– Chapter 1 –

Introductory

The sight of a horse makes the wayfarer lame.

– Bengali proverb

The last book written about Mount Everest by Mr Ruttledge, the leader of the 1933 and 1936 expeditions, was aptly named The Unfinished Adventure. This present account should be read merely as yet another chapter in this adventure story, possibly one of those duller chapters from which even the best of adventure stories are not always free. In the twenty-five years which have elapsed since the first expedition went out the story has lost the gloss of novelty. The approach march and the establishing of camps have become almost a matter of routine which with luck and judgement should be devoid of incident. Misfortunes and hair-breadth escapes, suffering and hardship, are the making of an adventure story, but from all such a well-found expedition blessed with a fair share of luck should be exempt. Here I have no hardships to bemoan, no disasters to recount, and no tragedies to regret.

Some day, no doubt, someone will have the enviable task of adding the last chapter, in which the mountain is climbed, and writing ‘Finis’. That book, we may hope, will be the last about Mount Everest, for we already have five official accounts, besides a few unofficial, and no one can tell how many more will be written before the epic is complete. Apart from reasons of continuity in the record of this unfinished adventure, the story of the fifth abortive attempt to climb the mountain is only worth relating because a fairly drastic change was made in the methods used. That is to say we broke away from the traditional grand scale upon which all previous expeditions had been organized, and to that extent the story has novelty. But we made no change in the route taken or the tactics employed on the mountain, which are the outcome of the judgement and hard-won experience of some of the best mountaineers of recent times, whose achievements are a guide and an inspiration to all who follow where they led.

It is difficult to measure that margin in terms of additional effort (it may be greater than we think), but in view of the apparently narrow margin by which two of the earlier expeditions failed, it may seem presumptuous to imagine that any change of organization should be needed. So before recounting our experiences of 1938 I feel it is due to those who sponsored the expedition, the friends who backed it, and to the many mountaineers interested who may sympathize with some of the views here expressed, to attempt some explanation. The expeditions of 1924 and 1933 seemed to come so near to success that few if any thought of questioning the soundness of the methods employed, at least for the getting of someone to the top of the mountain; for long before then mountaineers had begun to dislike the excessive publicity which was a direct consequence of the scale of the expeditions and the large amount of money needed to pay for them. But after 1933 criticism began to be heard—Mr E.E. Shipton was possibly one of the first to doubt that in mountaineering the great and the good are necessarily the same—and the unfortunate experiences of 1936 when, through no fault of those concerned, but little was accomplished, had the salutary effect of rousing doubts in others. What had happened once might happen again. For financial reasons, if for no others, it seemed the time had come to give less expensive methods a trial.

Although our expedition of 1938 was the seventh to visit the mountain it was only the fifth to attempt the ascent. The first, and in many ways the most interesting, expedition was the reconnaissance of 1921 during which, of course, no attempt was made on the summit. Until 1921 no European had been within ninety miles of the mountain and the first party had to find the best approach and then a likely route to the top. Both these difficult tasks and much additional work were successfully accomplished at a cost of about £5000—a figure which is not unreasonable considering the complete lack of previous experience, the time spent in the field, and the amount and importance of the work done. But the first attempt on the summit which took place the following year cost more than twice as much, and set standards in numbers, equipment, and cost, which until 1938 were equalled or even exceeded by all subsequent expeditions excluding only that most interesting and significant expedition of 1935 which was again a reconnaissance.

Late in 1934 the Tibetan Government unexpectedly announced that they would allow us to send an expedition in each of the following years, 1935 and 1936. Time was short, for in those days the gestation period for a full-blown expedition was, suitably enough, like that of a whale or an elephant, about two years; but so that the benefit of the surprising gift of the extra year should not be lost, Mr Shipton was hastily appointed to organize and lead a small, light expedition in 1935. Their main task was to try out new men and equipment for the full-scale attempt the following year; other tasks were the examining of snow conditions on the mountain during the monsoon and the survey of glaciers north and east of the mountain. At a cost of only £1500 a large area of country and the North Face of the mountain were surveyed, and twenty-six peaks of over 20,000 ft. were climbed. In the course of these operations the North Col (Camp IV) was occupied, and it became plain that, had conditions warranted and had a few more tents been available, then a serious attack on the summit could well have been launched. This should have opened everyone’s eyes, especially as the expedition had been sent out so that its lessons might be of use to the all-out attempt of the following year. But this example of what could be done with a moderate expenditure was ignored and the expedition of 1936 saw no diminution in scale, either of men or of money. Twelve Europeans, including two doctors, a wireless expert, over a hundred porters, three hundred transport animals, and some £10,000 were employed, and the North Col was the highest point reached.

It is not easy to see either the origin of or the reasons for these unwieldy caravans organized on the lines of a small military expedition rather than a mountaineering party. Were it not that the pioneering days of Himalayan climbing were past one might find a parallel in the earliest days of mountaineering in the Alps, when numbers were considered a source of strength and not the weakness they usually are. For de Saussure’s ascent of Mont Blanc in 1787 the party numbered twenty. The elaborately organized expedition of the Duke of the Abruzzi to the Karakoram in 1909[1] was the original Himalayan expedition in the grand style, but before and since that time many private parties had climbed and explored with a minimum of fuss and expense—notably those of Mummery, Conway, Longstaff, Kellas, Meade, to mention a few.[2] Of course the means must be proportioned to the end; there is a difference between rushing a moderate-sized peak and besieging one of the Himalayan giants, but any additional means we think we need for the more formidable task ought to be taken reluctantly and after the severest scrutiny. Anything beyond what is needed for efficiency and safety is worse than useless. In 1905 Dr Longstaff and the two Brocherel brothers, with no tent and one piece of chocolate, very nearly climbed Gurla Mandhata, a peak in Tibet north of Garhwal, 25,355 ft. high, a practical illustration of the application of that important mountaineering principle, the economy of force—an imperfect example, perhaps, because one might argue that with a tent and two pieces of chocolate they might have succeeded. But away with such pedantic, ungracious quibbles. Did not Mummery, who more than any one embodied the spirit of mountaineering, write: ‘… the essence of the sport lies, not in ascending a peak, but in struggling with and overcoming difficulties’?

Though all mountaineers will agree with Mummery, it is no use concealing the fact that most of us do earnestly wish to reach the top of any peak we attempt and are disappointed if we fail: especially with Mount Everest parties where the desire to reach the top is supreme. No one would choose to go there merely for a mountaineering holiday. It is not easy therefore to criticize men for taking every means which they consider will increase the chances of success. It is a matter of degree, and on any expedition, even the most serious, the tendency to take two of everything, ‘just to be on the safe side’, needs to be firmly suppressed, for a point is soon reached when multiplication of these precautions, either in men or equipment, defeats its purpose.

Owing to the frequency of Alpine huts the longest climb in the Alps requires no more equipment than can be carried on the climber’s back; while for numbers, although two are adequate and move fastest, three are no doubt safer. Any additional members usually lessen the combined efficiency of the party. In the Himalaya the peaks are twice as high and the climber has to provide his own hut. The climbing of a peak of, say 21,000 ft., will require a tent of some sort to be taken up to at least 17,000 ft. From a camp at this height a peak of 23,000 ft. has been climbed (Trisul by Dr Longstaff), but most people would prefer to have a second tent at some intermediate point from which to start the final climb. Obviously for higher peaks more intermediate camps are required and it becomes necessary to employ porters to carry and provision them. These porters will mean other porters to carry up their tents and provisions, and so it grows snowball fashion until in extreme cases like that of Mount Everest you have to find food and accommodation for at least fifteen men at 23,000 ft. in order to...