BRUCE'S SOLANG WEISSHORN

(Reprinted from the Alpine Journal)

ROBERT PETTIGREW

According to A. P. F. Hamilton, an early authority on the area, ' the Solang nullah is undoubtedly the most picturesque in Kulu, the forest and mountain scenery being glorious ; at the end of the valley stands a towering cliff which culminates in a sharp, snowy peak (19,450 feet), which has been compared by General Bruce to the WeisshornBruce's judgement is supported by a comparison of Donkin's photograph in 1883 from the south of the Weisshorn⁹ with Pettigrew's photograph in 1963 from the north of the Solang Weisshorn.¹⁰

For several years I had been trying to get to grips with the Solang Weisshorn, alternatively known to the local paharis (hill- men) as Hanuman Tibba. From time to time I had been in a position, usually on the opposite side of the Beas River, to admire its distinctive, asymmetrical shape which clearly dominates the lofty and precipitous ridge running south from the Pir Panjal to join the Dhaula Dhar range at a point opposite the ancient town of Nagar in the Beas Valley. It is this ridge which separates Kulu from Bara and Chota Bangahal, also part of the Kangra district in which lie the headwaters of the Ravi River. And it was this ridge, I felt, which would give the key to the ascent rather than the Solang nullah approach which had defeated my party in the post-monsoon season of 1963.³ In addition, the southern approach would reveal much new mountain country which, being well clear of the new Inner Line restrictions, would not be closed to mountaineers from Europe who wished to climb in the Punjab Himalaya.

According to local legend Bruce's party, led by the Swiss guide Heinrich Fuhrer of Meiringen, had also approached by the Manalsu nullah but it seems more likely that they actually approached the peak by way of the Solang nullah, crossed Bruce's Pass, 16,391 feet,¹¹ at the head of the nullah, traversed the west side of the mountain and made the first ascent by the South Ridge or the south face (see sketch-map).

 

Our party in the pre-monsoon season of 1966 was an Indo- British one organized by the active Bombay Climbers' Club.⁵ We employed four high-altitude porters (two Sherpas and two Ladakhis) and seven Tibetan porters to establish Base Camp. Our valley base was the well-known village of Manali, 6,200 feet, situated at the junction of the Beas and Manalsu rivers where we assembled in the middle of May. To find the best means of access to the Manalsu nullah, which had rejected my advances on three previous occasions, we employed Ghere Ram, a shikari (hunter) from Old Manali.

As a result of employing the Sherpas we were treated to a charming leave-taking ceremony of the scarves on May 21. It was conducted by Sirdar Wongdhi, sirdar of the successful French expedition to Jannu and founder of the new Sherpa Institute in Manali.

Leaving Manali we were soon committed to a good path climbing steeply through the pine forest of Doongri, past the great Pagoda Temple of the goddess Harimba, taking the prominent wooded spur falling from Khanpara Tibba, 13,207 feet, by whose north flank we hoped to turn the hitherto impassable cliffs of the lower Manalsu nullah. We camped at 7,730 feet and the speedy production of supper indicated that the heterogeneous party had settled down well.

We resumed the ascent of Khanpara Tibba the next day resting wherever spectacular viewpoints occurred. Subsequently our track joined the old pony track to Bara Bangahal where it skirted the base of a cliff. From here we looked northwards to the Rohtang La, 13,050 feet, and the peaks of Lahul beyond it, notably the Gyephang, 19,259 feet, first climbed by Wollaston and Platts in 1954." The going became pleasanter as we wended our way into Lama Durg—a fine level thach (grazing ground) with excellent views of the Khanpara Tibba summit dome and the boulders beneath it, among which we hoped to camp.

Beyond Lama Durg we were astonished to find, in an unexpected cirque, a tree-fringed tranquil lake, and Rudyard Kipling's description of Kulu suddenly became alive:

J. Nanavati, V. Nadkarni, E. G. Warhurst, R. G. Pettigrew (Leader). Sherpas: Pasang Lakpha, Ang Nima. Ladakhis: Rinzing, Chering Nam- f,yal. Ghere Ram of Old Manali was the pathfinder over the first section of the route, and seven Tibetan porters assisted the expedition to establish Base Camp.

A.J., Vol. 60, p. 62.

'—the great glaciers, the naked rocks, the piled moraines and tumbled shale ; dry upland, hidden salt-lake, age- old timber and fruitful watershot valley one after the other.'

By camping early at a height of 10,725 feet we were able to utilize the afternoon for reconnoitring the route high across the north flank of Khanpara Tibba. Belatedly, Pasang, Rinzing and Ghere Ram returned with discouraging intelligence. A route along the ridge running westward from the summit of Khanpara Tibba (which, we had envisaged, would carry us clear over the difficulties of the main gorge and its tributaries) was out of the question for our ill-shod porters because of deep snow. Reluctantly we were forced to opt for a route which lost height dramatically but which at least appeared to descend into the main nullah beyond the impassable cliffs of the true left bank. This would certainly involve us in a rigorous campaign of jungle-bashing punctuated by cliffs and couloirs, but there was now no alternative.

Next day our march consisted of a series of ascending traverses across great bluffs separated by steep little nullahs until we reached a terminal shoulder from which we had an excellent view into the upper Manalsu nullah. Immediately ahead lay the first transverse ' barrier' nullah, deep and uninviting, its walls steep cliffs which we aimed to turn by an ascending traverse on the bulbous flank of Khanpara Tibba. We followed the tracks of the recce party over a prominent boss, contouring high on the north face only a few hundred feet below the summit. However, the Tibetans, fearing a prolonged traverse over snow, refused to join us and Rinzing caught us up to let us know that the main body would try to descend to the Manalsu River via the first barrier nullah. We went on, turned the head of the nullah, and descended easily to the opposite wall where we met the caravan contouring unhappily above the vertical cliffs they had been unable to descend.

Reunited, we now stood on a promontory ; a deeper, apparently fiercer barrier nullah lay ahead and the Tibetans, by descending too early, had involved us in a very troublesome route. On the other hand, we had been unable to afford the cost of equipping the coolies with adequate footwear for prolonged traverses over snow. Despite their switch-backing experience with 65-lb. loads the Tibetans were still not disgruntled—one even addressed me as ‘Maharajah ' !

We pitched the tents at 9,950 feet on an excellent site with an impressive sweep of deodar forest, dense and mysterious, flanking the main gorge of the Manalsu nullah immediately below us. The site, a step in the spur, was marked by a craggy outcrop from the top of which emerged a magnificent bushy-top tree, visible for miles. On our arrival a brilliantly plumaged monal pheasant started up and plummeted across the nullah in a wide arc, uttering its alarm call.

From the first we had noted the stern cliffs on the far side of the second barrier nullah, now entitled the Moat, and Pasang in a solo recce went down to investigate its difficulties. He returned to report that he had found a possible weakness—a prominent gully—in the vertical, jungle-topped cliffs of the far wall of the Moat. During the night it rained heavily and a steady drizzle persisted the next morning.

In dismal weather Pasang, Rinzing and I set off to take the route across the Moat. Our way to the bed of the nullah lay down gently tilted slabs littered with scree and heavily vegetated. In contrast, the opposite wall reared up decisively from the bed of the snow-filled Moat in tiers of vertical and overhanging cliffs. It soon became apparent that Pasang had located the one possible weakness in our line of march—a snow be-ribboned gully of classical form which, though it fell short of the cliff top, appeared to link up with a second gully, less well defined, but emerging unmistakably in the jungle at the top of the cliffs. From the bed of the Moat a firm tongue of snow ran conveniently up to the foot of the gully. This we mounted until it was possible to step across into the wet, mossy corner and climb strenuously the little overhang to a patch of snow still adhering tenaciously to the gully bed. Pasang protected the start of the climb with a piton from which he suspended an etrier for the sake of the laden men who would follow us.

Scrambling in the bed of the gully led easily to the next obstacle formed by characteristically narrowing walls capped by a large chockstone. We turned this on the right by climbing a streaming wet wall aided, and sometimes hindered, by dense vegetation. From this point we hung the Manila fixed rope in which we had tied large loops at frequent intervals to give assistance at every stage in the ascent of the gully. Steep but easy climbing up old snow followed until the first gully terminated in a shallow cave at the foot of a vertical cliff. To protect the ascent of the steep snow tongue in the upper half of the gully we draped a second fixed rope from a piton in the back 7 of the cave. Breaking out of the gully by the right wall we climbed easily through dense vegetation to the foot of the upper, shallower gully which we followed in snow steps to the top of the cliffs.

After an hour's reconnaissance to confirm that a route, however arduous, did exist through the jungle from the gully exit to the Manalsu River, we rappelled down the fixed ropes to join the others who were waiting expectantly in camp.

All next day was spent getting the party across the Moat and through the jungle beyond it to the true right bank of the Manalsu River at a point well beyond the impassable gorge section which had repulsed me thrice before.

The Tibetans were in good spirits and even showed enthusiasm for the route. As Nanavati and I arrived at the floor of the Moat, Rinzing's party was at grips with the gully, passing up loads and men to the accompaniment of great gusts of laughter at the gyrations caused by the first pitch. From the gully exit in the cliff top jungle the route lay down the line prepared by Rinzing and Pasang the day before ; it was well blazed for Rinzing had been energetic with the hand-axe and we made steady progress. Eventually, however, traversing in thick, unyielding birch forest became very trying on tempers and we were both delighted and relieved to break out into an arena of gigantic scree where we rested at 12 noon. Below, the river was clearly visible beyond the last strip of jungle.

But this proved to be the last straw and the Tibetans were in a mutinous mood as we pitched camp near an old avalanche tongue adjacent to the Manalsu torrent. Eventually they were persuaded to continue to the site of Base Camp on the condition that there would be no more fixed rope sections ! This condition was barely met because next day in the upper gorge section the old snow roofing the torrent, on which we had relied for easy going, had collapsed and we were forced once again to traverse spectacularly a steep, vegetated knoll on the true left bank to turn the last section of impassable cliffs. Greatly attenuated the party struggled wearily up to the Taintah waterfall to camp, incredulously, on easy ground in the very place long viewed from afar as the most desirable goal in the world.

Just after 6 o'clock next morning we entered the main valley intent on locating a site for Base Camp. Suddenly Rinzing called out' Tangrol !' and pointed up to a spur on the north wall of the nullah. A herd of 11 ibex paused momentarily on the skyline and then, one by one, dropped out of sight having given us a magnificent introduction to a true Lost Valley. It was a majestic cleft. On our left hand, to the west and north, an abrupt and snowy mountain wall partitioned Kulu from Chota Bangahal, while on our right hand a spectacular precipice 2,000 feet high bordered the east side. Within lay a gently undulating valley floor through which flowed the young Manalsu stream and a network of tributaries. All difficulties of approach were instantly forgotten at the entrance to this valley. Curving around to the north-east, three miles distant, lay the snow tongue leading to the lower moraines of the great glacier draining the snows of the Solang Weisshorn Massif.

In this idyllic place at 11,500 feet, on the last sizable patch of dry ground and on the true left bank of the stream, we selected our Base Camp-site. In seven days we had covered only nine miles and gained a mere 5,300 feet. The Tibetans assembled and thankfully dumped their loads for the last time. Nanavati calculated their wages and we added a percentage as baksheesh and six days' supply of food. Finally, with many cheerful waves and cries of farewell, they set off back to Manali, having carried splendidly and quite erased my earlier, distasteful impressions of Tibetans as porters in Kulu.⁷

We organized Base Camp and prepared to reconnoitre the route on to the lower neves to the south of the Solang Weisshorn, still hidden by the high ridges of the Kulu /Bara Bangahal divide which forms the left containing wall of the upper Manalsu nullah.

Carrying the elements of Camp 1, the whole party, excepting Pasang, who was ill, set off to explore the upper Manalsu on May 28. After 2 1/2 miles of undulating valley floor and well short of the lower moraines of the main glacier approach to the Solang Weisshorn, ruled out because of its length, we took a diagonal line to the north-west over the prominent moraine band. Passing beneath the cliffs of a truncated spur above Seri, we climbed up into the basin bounded on the west by the precipitous e astern wall of the divide. The route was long, tortuous and slow. However, encamped, we were four miles and 3,100 feet beyond Base Camp, an average spacing in Kulu. That night it snowed heavily and next morning we were forced to make an ignominious withdrawal to Base Camp where we licked our wounds for two days.

On May 31 we started back to re-occupy Camp 1 in strength, placing the whole contingent on the lower flank of the mountain. Unfortunately bad weather hit us again—a layer of stratus seemed to sit on the mountains to the north and snow fell steadily. There were brief clearances in the weather but the prospect for advancing was pretty discouraging. By evening the snow-fall was so persistent that it was decided we should lie low on June 1 and let the fresh snow consolidate. In the event, it was still snowing in the night but apart from postponing the next stage of the assault we failed completely to assess the long- term effect of such a heavy snow-fall.

During the evening of the enforced rest-day Pasang and Rinzing decided to climb out of the basin to the north and take a look over the rim. They ascended steadily in soft snow until they breasted the final slope of the rim and disappeared from our view. About 15 minutes later they reappeared and glissaded down the main couloir in the basin wall to join us in camp. They confirmed that a great maidan (snow plateau) led to the foot of the Solang Weisshorn as had been postulated. We planned that teams A and B would establish Camp 2 at about 16,500 feet, team B withdrawing to Camp 1 afterwards. On June 3, all being well, team A would attempt the climb and descend to Camp 1 whether successful or not. Meanwhile team B would climb to Camp 2 in support, and would then attempt the ascent on June 4. A 2 a.m. call was decreed for the next morning.

As the day dawned we were approaching the top of the couloir where we bore eastwards around the top of a rock buttress, an outlier of the divide, which formed the west wall of the couloir. Emerging on to the level plateau we saw first the 18,000-foot peak which bounded the first snow-field. Its southern aspect was a steep snow face seamed by parallel outcropping buttresses.

But the eye was caught by the isolated mountain beyond the second snow-field. Here, undoubtedly, was the Solang Weisshorn and we instinctively steered towards it. Looking north the south face was the first feature to command attention with its massive seracs extruded from the dormant ice-fall. The South Ridge marched steeply up the west side of the face enclosing it with a formidable array of buttresses, aretes and gendarmes. To the east, the neves descended ponderously to form the East Ridge, which was also visible from the Solang nullah, immediately to the north. At the top of the East Ridge, where it rose steeply in a shoulder to form the summit cone, were three distinctive, steep buttresses of yellow rock, visible from both northern and southern viewpoints.

Unexpectedly we arrived at the northern limit of the first snow-field to meet a deep depression between the cliffs which terminated the long East Ridge of Point 18,096 feet on the west and the shapely Point 17,400 feet to the east. There was a height difference of 300 feet which we descended rapidly by glissading to resume the plod across the second snow-field. To the west I noted with surprise a broad snow avenue sweeping easily into the Bara Bangahal. This is unmarked on the Survey of India sheet 52H/SW ½ -inch series, which shows instead a high ridge linking Point 18,096 feet with the Solang Weisshorn aid bounding the west side of the second snow-field. This is completely fictitious. It is certain, too, that one could reach the south face of the Solang Weisshorn by a rather circuitous route through the Solang nullah, across Bruce's Pass, 16,391 feet, followed by a traverse beneath the west face to the easy open neves mentioned above.¹²

 

During the march I had plenty of time to weigh up the possibilities of a route to the summit of our objective. At first I favoured a route over the neve formations of the East Ridge but I was soon convinced by Pasang and Rinzing that a much shorter, more direct, and quite safe route lay up the south face, weaving in and out of the ice-cliffs to take the best line. Accordingly we sited Camp 2 on a little shelf, just beneath the ice-fall at 16,000 feet, which was lower than I had hoped for, at quarter past nine—44 hours up from Camp L Team B duly returned while Pasang, Rinzing, Ang Nima and I spent the evening examining the mist-shrouded southern aspect of our mountain and appreciating the calm serenity of the lonely snow- field beneath us.

Despite our good intentions we overslept on June 3 and we did not set off until 6 o'clock, thinking guiltily of Bruce's invariable midnight starts. Roped in two pairs, Pasang and myself, Rinzing and Ang Nima, shod in crampons, we zigzagged up the steep little bank above Camp 2 and set our sights on the eastern end of the first tier of ice-cliffs beneath the distinctive dome-shaped shoulder of the East Ridge.

Breaching the cliffs easily by a broad snow ramp we crossed a choked crevasse and, measuring progress, rose steadily above the attendant peaks ranged about the second snow-field, now warmly illuminated in the sunrise. Once or twice the snow failed to consolidate into firm steps but we never doubted the condition of the face as a whole. The second line of ice-cliffs, notable for its impressive seracs, was vanquished without difficulty through a narrow section where the angle relented, and, backed by the sun, we punched a glittering stairway in the neve towards the third and last tier which, we observed, could be turned on the west side.

By half past eight we were level with the upper ice-cliffs and an estimated 600 feet below the summit so we altered course away from the eastern edge of the face to strike diagonally westwards up the final slopes of the summit pyramid. For the second time we encountered rotten surface snow and our steps disintegrated. Pasang traversed a short distance before resuming a cautious ascent. The second pair was on our heels now. For greater security in the shifting snow Pasang was holding his axe by the adze and pick and plunging it well into the snow while he kicked steps in the underlay. Coinciding with one such vigorous thrust there was a reverberating crack ! and, with a dull roar, a wind slab avalanche split off cleanly at our level, toppled us all head over heels, and bore us swiftly down in a chaotic torrent of churning debris. Descending head first on my stomach the one bit of avalanche lore I remembered was to swim the breast stroke to keep on the surface. Striking out vigorously I rode on top whilst Ang Nima—the only other member of the party in my limited range of vision—was alternately sinking and surfacing. I had difficulty expelling snow from my mouth and thought suffocation was the chief danger. The main feeling was curiosity as to the outcome.

Some 500 feet below the line of cleavage our side of the avalanche must have run out on to snow of a gentler angle forming the terrace above the second tier of ice-cliffs, because we slowed down and stopped. With alacrity the four of us scrambled out of the debris and made for safe ground away from the edge of the ice-cliff over which the main mass of the avalanche was still pouring. Shaking himself free of powder snow Pasang joined his hands and said, ' Kismet, sahib. Kismet ! '

The toll was light and despite Ang Nima's pained protestation that he had been forced to swallow three pounds of snow, the physical hurt was confined to Rinzing. He had lost his ice-axe, buried under the debris and, to add injury to insult, he had received a severe buffeting in his back from the cameras in his rucsack. The rest of the party was subdued but uninjured. Five hundred feet above, the line of cleavage was a remarkable sight. It formed a clean-cut step 18 inches high and stretched for a quarter mile across almost the entire width of the upper section of the south face. Later we discovered that the avalanche had fallen a further 1,600 feet below our cast-off point, and had come close to obliterating Camp 2 before it stopped.

Unrepentant, Pasang now suggested that we should resume the same line of ascent arguing that once the slope had avalanched it was perfectly safe. However, there was still 600 feet of snow, presumably in avalanche condition, above the fracture line of the avalanche we had precipitated, so I vetoed his suggestion and decided that we should continue the climb by the East Ridge.

Stepping circumspectly in the debris of our personal avalanche we recovered the lost height and traversed eastwards over the third ice-shelf to embark upon the East Ridge. En route the way was barred by a gaping schrund which we bridged cautiously, still mistrustful of the snow condition. This feeling persisted for the remainder of the summit climb up the terminal shoulder poised, as we were, between the unstable cornices overhanging the precipitous north face, and the uneasy coverlet of the south face. Warily we climbed the ridge moving one at a time and belaying each other elaborately. Half-way up a conspicuous longitudinal crack in the ridge, running parallel to the cornice edge, was circumvented by a reluctant diversion on to the south face. But the snow held good and we made steady progress to the vicinity of the lowest rock buttress of vivid yellow quartzite, which stood aloof from our route across a narrow⁷ couloir. Glancing down the couloir the eye bounded direct to the Solang meadows—a reversal of my situation of three seasons ago when I had first considered the East Ridge as a possible route to the summit.¹³ This first rock step on the summit shoulder is clearly visible from the Upper Solang; it was turned, as we had anticipated, by ascending the snow ridge adjacent to it. The second buttress lay athwart the ridge proper and its unaccommodating strata compelled an awkward scramble. Finally, ensconced on the top of the third outcrop—the nearest rocks to the summit, where there was perching space for all, we decided to stop for refreshment. The familiarity and permanence of the rocks did much to restore our morale which had been sapped by the avalanche and the protracted climb over doubtful snow.

After half an hour we resumed the climb, reaching the summit— a vast cornice—at 12 noon. It had been an eventful and memorable ascent and I wondered what adventures Heinrich Fiihrer had experienced 54 years earlier. Photography occupied the remainder of our time on top. The impressive and largely explored peaks of the Kulu/Bara Bangahal divide, still technically part of the Pir Panjal range, aloof above their lonely blue valleys, were recorded together with the photogenic west summit and the connecting ridge. To the east a heavy layer of stratus cloud was sitting on the highest summits in Kulu but I photographed down cornice and fluting into the upper Solang nullah, to the east our ridge of ascent and, just as a light mist embraced us too, Shikar Beh, 20,340 feet, first climbed by Lees and Bennet of the R.A.F.M.A. Lahul Expedition in 1955.¹⁴ The apparently unassailable fortress¹⁵ of the virgin Mukar Beh, 19,910 feet to the north-east, memorable for its ice-sheathed walls glowering down on the only approach glacier from the south, soon disappeared behind the advancing stratus and we decided that it was time to go.

 

The descent through the ice-cliffs was safeguarded with ice- screws as far as the lowest step, which we skirted with an abandoned glissade to reach Camp 2 at half past three.

Next morning we struck the tents and withdrew across the snow-fields to rejoin the rest of the party in the upper bay of the Manalsu nullah. During our ascent of the Solang Weisshorn, which they had observed, Nadkarni and Chering Namgyal had made the first ascent of Point 17,400 feet, above Seri, by the South-East Ridge.

Whilst the bulk of the expedition was withdrawing south to Base Camp on June 4, Warhurst, Chering Namgyal and I camped the night at Seri prior to making the first ascent of Shekuntla Tibba, 16,254 feet, by easy neves from the west on June 5.

Thanks to the open cleft of the Manalsu nullah, Shekuntla Tibba is the only snow-capped mountain visible on Manali's western prospect and it has often been the goal of parties intent on training for higher objectives.¹⁶ However, all attempts from the east had been repulsed at various heights either by the formidable length and difficulty of the spurs falling to the east or the precipitous gorges of the Manalsu River. Taken in the rear, the citadel had fallen easily and I recalled nostalgically the halting progress of Mike Thompson and myself climbing from the east eight years earlier ¹⁷ the first of three personal attempts, all of which had ultimately foundered on the endless spurs. In compensation for the drudgery of our first ascent from the north-west we enjoyed a splendid panorama of the Kulu Himalaya which we photographed from the small summit snow-field. Then we erected a noble cairn on the cluster of grey rocks forming the highest point, and swooped down to Seri, glissading nearly all the way. Back in Base Camp we found that the Ghaddi (nomadic hill shepherds from Kangra) route out of the upper Manalsu nullah had been reconnoitred by the others while we had been climbing Shekuntla Tibba.

In order to avoid the gorge we had decided to return to Manali by the crest of the high ridge (c. 12,000-13,000 feet) running west from the summit of Khanpara Tibba, 13,207 feet, and accessible from a shallow couloir 2,000 feet high two miles below our Base Camp on the true right bank of the Manalsu River. For the heavily laden party the stiff climb out of the nullah bottom on June 6 was the most exhausting phase of the expedition and it was six hours before we had reassembled on the ridge near a cluster of megaliths by which the paharis (hillmen) placate the spirits of the high places. That night we enjoyed a windless camp on an exposed ridge 6,000 feet above the village of Manali where, freakishly, a severe storm tore off several roofs. Bemused by the sight of legions of deodar pine trees, we dropped down to John Banon's guest-house in the evening of June 7 to celebrate the end of another Kulu campaign with a civilized cup of tea.

⇑ Top