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.

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 arete 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 arete and the South-east arete 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 aretes, 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.

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 arete; 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 arete 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 arete. 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.

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.

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 arete and by the bay enclosed between this and its continuation Eastward to which our mountain belonged. But the distance from the North-east arete 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 grace_. 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 arete 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 arete 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 arete, 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 neve 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 arete 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. 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.

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 Choebuk, 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 Choebuk 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 Choeyling 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.