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Title: Mount Everest, the Reconnaissance, 1921

Author: Charles Howard-Bury
George Mallory
A. F. R. Wollaston

Release date: April 10, 2012 [eBook #39421]

Language: English

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MOUNT EVEREST

The Summit.

MOUNT EVEREST

THE RECONNAISSANCE, 1921

By
Lieut.-Col. C. K. HOWARD-BURY, D.S.O.

AND OTHER MEMBERS OF THE MOUNT EVEREST EXPEDITION

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAPS

LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.
55 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD & CO.
1922

PREFACE
The Mount Everest Committee of the Royal Geographical Society and the Alpine Club
desire to express their thanks to Colonel Howard-Bury, Mr. Wollaston, Mr. Mallory, Major
Morshead, Major Wheeler and Dr. Heron for the trouble they have taken to write so soon
after their return an account of their several parts in the joint work of the Expedition. They
have thereby enabled the present Expedition to start with full knowledge of the results of the
reconnaissance, and the public to follow the progress of the attempt to reach the summit
with full information at hand.

The Committee also wish to take this opportunity of thanking the Imperial Dry Plate
Company for having generously presented photographic plates to the Expedition and so
contributed to the production of the excellent photographs that have been brought back.

They also desire to thank the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company for
their liberality in allowing the members to travel at reduced fares; and the Government of
India for allowing the stores and equipment of the Expedition to enter India free of duty.

J. E. C.
Eaton
A. R. } Hon.
Secretaries.
Hinks

CONTENTS
PAGE
Introduction. By Sir Francis Younghusband, K.C.S.I., K.C.I.E.,
President of the Royal Geographical Society 1

THE NARRATIVE OF THE EXPEDITION
By Lieut.-Col. C. K. Howard-Bury, D.S.O.
CHAP.
I From Darjeeling through Sikkim 23
II The Chumbi Valley and the Tibetan Plateau 37
III From Khamba Dzong through Unknown Country to Tingri 55
IV Tingri and the Country to the South 71
V The Search for Kharta 86
VI The Move to Kharta 98
VII The Kama Valley 112
VIII The Upper Kharta Valley and the 20,000-foot Camp 130
IX The Return to Kharta by the Kama Valley 146
X The Return Journey to Phari 156
XI Back to Civilisation 170

THE RECONNAISSANCE OF THE MOUNTAIN
By George H. Leigh-Mallory
XII The Northern Approach 183
XIII The Northern Approach (continued) 203
XIV The Eastern Approach 221
XV The Assault 250
XVI Weather and Condition of Snow 262
XVII The Route to the Summit 273

NATURAL HISTORY
By A. F. R. Wollaston
XVIII An Excursion to Nyenyam and Lapche Kang 281
XIX Natural History Notes 290

An Appreciation of the Reconnaissance. By Professor Norman Collie, F.R.S.,
XX 304
President of the Alpine Club

APPENDICES
I The Survey. By Major H. T. Morshead, D.S.O. 319
II The Photographic Survey. By Major E. O. Wheeler, M.C. 329
A Note on the Geological Results of the Expedition. By A. M. Heron, D.Sc.,
III 338
F.G.S., Geological Survey of India
The Scientific Equipment. By A. R. Hinks, F.R.S., Secretary of the Royal
IV 341
Geographical Society
Mammals, Birds and Plants collected by the Expedition. By A. F. R.
V 344
Wollaston
Index 351

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
The
Summit Frontispiece
Chomolhari from the South 46
Loading up at Dochen 50
Kampa Dzong 54
Tinki Dzong 58
Gyangka Range from near Chushar 62
Shekar Dzong 66
The Abbot of Shekar Chöte 68
Military Governor, his Wife and Mother 100
The Dzongpen of Kharta and his Wife 106
Lamas of Kharta Monastery 110
Makalu from 21,500-foot peak on ridge south of Kama-chu 112
Makalu and Chomolönzo 114
Cliffs of Chomolönzo from camp at Pethang Ringmo 116
The Kama Valley 118
Sea of cloud from peak north of Kama Valley. Kanchenjunga in distance 138
Chomolönzo from the alp below the Langma La, Kama Valley 150
Members of the Expedition 178
Cho-Uyo 190
Summit of Mount Everest and North Peak from the Island, West Rongbuk Glacier 210
Mount Everest from the Rongbuk Glacier, nine miles north-west 214
Summit of Mount Everest and South Peak from the Island, West Rongbuk Glacier 218
Pethang-tse 222
Summit of Makalu 226
South-east Ridge of Mount Everest from above the 20,000-foot camp, Kharta
230
Valley
North-east of Mount Everest and Chang La from Lhakpa La 246
Mount Everest from the 20,000-foot camp—wind blowing snow off the mountain 278
Temple at Lapche Kang 286

Gauri-Sankar 288
Lower Kama-chu 290
Junipers in the Kama Valley 294
Forest in the Kama Valley 300
Mount Everest at sunset from the 20,000-foot camp, Kharta Valley 316

LIST OF MAPS
I Map to illustrate the route of the Mount Everest Expedition. Scale 1/750,000 At end
II Map of Mount Everest. Scale 1/100,000 „
III Geological Map of the Mount Everest Region „

INTRODUCTION
By Sir FRANCIS YOUNGHUSBAND, K.C.S.I., K.C.I.E.

The idea of climbing Mount Everest has been vaguely in men's mind for thirty or forty
years past. Certainly that veteran mountain-climber and mountain-lover, Douglas Freshfield,
had it persistently rising within him as he broke away from the Swiss Alps and subdued the
giants of the Caucasus and then sought still higher peaks to conquer. Lord Curzon also had
had it in his mind, and when Viceroy of India had written suggesting that the Royal
Geographical Society and the Alpine Club should make a joint exploration of the mountain.
Bruce, Longstaff and Mumm would have made this exploration in 1905 if the permission of
the Nepalese and Tibetan Governments had been available. So also would Rawling a few
years later. All these, and doubtless others, had contemplated at least a preliminary
reconnaissance of Mount Everest.

But, so far as I know, the first man to propose a definite expedition to Mount Everest was
the then Captain Bruce, who, when he and I were together in Chitral in 1893, proposed to
me that we should make a glorious termination to a journey from Chinese Turkestan across
Tibet by ascending Mount Everest. And it is Bruce who has held to the idea ever since and
sought any opportunity that offered of getting at the mountain.

It stands to reason that men with any zest for mountaineering could not possibly allow
Mount Everest to remain untouched. The time, the opportunity, the money, the ability to
make the necessary preliminary preparation might be lacking, but the wish and the will to
stand on the summit of the world's highest mountain must have been in the heart of many a
mountaineer since the Alps have been so firmly trampled under foot. The higher climbers
climb, the higher they want to climb. It is certain that they will never rest content till the
proudest peaks of the Himalaya are as subdued and tamed as the once dreaded summits of
the Alps now are.

Men simply cannot resist exercising and stretching to their fullest tether the faculties and
aptitudes with which they each happen to be specially endowed. One born with an aptitude
for painting is dull and morose and fidgety until he can get colours and a brush into his hand
and commence painting. Another is itching to make things—to use his hands and fashion

wood or stone or metal into forms which he is continually creating in his mind. Another is
restless until he can sing. Another is ever pining to be on a public platform swaying the
audience with his oratory and playing on their feelings as on a musical instrument. Each has
his own inner aptitude which he aches to give vent to and bring into play. And more than
this, he secretly owns within himself an exceedingly high standard—the highest standard—
of what he wants to attain to along his own particular line, and he is never really content in
his mind and at peace with himself when he is not stretching himself out to the full towards
this high pinnacle which he has set before him.

Now fortunately all men are not born with the same aptitudes. We do not all want to sing
or all want to orate or all want to paint. Some few want to climb mountains. These men love
to pit themselves against what most others would consider an insuperable obstacle. They
enjoy measuring themselves against it and being forced to exercise all their energies and
faculties to overcome it. The Duke of the Abruzzi is as good an example of this type as I
know. He was never happy until he had discovered some inaccessible and impracticable
mountain and then thrown himself against it and come to grips with it in dead earnest and
either conquered it or been thrown back from it utterly and completely exhausted, but with
the satisfaction that anyhow he had exercised every nerve and muscle and faculty to the full.
His native mountains he had early conquered over and over again, so he had to look further
afield to Mount Elias in Alaska and Ruwenzori in East Africa; and having vanquished these
he would doubtless have turned his eyes to Mount Everest if for political reasons the way to
that mountain had not been barred, and he was compelled therefore to look to the next
highest mountain, namely, the peak K2 in the Karakoram Himalaya in the neighbourhood of
which he attained to a greater height, 24,600 feet, than has yet been attained by any man on
foot.

The Duke no doubt is human and would like his name to go down to posterity as having
conquered some conspicuously lofty and difficult peak. But undoubtedly the ruling passion
with him would be this love of pitting himself against a great mountain and feeling that he
was being forced to exert himself to the full. To such men a tussle with a mountain is a real
tonic—something bracing and refreshing. And even if they are laid out flat by the mountain
instead of standing triumphant on its summit they have enjoyed the struggle and would go
back for another if they ever had the chance.

Others—like Bruce—climb from sheer exuberance of spirits. Blessed with boundless
energy they revel in its exercise. It is only on the mountain side, breathing its pure air,
buffeting against its storms, testing their nerve, running hair-breadth risks, exercising their
intelligence and judgment, feeling their manhood and looking on Nature face to face and

with open heart and mind that they are truly happy. For these men days on the mountain are
days when they really live. And as the cobwebs in their brains get blown away, as the blood
begins to course refreshingly through their veins, as all their faculties become tuned up and
their whole being becomes more sensitive, they detect appeals from Nature they had never
heard before and see beauties which are revealed only to those who win them. They may not
at the moment be aware of the deepest impressions they are receiving. But to those who
have struggled with them the mountains reveal beauties they will not disclose to those who
make no effort. That is the reward the mountains give to effort. And it is because they have
much to give and give it so lavishly to those who will wrestle with them that men love the
mountains and go back to them again and again.

And naturally the mountains reserve their choicest gifts for those who stand upon their
summits. The climber's vision is then no longer confined and enclosed. He can see now all
round. His width of outlook is enlarged to its full extremity. He sees in every direction. He
has a sense of being raised above the world and being proudly conscious that he has raised
himself there by his own exertions, he has a peculiar satisfaction and for the time forgets all
frets and worries in the serener atmosphere in which he now for a moment dwells.

And it is only for a moment that he can dwell there. For men cannot always live on the
heights. They must come down to the plains again and engage in the practical life of the
world. But the vision from the heights never leaves them. They want to return there. They
want to reach a higher height. Their standard of achievement rises. And so it has come about
that mountaineers when they had climbed the highest heights in Europe went off to the
Caucasus, to the Andes, and eventually to the Himalaya to climb something higher still.
Freshfield conquered the Caucasus, Whymper and Conway the Andes, and the assault upon
the Himalaya is now in full swing.

It is therefore only in the natural course of things that men should want to climb the
highest summit of the Himalaya. And though those who set out to climb Mount Everest will
probably think little of the eventual results, being perfectly satisfied in their own minds,
without any elaborate reasoning, that what they are attempting is something supremely
worth while, yet it is easy for lookers on to see that much unexpected good will result from
their activities. The climbers will be actuated by sheer love of mountaineering, and that is
enough for them. But climbing Mount Everest is no futile and useless performance of no
satisfaction to anyone but the climbers. Results will follow from it of the highest value to
mankind at large.

For the climbers are unwittingly carrying out an experiment of momentous consequence
to mankind. They are testing the capacity of the human race to stand the highest altitudes on
this earth which is its home. No scientific man, no physiologist or physician, can now say
for certain whether or not a human body can reach a height of 29,000 feet above the sea. We
know that in an aeroplane he can be carried up to a much greater height. But we do not
know whether he can climb on his own feet such an altitude. That knowledge of men's
capacity can only be acquired by practical experiment in the field.

And in the process of acquiring the knowledge a valuable result will ensue. By testing
their capacities men actually increase them. By exercising their capacities to the full
mountaineers seem to enlarge them. A century ago the ascent of Mount Blanc seemed the
limit of human capacity. Nowadays hundreds ascend the mountain every year. And going
further afield men ascended the highest peaks in the Caucasus and then in the Andes and
have been reaching higher and higher altitudes in the Himalaya. Conway reached 23,000
feet, Kellas 23,186 feet, Longstaff 23,360 feet, Dr. Workman 23,000 feet, Kellas and Meade
23,600 feet and the Duke of the Abruzzi 24,600 feet. It looks therefore as if man by
attempting more was actually making himself capable of achieving more. By straining after
the highest he is increasing his capacity to attain it.

In this measuring of themselves against the mountains men are indeed very like puppies
crawling about and testing their capacities on their surroundings—crawling up on to some
obstacle, tumbling back discomfited but returning gallantly to the attack and at last
triumphantly surmounting it. Thus do they find out what they can do and how they stand in
relation to their surroundings. Also by exercising and stretching their muscles and faculties
to the full they actually increase their capacity.

Men are still only in the puppy stage of existence. We are prone to think ourselves very
“grown up” but really we are only in our childhood. In the latest discussions as to the period
of time which must have elapsed since life first appeared upon this earth a period of the
order of a thousand million years was named. But of that immense period man has been in
existence for only a quarter or half a million years. So the probability is that he has still long
years before him and must be now only in his childhood—in his puppyhood. We certainly
find that as he inquisitively looks about his surroundings and measures himself against them
he is steadily increasing his mastery over them. In the last five hundred years record after
record has been beaten. Men have ventured more and shown more adaptability and a sterner
hardihood and endurance than ever before. They have ventured across the oceans,
circumnavigated the globe, reached the poles, risen into the air, and it can be only a question
of time—a few months or a few years—before they reach the highest summit of the earth.

“What then?” some will ask. “Suppose men do reach the top of Mount Everest, what
then?” “Suppose we do establish the fact that man has the capacity to surmount the highest
summit of his surroundings, of what good is that knowledge?” This is the kind of question
promoters of the enterprise continually have to answer. One reply is obvious. The sight of
climbers struggling upwards to the supreme pinnacle will have taught men to lift their eyes
unto the hills—to raise them off the ground and direct them, if only for a moment, to
something pure and lofty and satisfying to that inner craving for the worthiest which all men
have hidden in their souls. And when they see men thrown back at first but venturing again
and again to the assault till with faltering footsteps and gasping breaths they at last reach the
summit they will thrill with pride. They will no longer be obsessed with the thought of what
mites they are in comparison with the mountains—how insignificant they are beside their
material surroundings. They will have a proper pride in themselves and a well-grounded
faith in the capacity of spirit to dominate material.

And direct practical results flow from this increasing confidence which man is acquiring
in face of the mountains. A century ago Napoleon's crossing of the Alps was thought an
astounding feat. During the last thirty years troops—and Indian troops—have been moved
about the Himalaya in all seasons and crossed passes over 15,000 feet above sea level in the
depth of winter. On the Gilgit frontier, in Chitral, and in Tibet, neither cold nor snow nor
wind stopped them. In winter or in summer, in spring or in autumn, they have faced the
Himalayan passes. And they have been able to negotiate them successfully because of their
increased knowledge of men's capacities and of the way to overcome difficulties that
constant wrestling with mountains in all parts of the world during the last half-century has
given. The activities of the Alpine Club have produced direct practical results in the
movement of troops in the Himalaya.

More still will follow. When men have proved that they can surmount the highest peak in
the Himalaya they will take heart to climb other peaks and become more and more at home
in that wonderful region, extending for nigh two thousand miles from the Roof of the World
in the North and West to the borders of Burma and China in the South and East and
containing more than seventy peaks over 24,000 feet in height—that is higher than any in
the Andes, the second highest range of mountains in the world—and more than eleven
hundred peaks over 20,000 feet in height. This great mountain region which in Europe
would stretch from Calais to the Caspian is one vast mine of beauty of every varied
description. And a mine of beauty has this advantage over a mine of material wealth—that
we can never exhaust it. And not only can we never exhaust it, but the more we take out the
more we find, and the more we give away the richer we are. We may go on digging into a

gold mine, but eventually we shall find there is no gold left. We shall have exhausted our
mine. But we may dig into that mine of beauty in the Himalaya and never exhaust it. The
more we dig the more we shall find—richer beauty, subtler beauty, more varied beauty—
beauty of mountain form and beauty of pure and delicate colour, beauty of forest, beauty of
river and beauty of lake and combined beauty of rushing torrent, precipitous cliff, richest
vegetation and overtopping snowy summit. And when we have discovered these treasures
and made them our own we can actually increase their value to ourselves by giving them
away to others. By imparting to others the enjoyment which we have felt we shall have
increased our own enjoyment.

We cannot expect those who are first engaged in climbing Mount Everest to have the time
or inclination to observe and describe the full beauty there is. They will be set on
overcoming the physical difficulties and they will be so exhausted for the moment by the
effort they will have made that they will not have the repose of mind which is so necessary
for seeing and depicting beauty. But when they have pioneered the way and beaten down a
path, others will more leisurely follow after. Many even of these may not be able to express
in words or in picture the enjoyment they have felt and be able to communicate it to others.
They may not be given to public speech or writing and may have no capacity for painting.
The flame of their enjoyment may be kept sacred and hidden within them, and it may be
only in the privacy of colloquy with some kindred soul that the white glow of their
enjoyment may ever be shown. But, others there may be who have the capacity for making
the world at large share with them some little of the joy they have felt—who can make our
nerves tingle and our blood course quicker, our eyes uplift themselves and our outlook
widen as we go out with them to face and overcome the mountains. Such men as these from
their very intimacy with the mountains are able to point out beauties which distant
beholders would never suspect. And as Leslie Stephen through his love of mountains has
been able to attract thousands to the Alps and given them enjoyment, clean and fresh, which
but for him they might never have known, so we hope that in the fulness of time a greater
Stephen will tell of the unsurpassable beauty of the Himalaya and by so doing add
appreciably to the enjoyment of human life.

Such are some of the advantages which men in general will obtain from the attempt to
climb Mount Everest. But it is time now to say something of the mountain itself.

Mount Everest for its size is a singularly shy and retiring mountain. It hides itself away
behind other mountains. On the north side, in Tibet, it does indeed stand up proudly and
alone, a true monarch among mountains. But it stands in a very sparsely inhabited part of
Tibet, and very few people ever go to Tibet. From the Indian side only its tip appears among
a mighty array of peaks which being nearer look higher. Consequently for a long time no
one suspected Mount Everest of being the supreme mountain not only of the Himalaya but
of the world. At the time when Hooker was making his Himalayan journeys—that was in
1849—Kanchenjunga was believed to be the highest.

How it was eventually discovered to be the highest is a story worth recording. In the very
year that Hooker was botanising in the Sikkim Himalaya the officers of the Great
Trigonometrical Survey were making observations from the plains of India to the peaks in
Nepal which could be seen from there. When they could find a native name for a peak they
called it by that name. But in most cases no native name was forthcoming, and in those
cases a Roman number was affixed to the peak. Among these unnamed peaks to which
observations to determine the altitude and position were taken from stations in the plains
was Peak XV. The observations were recorded, but the resulting height was not computed
till three years later, and then one day the Bengali Chief Computer rushed into the room of
the Surveyor-General, Sir Andrew Waugh, breathlessly exclaiming, “Sir! I have discovered
the highest mountain in the world.” The mean result of all the observations taken from the
six stations from which Peak XV had been observed came to 29,002 feet, and this Peak XV
is what is now known as Mount Everest.

The question is often asked, “Why twenty-nine thousand and two?” “Why be so
particular about the two?” The answer is that that particular figure is the mean of many
observations. But it is not infallible. It is indeed in all probability below rather than above
the mark, and a later computation of the observed results puts the height at 29,141 feet. In
any case, however, there are, as Sir Sidney Burrard has pointed out in his discussion of this
point in Burrard and Hayden's Himalaya and Tibet, many causes of slight error in observing
and computing the altitude of a distant and very lofty peak. The observations are made with
a theodolite. The telescope of the theodolite may not be absolutely perfect. The theodolite
may not be levelled with perfect accuracy. The graduations on the circle of the theodolite
may not be quite accurate. The observer himself may not have observed with sufficient
perfection. An error of ten feet may have resulted from these causes. Then there are other
and greater sources of possible error. There may be error in the assumed height of the
observing station; and the altitudes of peaks are always varying in nature with the increase
and decrease of snow in summer and winter and in a season of heavy snowfall or a season

of light snowfall. Another source of error arises from the varying effects of gravitational
attraction. “The attraction of the great mass of the Himalaya and Tibet,” says Burrard, “pulls
all liquids towards itself, as the moon attracts the ocean and the surface of the water
assumes an irregular form at the foot of the Himalaya. If the ocean were to overflow
Northern India its surface would be deformed by Himalayan attraction. The liquid in levels
is similarly affected and theodolites cannot consequently be adjusted; their plates when
levelled are still tilted upward towards the mountains, and angles of observation are too
small by the amount the horizon is inclined to the tangential plane. At Darjeeling the surface
of water in repose is inclined about 35̎ to this plane, at Kurseong about 51̎, at Siliguri about
23̎, at Dehra Dun and Mussooree about 37̎. For this reason all angles of elevation to
Himalayan peaks measured from the plains, as Mount Everest was measured, are too small
and consequently all our values of Himalayan heights are too small. Errors of this nature
range from 40 to 100 feet.”

This then is a considerable source of error, but the most serious source of uncertainty
affecting the value of heights is the refraction of the atmosphere. A ray of light from a peak
to an observer's eye does not travel along a straight line but assumes a curved path concave
to the earth. The ray enters the observer's eye in a direction tangential to the curve at that
point, and this is the direction in which the observer sees the peak. It makes the peak appear
too high. Corrections have therefore to be applied. But there is no certainty as to what
should be the amount of the correction; and it is now believed that the computers of the
height of Mount Everest applied too great a correction for refraction and consequently
reduced its height too much.

Burrard brings together in the following table the different errors to which the carefully
determined height of Mount Everest is liable:—

Source of error. Magnitude of possible error.
Variation of snow level from the mean Unknown
Errors of observation 10 feet
Adoption of erroneous height for observing station 10 feet
Deviation of gravity 60 feet, too small
Atmospheric refraction 150 feet, too small

The following table shows how the different values of the height of Mount Everest have
been deduced:—

Height of Mount Everest

Determination
Height as of height
Year of Distance
Observing station. determined with revised
observation. in miles.
by Waugh. correction for
refraction.
Feet Feet
Jirol 1849 118 28,991 29,141
Mirzapur 1849 108 29,005 29,135
Joafpati 1849 108 29,001 29,117
Ladnia 1849 108 28,998 29,144
Harpur 1849 111 29,026 29,146
Minai 1850 113 28,990 29,160
Suberkum 1881 87 — 29,141
Suberkum 1883 87 — 29,127
Tiger Hill 1880 107 — 29,140
Sandakphu 1883 89 — 29,142
Phallut 1902 85 — 29,151
Senchal 1902 108 — 29,134
Mean — — 29,002 29,141

The height 29,141 is still, Burrard thinks, too small, as it has yet to be corrected for the
deviations of gravity. But though it is a more reliable result than 29,002, the latter is still to
be retained in maps and publications of the Survey of India.

As to the name, it was called Everest after the distinguished Surveyor-General of India
under whose direction the triangulation had been carried out, one result of which was the
discovery of the mountain. From the Indian side and Nepal it is not a conspicuous peak on
account of its lying so far back. No native name for it could be discovered and Sir Andrew
Waugh, the successor of Sir George Everest, called it after his predecessor. From the Tibetan
side it is much more conspicuous and, as General Bruce stated in his lecture to the Royal
Geographical Society in November 1920, and as Colonel Howard-Bury found in 1921, the
Tibetans call it Chomolungma, which Colonel Howard-Bury translated, the “Goddess
Mother of the Mountains”—a most appropriate name. But the name Mount Everest is now
so firmly established throughout the world that it would be impossible to change it. It is
therefore now definitely adopted.

Now, this mountain so coveted by mountaineers is unfortunately situated exactly on the
border between two of the most secluded countries in the world—Nepal and Tibet. To reach
it the climbers must pass through one or other of these countries and the difficulty of getting
the necessary permission is what has so far prevented any attempt being made to attack
Mount Everest. But recently access through Tibet has become more possible, and it so
happens that it is on the Tibetan side that the summit seems most accessible. From the
distant views that could be obtained of it from Sandakphu beyond Darjeeling and from
Kampa Dzong in Tibet, a ridge running from the summit in a northerly direction seemed to
give good promise of access. Major Ryder and Captain Rawling in 1904, viewing the
mountain from a distance of sixty miles almost due north, thought the mountain might be
approached from that direction. At the same time the Tibetans were distinctly more
favourable to travellers than they had ever been before. The chances therefore of at least
exploring Mount Everest were much more promising, and Major Rawling was planning an
expedition of exploration when the war broke out and he was killed.

Mr. Douglas Freshfield would certainly have taken the matter up during his Presidency of
the Royal Geographical Society, but he had the misfortune to hold that post during the years
of the war and no action was possible. But as soon as the war was over interest in Mount
Everest revived. In March 1919 Captain J. B. L. Noel read a paper to the Royal
Geographical Society describing a reconnaissance he had made in the direction of the
mountain in the year 1913. He showed how attention during the last few years had been
focused more and more upon the Himalaya and said, “Now that the Poles have been
reached, it is generally felt that the next and equally important task is the exploration and
mapping of Mount Everest.” So he urged that the exploration which had been the ambition
of the late General Rawling with whom he was to have joined should be accomplished in
his memory. “It cannot be long,” he continued, “before the culminating summit of the world
is visited and its ridges, valleys and glaciers are mapped and photographed.” And at the
conclusion of his lecture he said that “some day the political difficulties will be overcome
and a fully equipped expedition must explore and map Mount Everest.”

It was not clear whether Captain Noel was advocating a definite attempt to climb the
mountain and reach the actual summit, and Mr. Douglas Freshfield and Dr. Kellas who
followed after him referred only to the approaches to Mount Everest. But Captain J. P.
Farrar, the then President of the Alpine Club, seems to have considered it “a proposal to
attempt the ascent of Mount Everest,” and said that the Alpine Club took the keenest interest
in the proposal and was prepared not only to lend such financial aid as was in its power, but

also to recommend two or three young mountaineers quite capable of dealing with any
purely mountaineering difficulties which were likely to be met with on Mount Everest.

The hour was late, but I was so struck by the ring of assurance and determination in the
words of the President of the Alpine Club that I could not help asking the President, Sir
Thomas Holdich, to let me say a few words. I then told how General Bruce had made to me,
twenty-six years ago, the proposal to climb Mount Everest. I said the Royal Geographical
Society was interested in the project and now we had heard the President of the Alpine Club
say that he had young mountaineers ready to undertake the work. I added, “It must be
done.” There might be one or two attempts before we were successful, but the first thing to
do was to get over the trouble with our own Government. If they were approached properly
by Societies like the Royal Geographical Society and the Alpine Club, and a reasonable
scheme were put before them and it were proved to them that we meant business, then, I
said, they would be reasonable and do what we wanted. This was a big business and must be
done in a big way and I hoped that something really serious would come of that meeting.[1]

Sir Thomas Holdich in closing the meeting advocated approaching Mount Everest
through Nepal, and hoped that at some time not very remote we should hear more about the
proposed expedition to Mount Everest.

Only a few days after the meeting I met Colonel Howard-Bury at lunch with a Fellow of
our Society, Mr. C. P. McCarthy. He was not a mountaineer in the Alpine Club sense of the
word, but he had spent much of his time shooting in the Alps and in the Himalaya, and
becoming deeply interested in the Mount Everest project, had a talk with Mr. Freshfield
about it and made a formal application to the Society for their support in undertaking an
expedition. Things now began to move, and the Society applied to the India Office for
permission to send an expedition into Tibet for the purpose of exploring Mount Everest. The
Government of India in reply said that they were not prepared at the moment to approach
the Tibetan Government; but they did not return any absolute refusal.

During my Presidency the Society, in conjunction with the Alpine Club, still further
pressed the matter. We asked the Secretary of State for India to receive a deputation from
the two bodies, and the request being granted and the deputation being assured of his
sympathy we invited Colonel Howard-Bury to proceed to India in June 1920 to explain our
wishes personally to the Government of India, and ask them to obtain for us from the Dalai
Lama the necessary permission to enter Tibet for the purpose of exploring and climbing
Mount Everest. Lord Chelmsford, the Viceroy, received Colonel Howard-Bury most
sympathetically and after some preliminary difficulties had been overcome, Mr. Bell, the

Political Agent in Sikkim, who happened to be in Lhasa, was instructed to ask the Dalai
Lama for permission, and Mr. Bell being on most friendly terms with His Holiness,
permission was at once granted.

The one great obstacle in the way of approaching Mount Everest had now at last been
removed. What so many keen mountaineers had for years dreamed of was within sight. And
as soon as the welcome news arrived—early in January 1921—preparations were
commenced to organise an expedition. A joint Committee of three representatives each from
the Royal Geographical Society and the Alpine Club was formed under the Chairmanship of
the President of the former Society and was named the Mount Everest Committee. The three
members of the Society were Sir Francis Younghusband, Mr. E. L. Somers-Cocks
(Honorary Treasurer) and Colonel Jack. The three members of the Alpine Club were
Professor Norman Collie, Captain J. P. Farrar and Mr. C. F. Meade. Mr. Eaton and
Mr. Hinks were Honorary Secretaries.

Our first business was to select a leader for the Expedition. General Bruce, who had had
the idea in his mind for so many years, who knew the Himalaya as no one else did, and who
had a special aptitude for handling Himalayan people, was now in England, and it was to
him our thoughts first turned. But he had just taken up an appointment with the
Glamorganshire Territorial Association and was not then available. In these circumstances
we were fortunate in having ready to hand a man with such high qualifications as Colonel
Howard-Bury. He had much to do on his property in Ireland, but he willingly accepted our
invitation to lead the Expedition, and we could then proceed to the choice of the
mountaineers.

From the very first we decided that the main object of the Expedition was to be the ascent
of the mountain and that all other activities were to be made subordinate to the supreme
object of reaching the summit. It was to be no mere surveying or geologising or botanising
expedition which would as a secondary object try to climb the mountain if it saw a chance.
To climb the mountain was to be the first object and the mapping and everything else was to
come afterwards. The reason for this is obvious. What men really want to know is whether
man can ascend the highest mountain.

Knowledge of the topography, fauna and flora of that particular area is of very small
consequence in comparison with the knowledge of human capacity to surmount the highest
point in men's physical surroundings on this earth. By some perversity of human nature
there are men who shy at putting the ascent of Mount Everest in the forefront, because it is
adventurous and must therefore, they seem to think, cease to be a scientific object. They

profess to be unconcerned with the climbing of the mountain so long as a map is made or
plants collected. But the plain man instinctively sees the value of the adventure and knows
that the successful ascent of Mount Everest will show what man is capable of and put new
hope and heart into the human race.

But while it was decided to make the ascent of Mount Everest the main object of the
Expedition, Professor Norman Collie and Mr. Douglas Freshfield from the first insisted that
a whole season must be devoted to a thorough reconnaissance of the mountain with a view
to finding not only a feasible route to the summit but what was without any doubt the most
feasible route. We knew nothing of the immediate approaches to the mountain. But we knew
that the only chance of reaching the summit was by finding some way up which would
entail little rock-climbing or ice step-cutting. The mountain had therefore to be prospected
from every side to find a comparatively easy route and to make sure that no other easier
route than the one selected existed. This was considered ample work for the Expedition for
one season, while the following season would be devoted to an all-out effort to reach the
summit along the route selected in the first year.

On this basis the first year's Expedition had accordingly to be organised. The mountain
party was to consist of four members, two of whom were to be men of considerable
experience and two younger men who it was hoped would form the nucleus of the climbing
party the next year. Mr. Harold Raeburn, a member of the Alpine Club who had had great
experience of snow and rock work in the Alps, and who had in 1920 been climbing on the
spurs of Kanchenjunga, was invited to lead the mountain party. Dr. Kellas, who had made
several climbing expeditions in the Himalaya and had in 1920 ascended to a height of
23,400 feet on Mount Kamet, was also invited to join the climbing party. He had been
making experiments in the use of oxygen at high altitudes and was still out in India
preparing to continue these experiments on Mount Kamet in 1921. It was suggested to him
that he should make the experiments on Mount Everest instead, and the party would thereby
have the benefit of his wide Himalayan experience. This invitation he accepted.

The two younger members selected for the climbing party were Mr. George Leigh
Mallory and Captain George Finch, both with a very high reputation for climbing in the
Alps. Unfortunately Captain Finch was for the time indisposed and his place at the last
moment had to be taken by Mr. Bullock of the Consular Service, who had been at
Winchester with Mr. Mallory and who happened to be at home on leave. Through the
courtesy of Lord Curzon he was able to get special leave of absence from the Foreign
Office.

While we were finding the men we had also to be finding the money. As a quite rough
guess we estimated the Expedition for the two years would cost about £10,000, and at least
a substantial portion of this had to be raised by private subscription. Appeals were made by
their Presidents to the Fellows of the Royal Geographical Society and to members of the
Alpine Club, and Captain Farrar was especially energetic in urging the claims of the
enterprise. As a result the members of the Alpine Club subscribed over £3,000 and the
Fellows of the Royal Geographical Society nearly that amount. Later on with the advice and
help of Mr. John Buchan arrangements were made with The Times and the Philadelphia
Ledger for the purchase of the rights of publication of telegrams from the Expedition, and
with the Graphic for the purchase of photographs. So eventually the financial position of the
Expedition was assured.

The equipment and provisioning of the Expedition was undertaken by the Equipment
Committee—Captain Farrar and Mr. Meade—and the greatest trouble was taken to ensure
that the most suitable and best tents, sleeping bags, clothing, boots, ice-axes, ropes, cooking
apparatus, provisions, etc., were purchased and that they were properly packed and listed.

In the same way the scientific equipment was undertaken by Colonel Jack and Mr. Hinks.

Finally the services of Mr. Wollaston, well known for his journeys in New Guinea and
East Africa, were secured as Medical Officer and Naturalist to the Expedition.

Throughout these preparations the advice and help of the best men in every line were
freely and willingly forthcoming. For such an enterprise all were ready to give a helping
hand. Whether they were scientific men, or business men or journalists, they were ready to
throw aside their own work and devote hours to ensuring that the Expedition should be a
success along the lines on which they severally had most experience.

And most valuable was the encouragement given to the Expedition by the interest which
His Majesty showed in conversation with the President, and His Royal Highness the Prince
of Wales in receiving Colonel Howard-Bury—an interest which was shown in practical
form by generous subscriptions to the funds of the Expedition.

The Expedition was able, therefore, to set out from England under the most favourable
auspices, and it was to be joined in India by two officers of the Indian Survey Department,
Major Morshead and Major Wheeler, and by an officer of the Indian Geological Survey,
Dr. Heron. It was thus admirably equipped for the acquirement of knowledge. But
acquirement of knowledge was not the only object which the Expedition had in view. It
could not be doubted that the region would possess beauty of exceptional grandeur. So it

was hoped that the Expedition would discover, describe and reveal to us, by camera and by
pen, beauty no less valuable than the knowledge.

Footnote:
[1] In the enthusiasm of the moment I seem to have displayed a regrettable excess of
“nationalism”! According to the record, I expressed the hope that it would be an Englishman
who first stood on the summit of Mount Everest. I trust my foreign friends will excuse me! I
have this at least to plead in extenuation, that if I have always striven for my own
countrymen when they led the way, I have never been backward in helping explorers of
other nationalities whom I have met in the Himalaya; and I have received the thanks of both
the French and Italian Governments for the help I have given to French and Italian explorers.

THE NARRATIVE OF THE EXPEDITION
By

LIEUT.-COL. C. K. HOWARD-BURY, D.S.O.

CHAPTER I
FROM DARJEELING THROUGH SIKKIM

Early in May most of the members of the Expedition had assembled at Darjeeling.
Mr. Raeburn had been the first to arrive there in order to collect as many coolies of the right
type as he could. I had come out a few weeks earlier in order to visit the Indian Authorities
at Simla and to make sure that there were no political difficulties in the way. There I found
every one very kind and helpful and all were anxious to do their best to assist the
Expedition. Owing to the heavy deficit in the Indian Budget, the expenses of every
Department had been rigorously cut down, and the Government of India were unable to give
us financial assistance. They agreed, however, to take upon themselves the whole of the
expenses of the survey, and to lend the Expedition the services of an officer of the
Geological Department. The Viceroy, Lord Reading, who, together with Lady Reading, took
the greatest interest in the Expedition, kindly gave us a subscription of 750 rupees, and at
Darjeeling the Governor of Bengal, Lord Ronaldshay, had not only put up several members
of the Expedition at his most comfortable house, but had also given the Expedition several
rooms in which to collect their stores for separation and division into loads. Local stores,
such as tea, sugar, flour and potatoes had to be bought on the spot. Coolies had to be
collected and arrangements made for fitting them out with boots and warm clothing. The
coolies were to receive pay at the rate of 12 annas per day while in Sikkim, and when in
Tibet were to receive another 6 annas per day, either in cash or the equivalent in rations. The
former proved the most acceptable eventually, except during the period when the coolies
were up on the glaciers, where there were no villages and consequently nothing could be
bought.

A passport had been sent to us by the Government at Lhasa under the seal of the Prime
Minister of Tibet, of which the following is a translation:—
To
The Jongpens and Headmen of Pharijong, Ting-ke, Khamba and Kharta.

You are to bear in mind that a party of Sahibs are coming to see the Chha-mo-lung-ma mountain and they will evince
great friendship towards the Tibetans. On the request of the Great Minister Bell a passport has been issued requiring you

and all officials and subjects of the Tibetan Government to supply transport, e.g. riding ponies, pack animals and coolies as
required by the Sahibs, the rates for which should be fixed to mutual satisfaction. Any other assistance that the Sahibs may
require either by day or by night, on the march or during halts, should be faithfully given, and their requirements about
transport or anything else should be promptly attended to. All the people of the country, wherever the Sahibs may happen
to come, should render all necessary assistance in the best possible way, in order to maintain friendly relations between the
British and Tibetan Governments.

Dispatched during the Iron-Bird Year.
Seal of the Prime Minister.

Our start had been originally arranged for the middle of May, but the “Hatarana,” in
which were most of our stores, was unable to obtain a berth, as accommodation in the
Docks at Calcutta was very insufficient for the large number of steamers that call there; she
had therefore to lie out in the Hoogly for a fortnight before she could get room in the Docks.
However, by May 11 everything was unloaded at Calcutta. The Darjeeling-Himalayan
Railway had generously given the Expedition a free pass over their line for all stores and
goods, and as the Customs had granted a free entry into the country, everything was up in
Darjeeling by May 14. The time of waiting at Darjeeling had, however, not been wasted.
Four cooks had been engaged for the Expedition and some forty coolies. These were Sherpa
Bhotias, whose homes were in the North-east corner of Nepal, some of them coming from
villages only a few miles to the South of Mount Everest. They were an especially hardy type
of coolie, accustomed to living in a cold climate and at great heights. They were Buddhists
by religion and therefore had no caste prejudices about food, and could eat anything. They
proved at times quarrelsome and rather fond of strong drink; they turned out, however, to be
a useful and capable type of man, easily trained in snow and ice work and not afraid of the
snow. We later on picked up a few Tibetan coolies in the Chumbi Valley and these proved to
be as good as the best of the Sherpas. They were very hardy and got on well with the
Tibetans, who were always rather suspicious of our Nepalese coolies. They were also less
troublesome to manage and could carry heavy loads at great heights. These coolies had all
to be fitted with boots and very difficult this sometimes proved to be, as often their feet
were almost as broad as they were long. Blankets, cap comforters, fur gloves and warm
clothing were issued to all of them, and for those who had to sleep at the highest camps,
eiderdown sleeping-bags were also taken. Arrangements had also to be made for interpreters
to accompany the Expedition, as with the exception of Major Morshead, who knew a little
Tibetan, no one was able to speak the language. It was a matter of great importance to get
hold of the right type of man as interpreter. It was essential to find men of some position and
standing who knew not only the Tibetan language, but also all their ways and customs. After
many names had been suggested, we were very lucky in getting hold of two men who
possessed these qualifications to a great extent. Gyalzen Kazi, who came from Gangtok in
Sikkim, where he was a Kazi and landowner, was a young and ambitious man who knew the

Tibetan language well and was well read in their sacred writings and scriptures. The other
one, Chheten Wangdi, was a Tibetan who had been for a time a captain in the Tibetan army,
and who had left them and been attached to the Indian army in Egypt during the war. He
was a most energetic, hard-working man, knew all the Tibetan manners and customs, and
was up to all their tricks of procrastination and attempts at overcharging. By his knowledge
and persuasive powers the Expedition was saved many thousand rupees.

The Expedition when it left Darjeeling included nine Europeans. The Alpine climbers
were Mr. Harold Raeburn, Dr. A. M. Kellas, Mr. G. L. Mallory and Mr. C. H. Bullock.
Dr. Kellas had unfortunately in the early spring of this year tried his constitution very
severely by climbing Narsing,[2] and he had also spent several nights at very low
temperatures in camps over 20,000 feet, on the slopes of Kabru,[2] so that when he arrived at
Darjeeling a few days before the Expedition was due to start, he was not in as fit a condition
as he should have been. The two Surveyors were Major H. T. Morshead, D.S.O., and Major
O. E. Wheeler, M.C. These officers had been lent by the Survey of India. Major Morshead
had already a considerable experience of travelling in the Eastern borders of Tibet and in the
Kham country, where he had carried out some useful survey work, and under him were
three native surveyors, one of whom was left in Sikkim to revise the existing maps, which
were very inaccurate, while the other two, Gujjar Singh and Lalbir Singh, accompanied the
Expedition and filled in all the details of the country traversed on their plane tables at a
scale of 4 miles to the inch. Major O. E. Wheeler, the other Surveyor, was a member of the
Canadian Alpine Club and a very keen climber himself. He was an expert in the Canadian
system of Photo Survey—a method especially useful and applicable to a difficult and
mountainous country. The Indian Government had also lent the Expedition the services of
Dr. A. M. Heron, of the Geological Survey of India, in order to study the geology of the
country through which it was about to go, and about which nothing was known, and to
investigate the problems which surround the age and the structure of the Himalayan range.
Besides these, there was Mr. A. F. Wollaston, a member of the Alpine Club and a very
distinguished traveller as well, who had made some most interesting journeys around
Ruwenzori in Africa and in the interior of New Guinea. He accompanied the Expedition in
the capacity of Doctor, Naturalist and Botanist, and was equipped with a complete
collector's outfit.

During our time of enforced waiting at Darjeeling, we came in for the Lebong races—a
unique and very amusing entertainment. The course is a small circular one, where the top of
the Lebong spur has been levelled, and only genuine Tibetan and Bhotia ponies are allowed
to race there. There were always large entries for these races, as they were very popular

among the hill-folk, who flocked into Darjeeling from great distances, dressed in their finest
clothes and with their women covered with jewellery and wearing clothing of brilliant
shades of green and red. There was very heavy betting on each race, and the amount of
money that the coolies, sirdars or servants were able to put up was astonishing. In most of
the races there was at least a field of ten, which made the start a very amusing affair. The
jockeys were all hill-boys, and as they and the ponies were up to every dodge and trick, and
were equally anxious to get off first, and as most of the ponies had mouths of iron, it was
always a long time before a start could be made, and in nearly every race one or more of the
ponies would run out of the course at the point nearest its own home.

On May 13 Major Morshead with his assistant surveyors and fifty coolies left Darjeeling
for Khamba Dzong. They went the direct road up the Teesta Valley correcting the Sikkim
map as they went along. Their object in going this way was to connect the Indian Survey
with the new survey that it was proposed to carry out in Tibet. This would occupy all Major
Morshead's time until we should be able to join him at Khamba Dzong in June.

The chief transport of the Expedition consisted of 100 mules belonging to the Supply and
Transport Corps and lent to us by the Commander-in-Chief. These arrived at Darjeeling a
few days before we were due to start and were camped in the open on the old parade ground
at the top of Katapahar. Sub-Conductor Taylor, who had already had experience of mule
transport in Tibet in 1904–5, and was to have come in charge of them, was unfortunately
laid up at the last moment with a bad attack of influenza. The next man chosen was passed
medically unfit, and the third man in temporary charge of the mules was, when he arrived at
Darjeeling, already suffering from ague. It was not till May 15 that Sergeant Fowkes
arrived, who was to take charge of the mules. He was a very capable and energetic N.C.O.,
and their subsequent failure was in no way due to him, but solely to the fact that the mules
were in no kind of condition to do hard work in the hills, being sleek and fat from the plains
where they had had very little work to do. The muleteers, or drabies, were all hill-men and
had been picked out specially for us and fitted out with every kind of warm clothing.
Though there were a hundred mules, this did not mean that there were a hundred mules to
carry our loads—so much extra warm clothing and blankets had been given to the drabies
that together with all their line gear it needed twenty-seven mules to carry their kit, which
left only seventy-three mules for the Expedition loads, each mule carrying 160 lb., and this
was not nearly sufficient for our requirements. A certain amount of our stores had therefore
to be left behind at Government House, Darjeeling, for a second journey, and we only took
with us sufficient food and supplies for three and a half months, relying on the mules going
back and returning with the remainder of the stores in July or August. Owing to the camping

grounds being small, and bungalow accommodation limited on the journey across Sikkim,
we divided ourselves into two parties with fifty mules and twenty coolies in each party;
Wollaston, Wheeler, Mallory and myself being with the first party and Raeburn, Kellas,
Bullock and Heron with the second.

The first party left Darjeeling on May 18, and the second party the following day. I
remained behind to see the second party off, and then by doing a double march I caught the
first party up that evening at Kalimpong, not, however, without noticing on the way that
several of our mules were already knocked up. The night before we started rain came down
in torrents, and it was still pouring when the mules came round in the morning, and though
the rain stopped soon afterwards yet the hillsides were all wreathed in soft grey mists and
every moss-hung branch and tree dripped steadily with moisture all day long. The first day's
march from Darjeeling was to Peshoke—a seventeen-mile march and down hill all the way
after Ghoom. From Darjeeling we gradually ascended some 500 feet to Ghoom and then for
6 miles followed the well-engineered cart road which leads below Senchal to the new
military cantonment of Takda which is, I believe, about to be abandoned, as the Gurkhas,
for whom it was built, are not at all happy there. During the war it was used as a German
internment camp. Along this ridge there are magnificent forests of evergreen oaks, all of
which were covered with ferns and orchids and long trailing mosses. This first ridge rising
straight out of the plains condenses all the moisture-laden winds that blow up from the Bay
of Bengal and causes it almost always to be enveloped in clouds and mists. The path now
rapidly descended 4,000 feet, through tea plantations. The whole hillside was covered with
tea bushes, neatly planted in lines, and showing a very vivid green at this time of the year.
Here and there grew tall tree ferns, 20 feet to 30 feet in height, their stems covered with
ferns and Coelogene orchids. The air was now growing hotter and hotter as we descended,
but the wonderful and varied vegetation, the beautiful and brilliantly coloured butterflies—
for which the Teesta Valley is famous—that flitted across the path in front of us, proved an
irresistible attraction, and made us forget the fact that we were dripping with perspiration
from every pore. We had already descended nearly 5,000 feet by the time that we reached
the P.W.D. bungalow at Peshoke, which was situated in a clearing in the forest. We were,
however, still 2,000 feet above the muddy Teesta River which ran down below us in its
steamy gorge, and the next morning saw us descending 2,000 feet through a Sal forest by a
slippery path of clay leading to the suspension bridge which crosses the mighty river that
with its affluents drains the whole of Sikkim. It rushes along with irresistible force in
mighty waves and rapids, and though attempts have been made to float timber down it for
commercial purposes, yet the current is too swift and the logs were all smashed to pieces.
Here at the bridge we were only 700 feet above the sea and the heat was intense. Several

mules had been left exhausted at Peshoke and had been unable to proceed the following day
and several more only just reached Kalimpong, the second day's march, only 12 miles from
Peshoke, but the climb of 3,300 feet up from the bridge over the Teesta in the steamy and
enervating heat proved too much for them. The forests here were very beautiful—huge sal
trees and giant terminalia abounded with weird and wonderful creepers embracing their
stems, or hanging down from their branches. The handsome pothos—the finest of the
creepers—grew everywhere. The curious pandanus or screw pine displayed its long and
picturesque fronds, while here and there among the dark green of the tropical forest showed
up as a brilliant patch of colour the scarlet blooms of the clerodendrons. Above the forests
the hillsides had been terraced with immense labour into rice fields, which at this time of
year were not yet planted out, but the fields of maize were already ripening. At Kalimpong
there was a large and comfortable Dak bungalow, surrounded by a well-kept garden full of
roses and scarlet hibiscus with a beautiful and large-flowered mauve solanum growing up
the pillars on the verandah. At Kalimpong we were entertained by Dr. Graham and his
charming daughters, who showed us true hospitality and kindness. They live in a very pretty
house embowered in roses on the crest of the hill and commanding lovely views over the
Teesta Valley and up to the snowy peaks of Kanchenjunga. Higher up on the spur are the
homes and the industrial schools that many years of hard work have brought into being,
thanks to the indefatigable labours of Dr. Graham and the late Mrs. Graham; these now hold
between 600 and 700 pupils, both boys and girls, who, when they leave these schools, have
all been taught some useful trade and are sent out as useful members of society. They are
given as practical an education as could be wished for anywhere. At the Grahams' house I
met David Macdonald, the British Trade Agent at Yatung, who was acting temporarily as
political agent in Sikkim until Major Bailey arrived from England. He was an old friend of
mine, as I had met him before in Tibet. He promised us every assistance in his power and
had telegraphed to Yatung and to the Jongpen at Phari to have supplies and anything we
wanted in readiness at those places. He told me that an old Tibetan Lama, who knew Mount
Everest well, had described it as “Miti guti cha-phu long-nga,” “the mountain visible from
all directions, and where a bird becomes blind if it flies so high.” Throughout our journey
across Sikkim the weather was very bad, with heavy falls of rain every day and night. We
had had the bad luck to strike the Chota Bursat, or little monsoon, which usually heralds the
coming of the proper monsoon a fortnight or three weeks later.

The march to Pedong was an easy one of 14 miles with a gentle climb of 3,000 feet
followed by a descent of 2,000 feet past gardens beautiful with their great trees of scarlet
hibiscus, daturas and bougainvilleas, which grew with wonderful luxuriance in this climate
where frost is almost unknown in winter and where in summer the temperature scarcely

ever exceeds 85° Fahrenheit. We passed some of the most wonderful datura hedges that I
have ever seen with trees 15 feet to 20 feet in height and laden with hundreds of enormous
white trumpet-shaped blooms 8 inches in diameter and fully a foot long. I could only stand
and admire. At night these great white flowers glowed as though with phosphorescence in
the dark and had a strangely sweet smell. I got thoroughly soaked on the march, for a couple
of minutes of these deluges are sufficient to go through any waterproof.

Our mules were now beginning to give us great trouble. Several had to be left behind
after each march and fresh animals had to be hired locally to replace those left behind. At
Pedong there were more wonderful daturas, and all along the next march we kept passing
grand bushes of these flowers. It rained all that night and most of the following day, so that
we had a very wet and trying march to Rongli—the distance was only 12 miles, but this
included a very steep descent of over 3,000 feet to the bottom of a steamy valley, followed
by a climb of 3,000 feet across an intervening ridge and then down another 2,000 feet to the
Rongli bungalow. The poor mules were very tired by the end of the march and one had died
of colic on the way. Most of the others too were getting very sore backs from the constant
rain. On the way Wollaston and I stopped at Rhenock to have a look at the Chandra Nursery
kept by Tulsi Dass, where there were many interesting plants, chiefly collected in the
Sikkim forests. There was a tree growing everywhere in the forests with a white flower
which Sikkim people called Chilauni, and all along the paths the Sikkim durbar had been
busy planting mulberry, walnut and toon trees. There was a curious pink ground plant that
grew in the forests which I was told belonged to the Amomum species. There were also
beautiful orchids in the trees, mauve, white and yellow, belonging to the Dendrobium,
Coelogene and Cymbidium families—some with fine sprays of flowers 18 inches long.
Here at Rongli the mules were so tired that we had to give them a day's rest before they
could go on any further. It was a hot and feverish spot to stop in, and only necessity
compelled us to do so, as we were unable to get any extra transport the following morning
to supplement the mules that were sick.

All that day we had passed numbers of mules coming down from Tibet laden with bales
of wool, and others were returning to Tibet with sheets of copper, manufactured goods,
grain and rice which had been bought in exchange. The dark faces of the muleteers with
their turquoise earrings formed a pretty picture and they were full of friendly smiles and
greetings for us. The mules travelled on their own—if any mule stopped on the path, a stone
always aimed with the greatest accuracy reminded him that it was time to go on. Owing to
our having to halt a day at Rongli, we had to stop the second party, and were able to do this
at Ari, a bungalow 3 miles short of Rongli. I rode up to see how they were getting on, and

found they were having the same trouble with their mules that we had been having. On May
23 we left for Sedongchen, or Padamchen as the Tibetans called it. Sedongchen is the old
local name, so-called because there once grew there a very large “Sedong” tree. This is a
tree that has a white sap which irritates the skin intensely and sets up a rash. Sedongchen
was only 9 miles from Rongli, but there was a very steep climb, from 2,700 feet up to 7,000
feet, and our mules only just managed to arrive there. The first part of the way is alongside
the rushing stream of the Rongli, through lovely woods and dense tropical vegetation.
Caladiums, kolocasias and begonias were growing on every rock, and the giant pothos with
its large shining leaves grew up the stems of many of the trees. Climbers of all kinds, such
as vines and peppers, hung down from the branches. Here, too, were magnificent forest
trees, fully 150 feet high, with clean straight trunks and without a branch for a hundred feet;
others nearly equally tall, which the Sikkim people call “Panisage,” had huge buttresses and
trunks nearly 40 feet in circumference. Every branch here was covered by thick matted
growth of orchids. For the first time since leaving Darjeeling the sun shone, and after we
left the forests we found the uphill climb very hot. On to-day's march, out of the fifty mules
with which we started there were only fourteen carrying our own kit, and of those fourteen
we found on arrival at Sedongchen that none would be fit to proceed on the following day.
It was therefore with great reluctance that I felt compelled to send back the Government
mules, as they could not only not carry their own line gear, but had become an extra and
very large source of expense and worry to us. That the mules should have completely
broken down like this after a five days' march showed that they must have been in no kind
of training and condition and were completely unfitted for heavy work in the mountains.
The hill ponies and mules that we had hired to supplement them, although they had been
given the heaviest loads, always arrived first, and made nothing of each march. By this
failure of the Government transport we were now thrown back on our own resources, and
obliged to depend everywhere on what local transport we could obtain, and this often took
some time to collect.

At Sedongchen there was a pleasant bungalow, rather Swiss in appearance, with fine
views down the Rongli Valley and across all the forest ridges over which we had come,
right back to Darjeeling. Opposite us, to the South-east, were densely wooded hills with
clouds and mists drifting along the tops, while here and there a waterfall showed up white
amidst the dark green vegetation.

Rain came down steadily all night, but the morning proved somewhat finer. Being on the
main trade route, we were luckily able to get other transport to replace the Government
mules and to arrange for hired mules as far as Yatung. The local animal is a wonderful beast,

extremely sure footed, and not minding in the least a climb of 6,000 feet. The path from
Sedongchen is really only a stone causeway, very slippery and unpleasant either to walk or
ride upon, but probably anything else would be worn away by the torrential rains that fall
here. At one place we had to make a wide detour, as the rain of the night before had washed
away some hundred yards of the pathway, but luckily this was not in a very steep part, as
otherwise we might have been delayed for several days. The constant rain had already
brought out the leeches, and on most of the stones or blades of grass beside the path they sat
waiting for their meal of blood and clung on to any mule or human being that passed by.
The mules suffered severely, and drops of blood on the stones became frequent from the
bleeding wounds.

The climb from Sedongchen to Gnatong was very steep with a rise of over 5,000 feet in
the first 5 miles, and we soon got out of the zone of the leeches and on to the most
wonderful zone of flowering rhododendrons. The rhododendrons in the lower forest chiefly
consisted of R. Argenteum and R. Falconeri. These grew in a great forest of oaks and
magnolias, all covered with beautiful ferns among which showed up delightful mauve or
white orchids. The lower rhododendrons had already flowered, but as we got higher we
found masses of R. Cinnabarinum, with flowers showing every shade of orange and red.
Then came rhododendrons of every colour—pink, deep crimson, yellow, mauve, white or
cream coloured. It was impossible to imagine anything more beautiful, and every yard of
the path was a pure delight. Among the smaller flowers were the large pink saxifrage, while
the deep reddish-purple primula covered every open space. There was also a very tiny pink
primula—the smallest I have ever seen—and another one like a pink primrose, that grew on
the banks above the path. We went along quite slowly all the way, botanising and admiring
the scenery. The path mostly led along the top of a ridge, and the views and colours of the
many-hued rhododendrons in the gullies on either side were very delightful. Gnatong,
where we were to spend the night, was a very small and rather dirty village lying in a
hollow and surrounded by grassy hills. The fir trees (Abies Webbiana) no longer surrounded
it, as those anywhere near had been cut down for firewood, or for building houses. From
here I was able to telephone to Mr. Isaacs, Mr. Macdonald's head clerk at Yatung, to ask him
to make arrangements for ponies and mules for us both at Yatung and at Phari now that our
transport had broken down. Wonderful rumours seemed to have preceded our advent.
Stories that we were coming with 1,000 mules and 500 men seemed to have been spread
about in Tibet.

Gnatong is a most depressing place, and only owes its existence to the fact that it is the
first stopping place for the caravans that cross over the Jelep Pass on the British side of the

frontier. Rain always falls there, the rainfall in the year being nearly 200 inches, and when
rain does not fall the place is enveloped in mist, with the result that the mud was horrible. It
poured with rain all the time that we were there and we left again in heavy rain for the Jelep
Pass 8 miles distant. We were already over 12,000 feet when we started, and the top of the
pass was 14,390 feet, so that it was not a very serious climb. There was no view of any kind
to be had as the rain fell steadily all the way and the hillsides were all veiled in mist. We had
occasional glimpses of a hillside pink, white or yellow with rhododendrons, which now
grew only about 5 feet high. I counted six or seven different varieties of primulas on the
way, but near the top there was still plenty of the old winter snow lying about and the Alpine
flowers were scarcely out. A big heap of stones marked the summit of the pass and the
frontier between Sikkim and Tibet, and a few sticks, to which were attached strings covered
with small pieces of rag on which were inscribed prayers, fluttered out in the strong wind
that always blows up there. In the cold rain this was not a cheerful spot to linger in, so we
hurried on down a steep and stony path and after descending a few hundred feet emerged
out of the mist and rain and obtained glimpses of a really blue sky such as we had not seen
for weeks. We had arrived at last in Tibet.

Footnote:
[2] Narsing and Kabru are two high mountains in the North of Sikkim.

CHAPTER II
THE CHUMBI VALLEY AND THE TIBETAN PLATEAU

The range of mountains which here forms the boundary between Sikkim and Tibet runs
nearly North and South, and the two main passes across it are the Jelep La and the Nathu
La, the latter being a few miles to the North of the Jelep La and about the same height. The
Jelep La being the main trade route across which the telegraph line runs, and over which the
postal runners travel, is kept open all the year round, though often after a heavy blizzard it is
closed for ten days or a fortnight. On the Sikkim side the snow-fall is always the heaviest;
this range of mountains stops most of the moist currents that drive up from the Bay of
Bengal, with the result that the rainfall in the Chumbi Valley on the Tibetan side is only
about a quarter of what it is at Gnatong on the Sikkim side.

The descent into the Chumbi Valley was very steep and stony, as there was a drop of over
5,000 feet from the top of the pass. The beauty of the valley and its wild flowers made up,
however, for the badness of the path. The rhododendrons on the descent were extremely
fine, and the whole character of the vegetation was altered and became more European. The
great pink rhododendron Aucklandi showed up splendidly in the dark forests of silver fir (A.
Webbiana) which here grows into a fine tree. There was also the yellow rhododendron
Campylocarpum and a white rhododendron, probably Decorum; the beautiful R.
Cinnabarinum with its orange bells of waxy flowers relieved the darkness of the firs. There
was a small Tibetan rest-house called Langra where our coolies wanted to stop, but we
pushed on past this and descended steeply through more wonderful forests. As we got lower
we found birch, sycamore, willow and elder still clothed in the light green of early spring. A
fine white clematis, a pink and white spiræa, a yellow berberis, white roses and the dark
purple iris grew in profusion on either side of the path. Underneath these were the small
flowers of the wild strawberry, which the Macdonald family collected later on in the year
and made into jam in great quantities.

Near the entrance to this side valley we came to Old Yatung with its Chinese custom-
house and wall built right across the valley to keep the British from going any further. All

this was now deserted and in ruins. Soon afterwards we arrived in the main Chumbi Valley
where were broad fields filled with potatoes and ripening barley. The houses here were
mostly built of stone and wood and in two stories. In character they much resembled
Tirolese houses except for the elaborate carving over the doors and windows and the many
colours in which they were painted. We passed through the prosperous villages of
Richengong, Phema and Chumbi before arriving at New Yatung, or Shassi as the Tibetans
still prefer to call it. Here was a comfortable bungalow overlooking the bazaar on the other
side of the river. Knowing that we had had a long and tiring march and that our coolies
would only arrive late that night, Mrs. Macdonald had with much thoughtfulness sent over
her servants who had tea and dinner prepared for us on a generous scale. No attention could
have been more acceptable. It rained steadily all that night—a somewhat unusual
occurrence in this valley—but the next morning it cleared up and the day was delightful.

The Chumbi Valley is one of the richest valleys in Tibet. Yatung lies at a height of 9,400
feet. Apples and pears do well here, and barley, wheat and potatoes are grown in great
quantities. At this time of the year the air is scented by the wild roses which grow in large
bushes covered with hundreds of cream-coloured and sweetly scented flowers. The villages
all look extremely prosperous and an air of peace and contentment seems to pervade the
valley. We had to hire a new lot of animals to take us on to Phari—28 miles further up the
Chumbi Valley. These all arrived in good time, and by eight o'clock on May 27 our loads
were all on their way. Before leaving, I sent off a telegram to Sir Francis Younghusband to
announce the arrival of the Expedition in Tibet, a telegram which arrived opportunely at the
Anniversary Dinner of the Royal Geographical Society, just at the commencement of dinner.

There is a small garrison at Yatung, consisting of twenty-five men of the 73rd Carnatics.
There was also a hospital and a supply depot from which we were able to purchase sugar,
flour, ata (coarse native flour) and potatoes, while later on we were able to send back to it
for further supplies. We formed quite an imposing procession as we started off: Wollaston
and myself on our ponies, Gyalzen Kazi and Chheten Wangdi, our interpreters, on their
ponies which they had brought along with them. There was Mr. Isaacs, the head clerk, with
a red-coated chaprassi and a syce also mounted, who accompanied us on a visit to two
monasteries further up the valley. The path followed close to the banks of the Ammo-chu,
which was now a clear stream and contained many a likely pool for fish. The valley was full
of delightful flowers; curious ground orchids, with several beautiful varieties of the ladies'
slipper grew there; the wild roses, especially the large red one, were very sweet-scented and
filled the air with fragrance. Berberis, clematis and some charming dwarf rhododendrons
abounded. After going about 3 miles the valley narrowed, and we passed the spot where the

Chinese had built another wall across the valley to keep us out. Just above this wall there
was a deserted Chinese village, for now all the Chinese have been driven out of the country
and are not allowed to go back and live there. High above us on the hillside was the
Punagang Monastery belonging to the old sect of the Bhompo's, who turn their prayer
wheels the opposite to every one else and always keep to the right of Chortens and Mani
walls. This monastery was too far off the path for us to visit it. We soon afterwards passed
the large and flourishing village of Galinka surrounded by fields of barley. Here we turned
aside to visit the Galinka Monastery, which stood in the midst of the village. This was quite
a new building, with a great gilt image of Buddha inside it. The monks were still busy
painting pictures of scenes from the life of Buddha on the walls. They apparently did quite a
good trade in selling clay images of Buddha in his different forms and postures. These were
stamped by a very well cut brass die, which the monks told me had been made at Shigatse.
In a side room was a huge prayer wheel some 12 feet high and 5 feet to 6 feet in diameter. It
was covered over with painted leather inscribed with the usual Om Mani Padme Hum (Hail,
jewel of the lotus flower). They told us the inside was also filled with prayers, and that it
contained one and a half million of these, so that each time the wheel was turned a million
and a half prayers were said for the person who turned it. After each complete revolution it
rings a bell. We were allowed to turn it several times, so that I hope the many million
prayers sent up may benefit us. After leaving the monastery, the path rose steeply and the
river came down in a series of waterfalls. Above us were masses of pink and mauve
rhododendrons, flowering cherries, viburnum, berberis, roses and other delightful shrubs.
Soon afterwards, at the entrance to the Lingmatang plain, we crossed the river and rode up a
rocky spur formed of great boulders that had some time or another fallen down and blocked
up the valley, forming a lake some 2 miles long, but this lake no longer existed, and there
was only a flat grassy plain grazed over by yaks and ponies. On the top of the spur was the
Donka Monastery in a grand situation, commanding beautiful views up and down the valley.
I had hoped to see my friend the Geshe Lama or Geshe Rimpoche, as he is sometimes
known, with whom I had lunched last year at the hot springs at Kambu, but unfortunately he
was away at Lhasa. He is a man of very great learning and held in high veneration
throughout these valleys.

On entering the big stone courtyard of the monastery a crowd of children and Lamas at
once flocked round us. We were shown over the main temple, but it was badly lit with a few
butter lamps and we could see little of its contents; amongst these were several statues of
Buddha under his different forms. There were also kept there 108 volumes of the Tangyur,
one of the Buddhist sacred writings. These books were very curious. Each volume consisted
of a number of loose oblong parchment sheets 2 to 3 feet long and from 8 inches to a foot

wide. These were kept together by two elaborately carved boards between which they were
pressed. The writing was all done by hand by the Lamas, who copied out and illuminated
books with the greatest care and skill in the same manner that the monks in the Middle Ages
illuminated their missals. The book-shelves of the library consisted of a number of pigeon-
holes in the walls in which these volumes were kept. Here, too, they were busy making clay
images to bury under the Chorten that they were building above the monastery. Next door
was another and newer temple, built to house the Oracle, and called the Sanctuary of the
Oracle. He, too, was unfortunately away, as he was taking the hot waters at Kambu, but we
were shown his throne and the robes that he puts on when he prophesies. There was a
curiously shaped head-dress of silver, adorned all round with silver skulls, and a very
quaintly shaped bow and arrow which the Oracle held in one hand while a huge trident was
grasped in the other. I am told that he is consulted far and wide and has a great reputation
for truth. We were then taken upstairs to a sunny verandah, just outside the Geshe
Rimpoche's private room and commanding fine views up and down the valley. Here we
were given Tibetan tea, made with salt and butter, and served up in agate cups with
beautifully chased silver covers. After drinking this tea we were shown over the Geshe's
private apartments and chapel, the prevailing colour scheme of the room being yellow. The
little shrines with their silver bowls in front—the incense burner and the flame that is never
allowed to go out—were all very interesting to us. We then took a photograph of the Lamas
in front of their temple, after which the head Lama accompanied us some way down the
path to say good-bye, hoping we would come and see them again on our return.

I have alluded several times to the hot springs at Kambu. These springs are two days'
journey from Yatung up the Kambu Valley, but can also be reached quite easily from Phari.
There is a curious account of these springs written by an old Lama and translated by Major
Campbell. The writer describes the Upper Kambu Valley as quite a pleasant spot where
cooling streams and medicinal plants are found in abundance. Medicinal waters of five
kinds flow from the rocks, forming twelve pools, the waters of which are efficacious in
curing the 440 diseases to which the human race is subject. The springs are then made to
describe their own qualities in the first person:—
1. The Lhamo Spring (The Spring of the Goddess): My virtue is derived from the essence of stone—I am guarded by
the Goddess Tsering, and my virtue therefore consists in purging the sins and obscurities of the human body. Those who
bathe first in my waters will be purged of all sin and the power of all diseases will be abated.

2. The Chagu Spring (The Spring of the Vulture): My virtue is derived from black sulphur. As regards my properties, a
vulture with a broken wing once fell into my waters and was healed. I benefit diseases of women, also sores, gout and
fractures. I possess particular virtue for all diseases below the waist. I do not benefit neuralgia, nervous diseases, or loss of
appetite.

3 and 4. The Pon Springs (The Springs of the Official): We two brothers derive our properties from both yellow and
black sulphur. One of us provokes catarrh, while the other allays it. A learned man, who wished us well, once said that we
were beneficial in cases of hemorrhoids, kidney diseases and rheumatism. We are not aware of possessing these qualities,
and rather tend to cause harm in such cases.

5. The Traggye Spring (The Spring born of the Rock): My virtue is derived from a combination of sulphur and the
essence of stone. I was formerly efficacious in cases of diseases of the arteries and nerve trouble, but later on the Brothers
of the Pon Spring rushed down on poor me like tyrants so that no one now regards me. The caretaker of the Springs and
visitors treats me like a beggar and pays no attention to me. Even now if some person with the permission of the Brothers
of the Pon Spring would carry out some repairs, so as to separate my waters from theirs, I would guarantee to benefit those
suffering from arterial diseases, nerve trouble, impurities of the blood and bile.

6. The Serka Spring (The Spring of the Crevice): My virtues are derived from sulphur and carbon. I am not beneficial
to those suffering from ailments arising from nerve trouble, bile and acidity. I am beneficial to those suffering from
chapped hands and feet due to hard work among earth and stones and also in cases of diseases of the kidneys and bladder. I
am somewhat hurtful to those suffering from headache arising from nervous catarrh, or impurities of the blood.

7. The Tang Spring (The Spring of the Plain): My virtues are derived from carbon and a little sulphur. I am beneficial in
cases of hemorrhoids, kidney disease, rheumatism and other diseases below the waist, also in cases of venereal disease.
There is a danger of the waist becoming bent like a bow through too much bathing in my waters.

8. The Traggyab Spring (The Spring behind the Rock): I am beneficial in cases of disease of the arteries and anaemia—
I am not aware that I am harmful in other cases.

9. The Tongbu Spring (The Spring of the Hole): My virtues are derived from a large proportion of crystalline stone and
a little sulphur. I guarantee to be beneficial in cases of white phlegm, brown phlegm and other forms of phlegmatic disease.
Also in diseases arising out of these, and in cases of impurities of the blood and colic pains. Please bear this in mind.

10. The Nub (The Western Spring): My virtues are derived from a little carbon. I am beneficial in cases of liver disease,
impurities of the blood, flatulence, kidney disease, dyspepsia, brown phlegm, tumours, gout, rheumatism, gleet, and
complications arising from these. I do not boast in the way that the other Springs do.

11. The Dzepo Spring (The Leper's Spring): I am cousin to the Western Spring. He guarantees to cure diseases arising
from two or three causes, also kidney disease, flat foot, rheumatism and gout. I am beneficial in cases of hemorrhoids,
gout, rheumatism and diseases of the feet. I possess particular virtue in cases of leprosy, sores and wounds.

12. The Lama Spring (The Spring of the Lama): My virtues are derived from a large proportion of lime and a little
sulphur. I am beneficial in cases of lung disease, tumours, dyspepsia, both chronic and recent, poverty of the blood and
venereal diseases.

Written by Tsewang in the hope that the People of Bhutan, Sikkim, and the
surrounding country will bear this in mind.

Copied by Tenrab, clearly and exactly, from the original in the Male Iron
Dog Year in the first half of the Earth Month.

After leaving the monastery we had a pleasant gallop across the Lingmatang Plain, after
which the valley narrowed again and the path followed close beside the rushing stream. It
was a delightful ride through forests of birch, larch, juniper, spruce, silver fir and mountain

ash. Never anywhere have I seen birch trees grow to such a size. They were grand rugged
old trees that matched the rugged scenery of the gorge. Blue poppies, fritillaries, ground
orchids and sweet-scented primulas grew along the path, and mixed up everywhere in the
forest were great bushes of R. Cinnabarinum, which varied in shade from yellow and
orange to deep red. Wagtails and white-crested redstarts dodged about from rock to rock in
the rushing stream, and the clear note of the shrike could usually be heard above the noise
of the waters. The weather had luckily kept fine all day, so that we were able to dawdle
along and enjoy the scenery and flowers.

After going about 12 miles we came to the bungalow of Gautsa, situated at a height of
about 12,000 feet, and at the bottom of the gorge; here we spent the night. During the night
there was heavy rain, and when we woke in the morning, fresh snow was low down on all
the hills and within 1,500 feet of the bungalow. However, the day again proved brilliantly
fine. For breakfast we had been given some large wild-goose eggs belonging to the bar-
headed goose. Mine I had boiled, and found excellent, though one was sufficient for a meal.
Two that the others had were rather passé, and were not equally appreciated. The day's path
was at first very stony and climbed steadily uphill beside the torrent of the Ammo-chu. Pale
blue iris, yellow primulas, a pink viburnum and a large yellow-belled lonicera grew beside
the path, but the rhododendrons were still by far the most wonderful of the flowering
shrubs. We passed many big blue meconopsis, and some of these flowers measured fully 3
inches across. Dwarf rhododendrons, only a foot high—some pure white and others pink,
continued up until about 13,500 feet, and then the hillsides became purple from another
little rhododendron, which looked in the distance like heather and gave the rounded hills
quite a Scotch appearance. As we rose higher the flowers decreased in number. Larks and
wheatears ran along the ground in front of us, and small tailless marmot rats dodged in and
out of their holes as we approached. The distance from Goutsa to Phari was about 16 miles,
of which the last 8 miles were over flat country with a springy turf, on which it was a
pleasure to be able to canter again after having passed over so many miles of stony roads.
Chomolhari, the Mountain of the Goddess, stood up as a wonderful sight with its sharp peak
outlined against the clear blue sky. On its summit the wind was evidently very strong, as we
could see the fresh snow being whirled off in clouds.

Phari is an extremely dirty village dominated by a stone fort and lying under the shadow
of the great mountain Chomolhari, 23,930 feet high. It is 14,300 feet above sea level, and
the climate there is always cold, as it is never without a strong wind. In the afternoon the
Jongpen, or Governor of the district, came to call on me. He was a young man with an
intelligent and pleasant face, and came from the country between Khamba Dzong and

Shekar Dzong, so that he was able to give us much useful information about the road; he
promised that he would write to his brother, who was acting as agent for him at his home,
telling him to entertain us and give us all facilities in the matters of transport and supplies.
He told us that he had received written instructions from the Lhasa Government to arrange
for supplies and transport for us, and he promised that he would do his best. I gave him
photographs that I had taken last year of his fort, and also of Chomolhari; these pleased him
very much, and in return he presented us with a dried sheep which looked mummified and
smelt very strongly, but which proved very acceptable to our coolies. It was necessary to
stop here for several days as the second party had to catch up, and they too needed a day's
rest. Also the transport that was to carry us along to Khamba Dzong would not be ready for
several days, so the following morning I went to call on the Jongpen in his fort, where I
found him living in some very dark rooms. I presented him with one of the new lever
electric torches, which he much appreciated, though at first he and his servants were rather
frightened by it. He gave us tea and sweetmeats, and soon afterwards the head-men of all
the villages came in, and were given orders about our transport. Their quaint attitudes of
respect and their darkly bronzed faces, that just showed up in the light, reminded me
forcibly of an old Dutch picture. Some men, too, had been sent from Khamba Dzong for
orders and to know when we should be likely to arrive there. In the course of the afternoon
Dr. Heron and I rode over to a monastery about 3 miles away where I had been last year,
and where I had taken some photographs. Some prints of these I brought back to the
monastery, and the monks were very pleased with them. They were in the middle of a
service when we arrived, as it was some kind of festival, and the dark temple was
illuminated by hundreds of little butter lamps. The monks were all chanting their scriptures,
and this they continued to do all the afternoon.

Chomolhari from the South.

On returning to Phari, we found that a message had come from the Jongpen to ask us to
dine with him the following evening. The change in the climate and the bad cooking had
affected the stomachs of all the members of the Expedition, and none of us was feeling very
well. Dr. Kellas was the worst, and as soon as he arrived at Phari he retired to bed. The
following morning was misty and the ground was all white with hoar-frost, though it was
the last day in May; but as I was anxious to get some photographs of Chomolhari we rode,
with the Chaukidar as a guide, through the mist across the plain to some hills just to the
South of the great mountain; after a few miles we found ourselves above the clouds with the
sun shining in a brilliant blue sky. The whole of the Phari Plain was covered by a sea of
clouds. On the far side rose the Pawhunri group of mountains, while further to the South,
Kanchenjunga towered above all the other peaks, such as Siniolchum, Kabru and Jonsong,
all of which stood out very clearly in this brilliant atmosphere. I rode up a delightful little
mountain valley full of dwarf rhododendrons and Alpine primulas until I reached a height of
16,000 feet. We then left the ponies and climbed on to the top of the hill, which was about
17,500 feet; from this point we had glorious views of Chomolhari immediately across the
valley, while on the other side we looked over to the snowy peaks and ranges in Bhutan far

to the South of us. We found the wind very keen at this height, and after taking several
photographs we rode back again to Phari.

Here I found the place full of troubles. Our Coolie Sirdar was, as we were beginning to
find out, not only useless, but very mischievous, and he was evidently at the bottom of an
attempted mutiny among our coolies, who refused to go on. The Sirdar strongly objected to
our interpreters, who were preventing him from fleecing us in the matter of stores and
supplies. However, after much talking they were all satisfied. Then it was the turn of the
cooks, all of whom the Sirdar had chosen. I should not have minded one or two of these
going, as they were very bad cooks and usually drunk, and the fact that all of us had been ill
was solely due to their bad cooking; but I could not let them all go, so it was necessary to
find out which were the most useless, and this we were able to do in the course of the next
few days. Dr. Kellas was getting no better; he refused to take any food, and was very
depressed about himself. At Phari I was able to change a certain number of our rupees into
Tibetan currency. The then rate of exchange was 33 rupees to 1 sersang—a gold coin—and
4½ silver trangkas to 1 rupee. The trangkas were a thin and very badly stamped coin about
the size of a two-shilling piece. We found them, however, to be the most useful form of
currency as the gold coin, though much easier to carry, could only be exchanged at a few
places, and it was seldom that we met people who were rich enough to be able to change
them.

That night four of us went over to have dinner with the Jongpen. First we were given tea
and sweetmeats, followed by strong ginger wine, which was most comforting to our
stomachs in their delicate condition. Then came dishes of mutton in varying forms with
vegetables and macaroni. They were all served up in Chinese fashion in little dishes and
some were quite appetising. We were very late in starting the next morning as all the loads
had to be sorted and laid out for the very miscellaneous transport that had been given us.
This consisted of ponies, mules, donkeys, bullocks and yaks. For riding-animals we were
given mules, which trotted well and covered the ground quite quickly, though some of the
Alpine climbers found them hard to manage and were apt to part company with their steeds.
Our transport was by now becoming rather complicated as forty-four animals were going
right through to Khamba Dzong and forty-four were being changed at every stage.
Dr. Kellas was not well enough to ride and was carried in an arm-chair all day. Soon after
starting I passed two of our cooks on the road hopelessly drunk, and left them there. Our
way led over the Tang La, a very gentle and scarcely perceptible pass, 15,200 feet, but
important as being the main Himalayan watershed. All day there was a very strong South
wind blowing, but it was luckily at our backs, and we did not feel it too much. We then

quickly trotted the 10 miles across the absolutely level Tang-pün-sum Plain. Here I saw
several herds of kiang, the wild ass of Tibet, and got within 50 yards of one lot, but
unfortunately the coolie who was carrying my camera was not up with me at the time. We
also passed a certain number of Tibetan gazelle, but they were all very wary. The Monsoon
clouds came up to the South of us in great rolling billows, but not a drop of moisture came
over the Tang La. Chomolhari was a magnificent sight all day with its 7,000 feet of
precipices descending sheer into the plain. Tuna (14,800 feet), about 20 miles from Phari,
was our first halt. We were still on the main road to Lhasa and found a comfortable rest-
house into which the eight of us all managed to stow ourselves. Dr. Kellas, though rather
better the next day, was still too weak to ride, and was carried for the next march on a litter.
We were now in the true Tibetan climate, with brilliant sunshine, blue skies, still mornings
and strong winds all the afternoon.

The next march from Tuna to Dochen was still on the Lhasa Road. I did not follow the
path, but rode with a local man from the village over the great Tang-pün-sum Plain in search
of goa—Tibetan gazelle. We saw many of them on the plains, but they were the wiliest and
most difficult animals to approach, and in this flat and bare country it was not possible ever
to get within 300 yards of them. As a rule they ran off when we were still half a mile away.
They are restless little creatures, always on the move, and never at any time an easy mark to
hit. I thoroughly enjoyed this ride over the plains and our glorious views of Chomolhari and
the great snow-covered and glaciated chain to the North of it along the foot of which we
were travelling. A curious pink trumpet-shaped flower grew in great quantities on the plain;
the leaves were buried under the sand and only the flower showed its head above the
ground. There were also white pincushions of a kind of tiny saxifrage. This plain, over
which we were riding, was evidently once upon a time a lake bed, as the pebbles were
rounded and there were distinct evidences of former shores along the sides of the hills.
Many kiang were grazing on it and many thousands of sheep were being pastured there. As
we approached the lake called Bamtso, the country became very marshy, and our ponies got
bogged several times. The bungalow at Dochen was situated near the shores of the Bamtso.
Never have I seen a lake with so many colours in it. It was very shallow, and the shades
varied from deep blue and purple to light green, while in places it was almost red from a
weed that grew in it. Behind it was a background of snow and glacier-covered mountains,
which in the still mornings was reflected faithfully in its waters and formed a charming
picture. Swimming on this lake were many bar-headed geese and Brahminy ducks, and
along the shores were many terns and yellow wagtails.

That evening an amusing thing happened in the kitchen. One of our cooks was heating up
a tin of tinned fish and had put it in some hot water without previously opening it. When he
thought it was sufficiently hot, he started to open it, with the result that it exploded
violently, covering him and every one else in the kitchen with small pieces of fish. I was
able then to explain to the Tibetans who were carrying our loads that our stores were very
dangerous, and that if any were at any time stolen, they would be liable to explode and hurt
them. It was, of course, the rarefied air that had caused this, for Dochen is at a height of
14,700 feet above sea level.

Every day on from now the wind used to blow with great violence all the afternoon, but
would die down after sunset. It must have been of a local nature caused by the rapid
changes from high temperature to low, because the clouds above at the same time were
hardly moving. I sent back Dorje, one of our cooks, from this place, as it was the fourth
time that he had been drunk, and this I hoped would be a lesson to the others. We now left
the Lhasa Road and turned off Westwards, having henceforward to rely on our tents.

Loading up at Dochen.

From Dochen to Khe was a short march of 11 miles over the Dug Pass, 16,400 feet. I did
not follow the road taken by the transport animals, but took a local guide and rode over the
hill-tops in search of ovis ammon. I did not see any, however, though we sighted two or
three goa, but they were very wild and would not allow me to approach within 500 yards of
them. There were numbers of blue hares, however, and some ram chakor, the Himalayan
snow cock. But beyond this the hillsides were very bare of game. There were pin-cushions
of a beautiful little blue sedum growing at a height of over 17,000 feet, also there was a big

red stonecrop. Khe is now only a small and dirty village with practically no water except a
half-dried muddy pond, but at one time it must have been a place of some importance, as
ruins and buildings of considerable size extend over an area of more than a mile. The Kala-
tso evidently at one time came right up to this ruined town of Khetam, and the fact that it is
deserted now is probably due to the shrinkage of the lake. This was only one of the many
signs of desiccation that we saw in our travels in Tibet. There were some curious ruins
which looked like old crenellated walls, but these walls were only places on which barley
dough used to be exposed to feed the crows as a sign of prosperity. It was a curious custom
and could only have prevailed in a very fertile valley, which this place is no longer. The age
of the city I could not find out, but the few survivors told me that the holy shrine at
Tashilumpo, which now is at Shigatse, ought to have been built here. According to a local
legend, there was a certain stone in Khetam shaped like a ewe's-womb, and one day a
donkey driver finding that his loads were unequal in weight, picked up this stone and put it
on the light load to balance the other, quite unaware of the importance of the stone. This
stone was then carried from Gyantse to Shigatse, where a high and important Lama saw it,
and recognising that this was a very holy stone, had it kept there. The powerful monastery
of Tashilumpo was built over this stone. We passed two small nunneries called Doto and
Shidag in snug little valleys to the North of the plain, and on asking why there should be so
many nunneries in these parts when in the greater part of Tibet men predominated, I was
told that this was due to the fact that it was close to the Nepalese frontier where there had
always been much fighting, so that most of the men had been killed and only women had
survived. After a short and easy march we came to a small pocket in the hills called Kheru.
Here were encamped some people belonging to a nomad tribe who always lived in tents.
They were very friendly, put tents at our disposal, and did their best to make us comfortable.
They told us that they came here every year in the twelfth month, about January, and left
again in the fifth month of the Tibetan year (June) for a place near Tuna, where they
disposed of their wool, butter and cheese at the Phari market. There were altogether about
twenty families here owning some 200 yaks and 3,000 sheep. Dr. Kellas was slightly better,
but Raeburn was not feeling at all well, and Wheeler was suffering from indigestion, so that
we were rather a sick party. Kheru lies at a height of 15,700 feet, but it had been very hot all
day in the brilliant sunshine, and on the way we had passed lizards and a number of
common peacock butterflies. Next morning our march was to Tatsang (Falcon's Nest), a
distance of 15 or 16 miles, and over two passes 16,450 and 17,100 feet. The going was easy
all the way, as the gradients both up and down the passes were very gentle. Between the two
passes was a broad valley, filled with huge flocks of sheep and herds of yaks, and after
crossing the second pass, we descended into a great barren and stony plain, more than 10
miles across which was Tatsang and over which the wind blew very keenly. To the South of

us appeared the snowy crests of Pawhunri, Kanchenjhow and Chomiomo and the Lhonak
peaks. Again I did not keep with the transport, but followed the crests of the hills, where I
had lovely views; on the way I saw plenty of gazelle, and was lucky enough to shoot one of
them, as they are very good eating. Our camp at Tatsang was pitched just below the nunnery
there, which is on the top of a rock and where there are about thirty nuns. Our camp was on
a pleasant grassy spot where some excellent springs bubble up out of the ground. These
within a few yards formed quite a big stream full of small snow trout. They do not really
belong to the trout family, although they have somewhat similar spots, and are very good to
eat. Bullock, with his butterfly net, and the coolies with their hands, managed to catch quite
a number of fish, and we had them for dinner that night. The ground round our tents was full
of holes out of which the marmot rats kept appearing. They were very tame, and did not
seem to be in the least afraid of us. Dr. Kellas had had a very trying day. He had been rather
better, and had started riding a yak, but he found this too exhausting and coolies had to be
sent back from Tatsang to bring him on in a litter, so that he did not arrive at Tatsang till late
in the evening. Tatsang is 16,000 feet, so the night was cold, the thermometer inside the tent
registering 7° of frost, though it was June 4; outside there must have been quite 15° as the
running streams were all frozen over, but once the sun had risen everything warmed up and
we had a beautiful warm day. Dr. Kellas started off in his litter at 7 a.m. in quite good
spirits. I did not start till an hour later, as I had wanted to see everything off, and then went
up to visit the nunnery, over which the lady abbess showed me. There were thirty nuns
living there, all with shorn heads and wearing a curious wool head-dress. The place where
they worshipped was full of prayer wheels, both large and small. They sat down behind
these, and each nun turned one or two of them if they could manage it. The room was very
dark, with a low ceiling, and at the end were several statues of Buddha covered over with
gauze veils. In another room there was a large prayer wheel which they said contained half a
million prayers.

After leaving the nunnery we jogged along a dry and barren valley which gradually rose
in about 12 miles to a pass 17,200 feet. On the way we passed Dr. Kellas in his litter, who
then seemed to me to be still quite cheerful. I then rode on and at the top of the pass saw
three ovis ammon, and after a chase of about a mile I shot one, which afforded plenty of
food for the coolies for some days. It was a full grown ram about five years old and we had
great trouble in getting the carcass on to a mule, as it was enormous and very heavy. After
this I rode on down the valley for another 10 miles to Khamba Dzong. There were actually a
few bushes in this valley, which was carpeted with the pretty pink trumpet-shaped flower
mentioned above, also with light and dark blue iris. Suddenly the valley narrowed into a
fine limestone gorge, and all at once the fort of Khamba Dzong appeared towering above us

on the cliffs. It was really a very impressive sight and some of the architecture of the round
towers was very fine. I found that Morshead had been waiting here for about nine days, but
had employed his time in fixing the old triangulation points. Soon after I arrived the
Jongpen came down to pay us a visit. He was quite a young fellow, only about twenty-four,
but very pleasant and polite.

While we were talking, a man came running up to us very excitedly to say that Dr. Kellas
had suddenly died on the way. We could hardly believe this, as he was apparently gradually
getting better; but Wollaston at once rode off to see if it was true, and unfortunately found
that there was no doubt about it. It was a case of sudden failure of the heart, due to his weak
condition, while being carried over the high pass. His death meant a very great loss to the
Expedition in every way, as he alone was qualified to carry out the experiments in oxygen
and blood pressure which would have been so valuable to the Expedition, and on which
subject he was so great an expert. His very keenness had been the cause of his illness, for he
had tried his constitution too severely in the early months of that year by expeditions into
the heart of the Himalayas to see if he could get fresh photographs from other angles of
Mount Everest. The following day we buried him on the slopes of the hill to the South of
Khamba Dzong, in a site unsurpassed for beauty that looks across the broad plains of Tibet
to the mighty chain of the Himalayas out of which rise up the three great peaks of Pawhunri,
Kanchenjhow and Chomiomo, which he alone had climbed. From the same spot, far away
to the West—more than a hundred miles away—could be seen the snowy crest of Mount
Everest towering far above all the other mountains. He lies, therefore, within sight of his
greatest feats in climbing and within view of the mountain that he had longed for so many
years to approach—a fitting resting-place for a great mountaineer.

Khamba Dzong.

Chapter III
FROM KHAMBA DZONG THROUGH
UNKNOWN COUNTRY TO TINGRI

Our camp at Khamba Dzong[3] was pitched in a walled enclosure at the
foot of the fort, built on a great crag that rose 500 feet sheer above us. They
called this enclosure a Bagichah, or garden, because it once boasted of three
willow trees. Only one of these three is alive to-day, the other two being
merely dead stumps of wood. The Jongpen here, who was under the direct
orders of Shigatse, was very friendly, and after our arrival presented us with
five live sheep, a hundred eggs, and a small carpet which he had had made
in his own factory in the fort. Next afternoon Morshead, Wollaston and
myself went up to pay the Jongpen a visit in his fort. It was a steep climb
from our camp, past long Mendongs or Mani walls covered with inscribed
prayers. The Jongpen was at the entrance waiting to receive us. He then
showed us over his stables, where he had several nice Tibetan ponies, which
strongly objected to Europeans and lashed out fiercely as we approached
them. After looking at them we went up many flights of most dangerously
steep stairs, almost in pitch darkness the whole time, until we came to a
small courtyard. Then after climbing up more steps, we were ushered into a
small latticed room where we were given the usual Tibetan tea and
sweetmeats. I presented the Jongpen with one of the new lever electric
torches, with which he was much pleased, saying it would be of much use
to him in going up and down his dark staircases. After tea he took us up on

to the roof of the fort, which was quite flat, and from which we had a most
magnificent view. We stood on the top of a great precipice and looked
straight down at our camp, which lay many hundred feet below but almost
within a stone's throw. From here too we could look across the wide plains
and valleys of the Yaru and its tributaries to the main chain of the
Himalayas which formed the Southern boundary to the picture. From this
side they do not appear nearly as imposing as they do when seen from the
South. Seen as they are from a height of over 15,000 feet, the distance to
the sky line is not nearly so great, and as a rule we found the Northern
slopes to be much less steep than those on the Southern side. The snow line,
too, was also several thousand feet higher. Every day great masses of moist
cumulus clouds came rolling up and round the peaks to the South of us,
indicating heavy falls of rain and snow on the South, but very little of this
came over the watershed—only an occasional slight hailstorm or a few
drops of rain. From this point we could see as far West as Mount Everest,
still over a hundred miles away. After spending some time up there and
admiring and discussing the view, we descended once more into the fort,
where the Jongpen showed us some of the carpets that his womenfolk were
busy making and promised to have some ready for us by the time that we
came back. We also much admired the curious old locks by which the doors
and boxes were fastened; before leaving, he made me a present of one of
these locks.

June 7 saw us still at Khamba Dzong, as the transport would not be ready
till the following day. Raeburn, who for some time had been suffering from
the same complaint as Dr. Kellas, was unfortunately getting no better and
was getting weaker every day. We were therefore reluctantly compelled to
send him back again into Sikkim to Lachen, where he could be taken charge
of by the lady missionaries and properly looked after. Wollaston and
Gyalzen Kazi were to accompany him down to Lachen, and if possible to
rejoin us by the time that we got to Tingri. This break-up of our climbing

party was most annoying and seriously weakened our party, obliging us to
alter our plans for reconnoitring in a thorough manner the various
approaches to Mount Everest. The following day, after a good deal of delay
and argument about the loads, we got everything loaded up and started off
for Lingga, a march of about 16 miles to the West. For the first few miles
we rode across a great plain on which were several small herds of goa, but
these were very wary and kept well out of shot. The path then took us
alongside a small isolated rocky hill in which we kept putting up numerous
hares who often got up right under our ponies' feet. We crossed the Yaru
River, now only a small stream, at the picturesque village of Mende with its
fine willow trees, and then after passing over a spur, formed of slaty rock,
we descended into another great plain which extended all the way to Tingri.
Five miles across this plain was the village of Lingga, surrounded by
marshes and ponds, with barley fields and rich grass growing between the
patches of water. There were several other villages in sight, so that the plain
was evidently fertile and could support a considerable population. This was
the first place where we became bothered by sand flies, which in the
morning were very troublesome; but when the wind got up, as it always did
in the afternoons, it blew them away, and for once was welcome. The
villagers were very hospitable; they produced tea and beer brewed from
barley for us as soon as we arrived there. The latter is quite a pleasant drink
on a hot day, but it did not agree with my inside at all. The people here had
never seen a European before, and though at first inclined to be rather shy,
they soon became very friendly and curious. Some pieces of silver paper
from chocolates quite won the hearts of the children who flocked around
and did not in the least mind being photographed. To the South extended the
chain of snows of the main range of the Himalayas, and on the way we had
several clear and distinct views of Mount Everest. Morshead, who had left
the day before, was camped at a small monastery a few miles to the North
of us in order to follow the crest of the ridge of hills and to survey both

sides, but was to join us again at Tinki. The weather now was really
delightful, though to the South of us we still saw heavy clouds which
brought showers of snow as far as the mountains, but they did not reach us.

From here to Tinki was about 13 miles over a perfectly level plain. The
midges or sand flies were very troublesome the whole way and came in
hundreds round one's head, got inside one's topee, and were thoroughly
objectionable. The plain appeared very fertile, as there seemed to be plenty
of water and great herds of yaks and flocks of sheep were grazing upon it.
In the marshes and ponds were many bar-headed geese, Brahminy ducks,
mallard and teal. After the rains, it is evident that a great part of this plain is
under water. About a couple of miles from Tinki we crossed some curious
sand dunes, about 20 feet high, which are evidently on the move, and soon
afterwards the Jongpen of Tinki came riding out to meet us with a few
mounted followers, he himself riding a fine white pony. He was very
Chinese in appearance, wearing finely embroidered silks with a Chinese hat
and a long pigtail, and his manners were excellent. He escorted us to the
place where our camp was to be, and had had three or four tents already
pitched for us. Tea and country beer were at once served, and we rested in
the shade of his Chinese tents until our transport arrived.

Tinki Dzong.

We were encamped in a very picturesque spot beside a large pond that
was full of bar-headed geese, Brahminy ducks and terns. On the opposite
side of this pond rose the walls and towers of the fort of Tinki. As soon as
we had settled down, the Jongpen came again to pay us a formal visit,
presented us with four sheep and a couple of hundred eggs and promised to
do everything he could to help us and to forward us on our way. Half a mile
above us was a large village and a big monastery belonging to the Yellow
Sect of Buddhists who also owned a fine grove of willows. The bottom of
the valley was all covered with barley fields, now a tender green and
coming up well. As the fresh transport had not arrived, we had to spend the

following day there. This gave an opportunity for Abdul Jalil, our
photographic assistant, to rejoin us. We had sent him back to Phari in order
to change some more rupees into Tibetan currency, as we found that Indian
notes or rupees were not accepted any further to the West. Abdul Jalil had
been very nervous about travelling with so much money and had borrowed
a revolver and a rifle from members of the Expedition besides two large
Tibetan swords and a dagger which he obtained from the Jongpen. In the
morning, with Bullock, I went to return the call of the Jongpen. His fort at
the time was under repair, so he was living in a small house outside the
main building. He was very affable and gave us tea: we were then able to
make all the arrangements for transport except the actual fixing of the price.
For this he said he would have to consult his head-men. Just as we were
about to leave he insisted on our eating the large meal which he had had
prepared for us. He gave us small dishes of excellent macaroni and mince,
seasoned up with chillies and very well cooked—much better than anything
our cooks could produce. This we had to eat with chopsticks—a somewhat
difficult proceeding, as we were not yet used to them. Later on, however,
after much practice, we found no difficulty in consuming the numerous
bowls of this excellent dish that the Tibetans always set before one. The
Jongpen told us that he had been twenty-nine years in Government service,
and he was expecting to have a better post than this shortly. His health was
poor and he said he had been suffering much from indigestion, so I gave
him some pills and tabloids, for which he was very grateful. On the return
journey, he told me that he had greatly benefited by my treatment. The bar-
headed geese and the wild duck here were extraordinarily tame, allowing us
to approach within five yards of them and showing no signs of fear. They
would come and waddle round our tents, picking up any scraps of food. The
Jongpen had begged us not to shoot or kill any of them, as he said a Lama
had been sent specially from Lhasa some years ago in order to tame the
creatures, and certainly the result was extraordinary; it was most interesting

to watch these birds, ordinarily so wild, from so close a distance. In the
evening the Jongpen came over to see us again, and after a good hour's
bargaining over the price of the transport, we finally reached a reasonable
and amicable agreement. Every evening, to the South of us, there were
constant flashes of lightning all along the horizon. In the morning I woke up
to the unusual sound of drops of rain, but this only lasted for five minutes
and then cleared up, though the sky remained clouded all the morning.
There was the usual fighting and confusion about the loads, each person
trying to get the lightest loads for his own animal. The result was that there
was much talking and fighting, and nothing was actually done until some
head-man would come and take control and decide the dispute. The method
of adjudication was as follows:—From each of the families who were
regarded as responsible for the supply of a transport animal was taken one
of the embroidered garters by which the man's felt boots are kept in their
place. These garters were shuffled, as one might shuffle a pack of cards,
after which a single garter was laid upon each load. The family to which the
garter belonged thereupon became responsible for that load and had to pack
it upon the animal's back. Although we had only ninety animals, there were
forty-five different families supplying them.

The march from Tinki to Chushar Nango was about 14 miles and was up
the valley behind Tinki to the Tinki Pass. On the way we passed well-
irrigated fields of barley and then climbed up a spur covered with a small
yellow cistus. After this a long gentle pull brought us to the top of the pass,
17,100 feet. There was a very fine view from here to the East looking over
Tinki and Khamba Dzong and along the Northern slopes of the Himalayas.
I climbed up a hill about 600 feet above the pass, whence I had a more
extensive view still. I could see far away to the East to Chomolhari, while
in the foreground was the large and picturesque lake called Tsomotretung
backed by the rugged chain of peaks that separated us from the valley of the
Brahmaputra. To the West we looked down into the valley of the Yaru,

which flowed gently through a broad and flat valley. To the South-west was
a range of sharp granite peaks rising up to 22,000 feet, which ran North and
South and forced the Yaru to flow round them before it could find its way
into Nepal. The descent from the pass was much steeper. We passed many
of our old friends the pink trumpet-shaped flowers, also a curious white and
pink flower, rather like a daphne in shape, and smelling very sweetly, which
grew in masses along the path. It was evidently poisonous as no animal
would touch it. I picked some flowers of it and put them in my buttonhole,
but was warned by the Tibetans not to do so, as they said it was poisonous
and would give me a headache. Lower down the valley was full of small
dwarf gorse bushes—1 foot to 18 inches high—which carpeted the ground.
Everywhere were flocks of sheep and cattle grazing in the valley. Our camp
was pitched on a grassy flat just below the village of Chushar Nango with
its fine old ruined tower of stone with machicolated galleries all round it. To
the South of us was the Nila Pass, which afforded an easy way into Nepal.
The climate here was fairly warm, but the wind blew very strongly all that
evening. Next day we saw the mountains all covered with fresh snow down
to 16,000 feet, but we only experienced a slight drizzle as most of the
snowflakes evaporated before they reached the ground, though clouds
remained overhead all the morning. Morshead and his surveyors had been
kept very busy up till now surveying and plotting in the intervening country
from the tops of the hills, but owing to the clouds they were unable to do
anything. We were all very late in starting, as our transport animals had
been changed and the yaks that were supplied to us were very wild. In the
first few minutes after starting we saw the plain strewn with our kits and
stores, and yaks careering off in every direction with their tails in the air.

The march to Gyangkar Nangpa to-day was only a short one and led
across a wide plain through which flowed the muddy and sluggish waters of
the Yaru. The existing maps of this country were quite misleading and we
could no longer depend on them. The rivers flowed in opposite directions to

those shown on the map and mountains were shown where there were none.
After about 2 or 3 miles, we had to ford the river, which was about 80 yards
wide and not quite 3 feet deep. We then rode on across the plain, which was
in some parts sandy and in others muddy or gravelly; evidently during the
rainy season a shallow lake. In places the dwarf gorse grew on it. The sandy
tracks were covered with curious hillocks 5 to 6 feet in height formed by
the drifting sand and the gorse bushes. These in order to keep alive were
compelled to push their branches through the sand which in its turn became
piled up around them. Towards the West end of the plain were marshes and
shallow lakes around which we had to make big detours.

Gyangkar Nangpa, which was our destination, was the country residence
of the Phari Jongpen. His brother, who was acting as agent for him, rode out
to meet us and escorted us to his house, a fine solid stone building
dominating all the small houses. The tops of the walls were covered with
gorse and juniper, rather suggestive of Christmas decorations. Tents were
pitched for us in a grass paddock close to a grove of willows. We were then
conducted upstairs into a pleasant room where were some fine gilt Chinese
cabinets and some good Chinese rugs. Here the Jongpen had a meal
prepared for us. We were first given tea, milk and beer, after which some
fifteen dumplings apiece, each as big as a small apple, were put down in
front of us together with three other bowls. In one of these was a black
Chinese sauce, in another a chillie paste, and a third contained a barley
soup. We were then given chopsticks with which we were expected to
convey the dumplings into the barley soup, break them up there, season
them with the various sauces, and then convey them to our mouths—a not
too easy feat. This meal was so satisfying that we felt that we did not want
to eat anything for a long time afterwards. We were told that in the rainy
season the river here was unfordable, as it rose several feet and flooded
over the plains, and it was then necessary to keep to the North or to the
South of it. In the evening the agent came to make an official call and

presented us with a sheep and a number of eggs. We invited him to dinner
and gave him his first taste of such European cooking as could be provided
by our native cooks.

Gyangka Range from near Chushar.

There was a slight frost during the night, but the day turned out very fine.
Our host accompanied us to the village of Rongkong, one of the villages
belonging to his brother, and here he said good-bye to us. The day's march
was uninteresting. We followed along the left bank of the Yaru past well-
irrigated barley fields, for there was any amount of water here, until the
valley narrowed and the sides came down steeper, when it became covered
with gorse bushes. This valley we descended for about 10 miles until it
debouched into another, a broader sandy valley where the Yaru changed its
course to the South. We forded it at a point where it was about 90 yards
wide and 3½ feet deep, and we then sat down and waited for our transport
to come up. Beyond us lay a wide sandy valley through which a stream
flowed sometimes on the surface, but more often underground, when it
formed dangerous quicksands. When the transport came up, our drivers

were very anxious to cross immediately, as there was a strong wind blowing
and a violent sandstorm. They said that it would be much safer to cross now
that all the fresh sand had blown over the wet sand. In the morning, they
said, after a still night, it was very dangerous, so following their advice we
started off, every one dressed up as though for a gas attack, with goggles
over the eyes and comforters or handkerchiefs tied over the mouth and nose
to keep the sand out. At first we wound our way through big sand dunes, off
which the sand was blowing like smoke. Under one of these sand dunes we
found our coolies halted and lost. Some of the donkeys, too, had been
unloaded here, as they could not find their way across in the sandstorm.
After leaving the dunes, there were wide stretches of wet sand to cross, over
which the dried sand from the dunes was being blown like long wisps of
smoke so that the whole ground appeared to be moving. In places where the
wet sand shook and quivered we galloped along. Eventually we and our
transport arrived on the far side of the plain in safety. It was now too late,
however, to go on any further, so we camped on the dunes near the
quicksands in the teeth of the gale. The sand was being whirled up on to us
and into our tents until everything and every one was full of sand. Water
was handy, but yak dung, our only fuel, was scarce and scanty.

Just before dark a very beautiful and lofty peak appeared to the
Southwards. Our drivers called it Chomo Uri (The Goddess of the
Turquoise Peak) and we had many discussions as to what mountain this
was. In the morning, after taking its bearings carefully, we decided that this
could be no other than Mount Everest. We found out afterwards that the
name, Chomo Uri, was purely a local name for the mountain. Throughout
Tibet it was known as Chomolungma—Goddess Mother of the Country—
and this is its proper Tibetan name.

Next morning, after an uncomfortable and windy night, we rode for
several miles across a plain covered with sand dunes 20 feet or more in

height. On reaching the entrance to the valley of Bhong-chu, I determined
to separate myself from the main party in order to explore a peak which
attracted my attention on the North side of the valley and seemed to
promise good views of Mount Everest and its surroundings. After a climb of
some 3,000 feet, I found myself on a spur from which I had a very
wonderful view. The view extended to the East from beyond Chomolhari—
over 120 miles away—and embraced practically all the high snow peaks
from Chomolhari to Gosainthan, a distance of some 250 miles. In the centre
Mount Everest stood up all by itself, a wonderful peak towering above its
neighbours and entirely without a rival. I spent four or five hours at the top
of this hill, basking in the sun, as it was delightfully hot. I saw several
swallow-tailed butterflies, also a number of bees, wasps and horse flies.
Major Morshead and his surveyors soon afterwards joined us, intending to
take advantage of the fine view. In the afternoon I left the peak and
descended into the valley in search of our new camp, for we had now left
the Yaru and had turned up into the valley of the Bhong-chu, a river that
flowed from the West, with a very considerable volume of water. As there
was rinderpest in the valley, our transport consisted now of donkeys only,
many of them being very diminutive in size, but quite accustomed to
carrying heavy loads. Our camp was pitched at a place called Trangso
Chumbab, where there was an old Chinese rest-house. The Bhong-chu here
was nearly 200 yards in width, but there was quite a good ford across it to
Tsogo. Here we found many flourishing villages and much cultivation. We
seemed to be entering a much more populated part of the country; from the
top of the hill I counted in one valley no less than fifteen villages and quite
a number of willow groves. From here a longish march of 18 miles up the
valley of the Bhong-chu brought us to Kyishong—a pretty little village on
the banks of the river. There were a few willow trees here and a lot of sea
buckthorn. I did not keep to the road, but started early across a big plain on
which I was lucky enough to shoot a goa with quite good horns. The day

was very hot and sultry, and after crossing the plain I went up a side valley
which turned out to be extremely pretty. It was very narrow and a mass of
wild rose bushes. These roses were all of a creamy yellow, and every bush
was covered with hundreds of sweet-smelling flowers. There was also a
curious black clematis and several species of broom and rock cistus. Here
and there were grassy patches with bubbling springs of crystal clearness.
Rock pigeons, Brahminy ducks, blackbirds and numerous other varieties of
small birds came down to drink here and did not mind us at all. About two
o'clock the weather suddenly changed and violent thunderstorms started all
round us, first on the opposite side of the valley and then on every side.
Heavy hail came down at the same time and the ground soon became white.
On descending into the valley, I put up what was to me a new kind of
partridge, also numerous mountain hares. On emerging into the main valley,
I noticed a group of five large Chortens. I was told that the centre Chorten
had been built over a very bad demon, and that it kept him down. The other
four Chortens at the corners prevented his ever getting away.

The next day's march to Shekar Dzong was a short one of only 12 miles.
We followed the main valley for about 6 miles through some interesting
conglomerate gorges alternating with open spaces covered with sea
buckthorn. We then turned off Northwards up a side valley which led us to
the town and fort of Shekar. This place was very finely situated on a big
rocky and sharp-pointed mountain like an enlarged St. Michael's Mount.
The actual town stands at the foot of the hill, but a large monastery, holding
over 400 monks and consisting of innumerable buildings, is literally
perched half-way up the cliff. The buildings are connected by walls and
towers with the fort, which rises above them all. The fort again is connected
by turreted walls with a curious Gothic-like structure on the summit of the
hill where incense is offered up daily. On our arrival the whole town turned
out and surrounded us with much curiosity, for we were the first Europeans
that they had ever seen. A small tent had been pitched for us, but there was

such a crowd round it that I retreated to a willow grove close by, which was
protected by a wall. As the Jongpen had not come to see us, Chheten
Wangdi went over to find him; presently he came along with a basket of
eggs and with many apologies for not coming before, but he said that he
had had no warning of our arrival. This was but partly true, for though our
passport did not particularly mention this place, it authorised all officials to
help us to their utmost, and the Jongpen certainly knew and had heard that
we were coming. I asked him to give orders that no intoxicating spirits
should be served out to our followers, remembering the trouble we had had
in one or two places before owing to their all getting drunk. Our tents were
all pitched inside an enclosure and in the shade of the willow grove, and
above us towered the picturesque buildings of the fort and the monastery.
This was by far the largest and most interesting place that we had yet come
across. For our mess tent we were given a fine Chinese tent such as they
always seem to keep for the entertainment of guests of honour. As in most
places, there were two Jongpens residing here, one lay and the other
ecclesiastical, and finding that Tingri was under their jurisdiction, we asked
them to issue orders to their representatives at Tingri to help us in every
way with supplies and transport.

Shekar Dzong.

June 17 we spent resting at Shekar. In the morning Morshead and I went
to call on the Jongpen; he lives in a poor house at the foot of the hill, his
official residence being three-quarters of the way up, but he wisely prefers
to live at the bottom, not being very fond of exercise. He was busy adding
on to his house, and we were shown into the old part in which he was
living. He gave us the usual Tibetan tea and sweetmeats and then insisted
on our having macaroni and meat seasoned with chillies, which was
excellent, followed by junket served in china bowls. He had some very fine
teacups of agate and hornblende schist with finely chased silver covers,
which I admired very much. That afternoon several of us went up to visit
the big monastery of Shekar Chö-te. This consisted of a great number of
buildings terraced one above the other on a very steep rocky slope. A path
along the face of the rock brought us to several archways under which we
passed. We then had to go up and down some picturesque but very steep
and narrow streets until we came to a large courtyard. On one side of this
was the main temple. In this temple were several gilt statues of Buddha
decorated all over with turquoises and other precious stones, and behind
them a huge figure of Buddha quite 50 feet high. Every year, they told us,
they had to re-gild his face. Around were eight curious figures about 10 feet
high and dressed in quaint flounces which they said were the guardians of
the shrine. We then went up steep and slippery ladders, in almost pitch
darkness, and came out on a platform opposite the face of the great Buddha.
Here were some beautifully chased silver teapots and other interesting
pieces of silver, richly decorated in relief. Inside the shrine, which was very
dark, the smell of rancid butter was almost overpowering as all the lamps
burnt butter. The official head of the monastery showed us round. He was
apparently appointed from Lhasa and was responsible for all the revenues
and financial dealings of the monastery. We were given very buttery tea in
the roof courtyard, which was a pleasant spot, and here I photographed a

group of several monks. They had never seen a camera or photographs
before, but they had heard that such a thing was possible and were very
much interested in it. Before leaving we went in to see the Head Lama who
had lived over sixty-six years in this monastery. He was looked upon as
being extremely holy and as the re-incarnation of a former abbot, and they
therefore practically worshipped him. There was only one tooth left in his
mouth, but for all that he had a very pleasant smile. All around his room
were silver-gilt Chortens inlaid with turquoises and precious stones and
incense was being burnt everywhere. After much persuasion the other
monks induced him to come outside and have his photograph taken, telling
him that he was an old man, and that his time on earth was now short, and
they would like to have a picture of him to remember him by. He was
accordingly brought out, dressed up in robes of beautiful golden brocades,
with priceless silk Chinese hangings arranged behind him while he sat on a
raised dais with his dorje and his bell in front of him, placed upon a finely
carved Chinese table. The fame of this photograph spread throughout the
country and in places hundreds of miles away I was asked for photographs
of the Old Abbot of Shekar Chö-te, nor could I give a more welcome
present at any house than a photograph of the Old Abbot. Being looked
upon as a saint, he was worshipped, and they would put these little
photographs in shrines and burn incense in front of them.

The Abbot of Shekar Chöte.

About midnight that night I was suddenly awakened by yells and loud
shouting and hammering close to my tent and next to that in which Bullock
and Mallory were sleeping. The latter turned out and found that a Tibetan
had seized an ice axe and a mallet and was busy hammering on our store
boxes. He gave chase, but failed to catch the intruder. Some of our coolies,
however, found out where he had gone to, and Chheten Wangdi had him
handed over to the Jongpen. On investigation in the morning the man
proved to be a madman whom his parents always kept locked up during
nights when the moon was full, but he had managed to escape, so we
handed him back to his family.

Our transport was very slow in arriving, and there were so many delays
that it was midday before the procession finally moved off. The loads, too,
were very badly put on and kept falling off, also the transport was quite the
worst that we had yet had. For about 5 miles the path went up and down hill
and through much sand until we came to the bridge over the Bhong-chu.
This bridge consisted of four or five stout pillars of loose stones which
acted as piers, on which were laid a few pieces of wood, on which flat
stones were placed. It was a rough form of bridge, but served at ordinary
times for its purpose. During the course of this summer, however, after
heavy rain, these piers so dammed up the water as to cause it to rise some 4
or 5 feet on the upper side of them with the result that the immense weight
of water swept the whole bridge away. Bullock and Mallory with half a
dozen coolies had left early in the morning, intending to bivouac out for a
couple of nights and climb one of the hills to the South of the Bhong-chu in
order to get a view of Mount Everest. After we had gone about 5 miles we
met them close to the bridge, as they had lost their way and had been
walking for about 15 miles: not having found the bridge, they had forded
the river and had got wet up to their necks in crossing it. At dusk we
reached the village of Tsakor, where we found a tent pitched for us, and
here we spent the night. Our transport did not turn up till nearly nine
o'clock, and so we all slept in the mess tent. From here to Tingri was still
another 20 miles—the path following the right bank of the Bhong-chu the
whole way. In places the river was as much as 200 yards wide and flowed
very sluggishly. We were told that the waters were very low, but that next
month, when the rains had broken, the river often filled the whole of the
bottom of the valley. On the way we passed some very handsome black-
necked cranes as large as the Saurus crane. These had black heads and bills,
with red eyes, light grey bodies and black tails with fine feathers. On this
march the midges were dreadfully annoying the whole way, and we were
surrounded with clouds of them the whole time. Their bite was very

tiresome and extremely irritating. On the way we passed a Mongolian who
had taken eleven months in coming from Lhasa and who was on his way to
Nepal. His method of progression was by throwing himself at full length
down on the ground. He then got up and at the spot where his hands
touched the ground repeated the motion again. As we approached Tingri,
the valley widened out and bent round to the South. Tingri itself was
situated on the side of a small hill in the middle of a great plain, from
which, looking to the South, was visible the wonderful chain of snowy
peaks, many of them over 25,000 feet in height, which extends Westwards
from Mount Everest. We crossed the Ra-chu—a tributary of the Bhong-chu,
partly by bridges and partly by fords; it was split up into a number of small
and very muddy channels that took their rise from the Kyetrak Glacier.
Tingri was to be our first base for reconnoitring the Northern and North-
western approaches to Mount Everest. It was June 19 when we arrived
there, so that it had taken us just a month's travelling from Darjeeling to
perform this part of our journey.

Footnote:
[3] Dzong means fort.

CHAPTER IV
TINGRI AND THE COUNTRY TO THE SOUTH

Tingri is a place of some importance, with a considerable trade at certain
seasons of the year. It is the last place of any size on this side of the
Nepalese frontier and boasts of a military governor. The garrison, however,
when we visited it, consisted only of a sergeant and four or five soldiers.
There were about three hundred houses in Tingri, all clustered together on
the slopes of a small isolated hill standing in the middle of the great plain.
On the top of the hill was the old Chinese fort, now all falling into ruin, but
still littered with papers and books, written in Chinese characters, left
behind by the Chinese on their hasty departure. Inside were quaint mural
frescoes of curious old men riding stags or winged dragons painted in many
colours. All the way up the valley of the Bhong-chu we had seen ruins of
walls and evidences of much fighting. These all dated back, we were told,
to the time of the Nepalese invasions of Tibet in the eighteenth century
when the Gurkhas penetrated so far into Tibet that they actually got to
Shigatse, and the Tibetans had to call upon the Chinese Empire for help.
The Chinese came into the country with a large army, defeated the Gurkhas,
drove them out of Tibet and crossed the Himalayas with a considerable
army into Nepal, an extraordinary military feat considering the enormous
difficulty of moving an army in these unhospitable regions over the high
mountain passes through which it is approached. The Chinese, after this,
never left Tibet until they were driven out by the Tibetans only a few years

ago. In the hills round Tingri we came across many evidences of the
fighting which then took place. This probably accounted for the large
number of ruined and deserted villages that we saw in the valleys around.
At the foot of the hill was a large Chinese rest-house which was only used
to house Tibetan officials when they came there on duty. The Tibetans
themselves did not like to live in or use the place, as many Chinese had died
there and they thought that their ghosts haunted the spot. This rest-house
was, however, swept out and prepared for our reception, as we had told the
Tibetans that we should probably stay there for some time and should want
a house to protect us from the wind and to provide a dark room for
developing our photographs. The rest-house consisted of three courtyards in
the outer one we put the coolies, in the middle one the surveyors, and the
inner one we kept for ourselves. In appearance the building was quite
picturesque with its mural paintings of flying dogs and fierce dragons; but
in spite of its picturesqueness outside and its handsome appearance, the
rooms inside were small, and when the rain came it poured through the roof
and our beds had to be shifted many times during the night to avoid the
drips of water. It however provided an excellent dark room for us after we
had well plastered the walls, the floor and the ceiling with mud and got rid
of the dust of ages. To do any photographic work in Tibet a house is a
necessity, as with the violent wind that blows every day all one's belongings
get covered with dust which would ruin any negative. At first we found
water a great difficulty as the local water was full of mud, but we eventually
discovered a beautifully clear spring, about half a mile away, which bubbled
up in a deep bluey green basin, and this water we used always, both for
drinking and for photographic work. Tingri had many advantages as a base.
Stores, supplies and transport were always available there, as it was the
headquarters of the district. It also provided an easy means of approach to
Mount Everest from the North-west and to the high group of mountains that
lay to the West of Mount Everest. After sorting out all our stores and

equipment and seeing in what state they were after the journey, our next
business was the making of a dark room, as we had taken many
photographs on the journey that required developing. The weather at this
time was very fine, but the Tibetans kept on telling us that the rainy season
ought to be starting, so we determined as soon as possible to send out
parties in different directions to make the most of the favourable
opportunity. The first morning after our arrival we were up on the top of the
hill by six o'clock in the hope of getting a good view to the South, but the
clouds were already over most of the mountains. Everest we could see quite
clearly, and Cho-Uyo, the great 26,800 feet peak that lies to the West of
Mount Everest. The Depon here, who was acting as the Governor of the
place, was a nice young fellow and very cheery, and later on I got to know
him very well and went over to his house and was entertained by him and
his wife. He told me that the Tibetans still paid tribute to Nepal for all that
part of the country, and that the amount they had to pay was the equivalent
of 5,000 rupees per annum. The Nepalese kept a head-man at Tingri and
another at Nyenyam to deal with all criminal cases and offences committed
by Nepalese subjects when in Tibet. I found later on that the Tibetans were
very frightened of the Nepalese, or of having any dealings with a Gurkha. I
took photographs of the Depon's wife and all their children, and of his
mother-in-law, which delighted them immensely; the wife at first was very
shy of coming forward, but after many tears and protestations her husband
finally induced her to be photographed. The great semi-circular head-
dresses that the women wear are usually covered with turquoises, and coral,
and often with strings of seed pearls across them. Round their necks hang
long chains of either turquoise or coral beads, sometimes mixed with lumps
of amber. Suspended round the neck by a shorter chain is generally a very
elaborately decorated charm box, those belonging to the richer or upper
classes being of gold inlaid with turquoises, the poorer people having them
made of silver with poorer turquoises. The officials, as a rule, have a long

ear-ring, 4 or 5 inches long, of turquoises and pearls, suspended from the
left ear, while in the right ear they wear a single turquoise of very good
quality. Nearly every one carries a rosary, with which their hands are
playing about the whole day. We were told that the laws governing marriage
in those parts were strictly regulated. Owing to the excessive number of
males, a form of polyandry prevails. If there were four brothers in a family,
and the eldest one married a wife, his wife would also be the property of the
three younger brothers; but if the second or third brother married, their
wives would be common only to themselves and their youngest brother. In
Tibet, when, owing to the severe climate, digging is impossible for about
six months in the year, if a man dies his body is handed over to professional
corpse butchers, of whom there are one or two in every village. These
butchers cut the body up into small pieces, which are taken out on to a hill-
top and scattered about for the birds of the air or the wolves to devour. If by
any chance there is a delay in consuming these remains, this is looked upon
as a sign that the man has led an evil life during his lifetime.

On June 22 Wollaston rejoined us again. He had escorted Raeburn to
Lachen, and had there arranged for an assistant surgeon to come up and take
him back as far as Gangtok. Wollaston had then come on as fast as possible
to rejoin us. His kit did not arrive till the following day, as he had ridden in
direct from Shekar Dzong. The following day Bullock and Mallory left us,
making direct for Mount Everest, and intending to reconnoitre the North
and Northwestern slopes. Looked at from here it is certainly a very
wonderful mountain, as it seems to stand up all by itself, but from this side
it looks far too steep to be climbed. On June 25 Wheeler and Heron went
off to Kyetrak, from which point Wheeler was to begin his photographic
survey. I had intended to start the following day and join them, but the acid
hypo that I had been using for fixing had given off so many sulphur fumes
that I had been quite “gassed” for several days and had lost my voice in
consequence. Unfortunately my orderly and Wheeler's bearer, who were

both Mahommedans, were taken ill with enteric. Wheeler's bearer was in a
very bad way, and a few days after my departure he died, but my orderly,
after a bad attack, recovered, and when I returned three weeks later he was
able to be up and to walk about a little. As Wollaston was likely to be
detained here for some time owing to these cases of sickness, and as
Morshead wanted to get in some surveying all round Tingri, I thought it
would be a good opportunity to visit the different parties that we had sent
out, and also to get, if possible, some information about Kharta, which I
intended should be our second base. The coolies that we had still with us at
Tingri were kept busy by Wollaston, and daily they would bring in rats,
birds, lizards, beetles, or fish which they had collected for him. The local
people would not make any attempt to collect these animals, as they said it
was against their religion. On June 26 I started out to the South and camped
the first night at Sharto, a small village about 9 miles across the plain to the
South of Tingri. On the way we passed numbers of bees that seemed to be
coming up out of the ground and swarming. These were all of a very light
brown colour. Sharto is only a small village, but there are no other houses
between it and Kyetrak, so that it was necessary to stop there. As the wind
always blows with great strength here, the tents were pitched within some
sheltering walls. In every place that we went to now we managed to get
some kind of green food which was turned into spinach; a small kind of
weed that grows in the barley fields was generally thus used. At other times
we tried turnip leaves, or again, when we were higher and above the limits
of cultivation, the young shoots of the nettle which grows up to 17,000 feet,
and is really very good. I had taken with me this time a Tibetan whom we
had picked up on the way. He was called Poo, and he turned out to be an
excellent cook who could make any of the Tibetan dishes. As he was a
sensible fellow, and very seldom drunk, I made a good deal of use of him.
He accompanied me in all my wanderings, and I could not have found a
more useful servant when travelling, as he never seemed to mind the cold or

the height and could always produce a fire of some kind, even though he
had forgotten to bring any matches. That evening at Sharto there was a
curious false sunset in the East with rays of light in the deep purple of the
sky. All the hills stood out with wonderful sharpness, and the colours were
very beautiful. Towards nightfall we saw a number of kiang, which came
quite close up to the camp and started feeding on the barley fields in spite of
the pillars of stones and the strings which are put round the fields to keep
both them and the hares away from the crops. The next morning I started
off early as I intended to climb a hill 17,700 feet, on the way to Kyetrak.
This hill, however, proved further off than I anticipated, and we had some
difficulty in crossing a glacier stream, so that I did not get up to the top till 9
a.m., by which time the clouds had hidden a great part of the mountains to
the South of us. The view, nevertheless, was extraordinarily fine. The top of
Everest just showed above a great icy range to the East of us, and South-
east was that great group of mountains of which Cho-Uyo, 26,800 feet, is
the highest. Immense granite precipices descended sheer for several
thousand feet until they reached great winding glaciers, while from over the
Khombu Pass long wisps of cloud came sailing round these peaks and
eventually hid them from our view. To the North the view extended right up
to the watershed of the Brahmaputra, 80 to 100 miles distant. The different
colours of the hills, the light and shade from the clouds, all formed a
charming picture. Once over 17,000 feet, I met my old friend the dwarf blue
poppy (Meconopsis) and many pretty white, blue and yellow saxifrages that
grew on the rocks. Descending from this hill into the Kyetrak Valley, we
passed a number of goa which were quite tame, but unfortunately they were
all females. We had two more big glacial torrents to cross which later in the
afternoon would probably have been impassable as by that time they would
have risen another 2 feet, due to the melting of the snow and the ice by the
hot sun in the morning; indeed, we only just managed to get across when
we did. The main Kyetrak stream comes from the great glacier that

descends from Cho-Uyo and the Khombu Pass. Opposite the village of
Kyetrak it is luckily divided into a number of small streams, so that it is
usually possible to get across it, though in the afternoons it is always
somewhat difficult.

This village lies at a height of 16,000 feet, at the foot of the Khombu or
Nangba Pass and the Pusi Pass. The former is a high glacier-covered pass,
about 19,000 feet, that leads into the Khombu Valley in Nepal. The other,
the Pusi Pass, is a much lower and easier pass that leads into the Rongshar
Valley. Between these two passes lies a very beautiful glacier-covered peak
called Chorabsang. Here at Kyetrak I met Heron and Wheeler encamped in
the shelter of some walls close to the village, which consisted of a few dirty
stone houses and a big Chorten. The people told me that they lived here all
the year round, and that they owned the grazing for many miles to the North
and possessed herds of yaks several thousand in number. Traffic could be
kept up over these passes, they said, at all times of the year, though only
with great difficulty, and with much danger, whole convoys being
sometimes wiped out by blizzards when trying to cross the Khombu Pass,
as the fine powdery snow is blown down into their faces from every
direction and they finally get suffocated by it. That night there was a sharp
frost, and the following morning Heron and I started to go up towards the
Khombu Pass, following at first the East side of the Kyetrak Glacier. For
about 6 or 7 miles we rode beside the great moraine that extended along the
East side of this glacier; every now and then we climbed up on to a mound
on the edge of the glacier in order to take photographs of it. The ice was all
torn and riven into wonderful shapes and opposite us was the finely
crevassed peak of Chorabsang. I pushed on, leaving Heron to come on at a
slower pace, as I was anxious to get to the top of the pass before the clouds
should have come up and hidden all the views. Every day it cost us a race to
get up to a point of vantage before the clouds should have come up and
hidden everything. Leaving the pony behind, with one coolie, I pressed

forward for some 4 miles up a very stony and slippery moraine on the
glacier. Here were many curious ice formations—ice tables with a big flat
rock superimposed, curious upright pillars of ice, and the main glacier itself
was worn by stone and water into the weirdest shapes and forms. In places,
too, we came across that curious formation which in South America is
called Nieve Penitentes. As we passed onwards, new glaciers opened up in
every valley. The views up some of these side valleys, which often widened
out into great amphitheatres, were very grand, especially that of the huge
glacier that swept down from below the rock walls of Cho-Uyo.

On arriving at the end of the moraine, the boots that my coolie was
wearing came to pieces and he said he could go no further across the snow,
so shouldering the big camera, I started off alone. At first the ice was firm,
but soon I came to soft snow and much water underneath it: they made the
going very unpleasant and I kept floundering about up to my knees in snow
and water. At length I came to a large crevasse along the edge of which I
followed for over half a mile as most of the snow bridges across it were
unsafe. At last I found my way across and by climbing on to some rocks
was able to look over the top of the pass and down into Nepal. The height
of the pass seemed to be about 19,000 feet, and as the day was very hot, I
lay down and went sound asleep, only waking up when it began to snow. I
then started, none too soon, on my homeward journey: all the way back
snow fell heavily. I was very thankful to meet my coolie again and to hand
over the camera to him: carrying a camera for five or six hours in soft snow
at a height of over 18,000 feet is a heavy tax upon the endurance of anyone
unaccustomed to carrying weights. Wheeler meanwhile had moved up his
camp from Kyetrak to a spot on the moraine East of the glacier and
intended to spend a week or fortnight in that valley.

The next morning Heron and I started to go over the Pusi Pass (Marmot
Pass), so called because of the number of marmots that frequent the

Southern slopes. After fording the Kyetrak River, we climbed up the
moraine to the West of the Kyetrak Glacier and then turned up some easy
grass hills until we came to the top of the pass, 17,700 feet. Here at the very
top were growing some delightful little dwarf forget-me-nots—not an inch
high—also many white and yellow saxifrages. Most of the views were
unfortunately hidden by clouds, though one fine triple-headed peak showed
up well to the South. We passed several flocks of female burhel (Ovis
nahura), which were quite tame, and allowed us to ride up to within 50
yards of them. The hillsides were bare at first and grassy and the air felt
distinctly cold and damp. We now commenced our long descent, and at
16,000 feet began to meet with juniper bushes and many dwarf
rhododendrons. As we got lower, many more varieties of bushes appeared.
There were two or three kinds of berberis, loniceras, white and pink
spiræas, and quantities of white roses; besides these were masses of
primulas and anemones, and pink, white or mauve geraniums. We now
followed the right bank of the Shung-chu, a great glacial torrent, which
joined by several others became an unfordable stream. The path was well
engineered, sometimes close to the river, and sometimes built out on rocks
high above the stream. All of a sudden the valley narrowed into a great
gorge. We had left all the granites and slates behind and had suddenly come
into the zone of the gneiss, which extended many miles to the South. A little
way further down, at a place where two other valleys meet, we caught sight
of some green barley fields lying round the small village of Tasang where
we encamped on a terrace for the night. We were now at a height of only
13,300 feet, and were able to get fresh eggs and vegetables again. It was a
great pleasure once more to have wood fires in place of the yak dung with
its acrid smoke, which caused all one's food to taste unpleasantly. Here we
used as fuel the aromatic wood of the juniper.

This valley is looked upon as a holy one, owing to the number of juniper
bushes that grow in it, and several hermits and nuns had taken up their

abode in it and shut themselves up in caves in order to meditate. The nearest
village used to supply them with food, and morning and evening could be
seen ascending the blue smoke of the juniper, which they burnt as incense
before the entrances of their dwelling places. There was a hermit who lived
close to the village and whose cave we could see high up in the rocks
above. The villagers told us that after meditating for a period of ten years,
he would be able to live on only ten grains of barley a day, and they were
looking forward to that day. There was another anchorite female who was
supposed to have lived here for 138 years and who was greatly revered. She
had forbidden any of the animals in the valley to be killed, and that was the
reason why the flocks of burhel we had passed were so extremely tame. The
next day, giving our transport a rest, Heron and I walked for 7 or 8 miles
down the valley. On the opposite side of the valley the only trees were
birches and willow, and it was curious that, at these comparatively low
heights, there were no large rhododendrons or fir trees. On the other side of
the valley, the vegetation consisted wholly of juniper, berberis or wild roses.
We descended to 12,000 feet, most of the time going through narrow
gorges. At one place we came across a number of gooseberry bushes
covered with young gooseberries, of which we gathered a sufficient supply
to last us for several days. The rose bushes were charming all the way. At
first they were all of the white creamy coloured variety, but lower down we
came on the big red one with flowers often more than 3 inches in diameter.
Wherever there were springs of water there grew masses of anemones and
yellow primulas. We now returned to our camp at Tasang, and rain then
started and continued the remainder of the day. The people told us that this
valley was passable for animals for three days' journey, after which the river
entered into some terrible gorges down which it was only just possible for a
coolie to get along, and these latter gorges formed the boundary between
Tibet and Nepal. On July 1 we started to return to Kyetrak; the morning was
misty when we started, and though the higher peaks were all hidden in the

clouds, the sun shone brightly and the day was quite hot. Our kit did not
arrive till between five and six o'clock, and the yaks had a great deal of
trouble in getting across the Kyetrak River, as it had risen considerably.
Wheeler was still at his high camp further up the valley, waiting for a really
clear day. The clouds, too, were his great enemies, as they came up very
early every morning from over the Khombu Pass.

From here Heron and I had decided to go on and see how Mallory and
Bullock had been faring in the next valley, so the next morning, after
breakfasting at 5 a.m., we started off. It was one of the coldest mornings we
had had, with a very hard frost, and being on the shady side of the valley we
did not get the sun till several hours after we had started. After going down
the valley for about 6 miles, we turned off to the East and crossed several
easy passes, the higher of them, the Lamna La, being 16,900 feet. The
country was very barren of flowers and vegetation, but there was a certain
amount of grazing for yaks and sheep. The march to Zambu was a fairly
long one of 20 miles, but the yaks came along well. This was a more
prosperous-looking village than most of them, and the houses were all
whitewashed. We were still too high for barley fields as we were just 16,000
feet, but the wealth of the village lay in its herds of yaks and sheep; the
villagers told us they owned 3,000 yaks. Shepherds in this country are but
poorly paid, getting only thirty trangkas (10s.) per annum. But house
servants are still worse off, getting only eight trangkas (2s. 8d.) per annum.
However, they seem to thrive under those wages and there is no discontent
or trades unionism among them. Our camp was pitched in a sunny spot not
far from the village, looking straight over towards Mount Everest, whose
top appeared over the opposite hills. From this side its precipices looked
most formidable and there was also a magnificent ridge which we had not
seen before. There was a slight frost again that night.

Breakfasting, as usual, at 5 a.m., I started up the hill South of the camp
and was lucky enough to get a clear view of Everest and the Rongbuk
Valley that led up to it. This valley ran right up to the foot of Mount Everest
and seemed an easy enough approach, but the mountain itself looked
absolutely unscalable from this side, showing nothing but a series of very
steep precipices. The day turned out to be a very hot one. I descended into
the valley below, and started to ride up towards Mount Everest. Presently I
came to an unfordable stream, and after making several attempts to get
across this, found myself compelled to return several miles down the valley
to the monastery of Chöbu, where there was a slender footbridge. The pony
that I was riding was swum across, a rope being attached to its head. He
was then pulled over to the far side, a proceeding he did not at all enjoy.
The yaks, too, were unladen, and the loads carried by hand over the bridge.
After this the yaks were driven into the river and made to swim across, but
they only went as far as an island in the middle of the river. From this place
they would not budge in spite of stones, curses and threats, until at length a
man with a sling, fetched from the monastery, hurled stones at them with
great violence: this procedure apparently so stung them up that they thought
it advisable to cross the remainder of the stream. At the entrance to the
valley, we passed some very tame burhel within a few yards of the path, and
then went along at the foot of some fine cliffs with limestone on the top and
layers of hornblende and granite below. At first there was quite a rich
vegetation growing here, considering we were just on 16,000 feet. There
were juniper bushes, clematis, willows, a genista, rock roses, and even
some yellow primulas, but as we got further into the valley it became more
stony, and on either side of the path were small piles of stones heaped up by
pilgrims. The valley was considered very sacred and was apparently a great
place of pilgrimage. We found the base camp of the Alpine climbers pitched
close to the Rongbuk Monastery, where there lived a very high re-
incarnated Lama who was in meditation and not allowed to see anyone.

This valley was called the Rongbuk, or inner valley—a name well suited to
it; the legend was that from this valley there used to be a pass over into the
Khombu Valley, but the high Lama who lived here forbade the use of it, as
it disturbed the meditations of the recluses and hermits, of which there were
several hundred here. At first these good people did not at all approve of our
coming into this valley, as they thought we should be likely to disturb and
distract their meditations.

The Rongbuk Monastery lies at a height of 16,500 feet, and is an
unpleasantly cold spot. This monastery contains twenty permanent Lamas
who always live there, together with the re-incarnated Lama. Besides these,
there are three hundred other associated Lamas who come in periodically,
remaining there for periods of varying length. These Associate Lamas are
mostly well-to-do, and having sufficient money to support themselves are
not a drain upon the villagers. They will often invest several thousand
trangkas with some village, and in return for this money the village will
supply them with food, barley, milk, eggs and fuel. Higher up the valley
there was a smaller monastery, and dotted along the hillside were numerous
cells and caves where monks or nuns had retired to meditate. Every animal
that we saw in this valley was extraordinarily tame. In the mornings we
watched the burhel coming to some hermits' cells not a hundred yards away
from the camp, to be fed, and from there they went on to other cells. They
seemed to have no fear whatever of human beings. On the way up the
valley we passed within 40 to 50 yards of a fine flock of rams, but they
barely moved away, and on the way back we passed some females that were
so inquisitive that they actually came up to within 10 yards of us in order to
have a look at us. The rock pigeons came and fed out of one's hand, and the
ravens and all the other birds here were equally tame; it was most
interesting to be able to watch all their habits and to see them at such close
quarters. On July 4, Heron and I walked up the valley to see Mallory and
Bullock, who had got an Alpine camp some 7 miles further up the valley at

a height of 18,000 feet, where they were training their coolies in snow and
ice work and trying to find out whether there was any possible way of
attacking Mount Everest from this side. It was a beautiful morning when we
started, and on the way we passed one or two small monasteries and
numerous cells where hermits and recluses were living in retirement and
meditation. After crossing several small lake beds and old moraines—for
the big Rongbuk Glacier seemed to have been retiring in the last few years
—we came to the big moraine-covered Rongbuk Glacier. This glacier
appeared to be about 8 or 9 miles long, starting immediately below an
immense circle of cliffs which formed the North face of Mount Everest. We
found afterwards that there were several other side glaciers that joined in it,
which were even larger and longer than the centre glacier. After some steep
scrambles up the moraine-covered glacier and on to a high terrace on the
West side of it, we found Mallory and Bullock with their coolies encamped
in a pleasantly sheltered spot with plenty of water close at hand and
commanding the most magnificent views of Mount Everest, which here
seemed to be only about 6 miles away and towered up above the glacier,
showing immense cliffs 10,000 feet high. Mallory and Bullock were hard at
work training the coolies in snow and ice work and exploring all the
different glaciers from that side. They were, however, much handicapped by
there only being two of them, which made the work more strenuous. After
spending the day with them, Heron and I returned to our camp in the
evening. The evening light on Mount Everest was wonderfully beautiful.
The weather seems nearly always to clear up about sunset, and its summit
then usually towers far above the clouds in a clear sky. At dusk several of
the Lamas came for medicines of different kinds, which we gave them, and
much to our surprise in the morning they presented us with a number of
fresh eggs in gratitude. Having seen Mallory and Bullock well established
in this valley, our next most important duty seemed to be to select a site for
our next base camp. Some place on the East side of Mount Everest would

have to be chosen, and it seemed that somewhere in the Kharta Valley
would be the most likely spot. Heron and I therefore determined that we
would make a quick reconnaissance of that district before returning to
Tingri. On the following day we moved down from the Rongbuk
Monastery.

CHAPTER V
THE SEARCH FOR KHARTA

After leaving Mallory and Bullock to continue the search for a possible
route up Mount Everest from the Rongbuk side, Heron and I, on July 5,
started off down the Rongbuk Valley in order to visit Kharta. We had been
told that it was only two days' easy march from the monastery to get there.
It was a cold morning when we started off; there had been a sharp frost
during the night and the sun did not reach us till late in the morning. Mount
Everest stood out at the head of the valley wonderfully clear and clothed
with a fresh mantle of white. Instead of crossing over the river by the
bridge, at Chöbu, we kept straight on down the valley till we came to
Chödzong, where were the first barley fields and cultivation. There was
plenty of water here for irrigation purposes, and some fine grassy fields on
which many ponies were grazing. We had to change our transport in this
village and get fresh animals, so that it was not till three o'clock in the
afternoon that we got started again. In Tibet they have a system of stages,
and animals from one village are taken, as a rule, for one stage only. As
each stage usually ends at the next village, and as villages are frequent, this
is a most awkward and inconvenient arrangement—as it necessitates three
or four changes a day. In order to avoid these constant changes, we used to
persuade the villagers by promises of extra baksheesh, especially where we
had a large number of animals, to undertake two or three stages. After
leaving Chödzong we climbed up over a steep pass 1,200 feet above the

valley and found a still deeper descent to the village of Halung, which lay at
our feet. Here we waited for our transport, but as this did not arrive till dark,
we decided to camp there, though we had only done 18 miles from
Rongbuk; the yak travels very slowly. We were now again at 14,800 feet
and found a much warmer climate, with green barley fields and here and
there patches of yellow mustard. A large rhubarb with a curious crinkled
leaf grew here and there in the fields. We tried to eat this rhubarb; it had an
unpleasant taste, but this disappeared when it was cooked and it proved a
welcome addition to our diet. The Tibetans do not use it for food, as sugar
—without which it would be uneatable—is scarce and expensive in the
country. The plant serves, however, as an acid for dyes.

Halung is a very prosperous-looking village with well-built houses. The
villagers soon had three tents pitched for us on a grassy field between the
village and the river; cushions, cooking pots and fuel were also brought out
for us. Here we camped for the night in reasonable comfort. On the
following morning the loads were all carried by hand across a fragile bridge
over the glacier stream, while the yaks and the ponies were driven across it.
We then rode for a mile down the green and well-watered valley, and
afterwards turned up into another valley where every flat space was green
with barley-fields intermixed with brilliant patches of yellow from the
fields of mustard. A small glacier stream fed this valley and supplied plenty
of water for irrigation. After passing several small villages we rode across a
spur also covered with barley-fields to Rebu, where we had to change our
transport. This was quite a picturesque village situated on a rocky knoll,
part of the village being on one side and part on the other of the river. Along
the various irrigation canals were wild flowers of all kinds. Monkshood
grew there, also black and yellow clematis, rhubarb, ranunculus and
primulas of different kinds. By ten o'clock our transport was changed and
we were given ponies instead of yaks: they travel much quicker and we had
apparently a long way to go yet before we could reach the next village. We

were expecting all the time to get to Kharta that evening, but where
distances are concerned all Tibetans are liars, and after doing 26 miles we
stopped, Kharta being apparently as far off as ever. After leaving Rebu the
path led for some miles up an uninteresting valley, in which limestone cliffs
on one side and sandstone cliffs on the other came down almost to the
stream, the waters of which, in contrast to the muddy glacier streams that
we had been meeting the whole time, were as clear as crystal. There were
many small birds along the banks, all of them wonderfully tame; these,
when we were resting for lunch, hopped all round us and under our legs,
carrying off crumbs or any morsels of food. We now climbed up on to a
pass called the Doya La, 17,000 feet, from the top of which were fine views
of great rocky peaks on either side, those on the South being covered in
parts with hanging glaciers. About a quarter of a mile from the top of the
pass we struck some granite soil on which grew an extraordinary variety of
Alpine flowers; the blue poppy abounded, pink, yellow and white
saxifrages covered all the rocks, and besides these were many other plants
which I had not seen before and which were quite new to me. The range
which we now crossed acts as a barrier against the approach of the
Monsoon clouds and prevents them from passing over into Tibet. Over on
the North side the country is mostly dry and very little grows there, whereas
on the South there is a rich and varied vegetation and the air feels soft and
moist. The road from the pass led by an easy descent into a fine valley with
a green lake lying at its head under the dark cliffs of some bold rocky peaks.
We followed this valley for many miles, a strong head wind blowing against
us the whole of the time, and found ourselves before long once more among
the junipers and willows. We also saw pink and white rhododendrons, and
in places a small yellow one with waxy blossoms. The yellow rock cistus,
spiræas, roses, yellow primulas, blue monkshood, campanulas, blue
anemones, and hundreds of other wild flowers formed a rich flora which

showed that a considerable precipitation from the Monsoon fell in this
valley.

At last we came to a village, but every one fled at our approach, and we
could get no information about the route. A little further on we came across
more villages, in one of which, with much difficulty and after a long chase,
we captured a man and made him guide us to the village of Chulungphu,
where we decided to stop the night. After a little time we induced some of
the villagers to come out from their hiding-places, and to produce tents and
fuel for us. The camp was pitched in a field of sweet-scented primulas near
the village. The architecture of these houses was quite different from what
we had met before—they all appear to be strongly fortified, as they have
practically no windows and there are only small loopholes facing outwards.
They are all built of a brown stone—a kind of gneiss, and have sods on the
parapet over which are laid branches of juniper. The next morning we woke
to the sound of pattering rain and found all the hills wreathed in grey mist.
This was their first rain this year, so the inhabitants told us. It was pleasant
to one's skin after the dry climate and biting winds that we had been
experiencing on the other side of the passes to feel oneself wrapped in a
softer and milder air. We rode down this valley for about 6 miles until it
debouched into the main Arun Valley. The people, however, do not know it
by this name here, but call it still the Bhong-chu until it reaches Nepal. We
passed villages all the way, villages brown in colour and built of a brown
gneiss, around which grew fields of barley and mustard. After the barren
valleys which we had left, these appeared very fertile; rose and currant
bushes surrounded every field, while the hillsides were covered with juniper
and willows. Along the path grew spiræas and clematis, while beside every
watercourse were yellow marsh marigolds and primulas. A feature of the
Arun Valley, which was fairly wide here, was the old terraces on its slopes,
now all covered with barley, pea and mustard fields, the latter being a blaze
of yellow. There were many villages here and some pleasant country houses

surrounded by groves of willows and poplars. Down here the people were
not quite so frightened of us as they were in the valley from which we had
just come, where they had run away from us whenever we approached. The
Bong-chu here is a large river with a very great flow of water, and quite
unfordable. The nearest place where it could be crossed is at a rope bridge
some 18 miles higher up, and during the rainy season this bridge is
impassable, and communication with the other side completely cut off. To
the South and close by, at a height of 12,000 feet, the Bhong-chu enters a
terrific gorge on either side of which tower up great cliffs with snowy peaks
high above them. On some of the slopes which are not quite so steep there
are thick forests of fir trees and rhododendrons where, I was told, the
muskdeer lived. After descending the valley for 3 miles, we turned up a side
valley pointing Westwards. Down this flowed a very large and unfordable
glacial stream. This evidently came down from the neighbourhood of
Mount Everest, but local information as to its source was very vague, and it
was evident that we should have to prospect for ourselves. Some 3 miles up
this valley we came to a place called by the natives Kharta Shika, where the
Governor of the Kharta District resides. Kharta was not apparently a village
at all, but a district including a number of small villages. We halted a short
distance below Kharta Shika and presently the Governor came out to meet
us with a present of sweetmeats and the usual scarf. He apologised for not
meeting us before, as he said that he had no information as to the date of
our arrival. He begged that we would come over to his garden where he had
ordered a fine Chinese tent to be pitched for us. We crossed the river by a
wooden bridge, and after going through the village came to the Governor's
house. Crossing through the courtyard we entered his garden, which lay in a
nice sheltered spot surrounded by willow trees with a stream of clear water
running through it. Big wild roses grew there and a few European flowers
that he had planted, while under a very ancient poplar there was a large
painted prayer wheel, some 8 feet high, which was turned by a stream of

water. Here in his garden he provided us with a meal of excellent macaroni
and a very hot chilli salad. It was very pleasant to rest the eyes on the
luscious green of the well irrigated garden, and to be for once sheltered
from the wind. During the night we were awakened by a regular shower
bath. The Chinese tent, beautiful as it was in outward appearance, was sadly
lacking in waterproof qualities. As it rained steadily most of the night, we
had to take cover under our mackintoshes on which were pools of water in
the morning. There seemed to be no doubt that the proper Monsoon had at
last broken, and the Jongpen himself told us that this was the first really
heavy rain that they had had. All the people considered that we had brought
this rain with us and were very grateful in consequence; later on, when we
left, they begged us not to stop the rain, as they wanted it badly for their
crops.

As it cleared up a little about nine o'clock in the morning, though the hills
were still all in cloud, we rode out with Chheten Wangdi, the Jongpen and
Hopaphema, who was the largest landowner about here, to look out for a
site for our next base camp. We wanted, if possible, to get a house that
could be used as a store-room and also for photographic purposes. We rode
down into the main valley, and after looking over several houses, we
eventually selected one on an old river terrace with fine views all around
and standing quite by itself well away from any village. The water supply
was good and handy, and there was a pleasant garden of poplars and
willows, in which we could pitch our tents. After a certain amount of
bargaining, the owners were willing to let us have the house and the garden
for the large rent of one trangka (3½d.) a day. It was apparently the first
time anyone in that valley had ever wanted to rent a house, and there were
no house agents there to run one up into exorbitant prices. We then rode on
to Hopaphema's house, which was a fine solidly built dwelling surrounded
by large juniper trees, willows and poplars. Later on we got to know this
man very well, and used to call him always the “Sergeant,” as he was

supposed to do any recruiting for the Tibetan army that was needed in that
valley. He had a very kindly disposition, was always very hospitable, and
had a great sense of humour. He had a tent pitched for our reception under a
very old poplar with a grass plot in front surrounded by bushes of wild red
roses. Here we were given tea, milk and beer, and then the usual macaroni
and mince was produced. On leaving, he insisted on my taking away a large
quantity of turnip leaves, as he knew I was very fond of green food, and
they made an excellent “spinach.” The Tibetans that we met have invariably
proved very kindly and hospitable.

On returning to Kharta, where I had left Heron, I found that it had been
raining all the time, though in the main valley we had had it quite fine. In
the evening I took a walk up to an old fort not far from our camp. This fort
in old days had commanded the only path from here that led into Nepal, but
now it had all fallen into ruin. Close by it, however, was a delightful dell
full of hoary willow trees, underneath which the ground was carpeted with
yellow primulas growing among the bushes of scarlet roses. Near by were
two old poplar trees, whose trunks measured between 20 and 30 feet in
circumference and were evidently of a very great age. The primulas
everywhere were really astonishing. They outlined every watercourse with
yellow and often grew between 2 and 3 feet high with enormous heads of
sweet cowslip-scented yellow flowers. It rained again during the whole of
the night, and the fine spray that came through the Chinese tent made sleep
rather difficult. The next morning we started to go back to Tingri, and for
the first day's march were given coolies for our transport. In this district
coolies are used a great deal as all the trade with Nepal has to be carried on
by them, the paths over the passes being quite impassable for pack
transport; the Jongpen told us that we would find them quite as fast as
ponies.

To-day's march was to Lumeh—a distance of about 17 miles—and the
coolies arrived very soon after we did, having come along extraordinarily
well. Our route for the first 3 miles was down the Kharta Valley until it
joined the valley of the Bhong-chu; we then followed the right bank of this
for some 10 miles. On the way we stopped at the house of Hopaphema, who
insisted on giving us a meal of milk, macaroni and mince, although it was
only just over an hour since we had had breakfast. On our departure he gave
us a basket of eggs and some more turnip leaves to take along with us, and
altogether showed himself a most friendly and hospitable host. At first we
rode through fields of barley, peas and mustard for several miles, the valley
then became much more barren and the path occasionally was taken high up
on the face of a cliff, where the river swept round close beneath the
mountain side. At other times we crossed broad stony terraces. We came
eventually to the village of Dak, where the monks from the monastery had
pitched tents for us and had another meal provided for us. Coolies had to be
changed here, our old coolies arriving while we were having our meal; after
the loads had been transferred, our new transport proceeded along to
Lumeh, where we intended to spend the night. The path after Dak was in
places dangerous owing to falling stones, and our guide every now and then
urged us to hurry, as owing to the heavy rain of the preceding night many
stones had been loosened. The main Bhong-chu suddenly turned off to the
East from here, unexpectedly forcing a passage through a very curious and
deep gorge, where it burst its way through the highest mountains. We did
not, however, follow the valley of the Bhong-chu, but kept on up what
appeared to be the main valley; this was really only the valley of the Lower
Rongbuk that in its lower portion is called the Dzakar-chu. This river we
crossed by a wooden bridge, built on the cantilever principle, and which a
couple of months later was washed away. After riding for a couple of miles
over a nice grassy turf we came to Lumeh. Here was a very fine country
house around which were grouped a few smaller houses. This was the

residence of Ngawangyonten, who was managing the district for the big
monastery at Shekar Dzong, whose property it was. He had tents already
pitched for us, and fuel, milk and eggs already prepared. Around this house
were five of the largest poplar trees that I have ever seen. The largest was
almost 40 feet in circumference at the base, and the others were all between
20 and 25 feet in circumference. The villagers told us that they thought
these trees had been planted about 500 years ago. Magpies and hoopoes
were very common in this valley—the former were quite tame and allowed
us to approach very close. The barley-fields seemed to hold many hares.
Some fine crops of wheat as well as barley were grown here, although the
height was 12,800 feet. Every night now we had heavy rain which brought
fresh snow down to 16,000 feet. As the clouds remained low all day we
seldom got any distant views.

The march to Pulme, our next point up the valley of the Dzakar-chu, was
22 miles, a very dull and uninteresting ride. The going was bad—we often
had to follow the bed of the river, which was now in flood and extended to
the cliffs on both sides—at other times we kept high up on the steep sides of
a gorge, sometimes of gneiss, sometimes of limestone rock. In places where
the valley widened out, the river bed was full of bushes of tamarisk and sea
buckthorn, but otherwise the vegetation was scanty. After going 15 miles
we were to change coolies; but the Lumeh coolies, who were extremely
poor and very different from those that we had taken from Kharta, took
eleven hours to cover the 15 miles, and did not arrive till six in the evening.
Much to Heron's disgust, I proposed to push on to Pulme, late as it was; but
the road was good, and we trotted the 7 miles in an hour and a half, though
the coolies and the donkeys did not arrive till well after dark. Fortunately
we found tents as usual pitched for our reception. We had originally
intended to ford the Dzakar-chu that evening and camp on the far side, but
it was too dangerous to do it in the dark, though the villagers told us that by
morning the stream would be a couple of feet higher. The river is a great

obstacle at this time of the year, as there is no bridge over it here, the next
bridge being at Chöbu, 20 miles higher up the valley.

The following day I started on my return journey to Tingri, leaving at
5.30 in the morning with Chheten Wangdi. I succeeded in fording the
Dzakar-chu, which was deep and very swift. My pony was swept off his
legs once and I got very wet, the icy cold water coming right over the
saddle.

Heron and the coolies were to follow on slowly and were to take two
days in reaching Tingri, but I was anxious to get back, having been away
already longer than I intended. Four miles away, at Tashi Dzom, I changed
ponies and procured a guide who was to take me on to Tingri, leaving
Chheten Wangdi behind with Heron. This guide proved quite an amusing
fellow, and suddenly surprised me by counting in English one, two, three,
four, and then saying “Right turn” and “Left turn,” and other military words
of command. On inquiring where he had learned this English, I found that
at one time he had served as a soldier at Lhasa, where the military words of
command are in English, and these were the only English words that he
knew. After leaving Tashi Dzom we turned up into a broad side valley with
villages every half-mile and surrounded by barley, mustard and pea fields.
What was, however, especially noticeable about all these valleys that we
had been passing through for the last two days, was the extraordinary
number of ruined villages that there were everywhere. This was not due to
lack of water, for there was plenty of water in all the streams; these valleys,
however, must have at one time been very thickly inhabited, and it is
probable that the dearth of population to-day is due to the wars with the
Gurkhas in the eighteenth century. We had a very wet ride—one storm after
another overtook us, and a cold rain fell heavily all the way to Tingri. We
gradually ascended out of the cultivation and crossing a low pass, about
16,000 feet, looked down again on the great Tingri Plain. There was still,

however, a long way to go, and it was not till after five o'clock in the
evening that I reached Tingri, drenched to the skin. It had been a ride of
between 36 and 40 miles.

At Tingri I found Wollaston and Morshead. The former had been very
busy all the time I had been away in collecting insects, butterflies, rats,
mice, birds and flowers, and had amassed quite a number of specimens.
Morshead had been out a good deal with his surveyors to the North and to
the West, but had been driven in by the bad weather of the last few days.
This had apparently been general and we might say that the rainy season
this year had begun on July 7, which the Tibetans considered very late for
those parts. The following afternoon Heron arrived, and my kit also, which
I was very glad to get, as I had only had a spare tent to roll around me the
previous night.

The next day or two was spent mostly in reading letters and newspapers.
Our postal arrangements were at first rather complicated, there being no
regular postal service to the provinces in Tibet. We had, therefore, to make
an arrangement with each Jongpen to forward on our mail. Phari was the
last post office, and the postmaster there had to arrange with the Phari
Jongpen for a messenger every week to go with our posts to Khamba
Dzong; we had left money with him for the purpose of paying the postman.
At Khamba Dzong we had arranged with the Jongpen there that he should
forward our letters to Tinki, and at Tinki we had made further arrangements
for them to be sent on to Shekar Dzong and from Shekar Dzong they were
to be sent to Tingri. We had left money for this purpose with the various
Jongpens, and each Jongpen as he received the mail bag was to affix his
seal on it and send it on as quickly as he could to the next Jongpen. This
system worked very well for the first two months, but after we had moved
to Kharta, partly owing to floods, and partly perhaps to the laziness of the
Shekar Jongpen, our mails were all held up and we eventually had to send

coolies back from our camp to Phari to bring them along. The best plan
another time would be to take with the Expedition a certain number of
coolies to be used purely for going backwards and forwards with the mails.
On July 13 Morshead and Wollaston left to go to Nyenyam in response to a
cordial invitation from the Jongpen, asking that some of the Expedition
should visit the place. We were glad to accept, and this should be a very
interesting part of the country botanically.

CHAPTER VI
THE MOVE TO KHARTA

I had arrived back at Tingri on July 11, and remained there in the Chinese
rest-house until July 24, when I started to move the base camp and all the
stores round to Kharta. During the time I was not left always alone, for
Heron came in occasionally for a night between his various geological
expeditions to the North. Wheeler also came down for a change and a rest,
and to develop the photographs that he had taken. He had been having a
very trying and provoking time in the high camps, as the weather had been
bad, with frequent snowfalls. Nearly every day he climbed up to a spur
20,000 feet or more in height, yet in spite of waiting all day there in the icy
cold winds or driving snow, it was but seldom that he was able to get a
photograph, and then the clouds would only lift for a few minutes.

There was always plenty to do at Tingri, so the time passed quickly.
Much photographic work had to be done and much developing and printing
of the many photographs that were being sent in by the various members of
the party. Supplies had also to be sent out and arrangements made for the
comforts of the climbing party in the Rongbuk Valley. There were also
several expeditions to be made round Tingri, and these were full of interest.
Anemometers were very popular in this district; they were fixed by the
Tibetans above small prayer wheels, and owing to the constant winds, it
was seldom that the prayer wheels were not revolving. Many yaks' horns,

carved all over with prayers, were lying about on the different Chortens or
Mani walls. The barley, which was only just coming up when we arrived,
was now 18 inches high and coming into ear, and though we were over
14,000 feet, the crops looked very healthy and even. Every evening during
this period we had heavy storms of rain with much lightning and thunder,
and fresh snow used to fall during the night as low as 15,000 feet, but most
of it melted again during the day. During this period the plains round Tingri
were rapidly becoming marshes and the rivers quite unfordable. The storms
always gathered to the North of us, along the Sipri limestone ridge, and the
high mountain chain that formed the watershed between the Brahmaputra
and the Bhong-chu. These storms generally worked down towards the
South. Occasionally fine days came to us when there was a strong South
wind to blow the rain back, and it was seldom that the Monsoon clouds
brought rain directly to us from the South. The Sipri range was a very
conspicuous limestone range to the North of us, the limestone being worn
into the most curious shapes. It was looked upon by the Tibetans as being a
holy mountain, and on its slopes were many small monasteries. Hermits
also took up their abode in the limestone caves below the summit. Pilgrims
used to come from great distances to make the circuit of the mountain. This
took generally five days, and much merit was acquired by doing so.

On July 17 I made an excursion out to the Hot Springs at Tsamda, about
7 miles away to the North-west across the plain. The valley of the Bhong-
chu narrows there for a few miles before opening out again into the wide
Sutso Plain. There were two or three hot springs here, but only one large
one, and this was enclosed by walls within which were little stone huts in
which people could change their clothes. The water was just the right
temperature for a nice hot bath. When I went there, there was one man
bathing and also washing his clothes in it. The Tibetans said, however, that
this was not the proper season for bathing. The autumn was the correct time
for them to have their annual bath before the winter sets in. The water was

saline and had, I think, a little iron in it, but was not very unpleasant to the
taste. The rocks from which it gushes out are very extraordinary, the strata
forming a very steep arch, on the top of which there is a crack, from the
very end of which, and at its lowest point, the springs came bubbling out.
Near by in the valley there were also a good many saline deposits. In one of
the smaller springs there were a number of little pink worm-like animals
that were swimming about and clinging with their mouths to the sides of the
rock. Riding back to Tingri by a different way across the plain, I saw a
number of kiang and a few goa, but they were very wild and would not
allow us to approach to within 500 yards. I also passed three of the
handsome black-necked cranes. The way across the plain was rather boggy,
and we had some difficulty in finding it. When I got back I found that
Heron had come in for a couple of nights, and the following day Wheeler
too joined us, having walked in from Nezogu, the bridge over the Kyetrak
River. He was anxious to develop some photographs, and as the weather
was very bad, he could do no good by remaining in his high camp.

On July 20 we had very brilliant flashes of lightning, followed by a
heavy storm of rain during the night. This was too much for the flat earth
roof of the rest-house, and the water poured into all our rooms, causing us
to move our beds many times during the night in search of a dry spot. I
started off early in the morning as I had intended to climb the hills to the
East of Tingri, but the rain that had fallen at Tingri had meant a heavy fall
of snow on the mountains and the snow had fallen as low down as 15,000
feet. We passed several goa on the way, but they were too shy to allow us to
get a shot, also some kiang, which were very tame, and showed up well in
the snow. As we got higher, the snow became about 4 inches deep, but was
melting rapidly. The glare and the heat were intense. I saw a good many
flocks of burhel, but no very large heads. The views as I followed the crests
of the hills were extremely fine; on the North I looked down into the valley
of the Bhong-chu, which was in flood and had filled the whole of the

bottom of the valley with water, and on the other side I looked over the
Tingri Plain to the great range of snow peaks which finally ended in the
mighty mass of Gosainthan. The weather had been very hot and oppressive
all day, and as usual in the evening we had another very severe
thunderstorm with heavy rain all through the night. The following day was
more like an English November day—cold and grey with drizzling rain—
and with the snow on the hills down to 15,000 feet. I bought a Tibetan pony
during the morning for the large sum of £7. It was a bay, an excellent
ambler, and very surefooted. The Tibetan name by which he was known
was Dug-dra-kyang-po, which means “The bay pony like a dragon.”

Military Governor, his Wife and Mother.

I went over to have lunch with the Depon's representative. His family
were all dressed up very smartly for the occasion, the women folk wearing
their best head-dresses of turquoises, coral and pearls. He gave us rice and
raisins as an hors d'œuvre, and an entrée of junket, followed by some
pickled turnips, which I thought very nasty, after which we had the usual

macaroni and mince. He had been very friendly and kindly to us the whole
time that we were at Tingri, and had always supplied us with everything we
asked for. On July 22 we saw a very fine solar halo with well-marked rings
of yellow, brown, green and white, but the rain continued steadily nearly all
the time. The day before we were to leave Tingri I sent away my orderly,
together with two coolies who had been sick, and whom the doctor had
recommended that we should send back to Darjeeling. They were given
sufficient food to take them back to Darjeeling and an extra fifteen days'
pay, the orderly also being given a horse to ride. Towards evening the
weather improved and we had some lovely views of Mount Everest and that
great group of snow peaks of which Cho-Uyo is the highest. They all
looked very white under their new coating of snow, which lies thickly down
to 16,000 feet.

On July 24 we eventually got off from Tingri; the last few days had been
spent in packing up and re-arranging all the stores. There was the usual
talking, shouting and arguing, but all the loads were eventually packed on to
the animals, or loaded on to the backs of the coolies by nine o'clock. We
then took a last farewell of the Depon's representative, who was very sorry
to see us go, and who had done so much to make our stay pleasant there.

The first march was to Nezogu, where there was a bridge over the
Kyetrak; this was about 19 miles, partly across the Tingri Plain and then
over a tiresome moraine. While crossing the moraine, I shot a goa which
had quite a good head. Wheeler had accompanied me, as he had left his
camp at the bridge, and on arrival there we found his tents all pitched and
his cook waiting ready to receive us. Our own kit did not arrive till it was
getting dark, when the weather looked very ominous. Rain fell steadily
most of the night, and just before dawn this turned to snow, so that when we
woke up there were a couple of inches of fresh snow on the ground. As it
was still snowing steadily, we were in no great hurry to start, and did not get

off until nine o'clock. The weather than gradually improved and the fresh
snow soon melted, though the ground was left in a very boggy condition.
The march to Chöbu was about 15 miles over the easy Lamna Pass.
Knowing the way, I climbed on to a ridge to the South, where I had a fine
view again of Mount Everest and the Rongbuk Valley. We pitched our camp
on the far side of the Rongbuk River, our loads being carried across the frail
bridge by the villagers, and our ponies being swum across. Here Mallory
and Bullock joined us. They had been experiencing latterly very bad
weather in the Upper Rongbuk Valley, and constant heavy falls of snow had
seriously hindered their reconnaissance work. Their coolies, too, were
getting rather tired and stale from remaining at such heights for a
considerable time, and were badly in want of a rest. I had therefore arranged
for them to meet me here and to accompany me round to Kharta, from
which place they could then explore the Eastern approaches of Mount
Everest. During the night I suffered much from inflammation of the eyes,
due to the snow that had fallen the day before. They were so painful as to
make sleep quite impossible. I was not, however, the only one to suffer, as
Chheten Wangdi, the interpreter, Acchu, the cook, and several of the coolies
that were with me were all suffering from the same complaint in the
morning. Though the sun had not been shining and the day had been misty,
the glare from the new snow had been very much more powerful than
anything we had expected and taught us a lesson that whenever there was
the slightest fall of snow, we should always wear our snow goggles. From
Chöbu we marched to Rebu—a distance of about 15 miles. Knowing the
way, I took Mallory and Bullock by the upper road over a pass to Halung;
from the top of this pass we branched off on to a spur where there was a
very fine view of Mount Everest and the mountains to the North and North-
east of it. There had been so much fresh snow everywhere that it was often
very difficult to recognize the peaks, but Mount Everest from this side

looked as impossible as ever with the great black bands of perpendicular
cliffs that seemed to encircle it.

The day was actually fine and the march was a pleasant one through a
fertile valley full of fields of barley, mustard and peas. The wild flowers all
round Rebu were still very beautiful. Our camp was pitched on a grassy
spot on the bank of a rushing stream and close to the village of Rebu.

The following morning the weather was again fine, and as the yaks were
all ready for us, we were started by 7.30 a.m. This start was quite amusing;
we ourselves had first to cross a flooded stream over which there was a very
wobbly stone bridge. With much excitement and noise the yaks were then
driven across the stream, but the current was too strong for the bullocks,
which had to be unloaded and their loads carried over. While this was being
done, the bridge collapsed, and a good lady and a bullock that were trying
to get over by the bridge all fell into the water together. There was then a
terrible excitement and mix-up, every one shouting and screaming, but they
both scrambled safely to the shore, and beyond a wetting, no one was any
the worse. We then took the road that I had travelled three weeks before
over the Doya La. Knowing that there was a good view to be got from the
top of the pass, I hurried ahead and climbed a rocky hill, 17,700 feet, close
to the pass, where I saw a wonderful scene. Range upon range of snowy
mountains extended right away to Kanchenjunga, and the course of the
Arun could be traced wandering down through Nepal, while to the South
towered up the great walls of Makalu. Mount Everest itself I could not see,
as there were a good many clouds about, but to the South-west were some
fine snow and rock peaks of which I took several photographs. I then
basked in the sun for a couple of hours and enjoyed the view. The wild
flowers on the top of the pass were delightful; I found three different kinds
of gentians and the blue poppies were as numerous as ever. The primulas,
however, had many of them already gone to seed, but the saxifrages still

covered the rocks, and it was a delight to wander along and note the
different varieties. Riding on to Chulungphu, we found tents pitched for us
and fuel and milk all ready. In place of the primulas the ground was now
carpeted with gentians. From here to Kharta the march was only a short
one, but we thoroughly enjoyed riding along between the bushes of wild
rose or juniper. The former were no longer in blossom, but there were many
other new varieties of flowers appearing. I rode on ahead to the spot that I
had chosen, three weeks previously, for our new base camp, and I found
that Hopaphema had already pitched some tents for us. He had also
prepared a meal for us and made every arrangement for our comfort. Our
camp was pitched under the willows and poplar trees in the garden, and it
was pleasant to hear the rustle of the leaves in the wind once more. We were
now at a height of only 12,300 feet, and the change in altitude was a very
great relief to the climbing party and the coolies who had come down from
the high camps. There were also plenty of green vegetables to be got here,
and the coolies appreciated the change enormously. Just below us flowed
the Arun, now a majestic river over a hundred yards wide. A mile lower
down in its course it entered into the great gorges in which within a space of
20 miles it dropped from 12,000 feet to 7,500 feet, a drop of over 200 feet
in the mile. From our camp we used to watch the Monsoon clouds come up
every day through the gorge in thin wisps, but every day they melted away
always at the same spot; and though rain fell heavily a mile below us, yet
with us the sun shone brightly, and it was rare for any rain to reach us.
Twenty miles away to the North again were heavy clouds and storms, and
rain fell there daily, so that we seemed to be living in a dry zone between
the two storm systems. The forests of fir and birch trees came up to the limit
of the rainfall and then ceased suddenly where the rain stopped a mile
below us. At this point the Kharta River formed a sharp dividing line
between the wet and dry zones.

The next day was spent in settling down, arranging all our stores and
making a new dark room in the house we had rented. The climate here was
delicious and a great change from Tingri. The temperature in my tent used
to go up to 75° Fahr. during the day.

The day after we arrived the Jongpen came down to pay an official call
and brought a welcome present of a hundred eggs and five animals laden
with fuel. He apologised for not coming the day before, but said he had
been very busy trying a murder case where eighteen people had been
poisoned by a family that had a feud with them, the poison used being
aconite, with which they were evidently quite familiar. He told us that our
coolies could collect fuel anywhere on the right bank of the Kharta River,
but begged that we would not collect it anywhere near where we were
living, as the villagers would object.

On July 30 I started off to explore a neighbouring pass and valley which
looked interesting. Mallory and Bullock were having a few days' rest before
starting off again, and so they remained in camp. Riding a few miles up the
Kharta Valley, I crossed the river by a bridge at the first village, and then
had a very steep and stony climb of nearly 3,000 feet to the Samchung Pass,
15,000 feet. As we approached the pass, and entered a moister climate, the
vegetation increased rapidly. On these slopes there were rhododendrons 5
feet high, mountain ash, birch, willows, spiræas and juniper. At the top of
the pass there was not much of a view, but prowling round I came across
some very fine saussuræas with their great white woolly heads and a
wonderful meconopsis of a deep claret colour that I had never seen before.
There were fifteen to twenty flowers on each stem, and it grew from 2 to 3
feet high. Eight varieties of gentians also grew in the same valley, and a
quantity of other attractive Alpine plants. From the pass we descended
about 500 feet into a delightful high level glen full of small lakes, evidently
once upon a time formed by glaciers which must have filled the whole of

the valley. I counted fourteen lakes in this valley, two or three of them being
nearly half a mile long, and all of them of different colours varying from a
turquoise blue to green and black. For some miles we rode and walked up
the valley. The road consisted of big loose stones, often with water flowing
underneath them, and usually with big holes in between, so that our ponies
were lucky in not breaking their legs. There was then a steep climb which
brought us on to a second pass, the Chog La, 16,100 feet, close to which
were three small glaciers. Across the top of the pass there was a wall built
many years ago as a second line of defence against the Gurkhas, the first
line being on the top of the Popti Pass. Unfortunately the clouds now came
up, and it began to rain, so that we had no view into the Kama Valley,
though later on I was to make the acquaintance of this most charming
valley. For an hour and a half I sheltered behind the wall, but as the clouds
did not lift I returned towards Kharta. As we descended into the valley
again the glimpses of the lakes seen between the mists reminded me much
of the upper lakes at Killarney. There were the same ferns, willows, birch
and rhododendrons, and much the same moist atmosphere.

The Dzongpen of Kharta and his Wife.

Next day, with Bullock, I went to pay an official visit to the Jongpen at
Kharta Shiga. He had made great preparations to receive us, and had put up
a large tent in which Chinese carpets and tables were set out with pots of
flowers arranged all round. Soon after our arrival we were given a most
copious meal: bowl after bowl of well cooked macaroni and mince with
pickled radishes and chillies were set before us. After we had finished this
meal, I induced the Jongpen and his young wife to be photographed. She
had a most elaborate head-dress of coral and pearls, with masses of false
hair on either side of her head. It was not becoming. Barely had we finished
taking the photograph when another meal was put in front of us: this time it
consisted of Tibetan dumplings and mince patties, of which I gave the
Jongpen's little dog the greater part surreptitiously; I then hurried off before
I should be compelled to eat a third meal.

On August 2 Mallory and Bullock started off with thirty-two coolies to
explore the Eastern approaches to Mount Everest. It had been very hard to
get any information about Mount Everest. The people knew the mountain
by name, but told us that the only way to get near it was by crossing over
the ridge to the South of the Kharta Valley, when we should find a big
valley that would lead right up to Chomolungma. Where the Kharta River
came from they could not tell me, and whether it took its source from the
snows of Mount Everest they did not know. Tibetans' ignorance of any
valleys outside their own was really extraordinary. I could seldom get any
definite information about places outside their valley, and on asking two or
three people, they would invariably give contradictory answers. It was the
same as regards distance. They would tell you a place was one, two or three
days' march away, but for shorter distances they had no time-table, and the
nearest approach to this was a measurement by cups of tea. I remember one
day asking a village yokel how far off the next village was, and he surprised

me by answering, “Three cups of tea.” Several times afterwards I got the
answer to a question about distance given me in cups of tea, and I
eventually worked out that three cups of tea was the equivalent of about 5
miles, and was after that able to use this as a basis for measurements of
distances.

Two or three hours after Mallory and Bullock had gone, Wollaston and
Morshead arrived from their trip to Nyenyam. They had had bad weather
the whole time. Here, too, the weather remained overcast and threatening,
with a strong South wind, the mountains remaining covered in clouds above
16,000 feet. To the South of us rain fell steadily all day, but the rain did not
come up as far as our camp. One afternoon Morshead, Wollaston and I went
over to have tea with our hospitable Zemindar Hopaphema about a mile
away from us. On this occasion he gave us pods of fresh peas and the red
hips and haws of the wild rose as a kind of hors d'œuvre, followed by a
junket served with pea flour. Then came bowls of hot milk with macaroni
and minced meat, seasoned with chillies, together with potatoes and a kind
of fungus that grew in the woods. After this meal, from which we suffered
no ill effects, for our stomachs were getting accustomed to queer foods, he
produced an old painted musical instrument with two sounding boards, on
which he played and sang at the same time some old Tibetan love songs.
Some of these had quite a catching and plaintive melody. He showed us
also some Tibetan dances. Our interpreter, unfortunately, refused to give us
a literal translation of some of the love songs, though he seemed very
amused at them.

Another afternoon I rode with Wollaston some 5 miles up the Kharta
Valley to the Gandenchöfel Monastery. This was situated in a delightfully
sheltered spot surrounded by poplars and ancient gnarled juniper trees of
great size. On arrival we were shown into a picturesque courtyard, the walls
of which were covered with paintings depicting scenes from the life of

Buddha. Cushions and tables had been arranged for our reception and
placed on a verandah where, on arrival, we were given cups of tea and hot
milk. The Head Lama presently came out and after taking some tea with us,
proceeded to show us round his temple. This was a curious building, square
in shape, and surmounted by a cupola. It was very solidly built of stone and
was, they told us, about 500 years old. It was founded by a saint called
Jetsun-Nga-Wang-Chöfel, who after a great flood which swept down the
valley, destroying all the houses in it, had taken a large frog (which animal
is believed to represent the Water God) and buried it under the centre pillar
of the temple. With great reverence they showed us the spot under which
this unfortunate frog had been immured in the centre of the shrine. This
immolation of the frog had apparently not been completely efficacious in
preventing the floods as two other floods had subsequently occurred, and
two small Chortens had been erected to make quite certain that the frog
could not get out again and cause more floods. The interior of the temple
was very dark in spite of numerous butter lamps. As our eyes gradually
became accustomed to the dim light, we made out three figures of Buddha
—a large one in the centre and smaller ones on either side. On the pillars
were figures of the saint who had founded the monastery. In this temple
were also represented some Indian saints, but these were shown as dark
figures, very black and very ugly. Tibetans always despise the Indian and
they therefore represent him as quite black and with the ugliest features
imaginable. Around the shrine were twelve great plaster figures—about 12
feet to 15 feet in height—the guardians of the shrine, figures monstrously
ugly, and evidently made so in order to frighten away the evil-doer. Outside
the sanctuary there was a curious passage in the thickness of the walls
leading all round the building, in which were stencilled and painted curious
representations of Buddha. In one of the side rooms there was a huge prayer
wheel, which rang a bell every time it was turned; it contained, the priests
told us, many million prayers. After visiting the shrine, I took a photograph

of the monks with their long trumpets, their bejewelled clarionets and their
drums. After our tour of inspection we were given further refreshment in the
way of macaroni and meat in a small secluded garden where the monks
used to walk reading the Scriptures and meditating.

On another day Wollaston and I made an excursion down to the gorges of
the Arun. We first rode up the Kharta Valley, crossing the river by the first
bridge, and then following the right bank of the river as far as we could go.
After riding only a short way, we entered into a country and a scenery
where we might have been a hundred miles away from Tibet. The change
was extraordinarily sudden—a dense forest covered the hillsides, mostly of
fir (Abies Webbiana) and birch, many of them fine old trees. The
undergrowth consisted of rhododendrons, 8 feet to 10 feet in height and
extremely difficult to get through. Besides these there were many larch and
willow trees growing on the hillside, together with many new and delightful
flowers. We went on until we were brought up by a series of perpendicular
cliffs that descended 700 feet sheer down to the river below us. It was a
grand sight from here to see the mighty Bhong-chu or Arun River, narrowed
now to one-third of its former width, forcing its way in a series of rapids
through these stupendous gorges covered with woods wherever the
precipices allowed a tree to grow and with trees dipping their branches far
below us in the flooded waters of the river. On the opposite side of the
gorge we saw a small track wandering along the cliffs; the inhabitants told
us it was impossible to get across the river lower down at this time of the
year until you reach Lungdö, where there was a bridge some 20 miles lower
down. Kharta now remained the base headquarters of the Expedition until it
was time to return to India in October, and all the expeditions that we made
up the Kharta Valley, or into the Kama Valley, were made from Kharta. The
Jongpen there and Hopaphema did everything they could to assist us by
giving us coolies and arranging for supplies to be sent up to the various
camps.

Lamas of Kharta Monastery.

CHAPTER VII
THE KAMA VALLEY

We had not been able to gather much information locally about Mount
Everest. A few of the shepherds said that they had heard that there was a
great mountain in the next valley to the South, but they could not tell us
whether the Kharta River came from this great mountain. The easiest way
to get to this valley, they told us, was by crossing the Shao La, or the
Langma La, both of which passes were to the South of the Kharta Valley,
and, they said, led into this new valley. They called this valley the Kama
Valley, and little did we realise at the time that in it we were going to find
one of the most beautiful valleys in the world. Mallory and Bullock had
already left Kharta on August 2 to explore this route, which we thought
would lead us to the Eastern face of Mount Everest. As Wollaston and
Morshead had now arrived at Kharta, there was nothing to prevent my
following the others and learning something about the geography of the
country. Eleven mule-loads of rations, consisting of flour, potatoes, sugar
and rations for the surveyors, had just arrived; there was therefore now no
cause for me to worry about shortage of supplies. These had been sent off
from Yatung on June 15, but had only arrived at Kharta on August 2.
Learning that I was about to start off, Hopaphema, the old Zemindar,
hurriedly came round with a large basket full of spinach, potatoes, and
turnips, which he insisted on my taking with me.

Makalu
from 21,500 foot peak on ridge south of Kama-chu.

On August 5, taking with me Chheten Wangdi and a dozen coolies, I
started off in the tracks of Mallory and Bullock. For the first few miles we
travelled up the Kharta Valley, through rich fields of barley, by far the best
that I had seen so far in Tibet. The crops were very even and everywhere
quite 3 feet in height. The valley was thickly inhabited, containing villages
nearly every mile, and many monasteries, some of which were surrounded
by fine old gnarled juniper trees. Our local coolies made very poor
progress, taking six hours to cover the first 6 miles, as they stopped at every
village for a drink. After passing the last village, there was a steep climb of
1,000 feet. Here our coolies were very anxious to stop and spend the night,
but I pushed on ahead, and they came on behind very slowly and
reluctantly. Seeing that it was impossible to get over the Langma La, I
stopped at the limit of firewood and camped at a height of 16,100 feet. Poo,
who was acting as my cook, had forgotten to bring any matches with him,
and I watched him with much interest lighting a fire of damp rhododendron

bushes with the flint and tinder that he always carried. The day had been
clear and very warm; and on the way up we had had some fine views of the
great snowy peaks on the Eastern side of the Arun River. The villagers had
told us that this pass was impossible for ponies, and I accordingly left mine
behind at Kharta, though we found out that ponies could quite well have
crossed the pass. Opposite our camp was a peak of black rock with a glacier
just below it. During the night there was a little rain and the morning was
unfortunately cloudy. As our coolies had informed us that there were three
passes to be crossed in the next march, I had them all started off by 5.30
a.m., after which I left with my coolies, Ang Tenze and Nyima Tendu, who
always accompanied me carrying a rifle, a shot-gun and three cameras of
different sizes. Above the camp there was a steep climb of 1,000 feet on to a
broad, rocky shelf in which was a pretty turquoise-blue lake. This was
followed by another steep climb of 500 feet on to another great shelf, after
which a further climb of 500 feet brought us to the top of the Langma La,
18,000 feet. The three steps up to this pass were evidently the three passes
that the coolies had told us about, as from the top we looked down into the
next valley. All the coolies who were carrying loads complained of
headaches, due no doubt to the steep climb and the high elevation of the
pass. To the East there was a curious view looking over the Arun towards
some high snow peaks. Clouds were lying in patches everywhere on the
hillsides, as the air was saturated with moisture. To the West our gaze
encountered a most wonderful amphitheatre of peaks and glaciers. Three
great glaciers almost met in the deep green valley that lay at our feet. One
of these glaciers evidently came down from Mount Everest, the second
from the beautiful cliffs of Chomolönzo, the Northern peak of Makalu, of
which we unfortunately could only get occasional and partial glimpses, an
ice or rock cliff peeping out of the clouds every now and then at incredible
heights above us. The third glacier came from Kama Changri, a fine peak to
the North of the Kama Valley which later on we climbed. The clouds kept

mostly at a height of about 22,000 feet, and prevented us from seeing the
tops of the mountains. After waiting for an hour at the top of the pass in
hopes of the clouds lifting, I started the descent, catching on the way a very
pretty Marmot rat, with huge eyes and ears for his size, and a pretty bluish
grey fur. Meeting shortly afterwards some of Mallory and Bullock's coolies,
I gave this animal to them to take back to Wollaston. We now descended
through grassy uplands for nearly 3,000 feet, past another beautiful blue
lake called Shurim Tso, and came to a curious long and narrow terrace
about 1,000 feet above the bottom of the valley. Here there was a tent
belonging to some yak herds; and as wood and water were plentiful I
determined to stop and spend the night with them. They called the place
Tangsham. It was certainly a most glorious place for a camp, for it
overlooked three great valleys and glaciers. Opposite us, on the other side
of the valley, were the immense cliffs of Chomolönzo, which towered up to
nearly 26,000 feet, while Mount Everest and its great ridges filled up the
head of the valley. I spent the whole afternoon lying among the
rhododendrons at 15,000 feet, and admiring the beautiful glimpses of these
mighty peaks revealed by occasional breaks among the fleecy clouds. The
shepherds were able to give me much information about the district, which
proved very useful to us afterwards. They come up here every year for a
few months in the summer and in the winter cross over to the valley of the
Bong-chu.

Makalu and Chomolönzo.

After a slight frost during the night, we had one of the few really perfect
days that fell to our lot in the Kama Valley. As soon as I had finished
breakfast I climbed up 1,000 feet behind the camp; opposite me were the
wonderful white cliffs of Chomolönzo and Makalu, which dropped almost
sheer for 11,000 feet into the valley below. Close at hand were precipices of
black rock on which, in the dark hollows, nestled a few dirty glaciers.
Mount Everest being some way further off, did not appear nearly as
imposing. Our object now was to get as close to it as possible; we therefore
descended into the valley, a steep drop of nearly 1,000 feet, through
luxuriant vegetation. A very beautiful blue primula was just beginning to
come out. This Wollaston had already discovered a fortnight before near
Lapchi-Kang. We then crossed the Rabkar Chu, a stream which came out of
the Rabkar Glacier, by a very rickety bridge over which the water was
washing. Beyond this was a very fertile plain covered with rhododendrons,
juniper, willow and mountain ash. On it were a couple of small huts which
were occupied by some yak herds. From here we had to follow along the
edge of the Kang-do-shung Glacier which, coming down from

Chomolönzo, plunges across the valley until it strikes against the rocks of
the opposite side. Between the glacier and these cliffs was an old water-
course up which we travelled, but stones kept frequently falling from the
cliffs above and the passage was somewhat dangerous. This had evidently
been the old channel of the stream that has its source in the glaciers of
Mount Everest, but owing to the advance of the Kang-do-shung Glacier, is
now compelled to find its way through this glacier and hurls itself into a
great ice cavern in it. Opposite this ice cavern we had a steep climb for 500
feet, and found ourselves among pleasant grassy meadows, after a few
miles of which we came to a place called Pethang Ringmo, where we found
some yak herds living. We found that Mallory and Bullock had chosen this
place to be their base camp. It was a most delightfully sunny spot at 16,400
feet, right under the gigantic and marvellously beautiful cliffs of
Chomolönzo, now all powdered over with the fresh snow of the night
before and only separated from us by the Kangshung Glacier, here about a
mile wide. Great avalanches thunder down its sides all the day long with a
terrifying sound. Everest from here is seen to fill up the head of the valley
with a most formidable circle of cliffs overhung by hanging glaciers, but it
is not nearly such a beautiful or striking mountain as Makalu or
Chomolönzo. The shepherds would insist that Makalu was the higher of the
two mountains, and would not believe us when we said that Mount Everest
was the higher. Next morning was foggy, but there was a glimpse of blue
sky behind the mists, so after breakfast I hurried up the valley, intending to
climb a ridge exactly opposite to Mount Everest which I had marked down
the night before. After walking for an hour up the valley in a thick fog, by
luck I struck the right ridge, which proved a very steep climb. Glimpses of
blue sky and white peaks, however, gave us hopes of better views higher
up. It took me two and a half hours to climb 3,000 feet, which at last
brought me above the mists. The top of the ridge was 19,500 feet high, and
from it we had most superb views. Mount Everest was only 3 or 4 miles

away from us. From it to the South-east swept a huge amphitheatre of
mighty peaks culminating in a new and unsurveyed peak, 28,100 feet in
height, to which we gave the name of Lhotse, which in Tibetan means the
South Peak. From this side the mountain appeared quite unclimbable, as the
cliffs were all topped with hanging glaciers, from which great masses of ice
came thundering down into the valley below all the day long. Between
Mount Everest and Makalu, on the watershed between Tibet and Nepal,
there stands up a very curious conical peak, to which we gave the name of
Pethangtse. On either side of it are two very steep, but not very high, passes
into Nepal; both of them are, however, probably unclimbable. To the South-
east towered up the immense cliffs of Makalu, far the more beautiful
mountain of the two. The whole morning I spent on this ridge, taking
photographs whenever opportunity offered. The clouds kept coming up and
melting away again and were most annoying, but they occasionally afforded
us the most beautiful glimpses and peeps of the snow and rock peaks by
which we were surrounded. At a height of over 19,000 feet, I had a great
chase after a new kind of rat; but it finally eluded me, and I was not able to
add it to our already large collection. Even at these heights I found both
yellow and white saxifrages and a blue gentian. From the top of this ridge I
had been able to see Kanchenjunga and Jannu, though nearly 100 miles
away, but their summits stood up out of the great sea of clouds which
covered Nepal.

Cliffs of Chomolönzo
from camp at Pethang Ringmo.

On returning to camp in the afternoon, I found that Mallory and Bullock
were there. They had climbed a snow peak on the North side of the Kama
Valley, about 21,500 feet, and from this view point had been unable to
discover a possible route up Mount Everest on the Eastern face; they
thought, however, that there might be an alternative approach from the next
valley to the North. They therefore intended returning to the Kharta Valley
to follow that river to its source.

Next morning was cloudy, and neither Everest nor Makalu were to be
seen; but towards the East the view was clear, though the mountains
appeared to be much too close. We started all together down the valley. On
the way I climbed 1,000 feet up among the rocks opposite to the big glacier
that descends from Chomolönzo. I failed, however, to get the good view of
Makalu which I had been hoping for, owing to the clouds, and returned to
my old camping ground at Tangsham, Mallory and Bullock branching off
from here towards the Langma La. The shepherds had told us that there was
another pass into the Kharta Valley called the Shao La, rather more to the
South. I therefore intended to make use of this pass on the return journey to
Kharta. As usual, in the evening, the clouds came up and enveloped us in a
thick mist. Every night this happened in the Kama Valley, and was evidently
due to the excessive moisture of the air. When we started the following
morning, there was still a thick Scotch mist which made the vegetation very
wet. We descended the Kama Valley, most of the time keeping high up
above the river. On the opposite side of the valley were immense black
cliffs descending sheer for many thousand feet. On the way we passed
through acres of blue iris, mostly over now, and then through a very
luxuriant vegetation which grew more and more varied as we descended
lower. There was a lovely emerald-green lake beside the path, and like
white sentinels on the hillsides grew the great rhubarb of Sikkim, the
Rheum nobile. This was a most conspicuous plant with columns of the
palest green leaves sheathing the flower spikes which grew fully 5 feet in
height. There were several other varieties of rhubarb here, but none were as
handsome as this. At one place we descended as low as 13,000 feet and
came once more amongst dense forests of juniper, silver firs (Abies
Webbiana), mountain ash, willow, birch and tall rhododendrons. From every
tree hung long grey lichens attesting the moisture of the climate. Wherever
there was an open space in the forest, it was carpeted with flowers. Two
delightful varieties of primula were new to me, and were just coming out,

one of them being almost black in colour. The big deep red meconopsis
grew here, too, in great luxuriance. Gentians of all kinds abounded and
many other varieties of flowers and ferns, due to the fact that Makalu seems
to attract all the storms, causing the moist Monsoon currents to be drawn
into this valley. As the day went on, the weather improved; the sun came
out, and the clouds melted away, disclosing the magnificent peaks of
Makalu. A big glacier descended from the East face from a side valley into
the floor of the valley below us at a height of about 12,000 feet. It was very
curious to see fir trees, birch and juniper, and a very luxuriant vegetation
growing on either side of the ice and on the moraines beside it.

The Kama Valley.

Below this glacier the valley became quite flat with grassy meadows and
patches of forest dotted about the pastures—a very unusual type of valley
for the Himalayas. Almost opposite to this glacier we turned into a side
valley; the path and the stream that came down this valley were often
indistinguishable. All round the valley were great black cliffs; in one place
where they were less precipitous the path found its way upwards. Our camp
was pitched that night on a shelf above the cliffs where for a short time we
had some very wonderful views. This place was called in Tibetan “The
Field of Marigolds,” though at the time we were there they were all over.
We were at a height of 15,300 feet, and Makalu's two peaks were almost
exactly opposite to us. The cloud effects were very striking; the storms
seemed to gather round Makalu, and first one peak and then the other would
appear out of the great white cumulus clouds whose shapes changed every
minute. As usual, the mists came up in the evening, and we were enveloped
in a very wet Scotch mist with a temperature of 46° Fahr. Next morning,
instead of getting the lovely view that we had expected, a thick Scotch mist
prevented our seeing more than 20 yards away. We crawled up to the top of
the Shao La, 16,500 feet, in driving rain, but after crossing over it we
emerged into finer weather. On the descent we passed several fine lakes, on
the cliffs above which were numerous ram chakor (Himalayan snowcock). I
pursued a covey of these, and after a chase managed to shoot one. They are
very fine birds, weighing between 5 and 6 lb.; they are extremely noisy and
fond of their own voices. The parent birds are always very loth to leave
their young, and early in the summer it is possible to approach very close to
them; but later on in the year, when the young have become nearly full
grown, they are very wily, and having excellent eyesight, do not allow
anyone to approach within a couple of hundred yards. That afternoon I
arrived back at Kharta, where the weather had been quite fine, and where
there had been but little rain during my absence.

During that night a thief broke into our store-room, forcing and breaking
the lock outside. The only thing he took, as far as we could find out, was
one of Wheeler's yak-dans (a leather mule trunk). The thief had probably
mistaken this one for one of mine, which contained a considerable amount
of money, and knowing that I was away, he thought that my kit must be
packed away in the store-room. We informed the Jongpen and the head-men
of the villages around of the theft, and had a couple of suspicious characters
watched; but we never found any trace of the stolen articles, which luckily
were of very small value. For the next fortnight I remained at Kharta.

On August 19 Heron suddenly arrived back after a very interesting trip,
during which he had explored all the mountains North of Tingri and Shekar
Dzong up to the Brahmaputra watershed. He had had very bad weather all
the time. Every night there had been heavy thunderstorms and practically
all the bad weather had come from the North. The whole country was under
water, and it was very difficult to get about. Some of the rivers that we had
crossed earlier in the season were now a mile or more wide.

On the following day Bullock and Mallory returned to Kharta after
having explored the Upper Kharta Valley. They thought that they had found
a possible way up Mount Everest from this valley, but at present the
weather was too bad for them to carry on with their reconnaissance, and
they had come down for a fortnight's rest, hoping that the Monsoon would
be over by the beginning of September and that they would then be able to
make a proper attack on the mountain. As Mallory and Bullock were likely
to be at Kharta for some time, Wollaston and I seized this opportunity to
visit the lower valley of the Kama-chu.

Therefore, on August 23, with eleven of our own coolies and several
Tibetan coolies, we climbed the Samchung Pass (15,000 feet), and then
descended into the valley of the fourteen lakes, and after crossing the Chog

La camped on the far side of the pass near a dark green and sacred lake
called Ruddamlamtso. On the way we saw a new species of black rat in the
moraine of a glacier; but Wollaston's servant, who had the collecting gun
with him, was unfortunately far behind; he was always rather fond of drink
and loth to leave the villages. The weather was cloudy, and there were no
views from the top of either pass. The march was a strenuous one, taking
the coolies thirteen hours to cover the whole distance, and they did not
arrive till after dark. The Ruddamlamtso, the lake by which we were
camped, had wonderfully clear water; I could see every stone at a depth of
20 feet, and it was evidently very deep. It is looked upon as a sacred lake,
and to it people make yearly pilgrimages, walking round it burning incense
and throwing spices into its waters.

The following morning the clouds were low down everywhere on the
hillsides and we had no views. There was a steep descent for 4 miles to
Sakeding—12,100 feet, through the most interesting zones of vegetation.
We followed the edge of the rushing stream, always white from the rapidity
of its descent. On one side of the valley grew rhododendrons of many
varieties and mountain ash, and on the other were hoary old junipers with
twisted stems. Grey lichens hung down from every branch, and were often
5 or 6 feet in length. We came across some of the finest and largest red
currants that we had yet seen. Of these we collected a great quantity, and
they formed a very excellent stew. Birches, wild roses and berberis were the
commonest shrubs, while nearly every rock was covered with an extremely
pretty rose-coloured creeper, which in places caused the hillsides to look
quite pink. Earlier in the year the iris must have been a very beautiful sight,
as we passed through acres of their leaves. A big yellow rock-rose with
flowers 2 inches across was also to be met with here, and many of the lower
leaves of the rhododendrons were turning yellow to scarlet, making a great
show of colour on the dark green of the hillside. Deep purple-coloured
primulas and monkshood, as well as a curious hairy mauve-red monkshood

with a very graceful growth, were also to be seen. The pretty white-crested
red-start flitted about from rock to rock, and numerous tits of various kinds
flew about in flocks from tree to tree as we descended.

Sakeding (Pleasant terrace) had been at one time a village of considerable
size, but a pestilence sent by the local demon had wiped out all its
inhabitants. This demon was still reputed to be very active, and no one had
dared to re-build the old houses of which the ruins, overgrown with weeds
and bushes, could be seen here and there. It was a very pleasant site for a
village, situated as it was on a terrace that projected out into the valley
1,000 feet above the stream below. During the summer months there is
quite a trade passing through this place, the Tibetans bringing salt from the
North, and the Nepalese coming up from Nepal with rice, dyes and
vegetables, which they exchange. The rate of barter at this time was two
measures of rice or three measures of madder dye for one measure of salt,
and no money changes hands. Everything that was brought here was
brought on the backs of coolies, and these Nepalese coolies were sturdy,
cheery fellows, and thought nothing of carrying 80 lb. of salt on their backs
up and down the execrable paths of the district.

From Sakeding we descended steeply through a forest of the finest
juniper trees that I had yet seen. These grew 80 to 90 feet high, and many of
their trunks were 18 feet to 20 feet in circumference. As a rule they had
clean stems, without a branch for 50 feet or 60 feet. The branches were all
hung with grey lichens. We now descended beside the muddy and
tempestuous waters of the Kama-chu. The juniper forest gradually gave
way to silver firs—wonderful trees of enormous size and great age. We
passed through many open glades, park-like in appearance, with grand
clumps of fir trees or sycamore dotted here and there. The hillsides were
absolutely running over with water, and often for several hundred yards we
walked along logs put down to try and avoid the mud and the running water.

As many of these rounded logs were very slippery, both we and our coolies
had to proceed with caution, and even so we experienced many a fall. At
Chu-tronu—10,200 feet—there was a well-made wooden bridge, 60 feet
long, which spanned the river where it flowed in a narrow channel between
two great rocks. We crossed this bridge, and finding a broad open space
there, I selected a spot suitable for our camp and ordered the coolies to cut
down some of the grass where we intended to pitch the tents. I could not at
first make out why they kept jumping about when thus engaged, but on
going to investigate, I found that the place was alive with leeches; however,
as there was no other better place in which to camp, we had to make the
best of it. The men collected some dry bamboos out of an old shepherd's hut
which was close by; these they burnt on the sites where we were to pitch
our tents, hoping by this means to drive away the leeches. This method,
however, was not very successful, for all that evening we were busy picking
leeches off our clothes, legs, hands or heads. They climbed up the sides of
the tents and dropped down into our food, our cups and on to our plates.
Wollaston invented the best way of killing them, which was by cutting them
in two with a pair of scissors. Our interpreter remonstrated with him, as he
said this method increased the number of leeches, thinking that both ends of
them would grow. After a somewhat restless and disturbed night, due to
these leeches, we started off next morning to go down to the junction of the
Kama River with the Arun. The distance as the crow flies was only about 6
miles, but we did not realise the kind of path that we should have to
traverse. In that short distance we must have risen and fallen quite 5,000
feet. The path was never level and always very rough and stony. At first it
led through beautiful glades running with moisture and over logs buried,
most of them, inches deep in the water; they were, however, better to walk
on than the soft mud there was on either side. The silver firs were now at
their best—trees over 100 feet in height, and with stems 20 feet to 25 feet in
circumference. Here grew great hydrangeas 20 feet or more in height

covered with flowers. Our only halts on the way down, and they were pretty
frequent, were to pick off the leeches from our clothes. We took them off by
tens at a time; they were very hungry, and varied in size from great striped
horse-leeches to tiny ones as thin as a pin and able to penetrate anywhere.
The track now left the upper terraces and descended very steeply towards
the river, at times climbing sharply upwards again to avoid precipitous
rocks and cliffs. During the descent, we gradually passed from the zone of
the silver firs into that of the spruce, meeting the lovely Picea Brunoniana,
which grew to an even greater size than the silver firs. Many of the trees
were over 150 feet in height and without a branch for 70 feet or 80 feet;
their stems too, were often 25 feet to 30 feet in circumference. This valley is
so inaccessible that I am glad to think that these glorious forests can never
be exploited commercially. After passing a great overhanging rock called
Korabak, which is evidently much used as a halting-place, we descended
steeply to the river, which now forms a series of cascades, leaping from
rock to rock, a very remarkable spectacle. During the last 6 miles of its
course, this river—the product of four large glacier streams—descends at
the rate of 450 feet every mile. In places there were waterfalls of 20 feet
and more, where the river hurled itself into seething cauldrons; in one place
I saw it confined to a breadth of barely 5 feet. The junction of this river with
the Arun is only 7,500 feet above the sea; just above the junction is a bridge
which leads to the village of Kimonanga, a picturesque village situated on a
terrace some 700 feet above the river and surrounded by some fine trees. In
this valley we came across a few blue pines (Pinus excelsa) and also a
large-leafed alder; near its junction with the Arun were many trees and
orchids of a semi-tropical character. On the opposite side of the valley is a
forest of evergreen oak trees, but as I was unable to cross the river I could
not say to what species they belonged. On the way we passed many yellow
raspberries on which we slaked our thirst. Our guide also dug up some of
the roots of the wild arum to show us; it is a great flattish tuberous root,

rather oval in shape. This the inhabitants dig up and, after allowing it to
ferment by burying it in a hole for several days, pound it up, and then eat it;
it was much esteemed by the villagers. It is necessary to ferment it first, as
otherwise the root is extremely poisonous. We tasted a slice of bread made
out of this root, and I have seldom tasted anything nastier. It is supposed, if
not properly fermented, to cause all the hair to fall out of the head; but I
should be inclined to imagine that it would do this even if it were properly
fermented. Near the junction of the Kama and Arun Rivers, we climbed up
on to a terrace 1,200 feet above, on which was situated the village of
Lungdö. The great Arun gorges here become a considerable valley; for 20
miles above this point up to Kharta the Arun runs through a narrow and
practically impassable gorge, but here the valley widens out for a few miles
and contains several villages; a short distance below it enters again into
another great gorge. The river now was in full flood and covered the whole
of the bottom of the valley, being in places many hundred yards in width. At
one spot, where it contracted, there was a well-made bridge leading to the
village of Matsang. I was astonished to meet with maize growing at this
height—8,700 feet. The villagers also grew cucumbers, pumpkins and
several kinds of millet, including an extremely pretty red one. The head-
man of Lungdö gave me some millet beer, which was very refreshing after
the long march. Wollaston did not care for it, but between us we managed to
eat three large and juicy cucumbers. The head-man was very friendly; and a
local official was staying here who had just come from Kharta, who
recognised us, and presented us with some excellent honey cakes. We
neither of us looked forward to the uphill return journey, but after five and a
half hours' hard walking I reached camp just before dark. Wollaston did not
arrive till later, and I had to send a coolie with a lamp to bring him in. We
were both of us much exhausted, as the day had been a long and trying one.
That night we had a grand camp fire of rhododendron and fir logs.

Hundreds of moths insisted on flying into the fire instead of entering the
tent where Wollaston was ready with his cyanide bottle to catch them.

The following morning the weather was dull and cloudy, and did not look
very promising. We determined, however, to visit the Popti La, the pass
between Tibet and Nepal, over which all the local traffic passes. Leaving
the camp, we entered a small side valley to the South, the path climbing
steeply upwards under big rhododendrons (R. Falconeri and R. Argenteum)
with leaves 18 inches long. Noticing many of their leaves strewn on the
path, I inquired the reason for this. Our guide informed us that the carriers
fastened these leaves together with thin strips of bamboo and thus provided
an excellent waterproof cover for themselves and for their loads. After
climbing about a mile, we saw some bamboo huts in the forest and a
number of cows were grazing round them. These belonged to some
Nepalese herds who come over here in the summer, bringing their cattle to
graze. The path now followed the side of a rushing torrent, peaty brown in
colour, which came hurrying down under the shade of birch, sycamore,
silver firs, juniper and rhododendrons. As we ascended higher, the open
spaces became more frequent, though the grass and weeds grew fully 3 feet
in height, attesting the constant rainfall of this district. On leaving the path
to collect a few seeds from some plants growing a short distance away from
it, I found myself in a few moments covered with leeches which apparently
thrive here at an altitude of over 12,000 feet; this must be almost a record
height for these pests. The path climbed up steeply, the rhododendrons
growing gradually smaller in size as we ascended. After going for four
hours, we reached the top of the pass—14,000 feet. Here on the top was a
stone half hidden in a pile of rocks with a notice, written in Chinese
characters, that this was the boundary between Tibet and Nepal. Across the
top of the pass was a long wall, mostly overgrown with grass, evidently at
one time considered to be some kind of defence. Owing to the clouds being
very low, we unfortunately had no view from the top, but just below us, on

the Nepalese side, was a fine black lake, about half a mile long, with an
island in the centre, which the Nepalese called Dungepokri. On the top were
many interesting Alpine flowers, amongst them a charming white potentilla
with a red centre; and a large cream-coloured primula, shading into deep
orange. We also came across several new varieties of gentians. Here we
rested for a couple of hours, hoping that the clouds might lift, but a nasty
rain began to fall heavily. While we were waiting several coolies from
Nepal passed by: from these we found out that the pass was closed by snow
for five months in the year and that the trade market at Sakeding was closed
by the end of October. We now turned our footsteps homeward, urged on by
cold showers of rain. On the descent we were able to collect a few seeds.
Autumn was approaching, though the trees had not yet begun to assume
their autumn colours owing to the warm nights. That evening in the camp
we had an enormous bonfire of birch, juniper and rhododendrons, which
made the prettiest blaze imaginable, with flames of green, blue, violet and
orange. The large fire also helped to keep away the leeches. Heavy rain fell
again all night, and the thermometer did not descend below 55° Fahr. The
morning, however, broke fine, and we started back again up the valley to
Sakeding. The sun shone every now and then, giving us occasional
glimpses of distant glaciers at the head of the valley. The walk through the
forest, with the sunlight shining on the dark green leaves of the
rhododendron and the dripping foliage, was very delightful. The
undergrowth consisted of wild roses, berberis with its necklaces of scarlet
berries, wild currants of a great size—sour to the taste, but excellent when
stewed—wild raspberries, light feathery bamboos, birch, willow and a most
luxuriant vegetation of flowers and grasses. In one or two places the
mountain ash were just beginning to show traces of colour. We soon left the
leeches behind us and followed our old track through the forest beside the
rushing waters of the Kama-chu. Enormous rocks which had fallen from
above had in places almost blocked up the river. Often on these great

boulders in the middle of the stream were growing the graceful Himalayan
larch. On the steepest rock faces grew vegetation of every kind, thanks to
the excessive moisture of the climate, and from every tree and from every
bush hung long and picturesque lichens. Crested tits and bullfinches lived in
great numbers in this forest and gave it quite a homelike appearance. The
climb from the river had been a steep one, and we pitched our camp at
Sakeding in a downpour of rain, but towards the evening the weather
cleared up, allowing us fine views of great snow peaks which showed above
the mists on the opposite sides of the valley. It was too far to go from
Sakeding to Kharta in one day; we therefore decided to camp before
crossing the Chog La. We passed our old camp by the green lake
Ruddamlamtso, and I had a long chase after some ram chakor, but they
were too clever for me and ran up the hill faster than I could follow them.
The large moraines which converged in this valley were specially
interesting, and threw much light on its past history. Each moraine had its
own long line of boulders formed of different kinds of rock, according to
the character of the mountains from which they had been carried down by
the ice. It was not difficult to imagine the vast glaciers by which these lines
of boulders had been deposited; glaciers which must at one time have
completely blocked the valley and the disappearance of which has made
room for the chain of lakes which now occupy the valley. We pitched our
camp at a place called Mendalongkyo—15,500 feet—in a pleasantly
sheltered spot where a gurgling stream disappeared under an old moraine.
In the afternoon Wollaston went out after rats, of which he secured a new
variety. Our coolies had a great chase after a fat marmot, which they very
nearly caught, but he got down into his hole just in time. Around the camp
were quantities of a very beautiful pale blue gentian—a regular Eton blue
colour. Wandering up the spur North-west of the camp I counted nine lakes
in the next valley and four lakes in the one that we were in; as the rain
began to fall again, I returned to camp.

The next morning, August 29, we began our homeward journey to
Kharta. Getting up early, we climbed on to the high ridge North-west of the
camp, from which we had a fair view; but unfortunately both Makalu and
Mount Everest were hidden by clouds. We waited for a long time in hopes
of a better view, but the clouds only grew thicker. We therefore followed the
ridge above the Chog La. On the way I shot a Tibetan snow partridge
(Lerwa nivicola), an extremely pretty bird with lovely markings. This was
the first I had seen.

We now turned our backs upon the Kama Valley with much regret. We
had explored many of these Himalayan valleys, but none seemed to me to
be comparable with this, either for the beauty of its Alpine scenery, or for
its wonderful vegetation. We shall not easily forget the smiling pastures
carpeted with gentians and every variety of Alpine flower that rise to the
very verge of icebound and snow-covered tracks, where mighty glaciers
descend among the forests which clothe the lower slopes.

After crossing the Chog La, we went down once more into the valley of
the lakes and then, crossing the Samchung La, descended to Kharta which
we found bathed in sunshine.

CHAPTER VIII
THE UPPER KHARTA VALLEY AND THE 20,000
FOOT CAMP

During the early part of August Mallory and Bullock, after they had
found that there was no possible means of attacking Mount Everest from
the Kama Valley, crossed the Langma La and returned to the Kharta Valley.
Up this valley they now proceeded until they reached the glaciers in which
the Kharta River has its source. After exploring a number of valleys, they at
last found one which led straight to Mount Everest. Accompanied by Major
Morshead, who had joined them during their excursion, they made a long
and tiring reconnaissance of this valley, and satisfied themselves that it
afforded a practicable approach to the North-eastern ridge of Mount
Everest. The slopes were fairly gentle, but were at that time covered with
soft fresh snow, knee deep. Over these snow-covered glaciers, up which
they had proceeded with great difficulty, they found a col from which it was
possible to attack the mountain. Under the existing conditions of soft snow
and warm weather it would have been quite impossible to take laden coolies
along this route, and they therefore returned to Kharta to wait until the
monsoon conditions had abated and the snow should have become hard and
frozen.

On our return from the Kama Valley on August 29, we found Mallory and
Bullock still at Kharta, waiting for the weather to improve. About this time

it was showing distinct signs of improvement. The clouds were not so thick
and there were many more bright intervals with blue skies. They therefore
determined to start off on August 31, to form an advanced base camp up the
Kharta Valley.

On September 1, much to the surprise of every one, Raeburn arrived back
from Darjeeling. He reported very wet conditions throughout Tibet, the
rivers everywhere being unfordable, and most of the bridges washed away.
He also reported having seen five bags of our mails at Chushar. Our posts
had latterly been very erratic, and for five weeks no mails had arrived. We
did not know what had happened to them. We were sending in a couple of
our own coolies every fortnight to Phari with our outgoing mail, and the
first lot of these coolies had not yet returned, so that we were all without
news of the outside world. Although it was the beginning of September, the
night temperatures at Kharta were still much too high, ranging from 52°
Fahr. to 47° Fahr. On September 3 Morshead and Wheeler left for the Upper
Kharta Valley, intending to go slowly and to map and fill in the detail of the
valley as they went along.

The tameness of the birds gave us many opportunities of studying their
habits. A large family of redstarts lived in our garden at Kharta, and used to
amuse me very much. The young birds were now fully fledged and spent
most of the day in hopping in and out of my tent; they were not in the least
degree afraid, and the mother would come and feed them actually inside my
tent. On the terrace near the camp there were a number of prettily marked
white rock pigeons which formed a welcome addition to our diet of Tibetan
mutton, of which we were getting very tired.

On September 5 Wollaston, Raeburn and I, with twenty-six Tibetan
coolies, and eleven of our own, started off to join the climbing party up the
Kharta Valley. The first 7 miles of this valley I knew well, having traversed

them many times before. The barley fields were now fast ripening, and were
a beautiful golden colour. Curious to relate, the barley that grew at 14,000
feet was riper than that which grew at 12,000 feet. Two kinds of barley
seemed to be grown here—the ordinary variety, and another with a red ear
such as is, I believe, grown in the Shetlands. We rode past the tidy-looking
monastery of Gandenchöfel, surrounded by its juniper trees, and after a
steep climb past the entrance of the valley leading to the Langma La,
descended on to some fine river terraces, on which were many prosperous
farms and well-tilled fields. These extended for several more miles up the
valley. We pitched our camp on a grassy flat a couple of miles above the
last house, where willows, rhododendrons and junipers grew plentifully; the
marshy ground was carpeted with gentians, one of the commonest being
dark blue in colour with ten petals, and rather like a star in shape, the other
being larger and of a pale Eton-blue colour. I managed to collect a certain
number of seeds of both of these. We had a grand bonfire that evening,
made of juniper and willow, the last that we were to have for a long time.
The weather was disappointing and a drizzling rain fell all night with a
temperature of 42° Fahr.

It was still raining when we started in the morning, so that there were no
views. A white andromeda was still in flower on the hillsides, but the
rhododendrons were all over. On the opposite side of the valley juniper
alone flourished and grew to an altitude of nearly 17,000 feet. After going a
couple of miles, we passed Morshead and Wheeler's tents pitched on an old
yak camp. When we arrived, they were still having breakfast, as the weather
was too bad to do any surveying. On leaving them we had a steep climb
over grassy slopes, where the drizzling rain now changed to snow, and for
the rest of the day it fell steadily. There appeared to be many branch valleys,
and as our views in the mist were very curtailed, we were not at all certain
as to whether we were going up the right valley—I only knew
approximately the height of the place at which we were to camp. Therefore,

on arriving at that height, I sent my coolies off in two different directions up
two different valleys to see where Mallory and Bullock's camp might be.
The mist lifted for a moment, and one of them luckily saw Mallory, whose
camp was only a few hundred yards from us. We decided to call this our
“Advanced base camp.” It was pitched in some small grassy hollows at a
height of 17,350 feet. The site was well sheltered from the winds, and was a
regular Alpine garden. Gentians of three different kinds were growing there,
including the lovely light-blue one. There was also a beautiful little white
saxifrage with yellow and brown spots inside the flower, a delightful pink
androsace, and dwarf delphiniums with their single deep-blue flowers. Here
grew also the musk-scented hairy light-blue delphinium with its
overpowering smell of musk. The latter flower, the Tibetans told me, was a
great preventative of lice, and I noticed that our cooks and most of our
servants had picked great bundles of it. They also told me that if a man
habitually wears this flower about him during his lifetime, after his death
when cut up and exposed to the birds, no bird or wolf will touch his flesh
owing to the strong scent apparently left by the musk. A pretty pink aster
grew here in great clusters, and a few blue poppies were still out. Acchu,
our cook, and Gyalzen Kazi, who were coming along behind us, both
missed their way and wandered several miles further up the valley before
they found out their mistake, and when they eventually arrived in camp,
were both suffering from severe headaches, due to the great height. During
our stay at this camp we had plenty of time and many opportunities of
observing bird and animal life. Some of the birds were very brilliantly
coloured. There was a snow bunting with bright scarlet breast and head,
also a beautiful redstart with red body and black and white wings. Overhead
the great Lämmergeier, or bearded vulture, sailed in graceful circles, while
the big black raven croaked on the rocks by the camp. Morning and evening
we could hear the ramchakor (Tetraogallus tibetanus) calling on the
opposite side of the valley, and with glasses we could see them chasing one

another and running round in circles. Red foxes I met with on several
occasions over 18,000 feet.

Mallory and Bullock, who had already been here for a few days, had
spent their time in carrying wood and stores up to a higher camp further up
the valley; they had been having a certain amount of trouble with their
coolies, due to the Sirdar, who was always trying to create difficulties. I
therefore sent him away on a job to Chushar to collect some of our stores
which were supposed to have been detained there, and which would keep
him busy for a number of days and prevent him from interfering with our
coolies at a critical period. We had brought up with us six live sheep, and
very lively these proved. Dukpa, Mallory's cook, let three of them escape,
but luckily some coolies coming up the valley saw two of them, and after a
great chase brought them back. The third they could not catch and
eventually drove him under a cliff, where they killed him with stones and
brought his carcass back to us. The weather continued very unsettled.
During the night a couple of inches of snow fell, but until the temperature
became colder and the sky cleared, it was no use trying to go up to the
upper camp. I shot a ramchakor on the opposite side of the valley. They are
the most tasty of the Tibetan birds, and are quite excellent eating.

On September 8, after a frosty night, Bullock, Mallory and I with three
coolies, for the purpose of keeping fit, made a little excursion along a rocky
ridge that lay to the South of us. On the top of the ridge there were a
number of sharp rock pinnacles that had to be climbed. I found these
gymnastics at a height of over 19,000 feet to be very exhausting, but
Mallory did not seem to mind them in the least. There should have been a
lovely view from here, but all we got was an occasional glimpse of glaciers
and rocky peaks through the mist. The sun was trying to shine through the
clouds and at first it was beautifully warm; but after a couple of hours snow
began to fall, so we hurriedly descended on to the glacier below. Snow fell

all the way back to camp, and by nightfall there were 3 inches of fresh snow
round our tents. During the night the thermometer dropped to 21° Fahr., and
the morning broke clear and frosty. I started off early to climb the hill
behind the camp, from which there was a very extensive view, both Everest
and Makalu being for the moment quite clear and free from cloud. To the
North extended a great range of snow peaks between 23,000 feet and
24,000 feet in height, rather uninteresting in appearance, and to the East
stretched a great sea of accumulating cloud, out of which appeared the tops
of Kanchenjunga and Jannu. The peak on which we stood was just under
20,000 feet; I spent several hours basking in the hot sunshine, which was
rapidly melting the fresh snow. I was surprised to find growing at this
height a tiny yellow saxifrage.

That evening eight coolies arrived with our long-expected mail, and the
rest of the day was spent in reading letters and sorting out papers, for over
two hundred letters and papers had arrived for me alone. There was again a
sharp frost of 10° that night and the early morning was beautiful, but clouds
came quickly drifting up the valley and obscured the fine views we had
from the camp of Mount Everest and the rocky peaks to the North of the
camp. On September 11, in spite of a warm night, Mallory and Bullock,
being very optimistic, left for the upper camp, while Morshead and Wheeler
rejoined us from their camp below, not having been able to do any work
down there owing to bad weather. Snow fell steadily all the evening to a
depth of about 3 inches. Next day was cloudy, but warm, and the snow
disappeared again with extraordinary rapidity. I went out with a shotgun to
try and shoot some ramchakor, and while after them saw a very fine grey
wolf who was also stalking the ramchakor. He came up to within 50 yards
of me, so that I was able to have a good look at him. He had a beautiful
coat, and it was very unfortunate that I did not have a rifle with me. I
wandered some way up a side valley to the foot of a glacier, but saw no
signs of birds, as the wolf had evidently been there before me. In the

afternoon Mallory and Bullock returned from the upper camp, having been
driven down by the bad weather: another 5 inches of snow fell that evening,
so that we were kept busy beating our tents to keep the ridge poles from
breaking. On September 13, 14 and 15, snow fell on and off the whole time;
but in spite of the bad weather I managed to shoot a burhel for food. Their
meat is very much better than that of the tame sheep. On September 16 we
had at last a fine day with a sharp frost at night. Wheeler at once seized this
opportunity and took up a station on a hill-top on the opposite side of the
valley, from which he was able to get some useful views. The next day,
after 13° of frost in the night, Mallory, Morshead and I started off to climb
Kama Changri, a peak to the South of the camp, that overhung the Kama
Valley. We left the camp at 2 a.m., by the light of a full moon, which made
the going as light as though it were day. We soon reached our view-point of
a few days before, where, except for the distant roar of the stream far away
below in the valley, there was no other sound, only an intense stillness.
Never anywhere have I seen the moon or the stars shine so brightly. To the
South, far away from us, there were constant flashes of lightning—the
valleys in Tibet, the great gorges of the Arun, the wooded valleys of Nepal
all lay buried under a white sea of clouds, out of which emerged the higher
mountains like islands out of a fairy sea. In this bright moonlight,
mountains like Kanchenjunga—100 miles away—stood out sharp and
distinct. Here on this sharp ridge, at a height of 21,000 feet, with no
obstruction to hide the view, sunrise came to us in all its beauty and
grandeur. To the West, and close at hand, towered up Mount Everest, still
over 8,000 feet above us; at first showing up cold, grey and dead against a
sky of deep purple. All of a sudden a ray of sunshine touched the summit,
and soon flooded the higher snows and ridges with golden light, while
behind, the deep purple of the sky changed to orange. Makalu was the next
to catch the first rays of the sun and glowed as though alive; then the white
sea of clouds was struck by the gleaming rays of the sun, and all aglow with

colour rose slowly and seemed to break against the island peaks in great
billows of fleecy white.

Such a sunrise has seldom been the privilege of man to see, and once
seen can never be forgotten. After sunrise the climbing became more
unpleasant. We tried to follow the direct way up the mountain, but the snow
was in bad condition and the slope very steep. We therefore crossed the
glacier, putting on our snow-shoes, and followed easier snow slopes but bad
owing to the soft snow. The going was very tiring; Mallory and Morshead
appeared to feel the height very much. After six hours we reached the top,
21,300 feet, from which we had a most superb view. We looked straight
down on to the Kama Valley. Makalu was immediately opposite us with its
colossal precipices. Glaciers, cliffs of ice, rock peaks, fluted snow ridges
and immense mountains towered all around us above a vast sea of clouds
which stretched for hundreds of miles away to the plains of India. Here I
was able to take many photographs, but no photograph can adequately
portray the grandeur or the impressiveness of such a scene. We stopped on
the top of Kama Changri for over three hours. It was extraordinarily warm;
there was not a breath of air, and the sun seemed to shine with an intense
heat. Clouds then began to roll up, and we returned to camp by an easier
way down the glacier.

Next day, in spite of 13° of frost at night, snow and sleet fell all day
again, and made us very depressed. In order to prevent our going to sleep
too soon after dinner, four of us used to play bridge every night, and I do
not suppose that bridge has often been played at so great a height.

On September 19, after a cold night with 16° of frost, Mallory, Bullock,
Morshead and Wheeler started off for the 20,000-foot camp. The weather
was now steadily growing colder every night. On September 20 we had 18°
of frost, as well as a further fall of snow. During the night a very fine lunar

halo was seen, but the morning broke clear. Wollaston, Raeburn and I
started to join the remainder of the party at the 20,000-foot camp, leaving
Gyalzen Kazi, our second interpreter, behind in charge of the advance base
camp. It was very necessary to have some one here to whom we could send
back for any extra stores or supplies that might be wanted, and who would
be able to forward to us anything that might be sent up from Kharta. A four
hours' walk brought us to the camp. I had a thorough feeling of lassitude all
the way. It required, indeed, some effort to walk at all, and a strong effort,
both of mind and body, to reach camp. On the way beautiful views of
Mount Everest gave us encouragement. The foot of the Kharta Glacier
descends to 19,000 feet. From that point on to the camp we travelled beside
it. At first the glacier is cut up into wonderfully shaped “seracs,” but as we
got higher the surface became smoother. It was an exceptionally white
glacier; there were no moraines on its surface, and it was covered
everywhere with a fresh coating of thick snow. We found the camp on a
terrace between two glaciers. That above the camp resembled the pictures
of a Greenland ice cap. A thick coating of ice, to a depth of 50 to 60 feet,
covered the gentle slopes above us, and came down to within a couple of
hundred yards of the camp. The drainage from the melting ice percolated
through the stony ground, so that on digging to a depth of 6 inches we came
upon water. A couple of hundred feet below the camp was the big white
glacier which descended from the Lhakpa La. The day was gloriously fine,
and we obtained magnificent views of Mount Everest and the snowy chain
to the South of us across the Kharta Glacier. Over the top of this snowy
chain appeared the great rocky crests of Makalu. At an altitude of over
19,800 feet I saw a hare and heard several ramchakor calling. There grew
close to the camp a few gentians with their curious square leaves, also a
dwarf blue delphinium and a little white saxifrage. It was an extraordinary
height at which to find flowers and their season of summer cannot last long.
On arrival at the camp, we found only Wheeler and Bullock there, as

Mallory and Morshead with fourteen coolies had gone on ahead to carry
loads up to the Lhakpa La, which was to be our next camp. They returned in
a very exhausted condition in the course of the afternoon. The snow, they
reported, was in better condition than last time on the lower slopes; but as
they got higher, they found it still very soft and powdery. These extra loads
that they had taken up to this camp would enable the whole party to go up
to it and to sleep there, if necessary, for several days. As the sun was setting
behind Mount Everest, we were treated to a glorious view. The ring of
clouds that surrounded it were all touched by the bright evening sunlight,
while the mountain itself was in deep shadow except for great streamers of
powdery fresh snow which were being blown off the whole length of its
crests. We stood and watched this extraordinary sight for some time,
devoutly hoping that the wind would soon die down. Unfortunately we
were soon to experience what a strong wind meant at these heights.

Sea of cloud from peak north of Kama Valley.
Kanchenjunga in distance.

On the following night we had 20° of frost, and the weather appeared to
be getting rather more settled. We were now sufficiently high up to be
above the ordinary clouds, and we could look down upon the great sea of
them which overhung the Arun Valley and the greater part of Nepal. As the
sun warmed the clouds, they used to rise higher, but they seldom arrived as
far as our camp owing to a strong North-westerly wind always blowing in
the upper regions of the air which drove them back again. Watching the
movements of the clouds day by day gave me the impression that the Mount
Everest group forms a dividing line between the two monsoon systems. The
monsoon that causes so much rain in Sikkim comes from the Bay of
Bengal, and these moist currents sweep up to Mount Everest, but it is only
when the current is very strong that they pass beyond it. At this time of year
this monsoon was still active, whereas the Arabian Sea monsoon—that is to
say, the moist winds from the Arabian Sea—which had given us previously
much rain and snow on the Western sides and slopes of Mount Everest, was

now over, with the result that on the West side of Everest we had blue skies
every day and no rain clouds, whereas on the East side the clouds and the
moisture brought up by the Bengal monsoon still prevailed. During the
course of the morning I climbed an easy hill to the East side of the camp
and some 500 feet above it. We walked along at first just below the ice cap,
which was very pretty with its long icicles gleaming in the sunlight. We
then crossed on to the ice cap and found the snow in excellent condition,
firm and crisp to the tread, so that it was a pleasure to walk along it. From
the top of this hill, 20,500 feet, was a very fine view to the East, over the
great sea of cloud which filled up all the valleys as far as the Massif of
Kanchenjunga which towered up in the distance, and the more slender peak
of Jannu. Amongst the Sikkim peaks I could also recognise Chomiomo and
the Jonsong peak. To the South Makalu towered up above all the other
mountains: while between it and Mount Everest, beyond the Southern
watershed of the Kama Valley, showed up some of the great Nepalese
peaks, among which we noted Chamlang, 24,000 feet. To the West of us
Mount Everest showed up sharp and clear and very white after all the fresh
snow that had fallen in the last month. From this side Mount Everest
certainly looks its best, standing up as a solitary peak instead of being rather
dwarfed by the high ridges that radiate from it. The weather remained fine
all day, and it was a real pleasure to sit outside one's tent and bask in the
sun. Though we were 20,000 feet, we had breakfast, lunch and tea out of
doors in front of our tents, and we could not have been warmer or enjoyed
pleasanter conditions if we had been down at 5,000 feet.

On September 22, leaving Raeburn behind, Mallory, Bullock, Morshead,
Wheeler, Wollaston and myself started off to Lakhpa La camp. We left the
20,000-foot camp in 22° of frost at four o'clock in the morning,
accompanied by twenty-six coolies, who were divided up into four parties,
each of which was properly roped. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and
the mountains showed up nearly as brightly as in the daytime. We rapidly

descended the 200 feet from our terrace to the glacier, when we all “roped
up.” The snow on the glacier was in excellent condition, and as it was
frozen hard we made good progress. Dawn overtook us on the broad flat
part of the glacier, the first beams of the sun falling on the summit of Mount
Everest, which lay straight in front of us, and changing the colour of the
snow gradually from pink to orange, all the time with a background of deep
purple sky, every detail showing up sharp and clear in the frosty air. We
mounted gradually past Kartse, the white conical-shaped peak climbed by
Mallory and Bullock a month ago from the Kama Valley. We wended our
way without much difficulty through the ice-fall of the glacier, below some
superbly fluted snow ridges that rose straight above us. Then followed a
long and at times a somewhat steep climb over soft powdery snow to the
top of the pass. Even at these heights we came across tracks in the snow. We
were able to pick out tracks of hares and foxes, but one that at first looked
like a human foot puzzled us considerably. Our coolies at once jumped to
the conclusion that this must be “The Wild Man of the Snows,” to which
they gave the name of Metohkangmi, “the abominable snow man” who
interested the newspapers so much. On my return to civilised countries I
read with interest delightful accounts of the ways and customs of this wild
man whom we were supposed to have met. These tracks, which caused so
much comment, were probably caused by a large “loping” grey wolf, which
in the soft snow formed double tracks rather like those of a barefooted man.
Tibet, however, is not the only country where there exists a “bogey man.” In
Tibet he takes the form of a hairy man who lives in the snows, and little
Tibetan children who are naughty and disobedient are frightened by
wonderful fairy tales that are told about him. To escape from him they must
run down the hill, as then his long hair falls over his eyes and he is unable
to see them. Many other such tales have they with which to strike terror into
the hearts of bad boys and girls.

I reached the top of the pass (22,350 feet) by 10.30 a.m., and was
rewarded by a wonderful view of Mount Everest, now only a couple of
miles away. From the pass there was a steep descent of about 1,200 feet to a
glacier which after many wanderings finds its way into the Rongbuk
Glacier. This valley had never been thoroughly investigated by Mallory and
Bullock in their visit to the Rongbuk Valley. It does not, however, actually
form the main Rongbuk Glacier, but stops several miles short of it, the
entrance to the valley containing this huge glacier being both small and
very insignificant. The bad weather that they had experienced in the
Rongbuk Valley during the latter half of their stay there had made it
impossible for Mallory and Bullock to explore this valley, or see what lay at
its head.

We were now opposite the Chang La (North Col) which joins Mount
Everest to Changtse (the North peak), and from this col was, so far as we
were able to judge, the only route to the summit. The way from the glacier
up to the Chang La looked steep and unpromising, and we doubted whether
it would be possible to take laden coolies up, even to this point. I took as
many photographs as I could, and as quickly as possible, for there was an
icy wind blowing which almost froze my hands. This wind blew the fine
powdery snow off all the crests of the ridges and it penetrated everywhere.
We found a little hollow in the snow a few feet below the crest, and here we
set to work to pitch our camp. There was not much shelter, but it was the
only possible place. We had only brought small Alpine Meade and
Mummery tents with us. Two of us occupied each tent. They were very
small and uncomfortable, and in order to enter them we had to crawl
through a narrow funnel almost as though we were entering a dog kennel.
The effort of crawling in was very exhausting and caused us to remain out
of breath for a considerable time afterwards. Even these small tents were
with difficulty pitched owing to the strong winds: cooking was quite out of
the question until dark when the wind temporarily lulled. We had brought

up with us some Primus stoves and spirit lamps. No one, except perhaps
Wheeler, was very expert with the Primus stove, and though no doubt under
favourable conditions they would be easy to work, even at these heights, we
were never very successful with them and were forced to rely upon the
spirit stoves. After sunset we had a scratch meal of consommé, which we
managed to warm up, followed by some cold ham and biscuits, after which
we retired to bed. The moment the sun went down there were 25° of frost.
Up till now I had felt no ill-effects from the rarefied air; I had not even had
a headache and my appetite was good, though I owned to feeling rather lazy
and it always needed an effort to concentrate one's thoughts. The coolies
who had accompanied us up to this camp all seemed to be well and were
very cheerful. The eiderdown sleeping-bags were a great comfort; they
were our only means of keeping thoroughly warm with 34° of frost outside.
But I cannot say that I felt comfortable or, in fact, that I slept at all, as the
snow which at most times had been much too soft, seemed here to freeze
into uncomfortable lumps and bumps underneath one's back, so that I could
never get comfortable all night. The wind howled round our flimsy tents,
and I do not think anyone, except perhaps Mallory, got any sleep that night.
In the morning we were all suffering from bad headaches, due to the
airlessness of these little tents, and I am sure that anyone camping at high
altitudes ought to have a much larger type of tent in which to sleep if he is
to avoid headaches. We blessed the early morning sun when it appeared and
began to unfreeze us. I noticed then that our faces and hands were all a
curious blue colour in the morning, due to what is called, I believe, cyanosis
of the blood. With much difficulty Wheeler made us a little tea, which if not
drunk at once, froze; Mallory thawed out some sardines which had all been
frozen solid. There was luckily less wind than during the night, and as the
sun rose higher, we all became more alive. The coolies, too, were at first all
torpid and complained of bad headaches, but on getting into the fresh air,
out of their small and stuffy tents, the headaches rapidly passed away. After

consultation, we decided that there was no object—in fact, that it would be
dangerous—for the whole party to go on, so we decided that it would be
best for the expert Alpine climbers only, together with a few picked coolies,
to attempt the Chang La. If weather conditions were favourable, they might,
we thought, see how high they could get on Mount Everest itself. We
therefore quickly sorted out and divided up the stores, and after seeing
Mallory, Bullock and Wheeler off, unpitched our own tents, being satisfied
that we could be of no use by remaining where we were, and that it would
be best that we should return to our 20,000-foot camp and carry down with
us as many stores as we could. We accomplished this without any difficulty,
and arrived back during the course of the afternoon. The contrast here was
extraordinary. We seemed to be in a totally different climate, and our larger
tents and camp beds appeared to us to be the height of luxury. We spent a
very comfortable night in spite of 22° of frost, and all slept soundly after
our exertions, though once or twice during the night I was awakened by rats
gnawing at the food which had been left out on the boxes in my tent. One of
the coolies also started to say his prayers in a loud tone of voice at 1 a.m.,
but after a few winged words he relapsed into silence.

The next day was delightfully warm and sunny, though there had been
during the night a good deal of lightning towards the South. The snow could
be seen whirling off the crest of Mount Everest during the morning, and in
the course of the afternoon the wind grew much stronger, and blew huge
clouds of snow off the slopes of the mountain, and from all the surrounding
ridges. We could see great wisps of snow being blown off the pass that we
had just left, so that the climbing party must have been having a very cold
time in their new camp. In the evening there was a curious false sunset in
the East with fine purple and orange rays, while as usual the Kama and the
Kharta Valleys were filled with a sea of cloud. Here, however, we seemed
to be above and beyond the reach of the clouds. Next night there was again
constant lightning to the South and 23° of frost, but the weather kept fine

and sunny. On climbing a snow-covered hill to the West of the camp, about
21,000 feet, I had some superb views of Everest and Makalu with their
appalling cliffs and beautifully-fluted snow slopes. A strong North-westerly
gale still continued in the upper regions of the air above 22,000 feet, and
every ridge of Everest was smothered with clouds of blown snow. I had a
pleasant glissade down steep snow slopes back to the camp, where the
climate was delicious and where I could bask in the sun at the entrance of
my tent with a sun temperature of 173° Fahr. Earlier in the season we had
often recorded temperatures of 195° and 197° Fahr. in the sun with the
black bulb thermometer. During the afternoon we were able with our
glasses to see black specks appearing on the top of the Lhakpa La. These
were the Alpine climbers and their coolies returning after their strenuous
efforts on Mount Everest. We watched them with the greatest interest
descending the glacier and wondered how far they had been successful.
They all arrived back safely in the course of the evening, having been
extraordinarily lucky in not having had any casualties or frost-bites in spite
of the Arctic gales. Mallory will, however, tell of their adventures in another
chapter.

CHAPTER IX
THE RETURN TO KHARTA BY THE KAMA
VALLEY

Winter was now rapidly approaching. Every night was growing steadily
colder, and we were all anxious to get down to lower altitudes. Every one
had been feeling the strain of life at these high altitudes. It had been,
however, a great relief to us that all the party had got back to the 20,000-
foot camp in safety, and that we had had no cases of sickness or frost-bite.
The coolies had throughout worked most willingly and to the best of their
ability. They had been well supplied with boots and socks, warm clothing of
all kinds, cap comforters and fur gloves, as well as blankets, and for those
who had slept at the higher camps, eiderdown sleeping-bags had been
provided capable of holding four or five. Here at the 20,000-foot camp we
did not have to depend on Primus stoves or spirit lamps, as while we were
waiting at the advanced base camp we had daily sent up coolies with loads
of wood for our future use, and even during our stay here the coolies who
had been left behind under Gyalzen Kazi had been sending up further loads.
We now divided our party into two: Mallory, Bullock, Raeburn and
Morshead were to be responsible for taking all the stores back to Kharta,
and for this purpose we had arranged with Chheten Wangdi and the Kharta
Jongpen for a number of Tibetan coolies to help in the work of removal.
The remainder of us, that is to say, Wollaston, Wheeler and myself, were to
cross over a snow pass and return to Kharta via the Kama Valley. Wheeler

was anxious to do this in order to complete his survey work, for up till now
he had been unable to visit the Kama Valley. Wollaston had already seen the
lower parts of the Kama Valley, but was very anxious to see the upper end,
particularly after my descriptions of the scenery and the Alpine flowers that
were to be met with there.

On September 26 the two parties started off in different directions.
Taking with us fifteen coolies, all pretty heavily laden, we descended to the
great Kharta Glacier, which it was necessary for us to cross. We were not at
all certain as to the conditions we were likely to meet with on the other side
of the pass. The climb from the Kharta Glacier to the Karpo La, 20,300 feet,
was quite gentle, though the snow was very soft and powdery. On the North
side of the pass we found the slopes to be a snow-covered glacier, but on
the South side there was a very steep rocky descent which had to be faced.
From the top of the pass we had a remarkably fine view into the Kama
Valley which lay below us. Makalu, Pethangtse and Everest stood up clear
above the clouds which floated along the bottom of the Kama Valley.
Across the gaps between these peaks we could see other snow ranges in
Nepal. Here at the top of the pass we were luckily just sheltered from the
North-west and the gale, but on either side of us snow was being blown off
the mountains in long white streamers. Our descent was down a very steep
rocky rib. We began by roping ourselves together, but the coolies were all
of them heavily laden and were, moreover, very clumsy on the rope,
sending down so many loose stones that I found my position as foremost
man quite untenable owing to the amount of débris and rocks which were
dislodged above me. We therefore unroped, and Wollaston lowered the
coolies one by one over the steepest part—a somewhat long proceeding—
after which they were able independently to make their way down to the
glacier below without mishap. We now put on the rope again, and so
crossed the easy glacier which led down to the moraine on which I had been
two months before. Wheeler branched off here and took up a position on

one of the ridges. Here he found the gale very troublesome, his theodolite
being nearly blown over several times. He managed, however, to take a
number of readings and to get a good many photographs—sufficient to map
the whole of the upper part of the Kama Valley. All that day the gale
continued above 20,000 feet. Below this the valley was filled with clouds,
over which at first we had magnificent views. As soon as we descended into
the valley, we gradually became enveloped in the autumn mists, which
lasted all the remainder of the way to Pethang Ringmo. This was the place
where I had met the yak herds two months before when they were pasturing
their yaks on the grassy uplands. They had left the place, and we were
therefore no longer able to draw on them for butter and milk. I had,
however, arranged for Wheeler's fat cook to be sent up from Kharta to this
place to meet us and to bring with him some fresh meat and vegetables.
These we found on arrival, the fat cook having only arrived an hour before.
We all of us slept that night much better than we had been doing at the
higher camps, and though even down here we had 14° of frost, I was
delighted to find that my boots were not frozen as hard as nails, as they had
been all the last week.

From this camp I determined to attempt an expedition which I had long
desired to make. My ambition was to reach the ridge between Makalu and
Everest, and from it to have a look right down into Nepal. Mallory and
Bullock did not much encourage me in my project, and doubted whether it
could be accomplished within the short time which was now available. I
decided, nevertheless, to make the attempt. On the night of the 26th all our
servants overslept themselves, and I had some difficulty in waking them
next morning. We succeeded, however, after a hurried breakfast in making a
start at 5.45 a.m., just as the first sunlight was touching the highest peak of
Mount Everest. It was a most perfect autumn morning, without a cloud in
the sky and with the ground underfoot white with hoar-frost. After going a
mile up the valley, we had to cross the Kangshung Glacier—here about a

mile wide and consisting of a great mass of ice hummocks, often 100 feet or
more in height, mostly covered with boulders, with the ice showing every
now and then below us in curious caverns and lakes. It took us an hour to
cross this glacier, as the walking was very tiring up and down hill over
loose stones all the time; luckily, however, many of the stones were frozen
to the ice, which made the crossing easier than it might have been later in
the day. We then climbed on to a spur, over 19,000 feet, which jutted out
into the valley. From this we had marvellous views right away to
Kanchenjunga in the East. On the opposite side Mount Everest stood out
with every detail showing clearly in the autumn sunshine. Above us
towered the perpendicular cliffs of Chomolönzo, opening out into a most
astonishing series of peaks, the existence of which we had never suspected
when looking at the mountain from the valley below. For once in a way the
air was drier and the valleys below were not filled with cloud, so there was
a prospect of our having clear views all day. Wheeler had come a short way
along the ridge until he got a good view-point, when he stopped to set up
his theodolite and camera for a station, after which he came along no
further. I followed the crest of the ridge as far as I could, finding it at times
very difficult and rocky and having to make many detours to get along. A
descent of about 500 feet was followed by a climb of another 1,000 feet, at
the end of which we found ourselves exactly opposite to the great
amphitheatre of granite formed by Chomolönzo and Makalu and facing
Westwards. So steep were these great white granite cliffs that no snow
lodged on them. Above them were other cliffs of ice with rather gentler
slopes; at their feet was a great glacier that filled up the whole of this basin
and then swept down till it almost joined the Kangshung Glacier. I had
taken with me as usual Ang Tenze and Nyima Tendu, the two coolies who
always accompanied me, each of them carrying a camera. We now came to
a glacier which it was necessary to cross, and therefore roped up once more.
The snow by this time had become rather soft, and we were constantly

breaking through the crust. The glare and heat of the sun on this glacier
were very intense, and both Nyima and I were feeling very limp from the
heat. Ang Tenze was extraordinarily active and did not seem to mind heat or
height—a quite exceptionally gifted mountaineer. Having successfully
crossed the glacier, we left the soft snow and found our way over some easy
rocks and eventually reached the top of the ridge for which we were
making, at a height of about 21,500 feet, and some 500 feet above the
snow-covered pass to the East of us. From the top of the ridge we had a
most glorious view looking across range upon range of snowy mountains in
Nepal. Immediately below us was a large snow “névé,” towards which
glaciers descended from a number of snow-covered peaks. From this névé a
great glacier swept round towards the Southern side of Makalu, apparently
descending into a valley that ran parallel to the Kama Valley and on the
South side of Makalu. Chamlang and other snow peaks to the South showed
up very clearly, covered with snow and ice to very much lower elevations
than any mountain on the North side of the Himalayas. On either side of us
towered up Makalu and Everest, but seen from this point the huge cliffs of
Chomolönzo presented by far the most astounding sight. From here I could
see a few thousand feet of the Southern slopes of Mount Everest which we
had been unable to see from any other point before. From the angle at
which I saw them these appeared very steep, and even if it were possible
and permissible to go into Nepal, it seems improbable that a practicable
route lies up that face of the mountain. I spent a couple of hours up here
taking photographs, enjoying the views, and eating my lunch in comfort, for
the sun was hot and for once in a way there was no wind. To the South-west
of us, across the névé, there appeared to be another easy pass which seemed
to lead round to the South of Mount Everest, and Ang Tenze, who came
from the Khombu Valley, said that he thought that he recognised some of
the mountain tops that he saw over this, and that if we crossed this pass, we
should eventually descend into the Khombu Valley. He also told me that

there were stories that once upon a time there was a pass from the Khombu
Valley into the Kama Valley, and that this was probably the pass in
question, but that it had been disused for a great number of years. To
support his theory we found on the way down a kind of shelter built of
stones and some pieces of juniper hidden under a big rock. This would have
been too high up for any yak herds to camp, as it was above the grazing
pastures, and seemed to prove that the spot might have been used as a
halting-place for smugglers or people fleeing from the law before they
crossed these passes. It had taken us six and a half hours from camp to get
up to the top of this pass; and we had had no halts on the way beyond what
were necessary to take photographs. The downward journey took us four
hours. We tried another way by the side of the Makalu Glacier, desiring
thereby to avoid the tiresome and rather difficult bit along the top of the
ridge. This short cut proved, however, to be still more trying and
wearisome. From the cliffs above there had been great rock falls down to
the edge of the glacier, and for a couple of miles we had to jump from
boulder to boulder and to clamber either up or down the whole time. There
was still the Kangshung Glacier to cross, with more up and down hill work,
the stones being much looser and more inclined to slip under foot than they
were in the morning. Eventually we reached camp, just before dark, and
feeling very tired. A cup of tea, however, with a little brandy in it,
completely removed all fatigue. Wollaston had been able during the day to
get some beautiful photographs of the snow-powdered cliffs of
Chomolönzo, and also some interesting ones of the Kangshung Glacier.
Besides these he had been able to collect a number of seeds. It is
astonishing how quickly at these heights seeds ripen, and how short a time
it is after flowering that they are fit for picking.

Chomolönzo.
from the alp below the Langma La, Kama Valley.

We had been very lucky in getting such a perfect day in the Kama Valley,
for fine days there were very few. After our one perfect day the weather
changed again, and for the next three days we descended the Kama Valley
in sleet and snow. The first morning our march was only to our old camp at
Tangsham on a glacial terrace 1,000 feet above the valley. At first Everest
was clear and all the mountains to the West, but heavy clouds came rolling
up from the South-east and soon enveloped everything. On the way I
managed to collect for Wollaston a number of the seeds of that lovely blue
primula which I had found in flower here in August. I shot, too, a common

snipe, which I was very surprised to meet at these altitudes. I flushed him
beside a small spring close to the camp. During the afternoon it snowed and
sleeted, and Wheeler came in very tired in the evening after having spent
the whole of the day on a prominent peak, from which he had been unable
to get a single photograph or to take any bearings. In spite of the snow that
evening we had a cheery bonfire of juniper, willow and rhododendron. The
next morning, though we were down at 15,000 feet, there were a couple of
inches of fresh snow on the ground. The weather at first was very misty, and
we had no views at all. We soon, however, descended below the snow, and
the autumnal colours in the valley began to show. On the opposite side of it
below the great black cliffs, the bushes were all shades of brown and gold.
In the forests the rose bushes had turned a brilliant red, and the mountain
ash showed every shade of scarlet and crimson, contrasting well with the
shiny dark green leaves of the rhododendron. The golden colours of the
birch and the dark junipers also made a beautiful combination of colour.
Rain set in again steadily, and as snow was falling on the “field of
marigolds” where we had intended to camp, we pitched our tents in the
midst of a huge rock-fall—1,000 feet lower down. Our coolies did not pitch
any tents for themselves, but preferred to scatter in twos and threes and to
camp under the overhanging rocks which they found apparently warmer
and more comfortable than the tents. There had been a wonderful growth of
vegetation among these huge boulders, many of them 40 feet to 50 feet in
height, which had come down from the cliffs above. Wollaston and I spent
most of the afternoon pottering round and collecting seeds of plants of
different kinds. The next morning we had trouble in getting hold of the
coolies; they were scattered among the rocks, and in spite of shouts, refused
to budge until I went round with a big stick and poked them out of their
holes. I crossed the Shao La in thick mist, though Wollaston and Wheeler,
who came along an hour behind, had some beautiful glimpses of Makalu in
the clouds and were able to get some photographs. After crossing the pass,

we descended past several beautiful lakes and arrived in fine weather at
Kharta in the afternoon. The autumn tints on the way down were again very
beautiful, and most of the crops had already been gathered in. Mallory and
Bullock had, we found, left Kharta, being in a great hurry to get back to
civilisation again.

It was September 30 when we reached Kharta. We had now finished our
reconnaissance. We had investigated all the valleys to the West, North-west,
North, North-east and East of the mountain, and had eventually found that
there was only one possible route of approach to the summit. The bad
weather and the furious North-westerly gales had prevented our attaining
any great height this year. The rainy season had begun some three weeks
later than usual. The rains, they told us, had been much heavier than in most
years in Tibet, and the wet season had lasted until very nearly the end of
September, after which time a period of gales set in which made climbing at
heights above 23,000 feet a physical impossibility. Undoubtedly the best
time to try and climb the mountain would be before the monsoon breaks in
May or early June. It might be possible, if the monsoon happened to end by
the beginning of September, to tackle the mountain early in September, but
after the middle of that month the chances of doing any good grow steadily
weaker and the cold increases with great rapidity. Whether it will be
possible in any conditions to reach the summit I am very doubtful. We,
however, had never intended to make a sustained effort to reach the top in
1921. The reconnaissance of the mountain and its approaches afforded us
indeed no time to make such an effort, and we felt bound to investigate
every valley that led up to it. The Everest Committee had already before we
left for India in 1921 decided to send out a second Expedition in the
following year, for the express purpose of climbing Mount Everest, and for
this purpose had already then promised the leadership to Brig.-General C.
G. Bruce, whose unrivalled knowledge of climbing and climatic conditions
in the Himalayas specially fitted him for the work. Whether the task is

capable of accomplishment I will not attempt to say, though I should think
the chances are on the whole against success. If Mount Everest were 6,000,
or even 5,000 feet lower, I think there can be no doubt that it could be
climbed. There are no physical difficulties in the shape of the mountain
which prevent it being climbed—the difficulties are all connected with its
altitude. If the snow is soft and powdery, and the conditions are such as we
met with so often; or if, again, there is difficult rock climbing in the last
2,000 or 3,000 feet of the climb, I do not think the summit will be reached. I
cannot say what the effect will be if oxygen is taken to aid the human effort.
I only know that cylinders of oxygen are very uncomfortable and heavy to
carry, and that to wear a mask over the mouth and to climb so equipped
would not seem to be very feasible or pleasant. Living at great heights, and
trying to sleep at great heights, lowers the vitality enormously. Larger tents
than those with which we were supplied might well be taken in order to
prevent the depressing headaches that follow from sleeping in a confined
and airless space. Among minor discomforts which count for much may be
mentioned the difficulty of preparing good warm food, and for this purpose
a coolie should be trained in cooking and in the use of the “Primus” and
spirit stoves. This coolie should be a man accustomed to great heights, and
he should accompany the party up to the highest camps in order to avoid the
difficulties we had in connection with the preparation of our food and then
having to live on such makeshifts as sardines and biscuits. I never lost my
appetite at heights over 20,000 feet—I was always able to eat well, though
not everything appealed to the palate. Sweet things were especially wanted.
That it is possible to acclimatise the system to live at heights is true, but
only to a certain extent—up to about 18,000 feet we could acclimatise
ourselves very comfortably, and I know in my own case that after six
months' living in Tibet, I was able to do far more than when I first came
into the country, but at greater heights I think a prolonged stay permanently
lowers the vitality. Sleeplessness is another great enemy at heights, and

most of the party I found slept very poorly at the highest camp. Mallory, I
think, was the only exception. It ought to be possible to pick out a few
coolies capable of carrying loads able to go as far as any European can get.
Some of them seem to feel the height much less than others, and I believe
that an unladen native would be able to go much higher if he had the
knowledge of ice and snow that Alpine climbers have, and would not
improbably reach a greater height than any European. Twenty-nine
thousand feet is, however, a tremendous height for anyone to attain, and I
own that I am not at all sanguine that the summit will be reached, though I
have no doubt that this year will see the Duke of the Abruzzi's record of
24,600 broken, and I shall not be at all surprised to see a height of 25,000 or
26,000 feet arrived at.

CHAPTER X
THE RETURN JOURNEY TO PHARI

Autumn had already come to Kharta. The willows and the poplars under
which we were camped were fast shedding their leaves, which rustled on
the ground, or blew into our tents, a warning that winter was not far off.
Even here there were one or two degrees of frost every night. The days,
however, were still warm and sunny. The next five days were fully occupied
with strenuous work. Wheeler and I took alternate mornings and afternoons
in the dark room. We had each taken a large number of photographs during
the past month. These had to be developed before we started on our return
journey to Darjeeling, and this would be our last opportunity. An account of
our last month's doings and our final reconnaissance had to be written out
for The Times, and this, together with many other letters, had to be sent off
to Phari as soon as possible. Our stores, tents, Alpine equipment, had all to
be collected and sorted out. Lists had to be made of all of them, and most of
them had to be re-packed. The coolies were perpetually worrying us for
money and advances of pay in order that they might be able to buy Tibetan
clothing, or have money which they could spend on drink at Kharta, where
it was apparently very cheap. Our cook and most of the coolies used
constantly to return to camp in the evening blind drunk, and I had to see
that the cook was never allowed near the kitchen under these conditions. On
such an occasion my servant, Poo, would have to do the cooking in his
place. The chang, or barley beer, that they got must have been a much

stronger brew than what was given to us, as what we had did not appear
intoxicating at all, but the interpreters told us that coolie beer was double
strength.

The Jongpen was rather sad as the moment of our departure drew near.
We invited him to lunch one day, and he seemed to appreciate the beauties
of Scotch whisky, which he said was very much better than his own chang.
We had to pay him a return visit the following day, when he gave us a great
spread. Knowing that we were anxious to collect such curios as were
available, he produced all kinds of things for our inspection. I bought from
him a curious old Tibetan musket, elaborately decorated with silver, and
fitted with a pair of antelope horns on which to rest it when firing. Some
interesting copper and silver teapots we were also able to get from him, and
I remember his showing Wollaston many pieces of finely embroidered
Chinese silk. Both Hopaphema and the Jongpen had a very good idea of the
value of money, and were not at all afraid of asking a stiff price for any of
the curios which they produced. We managed, however, to pick up some
interesting Chinese snuff bottles of carved agate, some with pictures painted
inside. China cups of the Chienlung and Kanghe periods we were also able
to get; there were, however, many things in the monasteries which we rather
coveted, but which the Lamas would not sell. Their tables were very
ornamentally carved with dragons and weird designs, all painted over in
brilliant colours. The Jongpen had one such table, but unfortunately I found
out that he had only borrowed it from the nearest monastery for the purpose
of entertaining us, and therefore he could not sell it. We left behind us a
good many stores which it was not worth while to bring along. Among them
was a lot of acid hypo-sulphite of soda, which the Jongpen at once seized
upon, and which he said he intended to make use of in washing his clothes,
knowing that soda was used occasionally for this purpose. The Jongpen, of
whom we had taken many photographs, and who had seen the results, was
anxious to buy one of our cameras, and to develop and print everything

himself. He imagined the whole process was very easy, and was extremely
anxious to get hold of one of the Expedition's cameras, but we had to
disappoint him in this. Nothing small would content him—he wanted the
biggest of the lot, and was quite willing to exchange a sword or any other
weapon for a camera. We, however, left behind with him three pairs of skis,
which we had brought out with us, but which had never been unpacked.
These skis had throughout our journeys been looked upon by the Tibetans
with the greatest interest. They had heard about flying machines, and they
thought that these were the framework of a flying machine which we had
brought with us, and on which we intended to fly to the top of the
mountains. Wherever we arrived there was always a great crowd assembled
round these skis, discussing the various methods by which they could be put
together and describing how the white man would then fly. I left them with
the Jongpen and told him that they were very good exercise for him in the
winter time, when the snow was deep, and that if he wanted to reduce his
weight, which was already considerable, there could be no better method
than by making use of them in the snow.

At last, on October 5, we managed to leave Kharta. There were no pack
animals available; we had therefore to make use of coolies for our transport
for the first march; it took 140 of them to carry all our loads. For some time
the scene of confusion was very amusing. The Jongpen himself came down,
and it was only owing to his help that by mid-day we got all the loads
sorted out and put on the backs of the coolies. Before he was able to do this
he had to have recourse to the system of drawing lots by putting garters on
each load, a system which I have already described in a previous chapter.
Before we left, the Jongpen and Hopaphema brought us presents of sheep
and vegetables, and they and all the people of the valley seemed genuinely
sorry that we were departing. Throughout our long stay at Kharta they had
been most helpful and had done everything they could for our comfort.
They were both of them very human, with a delightful sense of humour, and

we quickly became great friends. It was with much regret that we turned
our backs on Kharta.

We started off without a cloud in the sky, but with a strong South wind
blowing. High up on the mountains we could see the snow still being blown
off in white clouds. Our route lay up the valley of the Bhong-chu for about
10 miles until the river suddenly turned to the East to go through a deep and
impassable gorge. We had then to follow the valley of the Zachar-chu for 4
miles to Lumeh, where we camped beside the great poplar trees. The bridge
by which we had crossed the Zachar-chu in July no longer existed. It had
been washed away in August, but now that the snows were no longer
melting higher up, and the rainy season was over, the river was very much
lower, and it was possible to ford it. The people at Lumeh were very
pleased to see us again; we found tents pitched and food prepared for our
reception. From here there were two routes open to us. We could either, by
crossing two passes, drop down to Tsogo in the valley of the Bhong-chu,
and after fording the river there, follow our previous route (of the outward
journey) to Tingri, or we could cross a small pass just above Lumeh,
meeting the Bhong-chu again immediately above the gorge, where there
was a bridge across it. We chose the latter route, as it was probably a couple
of days shorter and would take us through new country. On leaving Lumeh,
for the first time for several days we had a cloudy morning, which was
unfortunate, as from the top of the Quiok (Cuckoo Pass) we had hoped for a
fine view. Our transport to-day consisted of yaks and donkeys, which came
along very well. There was a steep climb of 2,000 feet to the top of the pass,
15,000 feet, where we just managed to get a glimpse of Makalu in the
clouds, but Everest was hidden. We thought that this would be our last
chance of a view of the Everest and Makalu group, but it turned out not to
be so. By going over this pass we had avoided the curious and impassable
gorge by which the Bhong-chu cuts through a high range of mountains. It
was only a little over 6 miles to the famous rope bridge at Gadompa. I could

not help laughing when I first saw the bridge. It was such a comical,
ramshackle-looking affair, and everything about it seemed torn and ragged
and uneven. Two crooked wooden posts set up in piles of stones supported
the ropes of raw hide which spanned the river. During the rainy season one
of these posts and all the ropes had been buried deep under the water, but
now that the river had dropped over 10 feet, the posts were out of the water.
Between these two wooden posts were three raw hide ropes, very frail and
much frayed, and looking as though they might break at any moment. On
these ropes was laid a semi-circular piece of wood, like the framework of a
saddle, to which were attached two leather thongs. The person or bale of
goods that had to be pulled across was tied by these two thongs to the
framework, and this was allowed to slide rapidly with its load down to the
point at which the “bridge” sagged most—somewhere about the middle of
the river—which here rushed along in a formidable rapid. If the Tibetans on
the far side failed to pull up the passenger or load and he or it was left for a
minute, either would certainly get the full benefit of one of the ice-cold
waves of the rapids and get thoroughly soaked before reaching the far side.
The Tibetans had great fun with our coolies in transit, and very few of them
were allowed to get over dry. The villages on either side are exempt from
the duty of producing transport, and have instead to make themselves
responsible for working the bridge. On one side the operators were all
women and on the other all men. It took an average of five minutes to get
each load or person across, and we spent twelve hours before we got all our
loads over. For part of the time I superintended while Wheeler went to get
some dinner, and after dinner, owing to there being a certain amount of
moonlight, Wheeler carried on until the last load was brought over at
midnight. It was a very chilly proceeding, as the wind blew very cold, with
a suspicion of snow every now and then. It was a weird experience to see
the loads of baggage suddenly appearing out of the darkness and then being
unloaded and transferred to the yaks, who apparently were able to find their

way about in the dark. We got everything over in safety without losing
anything except a few eggs, which I saw drop out during the passage across,
and I felt very much relieved that we had had no accident.

That night we camped in a pleasant willow grove at the village of
Kharkhung. In the morning we awoke to find fresh snow on the ground, but
this speedily disappeared when the sun came out. Our new transport
consisted of donkeys and some very wild yaks, which rapidly got rid of
their loads. The march was only a short one of about 12 miles up the valley
of the Bhong-chu. The valley was uninteresting and stony, with practically
no undergrowth, and we eventually camped in a windy spot near the village
of Lashar, nearly opposite to the sandy camp at Shiling where we had halted
on our outward journey after crossing the quicksands. The night proved
much colder here, with 18° of frost, but the wind luckily died down and the
next morning was beautiful. We continued up the sandy valley of the
Bhong-chu, which is here several miles wide, until we came to its junction
with the Yaru, where we regained the route which we had followed on the
outward journey. Just before leaving the main valley we found, on looking
behind us, that we were in full sight of Mount Everest and its great South-
eastern ridge, and also of the Lhakpa La where we had camped. This was
our final view of Mount Everest, and knowing the geography of these peaks
as we now did, this view gave us an added interest in them. We had climbed
slowly and had not realised the great height which we had reached or the
conspicuous position of our camp on the Lhakpa La which we now saw
sharply defined against the horizon from a distance of 50 miles.

We rode up the gorge of the Yaru, and at the village of Rongme we met
the Phari Jongpen's brother. He was busy collecting the harvest rents, which
are a fixed percentage of the crops. I gave him some of the photographs that
I had taken of him and his house on the way up and very soon after a big
crowd collected around. The Tibetans are very quick at recognising persons

in a photograph, and they at once picked out all the people by name in a
group. I then rode on past his house to the village of Shatog, where we
camped. On the way I shot a couple of snipe and also saw a number of teal,
wild geese and kulan (grey crane), but they were very wild and I could not
get near enough for a shot. Heron joined us here. He had been exploring
some of the valleys to the North, but had found nothing interesting or
remarkable, geologically, and he accompanied us back as far as Khamba
Dzong. We were anxious to push on as fast as possible, and determined to
do a double march from here to Tinki Dzong, which our transport drivers
said they could do quite easily. We started on a beautiful day after a sharp
frost at night, causing many of the ponds to be frozen over. We crossed the
broad swampy plain to Chushar. Wheeler, going on ahead at first, had a shot
at some geese, but did not succeed in getting anything. We crossed the Yaru
River by a very deep ford, and then kept along the North side of it, past
numerous ponds on which were swimming many bar-headed geese; these
were, however, very wily and would not allow us to approach within shot.
We now had a steep 3,000-foot climb to the Tinki Pass. On the way up I
came across some partridges; they were terrible runners, but after a good
chase I managed to collect two. They turned out to be the ordinary Tibetan
partridge (Perdrix hodgsoniæ). I then rode on down to Tinki, to which place
I had sent on Chheten Wangdi in order to make arrangements for our
reception and to have transport ready for us on the following day. The two
Jongpens rode out to meet us; the elder of the two had been at Tinki when
we passed through on the way out, but the other one I had not seen before
as he had been away. I had very pleasant recollections of our reception there
before, and was delighted to see the elder Jongpen, who was a most
pleasant and agreeable gentleman. They presented us with a couple of
hundred eggs, rice and some grain for the ponies, and had tents already
pitched for us under the walls of the fort. Here the Jongpens came and sat
talking with us for a long time. Our transport showed no signs of turning

up, so we were very glad to make our dinner off the rice and eggs that had
been given us. The bulk of the transport did not arrive till midnight. They
had made every effort to stop at Chushar, and it was with great difficulty
that Gyalzen Kazi had induced them to go on. The animal which was
carrying Wheeler's kit died on the way, and his bedding did not arrive till
noon the following day, another animal having been sent to bring it in. I had
had my maximum and minimum thermometers exposed as usual under the
fly of my tent, but during the night some wretch came and stole them. What
good they could have been to him I cannot imagine, but it was very
annoying and I hope he will drink the mercury. The weather had now
changed again for the worse: all day there were heavy snow showers with
snow falling on the mountains around and preventing any views. The march
was only a short one to Lingga. The wild birds in the lake beside the fort
were as tame as ever, the Brahminy ducks (ruddy sheldrake) almost
waddling into our tents and not paying the slightest attention to us. On the
water were swimming about thousands of duck, bar-headed geese and teal
which the Jongpen's little dog used to have great fun in chasing. We were
not able to follow our former route from Tinki to Lingga as the country had
altered considerably. Most of the plain was now a broad lake several miles
long, and we had to follow the North side of the water along the foot of the
hills. On these big lakes were many duck, but they were very wild. I
managed on the way, however, to shoot two bar-headed geese, a couple of
Garganey teal and a pochard, which proved a very welcome addition to our
bill of fare. One shot was a most extraordinary one. I was stalking some
geese which were getting very restless and starting to fly away, when just in
front of me got up two teal close together. I fired at the teal and both fell to
my shot, and at the same time, to my great surprise, a goose, which was in
the direct line of fire, and about 40 yards away, also fell.

We found the people at Lingga busy thrashing. The thrashing time in
Tibet is a favourite one for drinking, and often the whole village after a

day's harvest will be completely incapacitated as the result of too great an
indulgence in chang. Their thrashing floors consist of an area of about half
an acre of hard beaten earth on which the barley is spread to a depth of 6 to
8 inches. Fifty or sixty yaks are then driven into this enclosure, followed by
thirty people or more, beating drums, rattling kerosene oil tins, ringing bells
and shouting and yelling in order to frighten the yaks, who, tail in air, are
driven backwards and forwards over the barley. This they continue doing
until every one is tired and hoarse, when the whole of the workers, both
male and female, adjourn for a long drink of beer, after which the same
process is repeated.

On October 11 we arrived at Khamba Dzong. We were having sharp
frosts now every night, and the mountains, both to the North and South of
us, were covered low down with a thick white coating of snow. It was not,
however, unpleasantly cold, and the cloud effects were very beautiful. On
the way I shot two goa—Tibetan gazelle—with good heads, and horns over
14 inches long. We had to halt here in order to rest our coolies. All day to
the South there was a furious storm raging along the Himalayas, and when
it cleared up in the evening there had evidently been a heavy snowfall. In
the course of the afternoon we put up over Dr. Kellas's grave the stone
which the Jongpen had had engraved for us during our absence. On it were
inscribed in English and Tibetan characters his initials and the date of his
death, and this marks his last resting-place.

Raeburn, Wheeler and Heron now left us, as they wanted to return to
Darjeeling by the short way over the Serpo La and down the Teesta Valley.
This route is only possible for small parties; with all our transport we were
unable to return that way as the villages on the way and in the Teesta Valley
are small and can supply but very few animals or coolies. Wollaston and I
had therefore to return to Phari and then to follow the main trade route,
along which it is always possible to pick up any amount of hired transport.

We left Khamba Dzong on October 13 in 20° of frost. Kanchenjunga and
the Everest group were just visible, but ominous clouds were rapidly
coming up. Our march was the same as on the outward journey to Tatsang
(Falcon's Nest)—a distance of about 21 miles. We rode through the fine
limestone gorge behind the fort, shooting on the way several Tibetan
partridge (Perdrix hodgsoniæ). On reaching the top of the pass, I climbed
another thousand feet on to the ridge to the South of the pass, where I had a
wonderful panorama of snowy peaks, both to the South and to the North.
Snow storms appeared to be raging on either side and the wind was
extremely cold. I came across a fine flock of burhel (Ovis nahura), and had
an easy shot at a fine ram, but missed him hopelessly, and they never gave
me another chance. A little further on I missed a gazelle. On the plain below
were grazing numerous kiang (Equus hemionus), their reddish-chestnut
coats being well shown off by their white bellies and legs. Their mane
appears to be of a darker colour, which is continued as a narrow stripe down
the back. On the same plain I could see also a large flock of nyan (Ovis
hodgsoni), all fair-sized rams. I had a long chase after the latter, but they
never allowed me to approach close to them. Snow began to fall now and a
regular blizzard set in, the fine powdery snow being blown along the
ground into our faces. While riding along in this storm, I saw two fine nyan
which I stalked. My 2·75 rifle was rather small for such a large animal, and
though the larger of the two was badly hit by the first shot, he went off as
though he were untouched and gave me a long chase after him. It was only
possible to get a glimpse of him every now and then in the blizzard, and
whenever I lay down to try and get a shot, the fine powdery snow blown
along the surface of the ground nearly blinded me, so that it took five more
bullets before he finally expired. He was a magnificent old beast with a
grand head and horns, well over 40 inches in length and of great thickness.
The weight of the body was enormous. I had only Ang Tenze with me. With
much difficulty we cut off the nyan's head and then tried to lift the carcass,

which must have weighed well over 200 lb., on to one of the ponies. With
the greatest trouble we eventually managed to get the carcass on to the
pony's back, but the pony seemed gradually to subside on to the ground
under the weight and was quite unable to move. While we were doing this,
my pony took it into his head to run away, and though we made every
attempt to catch him, he completely defeated us, and was last seen
galloping away towards his home. I had therefore an 8 mile trudge through
the snow to get back to camp, not arriving there till well after dark. Five of
the coolies went back after dark to get the meat. They cut off as much as
they could carry, and the remainder had to be left for the nuns, who sent out
their servants to bring it in. I was cheered up, however, by getting an
English mail and many letters. Among these was one from Sir Charles Bell
from Lhasa, who wrote to ask the Expedition not to do any more shooting
in Tibet, as the Tibetans did not approve of it; for the remainder of the time,
therefore, the guns had to be put away.

During the night there were 32° of frost, and everything inside our tents
was frozen solid in the morning; but the wind luckily died down, and the
next day was a most beautiful one. We knew that there was a long march
before us, so our transport was off by eight o'clock. At Tatsang we were
already 16,000 feet, and we gradually climbed higher, spending most of the
day between 17,000 and 18,000 feet. For several miles we rode across a
snow-covered plain over which the tops of Pawhunri, Chomiomo, and
Kanchenjhow appeared to the South. As we rose higher, the snow gradually
deepened to 6 inches and made the going very heavy. We had to cross three
spurs of Pawhunri by passes of over 17,500 feet. Here the snow had been
blown by the wind into drifts over 2 feet deep. We had arranged to camp at
a place called Lunghi, but on our arrival there found that the nomads, who
ordinarily spent the summer there, had already left and were encamped
some 4 miles further down the valley. In a side valley I found some of their
tents where I was able to warm myself and get some hot milk before

moving on down the valley, where we were told that preparations had been
made to receive us. There was luckily a bright moon and we rode on down
to the spot, where we found some Tibetan tents which had been pitched for
us; their owners had, moreover, had the forethought to have great braziers
of cow dung burning in these tents. The smell was not agreeable, but we sat
and warmed ourselves, waiting for our transport, which did not arrive until
eleven o'clock that night. It was a bitterly cold wait, as the wind got up and
blew down the valley with 25° of frost behind it. We were very glad to see
our transport and coolies when they arrived; they had really come along
very well, as a march of 23 miles in soft snow and at a great height all the
time is no light feat.

Breakfast the next morning was very comfortless, as the wind was still
blowing with 28° of frost, and everything—boots and foodstuffs of all kinds
—was frozen inside our tents. We looked forward with no little pleasure to
finding ourselves inside once more and sitting in front of a fire out of the
everlasting wind which makes Tibet so trying. The march was a fairly easy
one of about 20 miles over gentle undulating country until we reached the
West side of the Tang La; there was, however, a bitterly cold strong South
wind which blew with great violence all day and penetrated through
everything. Many of our coolies had much difficulty in coming along, as
they were suffering from snow blindness and their feet were also very
tender from the cold and the deep snow of the last few days. Chomolhari
was a glorious sight all the way. We were gradually approaching it, and it
seemed to rise directly from the plain in front of us. From its summit and
from its ridges great streamers of snow were being blown off and the gale—
apparently from the Northwest—still continued. Nearly every day since we
left Kharta we saw along the higher peaks of the Himalayas the snow being
blown off in great wisps, showing that a strong Northwesterly current of air
sets in at great heights after the monsoon is over. After reaching Darjeeling
we noticed the same thing; every day, from Kanchenjunga and Kabru, could

be seen the same great wisps of wind-blown snow. That night at Phari we
were once more in a bungalow and out of the wind, and able to spend a very
comfortable and pleasant evening reading our letters and papers in front of
a fire which, though still mostly yak dung, was in a fireplace. October 16
we spent resting at Phari. Our coolies were much exhausted by the three
days' march from Khamba Dzong, in which we had covered 65 miles, most
of the time at considerable heights and in deep snow. We had returned by
the short way, which the people of Phari had told us in the spring was
impassable, and over which they would not go, sending us instead around
by the long way to Dochen, which took us six days instead of three.

Phari is a place unfortunately too near civilisation. The Tibetans there
have lost their good manners, such as we had been accustomed to meet in
the more distant and out-of-the-way parts of the country. Much trade passes
through the town, and the people there are too well off. They had an idea
that the Expedition was a kind of milch cow out of which money could be
extracted to their hearts' content. Of this view we had to disabuse them, and
in consequence found them all very tiresome. The transport turned up the
following morning, but they refused to load up unless they were paid in full
beforehand and at a most exorbitant rate. This I refused to do, telephoning
at the same time to the trade agent at Yatung. I sent for the Jongpen, and
both Jongpens turned up. I rather imagine that they were at the bottom of
this trouble, for one of them owed the Expedition some money; he had also,
when forwarding on stores to us, seized the opportunity to charge five times
the ordinary rate, on the pretext that he had supplied some of his own
mules. After long arguments I eventually induced them to accept part of the
payment, the remainder to be paid at Yatung, whereupon the Jongpens gave
orders for the animals to be loaded. It was not, however, until the afternoon
that we were able to leave Phari and to start on our downward march to
Yatung.

CHAPTER XI
BACK TO CIVILISATION

When we turned our backs on Phari and started to march down the
Chumbi Valley, we had left the real Tibet behind us. I could not somehow
look upon the Chumbi Valley as being a part of Tibet. Its characteristics, its
houses, its people, its vegetation, are all so different from the greater part of
Tibet. There are not the same cold winds that freeze the very marrow, nor
are there the wide plains and the undulating hills with their extensive views.

In spite of all discomforts, there is a very great charm and fascination
about travelling in Tibet. Is it partly because it is an unknown country, and
the unknown is always fascinating, or is it rather because of the innate
beauty of the country itself, with its landscapes so free from all restraint and
a horizon often 150 to 200 miles distant? Never anywhere have I seen a
country so full of colour as is Tibet. There is not enough vegetation to hide
the rocks and the stones. The foreground as well as the distant view is
wonderfully full of colour and variety. Contrasts are one of the charms of
life, and probably in this lies the secret of the charm and attractiveness of
Tibet. It is essentially a country of contrasts. The climate, above all, has
contrasts of its own. The sun is burningly hot, but in the shade the cold may
be intense. To such a pitch can the extremes of heat and cold arrive, that a
man may suffer from sunstroke and frost-bite at one and the same time.

The Tibetans themselves are a strong, well-built and hardy race—
Mongolian in type. The women usually put a mixture of grease and soot on
their faces to protect them against the glare of the fresh snow or the biting
winds, for even they, with their thick skins, do not seem to get used to the
severity of the changes. How much more does the European suffer when he
travels in Tibet and seems to need a fresh skin almost every day. The soot
mixture does not add to the beauty of the women, though I came across
some who were not bad looking. Many of the people are nomads, living in
tents all the year round and moving about from camp to camp pasturing
their herds of yaks and their flocks of sheep. It is curious that even in the
winter-time they can find grazing places, but the secret lies in the fact that
the slopes face the South in the regions where the wind blows strongest, so
that the surface is usually bare. The snowfall in winter in most parts of Tibet
is not heavy, and the climate being so dry, the snow is powdery, and the
wind blows it along and forms great drifts in the hollows, leaving the
exposed slopes usually clear. On these the herds, or flocks of sheep, obtain
sufficient nourishment from such scattered patches of frozen grass or
lichens as they are able to find. Of all the animals that the Tibetans have, the
yak is the most useful. His long black hair, which reaches to the ground
under his belly, is woven into tents or ropes. The milk, after they have
drunk what they want, is turned into butter and cheese, of which they
produce great quantities. When old, he is killed and his flesh is dried,
providing meat for a long time. His hide supplies leather of every kind. It is
always used untanned, for no tanning is ever done in Tibet and any tanned
skins always come up from India. The yak dung is in many places the only
fuel to be got and is most carefully picked up. To the present generation of
young children the yak is probably familiar from that delightful rhyme in
“The Bad Child's Book of Beasts”:—

As a friend to the children, commend me the Yak—
You will find it exactly the thing;

It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back
Or lead it about with a string.

The Tartar who dwells on the plains of Tibet,
A desolate region of snow,
Has for centuries made it a nursery pet,
And surely the Tartar should know.

Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got,
And if he is awfully rich,
He will buy you the creature—or else he will not;
I cannot be positive which.

The traveller in Tibet can easily live on such supplies as can be drawn
from the country. The Tibetan is always hospitable and will provide sheep,
milk, cheese and butter almost everywhere. Vegetables, however, of any
kind are very scarce, though in the summer a species of spinach can be got
in some places. Living, as the Tibetans do, far away from all outside
influences, their customs and manners have not changed, and are the same
as they were several hundred years ago. I can fully sympathise with their
present desire for seclusion and their eagerness not to be exploited by
foreigners. They sent a few years ago some young Tibetan boys to Rugby to
be educated in different professions. These boys have now returned again to
Lhasa, and with their aid, and with the aid of others who are being sent out
into the world to learn, they hope to be able to develop the resources of
their own country at leisure, in their own way, and by themselves, without
being exploited commercially by foreigners.

The staple food of the Tibetans is tsampa (parched barley). This is ground
up and either milk or tea is added, forming it into a kind of dough. This is
put in a little bag, which they carry about with them when travelling, and is
often their only food for several days. Tsampa can be obtained everywhere
in Tibet, though it is easier to get it in the villages than from the tents of the

nomads. Tea can, of course, be obtained everywhere, and, as I have
described before, is mixed with salt and butter, churned up with great
violence, and then poured into teapots. At every camp, and at every house,
will be met fierce dogs. These dogs guard the flocks, or the nomad camps,
and rather resemble large collies; as a rule, they are black and very fierce.
The Tibetans were, however, always very good in tying them up before we
approached their camps. In many of the houses we found tied up just
outside the door another kind of dog, a huge brute of the mastiff type,
always extremely savage and ready, if he had not been tied up, to tear the
intruder to pieces. The peasants are still treated as serfs, though only in a
mild form. For all Government officials, when on tour, they have to supply
free transport and supplies of all kinds, so that official visits are not popular.
At first the villagers were afraid that we might follow the example of the
Tibetan officials and were much relieved to find that we did not do so.

I cannot leave the subject of Tibet without a few words about the
monasteries. These are divided into two great schools, the Red Cap School
and the Yellow Cap School. The former was founded by the Buddhist Saint,
Padma Sambhava or Guru Rimpoche, in A.D. 749. They are the older of the
two monastic sects, but their morals are much looser than those of the
Yellow Sect, and the Lamas or monks of this sect are often married. In one
monastery belonging to the Red Sect near Kharta, the Lamas and their
wives were all living together. The Yellow Cap, or Gelukpa Sect, was
founded in the fifteenth century by Tsong Kapa, who instituted a very much
stricter moral code, and this sect looks down very much upon the Red Caps.
The State religion of the country is Buddhism. By the middle of the
seventeenth century, after a series of reincarnations, Nawang Lobsang had
made himself master of Tibet and transferred his capital to Lhasa. He
accepted the title of Dalai Lama (Ocean of Learning) from the Chinese,
hence the Dalai Lama at Lhasa, by this doctrine of political reincarnation,
has absorbed all the political power in the country into his own hands,

although the Tashi Lama at Tashilumpo is in theory his senior and superior
in spiritual matters. The old simple creed of the Buddhists can scarcely be
recognised nowadays and is overlaid with devil worship in all its forms,
supernatural agencies abounding everywhere. The top of a pass, a
mountain, a river, a bridge, a storm; each will have its own particular god
who is to be worshipped and propitiated. In many of the larger monasteries,
too, they have oracles who are consulted far and wide and supposed to be
able to foretell the future. These often acquire considerable power and
influence by methods not unlike those resorted to in ancient Greece. It has
been estimated that a fifth of the whole population of Tibet has entered
monastic life. The conditions probably much resemble those which
prevailed in mediæval Europe. The monasteries contain nearly all the riches
of the country. They own large estates; they are the source of all learning,
and all the arts and crafts seem to take their inspiration from articles for use
in the monasteries. The ordinary Tibetan, surrounded as he is by the various
spirits which occupy every valley and mountain top, is very superstitious.
He therefore has inside his house his prayer wheel and his little shrine,
before which he offers up incense daily. His Mani walls or mendongs,
covered with inscribed stones or carved figures of Buddha, are alongside
the paths he daily uses; on the top of the mountains or passes, in addition to
these prayer-covered stones, flutter rags printed over with prayers. All these
are intended to propitiate the evil spirits. In places where there are
particularly malignant devils, it may be necessary to build several Chortens
in order to keep them in subjection, and these Chortens are filled with
several thousands of prayers and sacred figures stamped in the clay.

The country is divided up into districts, each under its own Jongpen, who
is responsible direct to Lhasa or Shigatse and has yearly to send the revenue
collected to headquarters. A certain percentage of the crops is collected
every year, and in a year of good harvest the Jongpen is able to make a
certain amount of money for himself in addition to what he has to send to

Lhasa. Our visit to the Kharta Valley was an unexpected windfall for the
Kharta Jongpen, as I fancy that much of the money that we paid out to the
different villages for supplies or coolie hire eventually found its way into
his pocket and was not likely to find its way to Lhasa. This may possibly
have accounted for his pleasure in entertaining us and his desire to keep us
there as long as possible. The Tibetans, however, everywhere have good
manners and are invariably most polite—a pleasant characteristic. Although
they are all Buddhists, and accordingly object to the taking of life, they do
not in the least mind killing their sheep or their yaks for food, but they
objected to our shooting wild sheep or gazelles or wild birds for food. I
could have understood this objection better had they been vegetarians and
not killed their sheep for eating purposes, but a real vegetarian, except in
the strictest monasteries, is very rare in Tibet.

There was a great fascination in roaming through the country as we did.
It was the fascination of the unknown, this travelling in regions where
Europeans had never travelled before, and where they had never even been
seen. The people had exaggerated notions of our ferocity, and were full of
fears as to what we might be like and as to what we might do. In these out-
of-the-way parts they had heard vaguely of the fighting in 1904, and they
imagined that our visit might be on the same lines. They imagined, too, that
all Europeans were cruel and seized what they wanted without payment.
They were therefore much surprised when they found that we treated them
fairly and paid for everything that we wanted at very good rates. The
Expedition may, I venture to think, take credit to itself for having certainly
done a great deal of good in promoting more friendly relations between the
Tibetans and ourselves, and in giving them a better understanding of what
an Englishman is. Their ignorance of the outside world was at times
astounding. Tibetan officials and traders were an exception, but it was
seldom that the ordinary Tibetan ever left the valley in which he was born
and bred, with the result that except for the wildest rumours, they knew

nothing of the outside world. For long-distance journeys, the Tibetans used
ambling mules or ponies, which were capable of going long distances and
keeping up a speed of about 5 miles an hour. To our idea, the Tibetan saddle
with its high wooden framework is very uncomfortable, but on the top of
their saddles they would put their bedding, spreading over it a brilliant and
often beautifully coloured carpet as a saddle cloth. On the top of this the
rider would sit perched, and, with a good ambling pony, could get along
very comfortably.

I always enjoyed travelling and moving about in Tibet. It hardly has the
climate of Tennyson's Island Valley of Avilion—“Where falls not hail or
rain or snow, nor ever wind blows loudly”—for we used to get samples of
nearly all of these almost every day. But no matter how barren nor how bare
the immediate surroundings were there was a sense of exhilaration and
freedom in the air. There was never a sense of being confined in a narrow
space. There was always some distant view where the colours would be
continually changing. In the summer-time the climate was not unpleasant,
and there was always the pleasure of finding some new and beautiful
flower, oftentimes springing up out of the driest sand. Wherever there was
water, there was sure to be vegetation and many bright-coloured flowers
with every kind of wild-bird life. The shrill whistle of the marmot would
often alone break the silence of the scene. Animal life in some form was
almost always visible, whether it was the wild kiang roaming on the plains,
or the gazelle, or the wild sheep, there was always something of interest to
watch. The little mouse hares which lived in great colonies would
constantly dodge in and out of their holes and the song of the larks could
always be heard.

By the end of October the climate was beginning to get very cold, the
thermometer descending at times to Zero Fahrenheit, so that we were quite
ready to leave the country, being anxious to get warm again, if only for a

short time. There was sorrow in our hearts, however, at parting with the
friendly and hospitable folk whom we had encountered, and at leaving
behind us the familiar landscapes with the transparent pale blue atmosphere
that is so hard to describe, and the distant views of range upon range of
snowy mountains often reflected in the calm waters of some blue coloured
lake. The attractions of Tibet may yet be strong enough to draw us back
again once more. Many years ago the same attraction impelled me to cross
the Himalayan mountains and to visit another part of Tibet, but my
excursion was, I am afraid, not favourably regarded by the Indian
Government and my leave was stopped for six months. The same attraction,
however, still exists for this land of many colours with its lonely sunsets full
of beauty, with its nights where the eager stars gleam bright as diamonds,
and where the full moon shines upon the nameless mountains covered with
snow and still as death.

As we turned our backs upon the country we left winter behind us, and
descending the Chumbi Valley once more found ourselves in autumnal
surroundings. The Himalayan larch were all of a beautiful golden colour;
the birch were all turning brown, and the berberis were a brilliant scarlet.
Red currants and the scarlet haws of the rose were still on the bushes. The
currants were no longer sour to eat raw, and we picked many of them on the
way down. Our pockets, too, were filled with seeds of rhododendrons and
other flowers. On the way I was met by the native officer commanding the
garrison at Yatung, which was now found by the 90th Punjabis. As I passed
their quarters, the guard turned out, presenting arms very smartly, and all
the detachment came out and saluted. They were certainly a very well-
trained detachment. Once more the Macdonald family most kindly sent over
a generous meal, besides presents of every sort and kind of European
vegetable. From Yatung we obtained forty-five mules for our transport.
These came along very much faster than the yaks and the donkeys that we
had been using. Here Gyalzen Kazi, one of our interpreters, left us to return

to his home at Gangtok. I was very sorry to lose him. He had been a
pleasant companion and had been of great assistance to the Expedition. He
was always most willing to undertake any difficult or unpleasant job there
might be, and I never heard a murmur or grumble from him of any kind
during the whole time that he was with us. Our march was only a short one
of 11 miles to Langra, where there was a Tibetan rest-house built in the
Chinese style and rather reminding me of our rest-house at Tingri. It was a
most perfect autumnal day, with scarcely a cloud in the sky. The woods
everywhere were very beautiful, the dark silver fir trees showing up the
scarlet and yellow of the bushes and the gold of the larch. Our cook, Acchu,
was drunk again, but Poo prepared us a good meal instead. The next
morning, to our surprise, on looking out we found a couple of inches of
fresh snow on the ground and the snow was still falling steadily. The mules,
nevertheless, were all loaded up in good time, and I followed on foot to the
top of the Jelep Pass, snow falling steadily all the way—a fine granular
snow. At the top of the pass the wind was blowing keenly, driving the snow
into our faces. Besides the 6 inches of fresh snow here, there was a good
deal of the old snow that had fallen a week or more ago, and in some places
formed drifts several feet deep. It is seldom that a clear view is ever
obtained on the Jelep Pass. It rained when we came over in May and it
snowed now, and twice before, when I have crossed it, it rained all the time.
Snow fell all the way down to Gnatong, where there were already a couple
of inches of slush. The next morning was luckily fine, as we were to do a
long march to Rongli—a distance of only 18 miles, but with a descent of
9,500 feet. The first few miles we walked through the fresh snow, but in the
afternoon we were wandering among the sweet scents of a tropical jungle
with orchids still flowering on the trees and ripe oranges in the garden of
our bungalow. We had jumped from winter to summer in a few hours. The
Tibetan mules came along excellently, doing the march in just over eight
hours, a very different proceeding to our Government mules on the way up,

which we were compelled to discard at Sedongchen. We reached Darjeeling
on October 25. Lord Ronaldshay was unfortunately away on tour on his
way to Bhutan, and as he had travelled via Gangtok, we had missed seeing
him on the way. The next few days we spent in getting rid of the remainder
of our stores, selling anything perishable that we could, getting tents dried
and mended, and storing everything else in view of a second Expedition.
We here said good-bye to our other interpreter, Chheten Wangdi, who had
served us most faithfully throughout the Expedition, and it was with the
greatest regret that we took leave of him on the railway station at
Darjeeling.

Members of the Expedition.
Standing: WOLLASTON. HOWARD-BURY. HERON.
RAEBURN.
Sitting: MALLORY. WHEELER. BULLOCK. MORSHEAD.

Our Expedition had accomplished all that it had set out to do. All the
approaches to Mount Everest from the North-west, North, North-east and
East had been carefully reconnoitred and a possible route to the top had

been found up the North-east ridge. Climatic conditions alone had
prevented a much greater height being attained. Friendly relations had been
established with the Tibetan officials and people wherever we went. Our
travels had taken us through much unexplored and new country wherein we
had discovered some magnificent and undreamt-of valleys where primeval
forests existed such as we had never imagined to find in Tibet and where
deep filled glens with the richest semi-tropical vegetation descended as low
as 7,000 feet. Many beautiful flowers were discovered in these Alpine
valleys, and we were able to collect a quantity of seeds from these which I
hope may help to enrich and to beautify our gardens at home. A new part of
the country has been opened up to human knowledge. It has been
photographed and described. The surveyors have made an original survey at
a scale of 4 miles to the inch of an area of some 12,000 square miles; a
detailed photographic survey of 600 square miles of the environs of Mount
Everest has been worked out, and, besides this, the maps of another 4,000
square miles of country have been revised. Dr. Heron, our indefatigable
geologist, himself travelled over the greater part of this area, and has
carefully investigated the geology of the whole region. That the Expedition
was able to accomplish so much in such a short time was due to the hearty
co-operation and keenness of all the members of the party. We were a happy
family and, to use a rowing expression, we all “pulled together.” Such
success as we attained is entirely due to their strenuous and ceaseless
efforts, and I can only express my gratitude to them for the unselfish way in
which they helped and assisted me on every occasion.

The Expedition of 1921 is over; many problems have been solved, much
new country has been brought within our ken, and many new beauties have
been revealed, but the soul of man is never content with what has been
attained. The solution of one problem only brings forward fresh problems to
be solved, so this Expedition into unknown country brings within the
realms of possibility further travels and further problems to be solved.

There is much that yet remains to be done, much that remains to be
discovered; and though we may not be privileged to discover a new race of
hairy snow men, yet there is a wild and uncharted country full of beauty and
interest that awaits those who dare face the discomfort and hardships of
travelling in Tibet—discomforts which are soon forgotten and leave behind
them only the memories of very wonderful scenes and places which the
passing of time can never efface.

Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide
us,
Let us journey to a lonely land I know;
There's a whisper in the night wind, there's a star, a gleam to
guide us,
And the wild is calling, calling, let us go.

R. W. S.

THE RECONNAISSANCE OF THE
MOUNTAIN
By

GEORGE H. LEIGH-MALLORY

CHAPTER XII
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.

Cho-Uyo.

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.

Footnotes:
[4] It had not yet been established that the true direction of this arête is
North-east.

[5] i.e. the North Peak (Changtse).

[6] Cwm, combe or corry—the rounded head of a valley.

[7] The coolies had been divided into three parties which were to spend
four or five days in the advanced camp by turns to be trained in the practice
of mountaineering while the rest supplied this camp from our base.

CHAPTER XIII
THE NORTHERN APPROACH—continued

The reader will gather from these notes some idea of the whole nature of
our problem and the subjects of our most anxious thoughts. The camp
established on June 25 lasted us until July 8. Meanwhile the idea was
growing, the vision of Everest as a structural whole, and of the glaciers and
lower summits to North and West. This idea resembled the beginning of an
artist's painting, a mere rough design at the start, but growing by steps of
clearer definition in one part and another towards the precise completion of
a whole. For us the mountain parts defined themselves in the mind as the
result of various expeditions. We set out to gain a point of view with
particular questions to be answered; partial answers and a new point of
view stimulated more curiosity, other questions, and again the necessity to
reach a particular place whence we imagined they might best be answered.
And at the same time another aim had to be kept in mind. The coolies,
though mountain-men, were not mountaineers. They had to be trained in the
craft of mountaineering, in treading safely on snow or ice in dangerous
places, in climbing easy rocks and most particularly in the use of rope and
ice-axe—and this not merely for our foremost needs, but to ensure that,
whenever we were able to launch an assault upon Mount Everest, and all
would be put to the most exhausting test, they should have that reserve
strength of a practised balance and ordered method on which security must
ultimately depend.

On July 1 I set out with five coolies to reach the head of the great cwm
under the North face of Mount Everest. The snow on the upper glacier was
soft and made very heavy going. Bad weather came up and in a race against
the clouds we were beaten and failed to find out what happened to the
glacier at its Western head under the North-west arête. My view of the col
lying between Everest and the North Peak (Changtse)—the North Col as we
now began to call it, or in Tibetan Chang La—was also unsatisfactory; but I
saw enough to make out a broken glacier running up eastwards towards the
gap with steep and uninviting snow slopes under the pass. I was now sure
that before attempting to reach this col from the Rongbuk Glacier, if ever
we determined to reach it, we should have to reconnoitre the other side and
if possible find a more hopeful alternative; moreover, from a nearer
inspection of the slopes below the North-west arête I was convinced that
they could be chosen for an attack only as a last resort; if anything were to
be attempted here, we must find a better way up from the East.

I had vaguely hoped to bring the party home sufficiently fresh to climb
again on the following day. But the fatigue of going in deep snow for three
hours up the glacier, though we had been no higher than 19,100 feet, had
been too great, and again we had noticed only a slight relief in coming
down; it was a tired party that dragged back over the glacier crossing and
into camp at 6.15 p.m., thirteen hours after starting.

July 3 was devoted to an expedition designed chiefly to take coolies on to
steeper ground and at the same time to explore the small glacier which we
had observed above us on the first day to the North-west; by following up
the terrace from our present camp we could now come to the snout of it in
half an hour or less. After working up the glacier we made for a snow col
between two high peaks. On reaching a bergschrund we found above its
upper lip hard ice, which continued no doubt to the ridge. While Bullock
looked after the party below I cut a staircase slanting up to a small island of

rock 100 feet away; from that security I began to bring the party up. We had
now the interesting experience of seeing our coolies for the first time on
real hard ice; it was not a convincing spectacle, as they made their way up
with the ungainly movements of beginners; and though the last man never
left the secure anchorage of the bergschrund, the proportion of two Sahibs
to five coolies seemed lamentably weak, and when one man slipped from
the steep steps at an awkward corner, though Bullock was able to hold him,
it was clearly time to retire. But the descent was a better performance; the
coolies were apt pupils, and we felt that with practice on the glacier the best
of them should become safe mountaineers. And on this day we had reached
a height of 21,000 feet[8] from our camp at 17,500 feet. I had the great
satisfaction of observing that one could cut steps quite happily at this
altitude. The peak lying to the North of the col, which had been our
objective on this day, attracted our attention by its position; we thought it
should have a commanding view over all this complicated country, and
after a day in camp very pleasantly spent in receiving a visit from Colonel
Howard-Bury and Dr. Heron, set out on July 5 determined to reach its
summit. The start was made at 4.15 a.m. in the first light, an hour earlier
than usual; we proceeded up the stone shoots immediately above our camp
and after a halt for photography at the glorious moment of sunrise had made
2,500 feet and reached the high shoulder above us at 7 a.m. This place was
connected with our peak by a snowy col which had now to be reached by a
long traverse over a South-facing slope. Though the angle was not steep
very little snow was lying here, and where the ice was peeping through it
was occasionally necessary to cut steps. I felt it was a satisfactory
performance to reach the col at 9.30 a.m.; the coolies had come well,
though one of them was burdened with the quarter-plate camera; but
evidently their efforts had already tired them. Ahead of us was a long,
curving snow arête, slightly corniced and leading ultimately to a rocky
shoulder. We thought that once this shoulder was gained the summit would

be within our reach. Shortly after we went on two coolies dropped out, and
by 11.30 a.m. the rest had given up the struggle. It was fortunate that they
fell out here and not later, for they were able to make their way down in our
tracks and regain the col below in safety. The angle steepened as we went
on very slowly now, but still steadily enough, until we reached the rocks, a
frail slatey structure with short perpendicular pitches. From the shoulder
onwards my memories are dim. I have the impression of a summit
continually receding from the position imagined by sanguine hopes and of a
task growing constantly more severe, of steeper sides, of steps to be cut, of
a dwindling pace, more frequent little halts standing where we were, and of
breathing quicker but no less deep and always conscious; the respiratory
engine had to be kept running as the indispensable source of energy, and
ever as we went on more work was required of it. At last we found
ourselves without an alternative under an icy wall; but the ice was a
delusion; in the soft flaky substance smothering rocks behind it we had
strength left to cut a way up to the crest again, and after a few more steps
were on the summit itself.

It was now 2.45 p.m. The aneroid used by Bullock, which, after
comparison with one of Howard-Bury's was supposed to read low,
registered 23,050 feet,[9] and we puffed out our chests as we examined it,
computing that we had risen from our camp over 5,500 feet. The views both
earlier in the day and at this moment were of the highest interest. To the
East we had confirmed our impression of the North Peak as having a high
ridge stretching eastwards and forming the side of whatever valley
connected with the Arun River in this direction; the upper parts of Everest's
North face had been clearly visible for a long time, and we could now be
certain that they lay back at no impossibly steep angle, more particularly
above the North col and up to the North-east shoulder. All we had seen
immediately to the West of the mountain had been of the greatest interest,

and had suggested the idea that the crinkled summit there might be
connected not directly with Mount Everest itself, but only by way of the
South peak. And finally we now saw the connections of all that lay around
us with the two great triangulated peaks away to the West, Gyachung Kang,
25,990 and Cho-Uyo, 26,870 feet. While complaining of the clouds which
had come up as usual during the morning to spoil our view we were not
dissatisfied with the expansion of our knowledge and we were elated
besides to be where we were. But our situation was far from perfectly
secure. The ascent had come very near to exhausting our strength; for my
part I felt distinctly mountain-sick; we might reflect that we should not be
obliged to cut more steps, but we should have to proceed downwards with
perfect accuracy of balance and a long halt was desirable. However, the
clouds were now gathering about us, dark thunder-clouds come up from the
North and threatening; it was clear we must not wait; after fifteen minutes
on the summit we started down at three o'clock. Fortune favoured us. The
wind was no more than a breeze; a few flakes of snow were unnoticed in
our flight; the temperature was mild; the storm's malice was somehow
dissipated with no harm done. We rejoined the coolies before five o'clock
and were back in our camp at 7.15 p.m., happy to have avoided a descent in
the dark.

Our next plan, based on our experience of this long mountain ridge, was
to practise the coolies in the use of crampons on hard snow and ice. But
snow fell heavily on the night of the 6th; we deferred our project. It was the
beginning of worse weather; the monsoon was breaking in earnest. And
though crampons afterwards came up to our camps wherever we went they
were not destined to help us, and in the event were never used.

On July 8 we moved up with a fresh party of seven coolies, taking only
our lightest tents and no more than was necessary for three nights, in the
hope that by two energetic expeditions we should reach the Western cwm

which, we suspected, must exist on the far side of the North-west arête, and
learn enough to found more elaborate plans for exploring this side of the
mountain should they turn out to be necessary. Again we were fortunate in
finding a good camping ground, better even than the first, for the floor of
this shelf was grassy and soft, and as we were looking South across the
West Rongbuk Glacier we had the sun late as well as early. But we were not
completely happy. A Mummery tent may be well enough in fair weather,
though even then its low roof suggests a recumbent attitude; it makes a poor
dining-room, even for two men, and is a cold shelter from snow. Moreover,
the cold and draught discouraged our Primus stove—but I leave to the
imagination of those who have learned by experience the nausea that comes
from the paraffin fumes and one's dirty hands and all the mess that may be.
It was chiefly a question of incompetence, no doubt, but there was no
consolation in admitting that. In the morning, with the weather still very
thick and the snow lying about us we saw the error of our ways. Is it not a
first principle of mountaineering to be as comfortable as possible as long as
one can? And how long should we require for these operations in such
weather? It was clear that our Second Advanced Camp must be organised
on a more permanent basis. On the 9th therefore I went down to the base
and moved it up on the following day so as to be within reach of our present
position by one long march. The new place greatly pleased me; it was much
more sheltered than the lower site and the tents were pitched on flat turf
where a clear spring flowed out from the hillside and only a quarter of an
hour below the end of the glacier. Meanwhile Bullock brought up the
Whymper tents and more stores from the First Advanced Camp, which was
now established as a half-way house with our big 80-foot tent standing in
solemn grandeur to protect all that remained there. On July 10 I was back at
the Second Advanced Camp and felt satisfied that the new arrangements,
and particularly the presence of our cook, would give us a fair measure of
comfort.

But we were still unable to move next day. The snowfall during the night
was the heaviest we had yet seen and continued into the next day. Probably
the coolies were not sorry for a rest after some hard work; and we reckoned
to make a long expedition so soon as the weather should clear. Towards
evening on the 10th the clouds broke. Away to the South-west of us and up
the glacier was the barrier range on the frontier of Nepal, terminated by one
great mountain, Pumori, over 24,000 feet high. To the West Rongbuk
Glacier they present the steepest slopes on which snow can lie; the crest
above these slopes is surprisingly narrow and the peaks which it joins are
fantastically shaped. This group of mountains, always beautiful and often in
the highest degree impressive, was now to figure for our eyes as the
principal in that oft-repeated drama which seems always to be a first night,
fresh and full of wonder whenever we are present to watch it. The clinging
curtains were rent and swirled aside and closed again, lifted and lowered
and flung wide at last; sunlight broke through with sharp shadows and clean
edges revealed—and we were there to witness the amazing spectacle.
Below the terrible mountains one white smooth island rose from the quiet
sea of ice and was bathed in the calm full light of the Western sun before
the splendour failed.

With hopes inspired by the clearing views of this lovely evening, we
started at 5.30 a.m. on July 12 to follow the glacier round to the South and
perhaps enter the Western cwm. The glacier was a difficult problem. It
looked easy enough to follow up the medial moraine to what we called the
Island, a low mountain pushed out from the frontier ridge into the great sea
of ice. But the way on Southwards from there would have been a gamble
with the chances of success against us. We decided to cross the glacier
directly to the South with a certainty that once we had reached the moraine
on the other side we should have a clear way before us. It was exhilarating
to set out again under a clear sky, and we were delighted to think that a
large part of this task was accomplished when the sun rose full of warmth

and cheerfulness. The far side was cut off by a stream of white ice, so
narrow here that we expected with a little good fortune to get through it in
perhaps half an hour. We entered it by a frozen stream leading into a bay
with high white towers and ridges above us. A side door led through into a
further bay which took us in the confidence of success almost through the
maze. With some vigorous blows we cut our way up the final wall and then
found ourselves on a crest overlooking the moraine with a sheer ice-
precipice of about 100 feet below us.

The only hope was to come down again and work round to the right.
Some exciting climbing and much hard work brought us at length to the
foot of the cliffs and on the right side. The performance had taken us two
and a half hours and it was now nearly ten o'clock. Clouds had already
come up to obscure the mountains, and from the point of view of a
prolonged exploration the day was clearly lost. Our course now was to
make the best of it and yet get back so early to camp that we could set forth
again on the following day. We had the interest, after following the moraine
to the corner where the glacier bends Southwards, of making our way into
the middle of the ice and finding out how unpleasant it can be to walk on a
glacier melted everywhere into little valleys and ridges and covered with
fresh snow. We got back at 3 p.m.

Summit of Mount Everest and North Peak
from the Island, West Rongbuk Glacier.

On July 13, determined to make good, we started at 4.15 a.m. With the
knowledge gained on the previous day and the use of 250 feet of spare rope
we were able to find our way through the ice pinnacles and reached the far
moraine in less than an hour and a half; and we had the further good fortune
when we took to the snow to find it now in such good condition that we
were able to walk on the surface without using our snow-shoes. As we
proceeded up the slopes where the snow steepened the weather began to
thicken and we halted at 8 a.m. in a thick mist with a nasty wind and some
snow falling. It was a cold halt. We were already somewhat disillusioned
about our glacier, which seemed to be much more narrow than was to be
expected if it were really a high-road to the Western cwm, and as we went
on with the wind blowing the snow into our faces so that nothing could be
clearly distinguished we had the sense of a narrowing place and a perception
of the even surface being broken up into large crevasses on one side and the
other. At 9.30 we could go no further. For a few hundred yards we had been

traversing a slope which rose above us on our left, and now coming out on
to a little spur we stood peering down through the mist and knew ourselves
to be on the edge of a considerable precipice. Not a single feature of the
landscape around us was even faintly visible in the cloud. For a time we
stayed on with the dim hope of better things and then reluctantly retired,
baffled and bewildered.

Where had we been? It was impossible to know; but at least it was certain
there was no clear way to the West side of Everest. We could only suppose
that we had reached a col on the frontier of Nepal.

A further disappointment awaited us when we reached camp at 1 p.m. I
had made a simple plan to ensure our supply of gobar[10] and rations from
the base camp. The supplies had not come up and it was not the sort of
weather to be without a fire for cooking.

I shall now proceed to quote my diary:—

July 14.—A day of rest, but with no republican demonstrations. Very late
breakfast after some snow in the night. Piquet after tiffin and again after
dinner was very consoling. The little streams we found here on our arrival
are drying up; it seems that not much snow can have fallen higher.

July 15.—Started 6 a.m. to explore the glacier to West and North-west. A
very interesting view just short of the Island; the South peak appearing.
Fifty minutes there for photos; then hurried on in the hope of seeing more
higher up and at a greater distance. It is really a dry glacier here but with
snow frozen over the surface making many pitfalls. We had a good many
wettings in cold water up to the knees. The clouds were just coming up as
we halted on the medial moraine. I waited there in hope of better views,
while Bullock took on the coolies. They put on snow-shoes for the first time
and seemed to go very well in them. Ultimately I struggled across the

glacier, bearing various burdens, to meet them as they came down on a
parallel moraine. Snow-shoes seemed useful, but very awkward to leap in.
Bullock went a long way up the glacier, rising very slightly towards the
peak Cho-Uyo, 26,870 feet. Evidently there is a flat pass over into Nepal
near this peak, but he did not quite reach it.

The topographical mystery centres about the West Peak. Is there an arête
connecting this with the great rock peak South of Everest or is it joined up
with the col we reached the day before yesterday? The shape of the West
cwm and the question of its exit will be solved if we can answer these
questions. Bullock and I are agreed that the glacier there has probably an
exit on the Nepal side. It all remains extremely puzzling. We saw the North
col quite clearly to-day, and again the way up from there does not look
difficult.

A finer day and quite useful. Chitayn[11] started out with us and went
back. He appears to be seedy, but has been quite hopeless as Sirdar down in
the base camp and is without authority. It is a great handicap having no one
to look after things down there. Chitayn is returning to Tingri to-morrow. I
hope he will cheer up again.

July 16.—I made an early start with two coolies at 2.45 a.m. and followed
the medial moraine to the Island. Reached the near summit at sunrise about
5.30. Difficult to imagine anything more exciting than the clear view of all
peaks. Those near me to the South-west quickly bathed in sun and those to
the South and East showing me their dark faces. To the left of our col of
July 13 a beautiful sharp peak stood in front of the gap between Everest and
the North Peak, Changtse. Over this col I saw the North-west buttress of
Everest hiding the lower half of the West face which must be a tremendous
precipice of rock. The last summit of the South Peak, Lhotse, was
immediately behind the shoulder; to the right (i.e. West) of it I saw a terrible

arête stretching a long distance before it turned upwards in my direction and
towards the West Peak. This mountain dropped very abruptly to the North,
indicating a big gap on the far side of our col. There was the mysterious
cwm lying in cold shadow long after the sun warmed me! But I now half
understand it. The col under the North-west buttress at the head of the
Rongbuk Glacier is one entrance, and our col of July 13, with how big a
drop one knows not, another.

I stayed till 7 a.m. taking photos, a dozen plates exposed in all. The sky
was heavy and a band of cloud had come across Everest before I left.

Back to breakfast towards 9 a.m. A pleasant morning collecting flowers,
not a great variety but some delicious honey scents and an occasional
cheerful blue poppy.

July 17.—More trouble with our arrangements. The Sirdar has muddled
the rations and the day is wasted. However, the weather is bad, constant
snow showers from 1 to 8 p.m., so that I am somewhat reconciled to this
reverse.

July 18.—Yesterday's plan carried out—to move up a camp with light
tents and make a big push over into the West cwm; eight coolies to carry the
loads. But the loads have been too heavy. What can be cut out next time? I
cannot see many unnecessary articles. Heavy snow showers fell as we came
up and we had rather a cheerless encampment, but with much heaving of
stones made good places for the tents. A glorious night before we turned in.
Dark masses of cloud were gathered round the peak above us; below, the
glacier was clear and many splendid mountains were half visible. The whole
scene was beautifully lit by a bright moon.

July 19.—Started 3 a.m.; still some cloud, particularly to the West. The
moon just showed over the mountains in that direction which cast their

strange black shadows on the snowfield. One amazing black tooth was
standing up against the moonlight. No luck on the glacier and we had to put
on snow-shoes at once. An exciting walk. I so much feared the cloud would
spoil all. It was just light enough to get on without lanterns after the moon
went down. At dawn almost everything was covered, but not by heavy
clouds. Like guilty creatures of darkness surprised by the light they went
scattering away as we came up and the whole scene opened out. The North
ridge of Everest was clear and bright even before sunrise. We reached the
col at 5 a.m., a fantastically beautiful scene; and we looked across into the
West cwm at last, terribly cold and forbidding under the shadow of Everest.
It was nearly an hour after sunrise before the sun hit the West Peak.

But another disappointment—it is a big drop about 1,500 feet down to the
glacier, and a hopeless precipice. I was hoping to get away to the left and
traverse into the cwm; that too quite hopeless. However, we have seen this
Western glacier and are not sorry we have not to go up it. It is terribly steep
and broken. In any case work on this side could only be carried out from a
base in Nepal, so we have done with the Western side. It was not a very
likely chance that the gap between Everest and the South Peak could be
reached from the West. From what we have seen now I do not much fancy it
would be possible, even could one get up the glacier.

Mount Everest from the Rongbuk Glacier
nine miles north-west.

We saw a lovely group of mountains away to the South in Nepal. I
wonder what they are and if anything is known about them. It is a big
world!

With this expedition on July 19 our reconnaissance of these parts had
ended. We proceeded at once to move down our belongings; on July 20 all
tents and stores were brought down to the base camp and we had said good-
bye to the West Rongbuk Glacier.

So far as we were concerned with finding a way up the mountain, little
enough had been accomplished; and yet our growing view of the mountain
had been steadily leading to one conviction. If ever the mountain were to be
climbed, the way would not lie along the whole length of any one of its
colossal ridges. Progress could only be made along comparatively easy
ground, and anything like a prolonged sharp crest or a series of towers

would inevitably bar the way simply by the time which would be required to
overcome such obstacles. But the North arête coming down to the gap
between Everest and the North Peak, Changtse, is not of this character.
From the horizontal structure of the mountain there is no excrescence of
rock pinnacles in this part and the steep walls of rock which run across the
North face are merged with it before they reach this part, which is
comparatively smooth and continuous, a bluntly rounded edge. We had still
to see other parts of the mountain, but already it seemed unlikely that we
would find more favourable ground than this. The great question before us
now was to be one of access. Could the North col be reached from the East
and how could we attain this point?

At the very moment when we reached the base camp I received a note
from Colonel Howard-Bury telling us that his departure from Tingri was
fixed for July 23 and that he would be sleeping at Chöbuk in the valley
below us two days later on his way to Kharta. It was now an obvious plan to
synchronise our movements with his.

Besides the branch which we had already explored the Rongbuk Glacier
has yet another which joins the main stream from the East about 10 miles
from Everest. It had always excited our curiosity, and I now proposed to
explore it in the initial stages of a journey across the unknown ridges and
valleys which separated us from Kharta. I calculated that we should want
eight days' provisions, and that we should just have time to organise a camp
in advance and start on the 25th with a selected party, sending down the rest
to join Howard-Bury. And it was an integral part of the scheme that on one
of the intervening days I should ascend a spur to the North of the glacier
where we proposed to march in order to obtain a better idea of this country
to the East. But we were now in the thickest of the monsoon weather; the
21st and 22nd were both wet days and we woke on the 23rd to find snow all
around us nearly a foot deep; it had come down as low as 16,000 feet. It was

hardly the weather to cut ourselves adrift and wander among the uncharted
spurs of Everest, and we thought of delaying our start. Further it transpired
that our organisation was not running smoothly—it never did run smoothly
so long as we employed, as an indispensable Sirdar, a whey-faced
treacherous knave whose sly and calculated villainy too often, before it was
discovered, deprived our coolies of their food, and whose acquiescence in
his own illimitable incompetence was only less disgusting than his infamous
duplicity. It was the hopeless sense that things were bound to go wrong if
we trusted to this man's services—and we had no one else at that time
through whom it was possible to order supplies from the natives—that
turned the scale and spoilt the plan. Even so, in the natural course of events,
I should have obtained my preliminary view. But on the night of the 22nd I
received from Howard-Bury an extremely depressing piece of news, that all
my photos taken with the quarter-plate camera had failed—for the good
reason that the plates had been inserted back to front, a result of ignorance
and misunderstanding. It was necessary as far as possible to repair this
hideous error, and the next two days were spent in a photographic
expedition. And so it came about that we saw no more until a much later
date of the East Rongbuk Glacier. Had our plan been carried out even in the
smallest part by a cursory survey of what lay ahead, I should not now have
to tell a story which is lamentably incomplete in one respect. For the East
Rongbuk Glacier is one way, and the obvious way when you see it, to the
North Col. It was discovered by Major Wheeler before ever we saw it, in the
course of his photographic survey; but neither he, nor Bullock, nor I have
ever traversed its whole length.

We should have attached more importance, no doubt, in the early stages
of reconnaissance, to the East Rongbuk Glacier had we not been deceived in
two ways by appearances. It had been an early impression left in my mind,
at all events, by what we saw from Shiling, that a deep valley came down to
the East as the R.G.S. map suggests, draining into the Arun and having the

North-east arête of Everest as
its right bank at the start.
Further, the head of this valley
seemed to be, as one would
expect, the gap between
Everest and the first peak to
the North which itself has also
an Eastern arm to form the left
bank of such a valley. The
impression was confirmed not
only by an excellent view from
a hill above Ponglet (two days
before Tingri and about 35
miles North of Everest), but by
all nearer and more recent
views of the mountains East of
the Rongbuk Glacier. The idea
that a glacier running parallel
to the Rongbuk started from
the slopes of Everest itself and
came so far to turn Westward in the end hardly occurred to us at this time.
From anything we had seen there was no place for such a glacier, and it was
almost unimaginable that the great mountain range running North from the
North Col, Chang La, was in no part a true watershed. We saw the East
Rongbuk Glacier stretching away to the East and perceived also a bay to the
South. But how, if this bay were of any importance, could the glacier stream
be so small? We had found it too large to cross, it is true, late in the
afternoon of our first expedition, but only just too large; and again it seems
now an unbelievable fact that so large an area of ice should give so small a
volume of water. The glacier streams are remarkably small in all the country
we explored, but this one far more surprisingly small than any other we saw.

It was some measure of consolation in these circumstances to make use of
a gleam of fine weather. When the bad news arrived on July 22 about the
failure of my photographs we had ceased to hear the raindrops pattering on
the tent, but could feel well enough when we pushed up the roof that snow
was lying on the outer fly. It was a depressing evening. I thought of the
many wonderful occasions when I had caught the mountain as I thought just
at the right moment, its moments of most lovely splendour—of all those
moments that would never return and of the record of all we had seen which
neither ourselves nor perhaps anyone else would ever see again. I was not a
cheerful companion. Moreover, from the back of my mind I was warned,
even in the first despair of disappointment, that I should have to set out to
repair the damage so far as I was able, and I hated the thought of this
expedition. These were our days of rest after a month's high-living; we were
off with one adventure and on with another; tents, stores, everything had
been brought down to our base and we had said good-bye to the West
Rongbuk Glacier. The clouds were still about us next morning and snow lay
on the ground 9 inches deep. But by midday much of the snow had melted
at our level and the clouds began to clear. At 2 p.m. we started up with the
Mummery tents and stores for one night. I made my way with one coolie to
a spot some little distance above our First Advanced Camp. As we pushed
up the stormy hillside the last clouds gathered about Everest, and lingering
in the deep North cwm were dispersed and the great white-mantled
mountains lay all clear in the light of a glorious evening. Before we raced
down to join Bullock my first dozen plates had been duly exposed; whatever
the balance of hopes and fears for a fine morning to-morrow something had
been done already to make good.

Summit of Mount Everest and South Peak
from the Island, West Rongbuk Glacier.

My ultimate destination was the Island which I had found before to
command some of the most splendid and most instructive views. I was close
up under the slopes of this little mountain before sunrise next morning. It
has rarely been my lot to experience in the course of a few hours so much
variety of expectation, of disappointment and of hope deferred, before the
issue is decided. A pall of cloud lying like a blanket above the glacier was
no good omen after the clear weather; as the sun got up a faint gleam on the
ice encouraged me to go on; presently the grey clouds began to move and
spread in all directions until I was enveloped and saw nothing. Suddenly the
frontier crest came out and its highest peak towering fantastically above me;
I turned about and saw to the West and North-west the wide glacier in the
sun—beyond it Gyachung Kang and Cho-Uyo, 26,870 to 25,990 feet: but
Everest remained hidden, obscured by an impenetrable cloud. I watched the
changing shadows on the white snow and gazed helplessly into the grey
mass continually rolled up from Nepal into the deep hollow beyond the
glacier head. But a breeze came up from the East; the curtain was quietly

withdrawn; Everest and the South Peak stood up against the clear blue sky.
The camera was ready and I was satisfied. A few minutes later the great
cloud rolled back and I saw no more.

Meanwhile Bullock had not been idle. He paid a visit to the North cwm,
more successful than mine in July, for he reached the pass leading over into
Nepal under the North-west arête and had perfectly clear views of Chang
La, of which he brought back some valuable photos. But perhaps an even
greater satisfaction than reckoning the results of what we both felt was a
successful day was ours, when we listened in our tents that evening at the
base camp to the growling of thunder and reflected that the fair interval
already ended had been caught and turned to good account.

In snow and sleet and wind next morning, July 25, our tents were struck.
We turned our backs on the Rongbuk Glacier and hastened along the path to
Chöbuk. The valley was somehow changed as we came down, and more
agreeable to the eye. Presently I discovered the reason. The grass had grown
on the hillside since we went up. We were coming down to summer green.

Footnotes:
[8] Calculated from the readings of two aneroids, allowing a correction
for the height of the camp as established later by Major Wheeler.

[9] The survey established the height of this peak as 22,520 feet, and our
subsequent experience suggests that aneroid barometers habitually read too
high when approaching the upper limit of their record.

[10] In the Rongbuk Valley there was no wood and our supply of yak
dung had to come up from Chöbuk.

[11] A useful coolie with experience in the Indian Army. I had used him
as second Sirdar.

CHAPTER XIV
THE EASTERN APPROACH

The new base at Kharta established by Colonel Howard-Bury at the end
of July was well suited to meet the needs of climbers, and no less agreeable,
I believe, to all members of the Expedition. At the moderate elevation of
12,300 feet and in an almost ideal climate, where the air was always warm
but never hot or stuffy, where the sun shone brightly but never fiercely, and
clouds floated about the hills and brought moisture from the South, but
never too much rain, here the body could find a delicious change when tired
of the discipline of high-living, and in a place so accessible to traders from
Nepal could easily be fed with fresh food. But perhaps after life in the
Rongbuk Valley, with hardly a green thing to look at and too much of the
endless unfriendly stone-shoots and the ugly waste of glaciers, and even
after visions of sublime snow-beauty, a change was more needed for the
mind. It was a delight to be again in a land of flowery meadows and trees
and crops; to look into the deep green gorge only a mile away where the
Arun goes down into Nepal was to be reminded of a rich vegetation and
teeming life, a contrast full of pleasure with Nature's niggardliness in arid,
wind-swept Tibet; and the forgotten rustle of wind in the willows came back
as a soothing sound full of grateful memories, banishing the least thought of
disagreeable things.

The Kharta base, besides, was convenient for our reconnaissance. Below
us a broad glacier stream joined the Arun above the gorge; it was the first
met with since we had left the Rongbuk stream; it came down from the West
and therefore, presumably, from Everest. To follow it up was an obvious
plan as the next stage in our activities. After four clear days for idleness and
reorganisation at Kharta we set forth again on August 2 with this object. The
valley of our glacier stream would lead us, we supposed, to the mountain; in
two days, perhaps, we should see Chang La ahead of us. A local headman
provided by the Jongpen and entrusted with the task of leading us to
Chomolungma would show us where it might be necessary to cross the
stream and, in case the valley forked, would ensure us against a bad
mistake.

The start on this day was not propitious. We had enjoyed the sheltered
ease at Kharta; the coolies were dilatory and unwilling; the distribution of
loads was muddled; there was much discontent about rations, and our Sirdar
was no longer trusted by the men. At a village where we stopped to buy
tsampa some 3 miles up the valley I witnessed a curious scene. As the
tsampa was sold it had to be measured. The Sirdar on his knees before a
large pile of finely ground flour was ladling it into a bag with a disused
Quaker Oats tin. Each measure-full was counted by all the coolies standing
round in a circle; they were making sure of having their full ration. Nor was
this all; they wanted to see as part of their supplies, not only tsampa and
rice, but tea, sugar, butter, cooking fat and meat on the Army scale. This was
a new demand altogether beyond the bargain made with them. The point, of
course, had to be clearly made, that for their so-called luxuries I must be
trusted to do my best with the surplus money (100 tankas or thereabouts)
remaining over from their allowances after buying the flour and rice. These
luxury supplies were always somewhat of a difficulty; the coolies had been
very short of such things on the Northern side—we had no doubt that some
of the ration money had found its way into the Sirdar's pockets. It would be

possible, we hoped, to prevent this happening again. But even so the matter
was not simple. What the coolies wanted was not always to be bought, or at
the local price it was too expensive. On this occasion a bountiful supply of
chillies solved our difficulty. After too many words, and not all in the best
temper, the sight of so many of the red, bright, attractive chillies prevailed;
at length my orders were obeyed; the coolies took up their loads and we
started off again.

Pethang-tse.

With so much dissatisfaction in the air it was necessary for Bullock and
me to drive rather than lead the party. In a valley where there are many

individual farms and little villages, the coolies' path is well beset with
pitfalls and with gin. Without discipline the Sahib might easily find himself
at the end of a day's march with perhaps only half his loads. It was a slow
march this day; we had barely accomplished 8 miles, when Bullock and I
with the hindmost came round a shoulder on the right bank about 4 p.m. and
found the tents pitched on a grassy shelf and looking up a valley where a
stream came in from our left. The Tibetan headman and his Tibetan coolies
who were carrying some of our loads had evidently no intention of going
further, and after some argument I was content to make the stipulation that if
the coolies (our own as well as the Tibetans) chose to encamp after half a
day's march, they should do a double march next day.

The prospect was far from satisfactory: we were at a valley junction of
which we had heard tell, and the headman pointed the way to the left. Here
indeed was a valley, but no glacier stream. It was a pleasant green nullah
covered with rhododendrons and juniper, but presented nothing that one
may expect of an important valley. Moreover, so far as I could learn, there
were no villages in this direction: I had counted on reaching one that night
with the intention of buying provisions, more particularly goats and butter.
Where were we going and what should we find? The headman announced
that it would take us five more days to reach Chomolungma: he was told
that he must bring us there in two, and so the matter was left.

If the coolies behaved badly on this first day, they certainly made up for it
on the second. The bed of the little valley which we now followed rose
steeply ahead of us, and the path along the hill slopes on its left bank soon
took us up beyond the rhododendrons. We came at last for a mid-day halt to
the shores of a lake. It was the first I had seen in the neighbourhood of
Everest; a little blue lake, perhaps 600 yards long, set on a flat shelf up there
among the clouds and rocks, a sympathetic place harbouring a wealth of
little rock plants on its steep banks; and as our present height by the aneroid

was little less than 17,000 feet, we were assured that on this Eastern side of
Everest we should find Nature in a gentler mood. But we were not satisfied
with our direction; we were going too much to the South. Through the mists
we had seen nothing to help us. For a few moments some crags had
appeared to the left looming surprisingly big; but that was our only peep,
and it told us nothing. Perhaps from the pass ahead of us we should have
better fortune.

At the Langma La when we reached it we found ourselves to be well
4,000 feet above our camp of the previous night. We had followed a track,
but not always a smooth one, and as we stayed in hopes of a clearing view, I
began to wonder whether the Tibetan coolies would manage to arrive with
their loads; they were notably less strong than our Sherpas and yet had been
burdened with the wet heavy tents. Meanwhile we saw nothing above our
own height. We had hoped that once our col was crossed we should bear
more directly Westward again; but the Tibetan headman when he came up
with good news of his coolies, pointed our way across a deep valley below
us, and the direction of his pointing was nearly due South. Everest, we
imagined, must be nearly due West of Kharta, and our direction at the end of
this second day by a rough dead reckoning would be something like South-
west. We were more than ever mystified. Fortunately our difficulties with
the coolies seemed to be ended. Two of our own men stayed at the pass to
relieve the Tibetans of the tents and bring them quickly on. Grumblings had
subsided in friendliness, and all marched splendidly on this day. They were
undepressed with the gloomy circumstance of again encamping in the rain.

In the Sahibs' tent that night there took place a long and fragmentary
conversation with the headman, our Sirdar acting as interpreter. We gained
one piece of information: there were two Chomolungmas. It was not
difficult to guess that, if Everest were one, the other must be Makalu. We
asked to be guided to the furthest Chomolungma.

The morning of August 4 was not more favourable to our reconnaissance.
We went down steeply to the valley bed, crossed a stream and a rickety
bridge, and wound on through lovely meadows and much dwarf
rhododendron till we came to the end of a glacier and mounted by its left
bank. Towards mid-day the weather showed signs of clearing; suddenly on
our left across the glacier we saw gigantic precipices looming through the
clouds. We guessed they must belong in some way to Makalu. We were told
that this was the first Chomolungma, while the valley we were now
following would lead us to the other. It was easy to conclude that one valley,
this one, must come up on the North side of Makalu all the way to Everest.
But we saw no more. In a few moments the grey clouds blowing swiftly up
from below had enveloped us, rain began to fall heavily, and when
eventually we came to broad meadows above the glaciers, where yaks were
grazing and Tibetan tents were pitched, we were content to stop. At least we
should have the advantage here of good butter and cream from this dairy
farm. There was indeed no point in going farther; we had no desire to run
our heads against the East face of Everest; we must now wait for a view.

The weather signs were decidedly more hopeful as I looked out of our
tent next morning, and we decided at once to spend the day in some sort of
reconnaissance up the valley. Presently away at the head of it we saw the
clouds breaking about the mountain-sides. Everest itself began to clear; the
great North-east arête came out, cutting the sky to the right; and little by
little the whole Eastern face was revealed to us.

As I recall now our first impression of the amazing scenery around us, I
seem chiefly to remember the fresh surprise and vivid delight which, for all
we had seen before, seemed a new sensation. Even the map of the Kama
Valley, now that we have it, may stir the imagination. Besides Everest itself
the crest of the South Peak, 28,000 feet high, and its prodigious South-east
shoulder overlook the Western end; while Makalu, 12 miles from Everest,

thrusts out Northwards a great arm and another peak to choke the exit; so
that whereas the frontier ridge from Everest to Makalu goes in a South-
easterly direction, the Kangshung Glacier in the main valley runs nearly due
East. In this spacious manner three of the five highest summits in the world
overlook the Kama Valley.

And we now saw a scene of magnificence and splendour even more
remarkable than the facts suggest. Among all the mountains I have seen,
and, if we may judge by photographs, all that ever have been seen, Makalu
is incomparable for its spectacular and rugged grandeur. It was significant to
us that the astonishing precipices rising above us on the far side of the
glacier as we looked across from our camp, a terrific awe-inspiring sweep of
snow-bound rocks, were the sides not so much of an individual mountain,
but rather of a gigantic bastion or outwork defending Makalu. At the broad
head of the Kama Valley the two summits of Everest are enclosed between
the North-east arête and the South-east arête bending round from the South
Peak; below them is a basin of tumbled ice well marked by a number of
moraines and receiving a series of tributaries pouring down between the
buttresses which support the mountain faces in this immense cirque.
Perhaps the astonishing charm and beauty here lie in the complications half
hidden behind a mask of apparent simplicity, so that one's eye never tires of
following up the lines of the great arêtes, of following down the arms
pushed out from their great shoulders, and of following along the broken
edge of the hanging glacier covering the upper half of this Eastern face of
Everest so as to determine at one point after another its relation with the
buttresses below and with their abutments against the rocks which it covers.
But for me the most magnificent and sublime in mountain scenery can be
made lovelier by some more tender touch; and that, too, is added here.
When all is said about Chomolungma, the Goddess Mother of the World,
and about Chomo Uri, the Goddess of the Turquoise Mountain, I come back
to the valley, the valley bed itself, the broad pastures, where our tents lay,

where cattle grazed and where butter was made, the little stream we
followed up to the valley head, wandering along its well-turfed banks under
the high moraine, the few rare plants, saxifrages, gentians and primulas, so
well watered there, and a soft, familiar blueness in the air which even here
may charm us. Though I bow to the goddesses I cannot forget at their feet a
gentler spirit than theirs, a little shy perhaps, but constant in the changing
winds and variable moods of mountains and always friendly.

Summit of Makalu.

The deviation from our intended line of approach involved by entering
the Kama Valley was not one which we were likely to regret. In so far as our
object was to follow up a glacier to the North Col we were now on the
wrong side of a watershed. A spur of mountains continues Eastwards from
the foot of Everest's North-east arête; these were on our right as we looked
up the Kama Valley; the glacier of our quest must lie on the far side of them.
But the pursuit of this glacier was not our sole object. We had also to
examine both the East face and North-east arête of our mountain and

determine the possibilities of attack on this side. A plan was now made to
satisfy us in all ways. We chose as our objective a conspicuous snowy
summit, Carpo-ri, on the watershed and apparently the second to the East
from the foot of the North-east arête. Could we climb it we should not only
see over into the valley North of us and up to Chang La itself, we hoped, but
also examine, from the point most convenient for judging the steepness of
its slopes, the whole of the Eastern side of Mount Everest.

On August 6 the Whymper tents were taken up, and a camp was made
under a moraine at about 17,500 feet, where a stream flows quietly through
a flat space before plunging steeply down into the valley. In this sheltered
spot we bid defiance to the usual snowstorm of the afternoon; perhaps as
night came on and snow was still falling we were vaguely disquieted, but
we refused to believe in anything worse than the heavens' passing spite, and
before we put out our candles the weather cleared. We went out into the
keen air; it was a night of early moons. Mounting a little rise of stones and
faintly crunching under our feet the granular atoms of fresh fallen snow we
were already aware of some unusual loveliness in the moment and the
scenes. We were not kept waiting for the supreme effects; the curtain was
withdrawn. Rising from the bright mists Mount Everest above us was
immanent, vast, incalculable—no fleeting apparition of elusive dream-form:
nothing could have been more set and permanent, stedfast like Keats's star,
“in lone splendour hung aloft the night,” a watcher of all the nights,
diffusing, it seemed universally, an exalted radiance.

It is the property of all that is most sublime in mountain scenery to be
uniquely splendid, or at least to seem so, and it is commonly the fate of the
sublime in this sort very soon to be mixed with what is trivial. Not
infrequently we had experience of wonderful moments; it is always exciting
to spend a night under the stars. And such a situation may be arranged quite
comfortably; lying with his head but just within the tent a man has but to stir

in his sleep to see, at all events, half the starry sky. Then perhaps thoughts
come tumbling from the heavens and slip in at the tent-door; his dozing is
an ecstasy: until, at length, the alarm-watch sounds; and after?… Mean
considerations din it all away, all that delight. On the morning of August 7
the trivial, with us, preponderated. Something more than the usual inertia
reigned in our frozen camp at 2 a.m. The cook was feeling unwell; the
coolies prolonged their minutes of grace after the warning shout, dallied
with the thought of meeting the cold air, procrastinated, drew the blankets
more closely round them, and—snored once more. An expedition over the
snow to the outlying tents by a half-clad Sahib, who expects to enjoy at least
the advantage of withdrawing himself at the last moment from the friendly
down-bag, is calculated to disturb the recumbency of others; and a kick-off
in this manner to the day's work is at all events exhilarating. The task of
extricating our frozen belongings, where they lay and ought not to have lain,
was performed with alacrity if not with zeal; feet did not loiter over slippery
boulders as we mounted the moraine, and in spite of the half-hour lost, or
gained, we were well up by sunrise. Even before the first glimmer of dawn
the snow-mantled, slumbering monsters around us had been somehow
touched to life by a faint blue light showing their form and presence—a
light that changed as the day grew to a pale yellow on Everest and then to a
bright blue-grey before it flamed all golden as the sun hit the summit and
the shadow crept perceptibly down the slope until the whole mountain stood
bare and splendid in the morning glory. With some premonition of what was
in store for us we had already halted to enjoy the scene, and I was able to
observe exactly how the various ridges and summits caught the sun. It was
remarkable that while Everest was never, for a moment, pink, Makalu was
tinged with the redder shades, and the colour of the sky in that direction was
a livid Chinese blue red-flushed. Its bearing from us was about South-east
by South, and its distance nearly twice that of Everest, which lay chiefly to
the South-west.

The first crux of the expedition before us would evidently be the ascent of
a steep wall up to the conspicuous col lying East of our mountain. The least
laborious way was offered by an outcrop of rocks. The obstacle looked
decidedly formidable and the coolies had little or no experience of rock-
climbing. But it proved a pleasure reminiscent of many good moments once
again to be grasping firm granite and to be encouraging novices to tread
delicately by throwing down an occasional stone to remind them of the
perils of clumsy movements. The coolies, as usual, were apt pupils, and
after agreeable exertions and one gymnastic performance we all reached the
col at 9 a.m. with no bleeding scalps.

We had already by this hour taken time to observe the great Eastern face
of Mount Everest, and more particularly the lower edge of the hanging
glacier; it required but little further gazing to be convinced—to know that
almost everywhere the rocks below must be exposed to ice falling from this
glacier; that if, elsewhere, it might be possible to climb up, the performance
would be too arduous, would take too much time and would lead to no
convenient platform; that, in short, other men, less wise, might attempt this
way if they would, but, emphatically, it was not for us.

Our interest was rather in the other direction. We had now gained the
watershed. Below us on the far side was a glacier flowing East, and beyond
it two important rock peaks, which we at once suspected must be two
triangulated points each above 23,000 feet. Was this at last the valley
observed so long ago from the hill above Shiling, more than 50 miles away,
to point up towards the gap between Changtse and Everest? As yet we could
not say. The head of the glacier was out of sight behind the Northern slopes
of our mountain. We must ascend further, probably to its summit, to satisfy
our curiosity—to see, we hoped, Changtse and its relation to this glacier,
and perhaps the Chang La of our quest.

South-east Ridge of Mount Everest
from above the 20,000 foot camp, Kharta Valley.

The task before us was not one which had suggested from a distant view
any serious difficulties. The angle of sight from our breakfast-place on the
col to the next white summit West of us was certainly not very steep. But no
continuous ridge would lead us upwards. The East face in front of us and the
South face to our left presented two bands of fortification, crowned each by
a flat emplacement receding a considerable distance, before the final cone.
We knew already that the snow's surface, despite a thin crust, could not hold
us, and counted on snow-shoes to save labour at the gentler angles. But the
escarpments in front of us were imposing. The first yielded to a frontal
attack pushed home with a proper after-breakfast vigour. The second when
we reached it was a more formidable obstacle. The steepness of the Eastern
slope was undeniable and forbidding and the edge of its junction with the
South side was defined by a cornice. On that side, however, lay the only
hope.

We had first to traverse a broad gully. The powdery snow lay deep; we
hesitated on the brink. Here, if anywhere, the unmelted powdery substance
was likely to avalanche. Confidence was restored in sufficient measure by
contemplating an island of rock. Here lay a solution. By the aid of its sound
anchorage the party was secured across the dangerous passage. With his
rope adequately belayed by a coolie, though the manner was hardly
professional, the leader hewed at the cornice above his head, fixed a fist-
and-axe hold in the crest and struggled over. Such performances are not
accomplished at heights above 20,000 feet without the feeling that
something has been done. Appearances suggested the necessity of
establishing the whole party firmly above the cornice before proceeding
many steps upward, and the first man had the diversion of observing at his
leisure the ungraceful attitudes and explosive grunts of men strong indeed,
but unaccustomed to meet this kind of obstacle. But with the usual menace
of clouds, which even now were filling the head of the Kama Valley, it was
no season for delay; and it was no place to be treated lightly. The angle was
quite as steep as we liked; on the slopes to our left again we should
evidently be exposed to the danger of an avalanche. It was necessary to
avoid treading on our frail cornice and no less important to keep near the
edge. Here a foot of powdery snow masked a disintegrated substance of
loose ice. Nothing less than a vigorous swinging blow had any other effect
than to bury the pick and require a fourfold effort to pull it out again.
Luckily one or even two such blows usually sufficed to make a firm step.
But 400 feet of such work seemed an ample quantity. If was a relief at
length to reach level snow, to don our rackets again and to follow a coolie
bursting with energy now sent first to tread a path. At 12.15 p.m. we reached
the far edge of this flat shoulder lying under the final slopes of our mountain
and at the most 500 feet below the summit.

No one without experience of the problem could guess how difficult it
may be to sit down on a perfectly flat place with snow-shoes strapped to the

feet. To squat is clearly impossible; and if the feet are pushed out in front the
projection behind the heel tends to tilt the body backwards so that the back
is strained in the mere effort to sit without falling. The remedy of course is
to take off the snow-shoes; but the human mountaineer after exhausting
efforts is too lazy for that at an elevation of 21,000 feet. He prefers not to
sit; he chooses to lie—in the one convenient posture under the
circumstances—flat upon his back and with his toes and snow-shoes turned
vertically upwards. On this occasion the majority of the party without more
ado turned up their toes.

DIAGRAM SHOWING THAT THE KHARTA GLACIER
DOES NOT LEAD TO THE NORTH COL.

The situation, however, was one of the greatest interest. We were still
separated from Mount Everest by a spur at our own height turning
Northwards from the foot of the North-east arête and by the bay enclosed
between this and its continuation Eastward to which our mountain belonged.
But the distance from the North-east arête was small enough and we were
now looking almost directly up its amazing crest. If any doubts remained at
this time as to that line of attack, they now received a coup de grâce. Not
only was the crest itself seen to be both sharp and steep, suggesting an

almost infinite labour, but the slopes on either hand appeared in most places
an impracticable alternative; and leading up to the great rock towers of the
North-east shoulder, the final section, the point of a cruel sickle, appeared
effectually to bar further progress should anyone have been content to spend
a week or so on the lower parts. To discern so much required no prolonged
study; to the right (North) the country was more intricate. The summit of
Changtse was eventually revealed, as the clouds cleared off, beyond,
apparently a long way beyond, the crest of the spur in front of us. To the
extreme right, looking past the final slopes of the white cone above us was a
more elevated skyline and below it the upper part of the glacier, the lower
end of which we had seen earlier in the day descending Eastward. But its
extreme limit was not quite visible. We had still to ask the question as to
where exactly it lay. Could this glacier conceivably proceed in an almost
level course up to Chang La, itself? Or was it cut off much nearer to us by
the high skyline which we saw beyond it? Was it possible, as in the second
case must be, that this skyline was continuous with the East arête of
Changtse, the whole forming the left bank of the glacier? If no answer was
absolutely certain, the probability at least was all on one side—on the wrong
side alike for our present and our future plans. We could hardly doubt that
the glacier-head lay not far away under Chang La, but here near at hand
under another col; beyond this must be the glacier of our quest, turning East,
as presumably it must turn beyond the skyline we saw now, and beyond the
rock peaks which we had observed to the North of us when first we reached
the watershed.

One more effort was now required so that we might see a little more.
Chang La itself was still invisible. Might we not see it from the summit of
our mountain? And was it not in any case an attractive summit? An
examination of the various pairs of upturned toes where the prostrate forms
were still grouped grotesquely in the snow was not encouraging. But the
most vigorous of the coolies was with us, Nyima, a sturdy boy of eighteen,

who from the very start of the Expedition had consistently displayed a
willing spirit in every emergency. To my demand for volunteers he
responded immediately, and soon persuaded a second coolie, Dasno, who
had been going very strongly on this day, to accompany him. As the three of
us started off the clouds suddenly boiled up from below and enveloped us
completely. A few minutes brought us to the foot of the steepest slopes; we
took off our snow-shoes and crossed a bergschrund, wading up to our
thighs. Dasno had already had enough and fell out. But the conical shape of
our peak was just sufficiently irregular to offer a defined blunt edge where
two surfaces intersected. Even here the snow was deep enough to be a
formidable obstacle at that steep angle; but the edge was safe from
avalanches. As we struggled on I glanced repeatedly away to the left.
Presently through a hole in the clouds all was clear for a moment to the
West; again I saw Changtse, and now my eyes followed the line of its arête
descending towards Everest until the col itself was visible over the spur in
front of us. The view was little enough; the mere rim appeared; the wall or
the slopes below it, all that I most wanted to see, remained hidden. We
struggled on to the top, in all nearly an hour's work of the most exhausting
kind. The reward was in the beauty of the spot, the faintly-defined edges of
clean snow and the convex surfaces bent slightly back from the steepness on
every side to form the most graceful summit I have seen. To the North-east
we saw clearly for a minute down the glacier. The rest was cloud, a thin
veil, but all too much, inexorably hiding from us Changtse and Chang La.

A disappointment? Perhaps. But that sort of suffering cannot be
prolonged in a mind sufficiently interested. Possibly it is never a genuine
emotion; rather an automatic reaction after too sanguine hopes. And such
hopes had no part in our system. We counted on nothing. Days as we found
them were not seldom of the disappointing kind; this one had been of the
best, remarkably clear and fine. If we were baffled that was no worse than
we expected. To be bewildered was all in the game. But our sensation was

something beyond bewilderment. We felt ourselves to be foiled. We were
unpleasantly stung by this slap in the face. We had indeed solved all doubts
as to the East face and North-east arête, and had solved them quickly. But
the way to Chang La, which had seemed almost within our grasp, had
suddenly eluded us, and had escaped, how far we could not tell. Though its
actual distance from our summit might be short, as indeed it must be, the
glacier of our quest appeared now at the end of a receding vista; and this
was all our prospect.

Our next plans were made on the descent. With the relaxation of physical
effort the feeling of dazed fatigue wears off and a mind duly strung to
activity may work well enough. The immediate object was to reach our tents
not too late to send a coolie down to the base camp the same evening; on the
following morning a reinforcement of four men would enable us to carry
down all our loads with sufficient ease, and with no delay we should move
the whole party along the next stage back towards Langma La—and thus
save a day. The main idea was simple. It still seemed probable that the
elusive glacier drained ultimately Eastwards, in which case its waters must
flow into the Kharta stream; thither we had now to retrace our steps and
follow up the main valley as we had originally intended; it might be
necessary to investigate more valleys than one, but there sooner or later a
way would be found. Only, time was short. At the earliest we could be back
in the Kharta Valley on August 9. By August 20 I reckoned the preliminary
reconnaissance should come to an end, if we were to have sufficient time
before the beginning of September for rest and reorganisation at Kharta—
and such was the core of our plan.

These projects left out of account an entirely new factor. In the early
stages of the reconnaissance I had taken careful note of the party's health.
One or two of the coolies had quickly fallen victims to the high altitudes;
but the rest seemed steadily to grow stronger. Nothing had so much

surprised us as the rapid acclimatisation of the majority, and the good
effects, so far as they appeared, of living in high camps. Both Bullock and
myself left the Rongbuk Valley feeling as fit as we could wish to feel. All
qualms about our health had subsided. For my part I was a confirmed
optimist, and never imagined for myself the smallest deviation from my
uniform standard of health and strength. On August 7, as we toiled over the
névé in the afternoon, I felt for the first time a symptom of weariness
beyond muscular fatigue and beyond the vague lassitude of mountain-
sickness. By the time we reached the moraine I had a bad headache. In the
tent at last I was tired and shivering and there spent a fevered night. The
next morning broke with undeniable glory. A photograph of our yesterday's
conquest must be obtained. I dragged myself and the quarter-plate camera a
few steps up to the crest of the moraine—only to find that a further
peregrination of perhaps 300 yards would be necessary for my purpose: and
300 yards was more than I could face. I was perforce content with less
interesting exposures and returned to breakfast with the dismal knowledge
that for the moment at all events I was hors de combat. We learned a little
later that Colonel Howard-Bury had arrived the night before in our base
camp. It was easily decided to spend the day there with him—the day I had
hoped to save; after the long dragging march down the green way, which on
the ascent had been so pleasant with butterflies and flowers, I was obliged to
spend it in bed.

Three days later, on August 11, our tents were pitched in a sheltered place
well up the Kharta Valley, at a height of about 16,500 feet. Two tributary
streams had been passed by, the first coming in from the North as being
clearly too small to be of consequence, and the second from the South,
because wherever its source might be, it could not be far enough to the
North. Ahead of us we had seen that the valley forked; we must follow the
larger stream and then no doubt we should come soon enough to the glacier
of our quest and be able at last to determine whether it would serve us to

approach Chang La. August 12, a day of necessary idleness after three long
marches, was spent by the coolies in collecting fuel, of which we were
delighted to observe a great abundance, rhododendron and gobar all about
us, and, only a short way down the valley, the best we could hope for,
juniper. The last march had been too much for me, and again I was obliged
to keep my bed with a sore throat and swollen glands.

It seemed certain that the next two days must provide the climax or
anticlimax of our whole reconnaissance. The mystery must surely now be
penetrated and the most important discovery of all be made. A competition
with my companion for the honour of being first was, I hope, as far from my
thoughts as ever it had been. From the start Bullock and I had shared the
whole campaign and worked and made our plans together, and neither for a
moment had envied the other the monopoly of a particular adventure.
Nevertheless, after all that had passed, the experience of being left out at the
finish would not be agreeable to me; I confess that not to be in at the death
after leading the hunt so long was a bitter expectation. But the hunt must not
be stopped, and on the morning of August 13, from the ungrateful comfort
of my sleeping-bag, I waved farewell to Bullock. How many days would he
be absent before he came to tell his story, and what sort of story would it be?
Would he know for certain that the way was found? or how much longer
would our doubts continue?

It was impossible to stay in bed with such thoughts, and by the middle of
the morning I was sitting in the sun to write home my dismal tale. A hint
from one of the coolies interrupted my meditations; I looked round and now
saw, to my great surprise and unfeigned delight, the approaching figure of
Major Morshead. I had long been hoping that he might be free to join us;
and he arrived at the due moment to cheer my present solitude, to strengthen
the party, and to help us when help was greatly needed. Moreover, he
brought from Wollaston for my use a medical dope; stimulated by the

unusual act of drug-taking, or possibly by the drug itself, I began to
entertain a hope for the morrow, a feeling incommunicably faint but
distinguishably a hope.

Meanwhile Bullock, though he had not started early, had got off soon
enough in the morning to pitch his tents if all went well some hours before
dark, and in all probability at least so far up as to be within view of the
glacier snout. As the night was closing in a coolie was observed running
down the last steep sandy slope to our camp. He brought a chit from
Bullock: “I can see up the glacier ahead of me and it ends in another high
pass. I shall get to the pass to-morrow morning if I can, and ought to see our
glacier over it. But it looks, after all, as though the most unlikely solution is
the right one and the glacier goes out into the Rongbuk Valley.”

Into the Rongbuk Valley! We had discussed the possibility. The glacier
coming in there from the East remained unexplored. But even if we left out
of account all that was suggested by the East arête of Changtse and other
features of this country, there remained the unanswerable difficulty about
the stream, the little stream which we had but just failed to cross in the
afternoon of our first expedition. How could so little water drain so large an
area of ice as must exist on this supposition?

In any case we were checked again. The mystery deepened. And though
the interest might increase, the prospect of finding a way to Chang La, with
the necessary margin of time before the end of the month, was still receding,
and, whether or no the unexpected should turn out to be the truth, the
present situation suggested the unpleasant complication of moving our base
once more somewhere away to the North.

On the following day with the gathering energy of returning health I set
forth with Morshead: we walked in a leisurely fashion up the valley rejected
by Bullock and had the surprising good fortune of a clear sky until noon. I

soon decided that we were looking up the glacier where we had looked
down on the 7th, as Bullock too had decided on the previous day: at the
head of it was a high snow col and beyond that the tip of Changtse. What
lay between them? If a combe existed there, as presumably it did, the bed of
it must be high: there could hardly be room, I thought, for a very big drop
on the far side of the col. Might not this, after all, be a sufficiently good
approach, a more convenient way perhaps than to mount the glacier from its
foot, wherever that might be? The near col, so far as I could judge, should
easily be reached from this side. Why not get to the col and find out what
lay beyond it? The time had come to abandon our object of finding the foot
of a glacier in order to follow it up; for we could more easily come to the
head of it and if necessary follow it down.

I was sanguine about this new plan, which seemed to have good prospects
of success and might obviate the difficulties and inconvenience of shifting
the base (possibly again to the Rongbuk side, which I had no desire to
revisit) and, as I still felt far from fit, I was in some hopes now that two
more days would bring us to the end of our present labours. Bullock very
readily agreed to the proposal. He brought no positive information from the
col which he had reached, though he inclined to the idea that the water
crossed at Harlung on our journey to Kharta, a moderate stream, but perhaps
too clear, might provide the solution of our problem. A fresh bone was now
thrown into our stew. A letter arrived from Howard-Bury with an enclosure
from Wheeler, a sketch map of what he had seen more particularly East of
the Rongbuk Glacier, on which the Eastern branch, with its Western exit,
was clearly marked where we now know it to be. It was, unfortunately, a
very rough map, professedly nothing more, and was notably wrong in some
respects about which we had accurate knowledge. We were not yet
convinced that the head of the East Rongbuk Glacier was really situated
under the slopes of Everest, and not perhaps under the Eastern arm of
Changtse. Still, we had some more pickings to digest. Our business was to

reach the nearer pass, and I felt sure that once we had looked over it to the
other side whatever doubts remained could be cleared up in subsequent
discussion with Wheeler. Meanwhile, I hoped, we should have discovered
one way to Chang La, and a sufficiently good one.

It took us in the sequel not two but four days to reach the pass which was
ultimately known as Lhakpa La (Windy Gap). The story may serve as a fair
illustration of the sort of difficulty with which we had to contend. It was
arranged on the 15th that we should meet Bullock's coolies at the divide in
the valley; they were bringing down his camp and we could all go on
together: but our messenger succeeded in collecting only half their number
and much delay was caused in waiting for the others. From here we
followed the Western stream, a stony and rather fatiguing walk of two hours
or so (unladen) up to the end of the glacier, and then followed a moraine
shelf on its left bank, I hoped we should find an easy way round to the
obvious camping place we had previously observed from the Carpo-ri. But
the shelf ended abruptly on steep stony slopes, clouds obscured our view,
and after our misfortunes in the morning we were now short of time, so that
it was necessary to stay where we were for the night. A thick layer of mist
was still lying along the valley when we woke, and we could see nothing,
but were resolved, nevertheless, to reach the col if possible. We went up, for
the best chance of a view, to the crest of the hill above us, and followed it to
the summit (6.30 a.m.). The view was splendid, and I took some good
photographs; but the drop on the far side was more serious than our hopes
had suggested. We tried to make the best of things by contouring and
eventually halted for breakfast on the edge of the glacier a long way North
of the direct line at 8.45 a.m. Before we went on we were again enveloped
in mist, and after stumbling across the glacier in snow-shoes to the foot of
an icefall, we turned back at 11 a.m. By that time we were a tired party and
could not have reached the col; and even had we reached it, we should have
seen nothing. Still we felt when we found our tents again that with all we

had seen the day had not been lost, and we determined, before renewing our
attempt on Lhakpa La, to push on the camp. There was still time to send a
message down to the Sirdar so as to get up more coolies and supplies and
move forward next day. From this higher camp we hoped that the col might
be reached at an early hour, and in that case it would be possible for a party
to cross it and descend the glacier on the other side.

The first coolies who came up in the morning brought a message from the
Sirdar to the effect that supplies were short and he could send none up. The
rations were calculated to last for another three days, but their distribution
had been muddled. However, enough was subsequently sent up to carry us
over into the next day, though it was necessary of course to abandon our
project of a more distant reconnaissance. Our camp was happily established
in the usual snowstorm. The weather, in fact, was not treating us kindly.
Snow was falling in these days for about eight to ten hours on the average
and we were relieved at last to see a fine morning.

On August 18, with the low moon near setting, the three of us with one
coolie set forth on the most critical expedition of our whole reconnaissance.
Failure on this day must involve us in a lamentable delay before the party
could again be brought up for the attack; at the earliest we should be able to
renew the attempt four days later, and if in the end the way were not
established here the whole prospect of the assault in September would be in
jeopardy. We scaled the little cliff on to the glacier that morning with the full
consciousness that one way or another it was an imperative necessity to
reach the col. The first few steps on the glacier showed us what to expect;
we sank in to our knees. The remedy was, of course, to put on rackets—
which indeed are no great encumbrance, but a growing burden on a long
march and on steep slopes most difficult to manage. We wore them for the
rest of the day whenever we were walking on snow. About dawn the light
became difficult; a thin floating mist confused the snow surfaces; ascents

and descents were equally indistinguishable, so that the errant foot might
unexpectedly hit the slope too soon or equally plunge down with sudden
violence to unexpected depths. Crevasses forced, or seemed to force, us
away to the right and over to the rocks of the left bank. We were faced with
one of those critical decisions which determine success or failure. It seemed
best to climb the rocks and avoid complications in the icefall. There was an
easy way through on our left which we afterwards used; but perhaps we did
well; ours was a certain way though long, and we had enough trudging that
day; the rocks, though covered with snow to a depth of several inches, were
not difficult, and a long traverse brought us back to the glacier at about 8.30
a.m.

Our greatest enemy as we went on was not, after all, the deep powdery
snow. The racket sank slightly below the surface and carried a little snow
each step as one lifted it; the work was arduous for the first man. But at a
slow pace it was possible to plod on without undue exhaustion. The heat
was a different matter. In the glacier-furnace the thin mist became steam, it
enveloped us with a clinging garment from which no escape was possible,
and far from being protected by it from the sun's fierce heat, we seemed to
be scorched all the more because of it. The atmosphere was enervating to
the last degree; to halt even for a few minutes was to be almost
overwhelmed by inertia, so difficult it seemed, once the machinery had
stopped and lost momentum, to heave it into motion again. And yet we must
go on in one direction or the other or else succumb to sheer lassitude and
overpowering drowsiness. The final slopes, about 700 feet at a fairly steep
angle, undoubtedly called for greater efforts than any hitherto required of us.

The importance of breathing hard and deeply had impressed itself upon
us again and again. I had come to think of my own practice as a very
definite and conscious performance adopted to suit the occasion. The
principles were always the same—to time the breathing regularly to fit the

step, and to use not merely the upper part of the lungs, but the full capacity
of the breathing apparatus, expanding and contracting not the chest only, but
also the diaphragm, and this not occasionally but with every breath
whenever the body was required to work at high pressure. Probably no one
who has not tried it would guess how difficult it is to acquire an
unconscious habit of deep breathing. It was easy enough to set the machine
going in the right fashion; it was another task to keep it running. The
moment attention to their performance was relaxed, the lungs too would
begin to relax their efforts, and often I woke from some day-dream with a
feeling of undue fatigue, to find the cause of my lassitude only in the lungs'
laziness. The best chance of keeping them up to their work, I found, was to
impose a rhythm primarily upon the lungs and swing the legs in time with it.

The practice employed for walking uphill under normal conditions is
exactly contrary, in that case the rhythm is consciously imposed on the legs
and the rest of the body takes care of itself.

During the various expeditions of our reconnaissance I came to employ
two distinct methods of working the legs with the lungs. As soon as
conscious breathing was necessary it was my custom deliberately to inhale
on one step and exhale on the next. Later, at a higher elevation, or when the
expenditure of muscular energy became more exhausting, I would both
inhale and exhale for each step, in either case timing the first movement of
lifting the leg to synchronise with the beginning, so to speak, of the
breathing-stroke. On this occasion as we pushed our way up towards
Lhakpa La I adopted a variation of this second method, a third stage,
pausing a minute or so for the most furious sort of breathing after a series of
steps, forty or thirty or twenty, as the strength ebbed, in order to gain
potential energy for the next spasm of lifting efforts. Never before had our
lungs been tested quite so severely. It was well for us that these final slopes
were no steeper. It was difficult and tiring enough as it was to prevent the

rackets sliding, though without them we could not possibly have advanced
in such snow. But happily the consequences of a slip were not likely to be
serious. We were able to struggle on without regarding dangers, half-dazed
with the heat and the glare and with mere fatigue, occasionally encouraged
by a glimpse of the skyline above us, a clean edge of snow where the angle
set back to the pass, more often enveloped in the scorching mist which made
with the snow a continuous whiteness, so that the smooth slope, even so
near as where the foot must be placed next, was usually indistinguishable.
We had proceeded a considerable distance and I was satisfied with our
progress, when the leader broke the monotony; he was seen to hesitate in the
act of stepping up, to topple over and fall headlong downwards. This time
he had guessed wrong; his foot had hit unexpectedly against the steepening
slope. Somehow he had passed in extreme fatigue from the physical state of
stable equilibrium; he had become such a man as you may “knock down
with a feather,” and this little misadventure had upset his balance. Mere
surprise gave him strength to stop his slide. He raised himself, disgusted, to
his feet again and after sundry gruntings the party went on.

Some little way further up Major Morshead, who was walking last in the
party, with one brief exclamation to tell us what he intended, quietly untied
the rope and remained where he was in his steps, unable to go further.

At length we found ourselves on flatter ground; the pass was still
invisible, how far ahead of us we could not guess. Unexpectedly we came
upon the brink of a crevasse. We worked round it, vaguely wondering
whether after all our pains we were to meet with many troubles of this sort.
And then after a few more steps we were visibly on some edge of things; we
had reached the col itself.

Some twenty minutes later, as we sat on the snow gazing most intently at
all that lay about us, Bullock and I were surprised by a shout. A moment

later Major Morshead rejoined us, to the great rejoicing of all three.

It was about 1.15 p.m. when the first two of us had reached Lhakpa La;
the clouds, which had been earlier only a thin veil, rent occasionally to give
us clear glimpses, had thickened perceptibly during the last hour, so that we
had now no hope of a clear view. In a sense, despite our early start from a
high camp, we were too late. Little was to be seen above our level. The
slopes of Everest away on our left were visible only where they impinged
upon the glacier. But we were not actually in cloud on the col. The South-
facing rocks of Changtse presented their profile, steep and jagged, an
imposing spectacle so far up as we could see; between them and Everest we
looked down on a broad bay, the smooth surface of which was only
occasionally broken by large crevasses. The descent to it from where we
were could also be seen well enough, and we judged it perfectly simple and
not much more than 800 feet.[12] The East ridge of Changtse had no
existence for us; we looked across at what presumably were the splayed-out
slopes supporting it. Below them was a narrow glacier (it grew when we
crossed it to broader dimensions), shaping its course somewhat to the West
of North, joined after losing its white snow-covering by another and cleaner
glacier coming steeply down from the left, then apparently bending with this
confluent to the right, and finally lost to view. We could see no more; the
mountain sides, which must hem it in on the North, remained completely
hidden, and for all we had seen the exit of this glacier was still a mystery.

Another great question remained unsolved. We had been able to make out
the way across the head of the glacier towards the wall under Chang La; and
the way was easy enough. But the wall itself, in spite of some fleeting
glimpses and partial revelations, we had never really seen. We conjectured
its height should be 500 feet or little more; and it was probably steep. It had
been impossible to found an opinion as to whether the col were accessible.
Nevertheless, I held an opinion, however flimsy the foundations. I had seen

the rim of the col from both sides, and knew that above it on either hand
were unserrated edges. When we added to whatever chances might be
offered by the whole extent of the wall, which was considerable, the
possibilities of finding a way to the col by the slopes of Everest to the South
or by those of Changtse to the North, I felt we had enough in our favour. I
was prepared, so to speak, to bet my bottom dollar that a way could be
found, and was resolved that before we turned homewards this year we must
get up from the East. When I thought of the 4,000 feet on the other side, the
length combined with the difficulties, the distance that would necessarily
separate us there from any convenient base and all the limitations in our
strength, I could have no reasonable doubt that here to the East lay the best
chance of success.

North-east of Mount Everest and Chang La
from Lhakpa La.

It remained to determine by which of two possible routes we should reach
the glacier-head between Lhakpa La and Chang La. Presuming that Wheeler
was right we could use the old base at the foot of the Rongbuk Glacier
which was only one stage, though a very long one, from Chöbuk, and
proceed simply enough by two rough marches and one which should be
easier to a camp at the foot of the wall or possibly to the col itself. On the
East we could use as an advanced base a place two easy marches from
Kharta; from there I reckoned one long day and two easy ones, provided the
snow were hard, to Chang La. Against this route was the loss of height in
crossing Lhakpa La; and for it the convenience of a good encampment on
stones at 20,000 feet, better than anything we might expect to find at a
similar elevation on the other side. So far the pros and cons were evenly
balanced. But there was one great and perhaps insuperable obstacle in
working from the Rongbuk Valley. We had always found difficulties there in
obtaining an adequate supply of fuel. There is no wood at Chöbuk or for
some distance below it. A few small bushes grow in a little patch of
vegetation by the riverside an hour higher up. But it is a very niggardly
supply, and when I thought of the larger scale of the preparations we should
now have to make, it became clear that we should have to rely on gobar,
which, besides being a more extravagant fuel in the sense that it gives less
fire for a given weight than wood, is also difficult to get in the Rongbuk
Valley, for little enough is to be found there, and the monastery at Chöyling
is a large consumer. On the other hand, in the Kharta Valley we were in a
land of plenty. Gobar and rhododendron were to be had within a stone's
throw of our present advanced base camp, and a little lower was an
abundance of juniper. Food supplies also were better here; fresh vegetables
and eggs, luxuries never seen on the other side, could easily be obtained
from Kharta, and even the sheep in this region could be praised at the
expense of the Rongbuk breed, which was incomparably skinny; lurking in
the thigh of one recently killed we had actually discovered a nugget of fat.

And presuming Wheeler were wrong? In any case we knew enough of the
country to be sure that a valley further to the North would offer us little
better than the Rongbuk Valley, for it must be situated in the drier area
unvisited by the monsoon currents from the Arun. The conclusion was
drawn as we came down from Lhakpa La more swiftly than the reader of
these arguments might suppose. We had now found a way to approach
Chang La—not an ideal way, because it would involve a descent, and not
one that could be used immediately; but good enough for our purpose. If
laden coolies could not be brought to the Lhakpa at present over so much
soft snow they might find the march to their liking later; for good snow at
angles not too steep involves far less labour than rougher ground; and might
we not expect the snow to harden before long? The whole plan of campaign
had been founded upon the belief that September would be the best month
for climbing, and our greatest efforts, some sort of an assault upon the
mountain, were timed to take place then. We must now proceed upon the
assumption that what the wise men prophesied about the matter would come
true; and they promised a fine September. About the beginning of the month
the monsoon would come to an end; then we should have a succession of
bright, clear days to melt the snow and cold, starry nights to freeze it hard.
At worst the calm spell would only be broken by a short anger. In
September, perhaps a fortnight hence, on these same slopes where now we
toiled we should find a solid substance beneath our feet and an easy way.

The abiding thought, therefore, after the first rush downwards on the
steep slopes below the col contained a measure of solid satisfaction. We had
now brought to an end our preliminary reconnaissance. Ahead of us was a
new phase in our operations, and one which should hold in store for us the
finest adventure of all, the climax of all reconnoitring expeditions, that
advance which was to bring us as near to the summit as our strength would
take us. As we plodded on, retracing our steps, some little satisfaction was
highly acceptable. To the tired party even descent seemed laborious. We

reached the edge of the glacier where we had come on to it at 5.30 p.m. But
the march from there to our lower camp was both long and rough. Major
Morshead, who had not been trained with Bullock and me to the pace of
such expeditions, had kept up so far in the gamest fashion; but he was now
much exhausted. The day ended with a series of little spurts, balancing over
the snow-sprinkled boulders along and along the valley, in the dim misty
moonlit scene, until at 2 o'clock in the morning we reached our lower camp,
twenty-three hours after the early start.

On August 20 we went down to Kharta for ten days' rest and
reorganisation. The party was gathering there for the assault, in which all
were to help to the best of their powers. Col. Howard-Bury and
Mr. Wollaston were there; Dr. Heron came in on the following day, and a
little later Major Wheeler. A conversation with this officer, who had been
working in the Rongbuk Valley since Bullock and I had left it, was naturally
of the highest interest, and he now confirmed what his sketch-map had
suggested: that the glacier on to which we had looked down from Lhakpa
La drained into the Rongbuk Valley. But this certain knowledge could have
no bearing on our plans; we remained content with the way we had found
and troubled our heads no more for the present about the East Rongbuk
Glacier.

Footnote:
[12] It turned out to be a full 1,200 feet.

CHAPTER XV
THE ASSAULT

In the agreeable climate of Kharta we were sufficiently occupied with the
results of photography and preparations for the future; and there was time
besides for unmixed idleness, which we knew how to appreciate. Our
thoughts turned often to the weather. Local lore confirmed our expectations
for September, and we looked each day for signs of a change. It was
arranged, in hope if not in confidence, to move up on the first signs of
improvement. Already before we came down to Kharta our Advanced Base
Camp had been moved up; it was now situated at about 17,300 feet on a
convenient grassy plateau and only a reasonable stage below our 20,000-
foot camp, where some light tents and stores had also been left. At these two
camps we had, in fact, left everything which we should not absolutely
require at Kharta, so that few mountaineering stores would have to be
carried forward from the Base when we came up again. Our first task would
be to supply the Advanced Base with food and fuel, and a start had already
been made by collecting here a pile of wood, nominally thirty loads.
Transport in any case was not likely to be a difficulty in the early stages.
Local coolies could easily be hired, and Howard-Bury was to follow us up
after a short interval with all available strength to help in every possible
way.

The first object which our plans must include was, of course, to reach
Chang La; by finding the way to this point we should establish a line of
attack and complete a stage of our reconnaissance. Secondly we must aim at
reaching the North-east Shoulder. In so far as it was an object of
reconnaissance to determine whether it was possible to climb Mount
Everest, our task could never be complete until we had actually climbed it;
but short of that it was important to have a view of the final stage, and could
we reach the great shoulder of the arête we should at least be in a better
position to estimate what lay between there and the summit. Finally we saw
no reason to exclude the supreme object itself. It would involve no sacrifice
of meaner ends; the best would not interfere with the good. For if it should
turn out that the additional supplies required for a longer campaign were
more than our coolies could carry, we would simply drop them and aim less
high.

In organising the assault we had first to consider how our camps could be
established, at Lhakpa La or perhaps better beyond it at a lower elevation, at
Chang La, and finally as high as possible, somewhere under the shoulder,
we thought, at about 26,500 feet. From the camp on Chang La we should
have to carry up ten loads, each of 15 lb., which would provide tents
enough, and sleeping-sacks and food for a maximum of four Sahibs and
four coolies; sixteen coolies were allowed for this task; twelve therefore
would have to return on the day of their ascent and sleep at Chang La, and
on the assumption that they would require an escort of Sahibs who must
also sleep at this camp, four small tents must remain there, making six in all
to be carried up to this point. The lower end of the ladder must be so
constructed as to support this weight at the top. It was comparatively a
simple matter to provide the earlier camps. The first above the advanced
base—that at 20,000 feet—could be filled before we moved up to sleep
there, the coolies returning on the same day whenever they carried up loads.
And the same plan could be adopted for the second at Lhakpa La; only one

journey there, I calculated, would be required before we started in force
from the 20,000-foot camp to go straight ahead without delay. The crux
would lie in the stage from Lhakpa La to Chang La. At the most we should
have twenty-three coolies, sixteen who had been all along with the climbing
party, three whom Wheeler had partially trained, and four more Sherpas, the
maximum number being determined by the supply of boots. But it would
not be necessary to carry on all the loads from Lhakpa La; and return
journeys could be made from Chang La both by those who were not to stay
there and by the twelve already mentioned who might fetch supplies if
necessary on the final day of the assault. This plan was never executed in its
later stages, and we cannot know for certain whether it would have held
good. But it may be conjectured, in view of our experience, that the weakest
link would have broken; either an extra day would have been spent between
Lhakpa La and Chang La, or, if we had reached Chang La according to
programme with the minimum of supplies, the coolies would not have been
brought to this point a second time and the climbing party would have been
cut off from its reserves. And, granted the most favourable conditions for
the attempt, in asking the coolies to carry loads of 30 lb. on two consecutive
days at these high altitudes, we were probably expecting too much of them.
It must be concluded, if this opinion is correct, that we had not enough
coolies for what we intended.

On the last day of August, Bullock and I were established once again at
our Advanced Base. The weather had not yet cleared, though it was showing
some signs of change. But it had been necessary to move up for the coolies'
sake. At Kharta, where they found little to amuse them and no work to
employ their time, they had sought diversion with the aid of liquor and
become discontented and ill-affected. They were badly in need of a routine,
which at the Advanced Base was easily enough provided. Besides, I wanted
to be ready, and it seemed not too soon to begin carrying loads up to the
next camp. There was no occasion for hurry in the event. We were obliged

to wait nearly three weeks, until September 19, before moving forward. The
delay served no useful purpose, the work of supplying our present needs and
providing for the future was sufficiently spread over the long tale of days,
but interspersed with more rest and leisure than anyone required.

In some respects life at the Advanced Base compared favourably with our
experience at other camps. The place had a charm of its own. The short turf
about us, the boulders and little streams reminded me of Welsh hillsides;
and these high pastures were often decorated by the brilliant blues of
Gentiana ornata and by the most exquisite of saxifrages, which, with the
yellow and ochre markings on the cream glaze of its tiny bowl, recalls the
marginal ornament on some Persian page. Whenever the weather cleared for
a few hours we saw down the valley a splendid peak in a scene of romantic
beauty, and by walking up to a stony shoulder only 2,000 feet above us, we
had amazing views of Everest and Makalu. And it was an advantage during
these days of waiting to be a larger party, as we soon became.

Bury and Wollaston, and also Raeburn whom we rejoiced to see again,
had come up on the 6th, Morshead and Wheeler on the 11th, and for two
nights Heron was of our company. We made little excursions to keep
ourselves fit, and on one occasion enjoyed some rock-climbing. But it
amused nobody to watch the procession of clouds which precipitated sleet
by day and snow by night, and our appetite for adventure could not be
stimulated by making time pass in some endurable fashion and counting the
unhopeful signs.

Under these circumstances I became more than ever observant of the
party's physical condition. I find a passage in one of my letters written
during this period of waiting in which I boast of finding myself “still able to
go up about 1,500 feet in an hour—not bad going at these altitudes”—a
reassuring statement enough but for the one word “still,” which betrays all

my anxiety. In fact there was too much cause to be anxious. Three of our
strongest coolies were ill at this camp; others seemed to be tired more easily
than they should be. And what of the Sahibs? At least it must be said that
several of them were not looking their best. Bullock, though he never
complained, seemed no longer to be the fit man he was at the end of July.
And for my part I began to experience a certain lack of exuberance when
going up hill. I came to realise that all such efforts were unduly exhausting;
my reserve of strength had somehow diminished. The whole machine, in
fact, was running down; the days continued to pass with their cloud and rain
and snow, always postponing our final effort to a later date and a colder
season; and with them our chances of success were slowly vanishing.

When at last the weather cleared, it was evident that the fate of our
enterprise would be decided by the sun's power to melt the snow. In a
subsequent chapter I shall have more to say about the snow's melting; it may
suffice to remark here that, before we left the Advanced Base, I had good
reason to expect that we should meet adverse conditions, and was resolved
at the same time that nothing was to be gained by waiting. The coolies were
lightly laden up to the First Advanced Camp and sufficiently unfatigued to
proceed next day. On the 20th, therefore, leaving Bullock to accompany
Wheeler, Morshead and I set forth to get fourteen loads up to Lhakpa La.
We had one spare coolie who carried no load, and Sanglu, who was now our
acting Sirdar, four of us in all, to break the trail for the loaded men. Snow-
shoes were not carried because there were not enough to go round. Though
our prospects of reaching a high point on Everest were already sufficiently
dim, I intended to carry out the original plan until obliged by circumstances
to modify it; it might prove necessary to spend an extra day in reaching
Chang La, and in that case we could perhaps afford to stop short of Lhakpa
La and establish our camp below its final slopes. But if the strain on this
first day was likely to be severe, I argued that the coolies could rest to-
morrow, and that the second journey in frozen tracks would be easy enough.

That we should be passing the night a few hundred feet higher (at 22,500
feet) was a relatively unimportant consideration. The great matter was to put
heart into the coolies; it would be infinitely more encouraging to reach the
crest with a sense of complete achievement, to see the clear prospect ahead
and to proceed downwards on the other side.

Our start at an early hour on the 20th was propitious enough. It was the
same moonlit glacier of our expedition a month before as we made good our
approach to its surface. But the conditions were altered. For the first time
since we had come to these mountains we experienced the wonderful delight
of treading snow that is both crisp and solid. We walked briskly over it,
directly towards Mount Everest, with all the hope such a performance might
inspire. The night was exceedingly cold and there was no untoward delay. In
less than an hour we were at the foot of the icefall. We were determined on
this occasion not to avoid it by the rocks of the left bank, but to find a
quicker way through the tumbled ice. At first all went well. A smooth-
floored corridor took us helpfully upwards. And then, in the dim light, we
were among the crevasses. To be seriously held up here might well be fatal
to our object, and in the most exciting kind of mountaineering adventures
we had the stimulus of this thought. We plunged into the maze and struggled
for a little time, crossing frail bridges over fantastic depths and making steps
up steep little walls, until it seemed we were in serious trouble. One leap
proposed by the leader proved too much for some of the laden coolies and a
good deal of pushing and pulling was required to bring them over the
formidable gap. We had begun to waste time. Halted on a sharp little crest
between two monstrous chasms Morshead and I discussed the situation, and
thereafter gravely proceeded to reconnoitre the ground to our left. In ten
minutes we came to another corridor like the first, which brought us out
above the icefall.

We were well satisfied with our progress as we halted at sunrise, and it
was a pleasant change to get our feet out of the snow and knock a little
warmth into chilled toes. But our confidence had ebbed. Even as we entered
the icefall our feet had occasionally broken the crust; as we came out of it
we were stamping a trail.

Dorji Gompa, our unladen coolie, and perhaps the strongest man of all,
took the lead when we went on, and plugged manfully upwards. But already
the party was showing signs of fatigue. One coolie, and then two others, fell
out and could not be induced to come further. I sent Dorji Gompa back to
bring on one of their loads. Morshead, Sanglu and I took turns ahead and
soon came to the worst snow we had encountered anywhere. In it no firm
steps could be stamped by the leaders to save the coolies behind, and each
man in turn had to contend with the shifting substance of fine powder. The
party straggled badly. It was necessary for some of us to press on and prove
that the goal could be reached. Many of the men were obliged to halt at
frequent intervals. But time was on our side. Gradually the party fought its
way up the final slopes. As we approached the pass I looked back with
Morshead over the little groups along our track and saw some distance
below the last moving figure another lying huddled up on the snow. I soon
learnt the meaning of this: it was Dorji Gompa who lay there. He had
carried on not one load as I had asked him, but two, until he had fallen there
dazed and exhausted.

At length eleven loads reached the pass and two more were only 800 feet
lower. If we had not done all we set out to do I was satisfied we had done
enough. We had established tracks to Lhakpa La which should serve us well
when they had frozen hard, and not too many loads remained below to be
brought up two days later.

We now obtained a clear view of Chang La; it was possible to make more
exact calculations, and it was evident we must modify our plans. We saw a
wall of formidable dimensions, perhaps 1,000 feet high; the surface was
unpleasantly broken by insuperable bergschrunds and the general angle was
undoubtedly steep. The slopes of Everest to the South were out of the
question, and if it were possible to avoid a direct assault by the North side
the way here would be long, difficult and exceedingly laborious. The wall
itself offered the best chance, and I was in good hopes we could get up. But
it would not be work for untrained men, and to have on the rope a number
of laden coolies, more or less mountain sick, conducted by so small a
nucleus as three Sahibs, who would also presumably be feeling the effects
of altitude, was a proposition not to be contemplated for a moment. We must
have as strong a party as possible in the first place, simply to reach the col,
and afterwards to bring up a camp, if we were able, as a separate operation.
With this idea I selected the party. Wollaston felt that his place of duty was
not with the van; only Wheeler besides had sufficient mountaineering
experience, and it was decided that he alone should accompany Bullock and
myself on our first attempt to reach the col. Nevertheless, it seemed
undesirable to abandon so early the hope that Bury and Morshead would be
of use to us later on; and Wollaston clearly must start with us from the
20,000-foot camp where all had gathered on the 20th.

I had hoped we should have a full complement of coolies on the 22nd, but
when morning came it was found that three, including two of the best men,
were too ill to start. Consequently some of the loads were rather heavier
than I intended. But all arrived safely at Lhakpa La before midday. Visited
by malicious gusts from the North-west, the pass was cheerless and chilly;
however, the rim afforded us some protection, and we decided to pitch our
tents there rather than descend on the other side with the whole party, a
move which I felt might complicate the return. I was not very happy about
the prospects for the morrow. For my own part I had been excessively and

unaccountably tired in coming up to the col; I observed no great sparkle of
energy or enthusiasm among my companions; Sanglu was practically hors
de combat; some of the coolies had with difficulty been brought to the col
and were more or less exhausted; and many complaints of headache, even
from the best of them, were a bad sign.

There was no question of bustling off before dawn on the 23rd, but we
rose early enough, as I supposed, to push on to Chang La if we were
sufficiently strong. Morshead and I in a Mummery tent had slept well and I
congratulated myself on an act of mutilation in cutting two large slits in its
roof. The rest had not fared so well, but seemed fit enough, and the
wonderful prospect from our camp at sunrise was a cheering sight. With the
coolies, however, the case was different. Those who had been unwell
overnight had not recovered, and it was evident that only a comparatively
small number would be able to come on; eventually I gathered ten, two men
who both protested they were ill casting lots for the last place; and of these
ten it was evident that none were unaffected by the height and several were
more seriously mountain-sick.[13] Under these circumstances it was
necessary to consider which loads should be carried on. Bury, Wollaston and
Morshead suggested that they should go back at once so as not to burden the
party with the extra weight of their belongings, and it seemed the wisest
plan that they should return. Certain stores were left behind at Lhakpa La as
reserve supplies for the climbing party. I decided at an early hour that our
best chance was to take an easy day; after a late start and a very slow march
we pitched our tents on the open snow up towards the col.

It might have been supposed that in so deep a cwm and sheltered on three
sides by steep mountain slopes, we should find a tranquil air and the
soothing, though chilly calm of undisturbed frost. Night came clearly
indeed, but with no gentle intentions. Fierce squalls of wind visited our tents
and shook and worried them with the disagreeable threat of tearing them