SOME MINOR EXPEDITIONS IN THE HIMALAYA

T. H. SOMERVELL

There are several ways of enjoying mountains. As seen from X below they show that striking contrast between the cold, blue and white, snowy peaks and the green and fertile valleys or dark slopes of pine-trees, which provide the picture postcard maker with his stock-in-trade. But most of us, and ill those among us who are mountaineers, are not content with the beauty of distance or of contrast—we want to get amongst the peaks and snow-fields; many of us want to go still farther and accept the challenge that all peaks present, the challenge to get to the top.

Personally, I am one of those fortunate beings who come into both these categories. I enjoy all mountains, small and great; looking at them, travelling among them, slogging away at the approaches to them, climbing their steep sides or ridges, attaining their summits if possible; but if not, what matter? The views are grand almost anywhere among them, and mountains are usually at their best from somewhere about half-way up a peak that is near them.

Among the Himalayas, I have climbed on many peaks, and attained the summits of but few. Yet it has all been good fun, good exercise, and above all good experience of the beautiful. When the Lama of Rongbuk Monastery asked us in 1922 why we wanted to climb Everest, General Bruce told lum that we wished to get as near Heaven as we could. He said this with a twinkle in his kindly and humorous eye; but he spoke more truth, perhaps, than he realized. For mountains, especially in the Himalayas, where distances are so great and the snows are so solitary, do bring us right away from the world and its materialism, and in very truth give us an experience of something which is, I believe, heavenly and divine. Some of Smythe's 'sermonizing' on these lines is not only very well written, but is very good sense. Mountains do help us to forget the world and its wars and quarrels and competition and all the artificial things which ordinary life holds in cities and factories, even in villages. So during the last twenty years of life in a village in India, I have made half a dozen expeditions to the mountains, not to climb great giants like Kamet or Nanda Devi, but to find uplift and beauty, to get good exercise and a change of climate from the relaxing moist air of Travancore. All these expeditions have been entirely unimportant. They have simply been ways of spending a holiday. But some of them have entailed a good deal of work. If you get asked on a big expedition, such as the Everest ones, which were my first introduction to the Himalaya, you have very little to do in preparation. Someone else is probably in charge of stores, another is O.G. tents, yet another gets the ropes and axes, another attends to the oxygen apparatus, and so on. But when you come to run for yourself an altogether minor expedition which will never get into the newspapers, you have got to do everything yourself—to look out coolies and porters and perhaps a pack animal or two; to get ready stores and tents; to remember that your ice-axe is in England and can't be got at, to find that you have a lovely warm coat but no suitable boots, that your primus stove has gone wrong, and that you stepped on your only goggles last year and forgot all about it.

If you are lucky enough to be able to start from a civilized 'centre', you will find an agent, like Karma Paul in Darjeeling or one of several in Srinagar, who will take on the whole of the question of food and transport and very likely provide some camp equipment for hire. But all places are not 'laid on' in this way, and unless you want to waste a lot of time at the start of your trek, you will have to get everything fixed up beforehand, either by letter, or, better, by the kind offices of some friend who is on the spot. But you will be rewarded for your trouble; for I have found, in common with many others, that a climbing expedition with one or two companions and no terrific objective can give a more real and serene enjoyment than you are likely to get from a large and spectacular attempt on a major peak. Perhaps because I am a solitary bird in some ways, I have made expeditions without any companions except a pony or two and a man to look after them. Under these circumstances one cannot do much serious mountaineering, but one can climb minor peaks, or go off into the blue all alone with a sketch-book and a camera, returning to camp at night after a grand day, with a few drawings, providing material for oil paintings to be done in the studio during the next few months or years, till the time comes round for another holiday in the hills.

The first expedition of this sort that I did was with my friend Crawford on the way back from the 1922 Everest Expedition. It was, of course, only a little side-show on the way home, and all our food and porters were already laid on, for we merely had to arrange for a few of the expedition's porters and a modicum of its food to be side-tracked with us in Lhonak, the northernmost valley of Sikkim, instead of going the longer way round by Phari Dzong and the Natu La.

In lovely weather we left the 'ordinary route' near Kampa Dzong and trekked up a long and stony valley, to the Naku La, with views of Ghomiomo and the northern outposts of Kang- chenjunga in front of us. Over the easy pass we found ourselves at once in green pastures and lush meadows looking down the long series of valleys leading to the south. But alas! The monsoon was in full swing, and our ascent of little Ghomiomo was done to an accompaniment of thunder and lightning, which sent us skeltering down the easy snowy dome to get refuge from the elements' rage in the gullies on the west side of the mountain. Next day in the lush meadows we said good-bye to Mallory, who was travelling straight home to Darjeeling; Crawford and I set off westward in very indifferent weather to try our luck in Lhonak. First of all we had to make a map of the mountain forming the northern border of Sikkim in this part. We stepped a base line of a mile and triangulated with a prismatic compass. It was fair weather and we could see enough to make a workable map; but we never saw those fine mountains again. Several times we attempted to climb them, and got stuck—once on a severe crack in a small but vertical face of rock, more usually on heavy, moist snow, of which we were both inordinately frightened, for both of us had, but a few weeks before, shared the perils of that terrible avalanche on the North Col which put an end to our third attempt on Everest, and killed several of our companions; and always in thick cloud, with or without falling snow or sleet. We got one day to the top of the Choten Niyima La, and a more desolate spot it would be hard to imagine in that weather. The peak to its east side looked easy, so we tried it; but here the heavy snow defeated us once more. So we turned our attention to the south side of the valley, and approached the Muted peak after climbing two i8,ooo-foot mountains which seemed but heaps of stones in comparison with the lovely things around them. To get on to that very beautiful cone, the Fluted peak, we had to cross a slope of snow; but when we threw a stone on it a lair-sized avalanche was started—and we were a bit too avalanche-shy to go farther. Then we made an attempt to get up to the Jonsong La, and took a camp high up the rough, stony and inhospitable glacier. Next day, as usual, it rained, or snowed—I forget which—-and we had to content ourselves with a dreary walk among mist and drizzle behind which we knew— for we had seen them in the early morning were fine mountains.

A few days later it was time to go, and back we went, sometimes doing double marches, crossing the southern outflank of Chomiomo (and climbing a small rocky peak) to that delightful place, Thangu. A pretty dud show, as far as views or weather or great summits are concerned. But it had its moments of real enjoyment, such as the quarter-hour when we saw Siniolchu from the north; and the fleeting visions of Langpo peak and Tent peak. Our reception at Thangu bungalow by Major and Mrs. Bailey, the first real roof that had been over our heads for four months, was one of the high lights. Damp rhododendron and soaking juniper provide a poor fire to dry one after fording unfordable and swollen streams in order to fail to climb an invisible mountain in sleet. But, even so, I enjoyed it, and so, I think, did Crawford.

* See map, p. 47.

 

In 1924 I again visited Everest; that year there were no sideshows, except for attempts to see Gaurisankar, one of which was, for ten minutes, successful, and provided Norton and myself with an unforgettable view of that most magnificent mountain from just across the valley to its north-west. In 1926 my wife and I joined Ruttledge and his wife and Col. (now Gen. Sir Roger) Wilson in an expedition to the northern side of Nanda Devi. I was taken ill with acute jaundice at half time and returned; but we had a most enjoyable month or so of trekking and climbing. It was hardly a 'minor' expedition, for we had seventy or more coolies, as well as several Everest porters, including that fine chap Chettan, who was killed on Kangchenjunga by an avalanche. The route lay through quite a different kind of country from the dense forests of Sikhim; most of the foothills of Kumaon are covered with widely spaced pine trees, with grass and bracken in between. In many places there are large clearings, and the river beds are rocky or stony and without vegetation. Several passes, of 4,000 feet or more tip and down, had to be crossed as we threaded our way across several valleys to get to Martoli, on the north-east side of Nanda Kot. Martoli, and the next village, Milam, are lovely places—groups of deserted houses in green fields awaiting their occupation in July by the shepherds who come up for grazing. All around the grassy valleys are peaks of the finest and most varied shapes, culminating in the east peak of Nanda Devi on one side, and in Pancha Chule on the other. Great spires of rock, and the contorted strata of the ‘Bad-dream mountain' overshadowed us to the north. And from Milam up a deeply cut valley to its north-east leads the track to Mansarowar and Kailas, the land of Hindu legend, 'the source of all the big rivers of India and of all spiritual beings and blessings'. Our first task, based on Milam, was to try to see the northern face of Nanda Devi. Owing to the circle of high mountains which completely surrounds the northern foot of this lovely peak, and the glaciers which flow down its northern side, nobody had ever seen this face of Nanda Devi. So nobody knew if there might not be a way up, at least as hopeful as the way by which it was finally climbed by Odell and Tilman and which at that time (1926) was believed to be inaccessible. Ruttledge, Wilson and I, with a few of our porters and four tents between us, went up a glacier which is the lowest tributary that actually leads down to the Milam glacier. We camped in a lovely place among rocks and snow, about 12,000 feet. Next day we went up the glacier and camped on ice, where I felt a bit of a fool as I got fever and headache and seemed to be suffering from altitude- at 14,000 feet! Anyway, I was all right next morning, and we went on up the complicated ice-fall which leads to the upper neve. Thence we thought we could go up the mountain side at the head of the glacier, and be the first people ever to look down on the northern slopes or cliffs of the highest mountain wholly in the British Empire. The last and most rickety snow-bridge on that fantastic ice-fall seemed to take hours to cross, as we were under continuous bombardment from stones falling from the cliffs on our south side; for the sun was getting up. At last across the bridge, we had to contour along the edge of the upper neve, for the snow was too deep to be comfortable. Here again we advanced under a steady fire from mountain artillery. But when at last we were forced to take to the snow, it proved so deep a nd so exhausting that we had to give up all thoughts of attaining the edge of the basin that evening, and we had no food for a further day. So one more failure was added to my already discreditable list which began with Everest. Having failed to see over the basin from its edge, we next thought of trying to look over the edge from a higher mountain a few miles away. The best viewpoint seemed to be the Kwanl Ganga-ka Pahar to the north-east of Milam. So there we went-one day up the deep gorge which in places nearly proved impassable, and which is without exception the riskiest bit of travelling on an ordinary trade route that I have ever done.

The gorge led out to an open valley at the foot of our peak which sloped relentlessly up from the valley bed. In this we camped, and next day Wilson, Mr. and Mrs. Ruttledge and myself climbed up to 15,500 feet with small tents, sending our coolies down. The following day we took our camp to 17,500, on a snowy shelf facing west and with a glorious view, and the next day we climbed up the south-west ridge of the mountain. It was not too easy with its shattered rock (like the Taschhorn), and its deep snow. But we got up the ridge, and landed less than 1,000 feet from the top of the peak at a shoulder from which a lovely snowy crest curved up to the summit. Could we get up in the hour? We were debating this point and the likelihood of avalanches, when one of the party was found to be suffering from sickness. That decided us to register yet another failure, in order to get down to a lower level for our camp. And it was perhaps as well we did so, as far as I was concerned. For within two days I was down with jaundice. The views we obtained of the northern side of Nanda Devi were magnificent, and so was Nanda Kot; both of them quite unforgettable. So our climb had not been in vain. My wife had climbed up to over 16,000 feet to meet me on the way down, and we got a meal ready for the others before they arrived in camp. But the next day I was quite laid up, and must have got a chill on the liver. I could eat nothing at all, had some fever, and went yellow all over. And I had to be back at Almora in ten days' time. On the way out, I had wondered whether the trip was going to be too much for my wife, for it was her first expedition among the Himalaya. But I need not have bothered about that, for on the return journey, as I dragged my weary footsteps up the passes and felt almost moribund when we arrived at the camping site later in the day, my wife was a tower of strength, carrying the rucksack, pitching the tent, getting meals and a hot-water bottle ready, and managing the cook and the coolies as if she had travelled in the Himalaya all her life. After about a week of walking without solid food at all, my appetite suddenly returned at the sight of a fish. A villager who wished to make a favourable impression on the Commissioner came along with this appetizing six-pounder in his hand, and was bitterly disappointed to find I was not the D.C. But I wasn't going to lose that fish—the one thing for which I felt I at last had an appetite. So I told him how intimate a friend I was with Ruttledge, how we were really his representatives, and so on. And the fish was ours.

(Photo by T.H. Somervell) 1. Kangchenjunga and peaks running down to the W. Guicha La. Beginning of North Ridge of Pandim on right

Photo by T.H. Somervell

1. Kangchenjunga and peaks running down to the W. Guicha La. Beginning of North Ridge of Pandim on right

2. Above Gurais

Photo by T.H. Somervell

2. Above Gurais

3. The Rupal Nalla, with Nanga Parbat (Photo by T.H. Somervell)

Photo by T.H. Somervell

3. The Rupal Nalla, with Nanga Parbat

(Photo by T.H. Somervell) 4. Nanga Parbat from South

Photo by T.H. Somervell

4. Nanga Parbat from South

The next mountain holiday I had was with Allsup in Sikhim, in 1928. We got together a grand lot of Everest porters and our stores, arid went by the Pemiongchi monastery route to Jongri, in order to attempt Pandim, the nearest major Himalayan peak to civilization which had never been climbed. At Pemiongchi the lamas were friendly, and it was interesting to compare their little temple and ashram with the much larger monasteries I knew in Tibet. Somebody was a bit too friendly and stole my aneroid, companion of 150 climbs, from my bedroom at the Dak Bungalow, through an open window. Moral—open your windows at the top, not the bottom, when near monasteries. Next day something went wrong, and our Sirdar told us we must split the march into two. So our march was only a few miles, to our next camp; but the lovely views of Kabru made up for it, and to one who like myself enjoys painting mountains, there is something to be said for a short day's march. Then down a steep slope to the river, across it, and up the other side to a grassy plateau, on which was a village, Yoksam, the head-man of which graciously offered us his house to sleep in. We had a look inside, and as graciously declined. Our party of two climbers was, we thought, sufficient without increasing our numbers by several thousands. The tame Lama of the village from Dubdi came along to our tent and offered to pray for fine weather for our expedition, if we rewarded him suitably. We gave him 8 annas, considered ample reward by our staff, but not by the Lama, who procured in return only 8 annas' worth of fine weather.

The next two days were the most romantic of any days I have had in Himalayan foothills—more like a story in Blackwood than anything else. We made our way along a quite invisible path, which was usually an unknown quantity to us, for we were hardly ever on it. On a slope of 45° (which seemed nearer 8o° in most places) there grows an impenetrable forest for many miles, and every tree of that forest had made up its mind to do its very best to keep trespassers away by reinforcing with lianas and other parasitic growths the already impassable undergrowth. The path (when we found it) was seldom more than 6 in (lies wide, and in some places went actually along branches and roots. It took us all our time, but we got there somehow and found a cave with signs of previous travellers, where we got very warm, and almost dry, by a colossal camp-fire. The next day we got down a steep slope, crossed a foaming torrent, Prek Chu, on a broken bridge which necessitated a bathe in the rushing water and a roping-up of t he party.

Suddenly the country changed. After a mile or two of forest and undergrowth we reached a really good path that is to say, an unmistakable one—and for 7,000 feet we kept to the spur of the long ridge which leads up to Jongri. Here we pitched our tents amid snow and ice and agreed that it was an ideal place for the Mountain Club of India to build a hut. (The Himalayan club had only just begun and had not come my way in those early days.) After a day of sketching and short walks to get views when the clouds allowed, we went off to camp below the Guicha La through the vale of the Prek Chu, to the snow-covered Chemthang, in that lovely amphitheatre which is dominated by the impressive western face of Pandim. We decided to prospect, and see where we could pitch a camp from which Pandim could be climbed in a day. Obviously, somewhere a bit above and to the south-east of the Guicha La. So, to reconnoitre, we went up the pass next day, in thick mist most of the way, and with hopes of a camp site, if only the mist rolled away. But it didn't, and what we thought would be the simple north ridge of Pandim turned out to be such a complex pile of seracs and gendarmes, lying there just as if thrown down at random by some colossal giant, that we knew it was hopeless to try Pandim in such weather. So after enjoying the fine view of Kangchenjunga and Simvu from the Guicha La (see H.J., vol. viii, p. 132) which we saw bit by bit between the clouds, but never in its full magnificence, we returned to camp again feeling that it was not worth pushing forward in such weather. Another failure. And a decision to try some of the minor but possibly entertaining peaks round about the Kang La and the Kokthang. So down we went from Jongri, and this time up the steep track leading to the Kang La, slithering about in the most infernal mixture of slush and mud I have ever seen.

Once up the steep part, we entered the altogether delightful valley of the Tikip Chu, and there we camped. We passed on up the valley, with magnificent views, when the clouds allowed us to have them, of the mountains—Kabru and little Kabru, Kokthang— and some fine smaller ones such as the Kabru Dome and the Forked peak. We explored one or two glaciers to the northern side of our valley, and encamped again at the foot of the snow-field which led up to the Kang La. Here unfortunately Allsup got dysentery, and I had to do a solitary ascent of the peak north of the Kang La, which must surely have one of the grandest views that any mountain of its size (17,910 feet) enjoys. I saw it bit by bit as the clouds showed a rift, and the sight of Jannu, even in pieces, is not to be forgotten; for surely Jannu is one of the world's finest peaks. Between our camp and Kabru is a delightful range of mountains, culminating in the domed peak which Cooke climbed seven years later (.H.J., vol. viii, p. 107). The weather got worse and worse, so that, instead of going back the straight way to Chiabanjan and Phalut, we had to retrace our steps-our porters were not well-shod enough to brave the rigours of a 15,ooo-foot pass, the Oma La, in an April of blizzards. On our return through the steep forest between Yoksam and Dubdi, we encountered our lama friend and complained to him about the weather. 'What do you expect for 8 annas? If you had given me a rupee you would have had good weather' he told us. Back to Pemiongchi and down the long slope via Singachelling to Dentam, where we found that our porters had gone on up the hill to Chiabanjan, so we had to follow, the last few miles of that steep and tiring ascent—at the end of a 17-mile march—being made in the most torrential rain. Fagged out, we camped at the deserted Chiabanjan. Next day in mist and rain over Singalila hill to Phalut, but not unrewarded-—for we had a fine view of Chamlang for an hour or so, though Makalu and Everest were hidden. Then another march in mixed weather to Sandakphu, and a miraculous morning. We rose early to find all the clouds rolled away, and the finest panorama in Asia spreading before us, all as clear as crystal, with the sun just lighting up the tops and ridges with gold, while all else was in deep purple shadow. What a morning! At Thanglu we were rewarded richly by the faithful George Wood-Johnson, who had come out to meet us with an incredible number of bottles of beer in his rucksack. And so to Darjeeling and to work again after a completely unsatisfactory holiday, in which we had done nothing we intended to do, but which had. provided us with many hours of deep enjoyment, and a few moments of Paradise.

The next expedition I made was to Nanga Parbat. A mountain is always at its best from some peak close to it, but well below its height. And I wanted to enjoy Nanga Parbat, not to climb it— to paint it, not struggle with it. I had hoped to go with Humphrey Trevelyan, but he could not get leave, so I had to go alone. By the kind offices of the late Dr. Neve, who put me up at Srinagar and put me wise with regard to personnel and equipment, I started off with an old shikari, called Abdulla, and his son, Aziz Ganai, who had been with the Germans on Nanga Pafbat but had not done any climbing. We first made a week's tour with a few practice climbs, on Mahadeo and two other peaks, one on either side of the Sind valley. We had good weather, fine views, and I managed to teach Aziz the use of rope and axe, and found him an intelligent pupil. He was to be my only climbing companion on the mountains we had our eyes on, to the southern and western sides of Nanga Parbat. After reprovisioning at Srinagar, we set out, a party of four, to get there. A lovely lazy day boating down the river and across the Wular Lake to Bandipur. There we collected a few coolies to take us as far as Gurais. Up over the snow-covered Tragbal pass, with marvellous views, from Nanga Parbat to the north to the delicate blue beauty of the Pir Panjal in the south-east, reflected in the mirror of the Wular lake. At Gurais we changed our coolies, and had some difficulty in persuading a party to come with us, for the Burzil pass had not been crossed that year. However, at last we got them to come, and set off in glorious weather over the long snow-fields of the Burzil—what a place for ski-ing! We had some companions on our trek over the pass, Yarkandis looking for all the world like the chorus in a Russian Opera. We almost expected them at any moment to do the Polovtzian dances from Prince Igor. Without knowing a word of their lingo, we made friends with them, and a fine hardy lot they were. Down at the other side of the pass we thawed out at Sardar Chauki, and after a long day turned in at Chillam Bungalow.

As we went down towards Godai, I traversed along at a high level above the valley on the eastern side, and got some grand views of Nanga Parbat. The first near sight of that glorious peak, now only a few miles away, is one of the big experiences of a lifetime. I had never seen anything so beautiful, nor so emphatically proclaiming its Divine origin. As a painter, it called me, of course, to put something down on to canvas—but also to worship.

At Gurikot we joined in the local game of polo on one of those 200 by 30 yards polo grounds which every village hereabouts possesses. My attention was divided between keeping my own seat and place in the game on the one hand, and admiring the superb horsemanship of the local team on the other. Next day, rounding the corner into the Rupal nalla, we were suddenly confronted with the colossal south face of Nanga Parbat in all its glory. Another period of worship. The sight of the great white object of our pilgrimage acted as a spur and made me long to get on to it, as mountains always do. But this urge had to be restrained, for there was painting to be done, and after all we wanted to climb not Nanga herself but the mountains round about her. We found a delightful camping ground on a level field near the village of Rampur, and there we stayed for over a week, climbing each day one or other of the 16,000- or 17,000-foot mountains near by. One day I crossed the stream—a fair-sized river—on the excellent bridge near by, and went along its northern bank, and up a peak just opposite the Rakiot summit of Nanga Parbat. Here we were right in the heart of the most stupendous snow and ice scenery. We climbed no great mountain, but we had plenty of fun getting to our three unnamed summits, and the most glorious weather; not a cloud on the great mountain for five days together, and then only just the right amount to give mystery to the peak without obscuring so much that one could not see its architecture.

The mention of that word emboldens me to write a word to painters of mountains. Too many amateurs fail to do good mountain pictures because they don't draw their mountains. They do capable pine-trees and lush green valleys, and behind it they put a mountain without dignity, or solidity, or beauty. The reason—lack of drawing ability. We cannot reproduce nature, so let us try to simplify her mass of detail, and to let the majesty of the mountains appear. The only way to do that is to get the main lines of the mountain right. Don't try to make them steeper than they are in order to be more effective. Simplify the general outlines, almost one might say 'cubify' them; let not details, however delightful or however significant to the climber, take your eye or your pencil away from the right proportions. Professor Nicholas Roerich, the finest mountain painter now alive, has got the knack of getting all the dignity of the hills on to his canvas, by deliberately letting only the really significant lines of the peaks and glaciers and rocky foregrounds be reproduced by his brush, very often in a simple curve or line.

We had an amusing return journey from Rampur to Srinagar. Our Gurais coolies went home when we made our camp, well satisfied with their pay, as we indeed were with their work. For our return we thought we should easily get coolies from Rampur. But would they go? We offered them twice the ordinary rate; but there were no offers from the inhabitants of the Rupal nalla. The people there had plenty of horses and crops and goats and dogs—why should they want to go a journey and get money for it? All their commerce in those parts is done by barter. Rupees meant nothing except to the few very wealthy men of the 'head-man' type, who were a cut above coolie work. But at last the worthy Abdulla persuaded a man with three ponies to come. He drew an eloquent word-picture of the delights of Bandipur, and the lovely things—carpets, harness, clothes that could be had there in exchange for the filthy and worthless lucre which we offered for his ponies' services.

Two days away from Rampur, we camped ;it one of the most delightful spots I have seen in all my travels. To east and west of us were a grand lot of peaks, very like the Zei rnatt peaks in size and shape, including a replica of the Matterhorn, correct in every particular including the ridge, but slightly smaller than our Swiss friend. What a place for a climbing holiday. Only one day farther than the bungalow the other side of the Kamri pass. A village band to regale the dull evenings, with two tunes in their repertoire. Friendly people, with plenty of cows and goats and hens. And a selection from fifty mountains of Alpine size, most of them virgin peaks, and all within two days of the summit (if attainable). The place itself an ideal valley, open enough to be airy and to see over the top of one side of it the lovely Nanga herself.

The next two days took us over the Kamri pass—a good, short pass, with deep snow on the north side and none on the south. The ponies could not manage the snow and their legs simply went through it. Again and again we tried, but there was no 'beaten track', as once again we were the first to cross this pass in the year. So we just had to unload the ponies and carry the stuff ourselves. The ponies could do it all right unloaded, and walked up, sinking in only every fourth step or so. Three times I went up and down that pass to get the loads up, and decided not to offer myself as a coolie for Himalayan parties. We finally got over, and glissaded down snow-filled gullies while the ponies went down by the path much of it free from snow on this southern side. And so back to Srinagar having done nothing to write home about, but had a real good time with glorious views and weather.

The next trip I made to the Himalaya was in 1937 to the Simla district. This was forced upon me by a septic foot which couldn't wear a boot, so I had to choose a place where I could push-bike among the mountains. The Hindustan-Tibet road through Simla was ideal for this; and with two mules and a driver, kindly provided by the P.W.D., I started off on a push-bike, which the forest officer, an Indian, kindly lent me. This arrangement enabled me to do plenty of sketching, and we had grand weather for this; it was the time of year (May) for clouds and sudden showers interrupting bright, sunny days, just the best type of weather for pictorial effects. If I saw anything I wanted to sketch, I would sit down and do it while the mules came up, and by the time I had finished they were a mile or two ahead, so that I soon caught up again. In this way I went the first five days' march. Here the road got much rougher, and as my foot had recovered sufficiently to wear a boot, I left the bike at the Dak bungalow and went on with the mules, on foot. When we got to Dharm Gatti, we left the road and turned south-east to camp on the rough ground towards the shapely Hansbeshan, only a small mountain by Himalayan standards (17,000 feet) but a fine outstanding rocky peak, not too easy of ascent. Here there were two difficulties—the impossibility of getting local men to take a camp up high, and the foot which had had too much walking and was very painful. So I had to sit down to a painting holiday rather than a climbing one.

But it was not a bad holiday, though perhaps the least interesting and the least successful of all my Himalayan trips. The mountains are really rather too far away from Simla to be climbable in a limited holiday. A better expedition could be made by leaving the Tibet road at Narkunda and striking north towards Kulu, exploring the fine peaks to the north-east of this track. They provide great variety of steepness and size, and would give a grand holiday of climbing to anyone who went there.

The next Himalayan trip I did was not mountaineering at all, but simply trekking and view-finding. I was very anxious that my wife should see Everest before she left India, and I knew she was keen to see the glories of the Himalaya in that part of the world. So we went up to Darjeeling, with our small boy of seven, in January 1943. We stayed at Singtom tea estate for a week or two, on the side of the Darjeeling hills that faces the Himalaya, and there, with the aid of our kind host Davenport and of my old Everest friend Karma Paul, we got up a small party of ten coolies (including a few of the old-stagers who had been with me before) and went up the Singalila ridge to Phalut. We started in pouring rain, amid the jeers of my friends at the Planters' Club. But I said to them: 'No, we're not mad as you suppose. If we start in bad weather we'll get it fine just when we want it.' I can't say I said this with much conviction, but as events turned out it was right. After two days of real stormy and unpleasant weather, we got up to Tanglu and settled down at the bungalow in a snowstorm, to wake the next morning with a gorgeous sunrise and a superb view. The pull up next day to Sandakphu was done in snow; but the barometer was rising, and for our two days at Sandakphu and two at Phalut we had the most glorious weather imaginable. I fear I was very unsociable, sketching at every opportunity; but with that lovely view in front of one all day, what else can a painter do? L began sketching each day before sunrise when it was so cold that the brush froze before one could get it on the paper; and I had to do pastels until the sun came up. But what a wealth of subjects there were! From Gaurisankar in the west to Siniolchu in the east, every detail in that glorious panorama was visible for four days, and one simply had to drink it all in, once again in a spirit more akin to worship than to any other emotion.

We came back via Ramam and Rimbik; a way not so gorgeous as the ridge-walk, but introducing us to grand forest scenery, a small monastery, and some very jolly walks though devoid of the great panorama. But as the weather was now on the rebound, and never clear except in the early morning, it was a suitable way home, and we had had an unforgettable ten days as a memory to brood over for many years to come.

In 1944 for my last holiday in the Himalaya J filled in the gap between Simla and Kashmir by going to Kulu, and on as soon as possible to Lahul. A grand place for climbing, with hundreds of mountains up to 22,000 feet, many of them accessible with one or at least two nights camping above the villages and the Dak bungalows. How I wish I had discovered Lahul before. I recommend it heartily as perhaps the best climbing-ground of all for those who don't feel able to tackle the major peaks, or who have a holiday limited in time. The weather there in late September was perfect, and I believe it usually is at that time. Good climbing to any of my fellow members of the Himalayan Club who find themselves in Kulu or Lahul. Perhaps, like the writer, they will feel that for feasibility and weather, if not for size, the Lahul mountains are the best of the lot. I trust it won't be many years before I am there again myself, or, if not there, at some other part of India's glorious northern boundary.

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