IN MEMORIAM

‘Let us now praise famous men.' Others have written of Frank Smythe's general record and readers of The Times will not soon forget the noble tribute paid to him on 26th July, by that great mountaineer, Geoffrey Young.

To me falls the honour to pay respect on behalf of the Himalayan Club, whose battle honours include Kamet and other Garhwal peaks, and the forlorn hopes on Mount Everest, honours which none did more to sustain than Frank Smythe.

His was a complex personality. First impressions were of extreme youth, both of body and mind; a shy aloofness; a confidence born of experience and achievement; courage without Gasconnade; a whole-hearted enthusiasm, occasionally over-impulsive but usually controlled by a sane appreciation of facts. Finally, a warm heart and a sense of humour.

I write mainly from my knowledge of him on the Mount Everest expeditions of 1933 and 1936. He was not really at home in a large party, but this applies to many of us—how many mountaineers can call themselves 'good mixers' ? In the discussions rapidly degenerating into arguments and even acrid recriminations which are a feature of life at close quarters, he took little part and would retire into his own tent for peace and meditation. But on the many marches he and I did together he threw off reserve and was a good and stimulating companion, revealing often the thoughts of a mystic, and when the real mountaineering began his stature, both physical and mental, seemed to grow steadily. Altitude affected him so little that infirmities of various kinds, due mainly to lack of oxygen, took no hold upon him. On the Tibetan plateau, scourged by the spring winds and dust, he had taken a full share of work on transport and messing problems. Now he girded up his loins for the supreme struggle, and his hardihood became apparent.

Most mountaineers have, I think, an affection for 'ruggedness'— for toughness at all times; a pride in indifference to discomfort and in a capacity to endure in all conditions. Frank would have none of this. In face of tradition, and sometimes of ridicule, he preached his faith in 'be comfortable while you can, then stick it when you must'. So at the beginning of an expedition we would behold an apparently unmuscular, soft and almost paunchy Capuan, appreciative of the lush hospitality of the Planters' Club at Darjeeling and blandly unconscious of such a thing as training.

But we saw a different Frank when Base Camp was reached. The 350-mile march had given him all the training he needed, and he was fit, alert, and ready to play his part in the establishment of the camps up the East Rongbuk glacier, although not until the great ice-wall of the North Col had to be reconnoitred and climbed did his exceptional powers come into play. I wish he could have been spared the strain of this, but the 45-foot ice-cliff which barred the approach to the Col itself in 1933 needed the whole skill and courage of the best ice-expert in the party, and none of us will forget his superb effort; a compound of resolution, energy, balance, and sheer ability with the axe amounting to genius. I can see him now on his return to Camp III—tired but happy, and entirely modest.

For the attempts on the summit our chief hopes rested on him and Shipton in one party and on Wyn Harris and Wager in another. I remember discussing our chances with the pick of our porters in their tent on the North Col. Those shrewd judges of character and form were not personally devoted to Frank, who could never master more than a few words of their language and was a little shy with them. Their usual symbol of regard—a jovial nickname—was not bestowed upon him. But they unhesitatingly picked T slimy the Sahib’ as their best bet for the top.

Frank's bearing was beyond all praise. His three nights at Camp VI, at 27,400 feet, one of them spent alone, gave the men of science a new measure of human capacity, and his single-handed effort, after poor Shipton's collapse, has sustained our hopes that the summit can be reached in better conditions. That even he was nearing the limit was shown by his illusion, near the great couloir, that Shipton was with him on the rope; and by his apparent hallucinations in regard to cloud formations and movements, which we unkindly described as 'Frank's pulsating tea-kettles'. Yet he maintained his form on difficult ground, took photographs, coolly assessed the possibility of further advance and the likelihood of a better route; and, on his way back to the North Col, alone, survived a blizzard which would probably have been fatal to most men. Finally, he strolled into Camp III completely unruffled, and was the only man of those who had been high whose heart showed no sign of strain.

In 1936 there was no possibility of going beyond the North Col, but Frank's splendid judgement of snow conditions, so difficult in the Himalaya, probably averted a disaster on those treacherous slopes.

In 1938, which was a bad year also, he climbed with the party which reached about 27,000 feet, where snow stopped any further advance.

Of his successful ascent of Kamet and his climbs with Peter Oliver in Garhwal, I need not write in detail. Everywhere he showed the same ability, the same devotion to mountains, the same love of beauty in landscape and in flowers.

During the war his splendid knowledge was devoted to the design of special equipment for troops and the training of men on difficult ground: in Norway, in the Canadian Rockies, and in Sicily. His eye for country and his flair for conservation of energy and effortless, rhythmical speed were priceless assets in preparing men for action in the hills.

After the war he returned to Canada for one season of climbing and exploration, but his great love was the Himalaya, and this year he went out once more, partly to seek flowers and partly to attempt Panch Chuli in the Almora District. Little did I think, when I discussed Panch Chuli with him and offered a few notes on the possibilities of approach to that lovely mountain, that we would not meet again.

He, more than most, has conveyed to others less fortunate the grandeur of the high hills. He has done this through his lectures, his books, his unrivalled skill in mountain photography, and his unassuming contacts with all classes of men.

He has been taken from us untimely: a very great mountaineer, an artist, and a friend. Trater, ave atque vale.'

Hugh Ruttledge

⇑ Top