Mount Everest, the Reconnaissance, 1921

CHAPTER XVI

WEATHER AND CONDITION OF SNOW

Without consulting the meteorologist at Simla it is difficult to accept assertions about the monsoon as ultimate truth. Beyond a general, rather vague, agreement as to what should normally be expected, opinions differ not a little as to the measure and frequency of divergences from the norm. And individuals who observe in one locality more or less than they hope or expect are apt to forget that their dearth or plenty may be elsewhere compensated by capricious incidence. Nevertheless it seems certain that this year's rainfall in North-east India was above the normal both in amount and duration. “We had good rain,” people said, and I was tempted to reply, “We had bad snow.” Travelling through India I frequently asked questions on this point, and almost invariably heard of an unusually bountiful rainfall, seldom of one which was merely sufficient. Inhabitants of Darjeeling, who have observed the hills in the changing seasons for many years, told me that it was almost unheard of that so much snow should fall in September and lie so low. The general tenor of such remarks may probably be applied to an area including not only Mount Everest itself and the great peaks in its neighbourhood, but also a considerable tract of country to the North. The monsoon, according to Tibetan information, started perhaps a little later than usual, but was still more late in coming to an end; the Tibetans ordinarily lie with an object, and there could be no object in deceiving us about the weather. It may be concluded the year was abnormally wet, though to what extent on Everest itself can hardly be divined.

During our outward journey through Sikkim we saw nothing of the high peaks. It was not until the day of our march to Phari Dzong (May 28) that we had a clear view of the snows, and we had then the good fortune to see Chomolhari late in the morning. But Chomolhari and the range to the North of it were less visited by clouds than the peaks further South. Pawhunri, Kanchenjunga, Chomiomo were less often visible, and even at this early season we began to observe the usual habit of clouds to rise from the valleys or to form about the summits at an early hour, to be dissipated not before evening. The weather was not necessarily bad because the peaks were veiled. When we first saw Everest from Kampa Dzong on June 6, it was obscured some three hours after sunrise, but the weather seemed fine: and on two subsequent days we made the same observation. On June 13, from the hills above Shiling, Bullock and I were trying to make out the Everest group through glasses for about three hours. When first we looked in that direction, it appeared that a storm was in progress, with dark clouds drifting up from the West; but Kanchenjunga at the same time was a glorious sight, and all the mountains were clear before sunset. The most splendid of the distant views was from Ponglet on June 19: we were up our hill half an hour after sunrise and half an hour later there was nothing to be seen. There may have been malice in the clouds that day. It was radiantly fine where we were; but in the afternoon we came under the edge of a thunderstorm which drenched the main body of the Expedition as they were approaching Tingri; and there was a definite break in the weather at this time.

I suppose this break may be taken as the forerunner of the monsoon on Mount Everest. Storms there may have been before; but, generally speaking, it had been fine over the mountains since the beginning of June, and though the evidence is slight enough it seems probable that Everest received little or no snow before June 20. When first we saw it, a few days later, from the Rongbuk Glacier, it was still comparatively black. It appeared a rocky mass with a white arm to the right, some permanent snow on the ledges and in the gullies of the face turned Northwards in our direction and some snow again on the high North-east arête; but with no pretensions to be a snow-mountain, a real sugar-cake as it seemed afterwards to become. We were lucky in having a few fine days at the outset of our reconnaissance. The conditions then were very different from those which obtained later. The recent snow must have melted quickly; we found clean ice on an East-facing slope at 21,000 feet and also at a gentler angle on one facing West. On Ri-ring the slopes were generally covered with snow near the crest, thinly but sufficiently, or we should never have got up; near the summit we found ice on both sides, North and South. It is impossible to say up to what height one might have found ice in June. Appearances suggested that on all but the steepest slopes above 23,000 feet the surface was hard snow rather than ice.

It was on the day following our ascent of Ri-ring, July 6, that we first experienced a real snowfall; and we woke next morning to find 3 or 4 inches covering the ground. In so far as an exact date can be ascribed to what is hardly a single event, July 6–7 may be taken as the beginning of the monsoon. We imagined at first that this snowfall was an important matter, sufficient to prevent climbing at any considerable height for several days. But from subsequent observations we came to treat such snowfalls with a certain degree of contempt. It was more often than not the case during the whole of July until the date of our departure that snow fell during the day—sometimes perhaps for a comparatively short period between noon and sunset, not seldom for many hours, intermittently during the day from the middle of the morning, and continuing into the night. But it was often so far as we were concerned a harmless phenomenon. Snow was precipitated from clouds so thin that they were easily penetrated by the sun's heat; it melted where it lay, and the moisture so readily evaporated that the snow had hardly stopped falling before the ground was dry. One might suppose that a few hundred feet higher, where the snow could be seen to lie where it fell, the effects would be more severe; but it was remarkable after half a day's unceasing precipitation of this fine granular snow that one might go up early next morning, perhaps to 20,000 feet, and find no more than a thin covering of 2 or 3 inches on the stones.

In saying that this sort of weather was harmless, I am not denying that it hindered our operations; but from the point of view merely of the climber it was remarkably innocuous. A case in point is our ascent of Ri-ring. As we were nearing the summit a thunderstorm gathered to the North and dark clouds came up on every hand, threatening a violent disturbance. I have related in an earlier chapter how we hurried down, expecting at the least a cold unpleasant wind and some nasty snow showers; but the air remained calm and the temperature warm and such grains of snow as fell were hardly remarked in our flight. A more disagreeable experience was our first journey to the col from which we afterwards looked into the West Cwm of Everest; we reached the pass in the teeth of a wind which drove the snow into our faces; but the weather had no real sting, and the wind, though cold, seemed to touch us lightly. Wind, in fact, was never an enemy to be feared during the whole period of the monsoon, and snowstorms, though they prevented more than one expedition, never turned us back. The delays in our reconnaissance caused by bad weather were of course considerable; we were forced to push our camps higher than would have otherwise been necessary, and often found ourselves hurrying after a start before dawn in a desperate race with the clouds to reach a view-point before the view had disappeared. And the precipitation of snow on the glaciers forced us invariably to wear snow-shoes on névé, and consequently limited the numbers in our parties.

I have already alluded to a more serious snowfall which took place from July 20 to 25. Another occurred during the first days of August and another again on August 20 and 21, when snow came down below 16,000 feet. In September, towards the end of the monsoon, the weather was more monotonously malicious and the snowfall tended to be heavier; I find two heavy falls noted particularly in my diary. But on the whole it was the habit of snow to fall lightly. It is remarkable, when one calls to mind such a big snowfall as may occur during the climbing season in the Alps before the weather is resolved to be fine, how little snow by comparison fell on any one day in the region of Mount Everest. And perhaps in the end the slopes were more laden by the smaller precipitations which deposited a daily accretion.

We naturally sought an answer to the interminable query as to how much melting took place at the highest altitudes. Melting of course was always quicker on rocks. But even on the glaciers it was remarkably rapid whenever the sun shone brightly, and we were more than once surprised after a period of cloudy weather with constant snow showers to find how much the snow had consolidated. It seemed to us on more than one occasion that while snow had been falling at our camps and on the lower peaks, Everest itself must have escaped. But, generally speaking, after July 6 the mountain was remarkably white and became increasingly whiter, and only at the least two perfectly fine days, which rarely came together, made any perceptible difference. It was remarkable how little ice was ever observable on the steep Eastern face, where one would expect to see icicles hanging about the rocks. It is my own impression for what it is worth, and its value I fear is small, that though snow will melt readily enough low down, at least up to 23,000 feet during the warmer weather even on cloudy days, at greater altitudes, perhaps above 25,000 feet, it rarely melts even in bright sunshine. In September this year I doubt if it melted at all above 23,000 feet after the weather cleared. At lower elevations the direction and angle of the slope made all the difference. After one fine day the snow on a steep East slope had solidified to a remarkable degree at about 20,000 feet; on a North-facing slope at a similar elevation it had been quite unaffected; on flat surfaces 1,000 feet higher a perceptible crust had formed, but the snow remained powdery below it as on the day when it fell. After three and four fine days the snowy surface of a glacier was absolutely hard at about 20,000 feet and remained solid in the afternoon. Fifteen hundred feet higher we were breaking a hard crust and sinking in a foot or more. This condition may have been partly due to the local behaviour of clouds, which were apt to cling about a ridge overlooking the glacier and cast a shadow on this part of it. But higher, on more open ground, we met the same condition; and again the slopes facing North preserved a powdery snow which never changed before it was blown down in avalanches. Perhaps the most convincing phenomena were the powdery snow high up on the Eastern slopes under the North col and the snow on the Western slopes at a similar elevation under Lhakpa La, which was hardly more solid, while 1,000 feet lower we found excellent snow. It is difficult to resist the conclusion that altitude is a determining factor in the sun's power of melting. It is possible that a line might always be drawn on any given day above which the temperature of the air is too cold for snow to melt where it has fallen on snow, and another to meet the case where it covers rocks. From our all too limited observations in June I should judge that in the middle of summer such imaginary lines would be above the height of Everest, but in other and cooler seasons we should quickly find them lower and a long way below the summit.

In close connection with the snow's melting we had to consider the possibility of avalanches. Our observations on this head were so meagre that I can only make with the greatest diffidence a few statements about them. It is astonishing to reflect how seldom we either saw or heard an avalanche, or even noticed the débris of one under steep slopes which had been laden with snow. Only on two occasions, I believe, were we confronted in practice with the question as to whether a slope could safely be crossed. The first was on August 7 in ascending the peak Carpo-ri, of which I have previously made mention. The heavy snowfall at the beginning of the month had ceased during the night August 4–5; the following days had been warm but cloudy, and on both there had been prolonged snow showers of the lighter sort in the afternoon and evening. On the night of August 6 we had hard frost at 17,500 feet, and there was a considerable sprinkling of fresh snow on the stones of the moraine. Between the col and the summit we met some very steep snow slopes on the South side: we carried no clinometer and I shall not venture to estimate their angles of inclination. It was on this occasion, as I have narrated, that in crossing a shallow scoop I was very much afraid of an avalanche, but was able to choose a safe line where we were protected and helped by an island of rocks. The snow here was inclined to be powdery; but it had solidified in some degree and, where we had to tread it, adhered sufficiently to the slope so as to give one a distinct confidence that it would not slide off wherever it might be crossed. Above this place we were able to avoid danger by following an edge where the snow was not so deep; but here again I noticed with surprise the adhesion between new snow and old. The ice below was not solid and smooth, but frothy and rough, and easily penetrated by a strong blow of the axe; it seemed to have been formed very quickly. The snow showed no inclination to slide off, though it was not of the substance in which a secure step could be made: and I concluded that the process of assimilation between the old surface and the new snow must proceed very rapidly whenever the temperature was warm enough. On the final slope, which was even steeper, more snow was lying—it was a more powdery substance: I was able again to escape danger on an edge dividing two faces; but it was surprising that no avalanche had already taken place and that the snow contrived to stay where it was.

The other occasion when we had to face and determine the possibility of an avalanche was in traversing the slopes to the North Col. Here our feet undoubtedly found a solid bed to tread upon, but the substance above it was dubiously loose. It was my conviction at the time that with axes well driven in above us we were perfectly safe here. But on the way down we observed a space of 5 yards or so where the surface snow had slid away below our tracks. The disquieting thoughts that necessarily followed this discovery left and still leave me in some doubt as to how great a risk, if any, we were actually taking. But it is natural to suppose that at a higher elevation or in a cooler season, because the snow adheres less rapidly to the slopes on which it lies, an avalanche of new snow is more likely to occur.

Temperature

Before attempting to draw conclusions as to the relative chances of finding favourable conditions between one month and another, a few words must be said about temperature.

So far as the temperature of the air was concerned, we experienced no severe cold and suffered no hardships from first to last. I do not mean to affirm that it was always warm. We welcomed frost at nights as one does in the Alps. One night so early as July 18, in a camp above 19,000 feet, was exceptionally cold. At our two last camps in September the thermometer went down to two or three degrees below zero (Fahr.) and the wind at the final camp made it more difficult to keep warm; with as little protection as the coolies had, I should no doubt have shivered in my tent. The air also seemed very cold before sunrise on September 20, though we were walking fast; but it did not bite the tip of my nose or ears or cause any disagreeable result. In general it may be said that there could be no difficulty in providing equipment against any cold we encountered. Heat was a much more dangerous enemy, as I indicated in describing our first ascent to Lhakpa La. Personally I never felt the sun's power on my head, but I felt it on my back so early as 8 a.m. as a definite attack on my energy and vital power, and more than once, though the sun was not shining, in crossing a glacier late in the day I was reduced from a state of alert activity to one of heavy lassitude.

The temperature of the snow is another consideration of very great importance. Even in July I felt the snow to be cold in the middle of the day towards the summit of Ri-ring, and when wearing snow-shoes in fresh snow under 20,000 feet coolies and all felt the cold in their feet. Later I apprehended a real danger from this source. The coolies were encouraged to anoint their feet with whale oil, and we avoided accident and even complaint: but I always admired their resistance to cold. Personally, though I am not particularly a cold-footed person, I took the precaution of wearing two pairs of long socks which were both new and thick, and a third from which, unfortunately, the toes had to be amputated owing to the timid miscalculation of my bootmaker: this equipment sufficed and I found my feet perfectly warm, while one of my companions was obliged to pull off a boot in order to restore circulation, and the other went on with numb feet and barely escaped frost-bite. And I must again emphasise the fact that this was on an Eastern slope well warmed by the sun in the middle of the morning and at an altitude no higher than about 22,500 feet. It may readily be concluded that forethought and care are in no respect more necessary than in guarding against frozen feet among a large party at the highest altitudes. And the difficulty of guarding against this danger might well determine the limits at either end of the warmest weather within which an assault should be launched on Everest itself or any one of the half-dozen or so highest peaks.

The Best Season for Climbing

It will hardly be doubtful from the whole tendency of my preceding remarks about weather and conditions that my opinion inclines decisively to the earlier rather than the later season as offering the best chances of climbing Mount Everest. We cannot of course assume that because September was a bad month this year it will always be a bad month. But supposing the monsoon were to end punctually and a fair spell to have set in by the first day of September—even then it appears to me improbable that the fresh snow fallen during the monsoon would sufficiently melt near the top of the mountain two and a half months after midsummer. As to the prospects of wind, we can only be content with the statement that in this particular year the wind after the end of the monsoon would alone have defeated even the most determined attempt to reach the summit. A wind strong enough to blow up the snow must always, I believe, prevent an ascent. A superman might perhaps be found, but never a party of men whose endurance at high altitudes would warrant the risk of exhaustion in struggling for long hours against such adverse circumstances. For the earlier season it may be said again, as a simple observation upon which little enough can be built, that the appearance of the clouds before the monsoon did not suggest wind, but rather a calm air on the summit. What precisely the conditions may be, for instance, in May and June, 1922, or what we ought normally to expect, cannot be determined with certainty. Will the whole of the snow fallen during the monsoon of 1921 have melted before the next monsoon, and if so by what date? Will the amount of snow on the mountain be the same in June, 1922, as twelve months before? Or will black and white appear in altered proportions? And if the snow has melted, where will ice be found? It might well be that under the North Col all the steeper slopes will have lost their snow. And what of the final arête? One conjecture seems as good as another, and the experience of more travelled mountaineers will suggest the most probable answer to these questions with an instinct less fallible than mine. Nevertheless, I think it may be said that the chances are all in favour of the earlier season. We know, for instance, about this year that snow must have melted since the last monsoon and actually was melting fast in June, but the summer's snow does not always melt before the winter—not this year, for instance: the chances, therefore, of finding it melted in June are better than those of finding it melted in September. It may be contended that it might then have melted too much so that a party would find ice where they would wish to find snow. But one must prefer the lesser of two evils. Ice is far from an insuperable obstacle on Mount Everest; almost anywhere above Chang La crampons would overcome it: but powdery snow, in case the snow has melted too little, is a deadly handicap. Finally, the earlier is the warmer season with less danger to vulnerable feet and requiring a lighter equipment.

CHAPTER XVII

THE ROUTE TO THE SUMMIT

The reader who has carefully followed the preceding story will hardly have failed to notice that the route which has been chosen as the only one offering reasonable chances of success remains still very largely a matter of speculation. But the reconnaissance, unless it were actually to reach the summit, was obliged to leave much unproved, and its value must depend upon observations in various sorts and not merely upon the practice of treading the snow and rocks. Speculation in this case is founded upon experience of certain phenomena and a study of the mountain's features; and it is by relating what has been only seen with known facts that inferences have been drawn.

It may perhaps be accounted a misfortune that the party of 1921 did not approach Chang La by the East Rongbuk Glacier. The Lhakpa La proved a bigger obstacle than was expected. But in conditions such as we hope to find before the monsoon, this way would have much to recommend it. It avoids all laborious walking on a dry glacier, and with hard snow the walk up to the pass from the camp on stones at 20,000 feet should not be unduly fatiguing. Still the fact remains that the descent from the Lhakpa La on to the East Rongbuk Glacier is not less than 1,200 feet. Would it not be better to follow up this glacier from the Rongbuk Valley? The absence of wood on this side need not deter the party of 1922. For them plenty of time will be available sufficiently to provide their base with fuel, and the sole consideration should be the easiest line of approach; and though no one has traversed the whole length of the East Rongbuk Glacier, enough is known to choose this way with confidence. Here, as on other glaciers which we saw, the difficulties clearly lie below the limit of perpetual snow, and the greater part of them were avoided or solved by Major Wheeler, who found a practicable way on to the middle of the glacier at about 19,000 feet, and felt certain that the medial moraine ahead of him would serve for an ascent and be no more arduous than the moraines of the West Rongbuk Glacier had proved to be. The view of this way from the Lhakpa La confirmed his opinion, and though it may be called a speculation to choose it, whereas the way from the East has been established by experiment, it is a fair inference from experience to conclude that the untraversed section of the East Rongbuk Glacier, a distance which could be accomplished very easily in one march if all went well, will afford a simple approach to Chang La.

The Eastern wall, about 1,000 feet high, by which the gap itself must be reached, can never be lightly esteemed. Here reconnaissance has forged a link. But those who reached the col were not laden with tents and stores; and on another occasion the conditions may be different. There may be the danger of an avalanche or the difficulty of ice. From what we saw this year before the monsoon had brought a heavy snowfall it is by no means improbable that ice will be found at the end of May on the steepest slope below Chang La. In that case much labour will be required to hew and keep in repair a staircase, and perhaps fix a banister, so that the laden coolies, not all of whom will be competent ice-men, may be brought up in safety.

The summit of Mount Everest is about 6,000 feet above Chang La; the distance is something like 2½ miles and the whole of it is unexplored. What grounds have we for thinking that the mountaineering difficulties will not prove insuperable, that in so far as mere climbing is concerned the route is practicable? Two factors, generally speaking, have to be considered: the nature of the ground and the general angle of inclination. Where the climber is confined to a narrow crest and can find no way to circumvent an obstacle, a very small tower or wall, a matter of 20 feet, may bar his progress. There the general angle may be what it likes: the important matter for him is that the angle is too steep in a particular place. But on a mountain's face where his choice is not limited to a strict and narrow way, the general angle is of primary importance: if it is sufficiently gentle, the climber will find that he may wander almost where he will to avoid the steeper places. Long before we reached Chang La Mr. Bullock and I were fairly well convinced that the slope from here to the North-east Shoulder was sufficiently gentle and that the nature of the ill-defined ridge connecting these two points was not such as to limit the choice of route to a narrow line. Looking up from the North Col, we learnt nothing more about the angles. The view, however, was not without value; it amply confirmed our opinion as to the character of what lay ahead of us. The ridge is not a crest; its section is a wide and rounded angle. It is not decorated by pinnacles, it does not rise in steps. It presents a smooth continuous way, and whether the rocks are still covered with powdery snow, or only slightly sprinkled and for the most part bare, the party of 1922 should be able to go up a long way at all events without meeting any serious obstacle. It may not prove a perfectly simple matter actually to reach the North-east arête above the shoulder at about 28,000 feet. The angle becomes steeper towards this arête. But even in the last section below it, the choice of a way should not be inconveniently restricted. On the right of the ascending party will be permanent snow on various sloping ledges, an easy alternative to rocks if the snow is found in good condition, and always offering a detour by which to avoid an obstacle.

From the North-east Shoulder to the summit of the mountain the way is not so smooth. The rise is only 1,000 feet in a distance of half a mile, but the first part of the crest is distinctly jagged by several towers and the last part is steep. Much will depend upon the possibility of escaping from the crest to avoid the obstacles and of regaining it easily. The South-east side (left going up) is terribly steep, and it will almost certainly be out of the question to traverse there. But the sloping snow-covered ledges on the North-west may serve very well; the difficulty about them is their tendency to be horizontal in direction and to diverge from the arête where it slopes upwards, so that a party which had followed one in preference to the crest might find themselves cut off by a cliff running across the face above them. But one way or another I think it should be possible with the help of such ledges to reach the final obstacle. The summit itself is like the thin end of a wedge thrust up from the mass in which it is embedded. The edge of it, with the highest point at the far end, can only be reached from the North-east by climbing a steep blunt edge of snow. The height of this final obstacle must be fully 200 feet. Mr. Bullock and I examined it often through our field-glasses, and though it did not appear insuperable, whatever our point of view, it never looked anything but steep.

To determine whether it is humanly possible to climb to the summit of Mount Everest or what may be the chances of success in such an undertaking, other factors besides the mere mountaineering difficulties have to be considered. It is at least probable that the obstacles presented by this mountain could be overcome by any competent party if they met them in the Alps. But it is a very different matter to be confronted with such obstacles at elevations between 23,000 and 29,000 feet. We do not know that it is physiologically possible at such high altitudes for the human body to make the efforts required to lift itself up even on the simplest ground. The condition of the party of 1921 in September during the days of the Assault cannot be taken as evidence that the feat is impossible. The long periods spent in high camps and the tax of many exhausting expeditions had undoubtedly reduced the physical efficiency of Sahibs and coolies alike. The party of 1922, on the other hand, will presumably choose for their attempt a time when the climbers are at the top of their form and their powers will depend on the extent of their adaptability to the condition of high altitude. Nothing perhaps was so astonishing in the party of reconnaissance as the rapidity with which they became acclimatised and capable of great exertions between 18,000 and 21,000 feet. Where is the limit of this process? Will the multiplication of red corpuscles continue so that men may become acclimatised much higher? There is evidence enough to show that they may exist comfortably enough, eating and digesting hearty meals and retaining a feeling of vitality and energy up to 23,000 feet. It may be that, after two or three days quietly spent at this height, the body would sufficiently adjust itself to endure the still greater difference from normal atmospheric pressure 6,000 feet higher. At all events, a practical test can alone provide the proof in such a case. Experiments carried out in a laboratory by putting a man into a sealed chamber and reducing the pressure say to half an atmosphere, valuable as they may be when related to the experiences of airmen, can establish nothing for mountaineers; for they leave out of account the all-important physiological factor of acclimatisation. But in any case it is to be expected that efforts above 23,000 feet will be more exhausting than those at lower elevations; and it may well be that the nature of the ground will turn the scale against the climber. For him it is all important that he should be able to breathe regularly, the demand upon his lungs along the final arête cannot fail to be a terrible strain, and anything like a tussle up some steep obstacle which would interfere with the regularity of his breathing might prove to be an ordeal beyond his strength.

As a way out of these difficulties of breathing, the use of oxygen has often been recommended and experiments were made by Dr. Kellas,[14] which will be continued in 1922.

Even so there will remain the difficulty of establishing one or perhaps two camps above Chang La (23,000 feet). It is by no means certain that any place exists above this point on which tents could be pitched. Perhaps the party will manage without tents, but no great economy of weight will be effected that way; those who sleep out at an elevation of 25,000 or 26,000 feet will have to be bountifully provided with warm things. Probably about fifteen, or at least twelve loads will have to be carried up from Chang La. It is not expected that oxygen will be available for this purpose, and the task, whatever organisation is provided, will be severe, possibly beyond the limits of human strength.

Further, another sort of difficulty will jeopardise the chances of success. It might be possible for two men to struggle somehow to the summit, disregarding every other consideration. It is a different matter to climb the mountain as mountaineers would have it climbed. Principles, time-honoured in the Alpine Club, must of course be respected in the ascent of Mount Everest. The party must keep a margin of safety. It is not to be a mad enterprise rashly pushed on regardless of danger. The ill-considered acceptance of any and every risk has no part in the essence of persevering courage. A mountaineering enterprise may keep sanity and sound judgment and remain an adventure. And of all principles by which we hold the first is that of mutual help. What is to be done for a man who is sick or abnormally exhausted at these high altitudes? His companions must see to it that he is taken down at the first opportunity and with an adequate escort; and the obligation is the same whether he be Sahib or coolie; if we ask a man to carry our loads up the mountain we must care for his welfare at need. It may be taken for granted that such need will arise and will interfere very seriously with any organisation however ingeniously and carefully it may be arranged.

In all it may be said that one factor beyond all others is required for success. Too many chances are against the climbers; too many contingencies may turn against them. Anything like a breakdown of the transport will be fatal; soft snow on the mountain will be an impregnable defence; a big wind will send back the strongest; even so small a matter as a boot fitting a shade too tight may endanger one man's foot and involve the whole party in retreat. The climbers must have above all things, if they are to win through, good fortune, and the greatest good fortune of all for mountaineers, some constant spirit of kindness in Mount Everest itself, the forgetfulness for long enough of its more cruel moods; for we must remember that the highest of mountains is capable of severity, a severity so awful and so fatal that the wiser sort of men do well to think and tremble even on the threshold of their high endeavour.

NATURAL HISTORY

By A. F. R. WOLLASTON

CHAPTER XVIII

AN EXCURSION TO NYENYAM AND LAPCHE KANG

By a liberal interpretation of the expression “Mount Everest” we considered it necessary to explore the surrounding country as far as a hundred miles or more from the mountain, East, North and South; in all directions, that is, excepting toward the forbidden territory of Nepal. So it happened one day in July that Major Morshead and I, already nearly fifty miles from Everest, set out in a South-westerly direction, he anxious to add a few hundred square miles of new country to his map, and I intent on animals and plants. Our way lay across the Tingri Plain to Langkor, both names famous in the annals of Tibetan Buddhism. The following story was told us by an old monk in the monastery at Langkor:—

Many generations ago there was born in the Indian village of Pulahari a child named Tamba Sangay. When he grew into a youth he became restless and dissatisfied with his native place, so he went to visit the Lord Buddha and asked him what he should do. The Lord Buddha told him that he must take a stone and throw it far, and where the stone fell there he should spend his life. So Tamba Sangay took a rounded stone and threw it far, so that no one saw where it fell. Many months he sought in vain until he passed over the Hills into Tibet, and there he came to a place where, although it was winter, was a large black space bare of snow. The people told him that the cattle walked round and round in that space to keep it clear from snow, and in the middle of it was a rounded stone. So Tamba Sangay knew that the stone was his, and there he made a cell and dwelt until he was taken on wings to Heaven. And the place is called Langkor, which means “the cattle go round,” to this day. The people for many miles about had heard the stone as it came flying over the Hills from India; it made a whistling sound like Ting, so the country came to be called Tingri, the Hill of the Ting.

We visited the Langkor monastery and saw the casket in which the stone of Tamba Sangay is kept, only to be opened once a year by a high dignitary from Lhasa. Close by was a fair-sized river, the bridge over which had been carried away by a recent flood. The greater part of the population was busily engaged in repairing the bridge, to the accompaniment at frequent intervals of hideous blasts on a large conch-shell: this, we were told, was to keep the rain away and stop the floods. Rain fell heavily in spite of the noise, but the bridge was finished before nightfall.

On the following day we had a long pull of many miles up to the Thung La, a pass of 18,000 feet, from which we had hoped for fine views over the surrounding country. A driving storm of snow blotted out the views and covered the ground, so that nothing was to be seen but little clumps, a few inches high, of poppies of the most heavenly blue. Going down the steep track beyond the pass I was stopped by hearing the unfamiliar note of a bird, so it seemed: the cry was almost exactly that of a female peregrine when its eyrie has been disturbed, but coming from a labyrinth of fallen rocks it could not be. Tracking the note from one rock to another, I came suddenly within a few yards of a large marmot, which sat up and waved her tail at me; she called again and two half-grown young ones appeared close by; then all dived into a burrow. These marmots are larger and far less timid of mankind than the marmots of the Alps.

A few miles below the pass the valley widened into an almost level bottom of half a mile or more, with steep bare limestone hills on either side. Here and there were small hamlets, where the inhabitants used the water of the river to irrigate their fields of barley and of blazing golden mustard, whose sweetness scented the valley in the sunshine. Like most of the butter, which is made in vast quantities in Southern Tibet, the mustard seed produces oil for monastery lamps. At one place we came across a spring, almost a fountain, bubbling out of the foothill, of clearest sparkling mineral water that would be the envy of Bath or of Marienbad; in a few yards it had become a racing stream a dozen feet in width.

Four days of leisurely walking down the valley brought us to the village of Nyenyam, where the whole population, a most unpleasant-looking crowd of four or five hundred people, came out to stare at us. A few only were Tibetans; the majority were obviously of Indian origin, calling themselves Nepalese, but without any of the distinctive features of that race. We had received some weeks earlier a cordial invitation from the Jongpens of Nyenyam to visit the place, and we were accordingly much disappointed to find that no person of authority came out to welcome us. A Jongpen, it should be said, is an official appointed by the Lhasa authorities to administer a district and collect revenues: in a place of any importance, as at Nyenyam, there are often two, the idea being that one will keep an eye on the other and prevent him from over-enriching himself. We visited these worthies, whom we found dressed in priceless Chinese silk gowns and cultivating the extreme fashion of long nails on all their fingers, in strange contrast to the squalor and dilapidation of their dwelling, and were annoyed to find that they denied all knowledge of the invitation. The bearer of the message was produced and lied manfully in their cause; the name of Nyenyam was not, as it happened, mentioned in our passport, and we were made to look somewhat foolish. Finally the Jongpens said (with their tongues in their cheeks and reminding us of a vulgar song) that they were very glad to see us, but they hoped that we would go. They then went out of their way to give us false information about the local passes and made our prolonged stay in the place impossible by discouraging the traders from dealing with us.[15]

Nyenyam, though more squalid and evil-smelling than any place in my experience, is of some importance as being the last Tibetan town before the frontier of Nepal is reached. It is well placed on a level terrace above the junction of the Pö Chu with an almost equally big river flowing from the glaciers of the great mountain mass of Gosainthan. Immediately below the town the river enters the stupendous gorge that cuts through the heart of the Himalaya to the more open country of Nepal, 8,000 feet below. To the West of Nyenyam rises a great range of mountains culminating in the beautiful peaks of Gosainthan, which we had hoped to visit, and somewhere to the East lay the mysterious sacred mountain of Lapche Kang. Our friends the Jongpens assured us that there was no direct route to Lapche, that we must go back the way by which we had come, and so on; but we were weary of their obstructions and made up our minds to find a way to the holy places.

So far our transport animals had been the yak, or the cross-bred ox-yak, a stronger beast; we were now going through country where only coolies could carry loads. We retraced our steps a few miles up the valley to a village ruled over by a friendly woman, the widow of the late headman. True, she demanded for the coolies an exorbitant wage, which we cut down by about a half, but she pressed into our service every able-bodied person in the neighbourhood, young and old, men and women. They have a fair and simple way of apportioning the loads. All Tibetans, men and women alike, wear long rope-soled boots with woollen cloth tops extending toward the knee, where they are secured by garters, long strips of narrow woven cloth. When all the loads are ready, each person takes off one garter and gives it to the headman, who shuffles them well and in his turn hands them over to some neutral person who knows not the ownership of the garters. He lays one on the top of each load, and whose garter it is must carry the load without any further talk. It is amusing to watch the excitement in their faces as the garters are dealt out, and to hear the shrieks of delight of the lucky ones and the groans of the less fortunate. It makes one feel weak and ashamed to see a small girl of apparently no more than fourteen years shouldering a huge tent or an unwieldy box, until one remembers that they begin to carry almost as soon as they can walk and are accustomed to far heavier loads than ever they carry for us.

Our path led us up a steep side-valley from the Pö Chu, ascending over a vast moraine to the foot of a small glacier about two miles in length. Here I saw a rare sight: a Lämmergeier (bearded vulture) came sailing down in wide circles and settled on the ice barely a hundred paces from us, where he began to peck at something—a dead hare perhaps, but it was impossible to see or to approach nearer over the crevasses. The Lämmergeier, vulture though it is, is one of the noblest birds in flight that may be seen: hardly a day passes in the high mountains without one or more swooping down to look at you, sometimes so near that you can see his beard and gleaming eye; but to see one on the ground is rare indeed. The long-tailed aeroplane at a very great height resembles the Lämmergeier more than any other bird.

We struggled up the glacier, inches deep in soft new snow, crossed crevasses by means of rotten planks which gravely offended our mountaineering sense, and came through dense fog to our pass at its head. Here began the sacred mountain of Lapche Kang, and on the rocks beside the pass, and on many of the pinnacles high up above the pass as well, were cairns of stones supporting little reed-stemmed flags of prayers. Some of our party had brought up from below such little flags, which they planted where their fancy prompted. As we went down on the other side we came to countless little “chortens,” miniature temples, and, where the ground was level for a space, to long walls of stones, each one inscribed with the universal Buddhist prayer om mani padme hum.

Yaks are most satisfactory beasts of burden; if their pace is slow—it is seldom more than two miles an hour—they go with hardly a halt, cropping a tuft of grass here and there, until daylight fails. But the Tibetan coolie is of quite another nature; he (or she) starts off gaily enough in the morning, but very soon he is glad to stop for a gossip or to alter the trim of his load, and then it is time to drink tea, and again at every convenient halting-place more tea, not the liquid that we are accustomed to drink, but a curious mixture of powdered brick-tea, salt, soda and butter, of a better taste than one would suppose. So on this occasion it was long after noon when we had crossed the pass, and when the day began to fade in a drenching cloud of rain, the Tibetans found shelter in some caves, and persuaded us to camp. An uneven space among rocks just held our tents; we dined off the fragrant smoke of green rhododendron and soaking juniper, and we slept (if at all) to the roar of boulders rolling in the torrent-bed a few feet from where we lay.

But it was well that we had not stumbled on in the dark. In the morning light we walked over grassy “alps” still yellow with sweet-scented primulas, and the steep sides of the narrowing valley below were bright with roses, pink and white spiræas, yellow berberis and many other flowers. Soon it became evident that we were approaching a place of more than ordinary holiness; every stone had its prayer-flag, and the tops of trees, which began to appear here, were also decorated. Great boulders were defaced with the familiar words engraven on them in letters many feet in height. In a little while we came to a small wooden hut filled from floor to roof with thousands of little flags brought there by pilgrims; the posts and lintel of the door were smeared with dabs of butter, and the crevices of the walls were filled with little bunches of fresh-cut flowers. Outside was a rude altar made of stones from the river-bed, where a Lama was burning incense and chanting prayers.