THE NORTHERN APPROACH

As a matter of history it has been stated already in an earlier chapter of this book that the highest mountain in the world attracted attention so early as 1850. When we started our travels in 1921, something was already known about it from a surveyor's point of view; it was a triangulated peak with a position on the map; but from the mountaineer's point of view almost nothing was known. Mount Everest had been seen and photographed from various points on the Singalila ridge as well as from Kampa Dzong; from these photographs it may dimly be made out that snow lies on the upper part of the Eastern face at no very steep angle, while the arÊte bounding this face on the North comes down gently for a considerable distance. But the whole angle subtended at the great summit by the distance between the two of these view-points which are farthest apart is only 54°. The North-west sides of the mountain had never been photographed and nothing was known of its lower parts anywhere. Perhaps the distant view most valuable to a mountaineer is that from Sandakphu, because it suggests gigantic precipices on the South side of the mountain so that he need have no regrets that access is barred in that direction for political reasons.

The present reconnaissance began at Kampa Dzong, no less than 100 miles away, and in consequence of misfortunes which the reader will not have forgotten was necessarily entrusted to Mr.G. H. Bullock and myself, the only representatives of the Alpine Club now remaining in the Expedition. It may seem an irony of fate that actually on the day after the distressing event of Dr.Kellas' death we experienced the strange elation of seeing Everest for the first time. It was a perfect early morning as we plodded up the barren slopes above our camp and rising behind the old rugged fort which is itself a singularly impressive and dramatic spectacle; we had mounted perhaps a thousand feet when we stayed and turned, and saw what we came to see. There was no mistaking the two great peaks in the West: that to the left must be Makalu, grey, severe and yet distinctly graceful, and the other away to the right—who could doubt its identity? It was a prodigious white fang excrescent from the jaw of the world. We saw Mount Everest not quite sharply defined on account of a slight haze in that direction; this circumstance added a touch of mystery and grandeur; we were satisfied that the highest of mountains would not disappoint us. And we learned one fact of great importance: the lower parts of the mountain were hidden by the range of nearer mountains clearly shown in the map running North from the Nila La and now called the Gyanka Range, but it was possible to distinguish all that showed near Everest beyond them by a difference in tone, and we were certain that one great rocky peak appearing a little way to the left of Everest must belong to its near vicinity.

It was inevitable, as we proceeded to the West from Kampa Dzong, that we should lose sight of Mount Everest; after a few miles even its tip was obscured by the Gyanka Range, and we naturally began to wonder whether it would not be possible to ascend one of these nearer peaks which must surely give us a wonderful view. I had hopes that we should be crossing the range by a high pass, in which case it would be a simple matter to ascend some eminence near it. But at Tinki we learned that our route would lie in the gorge to the North of the mountains where the river Yaru cuts its way through from the East to join the Arun.

From Gyanka Nangpa, which lies under a rocky summit over 20,000 feet high, Bullock and I, on June 11, made an early start and proceeded down the gorge. It was a perfect morning and for once we had tolerably swift animals to ride; we were fortunate in choosing the right place to ford the river and our spirits were high. How could they be otherwise? Ever since we had lost sight of Everest the Gyanka Mountains had been our ultimate horizon to the West. Day by day as we had approached them our thoughts had concentrated more and more upon what lay beyond. On the far side was a new country. Now the great Arun River was to divulge its secrets and we should see Everest again after nearly halving the distance. The nature of the gorge was such that our curiosity could not be satisfied until the last moment. After crossing the stream we followed the flat margin of its right bank until the cliffs converging to the exit were towering above us. Then in a minute we were out on the edge of a wide sandy basin stretching away with complex undulations to further hills. Sand and barren hills as before—but with a difference; for we saw the long Arun Valley proceeding Southwards to cut through the Himalayas and its western arm which we should have to follow to Tingri; and there were marks of more ancient river beds and strange inland lakes. It was a desolate scene, I suppose; no flowers were to be seen nor any sign of life beyond some stunted gorse bushes on a near hillside and a few patches of coarse brown grass, and the only habitations were dry inhuman ruins; but whatever else was dead, our interest was alive.

After a brief halt a little way out in the plain, to take our bearings and speculate where the great mountains should appear, we made our way up a steep hill to a rocky crest overlooking the gorge. The only visible snow mountains were in Sikkim. Kanchenjunga was clear and eminent; we had never seen it so fine before; it now seemed singularly strong and monumental, like the leonine face of some splendid musician with a glory of white hair. In the direction of Everest no snow mountain appeared. We saw the long base tongues descending into the Arun Valley from the Gyanka Range, above them in the middle distance an amazingly sharp rock summit and below a blue depth most unlike Tibet as we had known it hitherto. A conical hill stood sentinel at the far end of the valley, and in the distance was a bank of clouds.

Our attention was engaged by the remarkable spike of rock, a proper aiguille. As we were observing it a rift opened in the clouds behind; at first we had merely a fleeting glimpse of some mountain evidently much more distant, then a larger and clearer view revealed a recognizable form; it was Makalu appearing just where it should be according to our calculations with map and compass.

We were now able to make out almost exactly where Everest should be; but the clouds were dark in that direction. We gazed at them intently through field glasses as though by some miracle we might pierce the veil. Presently the miracle happened. We caught the gleam of snow behind the grey mists. A whole group of mountains began to appear in gigantic fragments. Mountain shapes are often fantastic seen through a mist; these were like the wildest creation of a dream. A preposterous triangular lump rose out of the depths; its edge came leaping up at an angle of about 70° and ended nowhere. To the left a black serrated crest was hanging in the sky incredibly. Gradually, very gradually, we saw the great mountain sides and glaciers and arÊtes, now one fragment and now another through the floating rifts, until far higher in the sky than imagination had dared to suggest the white summit of Everest appeared. And in this series of partial glimpses we had seen a whole; we were able to piece together the fragments, to interpret the dream. However much might remain to be understood, the centre had a clear meaning as one mountain shape, the shape of Everest.

It is hardly possible of course from a distance of 57 miles to formulate an accurate idea of a mountain's shape. But some of its most remarkable features may be distinguished for what they are. We were looking at Everest from about North-east and evidently a long arÊte was thrust out towards us. Some little distance below the summit the arÊte came down to a black shoulder, which we conjectured would be an insuperable obstacle. To the right of this we saw the sky line in profile and judged it not impossibly steep. The edge was probably a true arÊte because it appeared to be joined by a col to a sharp peak to the North. From the direction of this col a valley came down to the East and evidently drained into the Arun. This was one fact of supreme importance which was now established and we noticed that it agreed with what was shown on the map; the map in fact went up in our esteem and we were inclined hereafter to believe in its veracity until we established the contrary. Another fact was even more remarkable. We knew something more about the great peak near Everest which we had seen from Kampa Dzong; we knew now that it was not a separate mountain; in a sense it was part of Everest, or rather Everest was not one mountain but two; this great black mountain to the South was connected with Everest by a continuous arÊte and divided from it only by a snow col which must itself be at least 27,000 feet high. The black cliffs of this mountain, which faced us, were continuous with the icy East face of Everest itself.

A bank of cloud still lay across the face of the mountain when Bullock and I left the crest where we were established. It was late in the afternoon. We had looked down into the gorge and watched our little donkeys crossing the stream. Now we proceeded to follow their tracks across the plain. The wind was fiercely blowing up the sand and swept it away to leeward, transforming the dead flat surface into a wriggling sea of watered silk. The party were all sheltering in their tents when we rejoined them. Our camp was situated on a grassy bank below which by some miracle a spring wells out from the sand. We also sought shelter. But a short while after sunset the wind subsided. We all came forth and proceeded to a little eminence near at hand; and as we looked down the valley there was Everest calm in the stillness of evening and clear in the last light.

I have dwelt upon this episode at some length partly because in all our travels before we reached the mountain it is for me beyond other adventures unforgettable; and not less because the vision of Everest inhabiting our minds after this day had no small influence upon our deductions when we came to close quarters with the mountain. We made other opportunities before reaching Tingri to ascend likely hills for what we could see; notably from Shekar Dzong we made a divergence from the line of march and from a hill above Ponglet, on a morning of cloudless sunrise, saw the whole group of mountains of which Everest is the centre. But no view was so instructive as that above Shiling and we added little to the knowledge gained that day.

On June 23, after a day's interval to arrange stores, the climbing party set forth from Tingri Dzong. We were two Sahibs, sixteen coolies, a Sirdar, Gyalzen and a cook Dukpa. The process of selecting the coolies had been begun some time before this; the long task of nailing their boots had been nearly completed on the march and we were now confident that sixteen of the best Sherpas with their climbing boots, ice axes and each a suit of underwear would serve us well. The Sirdar through whom coolies had been engaged in the first instance seemed to understand what was wanted and to have sufficient authority, and Dukpa, though we could not expect from him any culinary refinements, had shown himself a person of some energy and competence who should do much to reduce the discomforts of life in camp. Our equipment was seriously deficient in one respect: we were short of words. A few hours spent in Darjeeling with a Grammar of Tibetan had easily convinced me that I should profit little in the short time available by the study of that language. It had been assumed by both Bullock and myself that our experienced leaders would give the necessary orders for organisation in any dialect that might be required. We had found little opportunity since losing them to learn a language, and our one hope of conversing with the Sirdar was a vocabulary of about 150 words which I had written down in a notebook to be committed to memory on the march and consulted when occasion should arise.

The task before us was not likely to prove a simple and straightforward matter, and we had no expectation that it would be quickly concluded. It would be necessary in the first place to find the mountain; as we looked across the wide plains from Tingri and saw the dark monsoon clouds gathered in all directions we were not reassured. And there would be more than one approach to be found. We should have to explore a number of valleys radiating from Everest and separated by high ridges which would make lateral communication extremely difficult; we must learn from which direction various parts of the mountain could most conveniently be reached. And beyond all investigation of the approaches we should have to scrutinise Mount Everest itself. Our reconnaissance must aim at a complete knowledge of the various faces and arÊtes, a correct understanding of the whole form and structure of the mountain and the distribution of its various parts; we must distinguish the vulnerable places in its armour and finally pit our skill against the obstacles wherever an opportunity of ascent should appear until all such opportunities were exhausted. The whole magnitude of the enterprise was very present in our minds as we left Tingri. We decided that a preliminary reconnaissance should include the first two aims of finding the approaches to Mount Everest and determining its shape, while anything in the nature of an assault should be left to the last as a separate stage of organisation and effort. In the result we may claim to have kept these ends in view without allowing the less important to prey upon the greater. So long as a doubt remained as to the way we should choose we made no attempt to climb the peak; we required ourselves first to find out as much as possible by more distant observations.

Mount Everest, as it turned out, did not prove difficult to find. Almost in the direct line from Tingri are two great peaks respectively 26,870 and 25,990 feet high—known to the Survey of India as M₁ and M₂ and to Tibetans as Cho-Uyo and Gyachung Kang. They lie about W.N.W. of Everest. We had to decide whether we should pass to the South of them, leaving them on our left, or to the North. In the first case we surmised that we might find ourselves to the South of a western arÊte of Everest, and possibly in Nepal, which was out of bounds. The arÊte, if it existed, might perhaps be reached from the North and give us the view we should require of the South-western side, in which case one base would serve us for a large area of investigation and we should economise time that would otherwise be spent in moving our camp round from one side to another. Consequently we chose the Northern approach. We learned from local knowledge that in two days we might reach a village and monastery called ChÖbuk, and from there could follow a long valley to Everest. And so it proved. ChÖbuk was not reached without some difficulty, but this was occasioned not by obstacles in the country but by the manners of Tibetans. At Tingri we had hired four pack animals. We had proceeded 2 or 3 miles across the plain when we perceived they were heading in the wrong direction. We were trusting to the guidance of their local drivers and felt very uncertain as to where exactly we should be aiming; but their line was about 60° to the South of our objective according to a guesswork compass bearing. An almost interminable three-cornered argument followed. It appeared that our guides intended to take five days to ChÖbuk. They knew all about “ca' canny.” In the end we decided to take the risk of a separation; Gyalzen went with the bullocks and our tents to change transport at the village where we were intended to stay the night, while the rest of us made a bee line for a bridge where we should have to cross the Rongbuk stream. At the foot of a vast moraine we waited on the edge of the “maidan,” anxiously hoping that we should see some sign of fresh animals approaching; and at length we saw them. It was a late camp that evening on a strip of meadow beside the stream, but we had the comfort of reflecting that we had foiled the natives, whose aim was to retard our progress; and in the sequel we reached our destination with no further trouble.

On June 25 we crossed the stream at ChÖbuk. Tibetan bridges are so constructed as to offer the passenger ample opportunities of experiencing the sensation of insecurity and contemplating the possibilities of disaster. This one was no exception. We had no wish to risk our stores, and it was planned that the beasts should swim. They were accordingly unladen and driven with yell and blow by a willing crowd, until one more frightened than the rest plunged into the torrent and the others followed. We now found ourselves on the right bank of the Rongbuk stream, and knew we had but to follow it up to reach the glacier at the head of the valley. An hour or so above ChÖbuk we entered a gorge with high red cliffs above us on the left. Below them was a little space of fertile ground where the moisture draining down from the limestone above was caught before it reached the stream—a green ribbon stretched along the margin with grass and low bushes, yellow-flowering asters, rhododendrons and juniper. I think we had never seen anything so green since we came up on to the tableland of Tibet. It was a day of brilliant sunshine, as yet warm and windless. The memory of Alpine meadows came into my mind. I remembered their manifold allurements; I could almost smell the scent of pines. Now I was filled with the desire to lie here in this “oasis” and live at ease and sniff the clean fragrance of mountain plants. But we went on, on and up the long valley winding across a broad stony bay; and all the stony hillsides under the midday sun were alike monotonously dreary. At length we followed the path up a steeper rise crowned by two chortens between which it passes. We paused here in sheer astonishment. Perhaps we had half expected to see Mount Everest at this moment. In the back of my mind were a host of questions about it clamouring for answer. But the sight of it now banished every thought. We forgot the stony wastes and regrets for other beauties. We asked no questions and made no comment, but simply looked.

It is perhaps because Everest presented itself so dramatically on this occasion that I find the Northern aspect more particularly imaged in my mind, when I recall the mountain. But in any case this aspect has a special significance. The Rongbuk Valley is well constructed to show off the peak at its head; for about 20 miles it is extraordinarily straight and in that distance rises only 4,000 feet, the glacier, which is 10 miles long, no more steeply than the rest. In consequence of this arrangement one has only to be raised very slightly above the bed of the valley to see it almost as a flat way up to the very head of the glacier from which the cliffs of Everest spring. To the place where Everest stands one looks along rather than up. The glacier is prostrate; not a part of the mountain; not even a pediment; merely a floor footing the high walls. At the end of the valley and above the glacier Everest rises not so much a peak as a prodigious mountain-mass. There is no complication for the eye. The highest of the world's great mountains, it seems, has to make but a single gesture of magnificence to be lord of all, vast in unchallenged and isolated supremacy. To the discerning eye other mountains are visible, giants between 23,000 and 26,000 feet high. Not one of their slenderer heads even reaches their chief's shoulder; beside Everest they escape notice—such is the pre-eminence of the greatest.

Considered as a structure Mount Everest is seen from the Rongbuk Valley to achieve height with amazing simplicity. The steep wall 10,000 feet high is contained between two colossal members—to the left the North-eastern arÊte, which leaves the summit at a gentle angle and in a distance of about half a mile descends only 1,000 feet before turning more sharply downwards from a clearly defined shoulder; and to the right the North-west arÊte (its true direction is about W.N.W.), which comes down steeply from the summit but makes up for the weaker nature of this support by immense length below. Such is the broad plan. In one respect it is modified. The wide angle between the two main arÊtes involves perhaps too long a face; a further support is added. The Northern face is brought out a little below the North-east shoulder and then turned back to meet the crest again, so that from the point of the shoulder a broad arÊte leads down to the North and is connected by a snow col at about 23,000 feet with a Northern wing of mountains which forms the right bank of the Rongbuk Glacier and to some extent masks the view of the lower parts of Everest. Nothing could be stronger than this arrangement and it is nowhere fantastic. We do not see jagged crests and a multitude of pinnacles, and beautiful as such ornament may be we do not miss it. The outline is comparatively smooth because the stratification is horizontal, a circumstance which seems again to give strength, emphasising the broad foundations. And yet Everest is a rugged giant. It has not the smooth undulations of a snow mountain with white snow cap and glaciated flanks. It is rather a great rock mass, coated often with a thin layer of white powder which is blown about its sides, and bearing perennial snow only on the gentler ledges and on several wide faces less steep than the rest. One such place is the long arm of the North-west arÊte which with its slightly articulated buttresses is like the nave of a vast cathedral roofed with snow. I was, in fact, reminded often by this Northern view of Winchester Cathedral with its long high nave and low square tower; it is only at a considerable distance that one appreciates the great height of this building and the strength which seems capable of supporting a far taller tower. Similarly with Everest; the summit lies back so far along the immense arÊtes that big as it always appears one required a distant view to realise its height; and it has no spire though it might easily bear one; I have thought sometimes that a Matterhorn might be piled on the top of Everest and the gigantic structure would support the added weight in stable equanimity.

On June 26 we pitched our tents in full view of Everest and a little way beyond the large monastery of ChÖyling which provides the habitations nearest to the mountain, about 16 miles away. After three days' march from the Expedition's headquarters at Tingri we had found the object of our quest and established a base in the Rongbuk Valley, which was to serve us for a month.

The first steps in a prolonged reconnaissance such as we were proposing to undertake were easily determined by topographical circumstances. Neither Bullock nor I was previously acquainted with any big mountains outside the Alps; to our experience in the Alps we had continually to refer, both for understanding this country and for estimating the efforts required to reach a given point in it. The Alps provided a standard of comparison which alone could be our guide until we had acquired some fresh knowledge in the new surroundings. No feature of what we saw so immediately challenged this comparison as the glacier ahead of us; in so narrow a glacier it was hardly surprising that the lower part of it should be covered with stones, but higher the whole surface was white ice, and the white ice came down in a broad stream tapering gradually to a point when it was lost in the waste of the brown grey. What was the meaning of this? Even from a distance it was possible to make out that the white stream contained pinnacles of ice. Was it all composed of pinnacles? Would they prove an insuperable obstacle? In the Alps the main glaciers are most usually highways, the ways offered to the climber for his travelling. Were they not to prove highways here?

Our first expedition was designed to satisfy our curiosity on this head. Allowing a bountiful margin of time for untoward contingencies we set forth on June 27 with five coolies at 3.15 a.m., and made our way up the valley with a good moon to help us. To be tramping under the stars toward a great mountain is always an adventure; now we were adventuring for the first time in a new mountain country which still held in store for us all its surprises and almost all its beauties. It was not our plan at present to make any allowance for the special condition of elevation; we expected to learn how that condition would tell and how to make allowances for the future. We started from our camp at 16,000 feet—above the summit of Mont Blanc—just as we should have left an Alpine hut 6,000 feet lower, and when we took our first serious halt at 7 a.m. had already crossed the narrow end of the glacier. That short experience—an hour or so—was sufficient for the moment. The hummocks of ice covered with stones of all sizes—like the huge waves of a brown angry sea—gave us no chance of ascending the glacier; one might hopefully follow a trough for a little distance but invariably to be stopped by the necessity of mounting once more to a crest and descending again on the other side. Nevertheless, we were not dissatisfied with our progress. We were now in a stream bed between the glacier and its left bank and above the exit of the main glacier stream, which comes out on this side well above the snout. The watercourse offered an opportunity of progress; it was dry almost everywhere and for a bout of leaping from boulder to boulder we were usually rewarded by a space of milder walking on the flat sandy bed. Our pace I considered entirely satisfactory as we went on after breakfast; unconsciously I was led into something like a race by one of the coolies who was pressing along at my side. I noticed that though he was slightly built he seemed extremely strong and active, compact of muscle; but he had not yet learnt the art of walking rhythmically and balancing easily from stone to stone. I wondered how long he would keep up. Presently we came to a corner where our stream bed ended and a small glacier-snout was visible above us apparently descending from the Northwest. We gathered on a high bank of stones to look out over the glacier. I observed now that the whole aspect of the party had changed. The majority were more than momentarily tired, they were visibly suffering from some sort of malaise. It was not yet nine o'clock and we had risen barely 2,000 feet, but their spirits had gone. There were grunts instead of laughter.

The glacier's left bank which we were following was now trending to the right. To the South and standing in front of the great North-west arm of Everest was a comparatively small and very attractive snow peak, perhaps a little less than 21,000 feet high. We had harboured a vague ambition to reach its shoulder, a likely point for prospecting the head of the Rongbuk Glacier. But between us and this objective was a wide stretch of hummocky ice which had every appearance of being something more than a mere bay of the main glacier. We suspected a western branch and proceeded to confirm our suspicion. After a rough crossing below the glacier above us we were fortunate enough to find another trough wider than the first and having a flat sandy bottom where we walked easily enough. Presently leaving the coolies to rest on the edge of the glacier Bullock and I mounted a high stony shoulder, and from there, at 18,500 feet, saw the glacier stretching away to the West, turning sharply below us to rise more steeply than before. Cloud prevented us from distinguishing what appeared to be a high mountain ridge at the far end of it.

It was evident that nothing was to be gained at present by pushing our investigations further to the West. Our curiosity was as yet unsatisfied about those white spires of ice to which our eyes had constantly returned. We declined the alternative of retracing our steps and without further delay set about to cross the glacier. It was now eleven o'clock and we were under no delusion that the task before us would be other than arduous and long. But the reward in interest and valuable information promised to be great, for, by exploring the glacier's right bank during our descent we should learn all we wanted to know before making plans for an advance. And we hoped to be in before dark.

The stone-covered ice on which we first embarked compared favourably with that of our earlier experience before breakfast. The sea, so to speak, was not so choppy; the waves were longer. We were able to follow convenient troughs for considerable distances. But at the bottom of a trough which points whither it will it is impossible to keep a definite direction and difficult to know to what extent one is erring. An hour's hard work was required to bring us to the edge of the white ice. Our first question was answered at a glance. It had always seemed improbable that these were sÉracs such as one meets on an Alpine icefall, and clearly they were not. We saw no signs of lateral crevasses. The shapes were comparatively conical and regular, not delicately poised but firmly based, safely perpendicular and not dangerously impending. They were the result not of movement but of melting, and it was remarkable that on either side the black ice looked over the white, as though the glacier had sunk in the middle. The pinnacles resembled a topsy-turvy system of colossal icicles, icicles thrust upwards from a common icy mass, the whole resting on a definable floor. The largest were about 50 feet high.

We were divided from this fairy world of spires by a deep boundary moat and entered it on the far side by what may be described as a door but that it had no lintel. An alley led us over a low wall and we had reached the interior. A connected narrative of our wanderings in this amazing country could hardly be true to its disconnected character. The White Rabbit himself would have been bewildered here. No course seemed to lead anywhere. Our idea was to keep to the floor so far as we were able; but most usually we were scrambling up a chimney or slithering down one, cutting round the foot of a tower or actually traversing along an icy crest. To be repeatedly crossing little cols with the continued expectation of seeing a way beyond was a sufficiently exciting labour; it was also sufficiently laborious since the chopping of steps was necessary almost everywhere; but fatigue was out of sight in the enchanted scene, with the cool delight of little lakes, of the ice reflected in their unruffled waters and of blue sky showing between the white spires. We had but one misadventure, and that of no consequence—it was my fate when crossing the frozen surface of one little lake to suffer a sudden immersion: the loss of dignity perhaps was more serious than the chilling of ardour, for we soon came upon a broadening alley and came out from our labyrinth as suddenly as we entered it, to lie and bask in the warm sun.

Our crossing of the white ice after all had taken little more than two hours, and we might well consider ourselves fortunate. But it must be remembered that we were far from fresh at the start and now the reaction set in. The stone-covered glacier on this side, besides being a much narrower belt was clearly not going to give us trouble, and after an ample halt we started across it easily enough. On the right bank we had noticed many hours before above the glacier a broad flat shelf, presumably an old moraine, and a clear mark along the hillside away down to a point below the snout. This was now our objective and no doubt once we had gained it our troubles would be ended. But in the first place it had to be gained. In the Alps it has often seemed laborious to go up hill towards the end of a day: it was a new sensation to find it an almost impossible exertion to drag oneself up a matter of 150 feet. And further exertions were to be required of us. A little way down the valley a glacier stream came in on our right; we had observed this before and hopefully expected to follow our terrace round and rejoin it on the far side of the gully. But it was late in the afternoon and the stream was at its fullest. We followed it down with defeated expectations; it always proved just too dangerous to cross. Finally it formed a lake at the edge of the glacier before disappearing beneath it and obliged us to make a detour on the ice once more. I suppose this obstacle was mild enough; but again an ascent was involved, and after it at least one member of the party seemed incapable of further effort. Another halt was necessary. We were now down to about 17,000 feet and at the head of a long passage at the side of the glacier, similar to that we had ascended in the morning on the other bank. Those who suffer from altitude on a mountain have a right to expect a recovery on the descent. But I saw no signs of one yet. It was a long painful hour balancing from boulder to boulder along the passage, with the conscious effort of keeping up the feat until we came out into the flat basin at the glacier end. Then as we left the glacier behind us the day seemed to come right. One obstacle remained, a stream which had been crossed with difficulty in the morning and was now swollen to a formidable torrent. It was carried with a rush—this was no moment for delay. Each man chose his own way for a wetting; for my part, after a series of exciting leaps on to submerged stones I landed in the deepest part of the stream with the pick of my axe dug into the far bank to help me scramble out. After this I remember only of the last 4 miles the keen race against the gathering darkness; fatigue was forgotten and we reached camp at 8.15 p.m., tired perhaps, but not exhausted.

It has seemed necessary to give an account of this first expedition in some detail in order to emphasise certain conditions which governed all our movements from the Rongbuk Valley. We now knew how to get about. Flat though the glacier might be, it was no use for travelling in any part we had seen, not a road but an obstacle. The obstacle, however, had not proved insurmountable, and though the crossing had been laborious and long, we were not convinced that it need be so long another time; careful reconnaissance might reveal a better way, and we had little doubt that both the main glacier and its Western branch could be used freely for lateral communication if we chose. It would not always be necessary in organising an expedition to be encamped on one side of the glacier rather than the other. And we had discovered that it was not a difficult matter to make our way along the glacier sides; we could choose either a trough or a shelf.

We had also been greatly interested by the phenomena of fatigue. The most surprising fact when we applied our standard of comparison was that coming down had proved so laborious; Bullock and I had each discovered independently that we got along better when we remembered to breathe hard, and we already suspected what we afterwards established—that it was necessary to adopt a conscious method of breathing deeply for coming down as for going up. Another inference, subsequently confirmed on many occasions, accused the glacier. The mid-day sun had been hot as we crossed it and I seemed to notice some enervating influence which had not affected me elsewhere. It was the glacier that had knocked me out, not the hard work alone but some malignant quality in the atmosphere, which I can neither describe nor explain; and in crossing a glacier during the day I always afterwards observed the same effect; I might feel as fit and fresh as I could wish on the moraine at the side but only once succeeded in crossing a glacier without feeling a despairing lassitude.

I shall now proceed to quote from my diary:

June 28.—A slack day in camp. It is difficult to induce coolies to take any steps to make themselves more comfortable. We're lucky to have this fine weather. The mountain appears not to be intended for climbing. I've no inclination to think about it in steps to the summit. Nevertheless, we gaze much through field-glasses. E. is, generally speaking, convex, steep in lower parts and slanting back to summit. Last section of East arÊte[4] should go; but rocks up to the shoulder are uninviting. An arÊte must join up here, coming down towards us and connecting up with first peak to N.[5] There's no true North arÊte to the summit, as we had supposed at first. It's more like this:

G. H. B. thinks little of the North-west arm. But I'm not so sure; much easy going on that snow if we can get to it and rocks above probably easier than they look—steep but broken. Are we seeing the true edge? I wish some folk at home could see the precipice on this side—a grim spectacle most unlike the long gentle snow slopes suggested by photos. Amusing to think how one's vision of the last effort has changed; it looked like crawling half-blind up easy snow, an even slope all the way up from a camp on a flat snow shoulder; but it won't be that sort of grind; we'll want climbers and not half-dazed ones; a tougher job than I bargained for, sanguine as usual.

E. is a rock mountain.

Obviously we must get round to the West first. The Western glacier looks as flat as this one. Perhaps we shall be able to walk round into another cwm[6] on the far side of North-west buttress.

June 29.—Established First Advanced Camp.

The start late, about 8 a.m., an hour later than ordered. Loads must be arranged better if anything is to be done efficiently. Gyalzen's response to being hustled is to tie knots or collect tent pegs—with no idea of superintending operations. An exciting day with destination unfixed. We speculated that the shelf on the left bank would resemble that on right. A passage on stone-covered glacier unavoidable and bad for coolies—perhaps to-day's loads were too heavy for this sort of country. From breakfast place of 27th I went on with Gyalzen, following up a fresh-water stream to the shelf; good going on this shelf for forty minutes, with no sign of more water, and I decided to come back to the stream. Just as we were turning I saw a pond of water and a spring, an ideal place, and it's much better to be further on. Real good luck. Wind blows down the glacier and the camp is well sheltered. Only crab that we lose the sun early—4 p.m. to-day; but on the other hand it should hit us very soon after sunrise.

Coolies in between 3.30 and 4.30. Dorji Gompa first, stout fellow, with a big load. They seem happy and interested.… It should now be possible to carry reconnaissance well up the main glacier and to the basin Westwards without moving further—once we get accustomed to this elevation.

June 30.—A short day with second[7] party, following the shelf to a corner which marks roughly the junction of the main glacier with its Western branch. A clearing day after a good night; we found a good way across to the opposite corner, about an hour across, and came back in leisurely fashion. Neither B. nor I felt fit.