expedition, both with his ordinary camera
and with his cinema camera, but of studying Tibetan life as well. He had
in the Rongbuk Valley pitched his developing tents near the only
available clear water at the moment, and had there been untiring in
developing his cinema photographs. He had made two expeditions to the
head of the East Rongbuk Glacier, and had even taken his cameras and his
cinema outfit on to the North Col itself where he remained for no less
than four days—a most remarkable _tour de force_. On the last occasion
he had accompanied the evacuation party, and had been actually taking
pictures of the start of the last attempt to get to the North Col and to
climb Everest. Of course, his performances with the camera are entirely
unprecedented. The amount of work he carried out was prodigious, and the
enthusiasm he displayed under the most trying conditions of wind and
weather was quite wonderful. We now feel that we can produce a real
representation of our life and of life in Tibet in a manner in which it
has never hitherto been brought before people’s eyes, and this gives a
reality to the whole Expedition which I hope will make all those who are
interested in mountain exploration understand the wonderful performances
and the great difficulties under which the climbing members of this
Expedition and the transport officers laboured.

After the news of the accident had been received, we immediately got in
touch with the great Lama of Rongbuk, who was intensely sympathetic and
kind over the whole matter. It is very strange to have to deal with
these curious people; they are an extraordinary mixture of superstition
and nice feelings. Buddhist services were held in the monasteries for
the men who had been lost and for the families; and all the porters, and
especially the relations of the men who were killed, were received and
specially blessed by the Rongbuk Lama himself. All the Nepalese tribes
who live high up in the mountains, and also the Sherpa Bhotias, have a
belief that when a man slips on the mountains and is killed, or when he
slips on a cliff above a river and falls into it and is drowned, that
this is a sacrifice to God, and especially to the god of the actual
mountain or river. They further believe that anyone whosoever who
happens to be on the same cliff or on the same mountain at the same
place, exactly at the same time of year, on the same date and at the
same hour, will also immediately slip and be killed.

I also received during our return a very kind letter from the Maharajah
of Nepal condoling with us on the loss of our porters. He writes as
follows:—

“Personally, and as a member of the Royal Geographical Society, I share
with you the grief that must have resulted from the frustration of the
keen hope entertained by you and the party. My heartiest sympathies go
to you and to the families of the seven men who lost their lives in the
attempt. This puts in my mind the curious belief that persistently
prevails with the people here, and which I came to learn so long ago in
the time of our mutual friend, Colonel Manners Smith, when the question
of giving permission for the project of climbing the King of Heights
through Nepal was brought by you and discussed in a council of
Bharadars. It is to the effect that the height is the abode of the god
and goddess Shiva and Parvati, and any attempt to invade the privacy of
it would be a sacrilege fraught with disastrous consequences to this
Hindu country and its people, and this belief or superstition, as one
may choose to call it, is so firm and strong that people attribute the
present tragic occurrence to the divine wrath which on no occasion they
would draw on their heads by their actions.”

This, I must point out, is, of course, the Southern and Hindu people’s
tradition, and did not in the same way affect all the porters whom we
employed, as they were Buddhists by faith. The whole of our people,
however, took the view common to both and dismissed their troubles very
rapidly and very lightly, holding simply that the men’s time had come,
and so there was no more to be said about it. If their time had not
come, they would not have died. It had come, and they had died and that
was all. What need to say any more? As a matter of fact, this
philosophic way of looking on everything also allowed them to say that
they were perfectly ready to come back for the next attempt, because if
it was written that they should die on Everest, they should die on
Everest; if it was written that they would not die on Everest, they
would not, and that was all there was to be said in the matter.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER III

                          THE RETURN BY KHARTA


On June 14 we were cheered with the news that our transport was
approaching, and I think a good many sighs of relief were uttered. We
had quite made up our minds to cross over into the Kharta Valley, and,
having had a sufficiency of rest, to explore the Kama Chu more
completely than had been done in 1921, and, if possible, to examine the
whole gorge of the Arun where it breaks through the great Himalayan
range; but our first idea was to get down to a decent elevation where
some rest could be obtained, where we could get adequate bathing and
washing for our clothes and get everybody into a fairly respectable
condition again. Living continuously for many weeks at elevations never
below, and generally far above, 16,500 feet, does not tend to general
cleanliness, and it also, after a time, I think, tends to general
degeneration. At the same time, we were by no means convinced that at
medium elevations there is any particular loss of physical powers or
that acclimatisation takes long to complete. I found, personally, that I
was getting better and better when exerting myself at the medium heights
to which I went. I found, during the march that was in front of us, that
I could walk at elevations of over 16,000 feet very much more easily
than when I first arrived at the Rongbuk Glacier, and this certainly
does not show that one had been degenerating physically. I think,
really, that the strain was more a mental one; and this remark probably
also applies to every member of our party. At the same time, it was most
exhilarating to think that one was descending to a low altitude.

We made our first march back to the Rongbuk Glacier, and that evening we
were left in peace—by the Lamas, that is to say, but not by the wind,
which howled consistently, bringing with it thin driving sleet.

[Illustration:

  THE CHIEF LAMA, RONGBUK MONASTERY.
]

On the following morning we arranged that we should all meet the Rongbuk
Lama; and so, having got our kit packed, we left it to be loaded by the
Tibetans, and the whole party, including all our followers, porters, all
the Gurkhas who were with us (with the exception of Tejbir, who had gone
on in advance with Geoffrey Bruce and Norton), went up to the monastery.
There we waited in the courtyard until the Lama himself descended from
his inner sanctuary in state. Tea was first served in the usual way,
ordinary tea being provided, I am glad to say, for the others and myself
by special arrangement of the interpreter. I think Noel, however, a man
of infinite pluck, took down a bowl or two of true Tibetan tea. The Lama
made special inquiries after the Expedition, and then began the
blessing. He offered us his very best wishes, and presented me, through
Paul, with a special mark of his goodwill, a little image of one of the
Taras, or queens, of Tibetan mythology. My special one was the Green
Tara, who takes precedence among all ladies. This was a mark of very
great favour. Paul was also presented with another little mark and many
little packets of medicine, which were to preserve him from all and
every description of the illnesses which afflict and worry humanity. The
Buddhistic side of Paul came up on this occasion, and he received his
blessings and the medicines in the most humble and reverent spirit. The
Gurkhas all went up too, and were suitably blessed, being even more
humble in their aspect than the very much overcome and reverent porters
themselves; they could hardly be induced to approach his Holiness.
However, we all parted on the most friendly terms, and left our own good
wishes, for what they were worth, with the old gentleman.

By three o’clock in the afternoon we arrived at Chodzong. But what a
difference there was in our march! The few days of the monsoon and the
small amount of rain which had fallen, even this little way back from
the mountains, had changed the whole aspect of the valley. Flowers had
begun to show, and in places there was even a little green grass. At
Chodzong there was quite a considerable amount of grass, and we enjoyed
here what was more pleasant than anything we had experienced for a long
time—a shower of rain. We had almost forgotten the existence of rain,
and the relief from the very trying dryness of the Tibetan atmosphere,
which parches one’s skin as if one was in the Sahara, was immense.
Still, at Chodzong it was cold at night and the temperature below
freezing-point. Here we found all our ponies and their saises returned
from taking Norton and Geoffrey Bruce over to the Kharta Valley. Also
the gigantic D(r)ubla and his small Gyamda very fit and well.

This camp at Chodzong was a place particularly impressed on our minds on
our way up, as we had there the very coldest breakfast that we anywhere
indulged in. The wind was blowing half a hurricane, and the temperature
nearly at zero, while our breakfast was actually being brought to us in
the morning, and the misery and discomfort of that particular
temperature was in great contrast to the delightful weather we were now
experiencing. From this place we diverted a large convoy of our spare
baggage to Shekar, to await our return after we had finished our further
wanderings in Kharta. The following day took us up the Rebu Valley. It
was a fairly long and very windy march, but the climate was so greatly
improved that, generally speaking, it was very enjoyable, and again we
camped in a very pleasant spot in grassy fields—such a change from our
late life. Not only that, but in the evening, as the people up here had
no prejudices, we caught a sufficient number of snow-trout, really a
barbel, to make a dish. My own servant, Kehar Sing, the cook, always had
a reputation for being, and always was, a first-rate poacher. At any
form of netting or tickling trout he was a great hand. However, he was
completely eclipsed later on by one of Macdonald’s servants, to whom I
am quite certain no fish-poacher that ever was could have given a
wrinkle. He was also quite a good hand at catching fish with
rod-and-line. The Gurkhas, as usual, took a hand; they are immensely
fond of fish, and their methods are primitive. Tejbir, who came along
with us, was nearly recovered from his exertions with Finch and
Geoffrey; he had lost a good deal of skin from seven or eight fingers
and a large patch off his foot, but though his frostbites were many,
they were slight. He was really suffering from being rather overdone,
and took at least a fortnight to recover.

The next day’s was an interesting march, though very long, and tiring
for the animals. Our way led over the high ridge which divides the
Dzakar Chu country from the Kharta district. Although the rise was not
very great from our camp at approximately 13,500 feet, still the pass
itself was just 17,000 feet, or rather, to be absolutely accurate, just
3 feet under. The way led for several miles, hardly rising at all, up a
grassy valley, and then over the strangest and wildest and most
completely barren of hillsides. From here, no doubt, we should have a
fine view of the great supporters of Everest, but clouds completely
obliterated the mountains. We had the ordinary balmy Tibetan breezes
through the snows, but modified to what they would have been quite a
short time before.

The descent from the Doya La was very fine indeed; the colour wonderful,
and very soon giving promise of a greener land. The first 300 feet on
the Kharta side is down a very steep rocky track, and I was told
afterwards by Geoffrey Bruce that he never dismounted, and that the
wonderful Gyamda had carried him down without making a mistake. On that
day we all of us well overtopped 17,000 feet. There was a little joke
about Crawford, who was not very tall, but who certainly did not deserve
his nickname of the “Two-and-a-half-footer” given him by the porters. It
was a joke among them afterwards, when told the height of the pass, that
he had just missed the 17,000 feet by 6 inches.

It was a very long descent, but into a valley rapidly changing from bare
hillsides to grassy banks. Never was there a more welcome change, and
here we came into a real profusion of Alpine flowers. It was a full
20-mile march to our halting-place at Trateza, and as we got down where
the valley narrowed we passed the very picturesquely situated village of
Teng. Everybody was delighted with the change. Our camp was pitched near
the village on quite thick and beautiful green grass, and the hillsides
were green and covered with bushes. We were absolutely happy and
intensely relieved, and pleased with our surroundings. The ponies and
animals simply pounced on the green grass, and were even more happy than
their masters.

The following morning we all started off in wonderful spirits, shared in
by the yaks, several of whom took it into their heads to run amuck, and
we had a first-class scene of confusion in the rather tight camp before
we could get matters straightened out. One yak especially was peculiarly
gay here, and took to the hillside after throwing his load on three or
four occasions. We had, in fact, a real hunt after him; everybody joined
in the fun, and I am afraid on one or two occasions some of the more
light-hearted of the porters kept him going on purpose. This march,
however, was even pleasanter than the one before. The part we were
travelling down grew richer and richer; the hillsides were thickly
clothed in cedar trees and in shrubs of many kinds; the valley itself,
wherever possible, was cultivated. We passed on our way two or three
small villages extremely well situated, and finally debouched into an
open valley full of fields and cultivation, where we joined the main
Arun Valley and the district of Kharta proper. Kharta is a fairly large
district, and not a village. The largest settlement is called Kharta
Shika, and it is there that the Dzongpen has his abode. The whole of
this district, also, is under the Dzongpen of Shekar Dzong, and the
Dzongpen of Shika apparently has not as full powers by any means as the
Dzongpen at Shekar Dzong. However, for all that, he appears to be quite
a little autocrat.

It was quite delightful riding out into the main valley, and there also
we were cheered by meeting Geoffrey Bruce and John Macdonald, who had
come out some miles from where our camp had been established at the
small village of Teng. We passed, also, the old gentleman, known, I
think, in the last year’s Expedition as “the Havildar,” but whom
Geoffrey and Norton had promptly christened Father William. He was a
rather officious, but at the same time most helpful, old man, and on our
way back he asked us to come in for a meal into his very attractive
garden; but as it was only a mile or so from Teng, where our camp was
pitched, we did not think it was worth while then, knowing we should see
a good deal more of the old gentleman. He brought us plenty of what we
were yearning for—fresh green vegetables, the very greatest boon.

We found our invalids very nearly recovered; Norton’s feet, however,
were tender, and Geoffrey’s toes still in a distinctly unpleasant
condition. It was wonderful, nevertheless, how well both were able to
get about with the help of plenty of socks. Our camp was pitched in
fields at a height of about 10,800 feet, and below us, at about the
distance of 3 miles, we could see the entrance to the great Arun Gorge
where it cuts through the Himalaya. On the opposite side of the Arun the
two mountains, old friends of ours that we had noticed on our way up,
looked down on the camp. On the whole of my way down I was struck with
the resemblance between these valleys and parts of Lahoul and Kailang.
They were less rich, however, and the forests of pencil cedar not so
fine, but still the whole character of the country and of the hillsides
was very much the same.

[Illustration:

  TIBETAN DANCING MAN.
]

[Illustration:

  TIBETAN DANCING WOMAN.
]

Above the camp at Teng was a very well situated monastery, which Noel
afterwards photographed. Soon after our arrival during the afternoon,
the Dzongpen from Kharta Shika arrived to meet us. He was reported at
first to be very suspicious of the party, and such, indeed, appeared to
be the case. However, after a long conversation, and having presented
him with pictures of the Dalai Lama and of the Tashilumpo Lama, as well
as with the ubiquitous Homburg hat, he became much more confidential,
and we finished up very good friends. He also told us that on the
following day he would bring down some Tibetan dancers and acrobats to
give us a performance.

The rapidity with which the whole party seemed to recover at Kharta was
perfectly wonderful. Everybody was in first-class health and spirits,
especially all our porters, and that night their high spirits were not
only due to the atmospheric conditions, but were taken into them in a
manner they thoroughly approved of and of which they had been deprived
for some time. However, after all their very hard work and the wonderful
way in which they had played up, it is not altogether to be wondered at
if they did occasionally “go on the spree” on their way back.

So attractive was the whole country, and so strong was the call of the
Kama Valley, that we were all very soon anxious to get a move on again.
Tejbir was still not quite recovered, and would be all the better for
further rest, so he was detailed with one of the other Gurkhas,
Sarabjit, to stay behind and take charge of our camp and spare
equipment. The rest of us all set to work and planned an advance into
the Kama Valley, and, we hoped also, an exploration of it, both towards
the snows up and to the Popti La, which is the main road into the valley
of the Arun, and, if possible, up the great Arun Gorge itself. But this
year’s monsoon never gave us a chance of carrying out more than a small
portion of that programme. We were now living in an entirely different
climate. We had many showers of rain, which were hailed with delight by
the people of the country, as their crops were now fairly well advanced.
The crops at Kharta consist chiefly of peas and barley, as usual, but
there is a certain amount of other grain and vegetables to be obtained
from the gardens.

Having arranged the transport, we started our caravan off to Kharta
Shika. Norton had issued a large-hearted invitation for us to lunch with
him at the mouth of the Arun Gorge. Previously Norton and Geoffrey had
explored, while they were waiting, the country round as far as they
could go on horseback, and Norton had discovered at the mouth of a gorge
an alp like those on the Kashmir Mountains, surrounded with a forest
which he described as equal to a Southern Himalayan forest, and we
positively must go and see it, and climb up the hillsides and look down
into the gorge itself.

We all accepted his invitation with the greatest alacrity. On the
afternoon of the day before starting, the Dzongpen, as he had promised,
produced us his acrobats and dancers, and we had a very hilarious
afternoon. They were not particularly good either as actors or as
acrobats, but they danced with prodigious vigour, and it was altogether
great fun. Before all the dances and the little plays they covered their
faces with masks of an extremely primitive kind. They failed at most of
their tricks once or twice before accomplishment, and these failures
were invariably greeted both by the spectators and by the actors with
shrieks of laughter.

On the following day (June 19) we all set off, the luggage proceeding
direct to Kharta Shika under the charge of the interpreter and the
Gurkhas, while we switched off to Norton’s alp. It really was
delightful, and though the forest was rather a dwarfed forest, it
contained several kinds of fir trees, birch, and rhododendron scrub,
and, after Tibet, was in every way quite charming. We climbed up the
hillsides and suddenly came round the corner on to great cliffs diving
straight down into the Arun Valley, and we could see further down how
enormously the scale of the mountains increased. It was a most
attractive gorge, but on our side it appeared to be almost impossible to
have got along, so steep were the hillsides. On the far bank, that is,
the true left bank, the East bank, there was a well-marked track, and it
appears that lower down it crosses to the right bank and then continues
on the right bank to the junction with the Kama Chu. Later on Noel and
Morris were able to explore and photograph the greater part of the
gorge. We all sat on the top of the cliffs and indulged in the very
pleasant amusement of rolling great rocks into the river a thousand feet
below us—always a fascinating pursuit, especially when one is quite
certain that there is no one in the neighbourhood. The lunch did not
turn up for some time, when an exploring party discovered that our
porters, who had been detailed to carry it, had dropped in at a village
and visited the Barley Mow, and could hardly get along at all in
consequence; finally, however, the lunch was rescued and an extremely
pleasant time passed. It was absolutely epicurean: Gruyère cheese,
sardines, truffled yaks, and, finally, almost our last three bottles of
champagne. It was intended to be an epicurean feast—and it was so.

By the evening we arrived in Shika, and found our camp pitched in
beautiful grassy fields high above the village of Shika. The Dzongpen
was very anxious to entertain the whole party, but we were rather lazy
and did not want to go down to his village, which was some way off, but
promised him that we would pay him a visit on our return from Kama. The
Dzongpen, however, imported his cooks and full outfit and gave us a
dinner in our own tent, himself sitting down with us and joining in. He
was a plump and very well dressed little man, and by now had completely
recovered his confidence in us. He was, however, very anxious that we
should do no shooting, and this anxiety of his was no doubt very largely
occasioned by the fact that he had only arrived from Lhasa about a
fortnight before our arrival. We were to reach in two marches
Sakiathang, in the Kama Valley, where Colonel Howard-Bury and his party
had encamped the year before. Our first march led us over the Samchang
La to a camp called Chokarbō. It was a steep and rough walk over the
pass, but knowing the wonderful capacity of the Tibetan pony, several of
the party took ponies with them. It was necessary both for Geoffrey and
for Norton to rest their feet as much as possible until completely
cured, and so on arrival at Chokarbō they took their ponies on over our
next pass, the Chog La, which is no less than 16,280 feet, and down into
the Kama Chu. This is a very rough road indeed.

We had here reached the most perfect land of flowers, and in the low
land which lies between the Samchang La and our camp at Chokarbō we
found every description of Alpine flora, reinforced by rhododendrons—the
very last of the rhododendrons. We also found several kinds of iris.

The road leading up to the Samchang La was extremely steep and rough,
but the path was well marked, and it was evident there was a
considerable amount of traffic leading into the Kama Chu. The local
people stoutly denied that yaks could cross, but later on we actually
found yaks carrying loads over this road. I can quite understand their
reason for not wishing to send their yaks, as the road from one end to
the other is very bad for animals. At Chokarbō all the riding ponies
were dispensed with, with the exception of Geoffrey’s and Norton’s;
these two ponies they particularly wished to look after, as they had
bought them, knowing that they must assure mounts, probably to the end
of the journey. They had certainly picked up the most useful little
couple. All the same, they had to walk most of the way, as it was quite
out of the question for anyone to have ridden at all, except over short
pieces of open ground, and it was perfectly wonderful the way in which
these two ponies got over the most shocking collection of rocks, big and
little, and how they negotiated the extremely slippery and rocky path
which led down from the Chog La. The ascent to the Chog La was easy, and
the latter half of it still under winter snow, as also was the first
thousand feet of the descent. The mountains were interesting on each
side, so much so that Somervell and Crawford went off for a little climb
on the way. The descent was delightful, although the road was, as I have
said, very stony indeed. One passes through every description of Eastern
Himalayan forest and wonderful banks of rhododendrons of many kinds. We
were, unfortunately, much too late for their full bloom, but a month
earlier this descent must be perfectly gorgeous, the whole hillsides
being covered with flowering rhododendrons.

[Illustration:

  OLD TIBETAN WOMAN AND CHILD.
]

The descent to Sakiathang is at least 5,000 feet, and may be a little
more. Thang means “a flat bench,” and such was Sakiathang, set in
gorgeous forest, and deep in grass and flowers. But the weather was
breaking fast, and by evening the clouds had descended and wiped out the
whole of the valley. Before it was quite obliterated we got glimpses of
what it must be like in fine weather.

In the early morning of the following day (Thursday, June 22), when I
woke up and looked out of my tent, the mouth of which looked straight up
the valley between the big mountains, the clouds had lifted somewhat,
and the whole end of the valley was filled with the gorgeous Chomolönzo
peak, and for an hour or so I was able to watch it with the clouds
drifting round its flanks, and then, just as the sun lit up the valley
for a moment, the great monsoon clouds coming up from the valley of the
Arun, driven by the wind up the Kama Chu, completely wiped it out again.
It was a glorious glimpse, and the only one we obtained during our stay
of more than a week in Sakiathang.

We found encamped in the neighbouring woods Nepalese shepherds, with
their flocks of sheep, and saw for the first time the very fine type of
sheep which these men own—a far bigger and better breed of sheep than
exists in Tibet, and also carrying a very much finer coat of wool. They
were rather strange to look at at first, as the whole fore-part of their
body was black and the hind-part white. We also found that the Nepalese
shepherds thoroughly understood the value of their own sheep. They keep
them all to make butter from their milk, which they collect and sell in
the bazaars in Nepal. All these shepherds were Gurkhas belonging either
to the Gurung tribe or Kirantis, and, curiously enough, one of them was
related to my servant Kehar Sing, he having gone through the “mit”
ceremony with his relations, and that is quite sufficient for him to be
also a “mit.” This “mit” ceremony is rather difficult to explain. It is
not exactly blood-brotherhood, it is more of the nature of religious
brotherhood; but it is quite binding, as much so as an ordinary
relationship. This eased the situation for us pretty considerably in the
matter of obtaining milk and butter. As I have before mentioned, I do
not myself eat butter in an uncooked state, but the remainder of the
party reported that this sheep’s butter was of very fine quality, and it
was certainly very clean. These shepherd establishments are known as
gôts. Naturally forgetting that certain terms are unfamiliar, I told
Wakefield that I had bought two sheep from the gôts. He seemed more
confused than usual by the strangeness of the country.

As we were rather short of provisions, we despatched Noel’s servant and
our excellent Chongay Tindel to obtain supplies for us; the first down
to the junction with the Arun, and the second over the Popti into
Damtang, a large Nepalese settlement.

The remainder of the party stayed behind, hoping for better weather in
order to explore the upper valley of the snows, and up to the Popti to
get a view of the country into Nepal, if possible. It was no use
attempting to move unless the weather cleared to a certain extent.
Meanwhile we were living in a smother of cloud, mist, and rain. But how
delightful it was to have an ample supply of firewood and to be able to
build, for the first time since we had entered Tibet, a reckless
camp-fire round which we could all sit! It is a real hardship in Tibet
never to have a good roaring fire, and it is a little damping to one’s
spirits having always to go to bed in order to get warm. Whenever it
cleared, we went for short walks through the neighbouring forests and
into the neighbouring valleys, and saw quite enough to fill us with a
desire for much more exploration. The forest of the Kama is unbelievably
rich; the undergrowth, especially the hill bamboo, of a very vivid
green, and the cedar and fir appear very dark, almost black, against it.
But the forest also contains every other kind of tree and shrub proper
to the Eastern Himalaya, and the river-banks were, in places, overhung
with the most glorious Himalayan larch, identical with the European
larch in appearance, but with possibly a greater spread of branch.

The weather got worse and worse, and our food supplies lower and lower.
There were no signs of the return either of Noel’s servant or of the
Chongay from Nepal, and so, with the greatest reluctance, we gave up
further exploration as a body. We were reduced to only half a day’s
grain-food for our following, and not only that, but the Tibetan porters
whom we were expecting to help us back, and who had been ordered, showed
no signs of arriving. Having searched the country round, we managed to
rope in a few local people, mostly Tibetans, who had come over from
Kharta for wood. There is considerable traffic from the Tibetan side, as
in this well-wooded country they cut most of the timber required for
their houses and carry it over on their own backs, or else on the backs
of unfortunate yaks, when they can bring themselves to risk their yaks’
legs over this awful road. We carried as much luggage as we possibly
could with us, not knowing how many men we should be able to obtain to
send for the remainder. We had not enough men with us to carry the whole
camp, and so two Gurkhas were left here in charge of what remained. They
were also to meet Chongay and bring him back with them, and it was
considered an absolute certainty that he would be in time to save them
from a shortage of rations; also, they would be able to get enough to
keep themselves alive from the Gurkha gôts, although these gôts
themselves are on a very short ration of grain, living largely on
sheep’s milk.

Our own porters and a few local people, with the help of a little chaff
to excite them, vied with each other in the size of the loads they could
carry, and they certainly gave us a first-class exhibition of
load-carrying. One girl, about eighteen years of age, actually carried a
160-lb. tent by herself from Sakiathang to Chokarbō, over the top of the
Chog La. Moreover, this tent had been wet for the last ten days, and
although we did our best to dry all our camp as much as possible before
starting, it must have been at least 20 to 30 lb. heavier than it ought
to have been. I am quite certain that not a single man or woman carried
less than 100 lb. that day over the pass, and this they did apparently
without undue fatigue, arriving quite cheerful at Chokarbō. We started
in fairly fine weather—a break, we thought; but before we had gone
half-way up the hill the clouds descended on us, and it was raining hard
when we got to our camp. The day before we left we came to the
conclusion that it would be quite possible for a very small party to get
down to the junction of the Kama Chu over the Arun, and Noel himself was
intensely anxious to photograph the Kama Chu and the gorges of the Arun
itself. He had also a plan, if possible, to get up the gorge and to
cross up over the high cliffs and hillsides, which would bring him down
almost to the alp where we had our picnic with Norton. This was a
magnificent conception, but, considering the weather, we thought that he
would have a very rough time of it. He chose Morris as his assistant; he
took off his own particular porters, reinforced by some Tibetans, and
left on the 27th, we leaving on the 28th.

While we had been over there, Geoffrey’s feet had completely recovered,
and he was able to walk now as of old. Norton could walk uphill, but his
feet pained him when descending; his ear had by this time completely
recovered.

On the 29th, Geoffrey and I, leaving the remainder of the party, went
down to see the Dzongpen of Kharta, with a view to making arrangements
for our final return. I had, previous to this, written to the Maharajah
of Nepal with a scheme by which Mallory should be allowed to cross the
upper end of the Wallung and Yallung valleys and to cross into British
territory by the Khang La, returning to Darjeeling by the ordinary route
along the Singalela Ridge. The Maharajah gave his consent to this
expedition, but unfortunately it had to be modified, owing to
difficulties of transport and to the very bad weather; but as Mallory
was rather pressed for time, it was arranged that he, Somervell, and
Crawford, should return direct to Tinki, crossing the Arun by the rope
bridge which was utilised in 1921 for the return of the party, and from
thence descending into Sikkim and travelling viâ Lachen and Gangtok back
to Darjeeling. The remainder of the party, with the heavy luggage, would
have to return viâ Shekar and the way we came in order to square up our
various accounts with the different Dzongpens and with the authorities,
postal and other, in Phari Dzong and the Chumbi Valley. All this
required a certain amount of arrangements. Before going into Kama, we
had given the Dzongpen an outline of our requirements, but everything in
Tibet, as elsewhere, requires a considerable supervision, and so
Geoffrey and I went down before the rest of the party to complete our
arrangements. On our way down we met a large contingent of Tibetan
porters coming over to move our camp. This eased matters off very
considerably. They were sent off into the Kama to bring the remainder of
the camp, and on their return to move the full camp down to Teng.
Meanwhile we descended and had a long and very interesting interview
with the Dzongpen, who by this time had quite lost all suspicion of us.
He entertained us splendidly, and presented us each with a jade cup
before leaving.

On July 1 we were all assembled in Teng, and packing up and dividing our
luggage preparatory to the return of the party by the different routes.
On July 3 Mallory’s party set off, and we did not see him nor the rest
of the party again until our arrival in Darjeeling, more than a month
later. We were now joined by Noel and Morris, back from their
adventurous journey up the Arun. They gave me a report of their travels.
I think it would be worth while once more to point out what the course
of the Arun is. The Arun is one of the principal tributaries of the Kosi
River (that is evident from the map), and has a very long journey
through Tibet, where it is known as the Bhong Chu.

It rises near and drains the plains of Tingri and Khamba, and then
turning due South, forces its way through the main chain of the Himalaya
directly between the mountain passes of the Everest group on the one
side, and of the Kanchengjanga group on the other. Between our camp at
Kharta and the village of Kyamathang, which is on the actual Nepal
frontier, a distance of some 20 miles, the river drops a vertical height
of 4,000 feet; and therefore we were particularly interested in the
exploration of this wonderful gorge, and we wished to find out, if we
could, whether this tremendous vertical drop consisted of a series of
great rapids and waterfalls or a steady fall in the bed of the river. It
was also clear, from first glimpses that we had had of the Arun Gorge,
that lower down they must be of the greatest possible grandeur and
interest. I have before described how we looked down from our picnic
into the Arun and hoped we should be able to explore it.

When we despatched Noel and Morris it was in terribly bad weather, the
whole of the Lower Kama being a smother of mist and the jungle dripping
with moisture. We had most of us been down as far as a place called
Chotromo, where the river is crossed by the road which leads up to the
Popti La, and this is the common road down into Nepal. From there the
road is far less well known, and is not so well marked.

I will now give Noel’s description of his journey.

[Illustration:

  FORDING THE BHONG CHU.
]

“On the evening of the 27th June, at the end of our first day’s march,
we pitched our camp on a little pleasant grassy shelf situated in a
small clearing in the forest near empty shepherd huts, which comprise
the camp at Chotromo. The hot, damp atmosphere of the Ka(r)ma here at
9,000 feet harbours a world of insect life. No sooner had the sun set
that evening than swarms of tiny midges emerged. They annoyed us for
most of the night, except when, in moments of exasperation, we got out
of bed and drove them away by lighting a small fire of juniper-wood at
the mouth of our tent. From Chotromo a little shepherd track leads down
the left bank of the river to Kyamathang. In actual distance Kyamathang
is not far, but the road is scarcely level for more than a few yards. It
zigzags precipitously a thousand feet up and down in order to avoid the
ravines through which the river rushes, thus trebling the marching
distance. The forest here becomes more tropical; bamboos and ferns are
thick in the undergrowth, the trees increase enormously in size, and
leeches make their appearance. The path where it descends to the river
passes through bog and marsh, where the Nepalese shepherds, who mostly
use this road, in order to reach the upper grazing grounds, have cut and
laid tree-trunks along the path. The forest here darkens owing to the
height of the trees, junipers being particularly noticeable; most of the
trees being festooned with thick grey lichen. Here and there on level
spots beside the river-bank one marches from the forest into delightful
glades carpeted with moss and thick with banks of purple irises in full
bloom.

“Ascending and descending precipitously the hillsides, and covering all
the time horizontal distance at a despairing rate, we came at last,
tired out, to the bridge which leads across the Kyamathang, and there
found that another climb of some 1,500 feet remained before reaching the
village, which is perched on a small plateau overlooking the junction of
the rivers. Kyamathang, though, strictly speaking, in Tibet, is a
typical Nepalese village. The neat little chalets are each surrounded by
well-kept fields of Indian corn, wheat, and barley. The fields are
bounded by stone walls, and each contains a small machan (a small raised
platform), from where a look-out is kept for bears at night. Kyamathang
and the surrounding villages are so inaccessible that the people do not
appear to come under the influence of Tibet or Nepal, leading an
independent life. The village boasts of five Gembus (headmen), all of
whom, so excited at seeing Europeans for the first time, did all they
could to help us, and insisted on accompanying us on our first march up
the gorge.

“The road from Kyamathang, after passing the fields of Lungdo, plunges
once more into the forest. The path mounts up over cliffs, hiding the
view of the river in the gorge below, but revealing across the valley
the magnificent waterfalls of Tsanga, some thousand feet in height.

“At our first halting-place we met a fine old Gurkha shepherd, Rai or
Karanti by tribe, a man of some seventy years of age, who many years ago
had been employed by the Survey of India. He was able to tell us much
about our route ahead. This stretch of country, although inhabited by
Tibetans, is yearly visited by Nepalese shepherds, who use the rough
track in order to reach the grazing grounds on the mountain-tops above
the gorge. He told us we should find a track of sorts along the right
bank of the river, which would eventually bring us out at Kharta again.

“The Arun has no great waterfalls, but passes through three deep gorges,
one at Kyamathang and one near Kharta, where it enters the main chain.
There is another also between these two. For the rest it is a raging
torrent running through a narrow forested defile.

“In order to pass these gorges, the path ascends and descends many
thousands of feet. Looking down from the ledges of the precipices, one
gets occasional glimpses of the torrent below; the cliffs above
frequently rising as much as 10,000 feet above the river-bed, and ending
in snow-capped peaks. Here and there the promontories of the cliffs
afford a grandiose panorama, which rewards the exertions of the terrific
ascents, but as these alternate ascents and descents are not single
occurrences, but the normal nature of the track, ever climbing up by
crazy ladder-paths and plunging amongst tangled undergrowth, one ceases
to revel in the scenery, and would forego those bird’s-eye views from
the cloud-level for the sake of a few yards of marching on the flat.

“At the end of our second march, where the track appeared to come to an
end, while pitching our camp in a small clearing, swarms of bees
descended upon us, scattering our porters in all directions; they did no
harm, however. Our third march was a struggle through pathless jungle,
and, mounting over the great central gorge, on the far side of which we
dropped down to the river-bed, we found a narrow strip of sand, just
room enough to pitch our camp. This was one of the most beautiful spots
seen in the valley. Wild flowers grew here in great profusion, the most
conspicuous amongst them being some great white lilies fully 6 feet in
height. That evening the rain, which had been falling most of the day,
cleared, and the rising clouds revealed the luxuriant walls of the
valleys, which seemed to rise almost vertically above us, with black
caverns beneath, where the trees trailed and projected over the water’s
edge.

“During the fourth march we again struck the track which is apparently
used by Tibetans who come down from the Kharta end of the valley to get
wood. This led us up the side valley, descending from the mountains
round about Chog La. We camped towards the top of the valley, and next
day crossed by a new pass, which we judged to be about 16,000 feet in
height, and then crossed the Sakia Chu, which descends from the Samchang
Pass across the Yulok La, and descended on Kharta.”

Well, I think that is a very fine description of an intensely
interesting journey. One thing the party was quite certain of, and that
was that they never would have got through had they numbered any more.
It was very difficult to get supplies even for themselves, as the roads
were so very, very bad, and camping grounds so very, very small. They
said all their men had worked like horses, but it was so warm that they
took nearly all their clothes off and worked almost entirely naked. It
is an extraordinary thing how, when one gets far back into the Himalaya
at altitudes at 7,000, 8,000, and 9,000 feet, one is often extremely
warm. This is generally due to the fact that most of these places are
usually between mountains and in confined conditions; such altitudes on
the lower spurs of the Himalaya are by no means so warm. We all envied
Noel and Morris their trip and the gorgeous country which they had seen,
and, further than that, I in particular envied them the occasional
glimpses which they could get right down the Arun Valley into Nepal,
glimpses of country which I believe no European has yet looked on.

As a matter of fact, I had also written to the Maharajah to find out
whether it would not be possible for me to return to Darjeeling viâ this
same Arun Valley. It was a mere _ballon d’essai_; I had no real hope
that the rules and regulations of the Nepal Durbar would be overridden
in my favour, but it is probably not more than 50 miles from Kyamathang
down the Arun Valley to Dhankuta, which is a large Nepalese town, and
only some five or six days’ travel from Darjeeling itself. What a
wonderful experience it would have been! The Maharajah was extremely
kind about it, but quite firm.

At the same time as Noel and Morris arrived, our Chongay also came from
the Popti route, and he brought with him quite a number of chickens and
vegetables and excellent potatoes. He had been delayed at Damtang by the
weather. There was quite a change in Chongay on his arrival. We were
filled with admiration. He wore a Seaforth Highlander’s bonnet and a
Seaforth Highlander’s tunic, both of which he had obtained from some
demobilised Gurkha who had sold his effects in the Upper Arun Valley. We
joined hands and danced round him with cheers; Chongay bridled from head
to foot.

Soon after Mallory’s party left, a note arrived from Crawford to say
that his pony and his pony-man had run away during the night, and asking
us to find out about it, as he had been paid for the full journey. This
was reported immediately to the Dzongpen. He knew exactly what to do.
Without a moment’s hesitation he seized the man’s elder brother, down
with his clothes, and gave him a first-class flogging, and nearly
flogged old Father William himself, so angry was he, as this man was one
of Father William’s underlings. Father William was humbler than ever
after this, and produced more and more green vegetables.

On July 4 the main body set off, even now very considerable. We were to
march direct by a road up to the present date untravelled, our first
march being to Lumeh, which was also on the road used by Mallory and by
last year’s Expedition. From there we marched up the Dzakar Chu instead
of turning to our right and crossing the Arun. We had been largely in
summer in Kharta, but on our way to Lumeh we came in, for a time, to
some of the very strongest winds we had met since leaving the Rongbuk
Glacier. Crossing a little gully, I was nearly blown off my pony. Our
camp at Lumeh has been described by Colonel Howard-Bury, and is a very
charming spot.

The following march to Dzakar Chu was quite new ground, not travelled by
any European, and was very interesting indeed, but extremely rough. It
led for part of the way through a steep and deep gorge, extraordinarily
like the gorges in the Hindu Kush in Gilgit and Chambal. The gorge,
owing to its elevation, is of less depth, but the whole colour and form
of the mountains, their bareness and barrenness, and the smell from the
wormwood scrub, brought back to me the Hindu Kush in very vivid
recollection. Those gorges, however, as so often in the West, are
terribly and oppressively hot, but here, at 12,500 to 13,000 feet above
the sea, we were in a fresh and exhilarating air. We camped at a village
called Dra, at the foot of the pass we were to cross, which is called
the Chey La. Our camp was pitched in a very pleasant grove, and here we
had, for the last time until we arrived at the Chumbi Valley, a gorgeous
and glorious camp-fire. Curiously enough, the wood was willingly given
to us by the inhabitants.

The following morning there was a long march and a continual pull to the
top of the Chey La, about 17,000 feet, the last thousand feet being a
very rapid ascent, but from the top we were almost in sight of Shekar
and the Arun Valley. The camp at which we stopped was a very short
morning’s walk from our old camp at Pangli, and separated from it by a
low ridge.

The next morning, after crossing the Arun at the Arun Bridge, we reached
Shekar, where we had a great reception. The Dzongpen played up, and he
had no less than 160 mules all collected and ready for us the following
morning; and not only that, but every one turned out the evening, and we
had a little race meeting of our own and a great tea with exchange of
cakes and compliments with the Dzongpen himself. Altogether we were
evidently in very good favour both with the Dzongpen and with the great
Lama of Shekar. Noel and others paid a very interesting visit to the
great Lama, and were shown by him his collections of curios of all
kinds. They thought at first that the old gentleman prized and guarded
these as Gömpa property, but they were rather surprised to discover that
he was perfectly ready to sell at a price—and that his own. He was by
far the shrewdest trader that we had come across in Tibet. Most of the
things that he was ready to part with, however, were beyond the pockets
of our party.

John Macdonald, who has a very good eye for a pony, took out a likely
mount in the horse-races and himself won no less than three races that
day. He bargained for it, as he was looking forward to the Darjeeling
pony-races in the autumn, and before we left Macdonald, to his great
joy, had concluded a very respectable bargain.

[Illustration:

  PANORAMA AT SHEKAR DZONG.
]

The following morning we got off not quite as well as we should. We had
difficulty in loading and some difficulties on the march. Shekar had
proved altogether too much for the porters and the following morning
they were not of much use; in fact, it was with the greatest difficulty
that many of them were produced at the next camp. The place was called
Kyishong. It had not been a very promising little camp, so we thought of
stopping down by the river on a very pleasant plot of grass, but on
arrival there we found a dead Tibetan in a basket moored to the bank in
the water about a hundred yards above our camp, so that was no place for
us. Instead of marching back exactly the same way we had come, viâ our
camp at Gyangka-Nangpa, we determined to follow up a smaller branch of
the Arun which would bring us finally down on to Tinki itself. By so
doing we avoided wading the Yaru in two places, and also the rather high
and steep Tinki Pass. On our way across the plains of Teng, before one
arrives at the great sand dunes of Shiling, we passed a Sokpo, a true
Mongolian, whose home was in Northern Mongolia, near Urga, a religious
devotee. He was travelling from Lhasa to Nepal, that is, to Khatmandu,
on a pilgrimage, by the time-honoured method of measuring his length on
the ground for every advance. He was a young man and apparently well
fed, trusting to the kindness of the villages through which he passed
for his food. He told us that he had been continually travelling and
that it had taken him one year to reach the place where we found him
from Lhasa, and that he hoped to get to Khatmandu in another year, if he
was lucky and able to cross the mountains. We encouraged him the best
way we could and left him to his work.

Our halt that night was in a very pleasant camp surrounded by low cliffs
at a place called Jykhiop. Our march up this valley was a great contrast
to our march into Tibet. A warm sun and a pleasant cool breeze blowing;
the clouds drifted across us and we had some rain, which only added to
our comfort. We camped one night at a place called Chiu, where we all
bathed, and bathed the ponies into the bargain.

Our last march before reaching Tinki was over an interesting pass, which
suffers under the terrible name of the Pharmogoddra La, down to a
pleasant little camping ground with a very dirty village near it. Here
we caught an enormous number of fish, the inhabitants proving quite
ready to help us do so. Every one fed freely on fresh fish that night.

An easy pleasant pass the following morning led us down in 2½ hours to
Tinki. Here we met the Dzongpen of Tinki for the first time. He was an
extremely pleasant individual, and the most friendly and intelligent
official we met in Tibet. He helped us in every way, and had previously
helped Strutt’s party on their journey through. We heard excellent
reports also of him afterwards from the advance parties. When we had
gone through in the spring this Dzongpen had been away collecting his
dues for the Tibetan Government. Tinki was a very different place, very
green, and altogether very lovely. Before travelling in Tibet we had
heard so much of the wonderful colour of Tibetan scenery. It was only on
our return journey when there was a considerable amount of moisture in
the air, when clouds rolled up from the South, that one obtained a real
notion of what Tibet could be like when at its best, and Tinki, which
had been an absolute sandy waste when we marched up, was now covered
with beautiful green grass and flowers. Nor was the air of that horrible
and rather irritating dryness, but was almost balmy, considering the
height of the country.

Two days later we reached Khamba Dzong. The Dzongpen was absent, but his
two head men helped us in his place. We had pouring rain the whole of
the following night. There must have been from 1½ to 2 inches of rain, a
most surprising experience in Tibet and one for which we were hardly
prepared. The men had been breaking out a little again, and one
sportsman had broken out considerably more than anybody else. For
purposes of letting the porters down easily we never considered a man
was inebriated as long as he could lie on the ground without holding on,
but this man for three days in succession had been hopeless, giving no
reaction whatever to the smartest smacks with our sticks, and finally
having to be brought into camp and giving a great deal of trouble. So we
determined on an exemplary punishment. The other men who had broken out
badly had all been given loads to carry for a march, but the next day
this man was condemned to carry an enormous load from Khamba Dzong to
Phari. Considering what his condition had been we were absolutely
astounded when the following day he carried the whole of well over 100
lb. for a 20-mile march to Tătsăng, over a pass of 17,000 feet, grinning
and smiling the whole way as if it was the finest joke he had heard of.
Everybody “pulled his leg” on the way, but nothing could possibly
interfere with his good temper. He was condemned to carry this load
right into Phari Dzong, crossing the three high ridges of the Donka La,
and never for a moment did he lose his temper or bear any ill-will. This
is characteristic of the people: as long as your treatment of them is
understood by them to be just they bear no ill-will whatever, nor does
it interfere in any way with one’s friendly relations; but still, for
all that, it seems to me that they are unkillable. After his behaviour
and the condition he was in for so long, to do such terrific hard labour
as we condemned him to do without the smallest sign of fatigue was
pretty remarkable. But, after all, my own particular Angturke had only
complained of being a little dazed after falling 60 feet on to his head
at the time of the accident.

We camped at Tătsăng, and here we parted with Noel, who carried off his
own people and left us for Gyantse; he was very much afraid of bringing
his cinema films down into the warmth and damp of Sikkim until they were
properly developed, but not only this: it was now the season of the
great meetings and dances of Gyantse, and he hoped to get first-rate
studies of Tibetan life generally. The climate and accommodation also at
Gyantse would just suit him, and he would be able there to put in a full
month’s work completing his films and adding immensely to his collection
of pictures of Tibetan life. He accompanied us for 5 miles, almost up to
the camp we had occupied on our arrival in the spring, and we left him
with great regret.

[Illustration:

  IN KAMPA DZONG.
]

We had a long march that day from Tătsăng, and again crossing the ridges
of the Donka La a very cold wind and sleet and rain overtook us. It was
the last shot at us the typical Tibetan weather had, and considering the
time of year it did its very best for us, but we camped that night under
the Donka La at a great height, not far from 17,000 feet. While we were
waiting for our luggage we took refuge in a Tibetan encampment. The
Tibetans were out with their herds of yaks, grazing them over the
hillsides. We were rather amused to find that they had guns in their
encampment, which they evidently used for sporting purposes, and we
thought regretfully of the limitations which had been put on our
expedition.

Next morning we had a delightful march crossing the last and highest
ridge of the Donka La and camped half-way to Phari, finally reaching
Phari Dzong after a very pleasant morning’s ride over delightful green
turf and passing immense flocks of sheep grazing on the hillsides.

Here, on July 20, we found a welcome post and spent the day in great
comfort in the Phari Dzong bungalow. Two days later we reached Chumbi
and met the Macdonalds again, and were, as usual, sumptuously
entertained by them. Here our transport had to be reorganized to take
our still rather large convoy down to India. Geoffrey and I climbed the
neighbouring hills and really revelled in the whole journey down, which
had been very reminiscent of the Western Himalaya in summer. Chumbi is
wonderful; even in the rains the climate is delightful. It cannot have
more than one-third of the rainfall which falls only 20 miles away on
the other side of the Jelep: in fact, when two days later we crossed the
Jelep, we were immediately involved again in the mists and rains and
sleets, and were again in a completely and absolutely different type of
country.

We arrived at Gnatong on July 27 in pouring rain, but next morning it
had cleared, and on the way down as we started the clouds showed signs
of really lifting. On arrival at the ridge over which the road crosses
before beginning the long descent to Rongli Chu, about 400 feet above
Gnatong, we were lucky enough to come in for one of those sudden breaks
which occasionally occur during the monsoon, and if one is at the moment
in a position to profit by them one obtains one of the most glorious
sights to be found in this world. Such was our luck this morning.
Standing on the ridge we were able to see the plains of India stretched
out beneath us to the South, the plains of Kuch Behar with the Mahanadi
River running through them quite clear, while on our right Kanchengjanga
rose through the clouds—a perfectly marvellous vision of ice and snow,
looking immeasurably high. The clouds were drifting and continually
changing across the hillsides and the deep valleys. The extremely deep
and, in places, sombre colour, the astonishingly brilliant colour where
the sun lit up the mountains, and the prodigious heights, made a
mountain vision which must be entirely unsurpassed in any other portion
of the globe. It was a moment to live for; but the moment was all too
short. In half an hour the vision of the plains and the mountains was
completely blotted out.

At Lungtung we visited the little tea-shop where we had all collected,
as we had promised the patroness on our way up. There she was again,
full of smiles, with her family round her, and we all stayed there and
drank hot tea, which we thoroughly enjoyed after the cold and driving
mist, and the flow of chaff I think even surpassed that of our first
visit. So exhilarated were we that Geoffrey and I ran at top speed down
to Sedongchen, which is only 6,000 feet, tearing down the hillsides, and
by so doing, although we occasionally took short cuts over grassy banks
and through forest where it was not too thick, we arrived at Sedongchen,
having entirely baffled the leeches which swarm in this part of the
forest. Not so, however, Wakefield; he also had been exhilarated and had
taken a short cut down, but he had been too trusting, and he arrived
with his legs simply crawling with leeches.

The rest of our journey through Sikkim requires no particular comment,
except that the weather behaved itself in a wonderful way, and we
escaped any real heavy duckings. The heat, although considerable in the
lower valleys and moist, was not at all oppressive. So much so that we
were able to travel at a great pace down to Rongli bridge, which is only
700 feet above the sea.

We arrived in Darjeeling on August 2, every one by now in thoroughly
good health. Here we were to await the arrival of Crawford and
Somervell, who were making tremendous attempts, considering that it was
the height of the monsoon, to see something of the South face of
Kanchen, and even, if possible, to do a little climbing—a rather
ambitious programme under the circumstances. Five or six days later they
arrived, quite pleased with themselves and having had a very strenuous
time, but naturally having seen a minimum of the country they travelled
over. At Darjeeling the party rapidly broke up, although the Staff of
the Expedition had about a fortnight’s work clearing up business
matters, which included the proper provision for the families of the
unfortunate porters who had been lost in the avalanche.

[Illustration:

  LINGGA AND THE LHONAK MOUNTAINS.
]

Thus ended the first attempt to climb Mount Everest. I think on the
whole we may be quite satisfied with the results. It would have been
almost unthinkable if a great mountain like Everest—the highest in the
world, almost the greatest in scale as well—had yielded to the very
first assault. After all, it took a very long time, many years in fact,
to climb the easier of the great mountains of the Alps. It took many
years to find the way, even, up the North face of the Matterhorn, a
problem which would now only be considered one of the second class. How,
then, could we expect on the very first occasion to solve all the
different problems which are included in an assault on Everest? It is
not merely a case of mountaineering, or of mountaineering skill, nor
even of having a most highly-trained party; there are many other
problems which we also have to consider. Our methods had almost to be
those of an Arctic expedition; at the same time our clothing and outfit
in many ways had to be suitable for mountain climbing. Our climbing
season was extraordinarily short, far shorter than it would have been in
any mountains in the West.

Not only that, but all the warnings of the scientists tended to show
that no very great height could probably be reached without oxygen, and
that even with an oxygen apparatus there were a great many dangers to be
faced. Among other things we were told that having once put on the
oxygen apparatus, and having once for any continuous period worked on an
artificial supply of oxygen, the sudden cessation of that supply would
certainly cause unconsciousness, and probably would cause death. Luckily
for us this was proved not to be in accordance with actual practical
experience, as the height reached by our climbing party which had not
used oxygen was more than 2,000 feet higher than any point yet reached.
For the Duke of Abruzzi, in his great attempt on the Bride Peak on the
Baltoro Glacier in Baltistan, did not quite reach 24,600 feet. While
Mallory, Somervell, and Norton reached 26,985 feet.

In the whole range of the mountains of the world there are only four
peaks that top this great height, namely, Mount Everest itself, K^2 in
the Karakorum in Baltistan; Broad Peak on the Baltoro Glacier, and
Makalu in the Everest group. Therefore this climb stands actually as the
fifth of the great altitudes of the world. It is a perfectly prodigious
performance, and taken simply as a _tour de force_ stands in the front
rank in no matter what department of sport or human endeavour. The men
who took part in this climb have every reason to be proud of themselves.

As I have pointed out, Finch and Geoffrey Bruce, using oxygen, took a
route traversing the face of the mountain to the West, and before they
were completely played out and conditions were such that they had to
return, reached a height of 27,235 feet. If they had directly mounted up
the ridge they would undoubtedly have reached the point on the main
Everest crest which is marked at 27,390 and have progressed along it to
a greater altitude. There is no doubt in my mind whatever of this: not
only would their route have been far more direct, but the actual ground
over which they would have to climb would have been easier. It is quite
certain that with the same exertions on the same day they could have
reached a higher point than they did. That does not, however, in the
least detract from their performance. Their experiences, as has been
pointed out by Finch, ease the oxygen question immensely. It was shown
that it was quite possible to remove the oxygen apparatus altogether,
having used it fully and having reached a height of 25,500 feet, nor was
the accident to Geoffrey’s apparatus attended with any of the terrible
consequences which we were led to expect. These conclusions are all very
satisfactory from the point of view of our final success in climbing
Everest. There is no doubt that the height will be attained provided the
very best men, the best apparatus, and an outfit of porters equally as
good as our own, attempt it. And there are plenty of men to draw from
for porters. We could probably obtain without difficulty a team as good,
or better. Of that I am quite certain.

It was pretty evident that one of the secrets of living with immunity
high up is that the actual clothes on the men’s backs should be as light
as possible and as windproof as possible. Proper protection should be
taken against the wind for the head also, and the greatest care must be
taken and the necessity for care be understood by everybody in the
protection of their hands and feet. It is quite possible that with a
little more care we might have escaped this year without any serious
consequences from that point of view.

These remarks apply equally to the outfit for the porters. Men who
worked with so little experience, and took camps for us to a height of
25,500 feet, would, if correctly outfitted, take the camp 500 to 1,000
feet higher: of that I am quite convinced. An improved and lighter
oxygen apparatus is under construction; when this has been completed I
have every reason to believe that an oxygen depôt could be well
established at 26,000 feet, thus allowing a full time for the attempt on
the greater heights. This year there was always at the back of the
oxygen-carriers’ minds a slight doubt that their oxygen might give out
and that the consequences to them would be most unpleasant.

Another problem that must always be borne in mind when one’s object is
the assault of a great mountain in the Himalaya, is to bring one’s whole
party there in first-class health and training. This sounds an
unnecessary remark to have to make, but as a matter of fact the task is
not as easy as it appears. The great danger lies in fatiguing and
exhausting one’s party before the real test comes. This year there was
great danger of our working the porters out, and this question gave me a
good deal of anxiety. But they were all absolute gluttons for work, and
I never would have believed that men could have carried out such
tremendous hard labour in establishing our high camps and apparently
continuing fit and well, showing no signs of staleness and quite ready
to continue up the mountain.

Before we left Darjeeling I forwarded to the Dalai Lama, on behalf of
the Mount Everest Committee, a letter of thanks for all the assistance
which he had given to our Expedition, and sent with it, for him and for
the Tashilumpo Lama also, a silk banner on which was printed a coloured
picture of the Potālā, the great palace of the Dalai Lamas in Lhasa.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           THE FIRST ATTEMPT

                                   By

                          GEORGE LEIGH-MALLORY




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER IV

                              THE PROBLEM

                                   I


It is very natural that mountaineers, particularly if they are members
of the Alpine Club, should wish success to the Everest Expedition; for
in a sense it is their own adventure. And yet their sympathies must
often wobble. It is not always an undiluted pleasure to hear of new
ascents in the Alps, or even in Great Britain; for half the charm of
climbing mountains is born in visions preceding this experience—visions
of what is mysterious, remote, inaccessible.

By experience we learn that we may pass to another world and come back;
we rediscover the accessibility of summits appearing impregnable; and so
long as we cannot without a tremor imagine ourselves upon a mountain’s
side, that mountain holds its mystery for us. But when we often hear
about mountaineering expeditions on one or another of the most famous
peaks in the world, are told of conquests among the most remote and
difficult ranges or others continually repeated in well-known centres,
we come to know too well how accessible mountains are to skilful and
even to unskilful climbers. The imagination falters, and it may happen
that we find ourselves one day thinking of the most surprising mountain
of all with no more reverence than the practised golfer has for an
artificial bunker. It was so, I was once informed by a friend, that he
caught himself thinking of the Matterhorn, and he wondered whether he
shouldn’t give up climbing mountains until he had recovered his
reverence for them. A shorter way, I thought, was to wait until the
weather broke and then climb the Matterhorn every day till it should be
calm and fine again, and when he pondered this suggestion he had no need
to test its power, for he very soon began to think again of the
Matterhorn as he ought to think. But from the anguish of discovering his
heresy he cherished a lesson and afterwards would never consent to read
or hear accounts of mountaineering, nor even to speak of his own
exploits. This was a commendable attitude in him; and I can feel no
doubt, thinking of his case, that however valuable a function it may
have been of the Alpine Club in its infancy to propagate not only the
gospel, but the knowledge of mountains, the time has come when it should
be the principal aim of any such body not only to suppress the
propagation of a gospel already too popular, but also to shelter its
members against that superabundance of knowledge which must needs result
from accumulating records. Hereafter, of contemporary exploits the less
we know the better; our heritage of discovery among mountains is rich
enough; too little remains to be discovered. The story of a new ascent
should now be regarded as a corrupting communication calculated to
promote the glory of Man, or perhaps only of individual men, at the
expense of the mountains themselves.

It may well be asked how, holding such opinions, I can set myself to the
task of describing an attempt to reach the highest summit of all. Surely
Chomolungmo should remain inviolate, or if attempted, the deed should
not be named. With this point of view I have every sympathy, and lest it
should be thought that in order to justify myself I must bring in a
different order of reasons from some other plane, and involve myself in
a digression even longer than the present, I will say nothing about
justification for this story beyond remarking that it glorifies Mount
Everest, since this mountain has not yet been climbed. And when I say
that sympathy in a mountaineer may wobble, the mountaineer I more
particularly mean is the present writer. It is true that I did what I
could to reach the summit, but now as I look back and see all those
wonderful preparations, the great array of boxes collected at Phari
Dzong and filling up the courtyard of the bungalow, the train of animals
and coolies carrying our baggage across Tibet, the thirteen selected
Europeans so snugly wrapt in their woollen waistcoats and Jaeger pants,
their armour of windproof materials, their splendid overcoats, the
furred finneskoes or felt-sided boots or fleece-lined moccasins devised
to keep warm their feet, and the sixty strong porters with them
delighting in underwear from England and leathern jerkins and puttees
from Kashmir; and then, unforgettable scene, the scatter of our stores
at the Base Camp, the innumerable neatly-made wooden boxes concealing
the rows and rows of tins—of Harris’s sausages, Hunter’s hams, Heinz’s
spaghetti, herrings soi-disant fresh, sardines, sliced bacon, peas,
beans, and a whole forgotten host besides, sauce-bottles for the Mess
tables, and the rare bottles more precious than these, the gay tins of
sweet biscuits, Ginger Nuts and Rich Mixed, and all the carefully chosen
delicacies; and besides all these for our sustenance or pleasure, the
fuel supply, uncovered in the centre of the camp, green and blue
two-gallon-cans of paraffin and petrol, and an impressive heap of
yak-dung; and the climbing equipment—the gay little tents with crimson
flies or yellow, pitched here only to be seen and admired, the bundles
of soft sleeping-bags, soft as eiderdown quilt can be, the ferocious
crampons and other devices, steel-pointed and terrible, for boots’
armament, the business-like coils of rope, the little army of steel
cylinders containing oxygen under high pressure, and, not least, the
warlike sets of apparatus for using the life-giving gas; and lastly,
when I call to mind the whole begoggled crowd moving with slow
determination over the snow and up the mountain slopes and with such
remarkable persistence bearing up the formidable loads, when after the
lapse of months I envisage the whole prodigious evidences of this vast
intention, how can I help rejoicing in the yet undimmed splendour, the
undiminished glory, the unconquered supremacy of Mount Everest?

[Illustration:

  BASE CAMP AND MOUNT EVEREST IN EVENING LIGHT.
]

It is conceivable that this great mountain, though still unsubdued, may
nevertheless have suffered some loss of reputation. It is the business
of a mountain to be ferocious first, charming and smiling afterwards if
it will. But it has been said already of this mountain that the way to
the summit is not very terrible, it will present no technical
difficulties of climbing. Has it not then, after all, a character
unsuitably mild? Is it not a great cow among mountains? It cannot be
denied that the projected route to the summit presents no slopes of
terrible steepness. But we may easily underrate the difficulties even
here. Though some of us have gazed earnestly at the final ridge and
discussed at length the possibility of turning or of climbing direct
certain prominent obstacles, no one has certainly determined that he may
proceed there without being obliged to climb difficult places; and the
snow slope which guards the very citadel will prove, one cannot doubt,
as steep as one would wish to find the final slope of any great
mountain. Again, the way to the North Col, that snow-saddle by which
alone we may gain access to the North Ridge, has not always been simple;
we know little enough still about its changing conditions, but evidently
on too many days the snow will be dangerous there, and perhaps on many
others the presence of bare ice may involve more labour than was
required of us this year. But granted this one breach in the defence of
Mount Everest, shall we only for that think of it as a mild mountain?
How many mountains can be named in the Alps of which so small a part
presents the hope of finding a way to the summit? Nowhere on the whole
immense face of ice and rocks from the North-east ridge to Lhotse and
the South-east ridge is the smallest chance for the mountaineer, and,
leaving out all count of size, Mont Blanc even above the Brenva Glacier
has no face so formidable as this; of the Southern side, which we know
only from a few photographs and sketches, one thing is certain—that
whoever reaches it will find there a terrific precipice of bare rock
probably unequalled for steepness by any great mountain face in the Alps
and immeasurably greater; the single glimpse obtained last year of the
Western glacier and the slopes above it revealed one of the most awful
and utterly forbidding scenes ever observed by men; how much more
encouraging, and yet how utterly hopeless, is the familiar view from the
Rongbuk Valley! Mount Everest, therefore, apart from its pre-eminence in
bulk and height, is great and beautiful, marvellously built, majestic,
terrible, a mountain made for reverence; and beneath its shining sides
one must stand in awe and wonder.


                                   II

When we think of a party of climbers struggling along the final ridge of
Mount Everest, we are perhaps inclined to reject an obvious comparison
of their endeavour with that of athletes in a long distance race. The
climbers are not of course competing to reach the goal one before
another; the aim is for all to reach it. But the climbers’ performance,
like the runners’, will depend on two factors, endurance and pace; and
the two have to be considered together. A climber must not only keep on
moving upwards if he is to succeed, he must move at a certain minimum
pace: a pace that will allow him, having started from a given point, to
reach the top and come down in a given time. Further, at a great height
it is true for the climber even more than for the runner on a track in
England that to acquire pace is the chief difficulty, and still more
true that it is the pace which kills. Consequently it is pace more than
anything else which becomes the test of fitness on Mount Everest.

Every man has his own standard, determined as a result of his
experience. He knows perhaps that in the Alps with favourable conditions
he is capable of ascending 1,500 feet an hour without unduly exerting
himself and without fatigue; if he were to bring into action the whole
of his reserves he might be able to double this figure. He will
assuredly find when he comes up into Tibet and lives at a mean height of
15,000 feet that he is capable of very much less. And then he begins to
call in question his power, to measure himself against his European
standard. Every member of both Everest Expeditions was more or less of a
valetudinarian. He had his eye on his physical fitness. He wondered each
day, Am I getting fitter? Am I as fit as I should expect to be in the
Alps? And the ultimate test was pace uphill.

The simpler phenomena of acclimatisation have frequently been referred
to in connection with Mount Everest. But still it may be asked why
improvement should be expected during a sojourn at 15,000 feet. It is
expected because as a matter of experience it happens: though why the
red corpuscles in the blood whose function is to absorb and give up
oxygen should multiply in the ratio of 8:5, I leave it to physiologists
to explain. Whatever explanation they may give I shall not cease to
regard this amazing change as the best of miracles. And this change in
the hæmoglobin content of the blood evidently proceeds a long way above
15,000 feet. Nevertheless the advantage thereby obtained by no means
altogether compensates at very high altitudes the effects of reduced
atmospheric pressure. It enables a man to live in very thin air (11½
inches barometric pressure, at 27,000 feet), but not to exert himself
with anything like his normal power at sea-level. His pace suffers. If
at 23,000 feet he were able to exercise no less power than at 10,000
feet after a few well-spent days in the Alps, he would probably be able
to ascend the remaining 6,000 feet to the summit in a single day. But if
you cut off the supply of fuel you cannot expect your engine to maintain
its pace of working; the power exercised by the climber in the more
rarefied atmosphere at these high altitudes must be less; a rise of
6,000 feet in a day will be beyond his capacity. Therefore he must have
camps higher on the mountain, and ultimately he must have one so high
that in nine or ten hours even his snail’s pace will bring him to the
summit.

We must remember too that not only will his pace have suffered, his mind
will be in a deplorable state. The experiments conducted in pressure
chambers have a bearing on this point. I treasure the story of Prof.
Haldane who, while in such a chamber, wanted to observe the colour of
his lips and for some minutes gazed into his mirror before discovering
that he held the back towards his face. Mountaineers have often observed
a lack of clarity in their mental state at high altitudes; it is
difficult for the stupid mind to observe how stupid it is, but it is by
no means improbable that the climbers of Mount Everest will try to drink
their food or proceed crabwise, or do some quite ridiculous thing. And
not only is it difficult to think straight in thin air, it is difficult
to retain the desire to do anything at all. Perhaps of all that tells
against him the mere weakness of a man’s will when he is starved of
oxygen is beyond everything likely to prevent his success.

Since the problem of climbing Mount Everest presented itself
physiologically, it was only natural in us on the Expedition continually
to be watching acclimatisation. We watched it in connection with the
whole idea of being trained for the event. Probably each of us had a
different notion as to how he should be trained, and some thought more
about training than others. On this point I must confess a weakness when
I foresee an event in which my physical strength and condition are to
count for so much; I am one of those who think more about training. I
consider how I may add a cubit to my stature and all the time I am half
aware that I might spare myself the trouble of such futile meditations.
Experience seems only to show that, provided I habitually eat well and
sleep well and take a moderate amount of exercise, I can do nothing to
improve my endurance on a mountain. Probably some men may do more to
this end. The week we spent in Darjeeling sufficed for all of us to
brace ourselves after the enervating effects of our journey from
England. Norton, who had come out rather earlier and prepared himself in
the most strenuous fashion for the immense exertions of the Khadir Cup,
was already finely trained—too well, I thought, for so lean a man. He
and Geoffrey Bruce, my companion in the first party, together with
General Bruce, Longstaff, and Noel, elected to walk a great deal in
Sikkim, and so I believe did Somervell, Wakefield, and Morshead in the
second party. The General, very frankly expressing the probable
advantage to his figure of profuse perspiration in those warm valleys,
also walked a great deal. For an exactly contrary reason—I hate the
inconvenience that must arise on the march from wet clothes—I walked
less than any of these; probably Longstaff and I rode more than the rest
up to Phari Dzong. But when I heard how wonderfully fit were the two
most energetic walkers of our party, and learned from Geoffrey Bruce of
Norton’s amazing pace uphill, I could not refrain from testing my own
condition on the first occasion that we approached a comparatively high
altitude: coming up to Gnatong, where the bungalow is situated above
12,000 feet, I walked for all I was worth, and was well satisfied. Next
day I felt far from well with indigestion and headache. General Bruce
and Longstaff were also unwell, and it was a cheerless afternoon and
evening in the two little rooms at Kupup, with hailstorms outside and
too little light within. Norton and Bruce elected to sleep on the
verandah, and these two, with me, if I were fit enough, intended
starting early next morning so as to climb a small mountain, diverging
thus from our path over the Jelep La (14,500 feet) for the sake of the
view. We set off not much later than we had intended; but it was now
Norton’s turn to be unwell, and he was properly mountain-sick 1,000 feet
below the pass. However, we were not inclined to pay much attention to
these little troubles; with a day’s rest at a lower elevation (9,000
feet), and the pleasures of feasting with the Macdonalds in Yatung, we
were quickly restored.

The continuous process of acclimatisation was due to begin at Phari
Dzong. There we should stay three days above 14,000 feet, and after that
our marches would keep us between that level and 17,000 feet, so that a
man would surely find out how he was affected by living at high
altitudes. At Phari the whole party seemed remarkably fit, and any
amount of energy was available for sorting out and checking our vast
mass of stores. But the conditions of travel on these high plains became
evident so soon as we were on the march again. Those who gaily started
to walk, not troubling to provide themselves with a pony, found after a
time that they were glad enough to ride; but then it became so bitterly
cold that riding was more disagreeable than walking, and most of us, as
we pushed along in the teeth of a blizzard, preferred to walk, and were
surprisingly fatigued. Two of the party were ill when we reached camp,
but more perhaps from chill than mountain-sickness. On the following day
a system of sharing ponies to allow alternate walking and riding was
more carefully organised. Even so, most of us must have walked
two-thirds of that long rough march (about 25 miles), and while crossing
the “Concertina pass,” as we called it, a name which explains itself, we
had ample opportunities of testing our powers of walking uphill between
16,000 and 17,000 feet; it was evident that we were already becoming
acclimatised and able to enjoy those mild competitions in which a man
will test his powers against another as they breast a hill together.
This was encouraging enough; but how far we were from “going” as we
would go at 10,000 feet lower could easily be observed from our puffing
and blowing and the very moderate pace achieved by great efforts.

It was a week later before we had another opportunity of testing our
acclimatisation as we came up to the Tinki La, a rise of nearly 3,000
feet up to 17,000 feet. I suppose there may have been some slight
improvement in this week; for my part, I was fairly fit, and after
riding over the comparatively flat approach, walked up about 2,000 feet
without a halt and experienced no sort of fatigue. But the party as a
whole was disappointing, and several members were distinctly affected by
the height. Perhaps this pass was one of those places where some local
circumstance emphasises the altitude, for the ponies stopped and puffed
in a way we had never seen before; but I fancy the reason of their
condition was to be found in the steepness of the ascent.

The day after crossing the Tinki La, we had a short march to Gyangkar
Nangpa, and, coming across the flat basin, had full in view before us
Sangkar Ri, a prominent rock peak, the most northerly of a remarkable
range above the left bank of the Arun River. The desire to vary the
routine of the daily march by climbing a mountain had already stirred a
number of suggestions among us, and now the opportunity seemed to offer
itself; we were further incited by the prospect of a splendid view of
Mount Everest if we could reach this summit, which lay not so very far
out of our way. No doubt unconscious motives, too, promoted our attempt
on Sangkar Ri. The pleasures of mountaineering must always be restricted
for those who grapple with the highest mountains, if not denied _in
toto_; but the ascent of a little rock peak of 20,000 feet might help to
keep alive in us some appreciation of mountaineering as an enjoyable
pursuit. And then we wanted confidence in ourselves. At present we could
only feel how unequal we were to the prodigious task in front of us; so
were we urged to try conclusions with Sangkar Ri, to put ourselves to
the test.

The project demanded a high camp, at 17,000 feet, nearly 4,000 feet
above Gyangkar Nangpa. Seeing that it would clearly be undesirable to
employ more than a very small number of porters to carry up tents and
sleeping-bags for the night, Somervell and I at first made a plan for
ourselves alone; but when it was found that two others wanted to come
with us, this plan was amplified to include them, and it was arranged
that the four of us should sleep at close quarters in a Whymper tent.
The porters who carried for us in the evening would take down their
burdens in the early morning, in time to get them loaded on to the
animals at Gyangkar without delaying the main body. The establishment of
our camp did not proceed without some little difficulty; one of the
porters gave out and had to be relieved of his load, and it was not
until we had contoured a hillside for an hour in the dark that we found
a suitable place. So soon as we had lain down in our tent, a bitter wind
sprang up and blew in at the door; the night was one of the coldest I
remember.

We had ascended not more than 1,000 feet next morning when one of the
party decided that he was too ill to go on; he exhibited the usual
symptoms of mountain-sickness. While the other two suffered the
disappointment of turning back, Somervell and I pushed on towards a snow
col on the North ridge of the mountain. As it was desirable to reach
this point without delay in order to see the view while it was yet
unclouded, and to take photographs, I continued at my own pace, and
eventually found myself looking down on Somervell some distance below me
as he struggled up with frequent halts. I very soon made up my mind that
we should get no higher than this. But after a brief halt and some
refreshment when he had rejoined me, Somervell announced that he was
prepared to go on. We began to make our way along a rock ridge, which
became ever steeper as we mounted. Our progress was slow indeed, and I
kept thinking, as I found myself more and more fatigued, “Surely we must
give up now; a man in his state can’t go on climbing such rocks as
these.” But whenever I asked how he was feeling, he would answer that he
was getting along well enough; and as we gradually won our way up, and I
kept my eye on my watch, I began to see that we had really a chance of
reaching the summit. The rocks were by no means easy, and it is commonly
said that the effort of climbing difficult rocks is just what will prove
most exhausting, if it can be undertaken at all, to men affected by
altitude. The struggle to overcome a steep obstacle must always
interfere with regular breathing. Nevertheless, I am inclined to think
that the advantage in sheer exhilaration of climbing difficult rocks
compensates the greater trouble in breathing, and that so long as I am
still in a state to climb them, I prefer even difficult rocks to snow.
The actual exertion put forth in mounting even the steepest cliff is
often overrated. If there are moments of intense struggle, these are
rare, and though the demand on nervous concentration is great, the
climber proceeds for the most part with balanced movements, requiring,
indeed, the sureness of trained muscles, but no tremendous output of
strength. With such balanced movement the two of us were able to go
slowly upwards, without a rapidly increasing exhaustion, to the foot of
a formidable gendarme. We had hopes in the first instance that he might
be compelled to yield to a frontal attack. But, 30 feet up, we found our
way barred by a slab, which was at once so smooth and so exposed that,
though we felt it might conceivably be climbed, we decided it was not
for us to climb it at the present moment; our allowance of rope was
insufficient for operations which might require an “abseil”[5] on the
descent. We therefore turned to the West side of our ridge. Here, of
course, we were out of the sun, and the rocks were so cold that they
felt sticky to the skin and blistered our finger-tips. However, we
managed to execute a sensational traverse, and afterwards climbed a
steep wall, which brought us out above the slab from which we had turned
back. It was here that we experienced both the difficulty and the danger
of rock-climbing at high altitudes. It was necessary, in a terribly
exposed position, to pull oneself over an edge of rock on to a little
platform. A big effort was required: but the reserve of strength had
been exhausted. Having committed myself to this taxing struggling, the
grim thought arose in my mind that at the critical moment I might be
found wanting and my body refuse to respond when the greatest effort was
required of it. A great effort was required before I arrived panting on
the airy stance.

Footnote 5:

  A method of coming down on a double rope.

After these exciting moments, we reached the top of the gendarme without
much trouble. But he had cost us too much time. We had to start from
Gyangkar this same day in pursuit of General Bruce, and ought to cross
the quicksands of the Shiling Plain before dark. We had already
overstepped the time allowed for the ascent according to our intention.
The summit now appeared perhaps 500 feet above us, and the intervening
rocks were evidently going to provide some stiff passages. It was
necessary, therefore, to turn back here and waste no time on the
descent. The descent proved longer than we had expected; we chose a long
traverse over steep snow to avoid the gendarme, and neither of us was in
a condition to cut steps quickly. We observed, in fact, what I had
observed last year with Bullock, that one may go down a considerable
distance at a high altitude, and instead of recovering very quickly, as
may happen in the Alps, one only becomes progressively more fatigued. It
was 4.30 p.m. when we reached Gyankar and found ourselves happily
recovered from our exertions. Sangkar Ri was still unclimbed. But we
looked back on our expedition with some satisfaction. We had been little
short of 20,000 feet when we turned back, and I had been greatly
impressed by Somervell’s endurance. For though very much fatigued before
reaching the col at the foot of our ridge, and further enervated by an
attack of dysentery which had begun on the previous day, his condition
seemed rather to improve than to deteriorate above that point. For my
part, I had come near enough to exhaustion, considering the difficulties
of the climb, and had suffered from a severe headache, but certainly
felt no worse than I expected at this stage of our training.

I entered upon this tale with the object of illustrating the course of
acclimatisation among us; but the return to Gyangkar was not for us the
end of the story. It was now clear that we could not hope to cross the
quicksands before night. However, we might hope to reach the ford by
which we must cross the river Yaru with still enough light to recognise
the spot, and thereafter we could rest in a sheltered place I knew of
until the late rising moon should show us the tracks of the main body.
We set off accordingly in high haste on the ponies we found waiting for
us. Our instruction had been that these animals should be specially
selected for their fleetness of foot—for Tibetan ponies can, some of
them, travel at a fair speed, while others no amount of flogging will
urge beyond 3 miles an hour. The beast I rode very quickly showed that
he was one of these last. I had entrusted my ice-axe to a porter who
accompanied us, and now told him to ride behind me and use it if
necessary. For 5 miles he used it with a dexterity and energy beyond
praise. Then I abandoned the pony, and, walking ahead of the party,
easily outstripped the rest encumbered with this beast. Night fell when
we were still 2 miles short of the ford. But as Somervell and I
approached the spot and wondered exactly where it might be, we perceived
lights a little way ahead on the further bank of the river, presumably
those of a Tibetan camp, and soon a figure appeared on that side. We
were hailed in Tibetan; our sirdar, coming up, spoke Tibetan in reply;
the figure waded across to us; and it was explained to me that this good
Samaritan was prepared to carry me over on his back. I readily agreed to
so generous a proposition. He was not an easy steed, but I was able to
hang on to him for a hundred yards or so until he deposited me on the
other bank, a light enough burden, apparently, to be picked up and set
down like a child. And 400 yards further we reached the lights. It was
no stranger camp; the tents were ours, and the General and the rest were
sitting in the Mess while dinner was keeping hot in the kitchen against
our return.

Ten days later we reached our Base Camp at the foot of the Rongbuk
Glacier (16,800 feet) and contemplated the prospect of rising another
12,000 feet and more to the summit of Mount Everest. At all events the
whole party had reached this point remarkably fit, and no one now showed
signs of distress from staying at this elevation. Remembering how
Bullock and I had felt after our first exertions up here last year, I
hoped to spend a few days at the Base Camp before doing very much, and
as General Bruce’s plans worked out nothing was required of me at
present. But much was asked of the reconnaissance party which started
out on May 4.

It has been recorded in earlier chapters how in three days from the Base
Camp they reached a height of 21,500 feet on the East Rongbuk Glacier.
The cold was great and their hardships were unrelieved by the greater
comfort of established camps enjoyed by those who followed the pioneers.
From their accounts they were evidently affected a good deal by altitude
before turning back with their work accomplished, and in spite of the
cold they experienced the familiar phenomenon of lassitude so painfully
and particularly noticeable on the glaciers when the sun makes itself
felt. But on the whole they had been less affected by the want of air
than was to be expected. They had this advantage—that they proceeded
gradually; the distance to travel was long, but the ascent was never
steep, and they found the upper glacier very lightly covered with snow;
and it is heavy going and a steep ascent that most readily induce the
more distressing symptoms of mountain-sickness. However, from the point
of view of acclimatisation it was highly satisfactory that this party
should have proceeded with so little delay to reach 21,000 feet.

[Illustration:

  SERAC, EAST RONGBUK GLACIER.
]

Meanwhile Somervell and I, chafing somewhat at our inactivity and with
the idea that a long day on the mountains would do us good at this
stage, on May 6 climbed a small peak above the left bank of the Rongbuk
Glacier. It was a day of small misfortunes for me. As we were walking on
the stony slopes in the early morning my triconni nails of hard steel
slipped on a granite slab and I contrived to leave there an incredible
amount of skin from the back of my right hand. And higher, as we worked
along a broken ridge, a large boulder poised in unstable equilibrium
slipped as I brushed it with my knee and fell on the big-toe joint so as
to pinion my right foot. It was an awkward moment, for the place was
steep; I just had strength to heave it over and down the mountain-side,
and luckily no bones were broken. But walking was very painful
afterwards, and perhaps this accident had something to do with the
fatigue I felt as we neared the summit. On the lower slopes I had been
going well enough and seemed fitter than Somervell; at 21,000 feet he
was apparently no more fatigued than at 18,000 or 19,000 feet, while I
could scarcely drag one leg after the other. And when we came back to
camp I was surprisingly glad to take a little whisky in my tea.


                                  III

I have said too much already about the early stage of acclimatisation:
my excuse must be that much will depend upon this factor. The issue will
depend no less on organisation and transport; and though this subject is
General Bruce’s province, at all events so far as Camp III, I have a few
words to add to what he has written.

In the calculation of what will be required at various stages in order
to reach the summit of Mount Everest it is necessary to begin at the
highest; and the climber imagines in the first place where he would like
to have his camps. He may imagine that on the final day he might rise
2,000 feet to the summit; if he is to give himself the best chance of
success he will not wish to start much lower than 27,000 feet, and in
any case he cannot camp much higher, for he is very unlikely to find a
place on the ridge above the North-east shoulder (27,400 feet) or on the
steep rocks within 200 feet of it. We may therefore fix 27,000 feet
approximately as the desirable height for the last camp. And we have
another camping ground fixed for us by circumstances, approximately at
23,000 feet, the broad shelf lying in the shelter of the ice-cliffs on
the North Col—there is no convenient place for a comparatively large
camp for a considerable distance either above or below it. But to carry
up a camp 4,000 feet at these altitudes would be to ask altogether too
much of the porters. We must therefore establish an intermediary camp
between these two, say at 25,000 feet if a place can be found.

Now what will be required at these three camps? We must ask first with
what number of climbers the assault is to be made. A party of two
appears insufficient, for if one man should become exhausted the other
will probably want help in bringing him down. This difficulty is met by
having three climbers. But since an exhausted man cannot be left alone,
certainly not without the shelter of a tent, nor should one man go on
alone, a party of three must turn back so soon as one man is unable to
go further. Four men would give a better chance of success in this case,
for then two might go on and still leave one to look after the sick man.
Granted, then, that the best hope is for four men to start from a camp
at 27,000 feet, we have firstly to provide them with tents. Two tents
are better than one, for it may be difficult to find a place for four
men to lie side by side, and the greater weight of two smaller tents
above one larger is inconsiderable; and they must have sleeping-bags,
provisions for two days, fuel, and cooking-pots. All these necessities
have been previously carried up to the camp below at 25,000 feet; but
other things besides are required there. We may assume that this camp is
to be used as a stage on the way up only and not on the way down. Even
so, six porters at least will have to sleep there before carrying up the
highest camp, and their requirements will be the same as we have laid
down for the four climbers; we must add another day’s provisions and
fuel for the climbers themselves.

It will be understood from this method of calculation how we arrive at
the number of loads which must be carried up to any given camp; it is
observable that at each stage downwards the number increases in a
proportion considerably greater than 2:1. Fortunately we are not obliged
to proceed strictly on these lines; to the lower camps we need not carry
up the whole of our stores on one day, and consequently we need not
increase in this alarming ratio the number of our porters. But in any
case when we get down to the North Col we must clearly have a large bulk
of stores; and the fewer porters we employ between one stage and
another, economizing on tents and sleeping-bags, the more time we shall
require.

It was clear from the start that time was likely to be a formidable
enemy. General Bruce’s problem was not only to move our vast quantity of
stores across an almost barren country, but to move them in a given
time. It was fortunate for this reason that the number of porters who
came with us was not increased, for every man must add something to our
burdens. No one who knows that arid country could fail to be surprised
that we reached our Base Camp below the Rongbuk Glacier so early as the
1st of May. But now the number of Nepalese porters—only forty were
available for carrying—was too small for all our needs. If they alone
were to shoulder all our loads when should we reach the North Col? Some
sort of depôt must be established below it at 21,000 feet for the supply
of all higher camps on the mountain before we could proceed; and the
reconnaissance party determined that two staging camps would be required
between the Base Camp and this depôt. The existence and the solution of
so large a problem of transport have so important a bearing on our later
plans that I must refer to it again in this place. General Bruce has
told how he impressed Tibetans into his service, and by using them up to
Camp II was able to liberate our own porters much earlier than might
have been expected for work further on. But the system of employing
Tibetans did not work without a hitch. It was because the first labour
battalion absconded that General Bruce gave orders for only two of us to
go forward and use the first opportunities for pushing on from Camp III.
With the prospect of an early monsoon and a shortage of transport it was
desirable that, so soon as any porters were available for work above
Camp III, this work should be pushed on without delay, and if necessary
an assault should be made with the minimum of stores required by a party
of two climbers. Without a further supply of transport there was no
question of using the oxygen, for we should have more than enough to
carry up without it.

On May 10 Somervell and I started from the Base Camp for Camp I. The way
already customary among the porters led us at first over the flat waste
of stones, intersected occasionally by dry stream-beds, which lies below
the black, humpy snout of the Rongbuk Glacier; we then followed the deep
trough below the glacier’s right (west) bank, an obvious line, but rough
with great boulders. It is not before reaching the head of this trough,
where one must turn up towards the East Rongbuk Glacier, that a problem
arises as to how best to proceed; here we found that an adequate path
had already been stamped on the loose moraine, and after ascending
steeply we contoured the hillside at an easy gradient—a little
forethought and energy had devised so good a way that we could walk
comfortably from one camp to the other in two hours and a half. Moreover
we were highly pleased by Camp I. The draught perpetually blowing down
the main glacier was scarcely noticed in this side-valley; the afternoon
sun was shining to cheer the stony scene, and away to the West some
noble peaks were well placed for our delight. But beyond æsthetic
satisfaction we were soon aware of a civilized habitation. We had been
in camp only a few minutes when a cook brought us tea and sweet biscuits
and demanded to know what we would like for dinner; we ordered a good
dinner and proceeded to examine our apartments. Geoffrey Bruce, we knew,
had been busy here with certain constructional works to obviate the
difficulty of carrying up heavy tents which were required in any case at
the Base Camp. We found a little house reserved for Europeans, one of
four solidly built with stones and roofed, with the outer flies of
Whymper tents. I never measured up this chamber; I suppose the floor
must have been 8 feet × 10 feet and the roof 4 feet high. It is true the
tent-poles bridging across from side to side in support of the roof were
in dangerously unstable equilibrium, and there were windy moments when
valetudinously minded persons might have pronounced it a draughty room.
But we were far from hypercritical on this first night, particularly as
no wind blew, and a wonderful and pleasant change it was, after living
in tents, to sit, eat, and sleep in a house once more.

The greater part of our alpine stores, with which I was especially
concerned, had already reached Camp I, and there I found the various
bundles of tents, ropes, sleeping-bags, crampons, paraffin, petrol,
primus stoves, cooking-sets, etc., which I had carefully labelled for
their respective destinations. The great majority were labelled for
III—no higher destination had yet been assigned, and I speculated, not
altogether optimistically, as to the probable rates of their arrival. As
the general order of transport was interrupted for the present, we had
to decide what we should take on with us both of food and alpine stores.
Somervell, who by now was an expert in the numbers and contents of
food-boxes, vigorously selected all that we preferred, and we went to
bed with very good hopes for the future, at least in one respect. In
consequence of these puzzling problems it took us some little time in
the morning to make up our loads; it was past ten o’clock when we
started on our way to Camp II.

[Illustration:

  VIEW FROM ICE CAVERN.
]

I was surprised, after we had proceeded some distance along the stones
on the left bank of the East Rongbuk Glacier, to observe a conspicuous
cairn, evidently intended to mark our way over the glacier itself. But
the glacier in this lower end is so completely covered with stones that
in choosing the easiest way one is only concerned to find the flattest
surfaces, and as we mildly followed where the route had been laid out by
Colonel Strutt and his party we found the glacier far less broken than
was to be expected. Ultimately we walked along a conspicuous medial
moraine, avoiding by that means some complicated ice, and descended it
abruptly, to find ourselves on the flat space where Camp II was
situated.

By this time we had seen a good deal of the East Rongbuk Glacier. As we
came up the moraine near its left bank we looked northwards on a
remarkable scene. From the stony surface of the glacier fantastic
pinnacles arose, a strange, gigantic company, gleaming white as they
stood in some sort of order, divided by the definite lines of the
moraines. Beyond and above them was a vast mountain of reddish rock
known to us only by the triangulated height of its sharp summit, marked
in Wheeler’s map as 23,180. The pinnacles became more thickly crowded
together as we mounted, until, as we followed the bend southwards,
individuals were lost in the crowd and finally the crowd was merged in
the great tumbled sea of the glacier, now no longer dark with stones,
but exhibiting everywhere the bright surfaces of its steep and angry
waves. At Camp II we were surrounded on three sides by this amazing
world of ice. We lay in the shelter of a vertical cliff not less than 60
feet high, sombrely cold in the evening shadow, dazzlingly white in the
morning sun, and perfectly set off by the frozen pool at its foot.
Nothing, of course, was to be seen of Mount Everest; the whole bulk of
the North Peak stood in front of it. But by mounting a few steps up some
stony slopes above us we could see to the south-east, over the surface
of the ice, the slopes coming down from the Lhapka La, from which high
pass we had looked down the East Rongbuk Glacier in September, 1921, and
observed the special whiteness of the broken stream, at our own level
now, and puzzled over its curious course. We had yet another sight to
cheer us as we lay in our tents. On the range between us and the main
Rongbuk Glacier stood, in the one direction of uninterrupted vision, a
peak of slender beauty, and as the moon rose its crests were silver
cords.

Next morning, May 12, according to Colonel Strutt’s directions, we
worked our way along the true left edge of the glacier and the stones of
its left bank. The problem here is to avoid that tumbled sea of ice
where no moraine can be continuously followed. Probably it would be
possible to get through this ice almost anywhere, for it is not an
ice-fall, the gradient is not steep, the pinnacles are not seracs, and
there are few crevasses: but much time and labour would be wasted in
attempting such a course. Further up the surface becomes more even, and
the reconnaissance party had reached this better surface by only a short
and simple crossing of the rougher ice. We easily found the place,
marked by a conspicuous cairn, where they had turned away from the bank.
Their tracks on the glacier, though snow was lying in the hollows, were
not easy to follow, and we quickly lost them; but presently we found
another cairn built upon a single large stone, and here proceeded with
confidence to cross a deep and wide trough of which we had been warned;
and once this obstacle was overcome we knew no difficulty could impede
our progress to Camp III. The laden porters, however, did not get along
very easily. Their nails, for the most part, were worn smooth, and they
found the ice too slippery. As I had never seen in the Alps a
glacier-surface like this one I was greatly surprised by the nature of
the bare ice. In a sense it was often extremely rough, with holes and
minute watercourses having vertical sides 6 inches to 13 inches high;
but the upper surfaces of the little knobs and plateaus intervening were
extraordinarily hard and smooth and the colour was very much bluer than
the usual granular surface of a dry glacier. It was also surprising to
find at most a thin coating of fine snow as high as 20,500 feet; for in
1921 we had found, even before the first heavy snowfall, plenty of snow
on the glaciers above 19,000 feet. For my part, with new nails in my
boots, I was not troubled by the slippery surfaces. But we decided to
supply the porters with crampons, which they subsequently found very
useful on this stage of the journey.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER V

                            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?


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER VI

                           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




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER VII

                           THE SECOND ATTEMPT


With the departure of the last of our companions on March 27, Crawford
and I found ourselves left behind in Darjeeling impatiently awaiting the
arrival of the oxygen equipment from Calcutta. A week elapsed before we
were able to set out for Kalimpong, where we picked up the oxygen stores
on April 4. On the evening of our second march out from Kalimpong,
suspicious rattlings were heard in the cases containing the oxygen
cylinders. On investigation, it transpired that they had been packed
metal to metal, and the continual chafing caused by the rough mule
transport had already resulted in considerable wear in the steel. This
dangerous state of affairs, which, if not speedily remedied, would
undoubtedly soon have led to the bursting of some of the cylinders, with
consequent demoralisation of our transport, let alone possible
casualties, called for immediate attention; so throughout the night of
April 5–6, Crawford and I, aided by our porters, worked steadily at
grommeting the cylinders with string and repacking them in such a manner
as would render impossible any recurrence of the trouble.

On April 8, in a snowstorm, we crossed the Jelep La; thence, proceeding
viâ the Chumbi Valley and Phari, we ultimately rejoined the main body of
the Expedition in Kampa Dzong on the 13th. The rest of our journey
across Tibet to the Base Camp has already been described elsewhere, but
perhaps I may be permitted to give a few of my own impressions of the
country and its inhabitants.

In recollection, the strange land of Tibet stretches itself out before
me in an endless succession of vast, dreary plains, broken by chains of
mountains that, in relation to the height of their surroundings, sink
into the insignificance of hills. Arid and stony desert wastes, almost
totally unblessed by the living green of vegetation; interminable tracts
of sand that shift unceasingly under the restless feet of an
ever-hurrying, pitilessly cruel wind; bleak, barren, and unbeautiful of
form, but fair and of indescribable appeal in the raiment of soft
glowing rainbow hues with which distance, as in compensation, clothes
all wide open spaces. Sunsets provided many a wondrous picture, while
towards the South a glistening array of white-capped excrescences marked
the main chain of the Himalaya. The honour of being the most poignant of
my memories of Tibet, however, remains with the wind. It blew
unceasingly, and its icy blasts invariably met one straight in the face.
The pre-monsoon wind is westerly; the post-monsoon wind blows from the
East. Our journey towards the Base Camp led us towards the West;
homeward bound, during the monsoon, we travelled East. Both going and
returning, therefore, we marched in the teeth of a wind, that gnawed
even at our weather-beaten, hardened skins, and was the most generous
contributor in the quota of discomforts that Tibet meted out to us.

And what of the dwellers in these inhospitable plains? Like all
humankind, the Tibetans have their bad as well as their good points. The
former are easily told. If one wishes to converse with a Tibetan, it is
always advisable to stand on his windward side. A noble Tibetan once
boasted that during his lifetime he had had two baths—one on the
occasion of his birth, the other on the day of his marriage. Those of us
honoured by his presence found the statement difficult to believe. Apart
from this rather penetrating drawback, the Tibetans are a most likeable
people; cheery, contented, good-natured, and hard-working; slow to give
a promise, but punctilious to a degree in carrying it out; truthful and
scrupulously honest. As testimony of this last-mentioned trait, be it
said that during the whole of our long wanderings through Tibet, when it
was quite impossible to keep a strong guard over our many stores, we
never lost so much as a single ration biscuit through theft. Old age is
seldom met with; it is exceptional to see a Tibetan whose years number
more than fifty-five or sixty. Presumably living in so severe a climate,
at an altitude of 14,000 feet or more above sea-level, proves too great
a strain upon the human heart. The priests, or “Lamas,” as they are
called in Tibet, constitute the governing class. They represent the
educated section of the community; the monasteries are the seats of
learning, and, as such, are well-nigh all-powerful. I regret to state
that I did not like the priests as much as the laity. The reason is not
far to seek. If you wish to hold converse with a Lama, it is advisable
not only to stand on his windward side, but also to take care that the
wind is exceptionally strong. The Lamas do not marry. As two-fifths of
the able-bodied population of Tibet lead a monastic life, it will be
readily understood that the odour of sanctity is all-pervading. In other
respects the monks proved as attractive as their simpler countrymen.
Inquisitive with the direct and pardonable inquisitiveness of children,
they are nevertheless men of a distinctly high order of intelligence.
Kindly, courteous, and appreciative of little attentions, they were
always ready to lend assistance and to give information concerning their
religion and the manners and customs of their country.

These few of the more lasting of my impressions would be incomplete
without mention of Tibetan music. On the assumption that whatever is, is
beautiful, Tibetan music is beautiful—to the Tibetan. To the Western ear
it is elementary in the extreme, and, in point of view of sheer ugliness
of sound, competes with the jarring, clashing squeaks, bangs, and hoots
of the jazz-bands that were so fashionable at home at the time of our
departure for India.

On May 2, the day after our arrival at the Base Camp, Strutt, Norton,
and I were sent off by the General to reconnoitre for a suitable first
camping site near the exit of the East Rongbuk Valley. Gaining the
latter by the so-called terrace route which leads over the tremendous
moraines on the right bank of the main Rongbuk Glacier, we had no
difficulty in finding on the right bank of the East Rongbuk Stream, but
a few hundred yards West of the end of the East Rongbuk Glacier, a
favourable position for Camp No. I. We returned that afternoon,
descending down the snowed-over and frozen-up stream to the main Rongbuk
Glacier, making our way thence to the Base Camp through the trough
leading down between the glacier and the moraines. With this little
excursion my climbing activities ceased for the time being. Soon
afterwards I was beset by a troublesome stomach complaint, which had
already claimed as victims the majority of the other members of the
Expedition, and it was not until May 16 that I was sufficiently restored
from the wearing effects of my illness to resume climbing. In spite of
this, my time at the Base Camp was fully occupied. Frequent oxygen
drills were held, and all the oxygen stores overhauled and tested.
Various members of the Expedition were instructed in the use of Primus
stoves. There were many small repairs of different natures to be done,
and in my leisure moments I was kept busy with matters photographic. In
addition, Mount Everest and the weather conditions prevalent thereon
became objects of the keenest study and interest. The remark, “I suppose
Mont Blanc would be absolutely dwarfed into insignificance by Mount
Everest,” has frequently been made to me in one form or another, and, to
my questioners’ amazement, my answer has always been a decided “No.” As
a matter of fact, Mont Blanc, as seen from the Brévant or the Flégère,
excels in every way any view I have ever enjoyed of Mount Everest. It is
true that I have seen the latter only from a tableland which is itself
from 14,000 to 16,000 feet above sea-level, and that I know nothing of
the wonderful sight that Mount Everest probably presents to the observer
from the Southern (Nepalese) side. The grandeur of a mountain depends
very largely upon the extent to which it is glaciated. Mont Blanc is
nearly 16,000 feet high, and its glaciers descend to within 4,000 feet
of sea-level—a vertical zone of 12,000 feet of perpetual ice and snow.
Those glaciers of Mount Everest which flow North, and thus the only ones
with which we are concerned, descend to a point about 16,500 feet above
sea-level—a vertical zone of 12,500 feet of perpetual ice and snow. Thus
it is evident that, from the point of view of vertical extent of
glaciation, there is little difference between the monarch of the Alps
and the Northern side of the highest summit in the world. From the point
of view of beauty there can be no comparison. Seen from one quarter,
Mont Blanc rises in a series of snowy domes piled one against the other
in ever-increasing altitude to a massive yet beautifully proportioned
and well-balanced whole. From another side we see great converging
granite columns, breathing the essence of noble purpose, proudly
supporting and lifting aloft to the sun the gleaming, snowy-capped
splendour of the summit dome. Another view-point, though revealing
perhaps a less beautiful Mont Blanc, lacking much of the graceful
symmetry and strong, purposeful design of the other views, is redeemed
by the fact that the observer is forced in so close to the mountain that
the rattling din of stonefalls and the loud crash of the ice-avalanche
are always in his ears. Mont Blanc asserts her authority with no
uncertain voice. In the Mount Everest as we of this Expedition know it,
revealed in the full glare of the tropical sun, all this is lacking.
Symmetry and beauty cannot truthfully be read out of the ponderous,
ungainly, ill-proportioned lump which carries, as if by chance, on its
Western extremity a little carelessly truncated cone to serve as a
summit. Avalanches are neither seen nor heard. Falling stones there are
without doubt, but one is too far off to hear them. Yet Everest had her
moments. Diffused with the borrowed glory of sunrise or sunset, and clad
in a mantle of fresh snow, the harsh clumsiness of her form would be
somewhat softened and concealed; bathed in the yellow-blue light of
dawn, as yet unkissed by the sun, but whipped into wakefulness by a
driving westerly wind that tore from head and shoulders the snowy veil
which she had donned during the night, rending it into long, spun-out
living streamers, no beholder could gainsay her beauty.

[Illustration:

  MOUNT EVEREST FROM BASE CAMP.
]

Weather conditions naturally proved of the greatest interest. On
consulting my diary, I find that during the period from May 1 to June 5,
there were two days when the weather was fine and settled, and that
these two days succeeded snowstorms which had thickly powdered the
mountain with fresh snow. On both days the sky was cloudless, or nearly
so, and, judging from the absence of driven snow-dust about the summit,
Mount Everest appeared to be undisturbed by wind. Apart from these two
occasions, however, the weather was never absolutely fine. Cloudless
skies there were, but the great streamers of snow smoking away from the
highest ridges of the mountain testified to the existence of the fierce
and bitter wind against which a mountaineer would have to fight his way.
On four occasions there were periods of snowstorms lasting from but a
single night to three days and three nights.

On May 10, Mallory and Somervell set out for Camp III, to make ready for
a first attempt to climb Mount Everest. I had practically recovered from
my stomach trouble, and expected to be able to leave the Base in the
course of a day or two, in order to follow up the first attempt with a
second attack, in which oxygen was to be used. Norton was to be my
companion. Unfortunately, however, I suffered a relapse, and Strutt,
Norton, and Morshead left to join Mallory and Somervell, whereas I had
to resign myself to several more days at the Base. At length, on May 15,
I was ready and eager to think about doing something. My climbing
companions were Geoffrey Bruce and Lance-Corporal Tejbir, the most
promising of the Ghurkas. Wakefield was to accompany us as far as Camp
III, in order to give us a clean bill of health from there onwards.
Leaving the Base on the 16th, we proceeded to Camp I, where the
following day was spent attending to our oxygen apparatus and transport
arrangements. Soon after midday on the 18th, we arrived at Camp II,
where the greater part of the afternoon was devoted to giving Geoffrey
Bruce, Tejbir, and several of the porters, a lesson in the elements of
mountaineering and of ice-craft. On the 19th we reached Camp III, where
we learned from Colonel Strutt that Mallory, Norton, Somervell, and
Morshead had gone up to the North Col in the morning. Geoffrey Bruce and
I immediately set about overhauling our equipment, in particular our
oxygen stores, and as we worked we could see the first party making
their way through the séracs, and climbing the ice-cliffs of the lofty
depression of the North Col.

The cylinders containing our oxygen were found to be in good condition;
but the apparatus—through no fault of the makers, who had, indeed, done
their work admirably—leaked very badly, and to get them into
satisfactory working order, four days of hard toil with soldering-iron,
hacksaw, pliers, and all the other paraphernalia of a fitter’s shop were
necessary. Our workshop was in the open. The temperature played up and
down round about 0° F., but inclined more to the negative side of that
irrational scale. The masks from which the oxygen was to be breathed
proved useless, but by tackling the problem with a little thought and
much cheerfulness a satisfactory substitute was eventually evolved,
making it possible to use the oxygen apparatus in an efficient manner.
Without this new mask no real use could have been made of our oxygen
supplies; oxygen would have been misjudged as being useless, and the
solution of the problem of climbing Mount Everest would have been as
distant as ever.

Preparatory to embarking on the climb itself, we went for several trial
walks—one over to the Rapiu La, a pass 21,000 feet high, at the foot of
the North-east ridge of Everest, from which we hoped to obtain views of
the country to the south. But only part of the North-east ridge showed
hazily through drifting mists. Towards the north and looking down the
East Rongbuk Glacier, views were clearer, though partially obscured by
rolling banks of cloud. Colonel Strutt and Dr. Wakefield, unoxygenated,
accompanied us on this little expedition, and oxygen at once proved its
value, so easily did Bruce and I outpace them. On May 22, acting on
instructions from Colonel Strutt, Geoffrey Bruce, Wakefield, Tejbir, and
I, with a number of porters, set out for the North Col to meet and
afford any required assistance to the members of the first climbing
party who were on their way down from the mountain. It was also our
intention to bring stores up into the North Col as well as give the
oxygen apparatus a final severe try-out prior to embarking upon an
attack upon Mount Everest itself. We met the first climbing party just
above the foot of the final steep slopes leading up to the North Col.
They were more or less in the last stage of exhaustion, as, indeed, men
who have done their best on such a mountain should be. After supplying
them with what liquid nourishment was available, and leaving Wakefield
and two porters to see them back to Camp III, we carried on up to the
North Col. In the afternoon we returned to Camp III. There had been a
considerable amount of step-cutting, for fresh snow had fallen,
compelling us to deviate from the usual route; but even so, oxygen had
made a brief Alpine ascent of what is otherwise a strenuous day’s work.
We took three hours up and fifty minutes down, with thirty-six
photographs taken _en route_.

[Illustration:

  EAST RONGBUK GLACIER NEAR CAMP II.
]

On May 24, Captain Noel, Tejbir, Geoffrey Bruce, and I, all using
oxygen, went up to the North Col (23,000 feet). Bent on a determined
attack, we camped there for the night. Morning broke fine and clear
though somewhat windy, and at eight o’clock we sent off up the long
snow-slopes leading towards the North-east shoulder of Mount Everest,
twelve porters carrying oxygen cylinders, provisions for one day, and
camping gear. An hour and a half later, Bruce, Tejbir, and I followed,
and, in spite of the fact that each bore a load of over 30 lb., which
was much more than the average weight carried by the porters, we
overtook them at a height of about 24,500 feet. They greeted our arrival
with their usual cheery, broad grins. But no longer did they regard
oxygen as a foolish man’s whim; one and all appreciated the advantages
of what they naïvely chose to call “English air.” Leaving them to
follow, we went on, hoping to pitch our camp somewhere above 26,000
feet. But shortly after one o’clock the wind freshened up rather
offensively, and it began to snow. Our altitude was 25,500 feet, some
500 feet below where we had hoped to camp, but we looked round
immediately for a suitable camping site, as the porters had to return to
the North Col that day, and persistence in proceeding further would have
run them unjustifiably into danger. This I would under no circumstances
do, for I felt responsible for these cheerful, smiling, willing men, who
looked up to their leader and placed in him the complete trust of little
children. As it was, the margin of safety secured by pitching camp where
we did instead of at a higher elevation was none too wide; for before
the last porter had departed downwards the weather had become very
threatening. A cheerful spot in which to find space to pitch a tent it
was not; but though I climbed a couple of hundred feet or so further up
the ridge, nothing more suitable was to be found. Remembering that a
wind is felt more severely on the windward side of a ridge than on the
crest, a possible position to the West of the ridge was negatived in
favour of one on the very backbone. The leeside was bare of any possible
camping place within reasonable distance. Our porters arrived at 2 p.m.,
and at once all began to level off the little platform where the tent
was soon pitched, on the very edge of the tremendous precipices falling
away to the East Rongbuk and Main Rongbuk Glaciers, over 4,000 feet
below. Within twenty minutes the porters were scurrying back down the
broken, rocky ridge towards the snow-slopes leading to the North Col,
singing, as they went, snatches of their native hillside ditties. What
splendid men! Having seen the last man safely off, I looked to the
security of the guy-ropes holding down the tent, and then joined Bruce
and Tejbir inside. It was snowing hard. Tiny, minute spicules driven by
the wind penetrated everywhere. It was bitterly cold, so we crawled into
our sleeping-bags, and, gathering round us all available clothing,
huddled up together as snugly as was possible.

With the help of solidified spirit we melted snow and cooked a warm
meal, which imparted some small measure of comfort to our chilled
bodies. A really hot drink was not procurable, for the simple reason
that at such an altitude water boils at so low a temperature that one
can immerse the hand in it without fear of being scalded. Over a
_post-prandium_ cigarette, Bruce and I discussed our prospects of
success. Knowing that no man can put forward his best effort unless his
confidence is an established fact, the trend of my contribution to the
conversation was chiefly, “Of course, we shall get to the top.” After
sunset, the storm rose to a gale, a term I use deliberately. Terrific
gusts tore at our tent with such ferocity that the ground-sheet with its
human burden was frequently lifted up off the ground. On these occasions
our combined efforts were needed to keep the tent down and prevent its
being blown away. Although we had blocked up the few very small openings
in the tent to the best of our powers, long before midnight we were all
thickly covered in a fine frozen spindrift that somehow or other was
blown in upon us, insinuating its way into sleeping-bags and clothing,
there to cause acute discomfort. Sleep was out of the question. We dared
not relax our vigilance, for ever and again all our strength was needed
to hold the tent down and to keep the flaps of the door, stripped of
their fastenings by a gust that had caught us unawares, from being torn
open. We fought for our lives, realising that once the wind got our
little shelter into its ruthless grip, it must inevitably be hurled,
with us inside it, down on to the East Rongbuk Glacier, thousands of
feet below.

And what of my companions in the tent? To me, who had certainly passed
his novitiate in the hardships of mountaineering, the situation was more
than alarming. About Tejbir I had no concern; he placed complete
confidence in his sahibs, and the ready grin never left his face. But it
was Bruce’s first experience of mountaineering, and how the ordeal would
affect him I did not know. I might have spared myself all anxiety.
Throughout the whole adventure he bore himself in a manner that would
have done credit to the finest of veteran mountaineers, and returned my
confidence with a cheerfulness that rang too true to be counterfeit. By
one o’clock on the morning of the 26th the gale reached its maximum. The
wild flapping of the canvas made a noise like that of machine-gun fire.
So deafening was it that we could scarcely hear each other speak. Later,
there came interludes of comparative lull, succeeded by bursts of storm
more furious than ever. During such lulls we took it in turn to go
outside to tighten up slackened guy-ropes, and also succeeded in tying
down the tent more firmly with our Alpine rope. It was impossible to
work in the open for more than three or four minutes at a stretch, so
profound was the exhaustion induced by this brief exposure to the fierce
cold wind. But with the Alpine rope taking some of the strain, we
enjoyed a sense of security which, though probably only illusory,
allowed us all a few sorely needed moments of rest.

Dawn broke bleak and chill; the snow had ceased to fall, but the wind
continued with unabated violence. Once more we had to take it in turns
to venture without and tighten up the guy-ropes, and to try to build on
the windward side of the tent a small wall of stones as an additional
protection. The extreme exhaustion and the chill produced in the body as
a result of each of these little excursions were sufficient to indicate
that, until the gale had spent itself, there could be no hope of either
advance or retreat. As the weary morning hours dragged on, we believed
we could detect a slackening off in the storm. And I was thankful, for I
was beginning quietly to wonder how much longer human beings could stand
the strain. We prepared another meal. The dancing flames of the spirit
stove caused me anxiety bordering on anguish lest the tent, a frail
shelter between life and death, should catch fire. At noon the storm
once more regained its strength and rose to unsurpassed fury. A great
hole was cut by a stone in one side of the tent, and our situation thus
unexpectedly became more desperate than ever.

But we carried on, making the best of our predicament until, at one
o’clock, the wind dropped suddenly from a blustering gale to nothing
more than a stiff breeze. Now was the opportunity for retreat to the
safety of the North Col camp. But I wanted to hang on and try our climb
on the following day. Very cautiously and tentatively I broached my wish
to Bruce, fearful lest the trying experience of the last twenty-four
hours had undermined his keenness for further adventure. Once again
might I have spared myself all anxiety. He jumped at the idea, and when
our new plans were communicated to Tejbir, the only effect upon him was
to broaden his already expansive grin.

It was a merry little party that gathered round to a scanty evening meal
cooked with the last of our fuel. The meal was meagre for the simple
reason that we had catered for only one day’s short rations, and we were
now very much on starvation diet. We had hardly settled down for another
night when, about 6 p.m., voices were heard outside. Our unexpected
visitors were porters who, anxious as to our safety, had left the North
Col that afternoon when the storm subsided. With them they brought
thermos flasks of hot beef-tea and tea provided by the thoughtful Noel.
Having accepted these most gratefully, we sent the porters back without
loss of time.

[Illustration:

  OXYGEN APPARATUS.
]

[Illustration:

  CAPTAIN NOEL KINEMATOGRAPHING THE ASCENT OF MOUNT EVEREST FROM THE
    CHANG LA.
]

That night began critically. We were exhausted by our previous
experiences and through lack of sufficient food. Tejbir’s grin had lost
some of its expanse. On the face of Geoffrey Bruce, courageously
cheerful as ever, was a strained, drawn expression that I did not like.
Provoked, perhaps, by my labours outside the tent, a dead, numbing cold
was creeping up my limbs—a thing I had only once before felt and to the
seriousness of which I was fully alive. Something had to be done. Like
an inspiration came the thought of trying the effect of oxygen. We
hauled an apparatus and cylinders into the tent, and, giving it the air
of a joke, we took doses all round. Tejbir took his medicine
reluctantly, but with relief I saw his face brighten up. The effect on
Bruce was visible in his rapid change of expression. A few minutes after
the first deep breath, I felt the tingling sensation of returning life
and warmth to my limbs. We connected up the apparatus in such a way that
we could breathe a small quantity of oxygen throughout the night. The
result was marvellous. We slept well and warmly. Whenever the tube
delivering the gas fell out of Bruce’s mouth as he slept, I could see
him stir uneasily in the uric, greenish light of the moon as it filtered
through the canvas. Then half unconsciously replacing the tube, he would
fall once more into a peaceful slumber. There is little doubt that it
was the use of oxygen which saved our lives during this second night in
our high camp.

Before daybreak we were up, and proceeded to make ready for our climb.
Putting on our boots was a struggle. Mine I had taken to bed with me,
and a quarter of an hour’s striving and tugging sufficed to get them on.
But Bruce’s and Tejbir’s were frozen solid, and it took them more than
an hour to mould them into shape by holding them over lighted candles.
Shortly after six we assembled outside. Some little delay was incurred
in arranging the rope and our loads, but at length at 6.30 a.m., soon
after the first rays of the sun struck the tent, we shouldered our
bundles and set off. What with cameras, thermos bottles, and oxygen
apparatus, Bruce and I each carried well over 40 lb.; Tejbir with two
extra cylinders of oxygen shouldered a burden of about 50 lb.

Our scheme of attack was to take Tejbir with us as far as the North-east
shoulder, there to relieve him of his load and send him back. The
weather was clear. The only clouds seemed so far off as to presage no
evil, and the breeze, though intensely cold, was bearable. But it soon
freshened up, and before we had gone more than a few hundred feet the
cold began to have its effect on Tejbir’s sturdy constitution, and he
showed signs of wavering. Bruce’s eloquent flow of Gurumuki, however,
managed to boost him up to an altitude of 26,000 feet. There he
collapsed entirely, sinking face downwards on to the rocks and crushing
beneath him the delicate instruments of his oxygen apparatus. I stormed
at him for thus maltreating it, while Bruce exhorted him for the honour
of his regiment to struggle on; but it was all in vain. Tejbir had done
his best; and he has every right to be proud of the fact that he has
climbed to a far greater height than any other native. We pulled him off
his apparatus and, relieving him of some cylinders, cheered him up
sufficiently to start him with enough oxygen on his way back to the high
camp, there to await our return. We had no compunction about letting him
go alone, for the ground was easy and he could not lose his way, the
tent being in full view below.

After seeing him safely off and making good progress, we loaded up
Tejbir’s cylinders, and, in view of the easy nature of the climbing,
mutually agreed to dispense with the rope, and thus enable ourselves to
proceed more rapidly. Climbing not very steep and quite easy rocks, and
passing two almost level places affording ample room for some future
high camp, we gained an altitude of 26,500 feet. By this time, however,
the wind, which had been steadily rising, had acquired such force that I
considered it necessary to leave the ridge and continue our ascent by
traversing out across the great northern face of Mount Everest, hoping
by so doing to find more shelter from the icy blasts. It was not easy to
come to this decision, because I saw that between us and the shoulder
the climbing was all plain sailing and presented no outstanding
difficulty. Leaving the ridge, we began to work out into the face. For
the first few yards the going was sufficiently straightforward, but
presently the general angle became much steeper, and our trials were
accentuated by the fact that the stratification of the rocks was such
that they shelved outward and downward, making the securing of adequate
footholds difficult. We did not rope, however. I knew that the longer we
remained unroped, the more time we should save—a consideration of vital
importance. But as I led out over these steeply sloping, evilly smooth
slabs, I carefully watched Bruce to see how he would tackle the
formidable task with which he was confronted on this his first
mountaineering expedition. He did his work splendidly and followed
steadily and confidently, as if he were quite an old hand at the game.
Sometimes the slabs gave place to snow—treacherous, powdery stuff, with
a thin, hard, deceptive crust that gave the appearance of compactness.
Little reliance could be placed upon it, and it had to be treated with
great care. And sometimes we found ourselves crossing steep slopes of
scree that yielded and shifted downwards with every tread. Very
occasionally in the midst of our exacting work we were forced to indulge
in a brief rest in order to replace an empty cylinder of oxygen by a
full one. The empty ones were thrown away, and as each bumped its way
over the precipice and the good steel clanged like a church bell at each
impact, we laughed aloud at the thought that “There goes another 5 lb.
off our backs.” Since leaving the ridge we had not made much height
although we seemed to be getting so near our goal. Now and then we
consulted the aneroid barometer, and its readings encouraged us on.
27,000 feet; then we gave up traversing and began to climb diagonally
upwards towards a point on the lofty North-east ridge, midway between
the shoulder and the summit. Soon afterwards an accident put Bruce’s
oxygen apparatus out of action. He was some 20 feet below me, but
struggled gallantly upwards as I went to meet him, and, after connecting
him on to my apparatus and so renewing his supply of oxygen, we soon
traced the trouble and effected a satisfactory repair. The barometer
here recorded a height 27,300 feet. The highest mountain visible was Chö
Uyo, which is just short of 27,000 feet. We were well above it and could
look across it into the dense clouds beyond. The great West Peak of
Everest, one of the most beautiful sights to be seen from down in the
Rongbuk Valley, was hidden, but we knew that our standpoint was nearly
2,000 feet above it. Everest itself was the only mountain top which we
could see without turning our gaze downwards. We could look across into
clouds which lay at some undefined distance behind the North-east
shoulder, a clear indication that we were only a little, if any, below
its level. Pumori, an imposing ice-bound pyramid, 23,000 feet high, I
sought at first in vain. So far were we above it that it had sunk into
an insignificant little ice-hump by the side of the Rongbuk Glacier.
Most of the other landmarks were blotted out by masses of ominous,
yellow-hued clouds swept from the West in the wake of an angry
storm-wind. The point we reached is unmistakable even from afar. We were
standing on a little rocky ledge, just inside an inverted V of snow,
immediately below the great belt of reddish-yellow rock which cleaves
its way almost horizontally through the otherwise greenish-black slabs
of the mountain. Though 1,700 feet below, we were well within half a
mile of the summit, so close, indeed, that we could distinguish
individual stones on a little patch of scree lying just underneath the
highest point. Ours were truly the tortures of Tantalus; for, weak from
hunger and exhausted by that nightmare struggle for life in our high
camp, we were in no fit condition to proceed. Indeed, I knew that if we
were to persist in climbing on, even if only for another 500 feet, we
should not both get back alive. The decision to retreat once taken, no
time was lost, and, fearing lest another accidental interruption in the
oxygen supply might lead to a slip on the part of either of us, we roped
together. It was midday. At first we returned in our tracks, but later
found better going by aiming to strike the ridge between the North-east
shoulder and the North Col at a point above where we had left it in the
morning. Progress was more rapid, though great caution was still
necessary. Shortly after 2 p.m., we struck the ridge and there reduced
our burdens to a minimum by dumping four oxygen cylinders. The place
will be easily recognised by future explorers; those four cylinders are
perched against a rock at the head of the one and only large snow-filled
couloir running right up from the head of the East Rongbuk Glacier to
the ridge. The clear weather was gone. We plunged down the easy, broken
rocks through thick mists driven past us from the West by a violent
wind. For one small mercy we were thankful—no snow fell. We reached our
high camp in barely half an hour, and such are the vagaries of Everest’s
moods that in this short time the wind had practically dropped. Tejbir
lay snugly wrapped up in all three sleeping-bags, sleeping the deep
sleep of exhaustion. Hearing the voices of the porters on their way up
to bring down our kit, we woke him up, telling him to await their
arrival and to go down with them. Bruce and I then proceeded on our way,
met the ascending porters and passed on, greatly cheered by their bright
welcomes and encouraging smiles. But the long descent, coming as it did
on the top of a hard day’s work, soon began to find out our weakness. We
were deplorably tired, and could no longer move ahead with our
accustomed vigour. Knees did not always bend and unbend as required. At
times they gave way altogether and forced us, staggering, to sit down.
But eventually we reached the broken snows of the North Col, and arrived
in camp there at 4 p.m. A craving for food, to the lack of which our
weakness was mainly due, was all that animated us. Hot tea and a tin of
spaghetti were soon forthcoming, and even this little nourishment
refreshed us and renewed our strength to such an extent that
three-quarters of an hour later we were ready to set off for Camp III.
An invaluable addition to our little party was Captain Noel, the
indefatigable photographer of the Expedition, who had already spent four
days and three nights on the North Col. He formed our rearguard and
nursed us safely down the steep snow and ice slopes on to the almost
level basin of the glacier below. Before 5.30 p.m., only forty minutes
after leaving the col, we reached Camp III. Since midday, from our
highest point we had descended over 6,000 feet; but we were quite
finished.

[Illustration:

  THE BRITISH MEMBERS OF THE SECOND CLIMBING PARTY.
]

That evening we dined well. Four whole quails truffled in _pâté-de-foie
gras_, followed by nine sausages, left me asking for more. The last I
remember of that long day was going to sleep, warm in the depths of our
wonderful sleeping-bag, with the remains of a tin of toffee tucked away
in the crook of my elbow.

Next morning showed that Bruce’s feet were sorely frostbitten. I had
practically escaped; but the cold had penetrated the half-inch-thick
soles of my boots and three pairs of heavy woollen socks, and four small
patches of frostbite hampered me at first in my efforts to walk. Bruce
was piled on to a sledge, and I journeyed with him as his
fellow-passenger. Willing porters dragged us down until the surface of
the glacier became so rough as to impose too great a strain on our
slender conveyance with its double burden.

Our attack upon Mount Everest had failed. The great mountain with its
formidable array of defensive weapons had won; but if the body had
suffered, the spirit was still whole. Reaching a point whence we
obtained our last close view of the great unconquered Goddess Mother of
the Snows, Geoffrey Bruce bade his somewhat irreverent adieux with “Just
you wait, old thing, you’ll be for it soon!”—words that still are
expressive of my own sentiments.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER VIII

                              CONCLUSIONS


Geoffrey Bruce and I arrived back at the Base Camp early in the
afternoon of May 29. The next few days were spent in resting, and I then
underwent the same experience as the members of the first climbing
party; that is, instead of recovering my strength rapidly during the
first three or four days, if anything a further decline took place.
However, as the weather appeared fine, and there seemed promise of a
bright spell prior to the breaking of the monsoon, it was decided to
make another attempt on the mountain. Of the remaining climbing members
of the Expedition, Somervell was undoubtedly the fittest, with Mallory a
good second. Both had enjoyed some ten days’ rest since their first
assault upon Mount Everest, and therefore had a chance of recovering
from the abnormal strain to which they had been submitted. Medical
opinion as to my condition after so brief a rest was somewhat divided,
but in the end I was passed as sufficiently fit to join in the third
attempt. On the 3rd of June we left the Base Camp. The party consisted
of Wakefield as M.O., Crawford, and later Morris, as transport officers,
Mallory, Somervell and myself as climbers. The attempt was to be made
with oxygen, and I was placed in command. It required a great effort for
me to get as far as Camp I, and I realised there that the few days’ rest
which I had enjoyed at the Base Camp had been quite insufficient to
allow of my recuperation. During the night the weather turned with a
vengeance and it snowed heavily, and I knew that there could be no
object in my proceeding farther. After giving Somervell final detailed
instructions regarding the oxygen apparatus, I wished them all the best
of luck, and on the 4th returned to the Base Camp. As Strutt, Longstaff,
and Morshead were leaving next day for Darjeeling, I was given, and
availed myself of, the opportunity of accompanying them.

That return journey constitutes one of the most delightful experiences
of my life. Within a week of leaving the Base Camp, I had entirely
regained my strength, although a certain tenderness in the soles of my
feet made itself felt for some considerable time. For the most part the
weather was warm, and everywhere the eye feasted on the riotous
colouring of blossoms such as we had never before seen. The only fly in
the ointment was the ever-present sense of defeat coupled with the
knowledge that with only a little better luck we should have won
through.

In spite of our failure, however, I felt that we had learnt much; and
perhaps the most important lesson of all was that we had been taught the
real value of oxygen. Prior to the formation of the 1922 Expedition, the
oxygen problem had already been the subject of much discussion round
which two distinct schools of thought had arisen. The first, headed by
Professor G. Dreyer, F.R.S., Professor of Pathology at the University of
Oxford, was staunch to the belief that, without the assistance of a
supply of oxygen carried in containers on the back of the climber, it
would be impossible for a man to reach the summit of Mount Everest. The
second body of scientific opinion held that, not only would it be
possible for a man to attain the summit of Everest unaided by an
artificial supply of oxygen, but that the weight of such a supply would
only hamper the climber in his efforts, and thus completely
counterbalance any advantages likely to accrue from its use. To arrive
at an impartial conclusion as to the correctitude of these two divergent
opinions, it is only necessary to give careful consideration to the
results achieved on the two high climbs of May 22 and May 27
respectively. The former was made without an artificial supply of
oxygen, the latter with. The first climbing party, consisting of
Mallory, Morshead, Norton, and Somervell, left the North Col at 7 a.m.
on the 20th of May, and that afternoon, at an altitude of 25,000 feet
above sea-level, pitched a camp just off the great North ridge leading
down from the shoulder. Morshead had suffered from the cold and was
evidently unwell. One of Norton’s ears had been badly frostbitten, and
Mallory had frostbitten finger-tips. Somervell alone was, to all intents
and purposes, as yet untouched. Snow fell during the night, but they
were untroubled by wind. At eight o’clock next morning they left their
camp—all save Morshead, who, apparently at the end of his tether and
unable to go farther, had to remain behind. After over six hours’
climbing, Mallory, Norton, and Somervell succeeded in reaching an
altitude of 26,985 feet; so that, since their departure from their high
camp, they had gained a vertical height of 1,985 feet at a rate of
ascent of 330 feet per hour. The point at which they turned back lies
below the shoulder on the great North ridge, and is, in horizontal
distance, about 1⅛ miles from the summit, and rather over 2,000 feet
below it in vertical height. They began to retrace their steps at 2.30
in the afternoon, and regained their high camp at four o’clock; their
rate of descent therefore was 1,320 feet per hour. Shortly after 4 p.m.,
accompanied by Morshead, they started on the return journey to the North
Col, where they arrived at 11.30 that night, a rate of descent of 270
feet per hour. We had seen them on their way down from their high camp,
and acting on instructions from Colonel Strutt, we went up towards the
North Col on the 23rd to render them assistance. We met them just above
the foot of the steep slopes leading up the col. They were obviously in
the last stages of exhaustion, as, indeed, men should be who had done
their best on a mountain like Mount Everest.

On the 25th of May the second party, consisting of Geoffrey Bruce,
Tejbir and myself, left the North Col. Our porters, who did not use
oxygen, left at eight o’clock; we, using oxygen, left at 9.30 a.m., and
in an hour and a half succeeded in overtaking them at an altitude of
24,500 feet, where, somewhat fatigued with their three hours’ effort,
they paused to rest. A moment’s calculation will show that we had been
climbing at the rate of 1,000 feet per hour. Leaving the porters to
follow, we eventually gained an altitude of 25,500 feet, where, owing to
bad weather, we were constrained to camp. It was not until two o’clock
in the afternoon that the porters rejoined us, despite the fact that our
own progress had been hindered by the necessity for much step-cutting.
That night in our high camp was a night of trial and no rest, and the
following day, the 26th, was little better; in addition, our supply of
food was exhausted. Then followed a second night, when the advantages of
using oxygen to combat fierce cold were strikingly evident. At six
o’clock on the morning of the 27th, having had practically no rest for
two nights and a day, half starved and suffering acutely from hunger, we
set out from our high camp in full hopes of gaining the summit of Mount
Everest. Half an hour later, at an altitude of 26,000 feet, Tejbir broke
down—an unfortunate occurrence that may be largely attributed to his
lack of really windproof clothing. On arriving at a height of 26,500
feet we were forced to leave the ridge, so violent and penetratingly
cold was the wind to which we were exposed. The thousand feet from our
camp up to this point had occupied one and a half hours, some twenty
minutes of which had been employed in re-arranging the loads when Tejbir
broke down. Our rate of progress, therefore, had been about 900 feet per
hour, in spite of the fact that we each carried a load of over 40 lb.
After leaving the ridge we struck out over difficult ground across the
great North face of the mountain, gaining but little in altitude, but
steadily approaching our goal. Eventually we decided to turn back at a
point less than half a mile in horizontal distance from, and about 1,700
feet below, the summit. Thus, although we had climbed in vertical height
only some 300 feet higher than the first party, nevertheless we were
more than twice as close to the summit than they had been when they
turned back.

To summarise the two performances. The first party established a camp at
an altitude of 25,000 feet, occupied it for one night, and finally
reaching a point 26,985 feet in height, and 1⅛ miles from the summit,
returned without a break to the North Col. The second party established
a camp at an altitude of 25,500 feet, occupied it for two nights and
almost two days, and eventually reaching a point of 27,300 feet high and
less than half a mile from the summit, returned without a break to Camp
III. The weather conditions throughout were incomparably worse than
those experienced by the first party. The difference between the two
performances cannot be ascribed to superior climbing powers on the part
of the second party, for the simple reason that all the members of the
first party were skilled and proven mountaineers, while Geoffrey Bruce
and Lance-Corporal Tejbir, though at home in the hills, had never before
set foot on a snow and ice mountain. No matter how strong and willing
and gallant an inexperienced climber may be, his lack of mountaineering
skill and knowledge inevitably results in that prodigality of
effort—much of it needless—which invariably and quickly places him at a
grave disadvantage when compared with the trained mountaineer. The
strength of a climbing party is no greater than that of its weakest
member. Judged on this basis the second party was very weak compared
with the first, and the superior results obtained by the former can only
be ascribed to the fact that they made use of an artificial supply of
oxygen.

The contention, therefore, that the disadvantages of its weight would
more than counterbalance the advantages of an artificial supply of
oxygen, may be dismissed as groundless, and the assumption may be made
that on any further attempt upon Everest oxygen will form a most
important part of the climber’s equipment. The question next arises as
to the exact stage in the proceedings at which recourse should be made
to the assistance of oxygen. The strongest members of the Expedition
felt fit and well, and recuperated readily from fatigue, at Camp III,
21,000 feet above sea-level, but at the North Col this was no longer the
case. Thus it would seem that the upper level of true acclimatisation
lies somewhere between 21,000 and 23,000 feet. I would therefore
advocate commencing to use oxygen somewhere between these two levels,
preferably at the foot of the steep slopes leading up to the North Col.
The use of small quantities would allow the climber to reach the Col
without unduly tiring himself. From the North Col to a high camp
situated at an altitude of about 26,500 feet, a slightly increased
quantity of oxygen would suffice to enable the climber to progress
almost as rapidly as he would in the much lower levels of the Alps. We
know from experience that a camp at the above-mentioned altitude can be
readily established, and in all except the worst of weather conditions a
party can make its way down again. Between the camp and the summit there
would be a vertical height of only 2,500 feet, and it is conceivable
that with a full supply of oxygen this distance could be covered in as
little as four hours. I am strongly of the opinion that only one camp
should be used between the North Col and the summit. No matter what
precautions are taken, man’s strength is rapidly sapped during the stay
at these great altitudes, and the plan of campaign most likely to ensure
success would appear to be leisurely and comfortable progress as far as
the North Col, the establishment of a high camp at 26,500 feet, and a
final dash to the summit. This last part of the programme, however,
would not be feasible unless a small dump of oxygen were made at a
height of about 27,500 feet. To do this it would be necessary for a
specially detailed party to spend one night at the high camp, and on the
following day employ their strength in making a dump somewhere above the
shoulder. This done, they would then be able to return to the North Col
with the satisfaction of knowing that they had made it possible for the
actual climbing party to win through.

It is by no means yet certain which is the best line of approach to the
North Col. The route hitherto followed, viâ the East Rongbuk Glacier, is
tedious and roundabout, but it has the advantage of being well sheltered
from the wind, and, except for the final steep slopes beneath the col,
safe under any conditions. Much more direct, however, and probably less
arduous, is the approach from over the main Rongbuk Glacier. The line of
ascent thence to the summit of the col presents no real difficulty, and,
provided it is not found to be too exposed to the wind, is undoubtedly
much safer, even after heavy snowfalls, than that previously followed.
In the light of past experience one can hardly hope to count on good
weather as an ally; adequate protection in the form of windproof
clothing will enable the climber to face all but actual snowstorms.

Climbing parties making the final assaults on the summit should be
small, consisting of two men and no more. In the event of one man
collapsing, his comrade, if at all up to scratch, should be able to get
him down in safety. By so limiting the size of the parties, a number of
attacks, each one as strong as if effected by a large and cumbersome
team of, say, four, could be carried out. Again, in the case of small
parties as suggested, mutual attention to each other’s oxygen outfit is
possible and any necessary repair or adjustment more expeditiously made.

The type of climber who should go farthest on Mount Everest would appear
to be similar to that which best suits the Alps. Of the physical
attributes necessary, the following points, in addition to what is
usually termed perfect physical fitness, may be emphasised. In the
rarefied atmosphere of high altitudes the larger the vital capacity the
better. By the term “vital capacity” is meant the maximum amount of air
an individual is able to expel from the lungs by voluntary effort after
taking the deepest possible inspiration. Compared with the lean, spare
type of individual, the thickset, often musclebound man, though possibly
equal to an immense effort provided it is of short duration, is, as a
rule, at a great disadvantage. The Expedition has also shown beyond all
possible doubt that the tall man is less prone to become fatigued than
one of shorter stature. Again, as is well known amongst mountaineers,
the long-legged, short-trunk type of body is immensely superior to the
short-legged, long-trunk type.

Perhaps more important than perfect physical fitness to the would-be
conqueror of Everest is the possession of the correct mentality.
Absolutely essential are singleness of aim, namely, the attainment of
the summit, and unswerving faith in the possibility of its achievement.
Half-heartedness in even one member of the attacking party spells almost
certain failure. Many a strong party in the Alps has failed to reach its
objective through the depressing effect of the presence of one doubting
Thomas. Like an insidious disease, a wavering, infirm belief is liable
to spread and cause the destruction of the hopes of those who come into
contact with it. The man who cannot face Mount Everest without at the
same time proclaiming that the mountain has the odds in its favour would
do better by himself and others to leave the proposition severely alone.
Of almost equal importance is the possession of what may be called
mental energy or will power, or simply “go.” Mountaineers may be divided
into two classes according to their behaviour when, tired and well-nigh
exhausted, they are called upon to make yet one more supreme effort.
There are those who, lacking the will power necessary to force their
jaded bodies on to still further action, give in; others, possessed of
an almost inexhaustible fund of mental energy, will rise to the
occasion, not once, but time and again. Physical pain is the safety
valve which nature has provided to prevent harm being done to the body
by exhaustion. But nature’s margin of safety is a wide one. On Everest,
this margin must be narrowed down, if necessary, to vanishing-point; and
this can only be done by the climber whose fund of mental energy is
sufficient to drive his body on and on, no matter how intense the pains
of exhaustion, even to destruction if need be.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER IX

                           NOTES ON EQUIPMENT


Our recent experiences having shown that the greatest altitude at which
acclimatisation takes place is about 22,000 feet above sea-level, it may
be reasonably assumed that, from the climber’s point of view, high
altitude on Mount Everest begins at that height. Incidentally, also, on
approaching the North Col over the East Rongbuk Glacier, the snow and
ice conditions met with up to this level approximate very closely to
summer conditions in the Alps. Above 22,000 feet, however, such
conditions, particularly the state of the snow, resemble those met with
in the Alps in mid-winter. This high-altitude zone may be further
divided into two sub-zones—the first, from 22,000 feet (the foot of the
steep snow and ice slopes leading up to the North Col) to 23,000 feet,
in which climatic conditions are by no means severe, as the North Col
affords protection from the prevailing west wind; and the second, from
23,000 feet onwards, of which extreme cold and strong wind are the
predominant characteristics.

It is therefore evident that the climber must be equipped according to
the zone in which he finds himself. In the first zone clothing somewhat
warmer than that used in the Alps in the summer is practically
sufficient. Owing to the marked intensity of the sun’s rays, however, it
is advisable to cover the trunk with at least one layer of sunproof
material, such as a sunproof shirt with spine pad, while a solar topee
and suitable snow-glasses constitute the best form of headgear. Crookes’
glasses of smoke-blue colour proved superior to other varieties; they
afford complete protection from glare and do not cause eye-strain and
subsequent headache. As sunburn, even very superficial and involving
only a small area, is invariably followed by conditions of feverishness
which must impair one’s fitness, a veil should be worn over the face and
gloves on the hands. Oxygen should be employed from the foot of the
North Col slopes onwards, for no useful purpose can be served by tiring
oneself through not using it, when, as we have seen elsewhere, full
recovery from fatigue is no longer possible at 23,000 feet. The second
zone (from 23,000 feet onwards), where a radical change in climatic
conditions is manifest, demands more complicated preparation. Wind is
seldom absent, and the degree of intensity of the cold is comparable
with that met with at the Poles, and indeed probably often exceeds it.
Also, owing to the rarefied state of the atmosphere, the cold is felt
much more severely than would be the case at sea-level. A far greater
volume of air is expelled from the climber’s lungs, and this air, at
blood heat and under a low pressure approximating to one-third of an
atmosphere, is saturated with moisture drawn from the body viâ the
lungs. The result is a proportionately far greater loss of animal heat.
Further, the partial pressure of oxygen contained in a normal atmosphere
becomes so low at altitudes over 23,000 feet that, unless the climber
has recourse to a supply of oxygen carried by himself, his climbing
efficiency is enormously reduced. The climbing equipment of the
mountaineer in this second zone of high altitude should therefore
include, firstly, a supply of oxygen; secondly, warm and windproof
clothing and foot-gear; thirdly, plenty of food and drink, as the use of
oxygen has a most stimulating effect upon the appetite.

The oxygen equipment has already been fully described by Mr. Unna in the
_Alpine Journal_, vol. xxxiv., page 235. The apparatus is, in principle,
quite simple. It consists of a frame carried on the shoulders of the
climber, at whose back, in a rack attached to the frame, are four steel
cylinders filled with oxygen compressed to 120 atmospheres. From the
cylinders the oxygen is taken by means of copper tubes over to an
instrument arm in front of the climber. This instrument arm, also
attached to the frame, carries the pressure gauges and so forth which
indicate how much oxygen the climber is left and how rapidly the
supplies are being used up. Close to the instrument arm and readily
accessible are the valves necessary for controlling the rate of flow of
oxygen from the apparatus. From the instrument arm the oxygen passes
through a flexible rubber tubing up to a mask covering the face of the
climber. The two types of mask supplied to the Expedition proved
useless, partly owing to their stifling effect upon the wearer, and
partly to the fact that saliva and moisture collected rapidly under them
and froze. Both, therefore, had to be discarded, but fortunately I was
able to make a substitute which functioned successfully. This mask
consists of a rubber tube into which is let a rubber bladder by means of
a glass T-piece, or by means of two straight pieces of glass tube let in
at opposite ends of the bladder. One end of the rubber tube is fastened
to the tube of the apparatus out of which the oxygen flows, the other
end being held in the climber’s mouth. On exhaling, the climber closes
the rubber tube by biting upon it, and the oxygen issuing from the
apparatus, instead of being wasted, is stored up in the rubber bladder.
On inhaling, the pressure of the teeth is released sufficiently to allow
the rubber tube to open, thus permitting the oxygen stored up in the
bladder to flow into the climber’s mouth, whence, mixing with the air
exhaled, it is drawn into the lungs. The chief advantages of this mask
are that, firstly, it economises oxygen to the greatest possible extent,
and secondly, the swelling and the shrinking of the bladder during each
exhalation and inhalation respectively give the climber a fair idea as
to how rapidly the oxygen is flowing from the apparatus, and thus
enables him to keep a check upon the readings of the flow-meter, or
instrument which indicates the rate of flow of gas. In actual practice
it was found that in the space of a few minutes the climber used the
mask quite automatically. The biting upon and closing the rubber tube
and subsequent opening were performed without mental effort.

A certain amount of breathing takes place viâ the pores of the skin. As,
however, the best clothing for a climber on Mount Everest is windproof,
there is a likelihood of the air surrounding the body becoming stale, in
which case the process of skin-breathing is seriously impeded. This
difficulty could be easily surmounted by flushing out the stale air by
means of a tube inserted inside the climber’s clothes, the flushing-out
process being done at intervals by temporarily fixing this tube to the
orifice of the oxygen apparatus. It is not known definitely whether the
advantage gained would be worth the trouble, but there is every reason
for believing so. In any case it is a matter which might well be
critically tested on the next Expedition.

Cigarette-smoking proved of great value at high altitudes. Geoffrey
Bruce, Tejbir, and I, after pitching camp at 25,500 feet, settled down
inside our little tent about 2.30 in the afternoon. From then until
seven o’clock the following evening we used no oxygen at all. At first
we noticed that unless one kept one’s mind on the question of
breathing—that is, made breathing a voluntary process instead of the
involuntary process it ordinarily is—one suffered from lack of air and a
consequent feeling of suffocation—a feeling from which one recovered by
voluntarily forcing the lungs to work faster than they would of their
own accord. There is a physiological explanation for this phenomenon. At
normal altitudes human blood holds in solution a considerable quantity
of carbon dioxide, which serves to stimulate the nerve centre
controlling one’s involuntary breathing. At great altitudes, however,
where, in order to obtain a sufficiency of oxygen, the climber is forced
to breathe enormous volumes of air, much of this carbon dioxide is
washed out of the blood, and the nerve centre, no longer sufficiently
stimulated, fails to promote an adequately active involuntary breathing.
A voluntary process must be substituted, and this throws a considerable
strain upon the mind, and renders sleep impossible. On smoking
cigarettes we discovered after the first few inhalations it was no
longer necessary to concentrate on breathing, the process becoming once
more an involuntary one. Evidently some constituent of cigarette smoke
takes the place and performs the stimulating function of the carbon
dioxide normally present. The effect of a cigarette lasted for about
three hours. Clothing is a most important matter. It would be difficult
to exaggerate the intensity of the cold encountered at high altitudes on
Mount Everest. Several layers—the innermost of which should be of silk,
the others wool of moderate weight—form a much better protection against
cold than one or two heavy layers. The chief item of clothing, however,
should consist of a jumper and trousers made of windproof material. Two
of these windproof suits should be worn one above the other, and every
precaution taken to reduce the circulation of the air to the smallest
possible extent. The hands must be protected in accordance with the same
principles, and the head. I used a R.N.A.S. pattern flying helmet and
found it most satisfactory. Helmet and snow-glasses should completely
cover the head and face, leaving no skin exposed. Boots were a source of
trouble to all, but fortunately we had so many different designs which
we could test out thoroughly that we are now able to form a very shrewd
idea as to which kind is the most suitable. Leather conducts heat too
well for reliance to be placed upon it for the preservation of warmth.
The uppers of the boots should be of felt, strengthened where necessary
to prevent stretching, by leather straps covered by duroprened canvas.
Toe and heel caps must be hard and strong, and the former especially
should be high, so that the toes are given plenty of room. The sole of
the boot should be composed of a layer of thin leather attached to a
layer of three-ply wood, hinged in two sections at the instep. A thin
layer of felt should form the inside of the sole. The boots should be
large enough to accommodate in comfort two pairs of thick socks, or,
even better still, two pairs of thin socks and one pair of thick socks.
Nails used in the boots should penetrate through the leather into the
three-ply wood, but not through the latter.

In conclusion, I should like to thank the Governing Body of the Imperial
College of Science and Technology for granting me the necessary leave to
enable me to take part in the 1922 Mount Everest Expedition, and also
for granting me facilities for carrying out a considerable number of
investigations in the laboratory of the Department of Chemical
Technology upon questions relating, amongst others, to oxygen equipment,
fuels, and vacuum flasks. These last were required in order to enable us
to keep foods liquid at heights over 23,000 feet, and the flasks
obtained on the market proved quite useless for this purpose in view of
the fact that they had not been sufficiently well evacuated.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           THE THIRD ATTEMPT

                                   By
                          GEORGE LEIGH-MALLORY




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER X

                           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.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER XI

                              CONCLUSIONS


It might be supposed that, from the experience of two expeditions to
Mount Everest, it would be possible to deduce an estimate of the dangers
and difficulties involved and to formulate a plan for overcoming the
obstacles which would meet with universal approval among mountaineers.
But, in fact, though many deductions could hardly be denied, I should be
surprised to find, even among us of the second party, anything like
complete agreement either in our judgment of events or in our ideas for
the future. Accordingly, I must be understood as expressing only my
personal opinions. The reader, no doubt, will judge the book more
interesting if he finds the joint authors disagreeing among themselves.

The story of the first attempt to climb the mountain in 1922 will have
no doubts on one point. The final camp was too low. However strong a
party may be brought to the assault, their aim, unless they are provided
with oxygen, must be to establish a camp considerably higher than our
camp at 25,000 feet. The whole performance of the porters encourages us
to believe that this can be done. Some of them went to a height of
25,000 feet and more, not once only, but thrice; and they accomplished
this feat with strength to spare. It is reasonable to suppose that these
same men, or others of their type, could carry loads up to 27,000 feet.
But it would be equally unreasonable to suppose that they could reach
this height in one day from the camp on Chang La at 23,000 feet. No one
would be so foolish as to organise an attempt on this assumption. Two
camps instead of one must be placed above the Chang La; another stage
must be added to the structure before the climbing party sets forth to
reach the summit.

But how exactly is this to be done? It is to this question that one
would wish to deduce an answer from the experience of 1922. It is very
unlikely that any future party will find itself in the position to carry
out any ideal plan of organisation. Ideally, they ought to start by
considering what previous performances might help or hinder the aim of
bringing the party of attack in the fittest possible condition to the
last camp. What ought they to have done or not to have done, having
regard to acclimatisation? It is still impossible to lay down the law on
this head. After the first Expedition, I supposed that the limit of
acclimatisation must be somewhere about 21,000 feet. It now seems
probable that it is higher. One of the physiologists who has been most
deeply concerned with this problem of acclimatisation considers that it
would probably be desirable, from the physiological point of view, to
stay four or five days at 25,000 feet before proceeding to attempt the
two last stages on consecutive days. Those of us who slept at Camp V for
the first attempt would certainly be agreed in our attitude towards this
counsel. The desire to continue the advance and spend another night at a
higher elevation, if it persisted at all for so long a time at 25,000
feet, would be chilled to tepidity, and the increasing desire to get
away from Camp V might lead to retreat instead of advance. The
conditions must be altogether more comfortable if the climbers are to
derive any advantage from their rustication at this altitude. It would
not be impossible, perhaps, if every effort were concentrated on this
end, to make a happy home where the aspiring mountaineers might pass a
long week-end in enjoyment of the simplest life at 25,000 feet; it would
not be practicable, having regard to other ends to be served by the
system of transport. But it might be well to spend a similar period for
acclimatisation 2,000 feet lower on the Chang La. There a very
comfortable camp, with perfect shelter from the prevailing wind and good
snow to lie on, can easily be established. Noel actually spent three
successive nights there in 1922, and apparently was the better rather
than the worse for the experience.

No less important in this connection is the effect of exertions at high
altitudes on a man’s subsequent performance. We have to take into
account the condition of the climbing parties when they returned to the
Base Camp after reaching approximately 27,000 feet. With one exception,
all the climbers were affected in various degrees by their exertions, to
the prejudice of future efforts. It would seem, therefore, that they
cannot have had much strength to spare for the final stage to the
summit. But there was a general agreement among the climbers that it was
not so much the normal exertion of climbing upwards that was in itself
unduly exhausting, but the addition of anything that might be considered
abnormal, such as cutting steps, contending with wind, pushing on for a
particular reason at a faster pace, and the many little things that had
to be done in camp. It is difficult from a normal elevation to
appreciate how great is the difference between establishing a camp on
the one hand and merely ascending to one already established on the
other. If ever it proves possible to organise an advanced party whose
business it would be to establish at 25,000 feet a much more comfortable
camp than ours in 1922, and if, in addition, a man could be spared to
undertake the preparation of meals, the climbers detailed for the
highest section of all would both be spared a considerable fatigue and
would have a better chance of real rest and sleep.

The peculiar dangers of climbing at great altitudes were illustrated by
the experience of 1922. The difficulty of maintaining the standard of
sound and accurate mountaineering among a party all more or less
affected by the conditions, and the delays and misfortunes that may
arise from the exhaustion of one of the party, are dangers which might
be minimised by a supporting party. Two men remaining at the final camp
and two men near Camp V watching the progress of the unit of assault
along the final ridge, and prepared to come to their assistance, might
serve to produce vital stimulants, hot tea or merely water, at the
critical moment, and to protect the descent. It is a counsel of
perfection to suggest providing against contingencies on this lavish
scale; but it is well to bear in mind the ideal. And there is, besides,
a precaution which surely can and will be taken: to take a supply of
oxygen for restorative purposes. The value of oxygen for restoring
exhausted and warming cold men was sufficiently well illustrated during
the second attempt in 1922.

[Illustration:

  CHANG LA AND NORTH-EAST SHOULDER OF MOUNT EVEREST
]

The question as to whether the use of oxygen will otherwise help or
hinder climbers is one about which opinions may be expected to disagree.
Anyone who thinks that it is impossible to get up without oxygen can
claim that nothing has shown it to be impossible to get up with its aid.
For my part, I don’t think it impossible to get up without oxygen. The
difference of atmospheric pressure between 27,000 feet and the summit is
small, and it is safe to conclude that men who have exerted themselves
at 27,000 feet could live without difficulty for a number of hours on
the summit. As to whether their power of progress would give out before
reaching 29,000 feet, it is impossible to dogmatise. I can only say that
nothing in the experience of the first attempt has led me to suppose
that those last 2,000 feet cannot be climbed in a day. I am not
competent to sift and weigh all the evidence as to whether, how much,
and with what consumption of gas it was easier to proceed up the slopes
of Mount Everest with oxygen so far as Finch and Bruce went on that
memorable day. But I do venture to combat the suggestion that it is
necessarily easier to reach the top in that manner. I think no one will
dispute the statement that the final camp for the second attempt was too
low, as it had been for the first, to enable the oxygen party to reach
the summit. With the same apparatus it will be necessary in this case
also to provide a second camp above the North Col. And the question for
the moment will ultimately be, is it possible to add to that immense
burden of transport to 27,000 feet the weight of the oxygen cylinders
required?

The weather in all probability will have something to say to this
problem. The Expedition of 1922 was certainly not favoured by the
weather. There was no continuous spell of calm fine days, and the summer
snows began a week earlier than the most usual date. One wonders what
sort of weather is to be expected with the most favourable conditions on
Mount Everest. It is conceivable that a series of calm fine days
sometimes precede the monsoon. But when we consider the perpetual winds
of Tibet at all seasons, it seems unlikely that Mount Everest is often
immune from this abominable visitation. It is far more likely that the
calm day is a rare exception, and only to be expected when the
north-westerly current is neutralised by the monsoon from the
South-east. The ill-luck of 1922 may probably be computed as no more
than those seven days by which the monsoon preceded expectation. With so
short a time for preparations and advance, we were indeed unfortunate in
meeting an early monsoon. And it is hardly possible considerably to
extend the available time by starting earlier. There was only the barest
trickle of water at the Base Camp on May 1, 1922, and the complications
involved by the necessity of melting snow for water, both here and at
all higher stages, for any considerable time, would be a severe
handicap. But it must be remembered that the second attempt was made a
week before the monsoon broke. Time appeared short on the mountain
chiefly from the threat of bad weather and the signs showing that the
majority of days were, to say the least, extremely disagreeable for
climbing high on the mountain. If others are confronted by similar
conditions, they too will probably feel that each fine day must be
utilised and the attack must be pressed on; for the fine days past will
not come back, and ahead is the uncertain monsoon.

A final question may now be asked: What advantages will another
Expedition have which we did not have in 1922? In one small and in one
large matter the next Expedition may be better equipped. It was
disappointing, after so much time and thought had been expended upon the
problem of foot-gear, that nothing was evolved in 1922 which succeeded
in taking the place of Alpine boots of well-known patterns. The great
disadvantage of these sorts of boot is that one cannot wear crampons
with them at these high altitudes, for the strap bound tightly round the
foot will almost certainly cause frostbite; either different boots or
different spikes must be invented if the climbers are to have crampons
or their equivalent. It is essential that they should be so equipped to
avoid the labour of step-cutting, and the lack of this equipment might
well rob them of victory on the steep final slopes below the summit.
This matter of foot-gear is not so very small, after all. But a still
more important one is the oxygen apparatus. It is conceivable, and I
believe by no means unlikely, that a different type of cylinder may be
used in the future, and capable of containing more oxygen, compared with
the same weight, than those of 1922. A 50 per cent. improvement in this
direction should alter the whole problem of using oxygen. With this
advantage it might well be possible to go to the top and back with the
four cylinders which a man may be expected to carry from a height of
25,000 feet or little higher. If a second camp above the North Col
becomes unnecessary in this way, the whole effort required, and
especially the effort of transport, will be reduced to the scale of what
has already been accomplished, and can no doubt be accomplished again.

The further advantage of a future Expedition is simply that of
experience. It amounts to something, one cannot say how much. In small
ways a number of mistakes may be avoided. The provision of this and that
may be more accurately calculated according to tried values. The whole
organisation of life in high camps should be rather more efficient.
Beyond all this, the experience of 1922 should help when the moment
comes towards the making of a right plan; and a party which chooses
rightly what to do and when to do it, and can so exclude other
possibilities as to be certain that no better way could be chosen, has a
great advantage. But, when all is said as to experience and equipment,
it still remains true that success requires a quality. History repeats
itself, perhaps, but in a vague and general fashion only where mountains
are concerned. The problem of reaching the summit is every time a fresh
one. The keen eye for a fair opportunity and resource in grave
emergencies are no less necessary to the mountaineer everywhere, and not
least upon Mount Everest, than determination to carry through the high
project, the simple will to conquer in the struggle.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                 NOTES

                                   By
                          T. HOWARD SOMERVELL

                                   on

                        ACCLIMATISATION AT HIGH
                               ALTITUDES

                            COLOUR IN TIBET

                            TIBETAN CULTURE




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XII

                   ACCLIMATISATION AT HIGH ALTITUDES


The Everest Expedition of 1922 had no preconceived programme of
scientific investigation, and was first and foremost an attempt to get
up the mountain; though, as I had been connected with physiological
research for some years, I was naturally anxious to make observations on
the effect of altitude on the human frame. These observations were
rather subjective, and were unaccompanied by any accurate data—in other
words, the reader will be relieved to hear that there are no tables of
figures to be reproduced. Barcroft and others were in the course of
their Expedition to the Andes, and I knew full well their results would
supply more accurate information on the exact process of acclimatisation
at high altitudes than anything we could do with our simpler apparatus.
We left it to this other Expedition, therefore, to supply the figures,
while our observations were exclusively on the practical side; that is
to say, we observed the rapidity and effect of acclimatisation, while
not investigating exactly how it is brought about.

The first effect of altitude, in such moderate degree as we encountered
it on the plains of Tibet, was almost entirely a mere breathlessness,
which limited our rate of walking, and increased the popularity of our
uncomfortable Tibetan saddles when travelling uphill. A few of us had
severe headaches from time to time; at the modest height of 17,000 feet
I noticed Cheyne-Stokes respiration at night when lying down, though
never when sitting or standing; and I remember being distinctly amused
at the fact that one was unable to control it.[7] A few of the party had
a single attack of vomiting, but no permanent effect was noticed, and by
the time we had lived on the Tibetan Plateau for a few weeks we had lost
all ill effects save only breathlessness, which, of course, persisted to
some extent until we reached comparatively low elevations. Further
effect at these heights was not noticed save in the case of some of the
older members of the party, who suffered from a considerable loss of
appetite while at the Base Camp at 16,000 feet; this effect on appetite
did not improve as time went on.

Footnote 7:

  For the benefit of the non-medical reader, Cheyne-Stokes breathing is
  the gradual alternation of shallow and deep respirations: usually
  about ten shallow breaths are followed by respirations which get
  gradually deeper; then by three or four really deep ones, which become
  shallower until the cycle recommences.

It was when we began the more serious work on the mountain that we made
the most interesting observations on acclimatisation, and proved both
its rapidity (which was known before) and its persistence to great
heights. Scientists of various schools had, before the start of the
Expedition, predicted that acclimatisation would be impossible above the
height of 20,000 feet. Why they had done so will always remain a mystery
to me; but possibly they were misled by the fact that so many climbing
expeditions in the past have failed somewhere in the region of 23,000
feet above sea-level. We were enabled, however, to prove conclusively
that acclimatisation does go on to greater heights; in fact, I do not
see a theoretical limit to it at any elevation below the top of Mount
Everest. Our observations were largely subjective, but for that reason
they are perhaps all the more to be appreciated by the general reader;
and in view of their subjective nature I may perhaps be pardoned in
substituting “feelings” for figures and putting information in the form
of a personal experience.

When Mallory and I arrived at Camp III and established it on the site
chosen by the reconnaissance party, our first concern was the
preparation of another camp at the North Col. I shall never forget our
first ascent up that accursed slope of snow and ice, each step a
hardship, every foot a fight; until at last we lay almost exhausted on
the top. After a day or two at Camp III below, we went up again to the
col, this time with Strutt and Morshead, and I think Norton. The ascent
of the col this time was hard work, but not more than that; and after
the col had been reached Morshead and I were sufficiently cheerful to
explore the way leading up to Everest. A day or two later we again
ascended the North Col, and never really noticed more discomfort than
was occasioned by breathlessness. Though not possessing the scientific
data which explained this change in our condition, yet in those few days
of life at 21,000 feet we had become acclimatised to our altitude to a
very remarkable degree; what had previously been a hard struggle had now
become a comparatively easy job. By this rapid change in our
constitution we had not only proved the predictions of scientists to be
wrong, but had gained the physical power which took us without
artificial oxygen supply to 27,000 feet, and we had determined that
acclimatisation is not only possible but is also quite rapid at these
high altitudes.

Thus, by sojourn and exercise for a week above 20,000 feet, we obtained
the physiological equipment necessary for an attempt on the mountain,
and at this point some personal experiences may be of interest, though
possibly of no great importance. We found that, as we ascended, we fell
into an automatic rate of breathing; Mallory preferred to breathe slowly
and deeply, while rapid and shallower respirations appealed to me; but
we all walked upwards at almost exactly the same rate at any given
height. Below the North Col, I took three breaths to a step, while at
26,000 feet I was taking five complete respirations; but as long as I
was walking slowly enough I experienced no distress or discomfort. If
one hurried for a short distance, one was forced to rest for a few
seconds—a rest was imperative, and one felt it were impossible to do
without it; but as long as an even pace was kept up, one had no desire
to stop, nor to make one’s admiration of the landscape an excuse for
delaying one’s comrades. At the height of 26,000 feet, I took my pulse
(which was 180) and my respirations (which were 50 to 55 to the minute);
but withal one felt perfectly comfortable even though these abnormal
physiological conditions were present. No doubt the heart must be young
to stand this rate of beating for many hours; yet not too young, or it
will easily become enlarged and permanently damaged.

In view of our experiences it seems justifiable to predict that
acclimatisation at 23,000 feet will be sufficient for the attainment of
the summit of Mount Everest, if indeed a sojourn at 21,000 feet is
insufficient—which is to my mind more than doubtful. The other important
practical observation we made is less encouraging: namely, that we all
varied in our rate of acclimatisation, and in fact some of our number
(especially the older ones among us) actually seemed to deteriorate in
condition while staying at a great height. But I think we proved that it
is possible to climb to the summit of Everest without the use of oxygen,
though the selection of men who are able to do so is very difficult
until those heights are actually reached at which acclimatisation
becomes established. Personally I felt perfectly well at 27,000 feet,
and my condition seemed no different at that height from what it had
been at 25,000 feet, or even lower; and I have no doubt there are many
people, if only they can be found, who can get to the top of Everest
unaided save by their own physiological reaction to a life at 21,000
feet for a few days. If a number of such people were allowed to live at
a height corresponding to our Camp III for a fortnight or so, making
perhaps a few minor excursions to 23,000 or 24,000 feet, then I have no
doubt from the physiological point of view that they will be able to
climb Mount Everest, provided the weather is fine and the wind not too
violent. Without allowing time for acclimatisation to take place, it is
probable that nobody—that is, unless some _lusus naturæ_ exists—will
reach the summit; if artificially supplied oxygen be used, the
acclimatisation may not be necessary; but the danger of an attempt by
non-acclimatised men with oxygen apparatus is that a breakdown of the
apparatus might lead to serious consequences, while a fully acclimatised
man is probably just as capable of standing a height of 29,000 feet,
unaided, as you or I would be able to stand the height of Mount Blanc
to-morrow. When the Expedition of 1922 started I was personally of
opinion that nobody could exist at a height about 25,000 or 26,000 feet
without oxygen; but since we have proved that this can be done, it seems
that the chances of climbing the mountain are probably greater if oxygen
be not used. For the apparatus, and the spare cylinders required,
necessitate the use of a large number of coolies; while in an attempt
without oxygen only three or four coolies are required for the camping
equipment and the food at the highest camp. Therefore it seems that the
best chance of getting to the top of Mount Everest lies in the sending
out of some nine or ten climbers, who can remain at a high camp, become
thoroughly acclimatised, and then make a series of expeditions up the
mountain, three or so at a time, as continuously as weather conditions
will allow. By adopting these tactics the number of possible attempts up
the mountain can be increased; and it seems to me that the chances of
climbing to the summit lie in the multiplicity of possible attempts
rather than in any other direction. It were better to prepare for a
number of attempts each by a small but acclimatised party, rather than
to stake all on one or two highly organised endeavours, in which oxygen,
and a large number of coolies, are used. It is only a small proportion
of coolies who can get up to the heights of 25,000 or 27,000 feet, and
they should be used for any one attempt as sparingly as possible. During
the war we all had our ideas of how it should be run, and they were
generally wrong; the above plan is the writer’s idea of how to climb
Mount Everest, and may or may not be right, but is enunciated for what
it is worth.

Among subsidiary effects of extreme altitudes, were those upon appetite,
temper, and mental condition generally. Most of us will admit a good
deal of peevishness and irritability while at a level of 22,000 feet and
more; for the altitude undoubtedly makes one lose to some extent one’s
mental balance, and the first way in which this appears on the surface
is by a ruffling of the temper. In addition, one has a certain lack of
determination, and when at a height approaching 27,000 feet I remember
distinctly that I cared very little whether we reached the top of
Everest or not. A good instance of this altered attitude of mind is
provided by the fact that Finch and Bruce took a camera with them on
their ascent, and forgot to take any photographs of their last day’s
climbing.

I have mentioned the deleterious effect of altitude on the appetite of
some of our older members; but the same was to some extent true of us
all. I have the most vivid recollection of distaste for food during our
first few days at Camp III, and especially of the way one had almost to
push a prune down one’s throat on the way up to the North Col; but with
the majority of us this distaste for food (especially for meat and the
slowly-digested foods) diminished during our sojourn at great heights,
though our appetites never became quite normal until we reached one of
the lower camps. Those who had oxygen reported that they had large
appetites above the North Col; and there is no doubt that it is the
rarefaction of the air that causes this alteration of the appetite. One
may perhaps be justified in assuming that the secretion of gastric juice
is diminished while air that is poor in oxygen is inhaled, though it is
rather hard to understand how this is brought about.

Although acclimatisation is not entirely connected with the actual
increase in the number of blood corpuscles (as has been proved by
Barcroft in 1922), yet this is still recognised as one of the important
factors in its production. But this increase in the concentration of the
blood must be associated with a great increase in its viscosity, and
when that is combined with intense cold with its accompanying
constriction of all the smaller blood-vessels, there are present all the
conditions necessary for the production of frostbite. Therefore
acclimatisation with all its benefits probably increases the risk of
frostbite; hence one who is acclimatised must be especially careful of
feet and hands and their coverings. It is hard to put on too many
clothes at a great altitude, and very easy to put on too few.

The chief point still remaining to be mentioned concerns the
after-effects of the climbing of Everest; but these varied so much that
they give us little or no scientific information. Some of us were tired
for twenty-four hours only, some for many days; some were reported to
have enlarged hearts, while in some the heart was normal; some were
incapacitated by frostbite, though their general physical condition was
very probably good. One therefore cannot generalise about after-effects,
but as a medical man I felt strongly (by observation on myself and my
companions on the Expedition) that if one is to “live to fight another
day” and to require the minimum recuperation period after an attempt on
the mountain, it is essential during the attempt to keep oneself well
within one’s powers. One is tempted to go too hard, and to exert one’s
strength to its limits; but it is just the last few ounces of strength
which call forth the greatest effort and make the maximum demands on
one’s resources; and if these resources are to be used to their full
extent they should be continuously conserved by an avoidance of definite
hurry. Personally I am of opinion that exercise before the climbing
begins is of great value. Mallory and I were the only ones whom
Longstaff allowed to make two attempts on Everest; and we were probably
rendered fit in this way by the subsidiary expeditions we had made on
the way to Mount Everest and by our preliminary work in getting the camp
ready on the North Col. It is, however, hard to generalise on a point
like this, but each man knows the idiosyncrasies of his own
constitution, and it should be left to individuals to a great extent to
see that their condition on arrival at the foot of the mountain is the
best that is possible.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XIII

                            COLOUR IN TIBET


In order to bring before the reader a vivid picture of Tibet, and
especially of the region around Mount Everest, a comparison between
Tibet and other better-known countries is almost inevitable. The
Expedition of 1922 took with them no official artist, or no doubt he
would have been deputed to write this section of the book; there were,
however, two people who tried to paint pictures of the country, Major
Norton and myself; and though I realise how inadequate our efforts were,
perhaps those of an official artist might have been almost as bad.
However, as one who looks on the world with an eye for its beauty,
although lacking the ability to transfer that beauty to canvas, one may
perhaps be pardoned for endeavouring to describe certain general
impressions of the scenery encountered by the Expedition.

In the course of our journey we passed through a great variety of
landscape; in Sikkim, for instance, we found a land of steep slopes and
dense forests, while Tibet is almost a desert country. We experienced
the clear air of the winter, and the mists and storm-clouds of the
monsoon. While we were on the rolling plains of the Tibetan Plateau,
only a few miles away were the snow-covered summits of the highest
mountains in the world.

Sikkim is a country of deep valleys and of luxurious vegetation; the air
is generally damp and the skies cloudy, and there is often a beautiful
blue haze that gives atmosphere to the distance. Sikkim is not unlike
the Italian side of the Alps, in many ways. True, its scale is larger,
and it possesses some of the most beautiful and impressive peaks in the
world (for no Alpine peak can vie with Siniolchum or Pandim for sheer
beauty of form and surface), but on the whole the scenery of Sikkim is
of the same general build as the valleys and peaks of Northern Italy. In
this sense Sikkim did not offer to the new-comer anything entirely
different from what he had seen before. But Tibet and Everest certainly
did; and the difference between Sikkim and Tibet is twofold—first, Tibet
is almost uniformly over 13,000 feet above sea-level, and therefore
bears no trees at all; second, Tibet is almost free from rainfall and
is, in consequence, a desert country. One’s eye travelled, for mile
after mile, over red-brown sand and red-brown limestone hills, finally
to rest on the blue and white of the distant snows. The air, before the
monsoon commences, is almost always clear—clear to an extent unimagined
by a European, clearer even than the air of an Alpine winter. So peaks
and ridges 30 or 40 miles away are often almost in the same visual plane
as the foreground of the landscape. In some extensive views, such as we
had from the hills above Tinki Dzong, one came to look upon hills 30
miles away as the middle distance of one’s picture, while the background
was formed of mountains a hundred miles from the point of view. It is
this lack of atmosphere which makes pictorial representation of these
Tibetan scenes so very difficult; the pictures I made on the course of
the Expedition have all had one criticism from many different
people—“there is no atmosphere.” Many as are the demerits of these
pictures, this is the one merit they have; and if they had an
“atmosphere” they would cease to be truthful. In the Alps one has often
seen mountains with extreme clearness at a great distance, but I never
remember having viewed an Alpine landscape in which there was
practically no effect of distance, and practicably no blueness of the
more distant shadows. Yet that is precisely what obtains in Tibet before
the month of June. And then, with startling suddenness, comes the
monsoon, with its damp air; for some months the landscape is entirely
altered, and also much beautified. The blue haze of the monsoon converts
the distant shadows from their crude purple-brown to the most
magnificent and sometimes brilliant blue. Once or twice one looked in
vain on one’s palette for a blue of sufficient brilliance and intensity
to reproduce the colour of the shadows 20 or 30 miles away. Then the
monsoon brings clouds and rain-storms, all of which tend to give variety
to the scene, and to endue the distant peaks with that effect of mystery
which renders them so alluring and so beautiful.

As far as the scenery among the higher mountains is concerned, the
comparison of photographs of the Everest group of peaks with those of
the Alps will give one more idea of the differences between the two
districts than can a mere verbal description, save in the matter of
scale and colour. In colour, the Alps are more varied and the rock is,
as a rule, a darker brown; the snow-shadows are more blue and the
outlines less clear; while Alpine foregrounds so often contain trees
which are totally absent from the foregrounds of Tibet. There both rocks
and stones, scree and valley-bed are of a light reddish-brown, almost
uniform in tone from near foreground to extreme distance; Makalu, for
example, is a colossal rock-pyramid of quite a light ochre colour; the
rocks of Everest are of a light amber brown relieved in the
neighbourhood of 27,000 feet by a lighter yellowish band of quartzite.
The snow of the range on its northern side resembles that of Alpine
peaks, but on the southern face the festoons and grooves of ice, so well
known to many from photographs of Himalayan mountains, decorate the much
steeper and more uncompromising slopes. Most of the higher peaks are
swept by continual gusts of wind which whirl clouds of snow from the
topmost ridges into the sky.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XIV

                            TIBETAN CULTURE


The Tibetans are a very simple folk, though not without a very definite
civilisation of their own. Art and music exist in all nations, if the
art be merely the fashioning of utensils, and the music be the crudest
of rhythms played on a tom-tom. Yet in Tibet the rudimentary music and
art associated with so many Eastern races is carried a stage farther,
and what is in wilder people merely natural instinct has become in Tibet
a definite culture. For I presume that culture is merely organised art,
and certainly on that criterion the Tibetan is to some extent cultured.

He is a fine architect, and many of his houses have a simple stateliness
which raises them in artistic value high above the average
dwelling-house of most other Oriental countries, to say nothing of our
own garden suburbs. The Monasteries of Tibet are still more imposing,
and some of them are real objects of beauty, for the dignified
simplicity of the buildings themselves is combined with an elaborate and
often beautiful decoration of windows and cornices. The Tibetans have
learned the true principles of decoration—they do not cover the surfaces
of their buildings with unnecessary ornament, but reserve the wooden
parts alone for elaboration. The cornices are often intricate in
workmanship, but throughout the great principle of design is carried to
perfection—the principle that all ornament should be founded on utility.
Thus economy in the use of scrolls is combined with the multiplication
of brackets, supports, and rafter-ends, so that the whole is satisfying
to the eye as being beautiful, rather than useless. Considerable Chinese
influence is shown in their decorative art, but the Tibetans have a
personal, or rather national, touch which distinguishes their work in
all branches of art from the Chinese. In painting, too, the influence of
China, and very occasionally of India, is felt: though through it all
the refined austerity of the better-class Tibetan shines unmistakably.
The older pictures, nearly always of sacred subjects, are drawn with
consummate skill, coloured with great taste, and in the matter of design
rank much higher than the contemporary art of India. But, alas! the
story of painting in Tibet is the same as it is everywhere in this
commercial world of ours; the modern Tibetan picture is worthless,
careless and meretricious. No doubt the demand for “native art” at the
bazaars of Darjeeling and other places around has caused this
deterioration of what was once a fine and noble art; pictures which used
to be the life-work of devoted lamas and conscientious hermits are now
“dashed off” to satisfy the capacious maw of the tasteless traveller.
Though Tibet is still in measure “The Forbidden Land,” yet the tentacles
of commercialism cannot but penetrate between its bars, and the same
thing is now happening to Tibet as happened to Europe last century and
produced oleographs and official artists. It seems almost as if man by
nature does bad work only when he is working for reward.

[Illustration:

  RELIGIOUS BANNERS IN SHEKAR MONASTERY.
]

This is a mere flashlight sketch of the art of Tibet, for details of
which other books must be consulted; but the music of Tibet will be
described more fully, for two reasons—first, that no accurate record of
it has to my knowledge been obtained until now, and second, that the
writer is himself particularly fond of music, which he believes to be
the highest of the arts.

Just as in Europe to-day we have both the traditional folk-song and the
highly organised orchestral music, so in Tibet both these forms of the
art exist. The two are also more or less interdependent in Tibet, while
in Western nations each often goes its own way without the other.

The airs sung by the Tibetan people are usually simple, short, and
oft-repeated. They are nearly always in the pentatonic scale,
represented best to the general reader by the black notes of the piano.
Most isolated races evolve this scale at some time during their history,
and the tunes of the Highlands of Scotland, the Forests of Central
Africa, the Appalachians of America, and the Tibetans are all in this
scale.[8]

Footnote 8:

  Sir Walford Davies has pointed out that, starting (on the black notes)
  from A flat, and using only the perfect fifth, this scale is very soon
  developed. From A flat one gets E flat and D flat, each a fifth away;
  from D flat one obtains G flat, a fifth down, and from E flat a fifth
  upwards gives us B flat. Thus we get the five notes of the scale by a
  simple series of fifths, the fifth being the most perfect interval in
  music, and the one which will appeal most readily to a primitive
  people.

A typical well-known pentatonic tune is “Over the Sea to Skye.” Those
who know, for instance, the songs of the Western Highlands, will be able
to appreciate the cheerful and non-Oriental character of the tunes of
Tibet, which are more akin to those of Russia and Eastern Europe than to
the music of China or India. This general spirit of the music which the
Tibetans play or sing points to a common origin of the folk-tunes of
Tibet and Russia. It seems probable that in Turkestan was the real
origin of this music, which very likely spread eastwards into Tibet and
westwards into Russia; or if Turkestan is not the country of origin of
the music, it may be the musical link between Russia and Tibet. The
tunes of Nepal, as sung by our coolies, are many of them of a similar
nature to those of Tibet, though more often the whole major or minor
scale is used, giving them often a strangely European sound; some of the
Nepalese airs have a jolly lilt and swing; others in the minor key have
quite a haunting beauty; and they too are quite unlike the music of the
plains of India with its rather pointless wailing characteristics.[9]

Footnote 9:

  A more technical article on the subject of Tibetan Music, with musical
  quotations, will be found in the _Musical Times_ for February 1, 1923.

In Tibet, then, the folk-tunes are simple, short, and emphatically not
such “good tunes” as the airs of Nepal. But, in addition to the songs of
the peasants and beggars, there is the more highly-organised and
orchestrated music of the monasteries. This is usually played with three
groups of instruments—first and foremost the percussion; drums of all
sizes from those made of a human skull to others 3 and 4 feet in
diameter, and cymbals of great resonance and good tone, coming often
from China. The cymbals are taken very seriously, and each different way
of clashing them has a special name and a special religious
significance. The hard-worked percussion department keeps up a
continuous rhythm throughout the performance of a devil-dance or other
musical festival; and to its strenuous and often sinister efforts are
added from time to time the sounds of the two groups of wind
instruments. The first of these, playing airs which often possess great
charm, are the double-reed oboes, about twice as long as our European
oboe, and very often provided with equidistant holes, rendering them
incapable of playing save in the scale of whole tones (or a close
approximation to it). The second and larger wind instrument is the long
straight trumpet, 8 to 12 feet long, of which the fundamental note is
almost continuously blown. Most monasteries have two of these, about one
tone apart in pitch; but as the longer of the two is blown so as to play
its first overtone, while the fundamental note is played on the other, a
drone bass of a minor seventh is the resulting sound. This adds to the
sinister impressiveness of the music, and provides an effective
accompaniment to the quaint tunes of the oboe-like instruments. At a
devil-dance performance, the orchestra plays for a whole day, or perhaps
two, almost without rest either for itself or for its listeners.

In addition to these instruments, a fairly civilised violin is used in
Tibet, especially by wandering beggar minstrels. This is about
two-thirds as long as our violin, and has four strings, tuned A,D,A,D,
in that order. The bow has two hanks of hair, one of which passes
between the first and second strings, while the other goes between the
third and fourth. Thus, by pressing the bow in one direction the two A
strings are sounded, producing a reinforced note (i.e. two notes in
unison); by pressing the bow in the other direction the sound of the D
strings is obtained. The strings converge towards the top of the
instrument, so that they can all be fingered at once. The Tibetans
become very agile with their fingers, and I have heard very skilful
performances of rapid, jolly dance-tunes by wandering minstrels; these
tunes, like the songs of the peasants, are usually in the pentatonic
scale.

One more instrument must be mentioned—the trumpet made from a human
thigh-bone. This is not very commonly used in the larger monasteries,
but occasionally sounds a note in the ritual of the worship of smaller
villages.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            NATURAL HISTORY

                                   By

                         T. G. LONGSTAFF, M.D.




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER XV

                            NATURAL HISTORY


Previous experience of the conditions of Tibetan travel had taught me
that collection and observation was a task requiring complete immunity
from other duties; but to the doctor of such an Expedition this
condition was not attainable. In the collection of specimens we were,
however, fortunate in obtaining the assistance of several other members
of the Expedition. But it is especially to Major Norton that the thanks
of the Everest Committee are due, for in addition to his other duties,
he took over the whole of the botanical work and worked equally with
myself in all other branches of Zoology. His gift of painting was
particularly valuable in leading to the certain identification of birds
in districts where collecting was prohibited. At the time of writing he
is on duty at Chanak, and the following notes lose half their value
through lack of his promised collaboration, which I had anticipated with
particular pleasure.

In his absence I must omit all reference to botany, for personally,
owing to the wintry conditions during our outward march and to the speed
of my journey back with the invalids, I saw nothing that has not been
already better described by Wollaston. But Norton, with our Lepcha
collector Rumoo, obtained some 350 flowering plants in Kharta, and we
also sent back samples of agricultural seeds.

It must be remembered that it was the constant aim of General Bruce to
render it easier for any subsequent party to pass through the country.
The objection of the Tibetans to the taking of any wild life is almost
universal amongst the clerics and is devoutly shared by the lay
population in certain localities. These considerations unfortunately
applied particularly to the districts of Tengkye, Shelkar Dzong and
Rombuk, where the killing of even domestic animals is prohibited.

There are, however, other parts of Tibet where the same restraint is
unnecessary, and even where hunting is habitually practised by the
semi-nomadic population. This immunity in our case applied especially to
the Chumbi Valley and the country round Phari, and in consequence we
have been able to bring back some material which it is hoped will add to
the value of the larger collections brought back last year by Dr.
Wollaston.

That portion of Tibet visited by the Expedition, and indeed it is
typical of most of its provinces, is a region of bare uplands and naked
mountains. Such physical conditions combine with a violent type of
radiation in the thin dry air to evolve a daily strife of winds,
ceaselessly seeking to rectify the balance of atmospheric stability;
this continual wind is indeed the foundation of the traveller’s
discomfort and the worst enemy of the mountaineer.

[Illustration:

  ROMOO, THE LEPCHA COLLECTOR, WHO ASSISTED
  DR. LONGSTAFF AND MAJOR NORTON.
]

[Illustration:

  KARMA PAUL, THE EXPEDITION’S INTERPRETER.
]

Owing to its aridity, due to the intervention of the rain-catching
Himalaya, the country is practically treeless. Distant open views
prevail over vast landscapes, lit by strong lights in an atmosphere
devoid of fogs or softening mist effects. Usually nothing can move
without being visible from a great distance. Hence, though it is not a
region particularly rich in life, yet those forms which do prevail are
not easily overlooked. Concealment is only to be obtained by burrowing
underground, or by immobility combined with protective coloration.

Nowhere is this more obtrusively shown than on the great stony uplands,
at an altitude of from 14,000 to 17,000 feet East and South of Khamba
Dzong. Here we were in constant sight of bands of wild asses, gazelle,
and sheep: from a distance of a couple of miles a prowling wolf was
easily discerned. The ground is nowhere here covered by a continuous
carpet of grass or herbs, but each plant is several yards from the next.
Hence even a small herd of game will cover the ground with innumerable
tracks, suggesting to the uninitiated a far greater number of
individuals than really exist. To watch a flock of Tibetan sheep or
goats grazing seems like watching a migration, for the herd moves at a
smart walk, often breaking into a run, each individual racing for the
next mouthful a few yards ahead. They move on a wide front, with the
shepherd and his wolf-dog well in evidence. On one occasion we came on a
wolf devouring a lamb: 50 yards away lay the guardian dog, waiting
apparently for any scraps the robber might leave.

It might be supposed that as in the Arctic the birds and animals would
turn white in winter. But two sufficient reasons against this necessity
have already been indicated. Firstly, the snow line is so high, probably
between 19,000 and 20,000 feet, that vegetation does not extend up to
it: even the predatory beasts are dependent on vegetation for the
pasture of their prey. Secondly, evaporation is so rapid that the
country is never snow-clad for long even during the winter season.

But some modification of habit to meet the hostility of winter, under
conditions of life already so severe, is to be looked for. Of Marmots we
saw nothing during the journey to Everest; probably they were still
hibernating. Norton found them later in Kharta and obtained a welcome
specimen. Yet Hares were very common at 16,000 to 17,000 feet, several
haunting the old moraines of the Rongbuk Glacier even above our Base
Camp. Here also, at 17,000 feet, was a small herd of Bharel, or Blue
Sheep, which having some familiarity with the hermit monks permitted a
fairly close approach.

More interesting are the Mouse-hares, or Pikas, of several varieties,
small friendly creatures which live in colonies, mainly (_Ochotona
curzoniæ_) on the open plains, where even their small burrows sometimes
undermine considerable areas so that one must ride with care. They are
quick and lively in their movements, darting from hole to hole with
extreme rapidity, and peeping from their burrows at the stranger with
obvious amusement. They are often first seen sitting up on their
hind-legs. They lay in stores of grass for winter use, though the
evidence all goes to prove that they do not regularly hibernate. They
frequently utter a nearly inaudible high-pitched whispering call, a sort
of subdued whistle, from which no doubt comes the (Shoka) Bhotia name of
_shippi_, “The Whisperer,” which I obtained in Gnari Khorsum in 1905.
Certain birds, as will be subsequently noted, live in association with
these small rodents, and add a further note to the charm of their
colonies. It appears impossible to trap them, and as their skulls are
usually damaged by shooting, a good series of skins, in both summer and
winter pelage, of the different species, is still much wanted for study
in our museums.

The collection of small mammals is always difficult, and under the
circumstances already detailed our collection of skins was necessarily a
very small one. Geoffrey Bruce, however, obtained a perfect specimen of
the Panda (_Ailurus fulgens_) from the forests on the Chumbi side of the
Jelep La. This curiously aberrant animal, sometimes called the Bear-Cat,
is about the size of a fox, and has rich thick fur of a chestnut colour
on the back, black below, and with a thick bushy ring-marked tail; in
appearance it resembles somewhat the badgers, the bears, and the cats.
Its relative, the Great Panda of Tibet, is one of the rarest of large
mammals, owing to its very circumscribed distribution.

A Hamster and a few Pikas of three varieties were caught at night in our
tents. A Weasel (_M. temon_) shot in Sikkim, with another Weasel and a
Marmot from Kharta, complete our list of mammal skins. We are much
disappointed at our failure to see or obtain any specimens from 20,000
feet, where Wollaston’s Pika was actually handled last year—the greatest
known altitude for resident mammals.

As to the birds, we were fortunate in having been able to go over Dr.
Wollaston’s collection with Mr. Norman B. Kinnear of the Natural History
Museum, who provided us in addition with a series of careful notes by
which we could identify those likely to be met with in localities where
we could not shoot. It is hoped that our material will be found
sufficient for Mr. Kinnear to publish a supplement to his recent paper
in the _Ibis_ on last year’s collection.

Dr. Percy R. Lowe, Keeper of Birds of the Natural History Museum, was
particularly anxious for us to obtain for him a specimen of the
Himalayan or Ibis-billed Curlew (_Ibidorhynchus struthersi_) in the
flesh, for purposes of dissection, nothing being known of its anatomy up
to the present. Luckily this bird haunts the Chumbi Valley, and Norton
and I were able to spend a day in its pursuit. It is of the form of a
small curlew, of a general french-grey hue with bold dark markings, and
coral red beak and legs. There were several of these birds, not yet
(April 3) paired, about Yatung in the Chumbi Valley, but they were very
wary. They utter a high-pitched wader-like note not at all resembling
our curlew. They always flew directly over the main river, whence we
never could have retrieved them. The shores of this river are fringed by
beaches of large round grey pebbles, and resting amongst these the birds
were invisible. Eventually I lay up under the bank and Norton succeeded
in driving a bird on to an island in mid-stream, where I shot it. With
an outward display of truly scientific eagerness we divested ourselves
of our nether garments and waded waist deep through the torrent. We came
near quarrelling as to whether the water or the air was the coldest. But
at any rate we retrieved our bird, and what is more brought it, duly
preserved in spirits, through all the trials of travel and climate,
safely back to Dr. Lowe.

In the Chumbi Valley also we obtained the Great or Solitary Snipe
(_Gallinago solitaria_), an addition to last year’s list. But my
favourite family, the Redstarts, were the most interesting. The
beautiful White-capped Redstart (_Chimarhornis leucocephalus_), mostly
widely distributed in the Himalaya, was still with us. The Plumbeous
Redstart (_Rhyacornis fuliginosus_) and the Blue-fronted Redstart
(_Phœnicurus frontalis_) we had already obtained in Sikkim. These also
were present at the beginning of April in the Chumbi Valley. We obtained
in addition the beautiful Blue-tail or Red-flanked Bush-Robin (_Tarsiger
rafiliatus_). I understand that the three latter species have not been
previously recorded from this locality. The Blue-tail frequents dense
bushes over marshy spots and is very quiet and furtive in its habits,
while the Redstarts are the most obtrusive of birds, as to me they are
one of the most beautiful of families. At Phari I luckily obtained a
specimen of what I thought was the Indian Redstart, but the bird in the
hand proved again to be the Blue-fronted sort. At 17,000 feet, above the
Base Camp over the snout of the main Rongbuk Glacier, I saw a cock-bird
of Güldenstadt’s Redstart (_Phœnicurus erythrogaster grandis_),
fortunately a very easily recognisable bird, and one I had previously
seen in Nubra and the Karakoram country.

Although I had previously become somewhat familiar with bird-life in
Tibet, I was not prepared to see the teeming flocks of finches,
buntings, and larks which we met with on the bare stony uplands at every
old camping ground or village we encountered. A portion of this swarming
bird population appears to have been due to the spring migration being
at its height. Of this we had evidence before and during our passage of
the Jelep La, from Sikkim into the Chumbi Valley. At Phari and at Khamba
Dzong especially, the birds appeared not yet to have dispersed in pairs
to their breeding territory, but, though actually arrived at their
destination, to be still collected in migration flocks. Yet this
condition of things may be more apparent than real, for neither Norton
nor I ever managed to find any evidence of nesting behaviour in such an
extremely common bird as Brandt’s Ground Linnet. It is conceivable that
the inimical climatic conditions of Tibet are such as to condemn a
larger proportion than usual of the bird population to a celibate
existence, a condition which is at least by no means rare even in the
British Isles. A small piece of evidence is that the only four nests of
larks and wagtails which I found contained only three eggs each, as if
the altitude had reduced the number of eggs laid. It is to be noted that
in each case the eggs were incubated, and so the clutches were
presumably complete. But as an exception to this rule, at Chushar, on
June 13, I found a nest of the Eastern Desert Wheatear with a normal
clutch of five eggs.

In writing of nesting, it may be recorded that we obtained the eggs of
the Tibetan Snow Cock (_Tetraogallus tibetanus_) from nearly 17,000 feet
on the Pang La. At the Base Camp (16,500 feet), a Brown Accentor
(_Prunella f. fulvescens_) commenced building its nest in a crevice
between a stack of provision boxes in the middle of the camp on May 16.
Laying did not commence till May 25—a long period of delay—and was
completed with the third egg on the 27th. The hen commenced to sit at
once, and no more eggs were laid. Norton observed Alpine Choughs and
Rock Doves nesting in the cliffs above the Base Camp at an altitude of
17,000 feet. Besides the usual Ravens, and the species already named,
the Base Camp was visited by Brandt’s Ground Linnet (_Leucosticte
brandti_), a Sparrow, a Snow Finch, the Ground Chough (_Podoces
humilis_), and the Shore Lark (_Otocorys alpestris elwesi_).

Noel, during his vigil on the Chang La (23,000 feet), saw a small bird
fly above him, borne on the Westerly gale. But Wollaston’s Lammergeyer
maintains still the first place in altitude with a record of over 24,000
feet.

At Trangso Chumbab, on June 11, I had the opportunity of observing the
habits of Blandford’s Mountain-Finch (_Chionospiza blandfordi_). This
bird seems to live in amity with the Pikas (_Ochotona curzoniæ_) in
their burrows. I marked the birds bringing food to a Pika burrow, and
wishing to see what the young in down were like, Finch and I commenced
to dig out the hole. It proved, however, beyond our powers in the
sun-baked ground, so I fell to watching again. We had laid open the
burrow for about 2 feet. The hen-bird at once returned with food, but
alighting at the spot where the burrow formerly commenced, began
immediately to tunnel into the ground, quite oblivious of the true
opening in full view only 2 feet away. What would our nature writers say
to such a lapse of intellect? The bird burrowed with its beak, diving
its head into the ground and boring with a very rapid jerky twist so
that the sand was scattered in a small cloud. This was repeated several
times and on several visits. I then filled up the trench, leaving the
nesting hole open. On the next visit the bird flew down the hole, which
I then stopped with loose earth. In the morning the burrow had been
completely cleared and the birds were busily feeding their young again.
This seems to point to the conclusion that these birds are naturally
ground-dwellers, and are fully capable of making their own tunnels, but
that the abundance of Pika burrows has induced lazy habits. Mandelle’s
Snow-Finch (_Montifringilla mandelli_), not obtained by last year’s
Expedition, was shot by us at Pika warrens at Phari (April 7), and seen,
always associated with Pikas, on the following days.

On June 11, also, we were witnesses to what must be a common tragedy. A
family of small Brahminy ducklings—the Ruddy Sheldrake of Europe—were
making their noisy way down from some nesting site on the steppe to the
headwaters of the Arun—and safety. The parent birds may have taken
fright at our camp, through which the ducklings scuttled fearlessly. The
loathsome Ravens, gathered, as always, for carrion or camp refuse,
swooped down and attacked the hapless family, bolting a whole duckling
at each mouthful. Surely a gun would have done no harm here.

Norton made the interesting discovery that the Meadow Bunting (_Emberiza
cia godlewskii_) breeds in the Kama Valley, thus extending its breeding
range far to the South. It may, indeed, be expected that several species
now believed to breed only in Siberia may in fact be found nesting on
the Northern slopes of the Himalaya, and even in other highland regions
of Tibet. For here altitude comes to the assistance of latitude to
produce an arctic type of climate, flora, and fauna; though it must be
admitted that the aridity of Tibet must produce very different climatic
conditions to those obtaining in the far North. In Gnari Khorsum, 400
miles West of Everest, I had obtained specimens, with young in down, of
the Large Eastern Sand Plover (_Cirripedesmus mongolicus atrifrons_),
which previously was only known as a breeding species from much farther
North; and again, the day we left Tibet, at 17,000 feet, on the Serpo
La, I found another pair of these Dotterel, from their behaviour
obviously nesting, so to speak, at the very gates of India, for 10 miles
further on we had left everything Tibetan behind us—landscape, flowers,
birds, beasts, and insects were all different. Nowhere else in the world
can there be a sharper natural division than between the Tibetan
Highlands and the true Himalayan Zone.

The physical and climatic conditions prevailing in this part of Tibet
produces an environment hostile to reptilian and amphibian life. The
single Toad obtained last year was quite new to science, and Norton’s
capture of a second specimen is a great piece of luck. Miss Joan B.
Procter, F.Z.S., of the Natural History Museum, has described and named
it (_Cophophryne alticola_). It is remarkable by having the toes fully
webbed. She also writes that the Toad, together with the Frog (_Nanorana
pleskei_) and the Lizard (_Phrynocephalus theobaldi_), are all devoid of
external ears, the tympanum itself being absent in the Toad. This
unusual modification is attributed to the effect of altitude, but it has
also been suggested that the absence of ears is due to inherited atrophy
following generations of frost-bite—an interesting subject for the
followers of Weissman!

The fish, rejoicing in the name of _Schizopygopsis stoliczkæ_, is stated
by Mr. Norman never to have been previously obtained from such an
altitude.

With the Molluscs we drew blank, in spite of Norton’s energetic dredging
of tarns and pools at Kharta. Nor did any member of the Expedition
produce a single snail-shell, though all were armed with pill-boxes and
on the look out for them.

It is probably only among the various families of insects that any
important biological results may be hoped for from this Expedition. Our
collection from the Base Camp, greatly due to the assistance received
from Morris, of more than 300 beetles of a dozen or more species, may be
sufficient to show some evidence of the effect of environment. A number
of them are new to science, and, with one or two exceptions, were not
obtained last year. There are already described over 100,000 kinds of
beetles, and under these circumstances it is obvious that even such a
modest collection as ours will take some time to work out. Mr. K. G.
Blair, of the Natural History Museum, has it in hand, and, with the
assistance of Mr. H. E. Andrewes and Dr. G. A. K. Marshall, will
certainly make the most of it. His preliminary note gives 160 specimens
of four or perhaps five kinds of Ground Beetles (_Carabidæ_) belonging
to genera of Palæarctic distribution. Of the Tenebrionids there are 140
specimens belong to six species, probably all new, but characteristic of
the mountainous regions of Central Asia. Of the Weevils there are only
seventeen specimens, but they appear to belong to seven new species. Two
of these were kindly collected by Norton’s Toad.

Mr. B. P. Uvarov is working out the Orthoptera, and writes that our
Stick-Insect (Phasmid) is of great interest because the family is
essentially a sub-tropical group and has never been recorded from any
such high altitude before. We were lucky, also, in getting three more
specimens of Wollaston’s curious new Grasshopper (_Hypernephia
everesti_, Uvarov). At the same time, my old specimens from Purang have
been elevated into the type of a new species of a new genus (_Hyphinomos
fasciata_). Future visitors are earnestly requested to collect every
grasshopper-like insect they meet here, for the orthopterous fauna of
High Asia is wholly unexplored.

It must be remembered that we constantly passed through localities in
which it was inadvisable to show even a butterfly-net. When recrossing
the Pang La (17,000 feet), I lagged behind and spent a laborious hour
collecting disconcertingly quick-flying, woolly-bodied flies; these and
others are being worked out by Major E. E. Austen, D.S.O.

There is also a Burrowing Bee (_Ammophia sp._), the most interesting
insect I met. It is of a repellent ant-like aspect, of an evil black and
red pattern. It flies astonishingly fast, and can only be netted by
careful stalking when it lands to burrow in the sand. It is preparing a
tomb for a paralysed grub in which it will lay its own egg; on hatching,
the bee grub will feed on the living corpse of its entertainer. I first
observed it by noticing, as I rode along the banks of the Phung Chu,
tiny jets of sand being shot violently upwards from the ground, the
insect itself being quite invisible. My pony, a true Tibetan, loathed
the sight of a butterfly-net; I had no companion to hold him, and the
pursuit of science was attended by more than the usual trials.

A series of small Moths was obtained at the Base Camp, and Norton
collected more in Kharta. These are being worked out by Mr. W. H. T.
Tams, but in the case of Moths, identification is a particularly lengthy
and laborious business.

The Butterflies are naturally few in such an environment; nor does the
constant wind make their breathless capture any easier. Captain N. D.
Riley is working them out, and tells me that in general they resemble
our English butterflies, with other Alpine families. On a recent visit
to the Museum, I was excusing the scantiness of our collection,
explaining that, as a rule, I had only been able to collect while
crossing high passes. Indicating a series of small dark brown
“Ringlets,” rather the worse for wear, I said that that was all I saw
above 16,000 feet. “Why that,” said Riley, “is a new species of a new
genus!” So may our successors seize every opportunity that offers of
collecting even the least and most inconspicuous-looking insects in the
endeavour to assist our research workers in adding some particle to the
sum of our knowledge of nature.

[Illustration:

   SKETCH-MAP OF MOUNT EVEREST AND THE RONGBUK GLACIERS.
  From surveys by Major Wheeler, with Route and Camps of the 1922
    Expedition added by Colonel Strutt.
  _London: Edward Arnold & Co._
]

[Illustration:

  The Route of the
  MOUNT EVEREST EXPEDITION 1922
  CHUMBI TO MT. EVEREST
  _Published by Edward Arnold & Co. for the Mount Everest Committee_
    _from maps prepared by the Royal Geographical Society._
  (Click on map for larger version.)
]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                 INDEX


 Abruzzi, Duke of, the, 115


 Acclimatisation, 77–78, 126–240, 288–289, 299–308

 Altitude, zones of, 262 _ff._;
   effects of, 305.
   _See_ Acclimatisation

 Ammu Chu valley, 29

 Army and Navy Stores, 21


 Arun river, 39, 43, 82–87, 97;
   gorges of, explored, 98–102

 Avalanche on Mount Everest, 69, 282–285


 Base Camp, the, 49–51, 124

 Bhong Chu, river, (= Arun, _q.v._)

 Bride Peak (Baltistan), 115

 Brown, Mr., 21

 Bruce, Captain J. G., 8, 20, 33, 130, 325;
   in second attempt on Mount Everest, 61–62, 116–117, 236–249, 254–257;
   leaves Base Camp for Kharta, 65, 80, 85, 89–90, 95

 Bruce, General C. G., 4–6, 8, 19–20;
   author of the _Narrative of the Expedition_, 17–118, 130, 143

 Bullock, Mr. G., 139, 156, 162



 Camp IV (on North Col.), 57;
   route to, from E. Rongbuk glacier, 125, 153–159, 173–175;
   from main Rongbuk glacier, 259

 Camp V (above North Col), 288

 Camps, problem of, 141, 258, 287, 291–292


 Camps I, II, and III on E. Rongbuk glacier, 52, 54–56, 145–152, 231

 Chang La (= North Col, _q.v._), 289, 329

 Changtse, mountain, 158

 Chey La, 105

 Chiu, camp, 108

 Cho Uyo, mountain, 72, 158, 209, 246

 Chobu village, 104

 Chodzong, camp, 43, 79

 Chog La, 89–90

 Chokarbo, camp, 89–90

 Chomolhari, mountain, 28

 Chomolonzo, mountain, 91

 Chomolungmo (= Mount Everest), 123

 Chongay, tent-mender, 21, 31, 92–94, 103

 Chongay La, agent of the Shekar Dzongpen, 42, 53, 57

 Chongray, Tibetan deity, 45

 Chotromo, camp, 98

 Chumbi valley, 27, 29–30, 38, 105, 111, 326–327

 Chushar, 329

 Cigarette-smoking, effects of, 266–267

 Clothing, 186–188, 262, 307.
   _See_ Wind-proof clothing

 Cooks, 23, 56

 Crampons. _See_ Foot-gear

 Crawford, Mr. C. G., 8, 20, 22, 38, 227–228;
   at Camp III, 168–169;
   in third attempt on Mount Everest, 275, 280–284;
   return to Darjeeling, 96–97, 114


 Dalai Lama, the, 85, 118

 Damtang, village, 92, 103

 Darjeeling, 20, 22, 114

 Dasno, Mallory’s porter, 153, 159

 Donka La, 32, 111

 Doya La, 66, 81–82

 Dra, village, 105

 Dreyer, Professor G., 253, 279

 Dzakar Chu, river, 43, 81, 104


 East Rongbuk glacier, 51, etc.
   _See_ Camps I, II, III


 Everest, Mount, 18, 114, 125;
   compared with Mont Blanc, 231–233;
   first attempt on, 58–60, 182–224, 253–254, 256;
   second attempt, 61–62, 227–250, 254–257;
   third attempt, 66–70, 273–286;
   weather conditions, 18, 170–171, 233–234, 275, 292


 Farrar, Captain J. P., 8–10

 Father William, 84, 104

 Finch, Captain George, 6, 10, 20, 22;
   joins main body at Kamba Dzong, 38, 227–228; 39, 58, 59;
   to site of Camp I, 230–231;
   at Base Camp, 231 _ff._,
   to Camp III, 234–235;
   second attempt on Mount Everest, 61–62, 116–117, 237–250, 254–257;
   starts on third attempt, but returns, 66–67, 251–252;
   return to Darjeeling, 67, 252.
   Author of Chapters VII, VIII, and IX

 Food, 177–180


 Foot-gear, 197, 268, 293

 Fuel, 51, 52, 93


 Gembu (= headman), 100

 Gnatong, bungalow, 26, 27, 112, 130

 Gurkhas, 5, 20

 Gyachang Kang, mountain, 72, 158, 209

 Gyaljen, sardar, 32–33, 63

 Gyamda, pony, 29, 80, 82

 Gyang’ka-nangpa, camp, 39, 133, 136–137

 Gyantse, town, 29, 110


 Hats, Homburg, as gifts, 42, 85

 Head-gear, 263, 268

 Howard-Bury, Colonel, 3, 4, 8, 17, 32, 39

 Hung Zungtrak, camp, 36

 Hurké Gurung, naik, 32


 Jelep La, 27, 38, 112, 131, 227

 Jelep valley, 29

 Jykhiop, camp, 107


 Kalimpong, 21, 22, 27, 227

 Kama valley, 88–89, 93, 171, 331

 Kanchenjunga, 112, 114

 Karma Paul, interpreter, 24, 45, 47, 63, 79

 Kehar Sing, cook, 80, 92

 Kellas, Dr., 38

 Khamba Dzong, 32, 37, 39, 109, 228

 Kharta valley, 65, 83


 Kharta Shika, 83, 87–89

 Khartaphu, mountain, 158

 Khombu La, 54

 Kosi river, 97

 Kyamathang, village, 97, 99–100

 Kyishong, camp, 106


 Laden La, Mr., 27

 Lal Sing Gurung, lance-naik, 32

 Leeches, 113

 Lhakpa La, 158

 Lhakpa Tsering, boy, 38

 Lhotse, 126

 Longstaff, Dr. T. G., 19, 130;
   first reconnaissance to site of camp III, 51–53, 64;
   return to Darjeeling, 65, 252.
   Author of Chapter XV

 Lumeh Camp, 104

 Lungdo, village, 100

 Lungtung, village, 26, 113


 Macdonald, Mr. John, 29–30, 63, 72, 106, 111, 113

 Makalu, mountain, 152, 171, 312


 Mallory, Mr. G. L., 4, 6, 9, 19, 130;
   attempt on Sangkar Ri, 39, 133–137;
   ascends 21,000 ft. peak near Base camp, 140;
   to Camp I, 144;
   Camp II, 146;
   Camp III, 148;
   to North Col and back, 57, 152–160, 301;
   at Camp III, 160–168;
   establishes Camp IV, 169–174, 300;
   first attempt on Mount Everest, 56–59, 175–224;
   third attempt, 273–286, 308;
   return to Darjeeling, 96–97.
   Author of Chapters IV–VI, X and XI

 Monsoon, the, 18, 50, 58, 68, 70, 275–276, 292

 Morris, Captain C. G., 8, 20, 21, 33;
   establishes Camp I, 52;
   meets party of second attempt on Everest at Camp III, 223;
   conducts evacuation of Camps I–III, 66–71;
   explores the Arun gorges, 95, 98–102

 Morshead, Major, 4, 8, 20, 130;
   on first reconnaissance to site of Camp III, 51–52;
   arrives at Camp III, 168;
   establishes Camp IV, 169–175;
   to 25,000 ft. camp on first attempt on Mount Everest, 56–59, 175–203,
      211–224;
   return to Darjeeling, 64–65, 252

 Mules, 27, 31, 34


 Nepal, Maharajah of, 75, 96, 103

 Nepalese language, 33;
   sheep, 91

 Ngangba La, 54

 Noel, Captain J. B., 8, 20, 23, 85, 130;
   at Base Camp, 50, 73–74;
   to North Col with the party of second attempt on Everest, 237;
   spends three nights there, 249, 289, 329;
   explores the Arun gorges, 95, 98–102 (his own account);
   leaves the main body and goes to Gyantse, 110


 North Col, 55;
   camp on, 57.
   _See_ Camp IV

 Norton, Major E. F., 6–7, 19, 24, 130, 131;
   to site of Camp I, 230–231;
   on first reconnaissance, 51–52;
   first attempt on Mount Everest, 58–59, 173–224;
   leaves Base camp for Kharta valley, 65, 84, 86;
   joins the main body, 87, 89, 95;
   botanical and zoological work, 321–322, 326, etc.


 Oxygen, 9–10, 52, 60, 69, 115–117, 231, 235–237, 243, 252–259, 263–266,
    291, 294, 303–305


 Pang La, 43, 334

 Pangli, camp, 105

 Pawhunri, mountain, 36

 Phari Dzong, 30–31, 33, 111, 131

 Pharmogoddra La, 108

 Popti La, 92, 103

 Porters, 5, 63, 94, 117, 286, etc.

 Pou, a cook, 151

 Primus stoves, 151, 176

 Pumori, mountain, 158, 247


 Rapiu La, 152, 168, 171, 236

 Rawlinson, Lord, 20

 Richengong, Camp, 29

 Rongbuk monastery, 43, 73

 Rongbuk Lama, 45–47, 74–75, 78, 275

 Rongli Chu, 26, 112, 114

 Rumoo collector of plants, 322


 Sakiathang, Camp, 89–91

 Sakia Chu, 102

 Samchang La, 89

 Sangkar Ri, mountain, 39, 133–137

 Sarabjit Thapa, lance-naik, 32

 Sedongchen, Camp, 113

 Serpo La, 331

 Shekar Dzong, 39–41, 105

 Sherpas, 33, 54, 63

 Shika. _See_ Kharta Shika

 Shiling, plain, 107, 136

 Shing (= fuel), 52

 Sikkim, 25–28, 110, 113, 309–310

 Snow-glasses, 263

 Somervell, Dr., 7, 10, 19, 130, 167;
   attempt on Sangkar Ri, 39, 133–137;
   ascends a 21,000 ft. peak near Base camp, 140;
   first attempt on Mount Everest (_see_ Mallory), 56–59, 144–224,
      301–302;
   third attempt, 273–286, 308;
   return to Darjeeling, 96–97, 114.
   Author of Chapters XII to XIV

 Strutt, Colonel E. L., 6, 19;
   fixes site of Camp I, 230–231;
   leader of first reconnaissance, 51–53;
   returns to Camp III and visits North Col, 56–58;
   return to Darjeeling, 65, 252


 Tang La, 32, 34

 Tashilumpo, Lama of, 85, 118

 Tatsang, village, 39, 110;
   nunnery, 37

 Tea, 177, 223;
   Tibetan tea, 46, 78

 Tejbir Bura, lance-naik, 20, 32, 58;
   in second attempt on Everest, 62, 234–244, 248, 254–256, 78, 81, 85

 Teng, village and camp, 82–85, 96–97

 Tibet, 228, 323

 Tibetan architecture, 313–314;
   atmosphere, 79–80, 311;
   colour, Chap. XIII;
   coolies, 53–54, 63;
   fauna, Chap. XV;
   food, 44;
   music, 230, 315–318;
   painting, 314;
   wind, 165, 228, 332–333;
   weather, 170

 Tinki Dzong, 39, 107–108;
   pass, 107, 132, 310

 Training, 39, 118, 130.
   _See_ Acclimatisation

 Trangso Chumbab, camp, 329

 Transport, 143, 168

 Trateza, camp, 82

 Tsanga, waterfall, 100

 Tzampa (= flour), 100


 Unna, Mr. P. J. H., 10


 Wakefield, Dr., 7, 19, 39, 130;
   meets the party of the first attempt on Everest, 223, 236;
   to Camp III with party of third attempt 70, 252, 275, 280

 Weatherall, Mr., 20–21

 Wheeler, Captain E. O., 4, 147

 Wind, 165, 172, 186.
   _See_ Everest, Tibet


 Wind-proof clothing, 59, 62, 117, 255, 259, 264, 266–267

 Wollaston, Dr. A. F. R., 322, 326, etc.


 Yaru, river, 39, 107, 138

 Yatung, 29, 131, 326

 Yulok La, 102


------------------------------------------------------------------------


               Uniform with “Mount Everest: The Assault.”

                            MOUNT  EVEREST.
                       The Reconnaissance,  1921.
              By LIEUT.-COLONEL C. K. HOWARD-BURY, D.S.O.,
                  AND OTHER MEMBERS OF THE EXPEDITION.
         With 33 full-page illustrations and maps. Medium 8vo.
                               25s. net.
       Also a Limited Large Paper Edition, with additional plates
              in photogravure. Quarto, each copy numbered.
                              £5 5s. net.

“A remarkable contribution to the long and glorious story of British
endeavour in the high places of the earth. The whole is a splendid
record of clever and courageous enterprise.”—The Times.

“The book under review tells the tale of the doings of last year’s
journey, and a notable tale it is, well told, finely illustrated with
wonderful photographs, and excellently printed. The accompanying maps
enable us for the first time to describe the articulation of the whole
mountain region and to replace the vaguely guessed indication of
culminations and connexions by a labyrinth of glaciers and ridges, full
of meaning to geographers and those for whom the actual shape of the
surface of the earth has interest.”—Sir Martin Conway, M.P., in the
Manchester Guardian.

“Mr. Leigh-Mallory, who led the climbing party of the Everest
expedition, has written in ‘The Reconnaissance of the Mountain’ an epic
of mountaineering which deserves to be an abiding possession for all
those who have ventured themselves into the silence and desolation of
the high peaks.”—Morning Post.

“The book put together by the members of last year’s expedition, more
especially the maps and illustrations, makes us envious. Colonel Howard
Bury has told his story simply, with evident enjoyment. Mr. Leigh
Mallory, who gives us the story of the reconnaissance, is terse and
human and never tedious. He tells us exactly what we want to know.”—Mr.
Edmund Candler in the Nation.

“The story of the journey and the climbing adventure as told separately
by the leader and Mr. Mallory combine to make a narrative of singular
variety which sustains its interest to the end, and is agreeably
supplemented by the chapters of ‘Natural History Notes,’ contributed by
Dr. Wollaston.”—Mr. Douglas Freshfield in the New Statesman.

“As fascinating and picturesque as it is valuable. It will rank with the
best of its kind, and is assured of a success that is exceptionally well
deserved. It will satisfy both the expert and the casual reader, and
there can be nothing but praise for all concerned in it.”—Illustrated
London News.

“The book is admirably and enthusiastically written, very finely
illustrated, and in every way an ideal record of what will always be
considered a classical example of exploration in its first
stage.”—Country Life.

“Quite apart from its intrinsic interest it will be of the greatest
value to everybody who wishes to appreciate the attempt which is now
being made to continue the work and reach the absolute summit of the
highest mountain in the world.”—Westminster Gazette.

                      ----------------------------

                      LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD & CO.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




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