The chance of wandering into the wild places of the earth is given to few. But those who have once visited the Himalaya will never forget either the magnificence or the beauty of that immense mountain land, whether it be the valley country that lies between the great snow-covered ranges and the plains, where wonderful forests, flowers, clear streams and lesser peaks form a fitting guard to the mighty snow-peaks that lie beyond, or the great peaks themselves, that can be seen far away to the North, as one approaches through the foot-hills that lead up to them. The huge snow-covered giants may be a week's journey away, they may be far more, yet when seen through the clear air of the hills, perhaps 100 miles distant, they look immense, inaccessible, remote and lonely. But as one approaches nearer and nearer to them, they ever grow more splendid, glistening white in the mid-day sun, rose-red at dawn, or a golden orange at sunset, with faint opalescent green shadows that deepen as the daylight fails, till when night comes they stand far up in the sky, pale and ghostly against the glittering stars. Those who have been fortunate enough to see these things, know the fascination they exert. It is the call of the great spaces and of the great mountains. It is a call that mocks at the song of the Lotus-eaters of old, it is more insidious than the Siren's call, and it is a call that, once heard, is never forgotten.
One may be contented and busy with the multitudinous little events of ordinary civilised life, but a chance phrase or some allusion wakes the memory of the wild mountain lands, and one feels sick with desire for the open spaces and the old trails. The dreams of the wanderer are far more real than most of the happenings that make up the average man's life. It may be the memory of some desolate peaks set against an angry sky, or of islands set in summer seas, or some grim fight with deserts of endless sands, or with tropical forests that have held their growth for a thousand years; it may be the memory of rushing rivers, or lakes set in wild woods where the beavers build their houses, or sunsets over great oceans—the spell binds one, the present does not exist, one is back again on the old trail—“The Red Gods have called us out, and we must go.”
There is no part of the world where lofty mountains exist at all comparable with the Himalaya. Elsewhere the highest is Aconcagua, 23,060 feet. But in the Himalaya there are over eighty peaks that tower above 24,000 feet, probably twenty above 26,000 feet, six above 27,000 feet, and the highest of all, Mount Everest, is 29,141 feet.
The huge range of mountains, of which the Himalaya forms the chief part, is by far the greatest mountain range in the world. Starting to the North of Afghanistan, it sweeps Eastwards, without a break, to the confines of China, over 2,000 miles away. Yet in this vast world of mountains, very few have been climbed. For many years to come the Himalaya will provide sport for the mountaineer when most of the other mountain ranges of the world will have been exhausted, as far as exploration and new ascents are concerned.
Mountaineering is a sport of which Englishmen should be proud; for they were the first really to pursue it as a pastime. The Alpine Club was the first mountaineering club, and if one inquires into the records of climbing and discovery amongst the mountains of the world, one usually finds that it was an Englishman who led the way. It is the Englishman's love of sport for its own sake that has enticed him on to battle with the dangers and difficulties that are offered with such a lavish hand by the great mountains.
As a sport, mountaineering is second to none. It is the finest mental and physical tonic that a man can take. Whether it be the grim determination of desperate struggles with difficult rocks, or with ice, or whether it be the sight of range after range of splendid peaks basking in the sunshine, or of mists half hiding the black precipices, or the changing fairy colours of a sunrise, or the subtle curves of the wind-blown snow, all these are good for one. They produce a sane mind in a sane body. The joy of living becomes a real and a great joy, all is right with the world, and life flies on golden wings. It is, of course, true that there are many other beautiful and health-giving places besides the mountains. The great expanses of the prairie lands, the forests, the seas set with lonely islands, and in England the downs and the homely lanes and villages nestling amongst woods, with clear streams wandering through the pastures where the cattle feed—all these are good; but the mountains give something more. There things are larger, man is more alone, one feels that one is much nearer to Nature, one is not held down by an artificial civilisation. And although the life may be more strenuous (for Nature can be savage at times, as well as beautiful), and the struggle may be hard, yet the battle is the more worth winning.
Nowhere in any mountain land does Nature offer the good things of the wilds with more prodigal hand than in the Himalaya. On the Southern slopes, coming down from the great snow-peaks, are the finest river gorges in the world, wonderful forests of mighty trees, open alps nestling high up at the head of the valleys, that look out over great expanses of the lesser ranges; and as one ascends higher and higher, the views of the great peaks draped in everlasting snow, changing perpetually as the clouds and mists form and re-form over them, astonish one by their magnificence.
All things that the Himalaya gives are big things, and now that the mountaineer has conquered the lesser ranges, he turns to the Himalaya, where the peaks stand head and shoulders above all others. Up to the present, however, owing to the difficulties of distance and size, none of the greater peaks have been climbed.
In climbing the great peaks of the Himalaya, the difficulties are far greater than those of less lofty ranges. On most of the highest the mere climbing presents such difficulties that it would be foolish to attempt their ascent. Thousands of feet of steep rock or ice guard their summits. Unless climbing above 24,000 feet is moderately easy, and no strenuous work is required, it could not be accomplished. For in the rarefied air at high altitudes there is insufficient oxygen to promote the normal oxidation of bodily tissue. Above 20,000 feet a cubic foot of air contains less than half the amount of oxygen that it does at sea-level. As the whole metabolism of the body is kept in working order by the oxygen supplied through the lungs, the obvious result of high altitudes is to interfere with the various processes occurring in the system. The combustion of bodily material is less, the amount of energy produced is therefore less also, and so capacity for work is diminished progressively as one ascends.
But that one is able still to work, and work hard, at these altitudes is evident by the experiences of Dr. Longstaff and Mr. Meade. On Trisul, 23,360 feet, Dr. Longstaff in ten and a half hours ascended from 17,450 feet to the summit. Whilst on Kamet, Mr. Meade's coolies carried a camp up to 23,600 feet. Dr. Kellas also in 1920 found his ascent on moderately easy snow above 21,000 feet approximated to 600 feet per hour. All these climbers were, however, acclimatised to high altitudes. The effect on anyone making a balloon or aeroplane ascent from sea-level would be different. Tissaudier in a balloon ascent fainted at 26,500 feet and on regaining consciousness found both his companions dead. Even on Pike's Peak, 14,109 feet, in the United States, many of those who go up in the railway suffer from faintness, sickness, breathlessness and general lassitude. Yet there are places on the earth,—the Pamirs,—where people live their lives at higher altitudes than Pike's Peak, without any effects of the diminished pressure being felt. They are acclimatised; their bodies, being accustomed to their surroundings, are good working machines.