On the following night we had 20° of frost, and the weather appeared to be getting rather more settled. We were now sufficiently high up to be above the ordinary clouds, and we could look down upon the great sea of them which overhung the Arun Valley and the greater part of Nepal. As the sun warmed the clouds, they used to rise higher, but they seldom arrived as far as our camp owing to a strong North-westerly wind always blowing in the upper regions of the air which drove them back again. Watching the movements of the clouds day by day gave me the impression that the Mount Everest group forms a dividing line between the two monsoon systems. The monsoon that causes so much rain in Sikkim comes from the Bay of Bengal, and these moist currents sweep up to Mount Everest, but it is only when the current is very strong that they pass beyond it. At this time of year this monsoon was still active, whereas the Arabian Sea monsoon—that is to say, the moist winds from the Arabian Sea—which had given us previously much rain and snow on the Western sides and slopes of Mount Everest, was now over, with the result that on the West side of Everest we had blue skies every day and no rain clouds, whereas on the East side the clouds and the moisture brought up by the Bengal monsoon still prevailed. During the course of the morning I climbed an easy hill to the East side of the camp and some 500 feet above it. We walked along at first just below the ice cap, which was very pretty with its long icicles gleaming in the sunlight. We then crossed on to the ice cap and found the snow in excellent condition, firm and crisp to the tread, so that it was a pleasure to walk along it. From the top of this hill, 20,500 feet, was a very fine view to the East, over the great sea of cloud which filled up all the valleys as far as the Massif of Kanchenjunga which towered up in the distance, and the more slender peak of Jannu. Amongst the Sikkim peaks I could also recognise Chomiomo and the Jonsong peak. To the South Makalu towered up above all the other mountains: while between it and Mount Everest, beyond the Southern watershed of the Kama Valley, showed up some of the great Nepalese peaks, among which we noted Chamlang, 24,000 feet. To the West of us Mount Everest showed up sharp and clear and very white after all the fresh snow that had fallen in the last month. From this side Mount Everest certainly looks its best, standing up as a solitary peak instead of being rather dwarfed by the high ridges that radiate from it. The weather remained fine all day, and it was a real pleasure to sit outside one's tent and bask in the sun. Though we were 20,000 feet, we had breakfast, lunch and tea out of doors in front of our tents, and we could not have been warmer or enjoyed pleasanter conditions if we had been down at 5,000 feet.
On September 22, leaving Raeburn behind, Mallory, Bullock, Morshead, Wheeler, Wollaston and myself started off to Lakhpa La camp. We left the 20,000-foot camp in 22° of frost at four o'clock in the morning, accompanied by twenty-six coolies, who were divided up into four parties, each of which was properly roped. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and the mountains showed up nearly as brightly as in the daytime. We rapidly descended the 200 feet from our terrace to the glacier, when we all “roped up.” The snow on the glacier was in excellent condition, and as it was frozen hard we made good progress. Dawn overtook us on the broad flat part of the glacier, the first beams of the sun falling on the summit of Mount Everest, which lay straight in front of us, and changing the colour of the snow gradually from pink to orange, all the time with a background of deep purple sky, every detail showing up sharp and clear in the frosty air. We mounted gradually past Kartse, the white conical-shaped peak climbed by Mallory and Bullock a month ago from the Kama Valley. We wended our way without much difficulty through the ice-fall of the glacier, below some superbly fluted snow ridges that rose straight above us. Then followed a long and at times a somewhat steep climb over soft powdery snow to the top of the pass. Even at these heights we came across tracks in the snow. We were able to pick out tracks of hares and foxes, but one that at first looked like a human foot puzzled us considerably. Our coolies at once jumped to the conclusion that this must be “The Wild Man of the Snows,” to which they gave the name of Metohkangmi, “the abominable snow man” who interested the newspapers so much. On my return to civilised countries I read with interest delightful accounts of the ways and customs of this wild man whom we were supposed to have met. These tracks, which caused so much comment, were probably caused by a large “loping” grey wolf, which in the soft snow formed double tracks rather like those of a barefooted man. Tibet, however, is not the only country where there exists a “bogey man.” In Tibet he takes the form of a hairy man who lives in the snows, and little Tibetan children who are naughty and disobedient are frightened by wonderful fairy tales that are told about him. To escape from him they must run down the hill, as then his long hair falls over his eyes and he is unable to see them. Many other such tales have they with which to strike terror into the hearts of bad boys and girls.
I reached the top of the pass (22,350 feet) by 10.30 a.m., and was rewarded by a wonderful view of Mount Everest, now only a couple of miles away. From the pass there was a steep descent of about 1,200 feet to a glacier which after many wanderings finds its way into the Rongbuk Glacier. This valley had never been thoroughly investigated by Mallory and Bullock in their visit to the Rongbuk Valley. It does not, however, actually form the main Rongbuk Glacier, but stops several miles short of it, the entrance to the valley containing this huge glacier being both small and very insignificant. The bad weather that they had experienced in the Rongbuk Valley during the latter half of their stay there had made it impossible for Mallory and Bullock to explore this valley, or see what lay at its head.
We were now opposite the Chang La (North Col) which joins Mount Everest to Changtse (the North peak), and from this col was, so far as we were able to judge, the only route to the summit. The way from the glacier up to the Chang La looked steep and unpromising, and we doubted whether it would be possible to take laden coolies up, even to this point. I took as many photographs as I could, and as quickly as possible, for there was an icy wind blowing which almost froze my hands. This wind blew the fine powdery snow off all the crests of the ridges and it penetrated everywhere. We found a little hollow in the snow a few feet below the crest, and here we set to work to pitch our camp. There was not much shelter, but it was the only possible place. We had only brought small Alpine Meade and Mummery tents with us. Two of us occupied each tent. They were very small and uncomfortable, and in order to enter them we had to crawl through a narrow funnel almost as though we were entering a dog kennel. The effort of crawling in was very exhausting and caused us to remain out of breath for a considerable time afterwards. Even these small tents were with difficulty pitched owing to the strong winds: cooking was quite out of the question until dark when the wind temporarily lulled. We had brought up with us some Primus stoves and spirit lamps. No one, except perhaps Wheeler, was very expert with the Primus stove, and though no doubt under favourable conditions they would be easy to work, even at these heights, we were never very successful with them and were forced to rely upon the spirit stoves. After sunset we had a scratch meal of consommé, which we managed to warm up, followed by some cold ham and biscuits, after which we retired to bed. The moment the sun went down there were 25° of frost. Up till now I had felt no ill-effects from the rarefied air; I had not even had a headache and my appetite was good, though I owned to feeling rather lazy and it always needed an effort to concentrate one's thoughts. The coolies who had accompanied us up to this camp all seemed to be well and were very cheerful. The eiderdown sleeping-bags were a great comfort; they were our only means of keeping thoroughly warm with 34° of frost outside. But I cannot say that I felt comfortable or, in fact, that I slept at all, as the snow which at most times had been much too soft, seemed here to freeze into uncomfortable lumps and bumps underneath one's back, so that I could never get comfortable all night. The wind howled round our flimsy tents, and I do not think anyone, except perhaps Mallory, got any sleep that night. In the morning we were all suffering from bad headaches, due to the airlessness of these little tents, and I am sure that anyone camping at high altitudes ought to have a much larger type of tent in which to sleep if he is to avoid headaches. We blessed the early morning sun when it appeared and began to unfreeze us. I noticed then that our faces and hands were all a curious blue colour in the morning, due to what is called, I believe, cyanosis of the blood. With much difficulty Wheeler made us a little tea, which if not drunk at once, froze; Mallory thawed out some sardines which had all been frozen solid. There was luckily less wind than during the night, and as the sun rose higher, we all became more alive. The coolies, too, were at first all torpid and complained of bad headaches, but on getting into the fresh air, out of their small and stuffy tents, the headaches rapidly passed away. After consultation, we decided that there was no object—in fact, that it would be dangerous—for the whole party to go on, so we decided that it would be best for the expert Alpine climbers only, together with a few picked coolies, to attempt the Chang La. If weather conditions were favourable, they might, we thought, see how high they could get on Mount Everest itself. We therefore quickly sorted out and divided up the stores, and after seeing Mallory, Bullock and Wheeler off, unpitched our own tents, being satisfied that we could be of no use by remaining where we were, and that it would be best that we should return to our 20,000-foot camp and carry down with us as many stores as we could. We accomplished this without any difficulty, and arrived back during the course of the afternoon. The contrast here was extraordinary. We seemed to be in a totally different climate, and our larger tents and camp beds appeared to us to be the height of luxury. We spent a very comfortable night in spite of 22° of frost, and all slept soundly after our exertions, though once or twice during the night I was awakened by rats gnawing at the food which had been left out on the boxes in my tent. One of the coolies also started to say his prayers in a loud tone of voice at 1 a.m., but after a few winged words he relapsed into silence.
The next day was delightfully warm and sunny, though there had been during the night a good deal of lightning towards the South. The snow could be seen whirling off the crest of Mount Everest during the morning, and in the course of the afternoon the wind grew much stronger, and blew huge clouds of snow off the slopes of the mountain, and from all the surrounding ridges. We could see great wisps of snow being blown off the pass that we had just left, so that the climbing party must have been having a very cold time in their new camp. In the evening there was a curious false sunset in the East with fine purple and orange rays, while as usual the Kama and the Kharta Valleys were filled with a sea of cloud. Here, however, we seemed to be above and beyond the reach of the clouds. Next night there was again constant lightning to the South and 23° of frost, but the weather kept fine and sunny. On climbing a snow-covered hill to the West of the camp, about 21,000 feet, I had some superb views of Everest and Makalu with their appalling cliffs and beautifully-fluted snow slopes. A strong North-westerly gale still continued in the upper regions of the air above 22,000 feet, and every ridge of Everest was smothered with clouds of blown snow. I had a pleasant glissade down steep snow slopes back to the camp, where the climate was delicious and where I could bask in the sun at the entrance of my tent with a sun temperature of 173° Fahr. Earlier in the season we had often recorded temperatures of 195° and 197° Fahr. in the sun with the black bulb thermometer. During the afternoon we were able with our glasses to see black specks appearing on the top of the Lhakpa La. These were the Alpine climbers and their coolies returning after their strenuous efforts on Mount Everest. We watched them with the greatest interest descending the glacier and wondered how far they had been successful. They all arrived back safely in the course of the evening, having been extraordinarily lucky in not having had any casualties or frost-bites in spite of the Arctic gales. Mallory will, however, tell of their adventures in another chapter.
CHAPTER IX
THE RETURN TO KHARTA BY THE KAMA VALLEY
Winter was now rapidly approaching. Every night was growing steadily colder, and we were all anxious to get down to lower altitudes. Every one had been feeling the strain of life at these high altitudes. It had been, however, a great relief to us that all the party had got back to the 20,000-foot camp in safety, and that we had had no cases of sickness or frost-bite. The coolies had throughout worked most willingly and to the best of their ability. They had been well supplied with boots and socks, warm clothing of all kinds, cap comforters and fur gloves, as well as blankets, and for those who had slept at the higher camps, eiderdown sleeping-bags had been provided capable of holding four or five. Here at the 20,000-foot camp we did not have to depend on Primus stoves or spirit lamps, as while we were waiting at the advanced base camp we had daily sent up coolies with loads of wood for our future use, and even during our stay here the coolies who had been left behind under Gyalzen Kazi had been sending up further loads. We now divided our party into two: Mallory, Bullock, Raeburn and Morshead were to be responsible for taking all the stores back to Kharta, and for this purpose we had arranged with Chheten Wangdi and the Kharta Jongpen for a number of Tibetan coolies to help in the work of removal. The remainder of us, that is to say, Wollaston, Wheeler and myself, were to cross over a snow pass and return to Kharta via the Kama Valley. Wheeler was anxious to do this in order to complete his survey work, for up till now he had been unable to visit the Kama Valley. Wollaston had already seen the lower parts of the Kama Valley, but was very anxious to see the upper end, particularly after my descriptions of the scenery and the Alpine flowers that were to be met with there.
On September 26 the two parties started off in different directions. Taking with us fifteen coolies, all pretty heavily laden, we descended to the great Kharta Glacier, which it was necessary for us to cross. We were not at all certain as to the conditions we were likely to meet with on the other side of the pass. The climb from the Kharta Glacier to the Karpo La, 20,300 feet, was quite gentle, though the snow was very soft and powdery. On the North side of the pass we found the slopes to be a snow-covered glacier, but on the South side there was a very steep rocky descent which had to be faced. From the top of the pass we had a remarkably fine view into the Kama Valley which lay below us. Makalu, Pethangtse and Everest stood up clear above the clouds which floated along the bottom of the Kama Valley. Across the gaps between these peaks we could see other snow ranges in Nepal. Here at the top of the pass we were luckily just sheltered from the North-west and the gale, but on either side of us snow was being blown off the mountains in long white streamers. Our descent was down a very steep rocky rib. We began by roping ourselves together, but the coolies were all of them heavily laden and were, moreover, very clumsy on the rope, sending down so many loose stones that I found my position as foremost man quite untenable owing to the amount of débris and rocks which were dislodged above me. We therefore unroped, and Wollaston lowered the coolies one by one over the steepest part—a somewhat long proceeding—after which they were able independently to make their way down to the glacier below without mishap. We now put on the rope again, and so crossed the easy glacier which led down to the moraine on which I had been two months before. Wheeler branched off here and took up a position on one of the ridges. Here he found the gale very troublesome, his theodolite being nearly blown over several times. He managed, however, to take a number of readings and to get a good many photographs—sufficient to map the whole of the upper part of the Kama Valley. All that day the gale continued above 20,000 feet. Below this the valley was filled with clouds, over which at first we had magnificent views. As soon as we descended into the valley, we gradually became enveloped in the autumn mists, which lasted all the remainder of the way to Pethang Ringmo. This was the place where I had met the yak herds two months before when they were pasturing their yaks on the grassy uplands. They had left the place, and we were therefore no longer able to draw on them for butter and milk. I had, however, arranged for Wheeler's fat cook to be sent up from Kharta to this place to meet us and to bring with him some fresh meat and vegetables. These we found on arrival, the fat cook having only arrived an hour before. We all of us slept that night much better than we had been doing at the higher camps, and though even down here we had 14° of frost, I was delighted to find that my boots were not frozen as hard as nails, as they had been all the last week.
From this camp I determined to attempt an expedition which I had long desired to make. My ambition was to reach the ridge between Makalu and Everest, and from it to have a look right down into Nepal. Mallory and Bullock did not much encourage me in my project, and doubted whether it could be accomplished within the short time which was now available. I decided, nevertheless, to make the attempt. On the night of the 26th all our servants overslept themselves, and I had some difficulty in waking them next morning. We succeeded, however, after a hurried breakfast in making a start at 5.45 a.m., just as the first sunlight was touching the highest peak of Mount Everest. It was a most perfect autumn morning, without a cloud in the sky and with the ground underfoot white with hoar-frost. After going a mile up the valley, we had to cross the Kangshung Glacier—here about a mile wide and consisting of a great mass of ice hummocks, often 100 feet or more in height, mostly covered with boulders, with the ice showing every now and then below us in curious caverns and lakes. It took us an hour to cross this glacier, as the walking was very tiring up and down hill over loose stones all the time; luckily, however, many of the stones were frozen to the ice, which made the crossing easier than it might have been later in the day. We then climbed on to a spur, over 19,000 feet, which jutted out into the valley. From this we had marvellous views right away to Kanchenjunga in the East. On the opposite side Mount Everest stood out with every detail showing clearly in the autumn sunshine. Above us towered the perpendicular cliffs of Chomolönzo, opening out into a most astonishing series of peaks, the existence of which we had never suspected when looking at the mountain from the valley below. For once in a way the air was drier and the valleys below were not filled with cloud, so there was a prospect of our having clear views all day. Wheeler had come a short way along the ridge until he got a good view-point, when he stopped to set up his theodolite and camera for a station, after which he came along no further. I followed the crest of the ridge as far as I could, finding it at times very difficult and rocky and having to make many detours to get along. A descent of about 500 feet was followed by a climb of another 1,000 feet, at the end of which we found ourselves exactly opposite to the great amphitheatre of granite formed by Chomolönzo and Makalu and facing Westwards. So steep were these great white granite cliffs that no snow lodged on them. Above them were other cliffs of ice with rather gentler slopes; at their feet was a great glacier that filled up the whole of this basin and then swept down till it almost joined the Kangshung Glacier. I had taken with me as usual Ang Tenze and Nyima Tendu, the two coolies who always accompanied me, each of them carrying a camera. We now came to a glacier which it was necessary to cross, and therefore roped up once more. The snow by this time had become rather soft, and we were constantly breaking through the crust. The glare and heat of the sun on this glacier were very intense, and both Nyima and I were feeling very limp from the heat. Ang Tenze was extraordinarily active and did not seem to mind heat or height—a quite exceptionally gifted mountaineer. Having successfully crossed the glacier, we left the soft snow and found our way over some easy rocks and eventually reached the top of the ridge for which we were making, at a height of about 21,500 feet, and some 500 feet above the snow-covered pass to the East of us. From the top of the ridge we had a most glorious view looking across range upon range of snowy mountains in Nepal. Immediately below us was a large snow “névé,” towards which glaciers descended from a number of snow-covered peaks. From this névé a great glacier swept round towards the Southern side of Makalu, apparently descending into a valley that ran parallel to the Kama Valley and on the South side of Makalu. Chamlang and other snow peaks to the South showed up very clearly, covered with snow and ice to very much lower elevations than any mountain on the North side of the Himalayas. On either side of us towered up Makalu and Everest, but seen from this point the huge cliffs of Chomolönzo presented by far the most astounding sight. From here I could see a few thousand feet of the Southern slopes of Mount Everest which we had been unable to see from any other point before. From the angle at which I saw them these appeared very steep, and even if it were possible and permissible to go into Nepal, it seems improbable that a practicable route lies up that face of the mountain. I spent a couple of hours up here taking photographs, enjoying the views, and eating my lunch in comfort, for the sun was hot and for once in a way there was no wind. To the South-west of us, across the névé, there appeared to be another easy pass which seemed to lead round to the South of Mount Everest, and Ang Tenze, who came from the Khombu Valley, said that he thought that he recognised some of the mountain tops that he saw over this, and that if we crossed this pass, we should eventually descend into the Khombu Valley. He also told me that there were stories that once upon a time there was a pass from the Khombu Valley into the Kama Valley, and that this was probably the pass in question, but that it had been disused for a great number of years. To support his theory we found on the way down a kind of shelter built of stones and some pieces of juniper hidden under a big rock. This would have been too high up for any yak herds to camp, as it was above the grazing pastures, and seemed to prove that the spot might have been used as a halting-place for smugglers or people fleeing from the law before they crossed these passes. It had taken us six and a half hours from camp to get up to the top of this pass; and we had had no halts on the way beyond what were necessary to take photographs. The downward journey took us four hours. We tried another way by the side of the Makalu Glacier, desiring thereby to avoid the tiresome and rather difficult bit along the top of the ridge. This short cut proved, however, to be still more trying and wearisome. From the cliffs above there had been great rock falls down to the edge of the glacier, and for a couple of miles we had to jump from boulder to boulder and to clamber either up or down the whole time. There was still the Kangshung Glacier to cross, with more up and down hill work, the stones being much looser and more inclined to slip under foot than they were in the morning. Eventually we reached camp, just before dark, and feeling very tired. A cup of tea, however, with a little brandy in it, completely removed all fatigue. Wollaston had been able during the day to get some beautiful photographs of the snow-powdered cliffs of Chomolönzo, and also some interesting ones of the Kangshung Glacier. Besides these he had been able to collect a number of seeds. It is astonishing how quickly at these heights seeds ripen, and how short a time it is after flowering that they are fit for picking.
We had been very lucky in getting such a perfect day in the Kama Valley, for fine days there were very few. After our one perfect day the weather changed again, and for the next three days we descended the Kama Valley in sleet and snow. The first morning our march was only to our old camp at Tangsham on a glacial terrace 1,000 feet above the valley. At first Everest was clear and all the mountains to the West, but heavy clouds came rolling up from the South-east and soon enveloped everything. On the way I managed to collect for Wollaston a number of the seeds of that lovely blue primula which I had found in flower here in August. I shot, too, a common snipe, which I was very surprised to meet at these altitudes. I flushed him beside a small spring close to the camp. During the afternoon it snowed and sleeted, and Wheeler came in very tired in the evening after having spent the whole of the day on a prominent peak, from which he had been unable to get a single photograph or to take any bearings. In spite of the snow that evening we had a cheery bonfire of juniper, willow and rhododendron. The next morning, though we were down at 15,000 feet, there were a couple of inches of fresh snow on the ground. The weather at first was very misty, and we had no views at all. We soon, however, descended below the snow, and the autumnal colours in the valley began to show. On the opposite side of it below the great black cliffs, the bushes were all shades of brown and gold. In the forests the rose bushes had turned a brilliant red, and the mountain ash showed every shade of scarlet and crimson, contrasting well with the shiny dark green leaves of the rhododendron. The golden colours of the birch and the dark junipers also made a beautiful combination of colour. Rain set in again steadily, and as snow was falling on the “field of marigolds” where we had intended to camp, we pitched our tents in the midst of a huge rock-fall—1,000 feet lower down. Our coolies did not pitch any tents for themselves, but preferred to scatter in twos and threes and to camp under the overhanging rocks which they found apparently warmer and more comfortable than the tents. There had been a wonderful growth of vegetation among these huge boulders, many of them 40 feet to 50 feet in height, which had come down from the cliffs above. Wollaston and I spent most of the afternoon pottering round and collecting seeds of plants of different kinds. The next morning we had trouble in getting hold of the coolies; they were scattered among the rocks, and in spite of shouts, refused to budge until I went round with a big stick and poked them out of their holes. I crossed the Shao La in thick mist, though Wollaston and Wheeler, who came along an hour behind, had some beautiful glimpses of Makalu in the clouds and were able to get some photographs. After crossing the pass, we descended past several beautiful lakes and arrived in fine weather at Kharta in the afternoon. The autumn tints on the way down were again very beautiful, and most of the crops had already been gathered in. Mallory and Bullock had, we found, left Kharta, being in a great hurry to get back to civilisation again.
It was September 30 when we reached Kharta. We had now finished our reconnaissance. We had investigated all the valleys to the West, North-west, North, North-east and East of the mountain, and had eventually found that there was only one possible route of approach to the summit. The bad weather and the furious North-westerly gales had prevented our attaining any great height this year. The rainy season had begun some three weeks later than usual. The rains, they told us, had been much heavier than in most years in Tibet, and the wet season had lasted until very nearly the end of September, after which time a period of gales set in which made climbing at heights above 23,000 feet a physical impossibility. Undoubtedly the best time to try and climb the mountain would be before the monsoon breaks in May or early June. It might be possible, if the monsoon happened to end by the beginning of September, to tackle the mountain early in September, but after the middle of that month the chances of doing any good grow steadily weaker and the cold increases with great rapidity. Whether it will be possible in any conditions to reach the summit I am very doubtful. We, however, had never intended to make a sustained effort to reach the top in 1921. The reconnaissance of the mountain and its approaches afforded us indeed no time to make such an effort, and we felt bound to investigate every valley that led up to it. The Everest Committee had already before we left for India in 1921 decided to send out a second Expedition in the following year, for the express purpose of climbing Mount Everest, and for this purpose had already then promised the leadership to Brig.-General C. G. Bruce, whose unrivalled knowledge of climbing and climatic conditions in the Himalayas specially fitted him for the work. Whether the task is capable of accomplishment I will not attempt to say, though I should think the chances are on the whole against success. If Mount Everest were 6,000, or even 5,000 feet lower, I think there can be no doubt that it could be climbed. There are no physical difficulties in the shape of the mountain which prevent it being climbed—the difficulties are all connected with its altitude. If the snow is soft and powdery, and the conditions are such as we met with so often; or if, again, there is difficult rock climbing in the last 2,000 or 3,000 feet of the climb, I do not think the summit will be reached. I cannot say what the effect will be if oxygen is taken to aid the human effort. I only know that cylinders of oxygen are very uncomfortable and heavy to carry, and that to wear a mask over the mouth and to climb so equipped would not seem to be very feasible or pleasant. Living at great heights, and trying to sleep at great heights, lowers the vitality enormously. Larger tents than those with which we were supplied might well be taken in order to prevent the depressing headaches that follow from sleeping in a confined and airless space. Among minor discomforts which count for much may be mentioned the difficulty of preparing good warm food, and for this purpose a coolie should be trained in cooking and in the use of the “Primus” and spirit stoves. This coolie should be a man accustomed to great heights, and he should accompany the party up to the highest camps in order to avoid the difficulties we had in connection with the preparation of our food and then having to live on such makeshifts as sardines and biscuits. I never lost my appetite at heights over 20,000 feet—I was always able to eat well, though not everything appealed to the palate. Sweet things were especially wanted. That it is possible to acclimatise the system to live at heights is true, but only to a certain extent—up to about 18,000 feet we could acclimatise ourselves very comfortably, and I know in my own case that after six months' living in Tibet, I was able to do far more than when I first came into the country, but at greater heights I think a prolonged stay permanently lowers the vitality. Sleeplessness is another great enemy at heights, and most of the party I found slept very poorly at the highest camp. Mallory, I think, was the only exception. It ought to be possible to pick out a few coolies capable of carrying loads able to go as far as any European can get. Some of them seem to feel the height much less than others, and I believe that an unladen native would be able to go much higher if he had the knowledge of ice and snow that Alpine climbers have, and would not improbably reach a greater height than any European. Twenty-nine thousand feet is, however, a tremendous height for anyone to attain, and I own that I am not at all sanguine that the summit will be reached, though I have no doubt that this year will see the Duke of the Abruzzi's record of 24,600 broken, and I shall not be at all surprised to see a height of 25,000 or 26,000 feet arrived at.
CHAPTER X
THE RETURN JOURNEY TO PHARI
Autumn had already come to Kharta. The willows and the poplars under which we were camped were fast shedding their leaves, which rustled on the ground, or blew into our tents, a warning that winter was not far off. Even here there were one or two degrees of frost every night. The days, however, were still warm and sunny. The next five days were fully occupied with strenuous work. Wheeler and I took alternate mornings and afternoons in the dark room. We had each taken a large number of photographs during the past month. These had to be developed before we started on our return journey to Darjeeling, and this would be our last opportunity. An account of our last month's doings and our final reconnaissance had to be written out for The Times, and this, together with many other letters, had to be sent off to Phari as soon as possible. Our stores, tents, Alpine equipment, had all to be collected and sorted out. Lists had to be made of all of them, and most of them had to be re-packed. The coolies were perpetually worrying us for money and advances of pay in order that they might be able to buy Tibetan clothing, or have money which they could spend on drink at Kharta, where it was apparently very cheap. Our cook and most of the coolies used constantly to return to camp in the evening blind drunk, and I had to see that the cook was never allowed near the kitchen under these conditions. On such an occasion my servant, Poo, would have to do the cooking in his place. The chang, or barley beer, that they got must have been a much stronger brew than what was given to us, as what we had did not appear intoxicating at all, but the interpreters told us that coolie beer was double strength.
The Jongpen was rather sad as the moment of our departure drew near. We invited him to lunch one day, and he seemed to appreciate the beauties of Scotch whisky, which he said was very much better than his own chang. We had to pay him a return visit the following day, when he gave us a great spread. Knowing that we were anxious to collect such curios as were available, he produced all kinds of things for our inspection. I bought from him a curious old Tibetan musket, elaborately decorated with silver, and fitted with a pair of antelope horns on which to rest it when firing. Some interesting copper and silver teapots we were also able to get from him, and I remember his showing Wollaston many pieces of finely embroidered Chinese silk. Both Hopaphema and the Jongpen had a very good idea of the value of money, and were not at all afraid of asking a stiff price for any of the curios which they produced. We managed, however, to pick up some interesting Chinese snuff bottles of carved agate, some with pictures painted inside. China cups of the Chienlung and Kanghe periods we were also able to get; there were, however, many things in the monasteries which we rather coveted, but which the Lamas would not sell. Their tables were very ornamentally carved with dragons and weird designs, all painted over in brilliant colours. The Jongpen had one such table, but unfortunately I found out that he had only borrowed it from the nearest monastery for the purpose of entertaining us, and therefore he could not sell it. We left behind us a good many stores which it was not worth while to bring along. Among them was a lot of acid hypo-sulphite of soda, which the Jongpen at once seized upon, and which he said he intended to make use of in washing his clothes, knowing that soda was used occasionally for this purpose. The Jongpen, of whom we had taken many photographs, and who had seen the results, was anxious to buy one of our cameras, and to develop and print everything himself. He imagined the whole process was very easy, and was extremely anxious to get hold of one of the Expedition's cameras, but we had to disappoint him in this. Nothing small would content him—he wanted the biggest of the lot, and was quite willing to exchange a sword or any other weapon for a camera. We, however, left behind with him three pairs of skis, which we had brought out with us, but which had never been unpacked. These skis had throughout our journeys been looked upon by the Tibetans with the greatest interest. They had heard about flying machines, and they thought that these were the framework of a flying machine which we had brought with us, and on which we intended to fly to the top of the mountains. Wherever we arrived there was always a great crowd assembled round these skis, discussing the various methods by which they could be put together and describing how the white man would then fly. I left them with the Jongpen and told him that they were very good exercise for him in the winter time, when the snow was deep, and that if he wanted to reduce his weight, which was already considerable, there could be no better method than by making use of them in the snow.
At last, on October 5, we managed to leave Kharta. There were no pack animals available; we had therefore to make use of coolies for our transport for the first march; it took 140 of them to carry all our loads. For some time the scene of confusion was very amusing. The Jongpen himself came down, and it was only owing to his help that by mid-day we got all the loads sorted out and put on the backs of the coolies. Before he was able to do this he had to have recourse to the system of drawing lots by putting garters on each load, a system which I have already described in a previous chapter. Before we left, the Jongpen and Hopaphema brought us presents of sheep and vegetables, and they and all the people of the valley seemed genuinely sorry that we were departing. Throughout our long stay at Kharta they had been most helpful and had done everything they could for our comfort. They were both of them very human, with a delightful sense of humour, and we quickly became great friends. It was with much regret that we turned our backs on Kharta.
We started off without a cloud in the sky, but with a strong South wind blowing. High up on the mountains we could see the snow still being blown off in white clouds. Our route lay up the valley of the Bhong-chu for about 10 miles until the river suddenly turned to the East to go through a deep and impassable gorge. We had then to follow the valley of the Zachar-chu for 4 miles to Lumeh, where we camped beside the great poplar trees. The bridge by which we had crossed the Zachar-chu in July no longer existed. It had been washed away in August, but now that the snows were no longer melting higher up, and the rainy season was over, the river was very much lower, and it was possible to ford it. The people at Lumeh were very pleased to see us again; we found tents pitched and food prepared for our reception. From here there were two routes open to us. We could either, by crossing two passes, drop down to Tsogo in the valley of the Bhong-chu, and after fording the river there, follow our previous route (of the outward journey) to Tingri, or we could cross a small pass just above Lumeh, meeting the Bhong-chu again immediately above the gorge, where there was a bridge across it. We chose the latter route, as it was probably a couple of days shorter and would take us through new country. On leaving Lumeh, for the first time for several days we had a cloudy morning, which was unfortunate, as from the top of the Quiok (Cuckoo Pass) we had hoped for a fine view. Our transport to-day consisted of yaks and donkeys, which came along very well. There was a steep climb of 2,000 feet to the top of the pass, 15,000 feet, where we just managed to get a glimpse of Makalu in the clouds, but Everest was hidden. We thought that this would be our last chance of a view of the Everest and Makalu group, but it turned out not to be so. By going over this pass we had avoided the curious and impassable gorge by which the Bhong-chu cuts through a high range of mountains. It was only a little over 6 miles to the famous rope bridge at Gadompa. I could not help laughing when I first saw the bridge. It was such a comical, ramshackle-looking affair, and everything about it seemed torn and ragged and uneven. Two crooked wooden posts set up in piles of stones supported the ropes of raw hide which spanned the river. During the rainy season one of these posts and all the ropes had been buried deep under the water, but now that the river had dropped over 10 feet, the posts were out of the water. Between these two wooden posts were three raw hide ropes, very frail and much frayed, and looking as though they might break at any moment. On these ropes was laid a semi-circular piece of wood, like the framework of a saddle, to which were attached two leather thongs. The person or bale of goods that had to be pulled across was tied by these two thongs to the framework, and this was allowed to slide rapidly with its load down to the point at which the “bridge” sagged most—somewhere about the middle of the river—which here rushed along in a formidable rapid. If the Tibetans on the far side failed to pull up the passenger or load and he or it was left for a minute, either would certainly get the full benefit of one of the ice-cold waves of the rapids and get thoroughly soaked before reaching the far side. The Tibetans had great fun with our coolies in transit, and very few of them were allowed to get over dry. The villages on either side are exempt from the duty of producing transport, and have instead to make themselves responsible for working the bridge. On one side the operators were all women and on the other all men. It took an average of five minutes to get each load or person across, and we spent twelve hours before we got all our loads over. For part of the time I superintended while Wheeler went to get some dinner, and after dinner, owing to there being a certain amount of moonlight, Wheeler carried on until the last load was brought over at midnight. It was a very chilly proceeding, as the wind blew very cold, with a suspicion of snow every now and then. It was a weird experience to see the loads of baggage suddenly appearing out of the darkness and then being unloaded and transferred to the yaks, who apparently were able to find their way about in the dark. We got everything over in safety without losing anything except a few eggs, which I saw drop out during the passage across, and I felt very much relieved that we had had no accident.
That night we camped in a pleasant willow grove at the village of Kharkhung. In the morning we awoke to find fresh snow on the ground, but this speedily disappeared when the sun came out. Our new transport consisted of donkeys and some very wild yaks, which rapidly got rid of their loads. The march was only a short one of about 12 miles up the valley of the Bhong-chu. The valley was uninteresting and stony, with practically no undergrowth, and we eventually camped in a windy spot near the village of Lashar, nearly opposite to the sandy camp at Shiling where we had halted on our outward journey after crossing the quicksands. The night proved much colder here, with 18° of frost, but the wind luckily died down and the next morning was beautiful. We continued up the sandy valley of the Bhong-chu, which is here several miles wide, until we came to its junction with the Yaru, where we regained the route which we had followed on the outward journey. Just before leaving the main valley we found, on looking behind us, that we were in full sight of Mount Everest and its great South-eastern ridge, and also of the Lhakpa La where we had camped. This was our final view of Mount Everest, and knowing the geography of these peaks as we now did, this view gave us an added interest in them. We had climbed slowly and had not realised the great height which we had reached or the conspicuous position of our camp on the Lhakpa La which we now saw sharply defined against the horizon from a distance of 50 miles.
We rode up the gorge of the Yaru, and at the village of Rongme we met the Phari Jongpen's brother. He was busy collecting the harvest rents, which are a fixed percentage of the crops. I gave him some of the photographs that I had taken of him and his house on the way up and very soon after a big crowd collected around. The Tibetans are very quick at recognising persons in a photograph, and they at once picked out all the people by name in a group. I then rode on past his house to the village of Shatog, where we camped. On the way I shot a couple of snipe and also saw a number of teal, wild geese and kulan (grey crane), but they were very wild and I could not get near enough for a shot. Heron joined us here. He had been exploring some of the valleys to the North, but had found nothing interesting or remarkable, geologically, and he accompanied us back as far as Khamba Dzong. We were anxious to push on as fast as possible, and determined to do a double march from here to Tinki Dzong, which our transport drivers said they could do quite easily. We started on a beautiful day after a sharp frost at night, causing many of the ponds to be frozen over. We crossed the broad swampy plain to Chushar. Wheeler, going on ahead at first, had a shot at some geese, but did not succeed in getting anything. We crossed the Yaru River by a very deep ford, and then kept along the North side of it, past numerous ponds on which were swimming many bar-headed geese; these were, however, very wily and would not allow us to approach within shot. We now had a steep 3,000-foot climb to the Tinki Pass. On the way up I came across some partridges; they were terrible runners, but after a good chase I managed to collect two. They turned out to be the ordinary Tibetan partridge (Perdrix hodgsoniæ). I then rode on down to Tinki, to which place I had sent on Chheten Wangdi in order to make arrangements for our reception and to have transport ready for us on the following day. The two Jongpens rode out to meet us; the elder of the two had been at Tinki when we passed through on the way out, but the other one I had not seen before as he had been away. I had very pleasant recollections of our reception there before, and was delighted to see the elder Jongpen, who was a most pleasant and agreeable gentleman. They presented us with a couple of hundred eggs, rice and some grain for the ponies, and had tents already pitched for us under the walls of the fort. Here the Jongpens came and sat talking with us for a long time. Our transport showed no signs of turning up, so we were very glad to make our dinner off the rice and eggs that had been given us. The bulk of the transport did not arrive till midnight. They had made every effort to stop at Chushar, and it was with great difficulty that Gyalzen Kazi had induced them to go on. The animal which was carrying Wheeler's kit died on the way, and his bedding did not arrive till noon the following day, another animal having been sent to bring it in. I had had my maximum and minimum thermometers exposed as usual under the fly of my tent, but during the night some wretch came and stole them. What good they could have been to him I cannot imagine, but it was very annoying and I hope he will drink the mercury. The weather had now changed again for the worse: all day there were heavy snow showers with snow falling on the mountains around and preventing any views. The march was only a short one to Lingga. The wild birds in the lake beside the fort were as tame as ever, the Brahminy ducks (ruddy sheldrake) almost waddling into our tents and not paying the slightest attention to us. On the water were swimming about thousands of duck, bar-headed geese and teal which the Jongpen's little dog used to have great fun in chasing. We were not able to follow our former route from Tinki to Lingga as the country had altered considerably. Most of the plain was now a broad lake several miles long, and we had to follow the North side of the water along the foot of the hills. On these big lakes were many duck, but they were very wild. I managed on the way, however, to shoot two bar-headed geese, a couple of Garganey teal and a pochard, which proved a very welcome addition to our bill of fare. One shot was a most extraordinary one. I was stalking some geese which were getting very restless and starting to fly away, when just in front of me got up two teal close together. I fired at the teal and both fell to my shot, and at the same time, to my great surprise, a goose, which was in the direct line of fire, and about 40 yards away, also fell.
We found the people at Lingga busy thrashing. The thrashing time in Tibet is a favourite one for drinking, and often the whole village after a day's harvest will be completely incapacitated as the result of too great an indulgence in chang. Their thrashing floors consist of an area of about half an acre of hard beaten earth on which the barley is spread to a depth of 6 to 8 inches. Fifty or sixty yaks are then driven into this enclosure, followed by thirty people or more, beating drums, rattling kerosene oil tins, ringing bells and shouting and yelling in order to frighten the yaks, who, tail in air, are driven backwards and forwards over the barley. This they continue doing until every one is tired and hoarse, when the whole of the workers, both male and female, adjourn for a long drink of beer, after which the same process is repeated.
On October 11 we arrived at Khamba Dzong. We were having sharp frosts now every night, and the mountains, both to the North and South of us, were covered low down with a thick white coating of snow. It was not, however, unpleasantly cold, and the cloud effects were very beautiful. On the way I shot two goa—Tibetan gazelle—with good heads, and horns over 14 inches long. We had to halt here in order to rest our coolies. All day to the South there was a furious storm raging along the Himalayas, and when it cleared up in the evening there had evidently been a heavy snowfall. In the course of the afternoon we put up over Dr. Kellas's grave the stone which the Jongpen had had engraved for us during our absence. On it were inscribed in English and Tibetan characters his initials and the date of his death, and this marks his last resting-place.
Raeburn, Wheeler and Heron now left us, as they wanted to return to Darjeeling by the short way over the Serpo La and down the Teesta Valley. This route is only possible for small parties; with all our transport we were unable to return that way as the villages on the way and in the Teesta Valley are small and can supply but very few animals or coolies. Wollaston and I had therefore to return to Phari and then to follow the main trade route, along which it is always possible to pick up any amount of hired transport. We left Khamba Dzong on October 13 in 20° of frost. Kanchenjunga and the Everest group were just visible, but ominous clouds were rapidly coming up. Our march was the same as on the outward journey to Tatsang (Falcon's Nest)—a distance of about 21 miles. We rode through the fine limestone gorge behind the fort, shooting on the way several Tibetan partridge (Perdrix hodgsoniæ). On reaching the top of the pass, I climbed another thousand feet on to the ridge to the South of the pass, where I had a wonderful panorama of snowy peaks, both to the South and to the North. Snow storms appeared to be raging on either side and the wind was extremely cold. I came across a fine flock of burhel (Ovis nahura), and had an easy shot at a fine ram, but missed him hopelessly, and they never gave me another chance. A little further on I missed a gazelle. On the plain below were grazing numerous kiang (Equus hemionus), their reddish-chestnut coats being well shown off by their white bellies and legs. Their mane appears to be of a darker colour, which is continued as a narrow stripe down the back. On the same plain I could see also a large flock of nyan (Ovis hodgsoni), all fair-sized rams. I had a long chase after the latter, but they never allowed me to approach close to them. Snow began to fall now and a regular blizzard set in, the fine powdery snow being blown along the ground into our faces. While riding along in this storm, I saw two fine nyan which I stalked. My 2·75 rifle was rather small for such a large animal, and though the larger of the two was badly hit by the first shot, he went off as though he were untouched and gave me a long chase after him. It was only possible to get a glimpse of him every now and then in the blizzard, and whenever I lay down to try and get a shot, the fine powdery snow blown along the surface of the ground nearly blinded me, so that it took five more bullets before he finally expired. He was a magnificent old beast with a grand head and horns, well over 40 inches in length and of great thickness. The weight of the body was enormous. I had only Ang Tenze with me. With much difficulty we cut off the nyan's head and then tried to lift the carcass, which must have weighed well over 200 lb., on to one of the ponies. With the greatest trouble we eventually managed to get the carcass on to the pony's back, but the pony seemed gradually to subside on to the ground under the weight and was quite unable to move. While we were doing this, my pony took it into his head to run away, and though we made every attempt to catch him, he completely defeated us, and was last seen galloping away towards his home. I had therefore an 8 mile trudge through the snow to get back to camp, not arriving there till well after dark. Five of the coolies went back after dark to get the meat. They cut off as much as they could carry, and the remainder had to be left for the nuns, who sent out their servants to bring it in. I was cheered up, however, by getting an English mail and many letters. Among these was one from Sir Charles Bell from Lhasa, who wrote to ask the Expedition not to do any more shooting in Tibet, as the Tibetans did not approve of it; for the remainder of the time, therefore, the guns had to be put away.
During the night there were 32° of frost, and everything inside our tents was frozen solid in the morning; but the wind luckily died down, and the next day was a most beautiful one. We knew that there was a long march before us, so our transport was off by eight o'clock. At Tatsang we were already 16,000 feet, and we gradually climbed higher, spending most of the day between 17,000 and 18,000 feet. For several miles we rode across a snow-covered plain over which the tops of Pawhunri, Chomiomo, and Kanchenjhow appeared to the South. As we rose higher, the snow gradually deepened to 6 inches and made the going very heavy. We had to cross three spurs of Pawhunri by passes of over 17,500 feet. Here the snow had been blown by the wind into drifts over 2 feet deep. We had arranged to camp at a place called Lunghi, but on our arrival there found that the nomads, who ordinarily spent the summer there, had already left and were encamped some 4 miles further down the valley. In a side valley I found some of their tents where I was able to warm myself and get some hot milk before moving on down the valley, where we were told that preparations had been made to receive us. There was luckily a bright moon and we rode on down to the spot, where we found some Tibetan tents which had been pitched for us; their owners had, moreover, had the forethought to have great braziers of cow dung burning in these tents. The smell was not agreeable, but we sat and warmed ourselves, waiting for our transport, which did not arrive until eleven o'clock that night. It was a bitterly cold wait, as the wind got up and blew down the valley with 25° of frost behind it. We were very glad to see our transport and coolies when they arrived; they had really come along very well, as a march of 23 miles in soft snow and at a great height all the time is no light feat.
Breakfast the next morning was very comfortless, as the wind was still blowing with 28° of frost, and everything—boots and foodstuffs of all kinds—was frozen inside our tents. We looked forward with no little pleasure to finding ourselves inside once more and sitting in front of a fire out of the everlasting wind which makes Tibet so trying. The march was a fairly easy one of about 20 miles over gentle undulating country until we reached the West side of the Tang La; there was, however, a bitterly cold strong South wind which blew with great violence all day and penetrated through everything. Many of our coolies had much difficulty in coming along, as they were suffering from snow blindness and their feet were also very tender from the cold and the deep snow of the last few days. Chomolhari was a glorious sight all the way. We were gradually approaching it, and it seemed to rise directly from the plain in front of us. From its summit and from its ridges great streamers of snow were being blown off and the gale—apparently from the Northwest—still continued. Nearly every day since we left Kharta we saw along the higher peaks of the Himalayas the snow being blown off in great wisps, showing that a strong Northwesterly current of air sets in at great heights after the monsoon is over. After reaching Darjeeling we noticed the same thing; every day, from Kanchenjunga and Kabru, could be seen the same great wisps of wind-blown snow. That night at Phari we were once more in a bungalow and out of the wind, and able to spend a very comfortable and pleasant evening reading our letters and papers in front of a fire which, though still mostly yak dung, was in a fireplace. October 16 we spent resting at Phari. Our coolies were much exhausted by the three days' march from Khamba Dzong, in which we had covered 65 miles, most of the time at considerable heights and in deep snow. We had returned by the short way, which the people of Phari had told us in the spring was impassable, and over which they would not go, sending us instead around by the long way to Dochen, which took us six days instead of three.
Phari is a place unfortunately too near civilisation. The Tibetans there have lost their good manners, such as we had been accustomed to meet in the more distant and out-of-the-way parts of the country. Much trade passes through the town, and the people there are too well off. They had an idea that the Expedition was a kind of milch cow out of which money could be extracted to their hearts' content. Of this view we had to disabuse them, and in consequence found them all very tiresome. The transport turned up the following morning, but they refused to load up unless they were paid in full beforehand and at a most exorbitant rate. This I refused to do, telephoning at the same time to the trade agent at Yatung. I sent for the Jongpen, and both Jongpens turned up. I rather imagine that they were at the bottom of this trouble, for one of them owed the Expedition some money; he had also, when forwarding on stores to us, seized the opportunity to charge five times the ordinary rate, on the pretext that he had supplied some of his own mules. After long arguments I eventually induced them to accept part of the payment, the remainder to be paid at Yatung, whereupon the Jongpens gave orders for the animals to be loaded. It was not, however, until the afternoon that we were able to leave Phari and to start on our downward march to Yatung.
CHAPTER XI
BACK TO CIVILISATION
When we turned our backs on Phari and started to march down the Chumbi Valley, we had left the real Tibet behind us. I could not somehow look upon the Chumbi Valley as being a part of Tibet. Its characteristics, its houses, its people, its vegetation, are all so different from the greater part of Tibet. There are not the same cold winds that freeze the very marrow, nor are there the wide plains and the undulating hills with their extensive views.
In spite of all discomforts, there is a very great charm and fascination about travelling in Tibet. Is it partly because it is an unknown country, and the unknown is always fascinating, or is it rather because of the innate beauty of the country itself, with its landscapes so free from all restraint and a horizon often 150 to 200 miles distant? Never anywhere have I seen a country so full of colour as is Tibet. There is not enough vegetation to hide the rocks and the stones. The foreground as well as the distant view is wonderfully full of colour and variety. Contrasts are one of the charms of life, and probably in this lies the secret of the charm and attractiveness of Tibet. It is essentially a country of contrasts. The climate, above all, has contrasts of its own. The sun is burningly hot, but in the shade the cold may be intense. To such a pitch can the extremes of heat and cold arrive, that a man may suffer from sunstroke and frost-bite at one and the same time.
The Tibetans themselves are a strong, well-built and hardy race—Mongolian in type. The women usually put a mixture of grease and soot on their faces to protect them against the glare of the fresh snow or the biting winds, for even they, with their thick skins, do not seem to get used to the severity of the changes. How much more does the European suffer when he travels in Tibet and seems to need a fresh skin almost every day. The soot mixture does not add to the beauty of the women, though I came across some who were not bad looking. Many of the people are nomads, living in tents all the year round and moving about from camp to camp pasturing their herds of yaks and their flocks of sheep. It is curious that even in the winter-time they can find grazing places, but the secret lies in the fact that the slopes face the South in the regions where the wind blows strongest, so that the surface is usually bare. The snowfall in winter in most parts of Tibet is not heavy, and the climate being so dry, the snow is powdery, and the wind blows it along and forms great drifts in the hollows, leaving the exposed slopes usually clear. On these the herds, or flocks of sheep, obtain sufficient nourishment from such scattered patches of frozen grass or lichens as they are able to find. Of all the animals that the Tibetans have, the yak is the most useful. His long black hair, which reaches to the ground under his belly, is woven into tents or ropes. The milk, after they have drunk what they want, is turned into butter and cheese, of which they produce great quantities. When old, he is killed and his flesh is dried, providing meat for a long time. His hide supplies leather of every kind. It is always used untanned, for no tanning is ever done in Tibet and any tanned skins always come up from India. The yak dung is in many places the only fuel to be got and is most carefully picked up. To the present generation of young children the yak is probably familiar from that delightful rhyme in “The Bad Child's Book of Beasts”:—