The Grépon
A gigantic saw set up on edge and crowned by an array of irregular teeth—such, as seen broadside on from either the Mer de Glace or the Nantillons Glacier, is the great serrated ridge formed by the Charmoz and the Grépon. The deep col, or depression, which divides the ridge approximately in half, bears the composite name of the Col Charmoz-Grépon. Both of these peaks were climbed for the first time by a party consisting of Mummery, Alexander Burgener, that Viking of guides, and B. Venetz, a young fellow who must have been a very active climber; and all three declared the ascent of the Grépon to be “the most difficult climb in the world.” The advance which has taken place since Mummery’s time in modern rock-climbing has robbed the Grépon of its right to this proud title; but its ascent is still held to rank amongst the most difficult rock-climbing problems which the climber is able to find in the Alps or, indeed, in any other part of the world.
The ascent of the Grépon formed the last item upon our programme for the summer of 1911. Like the Requin, the Grépon is built up of huge blocks of marvellously firm granite, and, after my experience of the former, I hoped for little mountaineering enjoyment from the latter. As far as we could gather, there would be real mountaineering only on the ascent to the Col Charmoz-Grépon, whence the actual climb starts, and on the descent from the Col des Nantillons. Several mountaineers, however, had assured us that rock-climbing was not only more attractive than snow and ice work but also more difficult. So, desirous of testing fairly the truth of this statement so far as we ourselves were concerned, Max and I left the Montanvert at 2 a.m. on September 5, bound for the ne plus ultra of rock ascents.
If care is taken never to lose sight of it, a path, at first well-marked but dwindling away to a diminutive track, may be followed almost on to the Nantillons Glacier, whence the broad couloir running down from the Col Charmoz-Grépon is reached. The head of this glacier is enclosed in a cirque of horseshoe shape formed by the cliffs of the Charmoz, Grépon and Blaitière. In line with the ends of the horseshoe, the glacier tumbles over a cliff, and the icefall thus formed divides it into an upper and lower half. We succeeded in keeping to the Montanvert track all the way to the glacier and, while walking up the gently inclined snow-free surface of the lower half, had ample time to study the icefall. It was easy to recognise in a steep island of rocks lying close under the cliffs of the Blaitière the best line of ascent to the upper half of the glacier. Below these rocks the ice steepened somewhat, and a few steps had to be cut before the island was gained. Once on the rocks the traces of previous climbers were everywhere in evidence, and we followed a trail of empty tins, bottles and other leavings of humanity to the farther end of the island, where, just after daybreak, we roped and embarked upon the glacier. We had proceeded only a few yards, when we were suddenly brought up short on the edge of an enormous crevasse which stretched away, unbridged, on either hand to the bounding cliffs of the cirque. To cross would have involved hours of hard work and step-cutting, but for the fact that two ladders tied together and laid across the chasm at its narrowest point were still in a sufficiently serviceable condition to enable us to gain the farther edge without trouble. Thence, hastening through a short zone endangered by the séracs of an ice wall at the foot of the Blaitière, we gained the middle of the upper basin of the Nantillons Glacier and proceeded leisurely up the hard-frozen snow to the foot of the couloir which gives access to the Col Charmoz-Grépon.
The summer having been exceptionally dry and fine, the mountain was practically free from snow and ice, so we left one of our axes and a knapsack containing all superfluous baggage at the foot of the couloir, to be recovered on the descent. In the remaining knapsack we carried spare clothing, a spare one-hundred-and-fifty-foot rope and a few provisions, including a can of peaches and a tin of condensed milk reserved for the summit feast. Camera and spare films were stowed away, as usual, in my coat pocket. Some little difficulty was experienced in effecting a lodgment in the rocky bed of the couloir, the glacier having shrunk away from the rock to such an extent that a rather deep cleft had been formed. The descent into the cleft was easy enough, but it was only after a sharp, if short, struggle up a very steep chimney with unreliable holds on the upper side of the cleft that the broken rocks of the couloir were gained. Here the climbing was perfectly easy, though the rock was far from firm, and care was necessary. We climbed close together on a short rope on account of the many loose rocks, some of which needed only a touch to start them crashing down to the glacier. Without meeting with any real obstacle, we mounted rapidly, keeping for the most part well to the left of the couloir which bore unmistakable signs of stone-falls. At the point where the couloir bifurcates, we took the branch to the right. It was much steeper and narrower than the lower part of the couloir and was partially filled with ice, but the remains of steps were still fairly well preserved and needed but little re-cutting. Shortly before 7 a.m. we gained the Col Charmoz-Grépon. On a little level ledge overlooking the immense and tremendously steep precipice falling away towards the Mer de Glace, we found shelter from the icy morning breeze and, warmed by the rays of the sun, settled down to our first rest and meal since leaving the Montanvert. Progress had been on the whole leisurely. The climb had provided mountaineering of the ordinary, everyday kind without notable difficulty, though, had it not been for the ladders, the large crevasse would undoubtedly have provided hard work. But it had been real mountaineering with all its essential variety, now rock, now ice, now snow; everything had been taken as it came, and, in addition, we had been almost throughout in, to us, an unknown region of wild and beautiful scenery. But now from the col onwards, if the information of others could be relied upon, we should for hours on end be indulging in nothing more than a strenuous form of gymnastics.
A sérac.
“Two ladders tied together and laid across the chasm....”
Facing page 254.
For one whole delightful hour we dallied, basking in the warm sun; then, deeming it time to begin acrobatic operations, we returned to the col to have a good look at the famous Mummery crack with which the climb commences, and which is held to be the most difficult portion of the ascent. The crack lies on the Nantillons side of the ridge and is formed by a huge flake of rock which has become partially detached from the main mass of the mountain. It is about seventy feet high and almost vertical; indeed, in its lower part it appears even to overhang slightly. A spacious enough platform at the bottom provides a good jumping-off place. Leaving my camera and all other impedimenta behind in the col, I gained the platform and immediately set to work, while Max, perched on a slender, leaning spire jutting out of the col, belayed the rope. The crack was sufficiently deep to permit me to get my right arm into it beyond the elbow, and, though narrow, it was sufficiently wide to admit my right foot. Left arm and foot sought and found hold, though minute, on the rough crystalline texture of the outside surface of the flake. By twisting my right arm or turning my right boot, either could be wedged firmly into the fissure at will, and an absolutely reliable hold obtained. By adopting a method of progression similar to that of a caterpillar, that is, alternately bending and straightening myself, I rose quickly, passed beyond the lower overhanging portion, and about half-way up gained a small ledge on the flake which provided good standing room for the left foot. Thus far the climbing had been more a question of knack than a trial of strength, and I looked up at the second half of the crack expecting to see some hitherto hidden feature that would give serious trouble. If anything, however, it seemed easier than the part already overcome. Here and there a stone jammed tightly into the fissure promised perfect handhold. I rested for a few seconds, then resumed the attack. A little way above the ledge, both surfaces of the flake became very smooth, and for the first time I had to struggle really hard; but soon my right hand gripped the first of the chock-stones, and the remainder of the crack to within six feet of its top was easily negotiated. The final wall to the right was studded with plentiful handholds and soon I was standing on the crowning platform. The ascent of Mummery’s crack had taken me just over two and three-quarter minutes. While I held his rope, Max, with ice-axe and knapsack, now climbed over to the ledge at the foot of the crack. There he unroped and tied on the baggage, which I then hauled up to my perch. As soon as it was safely stowed away, I flung the end of the rope back to Max, whose turn had now come. He clambered up at an amazing pace without even pausing to rest at the half-way ledge, and was soon beside me on the broad platform, panting out a scathing criticism on those who dared to compare gymnastics on rock with the varied difficulties of snow and ice work.
From here onwards the climbing, though almost throughout difficult, never came up to the standard of that of the crack. Sometimes we climbed on one side of the ridge, sometimes on the other, and at times on the crest itself. Belays were in evidence everywhere, and the rock was uniformly good. Never did we meet with a single loose or unreliable hand- or foothold. After passing the bold pinnacle which is the northern summit of the aiguille, we arrived on the great platform which breaks away in the precipitous, unclimbable wall, called the Grand Diable, leading down to a deep gap in the ridge. Thanks to our plentiful supply of rope, this obstacle was easily overcome by resorting to the time-honoured dodge of roping down. From the gap, a level ledge known as the Route des Bicyclettes winds along the Mer de Glace face and enables one to circumvent the ensuing be-pinnacled portion of the ridge. After some further scrambling we stood at the foot of the final summit pinnacle. This, a great square-cut tower, capped by a huge, flat stone and seamed by a formidable-looking cleft, had been in full view before us ever since passing the northern summit, and we had already jumped to the conclusion that the way to the top led up this cleft. As the description of the summit crack given to us, a few days before, tallied more or less with the fearsome-looking thing to our left, we decided to disregard an obviously easy ledge running round to the Nantillons face. It is true that we had been told that the summit crack was much easier than Mummery’s, and we failed to see anything easy in the crack before us; also, as it hung right out over the terrific precipices running down to the Mer de Glace, one would be in a frightfully exposed position while climbing it. But appearances are never so deceptive as in the mountains, so I buttoned up my coat, made sure that the knot fastening the rope about my waist was well tied and started off. Max had good standing ground and could belay my rope securely. Once in the crack, the work began in earnest; a very real earnest indeed, as subsequent events proved. It was wider than Mummery’s crack, but not wide enough to allow me to get right inside it; with my left arm and shoulder and leg inside whilst right hand and boot scraped outside in search of hold, I slowly struggled and fought my way up. It was most exhausting work. Just below the summit I had to turn round and get my right shoulder and leg into the crack, and left leg and arm out; a change of position that was accomplished only after an almost desperate struggle which robbed me of breath and sapped my strength to such an extent that, when it came to swinging myself up over the flat, overhanging summit stone, I found myself unequal to the effort. I was powerless alike to retreat or advance. Max, however, who had never for a moment relaxed his attention to my movements, had noted my dilemma and, with a warning shout that he was coming, hastened to my assistance, armed with knapsack and ice-axe. With my left hand and my teeth I took in his rope as he climbed upwards. When his head was just below my feet, he stopped and jammed himself firmly into the fissure. With his head as a foothold and a prod from the axe, I received the extra ounce of steadying support that enabled me to complete the ascent and haul myself up to the safety of the flat table-like stone that is the distinguishing feature of the summit of the Grépon. As fast as my breathless state would permit, I pulled in the rope until it was taut between us; and a few minutes later, just before midday, Max was seated by my side.
We were both rather puzzled and not a little humbled. The fierce tussle which the last crack had demanded, had provided something of a shock. If this were the sort of thing that most climbers of the Grépon called by no means excessively difficult and certainly easier than Mummery’s crack, then it would have to be admitted that rock-climbing had, indeed, its points, and that we were sadly in need of practice. A little later, however, the mystery was solved. Going over to the Nantillons side of the summit platform, with a view to glancing at the way down to the Col des Nantillons, I discovered a perfectly straightforward crack of no great length which ended on the easy ledge that we had previously neglected to explore. There could be no doubt that we had taken the wrong way up the final summit pinnacle. Several months later, I learnt that this formidable crack was the famous Venetz crack, climbed but once before, and that in 1881, on the occasion of the first ascent of the mountain. To this day the only other ascent recorded was made in 1923 by a party led by Mr. G. S. Bower. That no more than three ascents have been made in the course of thirty-two years is testimony enough to what this crack offers.
The summit of the Grépon.
The Venetz crack is the dark cleft which ends under the flat stone on the summit.
Facing page 258.
Returning to Max, I imparted the reassuring news, but to heedless ears, for he proved far more interested in plying the usual inefficient pocket-knife edition of a tin-opener in an attempt to lay bare the luscious contents of a two-pound tin of Californian peaches. His efforts were too vigorous and determined for any tin to withstand for long, and we were soon enjoying a feast of peaches and Nestlé’s milk. The only thing lacking was snow which was sorely needed, not only to dilute the somewhat concentrated ingredients of our meal, but also to assuage the thirst that assailed us. After lunch, following our usual custom where time was of no vital importance, we settled down to sleep, not omitting, however, to secure the rope to the summit stone as a guard against the dangers of rolling out of bed. We found out later that these simple actions had been assiduously watched from Chamonix and gravely misconstrued by the many telescope owners who, while making petty fortunes, had been explaining to their clientèle of trippers that we were two mad young Englishmen who would certainly come to grief because we had with us no stalwart guides to ensure our safety. Now, on lying down to sleep, we suddenly disappeared from their view, and the rumour at once went round that we had fallen off the summit! Two hours passed by without our reappearing, and the rumour had deepened into conviction; even one of our friends in Chamonix had begun to have fears for our safety. At 3 p.m. we awoke and began to prepare for the descent. This sudden resurrection put an end to the supposed tragedy, but henceforward we were not only fous but absolument fous, for no self-respecting Chamoniard has any use for a mountain-top except to leave it as soon as is decently possible after gaining it. Personally I love to dally in such places as long as is compatible with safety. Memories of hours spent stretched out in half-somnolent ease on the great sun-kissed slabs of summits, in splendid isolation, with the blue vault of heaven above and the brown-green earth spread out below, are treasure beyond price, eternally one’s own and never to be lost, inviolate to the onslaughts of the getting, grabbing world.
The descent on the Nantillons side of the summit was effected without difficulty, and landed us out on the previously neglected ledge close to a collection of rope slings indicative of the beginning of the next pitch. This proved to be a chimney some eighty feet long and seemingly quite unclimbable, at all events in its upper portion; the doubled rope, however, solved the problem as effectively as usual, and we found ourselves on a little platform at the top of an apparently almost unbroken series of huge precipitous slabs falling away to the Nantillons Glacier. To descend without an enormous amount of spare rope seemed out of the question, but, as the edge of the platform on which we stood was garnished with the bleached remains of two rope slings, we concluded that it was the usual way down. So Max held my rope and let me over the precipice. I descended quite a hundred feet, but no feasible way out revealed itself, and I had to go back. The return cost us both a stern effort, Max pulling in the rope while I lent him as much assistance as possible by making what use I could of the few available holds. Casting round for a way out of the impasse, we chanced upon a boot nail in the bed of a steep but short chimney leading up in the direction of the ridge. We immediately followed up this timely clue and gained the top of the chimney, to find, a few steps farther on, a simple and straightforward line of descent open out before us. The way led frequently over steep ground, but everywhere there was a profusion of holds and belays, and the rock still remained as firm and reliable as cast iron. At half-past four, the Col des Nantillons was under foot, and the acrobatic part of the day’s work was over. One could not help feeling that a baboon would have acquitted himself throughout with much more distinction than any of his human brothers.
The remainder of the descent was accomplished without incident. The crevasses near the head of the Nantillons Glacier were readily negotiated, thanks to reliable snow bridges that obligingly provided a crossing at the very places one would have chosen oneself. Passing by the foot of the couloir leading to the Col Charmoz-Grépon, we picked up the axe and knapsack left there in the morning and then, swinging round to the left, hurried across the sérac-swept slopes to the great crevasse. The ladder was still in position, and soon we were on the little rock island, where the rope was taken off and stowed away.
We had originally intended to make Chamonix that evening; but to do that now would entail hurry. It was our last day of a wonderful season of health and happiness-giving adventure in the Alps, and we were loth to leave the scene. To hasten from the midst of these great towers of silence and the white purity of the snows they nurse was impossible. So we decided to pass the night at the Montanvert. Eager to retard the flight of our little season of freedom, we strolled downwards with lagging steps, pausing at whiles to drink in the glories of the mountains as the shades of night closed in upon them.
That evening, after dinner, we sat together, somewhat heavy-hearted, on the hôtel terrace overlooking the Mer de Glace. The Grandes Jorasses and the Rôchefort ridge were dimly outlined against the starry heaven. The Charmoz and the Dru, dark, ghostly pillars almost piercing the skies, stood, as if on guard, at the portals of that great world of snow and ice-bound rock where we had found true happiness, and to which we were now to bid farewell for a space.
It may be instructive to consider in how far a training in British rock-climbing will help or hinder the aspirant to high adventure in the Alps or any of the world’s greater mountain masses. To the uninitiated, mountaineering is the dangerous, foolhardy, yet withal praiseworthy sport of the superman, heroic of physique and nerve, who gaily struts along the brinks of, or nonchalantly hangs over, awesome precipices and, disregarding all moral obligations, continually and with careless smile fences with death. In short, the untutored idea superficially conceives of a mountain as a thing of dark, frowning, rocky glories—a natural stage on which a superior type of acrobat displays his muscular agility. And so the term “mountaineer” loses its dignity and becomes synonymous with that of “rock-climber.” But the “white domes of frozen air” exist outside the poetic imagination, and mountaineering is not a simple but a complex science, and the proficient mountaineer is not only a rock-climber, but a snow-and-ice craftsman, an adept in the use of rope and axe, a pathfinder, something of a meteorologist, an organiser and, no less important, must have acquired the knowledge of how to conserve his energy, build up his powers of endurance and cultivate the proper mentality. To what extent can the various attributes of the composite being that is the true mountaineer be fostered amongst the crags and fells of the British Isles?
From the geological point of view, the rocks of the Alps may be divided into two classes, namely silicious rock and calcareous rock. The mountaineer will further subdivide these two classes into good, bad or indifferent; thus, in all, the climber in the Alps meets with six different types of rock. These might be multiplied according to degree, but for our present purpose such meticulous treatment is needless. As a general rule, the rock-climber in the British Isles encounters only the good silicious class of rock. Other classes are to be met with, but a glance at the list of the more popular and outstanding climbs, such as those on Kern Knotts, the Pillar Rock, and Lliwedd, would seem to show that they are more or less avoided. In time, this one-sided training inculcates bad habits of which the climber does not even know himself guilty. Of the many types of rock met with in the Alps, the good silicious brand is the most rare; so that there the knowledge of the one form and the inexperience of the other forms of rock are likely to prove quite inadequate, indeed even dangerous, assets. A school that teaches one to master only the safe is no sufficient school for the would-be mountaineer, and the British-trained climber will soon find that he has much to learn of rock-climbing in the Alps.
Again, stone avalanches are unknown in Britain. The only stones that fall there do so through human agency—the clumsy placing of a foot or hand, the careless use of the rope—and not through the working of the natural forces of sun and frost. When and where stone-falls may be expected to occur is part of the mountain lore that a mountaineer must acquire, and it will not be acquired, at first-hand at least, on the Cumbrian or Welsh hills.
It is often reiterated that Great Britain provides climbs of a higher standard than do the Alps. Disregarding the obvious limitations of the former (not least of these being that in Great Britain almost all the difficult climbs are ascents, and difficult descents are neglected), and the fact that they are, as it were, at the back door of one’s hotel, whereas the latter are approached only after hours of hard and fatiguing preliminary work which robs one’s strength of its edge, I should like to make a few simple comparisons from my own experiences. One morning in July, 1913, I climbed Kern Knotts crack twice, first without the rope and alone, then roped and as leader. The niche was gained by the crack below; the useful chock-stone above the niche was missing. No shoulder was used. During the afternoon I climbed the Eagle’s Nest ridge which still ranks, I believe, as one of the most difficult of British rock ascents. On this climb I trailed behind me a hundred-foot length of half-inch diameter rope, one end of which was tied round my waist. Nailed boots were worn on all three climbs. I came to the conclusion that Kern Knotts crack is shorter, less steep, requires less skill and knack, and is altogether considerably less difficult than the famous Mummery crack on the Grépon. It will not for one moment bear comparison with the Venetz crack on the same peak. The Eagle’s Nest ridge, though very difficult, is undoubtedly less trying than the first buttress on the west ridge of the Bifertenstock.
Photo A. I. I. Finch.
Good, sound rock.
Facing page 264.
What are the opportunities in Great Britain for training in snow and ice-craft? I have met with only five different kinds of snow in the hills of these islands; and all were good from the mountaineer’s point of view. The snow was either cohesive or could be made to cohere. In the Alps I have taken notes of some of the characteristic features and properties of very many distinct types of snow, the majority of which called for the exercise of special caution in venturing upon the slopes on which they lay. Ice is rarely met with in Great Britain, and then never in sufficient quantity to necessitate the cutting, at the outside, of more than a few steps—poor practice indeed for the pitiless ice slopes of the east face of Monte Rosa. Avalanches and snow-shields are unknown here; in the Alps, especially in winter, and in the Himalayas at all times, one must be on one’s guard against such dangers. Ignorance in this respect has been the cause of some of the most deplorable of mountaineering accidents. Glaciers and crevasses are non-existent in Britain. In fine, as a training ground for snow and ice-craft, our homeland hills are useless. To assert what one does not know is a fairly universal human failing; and there are some British rock-climbers who contend that snow and ice-craft is no more difficult than rock-climbing. In reality there is not one of the big snow and ice expeditions of the Alps that does not represent a far more serious undertaking, physically and mentally, than the Grépon, Requin or any other of the better known “crack” rock-climbs. Not only does British rock-climbing fail to provide the beginner with practice in the use of the axe for sounding, step-cutting and belaying, but it also fails to teach him what is almost equally important—how to handle and carry the axe when it is not actually required. On ninety-nine out of every hundred scrambles at home the axe is left behind altogether.
Moreover, in the use of the rope, non-Alpine and Alpine practices vary greatly. Owing to the shortness of climbs in Great Britain, time is immaterial. Parties move one man at a time. The leader climbs on ahead, free from the encumbrances of axe and knapsack, until he finds a suitable belay. The second man follows, likewise unencumbered, as the leader takes in the rope. The last man sometimes carries a light knapsack, though I myself have never seen it done, nor do the numerous pictures of British rock-climbing now before me show any trace of such impedimenta. Time is too valuable in the Alps to permit of such tactics except where the difficulties are considerable. In the case of almost any Alpine expedition, for more than half the time the members of a party are moving all together; and to be proficient in the use of the rope means that one must be able not only to move without its continually getting in the way, but also to look after it and keep it taut, so as to check a slip immediately, while actually climbing. Practice in this is necessarily limited in Great Britain. Hence it is no uncommon sight to see a party of British-trained rock-climbers on an easy Swiss rock peak, with the rope in loose, untidy coils, catching in jutting out rocks, dragging about loose stones and generally acting as a menace to safety. This abuse of the rope is, paradoxically enough, the outcome of the undeniable virtues of sure-footedness and steadiness that have been learned on the British crags. The fault does not lie in the climbers’ incapacity to keep the rope taut, but merely in that, trusting to their steadiness, they do not bother to do so. I have observed that many of those who err in the handling of the rope are as sure-footed as cats.
Route-finding in the Alps, and still more so in the other great mountain groups of the world, is a matter of prime importance. Before embarking on an expedition in the Alps, the climber first makes his choice of mountain, and then, according to the degree of difficulty desired, chooses the face or ridge by which to gain the summit. This done, he brings all his knowledge of route-finding to bear upon the selection of the easiest and safest way up that face or ridge. Difficulties are avoided as much as possible. The adoption of bull-at-a-gate methods will lead to much loss of time; and time, of little consequence in England, is a factor to be reckoned with seriously in the Alps. Owing to the limited nature of climbs at home, the reverse practice is adopted. One is taught to look for difficulties, instead of avoiding them and seeking the line of least resistance; and the habit thus engrained is apt to persist when the British-trained rock-climber looks for adventure abroad. The corollaries are numerous. Those that most concern our purpose are that he learns on British crags only to a very limited degree how to conserve his energy, build up his powers of endurance or cultivate the proper mentality. All these things are acquired only in a school of hardships under physical and climatic conditions that are foreign to our islands.
Once one accepts the fact that the difference between a mountain and a crag is not only one of scale, it will be readily acknowledged that he who disports himself on the latter has much to learn and, possibly, something to unlearn before he can become a mountaineer in the full sense of the word. How many of those who have begun their climbing in Great Britain have accomplished anything of note in real mountaineering? Rock-climbing is too liable to strangle any innate aptitude for mountaineering proper, and to restrict achievement in the wider craft to a level of dull mediocrity.
For those whose ambitions do not soar beyond home, the crags and fells are a pleasurable playing ground where they may scramble to their hearts’ content; to those who have well served their apprenticeship in the wider and loftier playground of the Alps, the homeland hills will provide useful muscular exercise and plenty of healthy fun; but for the beginner who aims at being a true mountaineer, the only safe place within easy reach to learn the craft is the Alps.
On the morning after our ascent of the Grépon, while waiting for the Chamonix train, Max and I were comparing with the reality M. Vallot’s well-known, panoramic sketch on the stone in front of the Montanvert. The first batch of the day’s sightseers had arrived, among them a tall, faultlessly garbed young lady, who approached and addressed us.
“Say, are you mountaineers?”—evidently having come to the conclusion at the sight of our heavy hobnailed boots and rather tattered clothes.
“Well—yes,” replied my brother. “At least, we have been doing some climbing.”
Pointing to the Géant, she inquired:
“Have you climbed that mountain?”
“Yes!”
“And those?” indicating in turn each of the summits of the Rôchefort ridge.
“Yes.”
Finally, with outstretched finger towards the Dru and a note of challenge in her voice: “And that one?”
“Yes,” answered Max; adding, “we climbed it a few days ago.”
Stepping a pace or two backwards, the tall, young lady very slowly, but distinctly, closed the conversation.
“Well, I guess I always knew you English were some story-tellers!”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE AIGUILLE DU DRU
After our border-line crossing of Mont Blanc, Max and I arrived at the Col du Géant on the evening of August 31, 1911. There we met a German climber armed with a letter of introduction from Martini, who had climbed the Zmutt ridge with us earlier in the season. As our new acquaintance considered ice-climbing to be a vicious and unpleasant way of indulging in the delights of the mountains, a traverse of the Dru was decided upon, in preference to the joys of step-cutting on the slippery slopes of the north face of the Verte. Accordingly, after sunrise on the following morning, we set out across the Géant Glacier towards the Montanvert. Max and I still felt the effects of our recent activities and were consequently inclined to take things rather easily. Before arriving at the top of the icefall, however, our friend’s protests against the slowness of the pace began to take effect and stung us into something that was very much the reverse of our previous lethargy, with the result that we worried a way through the broken icefall with quite a useful turn of speed. Well before arriving in the thick of the séracs, a puzzled and rather concerned expression had taken the place of the patronising though kindly smile with which our companion had blessed the previous labours of his two young associates. A little later, he fell a victim to the fact that the size of an ice-step is inversely proportional to the velocity of the party, and he lost his footing. The rope, however, sufficed to palliate the effects of the slip, but was quite unequal to the task of stemming the torrent of guttural language which condemned as reckless the speed which, after all, merely resulted from the granting of a request! After discarding the rope on the gentle slopes of the Mer de Glace, a normal rate of progress was once more reverted to, and, long ere arriving at the Montanvert, we had all recovered our equanimity.
In the afternoon we left the Montanvert, with three days’ provisions and two one-hundred-foot ropes. Max and I, as usual, carried heavy knapsacks and consequently found the struggle with the moraines leading up towards the Charpoua hut both difficult and unpleasant. Our friend, however, bounded on far ahead with the agility of a two-year-old.
We were pleasantly surprised to find that the hut was not in the dirty condition so characteristic of the majority of the club-huts in the Mont Blanc district, and that it also contained most of those little things which go so far towards making life pleasant after a harrowing and steep climb in the heat of the afternoon.
At 4 a.m. next morning we left the hut, taking with us, in addition to our own two hundred feet of rope, an eighty-foot length belonging to the hut and kept there expressly for the use of climbers bound for the Dru, a stake of wood, and only two ice-axes. At 6 a.m., after having been held up by a rather lengthy bout of step-cutting across the head of the Charpoua Glacier, we gained the lower lip of the final bergschrund. This proved to be an extremely difficult customer to deal with, for the upper lip at its lowest point could only be surmounted by cutting up an exceedingly steep ice wall of about thirty feet in height. After the first fifteen feet, only one hand could be used for cutting, and the work became so severe that a rest was necessary after practically each step. Max and I took turns at the work, each doing a step whilst the other retired to the level floor of the schrund to rest and infuse fresh life into half-frozen fingers. At eight o’clock we gained the upper lip, but, deciding that too much time had been lost for us to be able to complete the climb that day without running the risk of a night out, we drove the wooden stake into the snow and, tying a doubled one-hundred-foot length of rope to it, retreated down the ice wall and joined our companion, whom we acquainted with our decision to retreat, then and there, to the hut.
The bergschrund below the Dru.
“This proved to be an extremely difficult customer....”
Facing page 270.
No time was lost in preparing for the descent, as there was every evidence of the head of the Charpoua Glacier being much exposed to falling stones. My desire that Max, armed with an axe, should bring up the rear of the party was waived in deference to the wishes of our companion who assured us that he could hold both of us should occasion arise. The small, hastily-hewn steps of the morning had become partially effaced by the sun, and a considerable amount of work was required to renew them sufficiently well to afford secure footing. Max followed me, but after a few steps felt so insecure without an axe that he turned round and warned the last man on the rope to be prepared for a slip at any moment. Just as I was engaged in cutting a very large and deep step which would serve as a belay, I heard a shout from behind and, instinctively guessing that a slip had occurred, quickly braced myself as firmly as possible against the slope, with the pick end of my axe pressed well home against the ice. The jerk came, but it was only a mild one, and the strain was easily withstood. Thinking that the trouble had now been averted, I was about to look round, when a second and savage tug came which almost dragged me out of my steps. This is what had happened: Whilst I was engaged in cutting the large step, our companion had left the firm footing provided by the level floor of the bergschrund to make his way down towards Max. Max had then slipped, and the other had not only failed to hold him but was in his turn pulled out of his steps. The first pull on the rope was due to the checking of Max’s slip; the second, and far worse jerk was caused by our companion’s slip down the steep, icy slope for a distance of nearly a hundred feet before being held up by the rope. Incidentally, he also lost his grip upon his axe; fortunately, it slid down towards Max, who had the presence of mind to seize it. Thanks to this useful effort, the return of the errant members of the party to their steps was speedily effected. At half-past nine we were back at the hut and spent the remainder of the day in a series of repasts and sun baths on the great, rough, warm slabs near by.
Towards sunset a French climber and two agreeable Chamonix guides arrived. Their intention was to traverse the Dru, starting with the little Dru first. The leading guide was inclined to be anxious about the condition of the bergschrund, but was quite relieved on hearing that we had left a stake embedded in the upper lip, which would enable them to rope down over the hindrance without difficulty. We also came to an agreement whereby axes were exchanged, they undertaking to leave our axes at the foot of the rocks of the little Dru, and we to leave theirs at the bergschrund on the way up to the big Dru. Thanks to this excellent arrangement, we were able to carry out this long rock climb without being encumbered by axes.
Photo T. G. B. Forster.
Where next?
Facing page 272.
On September 3, 1911, at 4 a.m., we roped and left the hut. I led, carrying a spare eighty-foot rope; Max followed, and our companion brought up the rear, Max and I both being firm believers in what is still often considered to be a heresy, namely, that on climbs of this sort the “unknown” element of the party should always be the last on the ascent, on the principle that it is easier for the dog to wag the tail than vice versa. Shortly after 5.30 a.m. the upper lip of the bergschrund was tackled and easily ascended by means of our fixed rope. While the process of cutting steps up the short, steep, final slope towards the rocks was going on, Max coiled up this rope and strapped it on to his knapsack. This brought the sum total of the party’s available rope up to two hundred and eighty feet. On arriving at the top of the slope, the problem confronted us as to how to gain a footing on the rocks, for a deep, unbridged chasm separated the snow from the latter. Finally, I was let down about twenty-five feet into the cavernous depths below, and by a pendulum process was able to swing across and obtain a somewhat precarious footing on the smooth rock. Climbing with no little difficulty up the ice-worn slabs until about thirty feet above the others, I found secure standing ground on a spacious platform. The others did not trouble to repeat these roundabout tactics, but swung straight across on the rope held by me and soon joined me on my perch. A few yards more of rather difficult climbing led to steep, but broken and easy rocks, over which rapid progress was made. Near by on the left, was the somewhat slabby couloir which leads down from the col situated immediately to the north of the Dru. None of the party had anything more than a very vague idea of the best route to be followed, beyond believing that it was unnecessary actually to reach this col before traversing to the left on to the rocks of the peak proper. We kept, therefore, a sharp look-out for the first possibility of crossing the couloir and taking to the rocks on the other side.
About two hundred feet below the col such an opportunity presented itself. We climbed across the couloir without much difficulty, and gained a narrow ledge leading round under an overhanging buttress towards the foot of a steep slab. The appearance of the latter was sufficiently forbidding to cause one to hesitate and wonder whether this could be, after all, the right way; but, as any further prospecting would have entailed loss of time, we decided to carry on in the hope that things might improve higher up. As a matter of fact, although it was not until almost a hundred feet of rope had been run out that safe standing ground was found, the ascent of the slab was by no means very difficult, even if somewhat sensational. Thence easy scrambling led to a broad and well-defined ledge, which seemed to run without break from the col to a point almost directly under the summit of the Dru. We followed this ledge without meeting with any set back. At one point it is interrupted by a deep cleft where we found a frayed rope, by means of which one could swing from one side to the other. This is evidently the spot known as “La Pendule.” The cleft can be crossed without overwhelming difficulty in several places by the ordinary methods of climbing, but there is no doubt that swinging across by means of the fixed rope does save time. The process, also, is quite an amusing one. At a short distance beyond “La Pendule” the ledge narrowed down, but at the same time the rocks towering above on our right became more and more broken and were furrowed by a series of chimneys leading in the direction of the summit ridge. Bearing up to the right, we came across an old wooden ladder, possibly a relic of Dent’s first ascent. Soon afterwards, on doubling back a few yards in the direction of the col, we arrived at the foot of a long and wicked-looking chimney, several steps of which appeared to overhang. A closer acquaintance with this obstacle, however, was reassuring. The chimney was long, and did overhang, but there was such a profusion of holds in the warm, firm rock that the ascent almost resembled the scaling of a ladder. Above the chimney, an easy scramble over huge, rough boulders and broken rocks led on to the ridge. On being rejoined by Max, I unroped and walked up over the ridge towards the two enormous rocky teeth which form the summit of the big Dru. An attempt to gain the summit of the higher tooth from the north failed, but, by traversing slightly downwards to the left, I reached the foot of a short gully leading up into the gap between the teeth. A few steps from this gap placed me on the summit at 10 a.m. The others soon joined me and ensconced themselves on the lower tooth, more room being available there than on my perch.
“La Pendule.”
“... one could swing from one side to the other.”
“... A rather steep ice slope—the Mur de la Côte”
(p. 222).
Facing page 274.
The day was cloudless, and there was not a breath of wind. The view towards the northern slopes of the Aiguille sans Nom was striking. As if in warning and for our edification, a huge avalanche fell down these precipices whilst we were scanning them for a possible line of ascent.
The actual summit rest was cut somewhat short owing to the cramped nature of the seating accommodation; but, on the almost level plateau from which the cliffs sweep down into the gap between the big and the little Dru, we discovered almost sufficient room for the laying out of a tennis court. After an unusually excellent, mountaineering apology for lunch, I set out to prospect for the best line of descent into the gap. At one point, almost directly in line with the two summits of the mountain and on the extreme edge of the plateau, there were a number of fixed coils of rope hanging round a jutting out rock; but on leaning as far forward over the precipice as was possible, it seemed to me extremely doubtful whether we had enough rope to enable us to descend in safety at this point. Had Max and I been alone, we should doubtless have slid down the doubled rope without more ado; with a new companion, however, we had serious doubts as to the prudence of this method of procedure. It behoved me, therefore, to cast farther around for an alternative route where the individual roping down distances were not so great. We had heard vague rumours of the existence of a so-called “Z” route, but had no notion as to where to look for it. Prospecting in the direction of the Grandes Jorasses revealed nothing useful, and I turned my attention to that corner of the plateau from which the northern precipices of the mountain fall away. Here, a short, partially ice-clad gully revealed itself. Faint traces of steps were still clearly visible in the ice, and a conveniently-placed boulder had a new and serviceable looking sling fastened round it. Not quite satisfied that this was the beginning pitch of the sought-for “Z” route, I went back to fetch a rope and to enlist Max’s help in making a more intimate exploration of the chimney and its hidden secrets. Securely held by Max, I descended the gully for about fifty feet, and was then able, just before the gully faded away into thin air above one of the most appalling precipices I have ever looked down, to step over on to a small platform situated directly under a huge, overhanging nose of rock. Crossing this platform in a couple of steps, a clear view of the rocks leading down into the gap presented itself, and showed that one, or at most two, comparatively short descents on the doubled rope would solve any remaining difficulties.
Returning to the foot of the gully, I yelled up the good news to Max, who went off to fetch our friend and the knapsacks. After sending down the latter to be stowed away on the platform, Max fixed a doubled rope to serve as an extra support for our friend’s descent of the chimney. Securely held by Max’s sturdy grip, and with a little judicious pulling from below, he was soon down. Max followed, giving a perfect exhibition of how this sort of thing should be done, and was on the platform and pulling in the doubled rope almost before our comrade had realised that he was on terra firma. Twice again we repeated these roping down tactics over a series of steep slabs, which, however, could have been descended by ordinary methods of climbing without too much difficulty. After the last use of the doubled rope, I went on with a view to saving time by seeking out the rest of the descent into the gap. This lower part of the wall was easily negotiated by means of a series of well-defined ledges leading to a final short chimney immediately above the gap. After passing up this information to Max, I walked over the broad ridge built up of huge blocks of granite, towards the summit of the little Dru, and arrived there at 12.30 p.m., just as the party with whom we had exchanged axes earlier on in the morning were leaving for the big Dru. After carefully shepherding our companion down the last chimney above the gap, Max grew tired of slow and careful methods and completed the descent in great style by a bold glissade which landed him on all fours in a tangle of rope on the broad back of the gap—much to our concern, who mistook his voluntarily rapid descent for the result of a slip. A few minutes later we were reunited on the spacious and flat summit of the little Dru.
The view I suppose must have been glorious, but, candidly, I remember little more than the sinking feeling caused by an inspection of the extraordinary precipices into which the mountain falls away to the north; and even this keen impression soon had its edge taken off by the enjoyment of the result of Max’s noble efforts with a tin of peaches, condensed milk and snow.
At 2 p.m. the pleasant sojourn came to an end, and we embarked on the descent. The way down was shrouded in complete mystery though, on the whole, the general opinion of the party inclined to the view that a bee-line for the Montanvert would give the correct direction, at all events for the first part of the descent. In any case we felt no anxiety, for one can do much with plenty of rope. Accordingly, taking the Montanvert as the objective, we set off, and the fun began at once. Immediately after leaving the summit, we had to resort to the doubled rope in order to descend a long and steep chimney which ended on a ledge of most ungenerous proportions. Our friend here provided a little thrill. He was half-way down the chimney, with still practically forty feet to go, when something apparently went wrong, for he turned a somersault in mid-air and finished up the descent head downwards, with feet waving frantically in the air and his felt hat floating gracefully down over the precipices. Max had him secure on the climbing rope, however, and so he was never in any danger.
It was almost impossible to obtain anything like a clear survey of the ground ahead, for the general steepness was certainly excessive, and numerous inconvenient bulges and overhangs hid far too much from view. After a short consultation, Max and I confessed to one another that neither liked the appearance of things in general, but as there were no eager volunteers for climbing back up the chimney that had just been roped down, it was decided that we should take the chances of carrying straight on. Steep chimney after steep chimney followed, and not only did we see no signs of previous descents or ascents, but the ground became increasingly difficult. Finally, when we had arrived at a point level with and slightly to the south of the enormous, slate-grey patch below the summit, which is so prominent a feature of the Dru when seen from the Montanvert, all possibility of further descent seemed precluded, and we were forced to realise that the outlook was somewhat critical. To our left we could see the ridge over which the correct line of descent must certainly have led, and we were, therefore, faced with the question of either gaining this ridge by a most unwholesome-looking traverse, or by retreating back to the summit. The latter alternative could only be regarded as a very forlorn hope, and not to be attempted unless the traverse should prove impracticable. The chief drawback of the traverse was the fact that we would be able to give each other little or no help or support until the worst was over. However, it was no good wasting time in indecision. I have forgotten many of the details of the traverse, but at first it led across almost vertical slabs by means of the minutest of cracks and ledges. The climbing was most difficult and, owing to almost complete lack of belays, somewhat risky. But our companion rose brilliantly to the occasion and tackled the difficult and exposed slabs in a steady, sure-footed style and with a complete absence of nervousness. Before gaining the ridge, the work became less serious. Comparatively broad and broken ledges separated one tier of slabs from another, and easy ground finally led round on to the ridge at a well-marked step or depression a short distance below a prominent gendarme which, I believe, is known in Chamonix as “le Poisson.”
On the summit of the little Dru.
Facing page 278.
It was now about 4.30 p.m., and much valuable time had been lost through this somewhat sensational variation of the descent. It was still far from easy, even on the ridge, to survey the further line of descent for any distance ahead. I therefore took off the rope and went on to prospect, leaving the others to follow. Several times I got on to the wrong track, but being alone and, therefore, climbing more rapidly, was able to rectify such errors before the other two arrived. Lower down, an impasse in the ridge, in the shape of a bold gendarme followed by a clean and almost vertical cliff, held me up until Max’s arrival. The best means of circumventing the obstacle appeared to lie in the descent of a vertical chimney which bore a close resemblance to Mummery’s crack on the Grépon. It led to a platform on the northern side of the ridge. We fixed a double rope, and I proceeded down. A large chock-stone was jammed in about half-way down the chimney, but as there was no real necessity for making use of it as a hold, and as it could be easily avoided, I did not attempt to dislodge it, preferring to let sleeping dogs lie. I sent up word to the other two, however, to leave it alone lest it should prove to be dangerously loose. On arriving on the platform, I let go the doubled rope and, while the second man was preparing to descend, cast round for further means of escape. The only available route led along a narrow, sloping ledge running towards the ridge from a point about four feet below the edge of the platform on which I stood. With the greatest care, most emphatically urged upon me by the sheerness and depth of the precipices below, I lowered myself on to the ledge, still retaining a grip in the numerous small cracks with which the platform was fissured. By taking a couple of steps and leaning well outwards, it was possible to see round and beyond an intervening corner of rock towards easy, though exposed, ground over which the ridge could be regained. Before climbing farther, I looked up towards Max to give him this information. Our companion was nearly half-way down the chimney and almost level with the chock-stone. I was just repeating my warning not to make use of this possibly insecure hold, when it came hurtling down through space and, crashing on to the ledge, broke into two pieces. One of them, in bounding out over the precipice, narrowly missed my head, but the other was more perfect in its aim and dealt me a clean, knock-out blow on the chest. The shock caused me to lose hold with my left foot and hand. By means of the kind of effort that one is able to exert when it comes to making a bid for life, I was otherwise able to retain my balance. I struggled on to the platform and lay there absolutely winded, totally unable to answer any inquiries.
The rest of the route down the ridge promised to be less complicated. Our companion descended first, whilst I, still sorrowing over bruised ribs, was tied in the middle of the rope and tenderly nursed off the platform and round the ledge. Our original order of march was, however, pour cause, soon reverted to. But the day’s troubles were nearly over. An opportunity of descending from the ridge towards the Charpoua Glacier revealed itself, and, scrambling over huge glacier-worn slabs broken up by numerous ledges and chimneys, we presently arrived at the point, a few feet above the ice, where the other party had left our axes.
Of the French climbers we could as yet see nothing, but surmised that they must by now be somewhere in the neighbourhood of the bergschrund at the head of the Charpoua Glacier. While we were speculating as to their exact whereabouts, a tremendous avalanche of stones plunged down from the direction of the Pic sans Nom, swept the rocks immediately above the bergschrund, and crashed over this and the upper slopes of the Charpoua Glacier towards the icefall below which we stood. So great was the volume and impetus of this avalanche, that for some moments we expected to see the stones fall even beyond our standpoint. Having the gravest fears as to the safety of the other party, we gave vent to a series of hefty yells, and were finally reassured by a faint reply coming from the rocks just above those over which the avalanche had swept. In continuation of their good fortune, this party later on found that our axes and the stake of wood, that we had driven into the snow above the bergschrund, had not been touched by any of the falling stones, though several had gone very near.
The sun had set, and, as we were without a lantern, there was no time to be lost in crossing the glacier. The unfriendly, threatening aspect of the séracs, below which we threaded our way between numerous blocks of ice and crevasses, also urged the necessity for speed. Once on the far side of the glacier, the danger from falling ice was past, and a brief ascent over a diminutive bergschrund and gentle snow slope led on to the summit of the hump that separates the two tongues of the Charpoua Glacier, and upon which, somewhat lower down, stands the Charpoua hut. Shortly after 7 p.m., we entered the welcome refuge.
The other party rolled up soon after 8 p.m. Lured on towards the Montanvert by visions of civilised luxury and comfort, they hardly found time to gulp down the cups of tea we proffered. But the visions proved false, for the local knowledge and lanterns of the guides fizzled out in the midst of the maze of crevasses of the Mer de Glace, and it was not until daybreak that they entered the Montanvert.
We, on the other hand, slept soundly, and in the fresh hours of morning strolled over to the Montanvert, where we arrived in good time for lunch.
As a climb, the traverse of the Dru is magnificent. Unlike the Grépon or the Requin, the Aiguille du Dru is every inch a mountain. The rock varies from bad to good; to get to the rock, good ice work is called for; and the route-finding is far from simple. Though essentially regarded only as a rock-climb, it is really an all-round, first-class expedition.
CHAPTER XIX
TOWARDS MOUNT EVEREST
“To make a determined effort, with every available resource, to reach the summit” were the instructions with which the 1922 Mount Everest expedition left England. The personnel was as follows:—
| Brigadier-General the Hon. C. G. Bruce, C.B., M.V.O.,commander-in-chief; | ||
| Lieut.-Colonel E. L. Strutt, D.S.O., second-in-command; | ||
| Dr. T. G. Longstaff, M.D., chief medical officer and naturalist; | ||
| Dr. A. W. Wakefield, medical officer; | ||
| Captain J. G. Bruce, M.C. (a cousin of General Bruce), Mr. Crawford, I.C.S., and Captain Morris, | } | transport officers; and |
| Captain J. B. Noel, official photographer and kinematographer. | ||
The climbing party consisted of Mr. G. H. Leigh-Mallory, Major H. Morshead, Major E. F. Norton, who was also artist and naturalist, Mr. T. H. Somervell, also artist and medical officer, and myself, also in charge of the oxygen equipment and responsible for its use on the mountain. We had, in addition, four Ghurka non-commissioned officers, a Tibetan interpreter by name Karma Paul, and about fifty Nepalese porters and camp cooks.
The party assembled in Darjeeling, and two detachments moved off towards the end of March to a rendezvous at Phari Dzong, the first considerable village on the line of march through Tibet proper. The third detachment, consisting of Crawford and myself, had to remain behind in Darjeeling to await the arrival of the belated oxygen cylinders. It was not until April 2, a week later, that the apparatus turned up, and we were able to proceed on our way.
Our route lay through the independent state of Sikkim, at first a country of sub-tropical, or even tropical climate and luxuriant jungle vegetation. Cool, shady, woodland streams and pools provided welcome interludes in the hot and often dusty journeys. From the day we left Darjeeling, I took photographs of scenes and happenings and did my developing at the end of each day’s march. As I had to keep within a definite baggage allowance, my photographic outfit was of the simplest. It comprised a quarter-plate, roll-film camera fitted with a Zeiss Tessar lens, a vest-pocket Kodak, two Kodak daylight developing tanks with the requisite developer and fixing powders, and spools, sufficient for fifteen hundred exposures, sealed in air-tight tins. Simple though the equipment was, it meant my having to do without certain luxuries; but I have always considered the sacrifice well worth the while, as the photographic results obtained were, on the whole, pleasing.
Already on the third march out from Darjeeling, an ominous rattling was heard coming from the boxes containing the oxygen cylinders. At the first opportunity, the mules were off-loaded and the boxes opened, a rather lengthy proceeding as we had no tools save our pocket-knives. An examination of the contents showed that, even in this short space of time, the rubbing of the cylinders against each other had caused an appreciable amount of wear and tear—a state of affairs that called for immediate remedy. Otherwise, sooner or later, a cylinder would have been weakened to such an extent as to be able no longer to withstand the pressure of the gas it contained; and the resulting explosion, apart from the possibility of its leading to loss of, or injury to, personnel, would have completely discredited oxygen which was already by no means universally favoured by the members of the expedition. Fortunately, we were able to purchase a large supply of string and cloth which we wrapped round the cylinders. These were then repacked in their boxes in such a manner that metal could not come into contact with metal.
On April 8, in a snowstorm, we crossed the Jelep la, the lofty pass on the boundary between Sikkim and Tibet, and that evening arrived at the dâk bungalow at Yatung at the entrance to the Chumbi Valley, where we passed our first night in Tibet. At the bungalow, we met the late Sir Henry Hayden and his guide, César Cosson (who lost their lives on the Finsteraarhorn in the Bernese Oberland in August, 1923). Like ourselves, they were bound for the interior. Crawford and I continued our journey on the following day, anxious to push on and try to catch up the main body of the expedition; and, on arriving at Phari Dzong on the 10th, we learned that they were only three marches ahead. After three more days of hard marching across those vast, arid Tibetan plains, through intense cold and in the teeth of a wind that whipped up clouds of dust and sand into our faces, we rejoined our companions at Kampa Dzong. On the first night out from Phari we camped in the open. On the second, the nuns of the Buddhist convent of Ta-tsang afforded us hospitality. Crawford and I passed the night in the roofless temple chamber. Some of the nuns spread out my sleeping-bag on the altar, and there I slept, awakened occasionally by the cold. A brilliant moon shone down and lit up my weird abode. The dessicated remains of a magnificent billy-goat hanging above the altar grinned down at me, and prayer wheels surrounded me on every side. Next day, the 13th, we were in camp at Kampa Dzong. In view of our somewhat travel-stained appearance, the General decided to postpone the departure of the expedition until the 15th, and so afford us a much-needed rest. Since leaving Darjeeling, we had been marching hard without a single off-day.
From Kampa Dzong onwards, the yak replaced the mule as our transport animal, owing to the difficulty of providing suitable fodder for the latter. What the camel is to the desert, the yak is to Tibet—an animal indispensable for human life in the country. The yak’s chief form of nourishment is a very coarse grass, which grows in the marshy bottoms of the valleys fed by the streams that flow down from the northern slopes of the Himalayas. He relishes and thrives on this fodder which apparently no other animal can palate. In appearance, the yak is a hefty, beefy animal, somewhat resembling the Indian buffalo; but he has a coat of long, shaggy wool to protect him against the cold and wind. The Tibetans, who are forbidden by their religion to take the life of wild animals, are permitted to slaughter domestic animals for food. Thus the yak, in addition to being the national beast of burden, supplies the inhabitants of the country with milk, butter, cheese, meat, leather, wool and, last but not least, provides them, in the almost complete absence of trees, with their staple fuel, dried yak dung.
The pace of the mules was about four miles an hour, but that of the yak is a most moderate one of less than two. To hustle a yak serves no useful purpose; he simply gets annoyed, and proceeds to throw off his load preparatory to running amok; and anything a yak does is very thoroughly done. The proper way to drive yaks seems to be to let them open out into extended order, line abreast, with the drivers walking behind. While on the march, it is up to the drivers to whistle soft, lullaby airs. If for lack of moisture on the lips or for lack of breath, the whistling should cease for any length of time, the yak objects and there is usually trouble. When treated in conformity with his wishes, however, the yak proves a most reliable transport animal, capable of carrying heavy loads for as much as ten to twelve hours on end at his normal, steady pace, irrespective of the nature or difficulty of the ground. When he comes to a river, he does not wait to be off-loaded, but plunges in without hesitation and wades across as if in his element.
Owing to the difficulty of obtaining a sufficient supply of yaks for such a large caravan as ours, some of our baggage was carried by donkeys. These little animals were extraordinarily game and tough, but on one occasion, when our way lay across an extensive area of quicksands, the nature of the ground had them thoroughly beat. With their tiny hooves, the poor little donkeys would, at almost every step, sink deeply into the quagmire; sometimes so deeply that little more than nostrils, eyes, ears and tail remained above the slime. In such cases the customary procedure was as follows: first of all, the loads were removed, after which three drivers stationed themselves at all three corners of the donkey, one at each ear and the third at the tail. Then it was simply a case of heave-ho! until the animal emerged with a noise resembling that of the withdrawing of a cork from a bottle.
From the European point of view the Tibetans have one great failing which might well, considering the rigorous climatic conditions, be deemed both excusable and incurable. If one ever wishes to talk with a Tibetan, it is advisable to stand on his windward side. A noble Tibetan informed me with great pride that he had had two baths, one on the day of his birth and the other on the day of his wedding. Having neglected to take the elementary precaution, I found it somewhat hard to credit his statement. In this matter of physical cleanliness, the Tibetan priests are even worse offenders than the laity; doubtless because they do not marry. As two-fifths of the able-bodied population of the country follow a religious calling, it will be readily understood that the odour of sanctity is all-pervading. Only once did I see a Tibetan having a bath. It was at Shekar Dzong, on the return journey from Mount Everest. The day was bright and sunny and all but windless. Disporting himself in the waters of a pool, quite close to the village, was a Tibetan boy, stark naked. An interested crowd of his fellow-countrymen looked on. On closer investigation it transpired that the boy was the village idiot and, therefore, hardly responsible for his actions. I would, in fairness, add that during our sojourn in Tibet our own ablutions, when judged by western standards, were by no means too thorough. We usually limited ourselves to washing the head and the arms as far as the elbows. The tooth brush was, of course, plied regularly by all and sundry, and it was this operation and that of shaving that afforded most amusement to the Tibetan onlookers who invariably supervised our morning toilet.
Apart from their one rather penetrating drawback, the Tibetans are a most likeable people. Their love for and pride in their country, harsh though it is, is great and sincere. They are cheerful and good-humoured, keen and willing workers, honourable in carrying out their bargains and scrupulously honest. During our travels in Tibet, though we did not bother to keep close guard over all our stores and belongings, we never lost so much as a single ration biscuit through theft. They are most kind to their children. Unlike so many Europeans, they do not make the mistake of talking down to them; but, from the time their children can speak, they are treated with much the same deference as is shown to grown-ups. The priests form the ruling class in the country and are also the educated class, the monasteries and similar priestly institutions being the seats of learning. The religion of Tibet is Buddhism.
We had the good fortune to meet with a Tibetan soldier, resplendent in a Ghurka hat and a bandolier of beautifully polished ammunition which actually fitted the obsolete pattern of British rifle he so proudly sported. Some of the cartridges were innocent of powder, and the condition of many of the percussion caps was such as to guarantee misfires. A fine, handsome figure of a man, he was, like all his fellow-countrymen, courteous and friendly. War, a great war, was being waged between Tibet and China, but he was now on his way home to look after his crops. The Chinaman also had crops to tend; but in the autumn, when the harvest had been safely gathered in, he and his enemy were to meet once more and continue the warfare. An ideal arrangement!
To the average layman, the oxygen apparatus with which we were supplied was perhaps slightly complicated. Being responsible both for the apparatus and for seeing that all the climbing members of the expedition were conversant with its use, I instituted a series of oxygen drills. These drills were deservedly popular, being held, as a rule, each evening at the end of a long day’s march, when everybody was feeling particularly fit and vigorous.
On the 24th, we arrived at Shekar Dzong, the largest village we visited in Tibet. Indeed, one might almost dignify it by the name of “town,” with its four thousand inhabitants living in the clusters of white-walled houses that cling to the steep sides of a rocky pinnacle rising out of the plain. Here, owing to the necessity for changing the transport animals, we were forced to rest for several days. It is not to be supposed that such rest meant idleness. The General was particularly busy interviewing the Jongpen, that is, governor, of Shekar Dzong, regarding transport arrangements for the next stage of the journey to the Base Camp at the foot of Everest. The transport officers were kept busy taking stock of kit and stores. After attending to the minor ills and ailments of the European and Indian members of the expedition, the medical officers, headed by Dr. Longstaff, busied themselves in strengthening the bonds of friendship between Tibet and Great Britain by ministering to the needs of sick Tibetans. Apart from the daily oxygen drill which never lasted very long, my time was practically my own and was spent for the most part on photography and sight-seeing.
On the first day out from Phari Dzong.
The mountain is Chomulhari (24,400 feet).
Shekar Dzong.
Facing page 290.
We left Shekar Dzong on April 27, and two days later crossed the Pangla Pass, about 17,000 feet in height, whence we obtained a good view of Mount Everest and the neighbouring peaks. Everest towered head and shoulders above its surroundings, a dark, irregular, forbidding-looking rocky pyramid. I have never seen the mountain to better advantage. On the 30th we pitched camp in the Rongbuk Valley, at the head of which Everest stands. Hard by the camp was a large monastery presided over by a very venerable old abbot who received us in audience. He was of a lively and intelligent curiosity and asked many questions. Why were we so eager to get to the summit of Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of Snows? For so the Tibetans beautifully name this highest of mountains. Why spend so much money, endure hardships, and face the dangers he was sure had to be faced, merely for the sake of standing on the top of this loftiest of great peaks? General Bruce, as usual, rose to the occasion and explained with quite undeniable logic that, as the summit of Everest is the highest point on earth, so is it the nearest point on earth to heaven; and was it not meet that we should desire to approach as closely as possible to heaven during our lifetime? This explanation, which contains much more than a germ of the truth, satisfied the reverend old gentleman completely. Henceforward he did everything within his very wide powers to further the interests of the expedition.
The next day’s march was destined to be our last towards the Base Camp, the position of which was determined by its being the point beyond which we could make no further progress with animal transport. A short distance below the end of the Rongbuk Glacier which flows down from Mount Everest into the valley, our tents were pitched (May 1) on a little level patch of ground close under the steep slopes of a moraine. We had fondly hoped that this moraine would shelter our camp from the wind. But later, bitter experience was to teach us that the wind blows not only up and down and across the Rongbuk Valley, but in any and all other directions that perversity can make possible. I have always felt rather sorry for the General, who spent the next seven weeks of his existence at the Base Camp. He, indeed, knew something about wind by the time his stay had come to an end.
No time was to be lost on arriving at the Base Camp, for the East Rongbuk Glacier, over which the North Col, the real starting-point of the climb on Everest itself, was to be approached, had not yet been explored. On May 2, Colonel Strutt, Norton and I went up into this valley and, quite close to the end of the glacier, selected a suitable site for a first advanced camp. This first brief reconnaissance was followed by a lengthier one carried out by Longstaff, Morshead and Norton under the leadership of Colonel Strutt. This party successfully explored the hitherto unknown regions of the East Rongbuk Glacier for a suitable way up into the great bay that lies at the head of the glacier and is enclosed by Mount Everest, the North Col and the North Peak. They also selected suitable sites for the more advanced camps. It was found necessary to pitch three such camps between the Base and the North Col. They were known as Camp I (17,500 ft.), Camp II (19,500 ft.), and Camp III (21,000 ft.), and soon the transport officers with the porters were busy establishing and provisioning them.
For the time being I remained at the Base. A mild form of dysentery, which had at one time or another claimed as its victims most of the other members of the expedition, now took hold of me, and I was some days in shaking off its effects. By May 10, the work on the advanced camps had progressed so well that Mallory and Somervell were able to leave the Base in order to establish a camp on the North Col, and to make an attempt to climb Everest without the use of oxygen.
It may be wondered why, in view of our instructions, oxygen was not to be employed. One body of scientific opinion was most emphatic in its view that without the assistance of a supply of oxygen carried by the climbers it would be impossible to reach the summit of Mount Everest. Scientists, however, do not always agree amongst themselves. An almost equally strong body of scientific opinion declared that the weight of any useful supply of oxygen carried by the climbers would be so great as to counterbalance any advantages that might accrue from the oxygen itself, and that, therefore, oxygen would not only not be of assistance, but would actually be a grave hindrance to the climber. Perhaps I may anticipate here by stating that the second attempt on Everest in 1922 disproved beyond all shadow of doubt the tenets of the second body of opinion, and, what is more important, proved no less conclusively that Everest can positively be climbed by men carrying a suitable supply of oxygen. So far we have no like positive confirmation, either from climbing experience or scientific research, of the possibility of attaining the summit of Everest without oxygen. Personally I feel certain it never will be climbed without oxygen. But there existed another force of oxygen antagonists, largely unscientific, who were willing enough to admit that oxygen might, indeed, have its uses, but condemned it on the ground that its employment was unsporting and, therefore, un-British. The line of reasoning of these anti-oxygenists is somewhat hard to follow, and is inconsistent with their adoption of other scientific measures which render mountaineering less exacting to the human frame. For instance, they do not hesitate to conserve their animal heat by wearing specially warm clothing; they do not deny the “legitimacy,” from the mountaineering point of view, of the thermos flask; they fear no adverse criticism when they doctor up their insides with special heat and energy-giving foods and stimulants; from the sun’s ultra-violet rays and the wind’s bitter cold they do not scruple to protect their eyes by wearing Crookes’ anti-glare glasses; even the use of caffeïne to supply a little more “buck” to a worn-out body is not cavilled at. In fine, it may justly be supposed that if science could only provide oxygen in the form of tablets, the words “artificial,” “illegitimate,” “unsportsmanlike,” or “un-British” would no longer be applicable to its use as an aid to climbing Everest. It was written on high authority, and I read a copy of the article in question at the Base Camp, that “this (the possible failure of the climbers to tolerate the restraint of the oxygen apparatus) would be a good thing, because it seems to us quite as important to discover how high a man can climb without oxygen as to get to a specified point, even the highest summit of the world, in conditions so artificial that they can never become ‘legitimate’ mountaineering.” This sentence may be taken as indicative of the change in objective which was now becoming apparent amongst the members of the expedition. Instead of the aim being to climb Mount Everest with every resource at our disposal, the opponents of oxygen, of whom the writer of the above quotation presumably is, or was, one, had so successfully worked upon the minds of the members of the expedition as to induce them to entertain a fresh objective, namely to see how far they could climb without the aid of oxygen. It were pleasant to think that the writer who could thus acclaim possible failure and, in advocating a new objective, destroy the singleness of purpose of the expedition, was not a mountaineer. And so it came about that, by the time we reached the Base Camp, I found myself almost alone in my faith in oxygen. It is true that I had had the advantage of personal teaching from Professor Dreyer who had demonstrated, by experiments carried out upon myself, what a powerful weapon oxygen could be when rightly used. This faith in the lessons of my genial master was fully justified by later events. But “faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers”; in the mountains, the tragedy is that the odds are generally on the “unfaith.” It has been suggested that a keen sense of rivalry existed between the exponents of climbing with and without oxygen. As far as I am aware, this was not so. Despite conflicting ideas on this subject, complete harmony of feeling prevailed amongst us—too valuable a thing to be disturbed by the friction into which, under the circumstances, a sense of rivalry might well have degenerated.
Mount Everest and the Base Camp.
Camp II.
Facing page 294.
However, it was arranged that, after Mallory and Somervell had made their attack, a second attempt should be carried out by Norton and myself. But a few days later, on May 14, Strutt, Morshead and Norton left to join up with Mallory and Somervell to make an onslaught in force, but without oxygen. Hitherto, I had been sanguine in the extreme about getting to the top, but when I saw the last mountaineers of the expedition leave the Base Camp, my hopes fell low. Any attempt I could now make upon Mount Everest would have to be carried out with untrained climbers as my companions; for I felt certain that, before they could be fit for another assault, the men of the first party would require, not merely a few days, but weeks, to recuperate from the effects of their initial effort.
CHAPTER XX
MOUNT EVEREST
During my stay at the Base Camp my time was not really wasted. A study of Everest and of its meteorological conditions, photography, overhauling of equipment and experiments with oxygen kept me fully occupied.
I wonder why it is that so many mountain travellers seem to lose all sense of proportion when they behold for the first time hitherto unknown ranges and peaks. Perhaps it is that they do not happen to possess the critical faculty of abiding by facts, and tend to describe what they expect rather than what they see. Whatever the reason, the ugliest, sometimes even the most insignificant of sights, provided it be but strange or novel, induces their pen to trail along in a pæon of praise, and the new mountain vision is elevated to all that is awe-inspiring, magnificent, beautiful, far excelling any mountain hitherto known to man. Thus we find that earlier explorers of Mount Everest have enhanced its wonders out of all proportion to the reality. It is as if its quality of height, the mere fact that Mount Everest is over 29,000 feet in altitude and the highest mountain in the world, has prejudiced their judgment of its other qualities. A closer analysis of this very question of height may prove edifying. A mountain has two heights, absolute and relative. The former represents its altitude above sea-level, the latter its height above the immediate surroundings, and is really the only altitude with which the eye can be concerned. It is only when mountains rise from the sea, as they do in Corsica, that absolute and relative altitudes are one and the same thing. 29,002 feet is the accepted absolute altitude of Mount Everest; the relative altitude, that is, the actual height that presents itself to the eye of the beholder, is arrived at by deducting some 16,500 to 17,000 feet. The suggestion frequently made to me that the sight of Mount Everest must dwarf into insignificance anything I have ever seen in the Alps, has invariably met with my decided denial. When seen from the north—the only aspect of the mountain with which we of the recent expedition are acquainted—Mount Everest appears as an uncouth, well-nigh shapeless mass partially blocking the end of the Rongbuk Valley, itself surely one of the most formless and ugly of mountain valleys. The impression of the grand or the prodigious which the view of a mountain makes upon one depends largely on the height to which the summit rears itself above the lower limit of its glaciers or eternal snows. Mont Blanc is nearly 16,000 feet high, and its glaciers descend to within 4,000 feet of sea-level—a vertical zone of nearly 12,000 feet of perpetual ice and snow. On the north, Mount Everest rises to a height of 12,500 feet above the Base Camp, which was situated a little below the end of the Rongbuk Glacier—a vertical zone of 12,500 feet of perpetual ice and snow. From the point of view of extent to which it is glaciated, therefore, Mont Blanc suffers little when compared with Everest. But the distance between the observer and the object observed is a determining factor in the impression of size and grandeur which a mountain picture leaves on the mind. Mont Blanc can be seen in all its magnificence at a distance of some five to six miles. On its northern side, Mount Everest can most advantageously be seen from the Base Camp, eleven miles away. Thus, when no scale of absolute measurement is present, Mont Blanc appears nearly twice as huge to the eye as Mount Everest. So much for “prodigiousness” or “grandeur.” From the point of view of beauty, there can be no comparison between the two mountains. Mont Blanc, seen from the north, is a wonderful, glistening mass of snowy domes, piled one against the other in ever-increasing altitude to a beautifully-proportioned and well-balanced whole. No beauty or symmetry of form can be read out of the ponderous, ungainly, ill-proportioned lump whose horizontal stratification lines produce an appearance of almost comical squatness and which carries, as if by accident, on its western extremity a little carelessly truncated cone to serve as a summit. For such is Mount Everest as seen from the Base Camp. This infelicity of form is further forced upon the eye by the fact that it is far from being shared by all the other mountains surrounding the head of the Rongbuk Valley. One of these, indeed, though only about 21,000 feet in height, presented its snowy northern flank to the gaze of the observer at the Base Camp; and in the delicately moulded flutings and folds of its tremendously abrupt snow slopes was contained such beauty, such magnificence, and such dainty grace of symmetry and poise as I have seldom, if ever, seen in a mountain.
It goes without saying that the weather was a thing most anxiously inquired into by all members of the expedition. During my fifteen days at the Base, I lost no opportunity of studying its vagaries and attempting to assign meanings to the different portents. During the entire month of May, there were only two fine days, and those were separated from each other by a wide interval of time. Both succeeded heavy snowstorms which had whitened the rocks of Mount Everest. In applying the term “fine weather” in the case of these mountain regions, it is necessary to be somewhat more critical than one would ordinarily be in the Alps, where cloudless sky almost invariably means favourable weather. In the case of Mount Everest, it is essential not only that the sky be more or less cloudless, but that the force of the wind be so small as to be insufficient to blow up and tear away streamers of snow dust from the ridges. These streamers betoken the presence of a wind of such strength that it cannot but seriously handicap the climber.
On the last stage of the journey, from Shekar Dzong to the Base Camp, the developing of the photographs I had taken en route had fallen into arrears, and I now endeavoured to make these good. In spite of the simple methods adopted, developing was not always an easy matter. During development of the films, the solutions contained in the tanks had to be maintained at the proper temperature. Often the only way to accomplish this was to retire into one’s sleeping-bag with the tin or tins, as the case might be, as bed-fellows. The washing of the fixed and developed films was a simple matter. The Rongbuk stream ran close by. It is true that, in the biting winds which swept through the valley, frequent dipping of the hands into ice-cold water was far from pleasant. The most difficult part of the whole process of the production of the negative was the drying of the washed films. This had to be done at a temperature above the freezing-point of water, owing to the fact that, if the films once froze, frost marks formed in the emulsion. However, by the simple expedient of closing the tent as hermetically as possible, and remaining inside it with two or three candles burning during the drying process, the temperature could be kept above freezing.
At last the day came when I was able to think of advancing. Time there was none to lose. The weather outlook was by no means improving. Indeed, there was every indication of the monsoon breaking sooner than we had expected. Although there were no more climbers left at the Base Camp, the whole climbing strength of the expedition, with the exception of myself, being in the first party, my choice of climbing companions was easy enough. First of all, there was Captain Geoffrey Bruce. Tall, of athletic build, strong, endowed with a great fund of mental energy—an invaluable asset on ventures of this kind—and cheerful in any situation, he was, in spite of the fact that he had never indulged in mountaineering, an ideal companion. Believing two to be too weak a party to carry out the cut-and-dried plan of campaign that I had already formulated at the back of my mind, a third member was selected in the person of Lance-Corporal Tejbir, the most promising of the Ghurka non-commissioned officers attached to the expedition. He was a splendid specimen of humanity, standing fully six feet in his stockings, broad-shouldered, deep-chested and altogether well-knit. Above all things, the slightest provocation brought a wide grin to Tejbir’s pleasant face, even in the depths of adversity. Like Geoffrey Bruce, he had never climbed before; but I have noticed in the course of my experience that the man who grins most, is usually the one who goes farthest in the mountains—and perhaps also elsewhere. What porters we could, Geoffrey Bruce and I selected at the Base Camp. The remainder of those who were to assist in pitching and provisioning our highest camps were selected later, on the way up to and at Camp III.
I would like to place on record here that, whatever small measure of success Geoffrey Bruce, Tejbir and I eventually achieved, was almost entirely due to the loyal and gallant efforts with which these splendid little men backed us up on every possible occasion. No praise can be too great for the exemplary and cheerful devotion they displayed towards us throughout. These porters came for the most part from Nepal, the native state lying to the south of Mount Everest. Being of Mongolian extraction, they have beardless faces. One of the greatest honours that one can confer upon them is to call them by some endearing nickname. One I called “Josephine-Anne-Marie,” another “Dorothy” and yet another “Trudi”[16]; this last being suggested by his proper name, Tergio. Several of these men, Trudi and Dorothy among them, accomplished the extraordinary feat of climbing on three separate occasions to the tremendous altitude of 25,500 feet.
On May 16, we left the Base for Camp I. Wakefield was accompanying us as far as Camp III, in order to give us a clean bill of health from there onwards. The way up to this camp was wholly delightful, and led for the most part over the tremendous moraines flanking the right bank of the Rongbuk Glacier. Everest was always before us, and the nearer we approached the entrance of the East Rongbuk Valley, the more was our view extended over the mountains to the west, nearly all of which are far more satisfying to the eye than Mount Everest. The day was fine. The only clouds were of the peculiar type, with sharp-cut edges, which I had learnt to associate with more or less settled weather in this part of the world. Camp I was pitched just inside the entrance to the East Rongbuk Valley and quite close to the East Rongbuk Glacier. The following day was spent in attending to matters of equipment and also in ski-ing in the snow-filled bed of the East Rongbuk stream just below the camp. The porters were intensely keen on this amusement and, in spite of numerous tosses, were the aptest of pupils.
Thanks to the careful reconnaissance carried out by Strutt’s party, the way towards Camp II was a simple matter. For the most part we marched up over the stone-strewn surface of the East Rongbuk Glacier. Here and there the glacier was much broken up, but, by keeping to the moraines running down it, good headway was made. The views towards the peaks in that great chain which runs down from the North Peak towards the Base Camp were most striking. Point 22,580, in particular, is a most graceful mountain with a delightfully cornice-crested, aspiring summit. Clouds obscured Mount Everest, but for one brief spell they parted, and we saw, peeping down at us, the lofty summit, now looking far higher than it ever had before. Shortly before reaching Camp II, direct progress was barred by an enormous ice wall. The obstacle, however, was easily turned, and soon afterwards we arrived in camp.
The tents were pitched on a layer of stones lying upon the glacier, at an altitude of about 19,500 feet above sea-level. It was well sheltered from the wind, but unfortunately received very little sun; a great disadvantage, because life in the shade was hardly bearable outside one’s sleeping-bag. A large, frozen-over pond of glacier water lay within a few yards of the camp, and beyond it, within easy reach, were some magnificent ice slopes. The sight of these gave me the idea that it would be a good plan to give Geoffrey Bruce, Tejbir and those of the porters, whom we had selected to join our party, their first lessons in the proper use of the ice-axe and climbing irons. A suitable slope was soon found. At its foot lay the frozen-over pool. In a very short time my enthusiastic pupils were hard at it, and within half an hour many of them were so good that one might have thought they had been used to this sort of work all their lives. Tejbir, however, on one occasion chose to rely too much on his sure-footedness, with the result that he slipped, slithered down the slope, broke through the frozen surface of the water and got thoroughly ducked. With the instincts of the born mountaineer, he retained a grasp upon his ice-axe. We hauled him out at once, but as the external air temperature was well below zero, Tejbir soon discovered that he was encased in armour plate. We hustled him over to the camp and stripped him of his frozen clothing; and for the next two hours all that was to be seen of Tejbir was a broad grin surrounded by many blankets as he sat under shelter and thought things over. The problem of drying his clothes, though it was far too cold for the ice in them to melt, was quite a simple affair. At this great altitude, the air is so dry and so rarefied that ice evaporates at least as readily as water does at sea-level on a fine summer’s day—a phenomenon to which may be attributed the diminutive size of the mountain streams draining the extensive glaciers in this region of the earth. These streams are almost entirely supplied by water caused by the friction of the glaciers flowing over their rocky beds. Surface water due to melting of surface ice, the main source of supply of glacier streams in the Alps, does not exist on the northern slopes of Everest at this time of the year. Thus to dry Tejbir’s frozen garments one had only to apply a little logic and scientific training. Take, for instance, his trousers. These were first of all hammered out flat and then placed in a vertical position against a little wall of stones. The moment they collapsed and fell to the ground, it was obvious that their stiffening of ice had disappeared and they were, therefore, dry. Who, after this brilliant example, would gainsay the uses of science?
“A suitable slope was soon found.”
Facing page 302.
The original intention had been to give my party at least one day’s rest at Camp II, with the object of assisting, as far as possible, the important process of acclimatisation. But on our march up to the camp, everyone had felt so remarkably fit, and I myself had walked so freely and easily, that, as Camp II was by no means too comfortable, we thought it better to make for Camp III. At 8 a.m., therefore, on May 19 we set off. At first, by keeping to the moraine, we were able to avoid having to seek a way through the broken up ice of the glacier. But all too soon the stones came to an end, and we had to take to the icefall. First appearances suggested the possibility of heavy step-cutting, but, as a matter of fact, things turned out extraordinarily well, and it was only very occasionally that we had to ply the axe. Here and there a frozen-over pool of water lying at the foot of some crevasse had to be circumvented. Although the ice was in most cases thick, it could not be relied upon to bear one’s weight, as the water underneath had often ebbed away and was no longer in contact with the ice. A ducking could not be risked now; we were so far away from the comforts of a camp that the consequences might have proved more than unpleasant. It was sheer joy, this climbing up and down or walking along the troughs of crevasses, circumventing and occasionally scaling huge séracs of fantastic shapes and showing the most wonderful range of colours from clear, deep blue, through green to a pure, opaque white which in turn merged into a crystal-clear transparency. Unlike the séracs of European glaciers, there was nothing to be feared from these great giants. Séracs in Switzerland are formed by the flow of glaciers over some marked step or irregularity in their beds; but here, north of Mount Everest, other causes seemed to be at work. Perhaps side pressure caused by tributary glaciers flowing into the main glacier, perhaps wind currents and evaporation of ice are the deciding factors. In any case, the séracs of the East Rongbuk Glacier stood proudly upon firm, wide bases and showed no rottenness or decay to menace those marching amongst them. Eventually we emerged from the broken up part of the glacier and found ourselves on the still snow-free but almost uncrevassed, gently-rising upper portion, over which progress developed into little more than a rather wearisome trudge. The North Peak was now to be seen at its best—a bold, heavily-built Colossus, above the eastern ridge of which appeared the summit of Everest. The mountains to the east were not attractive. We were now so close to them that it was evident that they are for the most part little more than glorified scree slopes rising from uninteresting-looking glaciers. The heat on this part of the day’s march was considerable. There was little or no wind, but, contrary to the experiences related by many Himalayan explorers, few of us were overcome by that form of heat lassitude usually associated with such weather conditions in these high altitudes. Indeed, most of us, including the porters, who carried loads averaging some forty pounds each, plodded along at a good, steady pace, which was certainly no slower than it would have been in the Alps, say, on the Aletsch Glacier at noon under a summer sun. It may, perhaps, be worthy of mention that since leaving the Base Camp, perspiration had been unknown to us. No matter how hot the sun, how still the air, or how great the exertion, any perspiration exuded by the skin was, owing to the dryness and the reduced pressure of the atmosphere, evaporated before one became aware of its presence.
Amid the séracs of the East Rongbuk Glacier.
Crossing a trough on the East Rongbuk Glacier.
Facing page 304.
At an altitude of about 20,500 feet, some crevasses intersected the now no longer snow-free surface of the glacier, and we put on the rope. Soon after midday we rounded the end of the east ridge of the North Peak and hove in sight of Camp III (21,000 ft.). Like Camp II, it was pitched on a layer of stones resting on the East Rongbuk Glacier. We found Strutt in residence, and he gave us the news. That morning Mallory, Morshead, Norton and Somervell had left for the North Col prior to their attempt on Mount Everest. High up on a terrace above the steep snow slopes immediately below the Col, we could see a cluster of tiny black dots—the tents of the North Col Camp. On the skyline, in the col itself, were seen more little black dots, but moving. Evidently the first party were out taking a constitutional.
For the next few days Camp III was to serve as my party’s advance base camp. Here it was that we overhauled our stores and equipment, especially the oxygen outfit. With feelings akin to dismay, suspicions that I had already formed at Camp I were confirmed; not one of the ten oxygen apparatus was usable. They had suffered so severely in the course of our travels across Tibet that most of the soldered metal joints leaked; washers had become so dry that the other joints could no longer be made gastight, and several of the gauges were out of action. Then again, neither of the two types of masks with which we were supplied could be used. The first of these, the so-called “economiser” pattern, by means of an arrangement of valves, allowed oxygen flowing from the apparatus to mix with the air on inhalation, but stored it up and thus prevented waste on exhalation of the breath. It was found that, owing to the resistance imposed by these valves upon breathing, the mask could not be used, the strain thrown upon the lungs being too great. The second type of mask had really been supplied for use in the event of the “economiser” failing to give satisfactory service. It was wasteful of oxygen because the gas supply was continuous, no matter whether the climber were inhaling or exhaling; thus during the periods of exhalation the oxygen issuing from the apparatus was wholly wasted. However, we found that this mask suffered from, amongst others, the same defect as the first; the resistance imposed upon the free passage of the breath was too much for the lungs. It must not be forgotten that the whole oxygen outfit—masks, apparatus, containers—was more or less experimental; the conditions under which it was to be utilised were practically unknown, and, in the circumstances, the design was the best that science could produce.
Mount Everest from Camp III.
Facing page 306.
While waiting at Darjeeling for the arrival of the apparatus, I had turned the question of masks over in my mind and had formed the germ of an idea for another pattern which I intended to construct in the event of the others proving unsatisfactory. The wherewithal to make the new mask had been easily procured. A few toy football bladders and glass “T” tubes were all I needed. With these materials and odd bits of rubber tubing, I was able to construct a new mask, if indeed it could be so termed, by means of which oxygen could be mixed with the air inhaled by the climber without loss on exhalation and, at the same time, without any appreciable extra work being thrown upon the lungs. The new device, as so many useful devices are, was almost ridiculously simple. A rubber tube connected the oxygen delivery orifice of the apparatus with the mouth of the climber. Into this rubber tube was let a glass “T” tube, the third opening of which was connected to a football bladder. On inhaling, the oxygen flowed through the rubber tube into the mouth of the climber, there mixing with the indrawn air. On exhaling, the climber had to close the end of the tube in his mouth by biting on it, and thus prevent the flow and consequent waste of oxygen. During this latter operation the oxygen, which was still flowing from the apparatus, was stored up in the expanding football bladder. On re-inhaling, the climber simply released the pressure of his teeth upon the tube, and the bladder, collapsing slowly, gently forced the oxygen into his mouth where it mixed with the inhaled air. The correct closing and opening of the rubber tube by alternately biting and releasing the pressure of the teeth upon it became, after a few minutes’ practice, a perfectly automatic, subconscious process. The success of this simple mask pleased me greatly; without it, no really effective use could have been made of our oxygen supplies. Oxygen would have been misjudged as useless, and the solution of the problem of climbing Mount Everest would have been as distant as ever.
Camp III soon became the scene of much activity. Examination of the oxygen cylinders revealed that their contents were still intact; so we thereupon set to work with hacksaws, pliers, soldering iron and so forth to repair the damaged apparatus. Eventually two of these were made to function satisfactorily and, later on, two more. Owing to lack of accommodation, the work had to be carried out in the open, so that our hours of labour were limited to those of sunshine; in the shade, the cold was so intense that the handling of metal with bare hands was impracticable. Once the work was interrupted by a snowstorm, and, while waiting for the fresh snow covering up workshop, instruments, apparatus and all to evaporate, Geoffrey Bruce and I put on skis and pottered around on the glacier—quite an exhilarating pastime at these altitudes. Curiously enough, it was only on snow lying in the sun that good running could be had. I found that in the shade the snow was so cold as to exert a sticky, dragging effect upon the skis, almost similar to that which one might expect with sand. At nights the temperature occasionally fell very low; 62° F. of frost were recorded.
Sketch Map of Mount Everest.
Approximate scale, 1 inch to a mile. All heights in feet.
In order to test thoroughly the repaired apparatus, we went for a number of trial trips. One of these, over to the Rapiu la, a depression at the foot of the north-east ridge of Everest, was of particular interest to me. The valleys to the south of this pass were filled with great, rolling banks of cloud which almost wholly concealed the view. But the north-east ridge of Everest as far as the Shoulder was quite clear, and to my amazement I at once saw that this ridge would probably afford an excellent, perhaps even the best, line of approach to the Shoulder. I remembered now that Mr. Harold Raeburn, the most experienced climber of the 1921 expedition, had already pronounced upon this ridge as affording a practicable route to the summit. We have only to compare its advantages and disadvantages with those of the North Col route up the north ridge to see how sound the judgment of this veteran pioneer was. Take first of all the latter line of ascent. To the observer from Camp III, it is obvious that the approach to the North Col, if a line of ascent which is to be safe under any conditions is to be taken, particularly after falls of fresh snow, must be a laborious one, calling for an experienced ice-man with a wide knowledge of snow conditions. On the north ridge as far as the Shoulder, it is equally clear to the observer, both from the base and from Camp III, that the climber must be continually exposed to the full blast of the prevailing west wind—more appropriately, perhaps, termed gale—which, combined with intense cold, must prove an even more formidable enemy than mere altitude or rarefaction of the atmosphere. On the north-east ridge, on the other hand, the way from the Rapiu la right up to the Shoulder is perfectly straightforward, no matter what the conditions of the snow may be. Immediately below the Shoulder are some prominent rocky teeth. They look rather terrible, but from the Rapiu la, even had I not already known that the stratification of the mountain dips towards the north, I could see that they might be turned without serious difficulty and the Shoulder gained. But the supreme advantage of this route lies in the fact that it is practically always free from wind. Largely owing to its direction, the wind on the north side of the mountain fails to sweep over the north-east ridge as it does over the north, and, furthermore, it is more or less balanced by the up-draught from the south. In view of the facts, however, that the camp on the North Col had already been established, and that the first party had, as far as we knew, even established a camp much higher up on the north ridge, the recognition of Raeburn’s great discovery had come too late.
Snow fell on the night of May 20-21, and ushered in one of the rare windless days of that season. Towards sunset, while scanning the north ridge of Everest for signs of the first climbing party, we made out four dark specks descending the great, broad snow slopes of the lower section of the north ridge. They were the four members of the first climbing party making their way back to the North Col after their attempt upon the mountain. It appeared to us that they were more or less exhausted, so on the morning of the 22nd, acting on orders by Colonel Strutt, who, as eldest man, had with utter unselfishness stood down from the first party, Geoffrey Bruce, Wakefield, Tejbir and I, together with eight porters, set out for the North Col with the triple object of rendering assistance to the first climbing party, of replenishing stores in the North Col Camp and of giving the oxygen apparatus a final, thorough try-out. A longish tramp across the gently-rising basin at the head of the East Rongbuk Glacier led to the foot of the steep snow and ice slopes up which one must mount to gain the col. The first climbing party were making their way down towards us, and we eventually met them a short distance above the foot of the final slopes. Most of them seemed practically at the end of their tether and were hardly able to speak coherently. Norton, weather-beaten and with obvious traces of having undergone immense strain, gave us a brief account of their climb. On the night of the 20th they had camped at a height of 25,000 feet, and next morning, Morshead having already suffered too much from the effects of cold and altitude to be able to go farther, Norton, Mallory and Somervell had climbed on until, at 2.30 p.m. on the 21st, they had reached the enormous altitude of 26,800 feet above sea-level as then indicated by the aneroid they carried.[17]
There they had to confess themselves beaten, and return. Snow had fallen on the night of the 20th, but they had been blessed with a calm day for their climb. Retracing their steps, they had rejoined Morshead in their high camp, and all four had continued the descent to the North Col camp, where they had passed the night. Such, in brief, is the history of the first attempt on Mount Everest. We gave them food and drink, then, leaving Dr. Wakefield to see them safely down to Camp III, Geoffrey Bruce, Tejbir and I, together with our porters, went on towards the col. The slopes below the col were laden with fresh snow, probably most of it wind-borne and drifted. Not liking the conditions, and in order to make sure of running no risks of loosening snow-shields or avalanches, I avoided zig-zagging across doubtful slopes by working straight up, cutting steps where necessary. Thus we ascended in safety as far as the foot of the last, almost vertical ice cliff above which lay the camp. This cliff would hardly have yielded to a frontal attack, but I found that a safe traverse across a steep snow slope on the left could be made by keeping to the snow-buried, lower lip of a diminutive crack in the ice. Shortly before the crack came to an end, and with it the security against the risk of treading loose a snow-shield, it became possible to strike directly up towards the camp; not, however, without some slight indication of demur on the part of a few of the porters, who could not understand why, instead of choosing an obviously easy slope, I should deliberately choose a more difficult way up a much steeper one. But they followed cheerfully enough, and I think that some of them at least saw method in my madness. Three hours after setting out from Camp III, we arrived at the North Col Camp. Of this time forty-five minutes had fallen to halts, chiefly our meeting with the first party. The difference in height between the two camps is about 2,000 feet. We had, therefore, ascended at the rate of nearly one thousand feet an hour, quite a good average rate of progression even in the Alps. We had used oxygen. If such had been necessary, this were testimony enough of its advantages.
Arrived at the North Col, we dumped a supply of oxygen cylinders, food and other tackle and then sat down to look round and thoroughly enjoy things. The porters were amazed at the pace which we had been able to maintain, despite the fact that our loads were, on the whole, far heavier than theirs; and for the first time they began to take a lively interest in the oxygen apparatus. Geoffrey Bruce was called upon to explain its workings. He told them that I could climb well in the Alps because the “English air” about those mountains suited me. But Himalayan air disagreed with me, and I had, therefore, brought out a supply of the more vigorous air. Just to show them how strong “English air” is, I turned a stream of oxygen from my apparatus on to the glowing end of a cigarette, which thereupon flared up and spluttered with a brilliant white light. A better audience for this perhaps most beautiful of all laboratory experiments, carried out at 23,000 feet above sea-level, could not have been desired.
The view from the col is magnificent. Everest shows up to far greater advantage from this point than from the Base Camp. It still lacks beauty, but, owing to its nearness, had gained enormously, almost overwhelmingly, in size. We could trace out almost every inch of the way we hoped soon to follow to the summit. As the North Col is the depression on the ridge connecting Everest and the North Peak, we had only to turn round to see the latter, less immense but of far more pleasing appearance than its massive neighbour. The most remarkable feature of the view, however, was the jumble of séracs and great ice cliffs perched just above the camp. The untrained observer would, doubtless, have thought these unstable and a menace to the existence of the little tents; it need hardly be said that these would never have been pitched upon a terrace exposed to the dangers of falling ice; mountaineers are not quite so foolish and foolhardy as many people are inclined to believe.
That afternoon we all returned to Camp III. On the journey home we halted frequently, taking in all two dozen photographs. And yet, in less than fifty minutes after leaving the col, we were back in Camp III. All possible doubts as to the great advantages of oxygen, even when administered by means of the rather experimental and bulky apparatus with which we were supplied, were now at an end.
The North Peak and the North Col Camp.
Facing page 314.
On arriving in camp, we found the four members of the first party much restored in health. They had indeed performed a wonderful feat in reaching an altitude of nearly two thousand five hundred feet above the previous world’s record for high climbing, established by the Duke of the Abruzzi in 1909. But they had not escaped unscathed; all had suffered, to a greater or less extent, from frost-bite. Morshead’s fingers and toes were in a woeful condition, blue-black and covered with immense blisters. On the 23rd all four, together with Colonel Strutt, left for the Base Camp, and succeeded in reaching their destination that evening.
In the meantime we completed our preparations, and on the 24th Geoffrey Bruce, Tejbir and I, accompanied by ten porters, went up to the North Col. With us was Captain Noel, whom we had rigged out with an oxygen apparatus—a new convert to the true faith. Apart from the question of altitude, the camp in the North Col was the most comfortable of all, being well sheltered from the wind. As soon as the sun set, however, the cold became intense, and after a somewhat early evening meal we crawled into our sleeping-bags. In spite of the fact that the tents were pitched on snow, we passed a fair night.
Next morning we were up betimes; but not too early for the porters, who were as keen as ourselves on setting to work. At 8 a.m. they had breakfasted, loaded up, and started off towards the Shoulder of Everest. Knowing that with oxygen there would be no difficulty in overhauling them, we waited in camp until 9.30 a.m., busying ourselves the while in putting the finishing touches to our preparations and in making the best of breakfast. Both this and the preceding evening meal were rather meagre, the stock of provisions at the North Col being one permitting neither of waste nor over-consumption. Before gaining the long, broad snow ridge leading up towards the Shoulder, we had to make our way across a series of large crevasses intersecting the summit snows of the col. They gave no trouble, however, a number of different routes being made possible by an abundance of good snow bridges. The suggestion of dragging a wooden ladder all the way from India up to this spot, in order to negotiate an impassable crevasse or ice cliff, has been seriously advocated. Surely the adoption of such a stratagem is justifiable only in the case of the novice, or one whose mountaineering training has taught him to seek out difficulties in the mountains, instead of circumventing them with a steady eye on the ultimate goal. Also, in view of the fact that there are still doubts as to the morality or otherwise of employing oxygen, it were better that the use of artificial aids such as ladders, poles and what-not be deprecated.
Just before gaining the foot of the snow ridge, we came upon one of the porters sitting on the floor of a snowed-up crevasse. His strength had failed him, but his comrades had divided up his load amongst themselves, and he had now settled down to await their return. He was quite comfortable and well sheltered from the wind. So with parting injunctions not to move off before the return of his comrades, we left him basking in the sun, and carried on. The lower section of the snow ridge is not steep, and, furthermore, by keeping a little to the right of the actual crest, we were able to make good headway over stones where the rock of the mountain joins the snow of the ridge. We drew level with the porters at an altitude of nearly 24,500 feet, but halted only for a few brief moments while I took some photographs. Further delay was inadvisable. One of those extraordinarily rapid changes in the weather, for which Mount Everest is now so notorious, could be seen approaching. With the porters following and doing their utmost to keep pace, we climbed on steadily. Shortly before coming to the end of the snow ridge, we had to cut steps up a steep snow slope. I made them large and close together in order that the porters could not only mount easily but also descend in perfect safety. As a matter of fact, I might have contented myself with cutting the smallest of steps. Every single man in our party, sahib and porter alike, was working away as if he were a born mountaineer, showing splendid balance and self-confidence.
The North Peak from an altitude of nearly 24,500 feet on Mount Everest.
The arrows point to the North Col Camp.
Facing page 316.
The weather had broken by the time the rocks above the snow ridge had been gained. We were at an altitude of about 25,000 feet. The wind was whirling snowflakes past us. We climbed on, however, because from Camp III I had detected, at a height of about 26,500 feet, a suitable site for our intended high camp. But by the time a height of 25,500 feet had been reached, the storm had become so threatening that all idea of further progress had, for the time being, to be renounced. To persist in going on in the face of this break in the weather would have meant running the porters, who had to make their way back to the North Col that afternoon, most unjustifiably into danger. This was not to be thought of; for I was responsible for the safety of these smiling, willing men, who placed absolute confidence in the sahib whom they served so well.
It was anything but a cheerful spot in which to pitch camp. But though I climbed some two hundred feet higher, nothing more suitable was to be found. The leeside of the ridge was bare of any possible camping ground, and, as a wind is always felt more severely a little below and on the windward side of a ridge than on the crest of the ridge itself, I elected to camp right on the very backbone, on a little ledge overlooking the tremendous precipices falling away to the East Rongbuk and Rongbuk Glaciers, now over four thousand feet below. As soon as we had sent the porters scurrying down towards the safety of the North Col, Geoffrey Bruce, Tejbir and I looked to see that the guy-ropes holding down the tent were quite secure, then gathered up our sleeping-bags and provisions and crawled into the tent. After taking off our boots, all the undressing that was practicable, we crept into the sleeping-bags. It was bitterly cold, and, as the exposure to wind and storm which we had already undergone had severely chilled us, we huddled up together as closely as possible for the sake of the preservation of mutual warmth. The storm without was now in full blast, and it was snowing hard. Although we did our best to block up all apertures in the tent walls, a thick, white pall of fine, powdery snow soon covered us. Much of it insinuated its way into sleeping-bags and through our clothing on to our skin, there causing acute discomfort. Towards evening we set about preparing a meal. With the help of solidified spirit, snow was melted and tea brewed. It was far from being hot, for at this altitude water boils at such a low temperature that one can immerse the hand in it without fear of scalding; but, such as it was, the drink imparted some small measure of comfort to our chilled bodies. After sunset, when we would fain have slept or at least rested, the storm rose to a veritable hurricane and kept us occupied for the next eighteen hours. During the whole of this period, we had to remain alert and vigilant. To sit down and meditate quietly over what our attempt on the mountain would bring forth was out of the question. Terrific gusts tore at the tent, and occasionally the wind would force its way underneath the sewn-in ground-sheet and lift it up at one side or the other. When this happened, our combined efforts were needed to hold the ground-sheet down, for we knew that, once the wind got a good hold upon it, the tent would belly out like a sail, and nothing would save it from stripping away from its moorings and being blown, with us inside, over the precipice on to the East Rongbuk Glacier. By one o’clock on the morning of the 26th, the gale was at its height. The wild flapping of the canvas made a noise like that of machine-gun fire, and, what with this and the shrieking and howling of the gale round our tent, it was well-nigh impossible to converse with each other except by shouting, mouth to ear. Later on came interludes of comparative lull succeeded by outbursts even more furious than ever. Some of the guy-ropes had broken or had worked loose, and we had to take it in turns to go outside the tent and endeavour to straighten things up. To work in the open for more than three or four minutes at a stretch was impossible, so profound was the exhaustion induced by even this brief exposure to the fierce and bitterly cold wind.
A cheerless dawn broke. The snow had ceased falling, but the wind howled and hurried with unabated vigour. At eight o’clock, on the morning of May 26, it showed signs of subsiding. It was but the rousing of false hopes, for half an hour later it had returned with greater energy than ever. With almost incredible fury it tore at our tent, and once again we had to take it in turns to go outside and tighten up guy-ropes. These little excursions showed, beyond all possible doubt, that until the storm had diminished there could be no question either of advance or retreat to the North Col Camp. No human being could survive more than a few minutes’ exposure to a gale of such fury coupled with so intense a cold. To add to our discomfort, a great hole was cut in the windward panel of the tent by a stone, and the flaps of the door were stripped of their fastenings. Fortunately, however, everybody was remarkably cheerful.
At one o’clock in the afternoon of the 26th, just as we were beginning to feel rather irritated at the rough treatment which Everest had hitherto so generously doled out to us, respite came. The blustering gale dropped to nothing more than a stiff breeze—the sort of thing against which one can walk comfortably if one only leans sufficiently far forward into it. This was our first opportunity to return to the North Col; but we decided to stay where we were for the rest of the day and the ensuing night, and on the following morning make an early start and climb the mountain.
The one fly in the ointment was that our provisions were practically at an end. Reasons for this shortage in food supplies are soon given. For one thing, we had never intended to spend more than one night in the high camp and had, therefore brought provisions for only one night, and even these had been measured out on an extremely niggardly scale. The majority of Himalayan experts had assured us time and again that it would (1) be absolutely impossible for a human being to survive a night spent at an altitude such as we had now attained (25,500 ft.), and that (2) at such an altitude one would be totally unable to eat owing to absolute lack of appetite. On the other hand, sound, scientific opinion emanating from Professor Dreyer had not only not prophesied either of these contingencies, but had, indeed, definitely warned me that oxygen would increase the appetite, irrespective of altitude. I was now bitterly to regret that Professor Dreyer’s warning had been swamped from my memory by the flood of the other assurances set out above. I well remember how, on that second night in our high camp, I fervently wished that one or two of those who had voiced such heresies had been available; we were ravenously hungry, even, I think, to the point of cannibalism! However, thanks to the fact that there still remained to us some cigarettes, the time passed well enough. Apart from its comforting influence, cigarette smoking incidentally exerts a most beneficial effect upon respiration at high altitudes. I noticed in a very marked fashion that unless I kept my mind on the question of breathing and made of it a voluntary process instead of the involuntary one it normally is, I suffered from lack of air and consequent feeling of suffocation. To recover from this feeling, it was necessary to force the lungs to work more quickly than they would of their own accord. There is a physiological explanation of this phenomenon. The amount of carbon dioxide normally present in the blood is, at high altitudes, largely removed from the system owing to the enormous volume of air which it is necessary to inhale in order to obtain a sufficient supply of atmospheric oxygen for the re-oxidation of the venous blood. Carbon dioxide serves to stimulate the nerve centre controlling the process of involuntary breathing. Lack of carbon dioxide results in this nerve centre being no longer stimulated, and, if suffocation is to be avoided, involuntary breathing has to be replaced by voluntary breathing, a process which in time throws such strain upon the mind and powers of concentration as to preclude all possibility of sleep. Both Geoffrey Bruce and Tejbir had likewise observed the annoying necessity of having to concentrate continuously on breathing. But after the first few deep inhalations of cigarette smoke, we discovered that it was possible to resort once more to normal involuntary breathing. Evidently something in the smoke took the place of the carbon dioxide in which the blood was deficient, and acted as a nerve stimulant. The beneficial effect of a cigarette lasted for as much as three hours. As luck would have it, we had with us a fair supply which lasted well into the afternoon of the 26th.
We were quite a merry little party that afternoon as we gathered round a scanty meal cooked with the last of our fuel, and then prepared to settle down for another night. Towards 6 p.m. I heard voices outside the tent, but thought I must be dreaming. When Geoffrey Bruce, however, started up at the sounds, I knew that someone must be without. Six porters, headed by that indomitable little fellow Tergio, clustered round the door. They brought thermos flasks of warm tea provided by the thoughtful Noel. These splendid men had, of their own accord, left the North Col that afternoon as soon as the storm had abated, and made the tremendous journey up to our camp just to assure themselves of our well-being. This is but one example of the many acts of brave, unselfish devotion performed by the porters of the 1922 expedition. Tergio, whose light-hearted gaiety, ready laughter and merrily twinkling eyes, whose high courage, boundless energy and perseverance had especially endeared him to me, now lies buried in the cold snows of the North Col. He will never be forgotten; I should like to climb with him again. The porters expected us to return with them, and needed no little persuasion before leaving us.
The second night in the high camp did not begin well. We were exhausted from our previous experiences and lack of food. Provoked, perhaps, by my labours outside the tent, a dead, numbing cold was creeping up my limbs; a sensation that I had only once before felt, and to the seriousness of which I was fully aware. Inquiry elicited the information that my companions were undergoing the same unpleasant experiences. Like a heaven-sent inspiration came the idea of trying the effect of oxygen. Previously we had used oxygen only while actually climbing, and, on arriving at our high camp, had dumped the apparatus outside the tent. Now hauling in one apparatus together with a supply of cylinders, we took doses all round, giving the action the air of a joke. Tejbir took his medicine without much interest; but as he inhaled, I saw with relief that his face brightened up. The effect of the oxygen on Geoffrey Bruce was particularly visible in his rapid change of expression; the hitherto drawn, anxious look on his face gave place to a more normal one. The result on myself was no less marvellous; almost at once I felt the painful, prickling, tingling sensation, due to the returning circulation of the blood, as the lost warmth slowly came back to my limbs. We connected up the apparatus so that all could breathe a small quantity throughout the night. There is no doubt whatsoever that oxygen saved our lives that night; without it, in our well-nigh exhausted and famished condition, we would have succumbed to the cold.
Before daybreak we were stirring. It was necessary to dress, that is, put on our boots—a much lengthier operation than it sounds. By taking mine to bed with me, I had contrived to keep them fairly soft and supple, so that a quarter of an hour’s striving and tugging sufficed to get them on. But the others had neglected to nurse theirs, with the result that the uppers were hard-frozen and completely out of shape. It took us an hour to soften and remould them by holding them over lighted candles. Shortly after six o’clock, we assembled outside. No time had been wasted over breakfast; there was none. The first rays of the sun had just touched our tent when we shouldered our loads and set off. What with oxygen apparatus, cameras and other necessary odds and ends, Bruce and I each carried more than forty pounds. Tejbir, with two extra cylinders of oxygen, shouldered a burden of about fifty pounds. My scheme was that Tejbir should accompany us as far as the Shoulder, where we would relieve him of his load and send him back. The weather was clear, and the only clouds in the sky, though undoubtedly of the wrong type, seemed too far off to presage evil. A fresh wind cut across the ridge, and the cold was, as usual, intense. Keeping to the ridge, and making straight for the Shoulder, we mounted rapidly. But very soon the cold began to have its effect on Tejbir’s sturdy constitution, already weakened by starvation and hardship. At an altitude of 26,000 feet above sea-level he collapsed. It took some little time to restore him to his senses, only to see that he had given of his best and could go no farther. We unburdened him, leaving him his apparatus and sufficient oxygen to see him safely back to the high camp. The ground over which we had just come was easy and, as the tent was in full view below, there was no chance of losing the way; so, as soon as he was sufficiently recovered,[18] we sent Tejbir back.
After seeing him well on his way, we shared Tejbir’s load between us. In view of the straightforward nature of the climbing, I chose to dispense with the rope in order to be able to progress more quickly. Climbing by no means steep and quite easy rocks, and passing two almost level places affording ample room for some future high camp, we arrived at an altitude of 26,500 feet. By this time, the wind, which had been steadily rising, had acquired such force that I realised that, were we to remain fully exposed to it much longer, we would both succumb to the cold as Tejbir had done. We were, however, not out to see how far we could go, but bent on getting to the top of Everest. So we changed tactics. Instead of gaining the summit by ridges exposed to the full blast of the gale, we would have to follow a more sheltered way. The only thing to do was to leave the ridge and strike out across the vast north face of the mountain. This alternative route had its disadvantages. The rocks up which we had come were wind-swept free from snow, and foot- and handholds were good and plentiful, and, so far as could be seen, this state of affairs continued for quite a long way beyond the Shoulder. The moment we left the ridge, however, we felt the disadvantages of the fact that the stratification of the rock dips towards the north. The ground over which we now had to make a way was slabby, with much new snow to hamper us. Caution was necessary throughout. My companion was sure-footed, careful and unlikely to slip; nevertheless, being responsible for his safety, I moderated my pace and never allowed more than a few feet to separate us. Thus, keeping close together, we worked away steadily, gaining but little in altitude, but getting ever so much nearer to the summit. The climbing steadily became more and more difficult. Sometimes the slabs gave place to snow; treacherous, powdery stuff with a thin, wind-formed crust that gave a false appearance of compactness. Little reliance could be placed upon it. At length, when about half-way across the face and at an altitude of about 27,000 feet, we decided once again to change our route and strike straight upwards in the direction of the summit ridge.
We had climbed some three hundred feet higher, and I had just reached a ledge at the top of a steep slab about thirty feet in height, when I heard Geoffrey Bruce give a startled cry: “I’m getting no oxygen!” Turning round immediately, I saw him struggling ineffectually to climb up towards me. Quickly descending the few intervening feet, I was just in time to grasp his right shoulder with my left hand as he was on the point of falling backwards over the precipice. I dragged him face forwards against the rock, and, after a supreme effort on the part of both, we gained the ledge where I swung him round into a sitting position against the slope above. Thus placed, with the weight of his apparatus taken off his back, he again told me, this time in a gasp, that he was no longer receiving oxygen. I gave him my tube and, still standing, with the full weight of my own apparatus and other impedimenta on my back, endeavoured to locate the fault. Systematically I traced the connections from the cylinder in use down to the pressure gauge and flow-meter and found both in action, the latter recording a flow of 2·4 litres per minute. By this time, however, what with the weight of my load and being deprived of oxygen, I was not feeling any too well, and, believing the defect to lie in a breakage of the flow-meter exit tube (an apparatus had previously failed through developing this flaw which was consistent with the results of the present hasty examination), in my desperation I tried to prize off the flow-meter with my ice-axe in order to be able to connect the rubber tube leading to Geoffrey Bruce on to the exit tube of the reducing valve. (The emergency by-pass valve was useless in dealing with this type of breakdown.) Before I had proceeded far with my efforts, however, I found it necessary to recover my tube from Geoffrey and take a series of deep gulps of oxygen, turning on the gas to a maximum rate of delivery and, in addition, increasing its flow by making use of the by-pass valve on my own apparatus. This restored me, and, so that both could breathe oxygen simultaneously from my apparatus, I connected a reserve “T” piece and rubber tubing, which I had fortunately brought with me, on to the delivery tube. Resuming the diagnosis, I this time traced connections back from the mouthpiece and at once discovered that a glass connecting piece, which had been used in the construction of the improvised mask, was broken. The thick rubber which had originally covered the tubing had been partially dragged off, and the glass, thus unprotected, had probably been fractured against rock while climbing. As I had a spare glass connection in my possession, the repair was speedily effected, and Geoffrey Bruce was once more inhaling oxygen from his own apparatus.[19]
We rested for a few minutes before going on. Those few minutes decided the issue of the day. So far, I had not had the leisure to consider my companion’s condition. His climbing was all I had had eyes for. How was he getting on? Was he all right without the rope? Was he keeping up? But now I saw that Geoffrey Bruce, like Tejbir, had driven his body almost to the uttermost. A little more would spell breakdown. The realisation came like a blow. My emotions are eternally my own, and I will not put on paper a cold-blooded, psychological analysis of the cataclysmic change they underwent, but will merely indicate the initial and final mental positions. Reasoned determination, confidence, faith in the possibility of achievement, hope—all had acquired cumulative force as we made our way higher and higher; the two nights’ struggle at our high camp had not dimmed our enthusiasm, nor had the collapse of Tejbir, rude shock and source of grave anxiety though it undoubtedly was. Never for a moment did I think we would fail; progress was steady, the summit was there before us; a little longer, and we should be on the top. And then—suddenly, unexpectedly, the vision was gone.... I thought quickly. I could have gone on, the time having long passed since I possessed no confidence in my own factor of safety or needed a rope. But to have done so would have been unfair to Geoffrey Bruce who with his fewer years was not so inured to hardship as I was. We did, however, proceed for a few yards. This made my only possible course of action even more obvious.[20] As evidence of my companion’s indomitable spirit I would add that, when my decision to return was announced, he clearly voiced his chagrin.
According to the aneroid barometer I carried, we had reached an altitude of at least 27,300 feet.[21] The point we had gained may be easily recognised. We were standing inside the bend of a conspicuous inverted “V” of snow, immediately below the great belt of reddish-yellow granite which cleaves almost horizontally through the greenish, grey-black rock of which the summit and north face of Mount Everest are composed. With the exception of the summit of Everest, nowhere could we see a single mountain-top as high as our own lofty perch. The highest mountain visible was Cho Uyo, which is just short of 27,000 feet. We were well above it, and could look across it into the dense clouds beyond. The great West Peak of Everest, one of the most beautiful objects to be seen from down in the Rongbuk Valley, was hidden, but we knew that our standpoint was nearly two thousand feet above it. We could look across into clouds which lay at some undefined distance behind the Shoulder, a clear indication that we were only a little, if anything, below its level. Pumori, an imposing, ice-bound pyramid, some 23,000 feet high, I sought at first in vain. So far were we above it that it had sunk into an insignificant little ice-hump by the side of the Rongbuk Glacier. Most of the other landmarks were blotted out by masses of ominous, yellow-hued clouds, swept from the west in the wake of an angry storm-wind. Though 1,700 feet below, we were well within half a mile of the summit, so close, indeed, that we could distinguish individual stones on a little patch of scree lying just below the highest point.
But it was useless to think of continuing. It was too plain that, if we were to persist in climbing on, even if only for another five hundred feet, we should not both get back alive. The decision to retreat once taken, no time was lost, and, fearing lest another accidental interruption in the oxygen supply might lead to a slip on the part of either of us, we roped together. It was midday. At first we returned in our tracks, but later aimed at striking the ridge between the Shoulder and the North Col, at a point above where we had left it in the morning. This enabled us to find level going where the order of advance was of little importance, and I could go ahead, keeping my companion on a short, taut rope. The clear weather was gone. Once back on the ridge, we plunged down the easy, broken rocks through thick mists, driven past us from the west by a violent wind. For one small mercy we were thankful—no snow fell.
On regaining our high camp, we looked inside the tent and found Tejbir snugly wrapped up in all three sleeping-bags, sleeping the deep sleep of exhaustion. Hearing the voices of porters on their way up to meet us, we woke him up, telling him to await their arrival and to go down with them. Bruce and I then proceeded on our way, met the ascending porters and passed on, greatly cheered by their bright welcomes and encouraging smiles. But the long descent, coming as it did on the top of a hard day’s work, soon began to find out our weakness. We were deplorably tired and could no longer move ahead with our accustomed vigour. Knees did not always bend and unbend as required. At times they gave way altogether and forced us, staggering, to sit down. But eventually we reached the broken snows of the North Col, and at 4 p.m. arrived in the camp, where we found Crawford and Wakefield who, with very natural curiosity, had come up to have a look at the col and spend the night there. Noel had already been three days up here on rather short rations, and the fuel and food supplies were consequently much depleted. In the circumstances, though we would fain have passed the night in the North Col Camp, as did the four climbers after the first attempt, we were compelled to face a further descent that afternoon to Camp III. A craving for food and rest, to the lack of which our weakness was mainly due, was all that animated us; and, before continuing the descent, this craving had to be satisfied, even if only to a small extent. A cup of hot tea and a small tin of spaghetti were forthcoming, and even this little nourishment so refreshed and renewed our strength that three-quarters of an hour later we were ready to set off for Camp III.
Mount Everest from the North Col, showing route.
1. Site of first party’s camp. 2. Site of our camp. 3. Point gained by Norton, Mallory and Somervell. 4. Point gained by Geoffrey Bruce and Finch. 5. The Summit.
Monsoon clouds.
Facing page 330.
From the North Col to Camp III, we had in Captain Noel an invaluable addition to our party. He formed our rear-guard and nursed us safely down the steep snow and ice slopes on to the almost level basin of the glacier below. Within forty minutes after leaving the Col, we arrived in Camp III. Since midday, from our highest point we had descended over six thousand feet, but we were quite finished. The brightest memory that remains with me of that night is dinner. Four quails truffled in pâté de foie gras, followed by nine sausages, only left me asking for more. With the remains of a tin of toffee tucked away in the crook of my elbow, I fell asleep in the depths of my warm sleeping-bag.
Next morning an inspection by Somervell, who had returned to Camp III during our attempt on Everest, showed that Geoffrey Bruce’s feet were sorely frost-bitten. I had well-nigh escaped, though four small patches of frost-bite, due to the cold which had penetrated the half-inch thick soles of my boots and three pairs of woollen socks, made walking unpleasant. I was also weak. The result was that both of us were piled on to a sledge and dragged by willing porters down over the glacier until its surface became too rough. I then discovered that I could walk quite well; presumably I had been lazy in the morning. But Geoffrey Bruce fared less well, and had to be assisted back to Camp II. And so from camp to camp the weary return journey dragged on. The sense of failure was with us. We had set out with one resolve—to get to the summit. The realisation that we had at least established the record for high climbing had not yet dawned upon us, and when it did, it afforded but scant consolation. With fine weather and but one night at our high camp, with Geoffrey Bruce, whose stout-heartedness made good to a great extent his inexperience of mountaineering and consequent uneconomic use of his strength, Mount Everest would in all probability have been climbed. I shall always be grateful to Geoffrey Bruce, not only for the confidence he placed in me, but also for the backing he gave me throughout our climb—and afterwards.
The descent from Camp I to the Base was perhaps the roughest and most trying march of all. Great was the rivalry amongst the porters as to who should have the honour of carrying Geoffrey Bruce, the condition of whose feet would not permit of his walking down those almost interminable moraines with their harassing stones. Even the worst journey must come to an end, however, and at last, on the afternoon of May 29, we were being accorded the warmest of welcomes by the General and the other members of the expedition at the Base Camp.
The next few days were spent in resting. But I underwent the same experience as the members of the first climbing party; instead of recovering strength rapidly during the first three or four days, if anything, a further decline took place. However, as the immediate weather prospects seemed good, although it was obvious that the monsoon must shortly break, it was decided to make a third attempt upon the mountain.
On the return journey to the Base Camp.
Facing page 332.
Somervell was, by now, undoubtedly the fittest of the climbing members of the expedition, with Mallory a good second. Both had enjoyed some ten days’ rest since their first assault upon Mount Everest and had, therefore, had some chance of recovering from the abnormal strain to which they had been subjected. Medical opinion as to my condition after so brief a respite of only four days was somewhat divided; but in the end I was allowed to join in the third attempt.
On June 3, we left the Base Camp. The party consisted of Wakefield as medical officer, Crawford and, later, Morris as transport officers, with Mallory, Somervell and myself as climbers. Oxygen was to be used, and I was placed in command. It was a great struggle for me to get to Camp I, and I had to realise that the few days’ rest at the Base Camp had been quite inadequate to allow of my recuperation, and that no useful object would be served by my proceeding farther. Snow fell during the night. Next morning, after giving Somervell final detailed instructions regarding the oxygen apparatus, I returned once more to the Base Camp. As Strutt and Longstaff were leaving on the following day to escort the badly frost-bitten Morshead to Darjeeling, I was given, and availed myself of, the opportunity of accompanying them.
The next news I heard of the third attempt upon Mount Everest was gleaned from the columns of a Sunday newspaper, shortly after landing in Dover some six weeks later. I read that an avalanche had destroyed seven of our gallant mountain comrades, the Nepalese porters. This disastrous accident had terminated the third attempt on Mount Everest before even the North Col had been gained.
Mount Everest, the Goddess Mother of the Snows, with all her formidable array of natural defences, had conquered. But the value of reasoned determination, unwavering confidence, really warm and wind-proof clothing and, last but not least, the proven worth of oxygen—weapons to break down the innermost defences of even the highest mountain in the world—are now, perhaps, better understood.
FOOTNOTES:
[16] Swiss abbreviation for “Gertrude.”
[17] By means of theodolite observations made from a single point near the Base Camp, this height has worked out at 26,985 feet. According to Col. S. G. Burrard and H. H. Hayden, A Sketch of the Geography and Geology of the Himalaya Mountains and Tibet, Calcutta, 1907-1909, this height is exceeded by only eight mountain summits, all of which are in the Himalayas.
[18] My action in sending Tejbir back alone has, I believe, been criticised. There is no need to labour the point. I was the responsible person and the sole judge of circumstances, and I acted for what then appeared to me, and subsequently proved to be, the best.
[19] In my previous accounts of the climb, I practically ignored this incident. Recently, however, Dr. Longstaff published in the Alpine Journal an article in which he describes the happening at some length. I believe that the story was related to him by Captain Geoffrey Bruce.
[20] To those who attribute our retreat to the fear of a possible second failure of the oxygen apparatus, I say that such a prospect cost me not one moment of apprehension; I knew I was equal to such an emergency. Neither were our actions influenced by discouragement or indifference—we cared terribly about reaching our goal. The fact that we took cameras, but omitted to use them, has been construed as evidence of forgetfulness and change in mental attitude induced by the height. Before leaving our high camp, Geoffrey Bruce and I had carefully made our plans. We realised that we would have little time to spare, and that the cold would be too intense to permit of reloading the cameras. Therefore, in camp, we had loaded each of the cameras with one spool and jealously saved all the exposures for the summit views. Neither the summit nor the pictures materialised for us.
[21] By means of theodolite observations made from a single point near the Base Camp, this height has worked out at 27,235 feet. This latter height is calculated on the assumption that the altitude of Mount Everest is 29,002 feet. It may be of interest to note, however, that the mean of numerous observations made by the Survey of India from twelve different stations places the height of Everest at 29,141 feet. This figure has not yet been finally corrected for deviation of gravity. When due allowance for this has been made the height of Mount Everest will probably be found to be about 29,200 feet. In the same way the point reached by Geoffrey Bruce and myself works out at (27,235 + 198) = 27,433 feet; a height that is exceeded, as far as I know, by four mountains, all in the Himalayas; namely, Mount Everest, K2 (28,250 ft.), Kanchenjunga (28,150 ft.) and Makalu (27,790 ft.).
CHAPTER XXI
MOUNTAINEERING PHOTOGRAPHY
Not the least of the rewards of mountaineering are the memories of mountain comrades and adventures which cheer those of the true faith through the humdrum existence of ordinary life. The camera enables us to retain a faithful picture of the many striking incidents, the wonderful surroundings and the fellow-actors who have played with us in the great game; so that photography, like a keen and accurately observant sixth sense, helps to keep our mountain memories fresh and true for all time. Given no other, this, by itself, were sufficient reason why a camera should accompany us on our travels.
A distinction should be drawn between photography of mountains and mountaineering photography. The former is a pursuit indulged in by those who are, for the most part, content to take photographs of mountain scenery from valleys, railways, roads, paths or other easily accessible points of view. In such cases, photography is the chief object; any mountaineering that may be done is, as a rule, of the simplest kind and undertaken chiefly for the sake of photography. By “mountaineering photography,” on the other hand, I would designate the use to which the mountaineer puts the camera; to him, climbing is the main object, and photography merely an incidental side issue. To the photographer, the weight and bulk of his photographic apparatus is of minor importance; but the bona-fide climber must cut down the weight of his photographic equipment to a minimum, and any photography he may indulge in must interfere as little as possible with the pursuit of the ruling passion. His camera must be so simple that pictures can be taken quickly and without waste of time. The scenes most worthy of record frequently give little warning of their approach and are of short duration; and, unless the camera is one which can be quickly manipulated, the opportunity will be gone before the record can be secured. The mountaineer is, therefore, confined to the use of a simple, light camera of small and convenient dimensions. The opinion is widely expressed in books on mountain photography that good results are only obtainable with stand cameras and glass plates—the heaviest and most inconvenient type of photographic equipment. To-day, this is no longer the case. Lenses, folding cameras sufficiently small and compact to fit into one’s pocket, and the celluloid film negative have been brought to such a state of perfection that, with their aid, the climber can secure photographs which not only compete successfully from the point of view of quality with the results obtained with far more elaborate apparatus, but also far excel the latter in quantity.
The choice of camera is governed, in the first place, by the size of the negative required. In contact copies, from the smaller sizes of negatives, details, often of value, are too readily overlooked and usually appear to proper advantage only on enlargement. Particularly so is this the case with regard to pictorial effect. Enlargements to more than six or seven diameters show up faulty definition to an exaggerated degree, and the grain of the emulsion often becomes disturbingly evident. The smallest size of negative which may be regarded as sufficiently free from these drawbacks is 2¹⁄₂ × 3¹⁄₂ inches, a size which permits of satisfactory enlargement up to the pleasing dimensions of 12 × 15 or even 15 × 20 inches. As, however, a quarter-plate size (3¹⁄₄ × 4¹⁄₄ inches) camera is procurable which is handy, simple to use, and is neither too bulky nor too heavy, the mountaineer would do best to be on the safe side and adopt this as his standard. There is no need to peer into or use a magnifying glass when looking at a quarter-plate size contact print. Its pictorial value can be easily judged, the proportions of the shape are pleasing, and it enlarges well.
In a mountain hut.
A portrait study.
Facing page 336.
Having chosen the size of the camera, it is necessary to decide whether plates, flat films, pack films, or roll films are to be employed. For the mountaineer, plates are out of the question; they are too heavy, too easily damaged and too slow to bring into use. Owing, however, to the standard of excellence attained in the manufacture of various types of films, there can nowadays be no advantage in preferring plates, even if weight were not a consideration. Also, in the matter of expense, there is little difference between the cost of plates and that of films. As far as the climber is concerned, flat films (“cut films”) suffer from the same defect as plates, in that they take too much time to use. Pack films are free from this disadvantage, but the packages in which they are contained will not stand rough usage; they are somewhat readily damaged, with the result that light may be admitted. The roll-film is the negative material par excellence for the mountaineer. In a suitably designed camera, the best makes lie perfectly flat. Their bulk and weight are less than those of any other type of negative. Easily packed in air- and waterproof packages which can be sealed with adhesive plaster, they are practically unbreakable and will withstand extraordinarily rough handling. They are quickly changed in broad daylight, free from halation effects, and twelve exposures can be developed together, with little more trouble than attends the developing of a single plate or flat-film negative. These are but a few of the great advantages of roll films from the mountaineer’s point of view. Hence the ideal camera for the climber is a quarter-plate size, roll-film, folding model.
In choosing such a camera, attention should be paid to the following points. The camera should be light, yet strong. It should be as simple as possible and provided only with such mechanism as is essential to the taking of good photographs. All superfluous accessories should be dispensed with. The essential features of a camera are these:—
The back must fit light-tight on to the body. The film-winding mechanism contained in the body should be such that the film is held flat and not scratched on winding. The bellows should be strong and light-tight and should be periodically examined for pin-holes when the camera is in use. Pin-holes, when they occur, are easily repaired by sticking over them a piece of adhesive plaster which can then be blackened with ink or charcoal. The side-struts should lock the base-board firmly when the camera is opened. The front-grip should slide smoothly in the runners and yet fit well, so that when the camera is opened the front standard is held rigid. The shutter is an item of great importance; its timing should be calibrated, and its mechanism be of such a design that the opening and closing movements are as rapid as possible, thus enabling the passing of the maximum amount of light during the time of exposure. The two most important speeds of the shutter are the ¹⁄₅₀ of a second and a high speed such as ¹⁄₂₅₀ or ¹⁄₃₀₀ of a second. It is difficult to hold a camera sufficiently steady to ensure accurate definition with a lesser speed than ¹⁄₅₀ of a second, and this, in the vast majority of cases, will be the standard shutter speed employed. Occasionally, when photographing a rapidly-moving object, such as an avalanche, or a climber jumping a crevasse, the fastest available shutter speed should be used. Integral with the shutter mechanism is the stop, preferably an iris diaphragm. The quantity of light allowed to fall upon the negative should be controlled as far as possible by means of the stop alone, the shutter speed being kept always at ¹⁄₅₀ of a second save in exceptional circumstances. The lens is one of the chief keys to successful photography. From personal experience of many different makes of lenses, I can unhesitatingly recommend the following: Kodak Anastigmats f: 6.3 and f: 4.5, Goerz Dagor or Dogmar f: 4.5 and Zeiss Tessar f: 4.5. These four give excellent definition, and the last is particularly suitable for taking photographs for map-making purposes. For a quarter-plate camera, the focal length should, as a rule, be 4 to 5 inches, rather nearer the former than the latter. The lens, when fitted and the camera opened, must be truly centred with the axis at right angles to the plane of the negative. The view-finder should include no more and no less of the object to be photographed than is actually projected by the lens on to the negative. The focussing scale must be accurately graduated for the lens with which the camera is fitted, and should be provided with an automatic infinity stop which is free from backlash. Both focussing scale and infinity stop, but particularly the latter, must be set with the greatest possible accuracy. This will nearly always be the case in a camera of reputable make secured from the makers themselves. A short cable release is an advantage; it enables one to hold the camera more steady when an exposure is being made. It goes without saying that the camera should be of the best material and workmanship throughout. One of the best makes of cameras procurable and suitable for the mountaineer is the Folding Pocket Kodak Number 3.
The Aiguille du Géant.
Clearing mists.
The Sella Pass.
Approaching thunderstorm.
Facing page 338.
The estimation of correct exposure is a difficult matter for many beginners in mountaineering photography. The following may serve as a rough guide. In the summer months between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m., when above the snow-line, snow scenes require ¹⁄₅₀ of a second and about stop f: 20; rock scenes ¹⁄₅₀ of a second, stop f: 10. Distant snow scenes and distant mountain ranges need ¹⁄₅₀ of a second, stop f: 30. I do not recommend exposure meters, chiefly because their use takes up too much time. For development, I advocate the use of Kodak daylight developing tanks with the special developers prepared by that firm. The negative of almost every photograph used in the illustration of the present book was developed in the Kodak daylight developing tank.