Photo by T. Weer

THE

SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION

BY

W. H. MURRAY

With four pages of colour plates and thirty-two pages of black-and-white half-tones. Eleven maps and diagrams

by ROBERT ANDERSON

LONDON J. M. DENT & SONS LTD

This book is copyright. It may not be

reproduced whole or in part by any method

without written permission. Application should be made to the publishers:

J. M. Dent & Sons Lrp. Aldine House - Bedford St. - London

Made in Great Britain

by The Temple Press - Letchworth « Herts First published 1951

CONTENTS Glossary

. Birth Pangs IT. Hf. IV. . The Threshold of the Rishi VI. Vil. VIII. IX.

. Mountaineering and Medicine at Dunagiri XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. XVIII. XIX.

Delivery at Ranikhet Northward Bound to the Dhauli The Halt at Tapoban

Into the Rishi Gorge

The Attempt on Bethartoli Himal Gifts from the God Hanuman Back to the Dhauli

The Journey to Lampak

The Ascent of Uja Tirche

High Camps at Lampak

Through the Gorge of the Girthi River Milam and the Men of Bhot

The Ralam Pass

Flight from Sipu

The Panch Chuli

Down through the Middle Hills Appendix

xi

18 32 60 70 80 93 106 115 130 147 159 173 187 204 221 239 246 258 265

ILLUSTRATIONS

~ COLOUR PLATES

Camp I. Panch Chuli ‘ . Frontispiece facing page Rhododendrons on the Wan Pass - 0 Sunset on the Peaks of the Rishi 98 Camp II. South Lampak Peak 177 BLACK-AND-WHITE PLATES Terraced Fields below Gwaldam 39 Four Dotial Porters 46 Castles in the Air. Nanda Ghunti from the Middle Hills of Kumaon - 54 The Kuari Pass . 56 The Threshold of the Rishi | (la Peak from Tapoban) 63 Bethartoli Himal, 20,840 ft., and Rock Peaks of the Rishi Gorge 87 Dibrugheta 89 The Rishi Gorge 92 Bridging the Rishiganga 94 The North Wall of Bethartoli Himal 101

Vii

Vii! ILLUSTRATIONS

facing page

The Dotial Porters ee 18,000 ft. on Bethar- toli Himal

Camp III on the North Face of Bethartoli Himal (18,000 ft.) ; : ,

Nanda Devi

The Dhauli Track

Dunagiri Village (11,800 ft.) .

The School at Dunagiri The Granite Ridge of Peak 16,690 ft. Diag

Jhopas (or Jhibus) at Bee ft. on the emer Level Route to Malari ,

Uja Tirche (20,350 ft.) .

Climbing on the Face of the Central Pinnacle at 18,000 ft. on Uja Tirche

Base Camp at Lampak . Camp III. South Lampak (18,000 ft. ) The Girthi Gorge

The Goats which carried for us through the Girthi Gorge

Milam

The Malari Bhotias

The Weavers of Milam The Dancing Girl at Milam Chaudhara (21,360 ft.) .

102

112 115 130 130

146

150

159

179 183

194 210 217 220 220

227

ILLUSTRATIONS 1X

facing page Climbing the Glacier to the Ralam Pass » 233 At the Ralam Pass (18,470 ft.), facing East . 236 Camp II. Panch Chuli : . 249 Camp IV. Panch Chuli : : . 252 The Summit of Panch Chuli (22,650 ft.) . . 254 MAPS page Map of India. , : : ; : 4 The Whole Route : , ~ “TS The March Out . : : : 85 The Rishi . . : : 4 . . FI Eastern Garhwal . ‘ ‘ : , . 123 The Lampak Peaks. : ‘ . 134 Uja Tirche Horse-shoe . : ‘ , . 161 The Girthi River ; . 188 The Ralam Pass . : ; ; ; 2. 2223 The Panch Chuli ; ; : : 5 Dag East Panch Chuli. East Face from Sona Base Camp . 5 : : é . 247

Endpapers : The Mountains of Kumaon

Acknowledgments

I acknowledge with gratitude help given to me by my sister, Mrs. M. H. MacAlpine, who corrected proofs and attended to the business of the book during my absence on the Mount Everest Reconnaissance Expedition 1951.

I am also greatly indebted to Mr. L. C. J. Moules, of Abbott Mount, Almora, U.P., for advice and detailed information about the village life, economy, trade, and the daily and seasonal habits of the Bhotia people.

Glossary

Achchha, good.

Aréte, thin ridge of rock, snow, or ice.

Ata, wheat flour. (Pronounce the first a long.)

Ath, eight.

Babu, clerk with a superficial knowledge of English.

Bandobast, arrangement or agreement.

Bergschrund, a long deep chasm where a glacier pulls away from the upper snow of a peak.

Bhagavad-Gita, the Song of God. Sacred book of the Hindus and focus of Indian religion. A clear and comprehensive statement of the Perennial Philosophy.

Bharhal, wild mountain sheep.

Bouillon gras, Swiss beef tea.

Chang, an alcoholic drink made from barley or rice.

Char, four.

Chaukidar, caretaker.

Chhe, six.

Chitthi, note or character reference.

Chupatty (Hindi: chapati), pancake of flour and water ; the native unleavened bread.

Cornice, edge or wall of snow overhanging the crest of a ridge.

Couloir, mountain gully.

Crampons, frame of ten metal claws strapped to sole of boot for climbing on ice.

Crevasse, deep chasm in the ice of a glacier.

Dal, pulse (lentils or beans).

Dhura, ground at high altitude; usually, but not necessarily, a pass or hill-top.

Doms, people of low caste.

Gad, glen or ravine.

Gendarme, rock tower, especially on a ridge.

Ghat, 1. mountain pass; 2. place at which a river is forded.

xi

xii GLOSSARY

Himachal, Himalaya.

Himalaya, the Abode of Snow. From Sanskrit Aim =snow, and alaya= abode.

Hindi, the Aryan language of Northern India.

Hindus, the inhabitants of India originally described as ‘Hindus’ by the Persians because they lived on the other side of the Sindhu River (the Indus) ; now more truly applied to Indians professing belief in the Vedic religion as opposed to the Mohammedan.

Hindustani, language consisting of Hindi with a large admixture of Arabic and Persian words.

Jhibu or jhopa, a cross between a yak and a cow.

Karabiner, a steel ring with a spring clip.

Kharab, bad.

Kharak, herdsman’s hut, and (by association) grazing ground. Now frequently used for the latter even where there is no hut.

Lakh, one hundred thousand.

Mantra, 1. short sacred text said or sung repetitively (Sanskrit: thought); 2. hymns of praise forming the first part of each of the four Vedas.

Maund, 80 \b.

Moraine, ridge of rocks, stones, and earth at the sides of a glacier.

Nala, watercourse or glen.

Névé, old hard snow in process of becoming ice (found in mass at the top end of a glacier).

Nullah (Hindi: nala), watercourse or glen.

Pahari, a hill dialect (a/so hillman).

Panch, five.

Pemmican, compressed and concentrated meat food for use in cold regions. It consists of fibrin of beef, animal fat, etc. Punkah, long curtain fan suspended from roof and worked by

pulling a cord.

Rasta, way, route.

Rishi, a wise and holy man; seer or sage.

Roding, display flight by male woodcock at dusk, when it repeatedly makes a regular circuit, flying fast but with slow

GLOSSARY Xili

wing action. It gives out at the same time two notes, the croak coinciding with a momentary hovering. Roding usually lasts from sunset until dark.

Rupee, ts. 6d.

Seer, 2 |b.

Sérac, pinnacle of ice on a steep and riven part of a glacier.

Shabash/, Well done!

Shiva (or Siva), the third of the Hindu Trinity of Gods (Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva), which are all one in Brahman. Shiva is the Destroyer and Preserver of Life.

Snow-ice, very hard frozen snow with an icy surface, to be distinguished from ice formed from water.

Swami, title given to a Brahmin or Hindu priest; often used loosely to describe any devotee of the religious life who wears the saffron robe.

Thar, wild mountain goat.

Thik, correct, right.

Tsampa, barley flour roasted.

Ordu, Hindustani.

Vedic, pertaining to the Vedas, the four sacred books of the Hindus. These are the oldest scriptures known to man, dating from 1000 B.c. or earlier.

Votive flag, strip of cloth nailed or tied to the top of a tall pole as an offering to the gods. It is not to be confused with the Tibetan prayer flag, which is a long strip of cloth nailed down its long side to the pole and heavily inscribed with a Tibetan prayer. The Hindu votive flags do not fly in token of prayer or worship, but symbolize an offering. They always com- mand some noteworthy scene or site.

CHAPTER ONE

Birth Pangs

\ THE END of January 1950 my friend Douglas Scott

of the Scottish Mountaineering Club came to me: Would I, he asked, join him in a mountaineering expedition to the Garhwal Himalaya? It was by no means the first time that he had made suggestions of a like kind. He had talked before of our going to the New Zealand Alps, the mountains of the Chinese-Tibetan frontier, of sailing up (or it may have been down) the Hoang Ho River. I had known then not to take him seriously. He was anchored to a good job in Scotland and had no firm intention of giving it up—not just then. I myself, although free, was no more prepared to move than he, being fully occupied in my own profession of writing. But now, in late January, I was both able to move and willing. From the very tone of Scott’s voice I heard (and this to my astonishment) that he meant what he said. He had already sounded Tom Weir and Tom MacKinnon, also of the Scottish Mountaineering Club, and they had agreed. A decisive step had been taken: they had booked berths on a P. & O. liner, appropriately named Himalaya, sailing from Tilbury to Bombay on 2oth April. This sudden turn of events gave a quick lift to my own spirits. I was overjoyed. Fellow climbers had sometimes asked me a wrongly conceived and stated question, to which there is no known answer: ‘How does one get on to an expedition?’ It is a matter for Providence. The question implies that this expedition is to be run by someone else—someone older and more experienced, preferably commanding wealth—and that the questioner wants to squeeze in if he can. Unless he is a very fortunate or outstanding man his hair will grow grey, life ebb away, while he waits for that to happen. I

2 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

The correct question is: ‘How is an expedition organized ?’ For that can be given a true answer:

Take the initiative. Organize one yourself. Only then can you get down to brass tacks. You must make time, and get companions, and face the brutal fact that if you want to go, say, to the Himalaya, you must first of all save up at least three hundred and fifty pounds, or else persuade someone to give it to you. Until that is done you cannot move.

The matter of making time was for myself relatively easy; not so for the others. It meant for Scott and Weir the throwing up of very good jobs—this no serious matter in my own more detached eyes, for they were capable of serving the community in new ways no less valuable than the old. MacKinnon’s posi- tion was less difficult. He was a chemist. He had to find someone to manage his own business in his absence. And this he did, succeeding only at the last moment. None was married. For three of us, the loss of seven to nine months’ income had to be set against the exploration of unclimbed mountains in Garhwal and Almora, the central districts of the Himalayan chain. We had to make a choice of values. Mountain or money? We chose mountains.

We were, of course, all mountaineers. The Scottish hills had given us our basic training in rock-, snow-, and ice-climbing, which had served us well in the Swiss and French Alps. MacKinnon, Scott, and Weir were in my judgment very strong climbers, not accident prone, and for my own part I could not have wished for men whom I liked better. This latter point is of extreme importance ; for going on an expedition is like getting married— a man has to live with his companions over long periods when all are at their worst. Men are less good-natured than one would judge from meeting them in the social round at home or while spending a week-end on the hills or on short holidays. On such occasions they are temporarily keyed up, giving of their best, excelling themselves—unconsciously trying to be the men that they would like to be, and in fair measure succeeding. And by their best one should judge men. ‘Not what thou art, but what thou wouldst be, does God regard with his merciful eyes’; and

BIRTH PANGS 3

we have to try to do no less on an expedition. When the barrack life and its lack of privacy is lived for months on end in small tents, men no longer overflow with the perpetual goodwill that seemed to grace them hitherto. Rather it is their weaknesses that stand out, as mine do, dismal and made great. Our knowing of these things in advance does little to ease the situation when we are out in the field. It is absolutely essential that the members of an expedition start off by liking each other, and be never chosen primarily for skill and experience, or money contribution, or scientific knowledge: otherwise—disaster!

Fortune had been kind in bringing us together at the right time, and kind too in directing us where to go. Scott had paid a quick visit to the Garhwal foot-hills during the Second World War. They had enthralled him, as they do all men who see, uniting them in declaring Garhwal and Almora Districts of Kumaon Division to be the most beautiful of the world’s moun- tain country. Semi-tropical valleys and terrific river-gorges wind in among a maze of snow peaks, rising over 20,000 feet and packed densely in clusters. The foot-hills swell seventy miles up from the plains, in green and brown waves that roll higher with the inward sweep as though to burst upon the cliffs of the great Himalayan peaks. The foot-hills are a colourful land, a gay land of flowers and rivers, of deep valleys, forest clad and full of birds—these latter of great account to Weir and Scott, who are bird-watchers. Our choice of area was unanimous and made without question or discussion. Our first craving, it appeared, was for beauty of scene.

The Himalaya, in Sanskrit the ‘Abode of Snow,’ stretch 1,550 miles from Afghanistan to Burma, in breadth about 200 miles, including the foot-hills. From west to east they run through the states of Kashmir, United Provinces, Nepal, Sikkim, and Bhutan. Our chosen districts were in the United Provinces, very slightly west of centre, where a great angle is formed between the frontiers of South Tibet and West Nepal. This angle is the division of Kumaon. Its west half is Garhwal, its

east half, Almora. B

4 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

Before the rising of the Himalayan chain, the high plateau of Tibet had already established its river systems draining south to India. As the mountains folded and rose the rivers continued cutting down their beds, forming canyons, which have since

Evi TrBet PAKISTAN in 4 < aden

Hithgod sar el Wy Everest

4

G ances

Map of India

become the slender trade routes between Tibet and India. In Kumaon, four of these great gorges are the Alaknanda, Dhauli, Gori, and Darma, all of which ultimately join the Ganges on its long eastward journey across the Gangetic plains to the Bay of Bengal. Up in the heart of the Himalaya, at eight to

BIRTH PANGS 5

fourteen thousand feet, it would seem as though no such union could be possible. There the rock-walls rise sheer for five thousand feet, then sweep back to the twenty-thousand-foot snow peaks of the main chain. By these gorges we should approach our chosen mountain groups.

Three famous mountains already climbed in Garhwal are Trisul (23,360 feet) by Dr. Longstaff in 1907, Kamet (25,447 feet) by F. S. Smythe’s expedition in 1931, and Nanda Devi (25,645 feet) by H. W. Tilman’s Anglo-American expedition in 1936. Much less work had been done in Almora District. The unclimbed mountains of Kumaon are numbered in scores, and no reconnaissance for mountaineering had been made of some of the clusters. This wealth of opportunity determined our purpose, plan, and strategy. Our object, we agreed, should not be that of ‘going high’ or breaking records—a most unrewarding goal—but of exploring mountain country, making reconnaissance of the groups still unknown to mountaineers, and attempting selected summits. ‘This agreed, it was obvious that we should have to spend four or five months in the hills and must keep mobile. For us there could be no great army of coolies to carry ponderous stores; no real need for them, indeed, when we had no intention of applying siege tactics to one mammoth peak. Instead, it was clear that we must field a light party and live on the country, after the manner set by the pioneer of Himalayan climbing, Dr. Longstaff—a manner that subsequently lapsed but which had been again demonstrated by Shipton and Tilman in the nineteen-thirties. This meant that we must buy our food from small villages in the upper valleys, which are occupied only in summertime by Bhotia hillmen for the purpose of trading over the Tibetan frontier. We should have to recruit these men to carry our stores. Their foods were mainly a wheat flour called ata, lentils, rice, barley flour, and vegetables. In addition, we should have to take concentrated foods from Scotland for use at high-altitude camps, and to introduce ourselves, gently, to the native diet.

Thus, we need employ only some dozen or twenty porters for travelling through the valleys, and on the main peaks only three

6 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

or four. This mobility should allow us an elasticity of planning denied to the cumbersome expeditions of the pre-Tilman era. These general principles being agreed, our expedition, however, was still very much in the air. Nothing had yet been done. Certain difficulties beset us at the outset. For it must be remembered that our proposed expedition was in one respect unique and in several others unusual. It was the first Scottish one, no member of the party had any experience of Himalayan mountaineering, none could speak Hindustani, we had no adequate maps (and indeed they were not to be bought in this country), and we had only eight weeks’ grace to sailing date. The very food that we should require was strictly rationed. How, in these circumstances, does one organize an expedition to the Himalaya?

The situation appealed to my sense of humour. I sat back and relaxed, waiting with no little interest to see what would happen next. The initiative, I felt, was Scott’s. He had spoken first. A week of inaction passed. Then Scott jolted me out of my benign idleness by asking me to take the lead and issue orders. I must now make it clear that I knew my companions well enough to realize that no leader in the old German sense, no Bergsfuehrer, would be tolerated. If such a one should raise his ugly head they would bruise it as the head of the serpent. We were all, in our own ways, somewhat rugged individualists, and from beginning to end my own constant endeavour was never to issue orders. ‘There were occasions when I went to extremes in this direction rather than go to its opposite. _I believe that the benefits in the end far outweighed the disadvantages.

At the very outset, however, no such happy course was possible. An organization had to be laid down promptly in the form of battalion orders. But when I said that nothing had been done I erred in one important matter. We had definitely committed ourselves and were half-way out of our ruts. We had put down our passage money—booked a sailing to Bombay. This may sound too simple, but is great in consequence. Until one is committed there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and

BIRTH PANGS 7

creation), there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favour all manner of unforeseen inci- dents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way. I have learned a deep respect for one of Goethe’s couplets:

Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.

Back to battalion orders.

I. Tom Weir. Food and Transport.

(a) List all food to be bought in Scotland; estimate quantities for 100 days. Submit lists for approval before 2nd March.

(b) Apply to Ministry of Food for authority to buy butter, cheese, sugar, dried egg, and all else needed.

(c) Apply to Board of Trade Export Licensing Branch for permission to ship rationed goods.

(d) Inquire from P. & O. Co. Ltd., the loading date for the Himalaya.

(e) Buy the food and arrange the crating in 4o-lb. loads.

(f) Arrange transport of stores to Tilbury Dock.

(g) Estimate number of food sacks required on the march for grain.

(h) Weigh total food and gear when bought and estimate coolie-loads for the journey north from Ranikhet; then ask Mrs. Ferguson, of Essex House, Ranikhet (with whom we arranged to stay for three days) to get an appropriate number of Dotial coolies to meet us at Ranikhet on 8th May, and to arrange for a bus to meet us at Kathgodam railhead to lift us to Ranikhet by road.

II. Doucias Scott. Plans and Equipment.

(a) From the maps, when available, hatch out a mountain plan. (b) List every item of clothing and equipment needed under

8 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

three main headings: (1) Porters’ clothing and bedding. (2) Our own equipment and clothing to be provided by the individual. (3) Common equipment chargeable to a common fund, e.g. tents, groundsheets, rope, candles, stoves, etc.

State not only items but also quantities. Send copies of list to Weir and MacKinnon and get their approval before 2nd March.

III. Tom MacKinnon. Medicine Man.

Draw up a full list of medical supplies and submit copies before 2nd March to Scott, Weir, and myself.

IV. Murray.

(a) Get authority from the Central Board of Revenue, Delhi, for the customs-free import of all our goods at Bombay.

(b) Get an import licence from the Deputy Chief Controller of Imports, Bombay.

(c) Get an Inner Line Pass to the Himalaya from the Deputy Commissioner of Garhwal.

(d) Get permission from the Indian Government to buy rationed sugar and paraffin oil.

(e) Get all possible information about our area from Hima- layan climbers, namely, Dr. T. G. Longstaff, H. W. Tilman, Basil R. Goodfellow, C. E. J. Crawford and T. H. Braham (president and hon. secretary of the Himalayan Club), and Miss Mavis Bewick, who had been into the Rishiganga in 1949.

(f) Get half-inch to mile maps from the Indian Survey (no easy matter).

(g) Acquire four down sleeping-bags for porters, second-hand.

(h) Estimate number of coolies entailed by each move from one mountain group to another, and for each particular recon- naissance, and so estimate likely costs.

(i) Ensure that the work given to Scott and Weir is effected and help them as far as possible.

Weir’s job was a heavy one, but that was by deliberate calcula- tion on my part. In business matters he had unusual energy

BIRTH PANGS 9

and resource. Scott I wanted to leave as little loaded by organizing work as I could, so that faced with his maps his imagination might give birth to ideas and plans, which, at first very sketchy and tentative, might grow and expand. Mac- Kinnon, for private business reasons, could not be given more work than he had already. His task was, in fact, one requiring a deal of research and common sense to reconcile our opposing demands—that medical supplies be light, yet that everything we should be likely to need be brought.

I could give Weir no advice about getting Board of Trade and Ministry of Food licences, and assumed that government departments would be out of sympathy with us, or at least hinder us with delays. But Weir soon showed that our fears of the much-maligned bureaucracy were ill-founded. Their approval and action were quick in coming and revealing of reasons. ‘There creeps abroad throughout the land a grey spirit of shelter-seeking—a craving for security—the educated adult tending to ask of every venture he makes: ‘Is it safe? Is it useful? Does it keep the wolf from the door?’ Himalayan mountaineering so obviously is and does none of these things that even Civil Service departments show interest when they get application for help in breaking the deadly spell. The permits were granted, helpful suggestions contributed un- solicited. A bureaucratic benediction was upon us.

The main items of Weir’s food list (see Appendix) were Bovril pemmican, cheese, chocolate, barley-sugar, butter, dried egg, full cream milk-powder, biscuits, dried soup, rolled oats, suet, jam, honey, and sugar: total weight, 440 lb. I was advised by some people (not those mentioned) that this quantity was far too little. We should starve, they said, in the upper valleys; for even though we did find food there—which was doubtful so near the Tibetan frontier—we should never be able to stomach the native diet. Frankly, I did not believe that. Hindu hill- men are, like us, human. What they could eat, we could learn to eat. If men are hungry they can eat anything. In saying which I draw on my prison camp-experiences during the Second World War. But in the Himalaya a great and daily output of

IO THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

energy is asked and food fuel must be plentiful. Bearing this last point in mind, Weir and I were satisfied.

Scott’s equipment list had now been agreed, and he and I began purchasing. All four of us already possessed the requisite mountaineering gear (see Appendix). None the less, we had still to equip at least three of our coolies for snow work. We must give them climbing-boots, socks, windproof jackets, and trousers, ice-axes, balaclava helmets, woollen and windproof gloves, snow-goggles, and down sleeping-bags. The cost of all these things is usually very high. Sleeping-bags alone cost about {10 each. By advertising in the press for second-hand bags I obtained four at prices between 30s. and £2. Scott, however, earned full marks for discovering the Gallowgate Barrows in Glasgow. The Barrows are an ancient Scottish institution, having much in common with Petticoat Lane. They do business on Saturday afternoons and Sundays. They have everything—everything that the human animal could conceivably want to buy, in great part old, or used and cheap.

Scott and I went there one Saturday afternoon, into a maze of side streets off the main thoroughfare of the Gallowgate. The Barrows lined the streets, for the most part invisible behind a solid barricade of humanity on the buy. Our own destination was a more venerable ‘house,’ graced by a roof, but which should not be called a ‘shop’ in any ordinary sense. We joined a speedily moving queue shambling round a narrow passage between walls burdened with every manner of weighty goods and a great rectangle of tables in the centre, whose groaning boards supported the bric-a-brac. A squad of barrow boys in the middle kept their customers active: ‘Move along, move along! Everything here’s for sale—everything here’s for sale. Move along now, move along! Everything here’s for sale.’ Behind the endless chant of the mantra their eyes were alert, scanning the stream and sizing up a likely buyer the moment he paused, shrewdly guessing what he’d be good for in hard cash. Scott and I were pounced on the moment we stopped, disgustedly, before some ill-made and ugly British ice- axes. These axes have a bad reputation for bursting near the

BIRTH PANGS If

head, where the bolts have often been bashed through the wood and buckled. ‘Buy these axes quick, sir! They’re all for export—all going to Switzerland! Swiss mountaineers will use nothing else now. Wonderful stuff! Fifteen bob.’

We would not give such axes even to coolies. Axes would have to be raised elsewhere. But all the rest of the gear that we found was good, mostly ex-W.D. stock. We bought wind- proof jackets and trousers for 5s., excellent helmets for 3s. 6d., woollen gloves, gas-capes, fifteen kit-bags at 25. 6d., clasp- knives at 1s. Snow-goggles, which were destined to prove as efficient for all practical purposes as our own Crookes’s lenses at 45s., cost 1s. Our best bargain was undoubtedly three pairs of army ammunition boots at 10s. per pair. The soles were stout and hobnailed.

Scott’s plan for the expedition had meantime been fluctuating violently. During the month of February advice and informa- tion coming in to me from the Himalayan veterans, and from our reading of the Himalayan Journal, caused amendments and changes. But by the end of March the plan had begun to take its final shape.

Starting from the hill-station of Ranikhet about 10th May, we should go forty miles north by bus to Garur on the Sarju River, and from there sixty miles on foot over the Wan and Kuari Passes to Tapoban on the Dhauliganga. We should then work from west to east over the roughly parallel river-gorges of the Dhauli, Gori, and Darma in this fashion:

(1) From the Dhauli, penetrate the Rishiganga gorge to the Trisul Nala and attempt the first ascent of Bethartoli Himal (20,840 feet).

(2) Move twenty miles north up the Dhauli to Dunagiri village. Reconnoitre from the south the ten unexplored peaks of the Lampak group, which are situated eighteen miles due north of Nanda Devi.

(3) Move eight miles north to Malari and climb on the Lampak group from their north side.

(4) From Malari on the Dhauli, try to force the gorges of the Girthi River thirty-eight miles eastwards to Milam on the Gori.

I2 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

We could find no record of this move having been made. It would link two of the great trade routes between Tibet and India.

(5) From Milam, cross the Ralam Pass (18,470 feet) thirty- two miles eastwards to the Darmaganga near Nepal.

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(6) From the Darma, reconnoitre the Panch Chuli (22,650 feet)—a difficult and shapely group of five unclimbed mountains, all above 20,000 feet. Attempt the summit.

Once made, the six parts of the plan were found to pivot on the arrival date of the monsoon, which in the Dhauli is normally the end of June. Thus the Rishi and Dunagiri moves had to

BIRTH PANGS 13

be completed before the monsoon or they would fail. When the monsoon did break, our strategy was to dodge it by the Malari and Girthi moves, which would take us across the main axis of the chain to the Tibetan side, where rainfall should be low and moun- taineering possible. The Ralam and Panch Chuli moves were planned to come in the clearand settled weather of late September.

This six-part plan seemed ambitious for a first visit to the Himalaya, where so much has to be learned about a peculiar technique of travel. However, we were encouraged even by the doubters, who argued that although our plans were likely to collapse we should learn how to do better another time. No more stimulating an opinion could have been put to me. In- stead of waiting to learn from our own experience we must do everything possible to profit now from the experience of others. I stirred up my imagination and tried to think of every possible snag that might arise in valley travel or in getting supplies and dealing with hillmen and coolies. The questions to which I could find no answer in books and club journals made a formidable list. For example: Will paper money be accepted by villagers in the upper valleys and by coolies, or must they be paid in silver? Do porters on snow need glacier cream for the lips? Do the Dotial coolies from Nepal understand Hindustani? These are just three out of thirty queries that I sent to Tilman, then in the middle of organizing an expedition of his own to Nepal, and to Goodfellow. Despite the pressure of their work they replied at once. Armed with a second list, I then went to see a red-bearded wizard who lives in a far-off land called Achiltibuie in Wester Ross. Dr. Longstaff was in tre- mendous form, speaking with such vigour that electric sparks seemed to fly from the point of his beard. Afternoon and evening he poured out vast stores of information about Hima- layan life and travel—too much for me to remember all at once when I reported to Scott and Weir in Glasgow. But time and again during the following months I was to find myself quoting him. Every word he had uttered proved true.

After I left him, his most important counsel came from the proofs of his book This My Voyage. ‘Since happiness is most

14 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

often met by those who have learned to live in every moment of the present, none has such prodigal opportunities of attaining that art as the traveller.... So long as he loses consciousness of self and is aware in all his senses of the present scene, almost any part of the world is as good as another. Mountain or desert, it is all one.’

It is difficult for me to estimate just how great an effect these few words had in helping me to deal with the Himalaya, but a great part it was. Through my own mountaineering in recent years I had become very keenly aware of the providential energies that help men through life. Let us have what skill we may, and push our plans however strenuously, we remain utterly dependent on Providence for bringing them to their best con- clusion—which may not be the end that we ourselves had hoped for them. We have to act as best we know and surrender the fruits: be not attached to them, but learn to accept the con- sequence of all acts serenely, knowing that all acts are turned to good as soon as they have come to pass: whatever seeming good or ill fortune comes in immediate result to ourselves. In light of which result, we act anew, no less strenuously than before, for the best as we see it.

One result of this knowledge is a glorious freedom from anxieties, but without diminution of energy. Longstaff’s counsel reduced hard-won knowledge to very simple words that could be borne in mind by the traveller. I should have ample opportunity of testing them.

Indeed, opportunities came there and then. The dispatch with which government departments had moved in Britain had not been equalled in Delhi, where negotiations proceeded at more oriental speed. After five weeks there had still been no reply to any of our applications: no import licence, no duty-free entry, no Inner Line Pass, no ration permit. Our application had been put forward for us by the United Kingdom High Com- missioner at Delhi and again by the Commonwealth Relations Office, London. In these matters we had been greatly helped by Mr. Basil R. Goodfellow and by Major Hotz of Delhi, and then by Mr. W. A. Ward, who had them presented again through

BIRTH PANGS 15

the High Commissioner for India, and by Mr. J. A. K. Martyn of Dehra Dun. At the end of March no passes had reached me and there were only twenty days to sailing date.

The correspondence on this subject grew an inch thick on my desk. I had never realized how much work is entailed by the organization of even a small expedition. It was a full-time job lasting two months, despite the sharing of work—work lightened by the great goodwill and material help given us by mountaineers and other friends. Members of the Scottish Mountaineering Club gave three down sleeping-bags, several ice-axes, and funds for a base-camp tent, a spare groundsheet, kodachrome film, porters’ clothing, and our own snow-goggles. From Thomas Black & Sons (Greenock) Ltd. came a high-altitude tent; from McVitie & Price Ltd., 50 lb. of biscuits ; from Haythornthwaite & Sons Ltd., windproof Grenfell jackets and hats; from the Swiss firm of Maggi, a crate of dried soup; from the makers of Bioro glacier cream, twelve tubes; from Joseph Farrow Ltd. of Peterborough, jam.

We learned not to be unduly secretive in advance about an expedition. There are more people willing to help such a ven- ture than we had dared to imagine. This preliminary work of organization had become a revelation to us: showing us how little we could hope to achieve without the help of great numbers of other men, by no means all personally interested in mountains, and how freely that goodwill is given. Our experience of the latter became enlightening. It made us feel that our expedition was less a purely private enterprise than a product of the community, worth attempting whether its final issue be success or failure.

By the first week in April the buying of food and equipment was completed. On Easter Saturday I went from my home at Loch Goil, Argyll, to Glasgow, and helped Scott and Weir with the final packing. That is the most enthralling part of prepara- tion—at last one has something tangible to work with. The gear as it accumulated had so far been piled into two rooms at Scott’s house, which were now in a wild and indescribable turmoil. By an occult intuition we knew what was there and

16 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

where to find each item. But all this gear had now to be listed in triplicate for the benefit of H.M. Customs, and, for their enlightenment, the cash value of each item estimated.

That morning we transferred all the gear to the warehouse of Robb, Moore & Neill in the Broomielaw, beside the River Clyde. They had supplied and packed our food in fourteen crates of approximately 4o lb. each. They had numbered these with black paint and given us a list of the contents. The crates were now stacked round us, and for the first of some fifty occasions were to serve as office and refectory furniture.

Six hundred pounds of climbing and camping gear lay scattered across the floor. Weir sat down as recorder, while Scott and I, browsing rapidly over the ripe pasture, snatched greedily at desirable handfuls, waved the treasure aloft for universal appraise- ment :

‘Seven ice-axes.’

“Twenty-one pounds,’ would say Weir.

‘Sack seventeen,’ I’d reply. And down it would go.

‘One pair climbing trousers.’

“They’ve been good trousers,’ I would say impatiently, after a long uneasy silence.

“Call it one and sixpence,’ Scott would mutter. But Weir, calling Scott to notice that the buttons were complete, might raise the price to two shillings. And so the work continued for two hours.

At eleven o’clock we opened up a crate of cooking gear and had our first cup of tea out of new enamel mugs. It was sergeant-major’s tea. It seemed odd, I remarked, to travel eight thousand miles to the central Himalaya when the pleasures of expedition life were all in this warehouse at the Broomielaw. Could anyone, I wondered, prophesy what greater pleasures lay in store for us? No one was rash enough to answer.

By midday everything was stowed and battened down. Weir and I typed the triplicate lists, to be dispatched with an export licence and the baggage to Tilbury Dock. To avoid heavy rail freights, Weir had the baggage shipped south by sea. Our

total stores weighed out at 1,200 Ib. in twenty-seven crates and

BIRTH PANGS 17

sacks, of which we reckoned that 1,000 lb. would be carried from Ranikhet. Weir wrote to Ranikhet immediately by air mail, asking Mrs. Ferguson to collect at least eighteen Dotial porters, as tough types as possible, and have them ready for us on 8th May.

Save for an unimportant multitude of odds and ends the British end of our work was finished. The baggage was away— but still no Indian import licence, no customs-free entry, no Inner Line Pass. A lingering death on the Bombay quay loomed menacingly ahead. We should die there, I had no doubt, of a surfeit of tea and sugar, ‘The Last Brew-up,’ for I could trust Weir to see that we died happy.

Ten days from sailing date word came from India: the Ministry of External Affairs had granted our goods free entry. Of the Inner Line Pass there was still no word when we reached London on 19th April. On that memorable day Weir gave us one last-minute and most fearsome alarm. The P. & O. Com- pany told him that our twenty-seven crates and sacks, dispatched ten days ago, had not arrived at the ship—had not even been seen by H.M. Customs. And the ship was due to sail in twelve hours.

Just before embarkation, they were found in the hold.

CHAPTER TWO

Delivery at Ranikhet

climax, the voyage came as a welcome rest cure—six

thousand miles of calm blue sea. We arrived on board without having had time to learn a word of Hindustani and set about to repair the omission. It is an easy language to learn .in its Urdu form with Roman script. During the fifteen-day voyage we learned enough to run an expedition but not enough to hold conversation. I was discouraged from putting too much work into Hindustani, having been warned by two Indians that the language would not be understood either by our Dotials or by the Bhotias in the upper valleys. Only the odd man here and there would have a smattering, and we should have to rely on our good luck in meeting the right men at the right time. This entirely false information undermined my resolution to persist in face of that overmastering temptation of the floating hotels—sloth. We all slept in the sun, swam in the pool, ate our unrationed meals with a relish that soon changed to in- difference, relaxed and read and slept again—and awakening occasionally to an active conscience, would stretch out an idle hand to an Urdu grammar.

My own method was then to stir up imagination, think of all the phrases I should be likely to need in the villages or on trek, then make and memorize translations. This method proved my salvation.

Scott and Weir, who were the expedition photographers, occa- sionally disappeared into some dark room in the bowels of the ship and cut film. They had film for three thousand exposures, of which one thousand were kodachrome colour. ‘Their cameras were three Leicas and a Zeiss Super-Ikonta. In face of all this talent and equipment I had brought no camera of my own.

18

| FTER THAT EIGHT weeks’ hustle and the nerve-testing

DELIVERY AT RANIKHET 19

On the morning of 4th May we steamed into harbour at Bombay. Everything was as it should be. Behind the show- pieces of the great sea front—the Gateway of India and the Taj Mahal Hotel—there lurked the promise of the Asiatic hinterland, brought to us by appropriate emissaries: flocks of brown and ragged pariah kites, which swooped around the ship, lifting garbage off the water with their claws.

We disembarked in the afternoon and were met by Mr. A. R. Leyden of the Himalayan Club and by Mr. Wilkie Brown, who had come to see us through the Customs. Before ever leaving England we had been warned by friends that although our customs-free entry and import licence had been granted at Delhi there was only a remote chance of the good news having filtered through to Bombay. Last year two other expeditions had been held up that way for ten days. And sure enough at Bombay the Customs had never heard of us. Leyden went into action. Armed with a thick wad of letters from the United Kingdom Commissioner, the Ministry of Commonwealth Relations, and India House, he exhorted the reluctant officials, who could not wave him aside. After two hours they passed us without inspection. Carried away by this triumph, and perhaps for- getting that the Bombay Presidency had ‘gone dry,’ Scott unwisely declared a bottle of brandy, which we had wanted for emergencies on the march. The bottle was seized.

We put up at the Taj Mahal Hotel, which seemed to us incon- veniently large and busy, but tolerable for one night. We hoped to leave next evening by the Frontier Mail.

Mr. and Mrs. Leyden entertained us to supper that night, when we met fellow members of the Himalayan Club. We could not possibly have received a more friendly welcome to India in a more charming setting—a garden lawn lit by candles, for the air was breathless. We were given, too, much useful information about problems of photography, coolies, travel, and the identification of birds. One of our Indian friends disturbed us by remarking that he had trekked north from Ranikhet last year and had found that the quality of Dotial coolies had fallen

away. They were no longer strong or reliable and were more c

20 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

apt to mutiny when the way grew hard. This news was at variance with information given us by Englishmen and especi- ally by Miss Bewick, who had also gone north last year from Ranikhet. Our Indian friend was much concerned at the pros- pect of our being stranded in the upper Dhauli, unable to move for lack of coolies, which he thought would be our likely fate. Food? Perhaps we should get food in the high villages; more likely not. Our lack of language would be a great handicap. This was a sobering conversation, but called for no action on our part—save prayer.

Next morning, with a car and driver mercifully lent to us by Mr. Wilkie Brown, we gave ourselves over to a prolonged dash all round Bombay, making last-minute purchases, arranging for the future development of monochrome film, smoothing the way for ‘quay-jumping’ a liner on our return several months later, and collecting maps and a high-altitude tent from the Himalayan Club.

MacKinnon was sent off on detachment to win back our bottle of brandy, the loss of which rankled. For two hours he fought a lone, heroic action through the widely separated halls of the old and new custom-houses, each a hot and complex warren of long corridors and wide lobbies seething with humanity, up and down endless staircases and across huge, high-ceilinged rooms packed densely and from wall to wall with white-gowned badus, a throbbing, untold host, none of whom knew anything about anything, except that they were paid to be there by a beneficent government. They did not, at least, know about the more important events in Bombay island, such as the seizure of a Mr. Scott’s brandy bottle. But the same occult power that had guided us so surely amidst the confusion of Scott’s rooms in Glasgow, crossed four seas to the aid of a lost MacKinnon, guiding him deep into the secret places of the Indian Excise. His arrival at the inmost sanctuary, his very threading of its hidden ways, was at once accepted by its priests as evidence that the gods must indeed have walked with him, so that his claim to one bottle was honoured after so little as an hour's

debate.

DELIVERY AT RANIKHET 21

Our train left Bombay Central at nine o’clock at night. After the luxuries of our eastward voyage, this two-day journey over a thousand miles of purgatorial plains was something we dreaded. Yet everything went well for the first day. The carriage was clean and spacious, although second class, and we had it to our- selves. The electric fans worked. The service from the restaurant car was good. We spent a comfortable night. Next forenoon was hot enough in all conscience, but we bought a great block of ice and sat round it enjoying ourselves, just as one sits round a bright red fire in Britain.

Despite the heat, Scott and Weir were continually scanning with their binoculars. From their exclamations I heard that the otherwise dull and scorched plains rejoiced in flocks of green parakeets, shrikes, drongos, minahs, egrets, and storks. At Muttra junction, where we changed trains, the heat smote us like a blow when we stepped out on to the platform. During the war I had known far greater heat in Iraq, and Scott had known the Indian, but Weir had not before had the chance of adjust- ment. During our long halt at Muttra he wilted visibly, although cheered by his first glimpses of hoopoes. He said that they seemed to fly right out of a book-plate, easy to recognize by the upstanding black and white crest and slender black beak. A handbook of Indian hill birds had been presented to us by the Himalayan Club and was most valuable. Scott carried an enormous volume of his own, weighing more pounds than I liked to think about in terms of coolies’ wages.

Our train to Kathgodam came in long after dark. There always seem to be waiting for Indian trains hordes of people far in excess of any train’s capacity. The fight to get on is corre- spondingly fierce and success goes to the strong or the cunning. The battle is hottest for the third-class compartments. For the second class we had only to be quick and firm in decision. No struggle was required in gaining entry; although at a later date I was to see boarders repelled and slung out by main force. Weir by this time had a bad throat and high temperature. Apart from the dust, we thought that the horrors of travel by Indian railways have been greatly exaggerated. The little that we

22 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I9j50

saw of the trains, on main lines only, gave us an impression of efficiency, cleanness, and punctuality.

We had all been looking forward to the Terai: the famous jungle that stretches under the central foot-hills five hundred miles eastwards from the Ganges. But we ran through its heart without glimpsing it—too much ground has been cleared to each side of the railway line. In the forenoon we arrived at Kathgodam, nestling at the very baseline of the foot-hills, which rose abruptly from the plain. Again the heat shocked us. A bus ordered by Mrs. Ferguson should have been waiting at the station entrance, but came two hours late. The delay gave us time to enjoy an excellent curry at the station restaurant, cooled by the labours of a small boy, who pulled a punkah. He stands out in my mind as the only Indian we ever met in the plains who took baksheesh gladly: obviously a beginner. The uni- versal custom is to register the most bitter disappointment—a policy well considered, made with an eye to maintaining rates.

In the afternoon our bus transported us to the higher regions. A journey of forty miles in four hours. The road is good but hardly restful. So violently does it twist up the hills that the traveller is unremittingly thrown from side to side, his trunk muscles continually in corrective action, sometimes powerfully. Unless in good training and unsusceptible to road sickness, he will be a tired man at the far end.

Scenically, these lower foot-hills were not outstanding, well covered though they were by grass and trees. Their green was too uniform. And higher up, where entire hill-flanks were cultivated in long, shallow terraces—a mode of agriculture used everywhere in the Himalaya to counter soil erosion—the fields turned bare, brown faces to the sun, and waited patiently upon the rains. At last the bus panted over the top of the last hill- ridge near Chabattia at 6,000 feet and soon ran in to Ranikhet on the northward-facing slopes. We turned rightwards off the main road and nosed down a winding track to Essex House, where great and spacious vistas opened among the trees.

The house stood upon a hillside shelf, ringed by flower gardens and fronted by a lawn, from which we could look far

DELIVERY AT RANIKHET 23

north-east across the valleys of the Kosi and Sarju Rivers, and over the forested hills between, to a vast belt of cloud at the rim of the world. Behind that silver curtain the Himalaya lurked, invisible, not to be imagined.

Mrs. Ferguson met us in the garden. She was a lady of great charm and dignity, blessed by an understanding of moun- taineers. She had already helped us in laying on coolies and transport, but this was to be only the beginning of her kindness. Weir had a high temperature and exceedingly bad throat, so she packed him off to bed and for three days nursed him. That first night she rose more than once in the small hours to take him medicine. During the following days she was to help us in advising about rates of pay for coolies, getting stores from the bazaar and money from the bank, trying to trace the Inner Line Pass, arranging another bus to carry us, coolies and all, forty miles to Garur on the Sarju River, and so on. She kept us in good heart, too, and in fine fettle despite throats and tempera- tures, by the simple fact of her goodwill, which encourages men more than the giver can realize.

On that first night we relaxed and were early abed, but early afoot next morning in hope of seeing the main chain. It was a glorious morning of fresh, soft airs—it was spring!—and a season had changed overnight. It seemed as though our first view of the Himalaya was to be indefinitely postponed. Again the great cloud screen rose tall above the curve of the world. I was about to turn away disappointedly when a wild thought made me raise my head higher. They were there. An arctic continent of the heavens, far above the earth and its girdling clouds: divorced wholly from this planet. The idea of climbing over such distant and delicate tips, the very desire of it, never entered my heart or head. Had I been born among or in sight of them, I might have been led to worship the infinite beauty they symbolized, but not to set boot on their flanks, or axe on a crest.

We had expected the Himalaya to astound us, by their height if by nothing else. What is therefore so surprising is the fact that we were astounded. The nearest peaks were fifty miles

24 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

away and the main body seventy and more. It was their great height in relation to such great distance that really took us by surprise. Essex House looked directly out to the clouded spires of our ultimate goal, the Panch Chuli, and I thought that they were the most shapely cluster of all—perhaps the awareness that here was virgin ground, the unexplored, lent some especial enchantment.

Fever or no fever, Weir was out on the lawn in his pyjamas that morning. But not for long. He was genuinely ill and went back to bed. It was now quite clear that he would be unable to move for two or three days, at a minimum, but as events proved his illness held up the expedition not at all. For one thing we could not get the coolies to come to terms. The coolie contractor from the bazaar came to see me on our first morning, bringing with him Kuar Singh, destined to be our head coolie, and Perimal, his second in command.

Whenever I saw these two Dotials I prayed fervently that we might be able to get another sixteen men like them—especially like Perimal. He reminded me irresistibly of a brigand chief— a well-built, sturdy man of forty with a most mischievous twinkle in his brown eyes, and his broad frank face, occasionally re- flective as he summed me up and glanced over the sacks and crates in the courtyard, constantly breaking into smiles. He looked most tough and energetic, but a man who would have enormous influence over other and younger coolies—a born ringleader. We should have to have his goodwill from the start. Kuar Singh, on the other hand, was a small wispy man with a black wispy moustache. Probably he was little older than Perimal, but his face had lined more quickly. It was an expressive face; and even more expressive were his hands—he could use them to register any emotion known to the human species. No Frenchman ever used his hands with such art as a Kuar Singh—despair, the extremes of tolerance or intolerance, reverential awe, anger, an amused indignation, a brisk efficiency —his hands flashed through the gamut with an ease and rapidity that held me wholly fascinated. It was a quite new experience.

When to the work of his hands he added the use of eyes and

DELIVERY AT RANIKHET 25

face, I could understand clearly most things that he meant with- out knowing a word uttered. Kuar Singh was head coolie. There could be no other while he was around: an outstanding personality. Perimal seemed the ideal second in command. He could not talk with his hands, but could use his eyes exactly as does a dog: he could plead with them, almost melt one’s hardened heart to water—an innocent piece of acting, which he would instantly discard when he saw that nothing was doing. Kuar Singh never pleaded with his eyes. They were pene- trating and appraising eyes, shrewd and unfalteringly honest.

The coolie contractor was a nondescript person, with whom I dealt not at all. My concern was with Kuar Singh. He wanted Rupees 4 per day for all coolies and Rupees 5 for mountain work. The standard rate for road work around Ranikhet was Rupees 2/8, so this I offered, intending to com- promise at Rupees 3, which was the rate paid for trekking by Miss Bewick (and four times the pre-war rate). They would hardly stop to hear me out. An indignation closely approaching wrath flashed from Kuar Singh’s hands and eyes, but the moment he saw me freeze he swiftly changed tactics ; a sadness amounting to misery then pervaded the party. Perimal’s eyes brimmed over with a pained incredulity, and a black despair oozed from Kuar Singh’s finger-tips. Rupees 4 it must be, and 5 for the mountain, or no coolie would ever leave Ranikhet.

Promptly now, and without a word, they made the customary bow, raising clasped hands to the forehead, and departed. I was surprised at the speed with which they had broken off the dis- cussion. I could see it to be good policy, however, to leave me guessing whether they would ever come back or not, and glad to come to terms when they did. They were bound to know that white men are usually impatient and loathe ‘wasting time.’ What they had yet to learn was that we had more time to spend than money.

Scott, MacKinnon, and I now set to work on our fifteen crates. The whole food supply had to be unpacked, spread, and repacked. Forgetting my instructions, the packers had put all foods of the same kind into the same crates. If left thus, at least half a

26 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

dozen of the crates would have to be unnailed and renailed daily. Neither we nor the wood could tolerate the strain. Accordingly, Weir on his sick-bed drew up a new packing plan. That same afternoon we tried to work to it, but intense sun heat beating into the enclosed courtyard defeated us. We were unacclima- tized. Soon we should have to march in the noon sun, so the sooner we acclimatized the better. Therefore we strolled a mile through the trees and over the hill-ridge to its north-west side, where we found the bazaar and bank. We had to draw money for the expedition. There are some half-dozen private banks in Ranikhet, and of what worth they are we cannot say. We had been recommended to use Durgan Sah Mohan Lal Sah, who gave us efficient service and good exchange rates. We had each brought travellers’ cheques and now drew Rupees 9,660, of which we took Rupees 5,890 in small notes, which I calculated would see us back to Ranikhet. To meet unforeseen emer- gencies I arranged for the balance of Rupees 3,770 to be posted in mid July to the village of Milam in the upper Goriganga. The post office there opens in summer only, and is probably the highest in India.

Neither in England nor Ranikhet had we been able to get confirmation that villagers in the upper Dhauli, Gori, or Darma would accept bank-notes in payment. They would, we knew, take them in the lower Dhauli at Tapoban, but failed to contact anyone who had been farther north since before the war. In the nineteen-thirties silver had been essential. Our decision to take notes was in part an act of faith, but based on the common- sense view that if the upper valleys are evacuated in winter, then the people ought now to know the value of notes in the foot- hills. The decision was a doubtful one, none the less, which we made gaily enough because we dealt in doubts daily. They could not be avoided, so the only way of dealing with them was by common sense as they came. We no longer worried about anything ; such days were gone.

For that we had cause to be grateful. When I moved back to Essex House, leaving Scott and MacKinnon to forage in the bazaar, I remembered that the Inner Line Pass had still not

DELIVERY AT RANIKHET 27

arrived. I sat out on the lawn, rimmed by its vivid flowers, and listened to the monkeys go thumping over the bungalow roof. Straight before me, seventy miles away, the snows of Panch Chuli still hovered over the cloud carpet. I wondered if we should ever get there. Without a pass we could still carry on with Part I of our plan, for the Inner Line cut the Dhauli at Surai Thota, north of our entrance to the Rishi; the remaining five parts we should be obliged to scrap. No police or guards would stop our crossing the Line, but future expedi- tions might be barred to us, and for others made more difficult.

While I thought over this problem there came another of those unexpected interventions, a long string of which had favoured us since last February. Mr. Frapolli came to visit us. He was Swiss, and a resident of Ranikhet. He had climbed and ski’d in his youth on the Swiss and French Alps. Was there anything he could do to help us? Hesitantly, I told him about the Inner Line Pass. Ah! but the deputy commissioner at Pauri was his very good friend. A telegram should be sent at once. We visited the post office and a telegram went off in Frapolli’s name, asking that our pass be sent to Joshimath at the junction of the Dhauli and Alaknanda Rivers. This service given, he then vanished and we never met him again.

That night we worked on the stores. Henceforth, one of our most valued possessions was a pair of dental forceps, with which we drew nails out of crates. We worked by the light of oil-lamps, hammering, nailing, weighing, and writing out lists in penny note-books. These last are of great importance. It is the little things and the attention given to them that make or mar the smooth running of an expedition. Deprived of our pincers, or spring-balances, or penny note-books, or the painted numbers on crates, our daily life must have been exasperating. To such as these give close attention: the bigger issues, it would seem, look after themselves.

Next morning Kuar Singh and Perimal were waiting outside for me when I woke. They saluted with clasped hands.

‘Salaam, sahib,’ said Kuar Singh.

‘Salaam, sahib,’ said Perimal.

28 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I95o

“Rupees four,’ said Kuar Singh in Hindustani; ‘five for snow.’

The contractor, whom I had not noticed, popped up at my elbow. ‘They will take no less, sahib,’ he whined in English. “We are all poor men and to you lakhs or rupees are as nothing.’

I had to kill that idea at once, lest it kill the expedition. “Rupees two-eight,’ I said. ‘That is the standard rate. Three for snow. I will pay no more.’ They began to persuade me, but this time I took the initiative in breaking off. I looked impatient and waved them away angrily, then half turned, fired a ‘salaam’” at them, and went to get my breakfast. The coolie situation would soon be serious, for although Weir had been worse last night we guessed rightly that that was the climax, and that in two more days he would be fit to move; which left us one more day to come to terms with the Dotials.

After breakfast I enlisted the aid of Mrs. Ferguson for a quick settlement. It was the kind of situation that she could handle well. In the afternoon she obtained from the district magistrate a declaration that Rupees 3 for the march and Rupees 4 for the mountain work was a fair wage. The contractor was hailed before him and informed of the arbitration, then sent down to Essex House with Kuar Singh. It was agreed: Rupees 3 and 4, the coolies to provide their own food.

In the course of the last two days several young Garhwalis had presented themselves, complete with chitthi (character reference), to offer service as cooks. We were tempted to take one, since they had English and the Dotials none. By good fortune I asked Mrs. Ferguson to get Kuar Singh’s advice. ‘No Kumaoni cooks!’ he exclaimed. And the more he thought of it the more incensed he looked. ‘AI! Kumaonis are dishonest ... he went on, and waved his hands ina way that showed that if this was an exaggeration it was a modest one.

‘But will any Dotial be willing to cook for us?’ I asked.

‘T will cook myself?’

“How much extra pay?’

‘I will take no extra pay.’

I could hardly believe my ears. I could only assume that his dislike of Kumaoni cooks had carried him away. I did not

DELIVERY AT RANIKHET 29

argue. We parted, having arranged that twenty-four Dotials would present themselves at ten o’clock next morning for selection and pay.

Throughout this conversation Mrs. Ferguson had been our interpreter, had given Kuar Singh an idea of our plans, and had confirmed that we could rely on getting a few men to stay with us for the five months’ journey. Her help eased our task in making the bandobast (agreement). This made, I felt confident that our own Urdu would be good enough to let the Dotials know what was wanted of them as we went along. It would certainly not be good enough to harangue mutinous coolies when things went wrong. They would have to be persuaded to work for us in rain, cold, and snow, not because they liked it (for no one ever does) or liked only our money (which will not move exhausted men), but because they liked us. In short, in the absence of a good command of language we should more than ever be reliant on goodwill. They must be made disinclined to let us down if they could help it, and they would feel that way only if we, in the first place, had selected each man because we liked him. If that were done, each coolie could not but help be aware of it, though not a word was said, and he would respond. The selection of men by an instinctive liking seemed to me the essential prerequisite in choosing coolies for an expedition. Any other way we should have trouble.

At 10 a.m. next morning they arrived and lined up outside Essex House. Twenty-one men had come. They wore loose jackets and tight-fitting trousers. Most had white, round caps. The very first impression I had, before looking closely, was good. So I started off with a note-book and asked each man his name. As he answered I looked him straight in the eye; if I liked him his name went down, but if there was any doubt on the score of age or physique a question mark followed. It is an extraordinary tribute to Dotials, or else to our local good fortune, that I ended up with twenty-one names and only seven question marks. There was none whom I disliked.

One man I rejected because he was too young (fourteen at a guess) ; one because I liked him less than the others; and one on

30 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I9j50

Kuar Singh’s advice because his eyesight was bad. That left us with four other doubtfuls, on whom I took advice all round. By the grace of God the vote went in favour of each, for they turned out to be excellent men. Zungia, who despite his smiling eyes looked too old, was to prove himself the best coolie of all, the wisest and most willing. Shivlal, a short, stocky lad, who looked too young—no more than fifteen—was retained only because he was so keen and because everyone, including the Dotials, liked him so well. Ring Badr, a tall youth with a coloured cap, seemed too frail of frame to carry heavy loads, and his spareness was emphasized by his having an unusually intelli- gent face. Not until later did we know coolies well enough to learn that spareness of frame is no bar at all to great carrying power. We kept him because he had a straightforward glance and reliable air. Toshi, a well-built youth like a great puppy, whose eye seemed too dull and expression too vacant, we kept by the advice of Kuar Singh, who said that he was a splendid carrier. We were to be glad of that advice in the end. Our final choice was the following:

Kuar Singh Ring Badr Narbir Perimal Unra Singh Gopi Goria Prem Singh Shivlal Jung Bir Karon Bahadur Zungia Ram Badur Matbir Gulab Singh Munmir Phakir Toshi

They now received an advance of pay, Rupees 25 per head. Most of them had to buy clothing as well as food. It seemed a happy augury that we could hand over Rupees 450 without a trace of doubt that every single man would honour his obliga- tion. They all promised to be back at eight o’clock in the morning for a 9 a.m. start. A much earlier start was highly desirable to avoid the heat of the sun, but this could not be. A motor road went forty miles to Garur; unluckily our hired bus would carry only sixteen men, so the remaining six would have to travel by service bus at 9 a.m. We preferred that the two buses should travel together, arriving Garur at one o’clock.

DELIVERY AT RANIKHET 31

We should in consequence have a very short march in the late afternoon, just three miles uphill to the Dak bungalow at Dun- goli. This short march would be of real help to Weir. He was already out and about, indulging in photographic prowls and bird-stalking. He would be able to march next day. But a short march seemed politic. So that as usual everything was working out for the best....

And continued to do so. The rationing system at Ranikhet, I now discovered, forbade the coolies to carry away all the food that they needed on the long march out to the Dhauli. Almost simultaneously with this discovery there arrived out of the blue —out of the Indian Government of all unexpected places— instructions to the district magistrate to grant us every help and facility. The Dotials got their rations—plus a pep talk from the magistrate, who exhorted them to work well and never to dare appear again in Ranikhet if they defaulted.

At 6 p.m. the magistrate sent a messenger down to us—our Inner Line Pass had been granted by the deputy commissioner of Garhwal. It would be sent direct to Joshimath.

Truly the clouds that had been obscuring our way for so long were dissipating at the eleventh hour. All was made plain before us. Looking round our rooms at Essex House, one might not have thought so. We had a bedroom and sitting-room each and the floors were littered deep with all kinds of gear—books, maps, candles, shoes, padlocks—stuff thrown out at the last moment or brought in to await packing. We worked until 11.30 p.m., thrusting things into kit-bags and sorting out the mess. At the end, we sat down to the last letters home.

CHAPTER THREE

Northward Bound to the Dhauli

EHAD WONDERED whether Dotial coolies, who

\ \ at one inspection could be trusted with eight days’

advance of pay, could also be relied upon to come in time in the morning. But the first thing I heard when I woke up on 11th May was the sound of their voices in the garden. I looked at my watch—six o’clock. It was a most beautiful morning, so I rose and went out to them. A full dozen en- thusiasts had arrived. They salaamed and gave me such tre- mendous smiles that I felt quite overwhelmed. I had never in my life before seen so much goodwill so openly shown. I still remembered one or two names from the previous day, so I used them, and at once saw the men’s eyes light up. Clearly the sooner we got to know all their names the better. In the mean- time we could not have them over-running Mrs. Ferguson’s garden. I asked Kuar Singh to send all except six to the bus station.

We enjoyed our last breakfast of bacon and eggs. We bade farewell to Mrs. Ferguson. The bus arrived and was loaded, went chugging and panting up the steep hill to the ridge, and at nine o’clock picked up another six Dotials and set off through the long bazaar.

Our road went eastwards twenty-one miles towards Almora— a road twisting more wildly than ever, giving splendid views across the terraced ridges—then dropped to the Kosi River and turned north thirty miles to Garur. This last stretch was thickly wooded country. We arrived at one o’clock and un- loaded under a great tree, in the shade of which we rested awhile. There was still no sign of the service bus. We went in search of tea shops and selected one with a white-walled inner room, very clean and cool. A bench was brought in from outside.

32

NORTHWARD BOUND TO THE DHAULI 33

I sat down unthinkingly and leapt up again, like the hen from the girdle. The wood was scorching. A carpet had to be spread on top. I was daily mystified, during this introduction to the foot-hill country, how it was that the sun could be so fierce and merciless while one idled in it, and yet, the moment one set about hard, active work, moving around under the full blaze of the sky, no handicap was felt, no loss of energy.

The second bus arrived. At once we set out eighteen loads under the big tree. Most coolies had two packages to carry: a crate and a kit-bag. These loads had been carefully weighed. None exceeded 6o lb. But we were soon to find that the Dotials had a system of their own, in which spring-balances played no part. Their own food was carried by one man, not eighteen; Kuar Singh, as head coolie, and with the acquiescence of the others, took no load at all. The loads had thus to be com- pletely rearranged, and Kuar Singh did this with exceeding swiftness by eye and by feel. He thus dealt out the loads to each man, not necessarily on the basis of an equal load to each, but in some measure according to capacity. Thus, Shivlal, our youngest coolie, was never given more than 50 lb., while Perimal had a full 80 lb., although he and Kuar Singh were as thick as thieves. The main points were that no man had more than a maund (80 Ib.) and that all accepted Kuar Singh’s verdict without question. He had a very real authority over the other coolies. He reminded me more and more of an old Alpine guide—exceedingly brisk, tough and confident, and wise in the ways of men, but always ready to put his employers’ interests before his own, and truly to serve. We were very lucky with Kuar Singh.

The coolies squatted against their loads, settled the head- bands across their foreheads, then one by one gave a heave and lurched upright. We were off!

Before us lay a nine- or ten-day march across the Wan and Kuari Passes to the Dhauli River. My mind was quite blank as we left Garur, but shortly afterwards we descended a steep lane through a village, where golden grain was drying in trays in the sunshine. Beyond and below, the Sarju flashed under

34 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

the next great rise of the hills. I had the sense of emerging from a long, dark tunnel. The hectic, bewildering weeks of preparation, the stupefying meals of the voyage out, the hustle at Bombay and bustle at Ranikhet—they were all like the wild waters of a subterranean stream, in the navigation of which we had been too busy to think. And now the stream burst from its tunnel on to the open slopes of the Himalaya. It cast us.out into sunshine. For a moment dazzled, we suddenly saw spread before us a world made new. All the senses of the soul were not so much refreshed as reborn, as though after death. We were free men once again, for the first time in months really able to live in the present moment.

We crossed the Sarju by a suspension bridge to Baijnath. A couple of small temples on the bank of the river drew us aside. They were shaped like pine-cones, built of a beautiful grey stone, very old and clean. We noticed that one of our coolies, Ring Badr with the coloured cap, after washing himself in the river was now lingering in the background. We guessed that he was waiting for us to leave, which we did at once. He then entered one of the temples. I had noted that his face was unusually intelligent, but had nearly turned him down as a bit of a dandy. As he passed us now, I saw that he had a very level eye and good carriage of the head.

For Weir’s sake, we were glad to see that the track winding three miles up the hillside was not too steep and wound like an Alpine track among trees. Far below stretched a cultivated valley, much greener than the country around Ranikhet. The outstanding feature remained the terracing of the hill-flanks, like gigantic staircases; but now each flat step was pale green or gold, meaning rice or wheat. We passed a couple of tiny villages, at each of which we stopped for tea, served in brass tumblers at two annas (twopence). Scott had a large scarlet flask projecting from the pocket of his rucksack, and when this was seen at the second tea shop the tea-wallah offered drinks on the house in exchange for a pull at the scarlet flask. We did not respond at first. But in prohibitionist India, the chance of a drink out of a sahib’s scarlet flask does not come every day,

Ta ipoban

Kuari Pass, 3" Dhakwaniai*" sion

Kan al,

7 ¢ 3 Wig

Jatropani a 13557 ey

Ba Loa rgad ra

1 Sat - ‘ “NS

1m

= Gwallai 2mls. .

Baijnath “9 miles South” The March Out

36 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

and was not to be let pass without a bid. When we rose to go our tendered annas were waved airily away—the flask, just one drink out of the flask, was all our humble tea-wallah would have. There was nothing for it but to yield. Scott flung off his rucksack and drew the flask. The tea-wallah held out a tumbler, his eyes gleaming with alcoholic anticipation—while Scott poured him out a noggin of tepid water.

We left hurriedly amid a roar of laughter from the onlookers, in which I was happy to see that the tea-wallah joined; for, bereft of his senses, he had let us get away with the annas. He would kick himself later in the day.

Our carrying water-bottles on the march never developed into a habit. Within a day or two we gave up the practice and I would not again burden myself with a water-bottle in the Kumaon Himalaya. One is thirsty for the first day or two— when there are tea shops every few miles. And after that one comes into training and water on the march is not needed. If a ‘brew-up’ is desired, streams are plentiful enough.

The trees fell away and we came out on to a hill-top sward. A temple crouched there at the very crest, cool and grey behind a charmed circle of low grey walls, over which hung a cloud of almond blossom. On each day’s march we were to find the day made memorable either by some little incident, almost always trivial, or by a sight so briefly seen that we could not have imagined that any indelible record would be left on the memory. But so it was. We moved daily through scenes of the most splendid beauty ; daily, on every hand and wherever we might turn, there it was manifested, so that we became familiar with beauty and took its presence very much for granted, and ceased consciously to respond: until that daily, fleeting glimpse into the heart of beauty’s very self came suddenly upon the inner eye—flashed upon the soul—and was gone. The duration of vision is of no consequence. To-day we passed by the grey temple on the hill within a minute; and the glory of pale pink blossom shading these ancient stones stays fresh in the mind after a year: vivid as the Himalayan spring, and, like it, in- vigorating.

NORTHWARD BOUND TO THE DHAULI 37

We came quickly upon the Dak bungalow above Dungoli. It stood alone among a light screen of pines, high above a broad valley striped with green and gold and studded with houses. It faced the wooded tangle of hills and the white barriers of the north. One and all, these Dak bungalows and forest rest- houses are sited to command the snows and their vast green apron.

We had to wait around for ten minutes until the chaukidar (caretaker) could be found, and then our opinion of Kuar Singh received confirmation. He had already got a fire going out- side, and almost before we could take stock of the clean, white- washed room and its single bed, he had served us with tea, sent Perimal out foraging for eggs and vegetables, and had the coolies briskly moving in search of fuel. Ring Badr climbed the tallest pines like a monkey to strike off dead wood.

The speed with which every one acted was justified by the arrival of a heavy thunder-storm, on which they had probably been keeping an expectant eye; for thunder was to prove a usual afternoon event. The valley filled up with curtains of torrential rain, into the grey heart of which tore enormous and jagged flashes of lightning. It made a spectacle of the first order and fetched us all out on to the veranda. Thunder-storms of such magnitude are rarely seen in Britain, and never in Scotland in course of my own experience. We went early to bed, now and henceforth not later than 9.30 p.m.; for we had asked Kuar Singh to have everyone up at five o’clock each morning. Our policy was to finish each day’s march by the early afternoon, so that we might all have time to relax in the sunshine, and enjoy ourselves at each day’s end. The Dotials, naturally, much pre- ferred the early and cooler marching; rarely did they show disinclination to get up. But then, they lay hard and carried only one blanket. Whereas the four sahibs lay on inflatable mattresses (half-size, stretching from head to hip) and used down sleeping-bags.

In May dawn comes at half-past four. We could hear Kuar Singh prowling about alone at that time. By 5 a.m. prompt he had every coolie up; soon the crackle of fires and the flip-flap

38 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

of chupatty-making could be heard all round. Tea was delivered to us in our sleeping-bags. We rose then and intro- duced Kuar Singh to the mysteries of porridge-making. He was never to prove an apt pupil—always he would turn it out too thin or too thick, too lumpy or saltless. A man must learn to cook by eating his own work, and he will never learn other- wise. The Dotials cooked their Indian food excellently and we soon entrusted them with that only, unless for the straight- forward boiling of soups or puddings prepared by Weir, who from start to finish was honorary chef to the expedition.

We were away at six o’clock. The day’s march was seven and a half miles to Gwaldam. As we crossed the short turf on the brow of the hill, the scene below reminded us of Speyside, for the wooded valleys were filled with a Scotch mist. Cool air and ground wonderfully fresh after the night’s rain or dew were to make all these early morning starts the most delightful hours of each day—when we were fresh too, and exhilarated, as now. The track dropped steeply into the first valley and rose again, twisting among scented pines on the long hill-ridges, and by the fringe of many a scattered village, where we sipped our last wayside tea for four months and met our first herd of goats, heading north for Tibet with iron bells tinkling, and laden with saddle-bags of grain.

A great part of the track was lightly carpeted with pine- needles and made excellent going for the Dotials’ bare feet and for my own rubber-soled baseball boots, which I wore all the way to the Rishi. Leather boots are unnecessary for these tracks, especially when the day’s march rarely exceeds ten miles; whereas sandshoes give the feet a delightful sense of lightness. Weir and I used baseball boots for their greater thickness of sole, which protects the feet from stones. The Dotials, when the track roughened, used sandals cut out of old motor-car tyres.

2 The coolies went fast that day. Everything seemed favour- able: the bracing air, the softly carpeted track, its long gentle rise to Gwaldam shaded from the forenoon blaze by splendid trees, which on the upper stretch were deodars (a kind of cedar).

38 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

of chupatty-making could be heard all round. Tea was delivered to us in our sleeping-bags. We rose then and intro- duced Kuar Singh to the mysteries of porridge-making. He was never to prove an apt pupil—always he would turn it out too thin or too thick, too lumpy or saltless. A man must learn to cook by eating his own work, and he will never learn other- wise. The Dotials cooked their Indian food excellently and we soon entrusted them with that only, unless for the straight- forward boiling of soups or puddings prepared by Weir, who from start to finish was honorary chef to the expedition.

We were away at six o’clock. The day’s march was seven and a half miles to Gwaldam. As we crossed the short turf on the brow of the hill, the scene below reminded us of Speyside, for the wooded valleys were filled with a Scotch mist. Cool air and ground wonderfully fresh after the night’s rain or dew were to make all these early morning starts the most delightful hours of each day—when we were fresh too, and exhilarated, as now. ‘The track dropped steeply into the first valley and rose again, twisting among scented pines on the long hill-ridges, and by the fringe of many a scattered village, where we sipped our last wayside tea for four months and met our first herd of goats, heading north for Tibet with iron bells tinkling, and laden with saddle-bags of grain.

A great part of the track was lightly carpeted with pine- needles and made excellent going for the Dotials’ bare feet and for my own rubber-soled baseball boots, which I wore all the way to the Rishi. Leather boots are unnecessary for these tracks, especially when the day’s march rarely exceeds ten miles; whereas sandshoes give the feet a delightful sense of lightness. Weir and I used baseball boots for their greater thickness of sole, which protects the feet from stones. The Dotials, when the track roughened, used sandals cut out of old motor-car tyres.

: The coolies went fast that day. Everything seemed favour- able: the bracing air, the softly carpeted track, its long gentle rise to Gwaldam shaded from the forenoon blaze by splendid trees, which on the upper stretch were deodars (a kind of cedar).

47, 9 O10

[nsuy, pue nunysy epueN] : punorsyseq uy

WVGTVM9SD MOTAE SQ THA GAOVUYAL

NORTHWARD BOUND TO THE DHAULI 39

Amongst these, on the hill-top above Gwaldam village, we found the forest rest-house. A belvedere of lawn and rose garden fronted the building, commanding the great spaces over the Pindar valley and the Wan Pass to the snows of Nanda Ghunti and Trisul. These forest rest-houses are usually greatly superior to the Dak bungalows, being distinguished from them by well-kept gardens and perfect cleanliness inside, by a small extra charge and the need of a permit. They are sited always on the hill-tops and well away from the villages. Their beauty of setting is extraordinary, causing us to exclaim time and again that nothing like this could be seen in the Alps, and to bewail that so few Indians of the plains have any conception of the untold beauty of their own country.

We ourselves lacked a permit to occupy rooms, but a visiting official and the district forest officer were there and allowed us entry. When they heard that our next day’s objective was Bagargad, just under the Lohajang Pass, which we could now see eleven and a half miles across the Pindar valley, they warned us not to cross the suspension bridge over the Pindar River. It was in a highly dangerous state and likely to collapse. We must ford the river a hundred yards downstream. This sounded slightly alarming, for the source of the Pindar was thirty-five miles to our north-east among the glaciers of Trisul and Nanda Kot. The river at Gwaldam should be big and powerful.

Despite our height of 6,300 feet, the flies were worse than anything that we had known before in India. When we sat down to table, any article of food left for a moment unfanned was promptly blackened by raiders. I was engaged in telling my companions how Indian flies are as nothing compared to the flies of Egypt, when Tom Weir placed the first of two boiled eggs on the table.

‘Egyptian flies,’ I continued, not troubling to wave a hand over the self-protected egg, ‘darken the noonday sky, giants in fighting weight compared to this contemptible little army.’ At which words several squadrons of Indians made a simultaneous landing on the egg in front of us, coming on it with such weight of number that the egg rolled over the table. They had heard

40 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

me. I was struck dumb. I had never seen flies roll an egg in Egypt.

Kuar Singh now announced that our bath water was ready. Once again we felt startled . . . and perhaps conscience-stricken ; not one of us had thought of thoroughly washing for a long time tocome. But Kuar Singh and his minions had gone to no little trouble and travelled no little distance to fetch us this water, so we trooped into the wash-house, at least to honour him by inspecting triumphant endeavour. Sure enough, a big zinc tub was one-third full of water, inhabited by a shoal of baggy minnows and a school of black water-beetles. Only Scott (who has loved animals ever since he was a small boy) chose to join them. The rest of us hastened out for a stroll.

It was to-day that the Dotials might be said to have ‘dis- covered’ us. They haunted the veranda and seized any good excuse for coming inside to look us over. It was Scott’s camera tripod with the telescopic legs, our lilos and binoculars, that most fascinated them. One of the brightest Dotials was a young lad of seventeen called Ram Badur. He was small, with a face like a Gurkha, that is, broad and always smiling. He was quick in discovering how the binoculars worked—a problem that mystified most of the others until he showed them. From that night onwards he appointed himself one of our orderlies, his specially chosen task being to blow up the lilos, which he did with excessive gusto, leaving them tight as drums and with corks driven too hard to be drawn without employ- ment of blasphemy. His willingness did not escape Kuar Singh’s eye, who promptly harnessed his surplus energies to more sordid occupations, such as cleaning the kitchen gear. Before retiring for the night Ram Badur used to come in to us and salute smartly—a military salute, not the salaam. He would have made a magnificent soldier. He was full of enthusiasm. His one idea was to give service.

Our third day’s march, Gwaldam to Bagargad, was a full day’s work, but Weir was much better and the rest of us were feeling gloriously fit—and that applies to coolies too. I was specially interested in Toshi, whom I had wanted to turn down

NORTHWARD BOUND TO THE DHAULI 4I

at Ranikhet on account of his dull and listless eye and a mouth somewhat loose. His slouch had vanished. He was holding himself erect now and his eye had life in it. We were glad he had come with us. If this could happen so soon as our third day out, he ought to show a transformation later.

At 6.30 a.m. we descended two thousand feet to the Pindar River. MacKinnon and I went ahead here and travelled a mile upstream to the old suspension bridge. As rock-climbers we are accustomed to the idea of exposure on a cliff face, but this tottering contraption of broken beams, fifty feet above the white race of the Pindar, made our stomachs turn over. We turned hastily away and looked a hundred yards downstream for the ford, which turned out to be one half ford and one half log bridge. The bridge over the deepest sweep of the river had to be reached by a thigh-deep wade to an island of boulders. We crossed. On looking upstream to the old bridge, we were horrified to see an old woman and young girl already half-way over. That they could not have crossed where we did, without being carried, was certain; that they should choose to risk the old bridge testified to strong nerve. This was but the first of many enlightening proofs that we were to receive that young and old in the Himalaya show in daily life a fearlessness in face of danger that we should not expect of people in western countries. Of course, they have the occasion for it; and the peoples of the West always rise to their own occasions in war. None the less, my impression is that their attitude to the chances of daily life is braver than ours. Life is held more cheaply in the Himalaya.

The Pindar valley was the richest we had yet seen. Its broad wheatfields glowed in the sunshine, a gay and lively land through which the river wound snakily green, thrusting on and west- wards into a maze of valleys and low hills. We turned north up the Kaliganga, which flows south from the Wan Pass. On either side the hills rose to 10,000 feet, heavily wooded, but never giving us a ‘shut in’ feeling, not even when we came into shaded Debal, a village in the forest at 4,200 feet; for the eye was at once drawn to a little promontory by the river and caught

42 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

there by the brilliant white of a temple spire. It gave a lift to the mind and heart, causing head and eyes to lift in sympathy, until—how unexpectedly !—they beheld the snow spire of Trisul shining bright and sudden through the right-hand branch of the Kali. Nowhere else have I seen a temple sited with such inspiring effect. It is small and humble, its white cone catching the sunshine and pointing up, up to where Trisul is, pointing too, pure white too, the one no more beautiful than the other and no less holy.

Beyond Debal the track began its two-thousand-foot rise towards Bagargad. The valley fell away deeply on the right as we mounted, its flanks still wooded, the trees crowding close under the path, so that we were walking among the tree-tops. It was a world I had never known before: the world of the bird and the monkey. The tree-tops undulated below us, rising and falling in cloud-like surges; sometimes blanketing the earth and isolating us betwixt the green waves and the blue sky, some- times soaring round us in sun-filled glades, each leaf working, catching the light and speeding it around, here in a pale green blaze and there in glinting gold; every trunk of pine a thing of individual beauty as the sun washed across the bark; each red scale unique of pattern, margined in black. And amidst this scene there flew one verditer flycatcher, a heavenly bird clad in celestial blue.

As the track climbed it broke clear of the tree belt for a space, then rose quickly to a ghat in which Nanda Ghunti was framed. It stood so clear and bold and came upon me with such dramatic suddenness that I felt as though bludgeoned. I sat down to recover and then to admire this fury of a mountain, when a tattered shepherd wandered over from his flock of browsing goats. I knew why he had come—every man we had passed this day had stopped to beg a cigarette—but this shepherd came also for conversation. He spoke good English and had travelled more widely than I—the U.S.A., France, Egypt, Italy, and Japan. Like myself he had served with an Indian division. He was happy now to look after his flocks, but far more keenly interested in the welfare of the world than I should have sus-

NORTHWARD BOUND TO THE DHAULI 43

pected of a Himalayan shepherd. It seemed worth inquiring into this blend of real content and concern. ‘You have a strenuous life,’ I said, ‘but much time to yourself each day on the hills. Do you not find that dull after so much travel?’

He grinned and shook his head. ‘There is a book,’ he answered, ‘which I know by heart, and I think about that.’

I took one guess. ‘It is the Bhagavad-Gita?’ He nodded.

When the Dotials at last came up I moved in among them, for there were still several whose names had failed to register on my memory. Each ten minutes or so I would stop one and ask: ‘ Tumhara nam kya hai?’ ‘This game was a most rewarding one, for I have never otherwise been able to give men so much apparent pleasure. As at Ranikhet their eyes lit up; they simply beamed, and answered ‘Phakir,’ and ‘Matbir,’ and ‘Narbir.’ These three with Shivlal were a young and particularly jungly type, lighting their own fire and cooking apart from the others (although on most friendly terms with all) and showing a marked spirit of independence. They all wore gold earrings and had an almost Tibetan cast of countenance. Their leader was Matbir, aged sixteen, whose confident, quite unaffected dignity of bearing, would single him out in any company.

After a ten-mile march we rose above Bagargad to the Dak bungalow. Its inside was inches thick in dust. Kuar Singh here gave one of his star performances. He drove us out to the garden to eat wild peas, while with lightning speed he made a broom of birch-twigs and scoured the room until all was obscured in a rolling cloud of dust, from the heart of which issued quick orders to Jung Bir and Ram Badur. By the time the dust settled fires were going and water was boiling, tea was served and curried potatoes were close behind. I had never seen a meal made more quickly.

Not until our meal was finished and the plates washed did Kuar Singh limp up for medical treatment. He was wearing a pair of good brown shoes, one size too small, and now he had a bunion. We had already seen that these shoes were worn to dignify his post as head coolie. They were prized as a mark of rank, and only the natural toughness of a Dotial’s feet had

44 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

made it possible for him to wear them on the march. There was one obvious cure. Tom Weir picked up the shoes and went through the motion of throwing them away. A look of in- credulous horror crept into Kuar Singh’s eyes. He would die in his shoes rather than cast them. So MacKinnon opened up his medicine chest for the first time and dabbed some iodine on Kuar Singh’s toes, then on Prem Singh’s swollen knee muscles. This humble unveiling of the medicine chest was in reality a great occasion, although we knew it not, and should have been marked with rounds of musketry and airs on the pipes. The gradual unfolding of its mysteries was to fascinate Dotials, Kumaonis, and Bhotias daily for months hereafter, and to give MacKinnon many a metaphorical headache in diagnosis. With- in a quarter of an hour the local headman had arrived for treat- ment. Everywhere we went henceforth, in every village near which we halted overnight, our expedition was to be valued chiefly on account of its medical stores and MacKinnon’s service —the more so the farther we went.

In the early morning the coolies discovered that our kettle was a whistler. The delight this caused was all the keener for its unexpectedness. Not understanding the cap, they had always taken it off until now. Suddenly it shrieked at them from the fire. It bowled them over with hysterical merriment. Hence- forth it was to sound reveille for us every morning : a much more stirring call at 5 a.m. than the wailing pipes of a highland regiment or Professor Dyrenfurth’s notorious whistle. It issued warm reasons, not cold commands.

Shortly after 6 a.m. we climbed to the pass above Lohajang. I arrived last to find that all the Dotials had collected on the far side and were resting. And this was no wonder, for it was a magic place. A tall deodar grew on the pass and thrust high across the track a gnarled branch, from which a great bell hung. Facing it across the track was a little wayside shrine, and between the two, just under the bell, towered Nanda Ghunti. The sun flooded over the ground, over the shrine and the bell and the deodar, burnishing all with that wonderfully mellow light, which is the blessing of May mornings. I saw it shine over the raven

NORTHWARD BOUND TO THE DHAULI 45

locks of the Dotials and draw out a blue sheen, a peculiar beauty not to be seen on a white man’s hair. They rose, several of them, having dumped their loads, and came back to ring the bell. Toshi went to the shrine first and prayed for a couple of minutes, then rang the bell afterwards, and sat down to watch Nanda Ghunti. It shone gently in the still air, flashing brightly only at the uttermost tip.

We descended a thousand feet or more and followed the left flank of the Wan glen seven miles due northward. The day stayed cool and marching was wholly delightful; most of the time we were shaded by pines, chestnuts, birches, and silver firs. The opposing flank lay close in to us, for the Kaliganga is here a true ravine. It was alive with birds: the flanks gave an impression of teeming life—an aviary on Himalayan scale. The glen was loud with their calling, for these birds were not warblers and we heard no song to compare with that of the British countryside. But they called, and the call echoed long across the high air of the glen, and the sound fell true to the ear, in perfect harmony with great spaces and the deep ravine, where the warble of a homeland bird must have been lost.

The most elegant bird of the day, and of all our days to come, was again a blue bird glimpsed gliding through the branches: a Himalayan tree-pie with a long slender body and blue trailing tail. Beside it the monal pheasant seemed crudely startling, always rocketing out from under us with hoarse cries like a grouse, a pale purple bird with a bright orange splash on its back and white on the tail.

As before, I questioned a few of the Dotials and could now claim to know all names. I have never before met all at one time so many men whom I liked so well. One and all they were upright men, high-hearted and straightforward in dealing. When tired at the day’s end they could still laugh and joke. Toshi I could hardly recognize as the lad I had doubted at Essex House. I came on him standing alone at the edge of a crag, looking down the sharp slope to the river, then north to the Wan Pass, which blocked the head of the valley. He was out in the sun; a cloth hung vividly blue from the back of his

46 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

head. He was a picture of alert vigour, and when I passed turned shining eyes to me. Involuntarily he stepped forward to speak, suddenly realized that he could say nothing I should understand, and fell back with a look of despair. However, I knew exactly what he wanted to say, and it was more than he would have been capable of expressing in words.

As we came down to the floor of the valley thunder and rain burst on us. The village of Wan lay close in front, in a bowl of the hills at 8,500 feet. Tops of 11,000—-13,000 feet ringed the bowl, notably Jatropani on our left. Our immediate goal was the forest rest-house, a thousand feet above us, below and to the right of the pass. It was set among gigantic trees on a shelf.

The cloud blew over. At once we noticed a marked drop in temperature. It became positively cold as we toiled up to the bungalow and new snow lay on Jatropani. We found the giant trees to be cypresses and the shelf a lawn overlooking the Wan Gad. Below us were thatched cottages among terraced wheat- fields. Beside our bungalow stood a three-room cottage for the coolies. It lacked chimneys and dense clouds of smoke were soon pouring out of the doorways. The Dotials must have been thoroughly fumigated—I was unable to enter these rooms when I tried.

MacKinnon opened his dispensary. Three shepherds had arrived, asking treatment for an inflamed eye, a swollen hand, and asthma. Rather than disappoint the asthmatic shepherd MacKinnon gave him a Gelucil tablet for stomach trouble. This was the first of many times when we regretted not taking Dr. Longstaff’s advice to bring fizzy drinks, which give comfort where cure is impossible.

The Dotials were short of flour, and Perimal, after prospecting at Wan, came back reporting that although wheat was plentiful we should have to wait one day for the grinding of ata. This admirably suited our plans. We intended giving the Dotials a rest-day each week and Wan was an excellent stopping place. MacKinnon, Scott, and Weir at once made plans to climb Jatro- pani, 13,300 feet, but I resolved to have an off-day—or rather a day by myself. The effect of daily camping with a score of

Perimal

es

Photo by T. Weir Photo by D. Scott Goria Zungia

FOUR DOTIAL PORTERS dl

5

NORTHWARD BOUND TO THE DHAULI 47

others had already made me herd conscious, and even the smaller herd of char sahib was to be avoided when convenient oppor- tunity offered.

That same evening I wandered off by myself through the trees behind the rest-house. A narrow track ran up the hillside and seemed to be making for a col above and to the right of the Wan Pass. After a mile it narrowed to a mere goat track through jungle, becoming grass-grown and difficult to pick out. The undergrowth thickened and bamboo-shoots sprouted to each side. The latter gave me pause: it was bear food, and this was ideal bear country. It occurred to me that I had not even a stick to protect myself. If one of the twists of the track brought me suddenly and too close to a black bear it would certainly panic and go for me. I slowed down my pace at the corners, but continued two miles, and had climbed two thousand feet, when a clearing of the jungle below revealed a view across the Wan Pass to rock peaks on the far side. They were ruddy in the sunset. At this moment a heavy animal began moving in the undergrowth behind me. The bush and bamboo were so dense that I could see nothing. I realized that if it came on the path below me my retreat would be cut off, so I started going slowly down. And the unknown animal at once began moving down parallel to me through the jungle. It sounded just a few yards from the path. It made no attempt to conceal its own noise, but padded boldly along, presumably intending to glimpse me without exposing itself. When I saw that dusk was gathering —that was the end. I bolted. A louder burst than usual came from the undergrowth, then a bend took me out of earshot. So many bends came so rapidly that quick backward glances gave no guarantee that I was not being hunted. I ran hard for a mile until clear of the jungle and out among more open tree-land, then strolled down to camp.

MacKinnon’s dispensary had opened again. The shepherd with asthma had returned, not to upbraid us, but joyfully to declare himself cured. We could only stare in silent wonder. It was a mystery, for ever insoluble. He was so pleased that he had brought us another patient—a goat with a gashed neck.

48 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I9j50

Kuar Singh’s bunion was next on view, and for the last time. He was quite unused to shoes, was wearing them out of vanity, and was thus learning wisdom the hard way. Henceforth we left him to carry on, confirming our ministrations to sound advice.

Weir, Scott, and MacKinnon left for Jatropani at six o’clock of a perfect morning. I went off alone shortly after them and returned at midday to find the Dotials waiting for me with a goat. Would I buy?—just Rupees 12. I said ‘No.’ Later I was to find this a modest price for Himalayan goat. But the beast was scraggy and we had not yet developed a craving for meat. To my utter astonishment, the Dotials then bought a rather fatter goat for themselves, still at Rupees 12. They led it over the lawns to the shade of the great cypresses, where the scene assumed the likeness of some immemorial rite of sacrifice. The officiating priest was Zungia, with a kukri, or long curved knife. He stood beside the trunk of the biggest tree. In front of him Perimal held the end of the halter, stretching it tight while the goat dug in its hoofs and bent its neck forward. The Dotials formed a wide semicircle round the tree, intent on the execution. Far across the glen the forested slopes were baking in white light, but over the lawn in the foreground only wide shafts streamed through the branches of the cypresses.

Kuar Singh stepped up and parted the wool at the back of the goat’s neck. He stepped back quickly. Perimal gave a quick pull on the halter. Zungia rose on the balls of his feet. The knife flashed —thud/—and the head rolled away.

There could be no quicker death for a goat. The rest of the afternoon was spent carving. Himalayan goat is tough and needs mincing; this the Dotials did with our two hatchets, pounding and chopping the meat on blocks of stone or wood. Kuar Singh at length went round all the men, apparently getting their opinion on some matter of moment, at the end of which he came to me with the heart, liver, and one hind-quarter—a gift from the Dotials.

That coolies should on rare occasion get a goat from their sahibs was an old custom, which we intended to honour, But

NORTHWARD BOUND TO THE DHAULI 49

that sahibs should get the best part of a goat from their coolies was something I had not conceived possible. One goat does not go far among eighteen coolies, so I reckoned the gift too generous and accepted only the liver.

This we enjoyed when MacKinnon, Scott, and Weir came back at 4.30 p.m. They had spent ten hours on Jatropani, climbing it from the Wan Pass and all finding altitude trouble near the summit. The route was easy and the view not out- standingly good. On the whole, they had enjoyed themselves, and Weir, who had had a high temperature on setting out in the morning, was at last thoroughly fit. Kuar Singh had catered for big appetites. Without saying anything to me, Perimal had acquired for us at Wan several pounds of potatoes. Kuar Singh curried them and served them with rice and fried liver. The meal was huge even by Himalayan standards. We have long remembered it; a more than usual amount of good- will went into its preparation.

More rain at night brought another fresh morning. We reached the Wan Pass at eight o’clock. Through the branches of the trees we could see Nilkanta, like a blunt Matterhorn, glittering in the sun and flanked by the long Badrinath Range. I at once decided to climb Jatropani, just to be alone on a hill in the sun, with the Himalaya spread out northwards. The bagging of the peak concerned me little. So I handed over the ‘swag’ (Rupees 5,800) to Tom Weir and left the party to continue to Kanol, above the Nandakini River.

A lammergeyer, or bearded vulture, with a wing-span of nine feet, was soaring overhead. I climbed by the east ridge from the col. It was a broad, rolling ridge, tree-covered in the lower part, and my route along the crest led me into a broad green avenue between giant rhododendron trees and pines. The thododendrons were in full bloom—pale purple, scarlet, and pink—not in a tangle of crowded bushes, but each a tall tree standing well spaced and apart from its fellow ; each a blossoming of individual glory, encompassed by sunlit air. At the top of the avenue, where the trees began to thin out on the steepening hill, I sat down and watched them for a while.

50 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

I tried to let their beauty soak in, and when I did so a new beauty, something additional to all I had yet seen, seemed to shine out of them; out of the grass an added richness of green, out of the pines more fragrance of resin, from the blossom of the rhododendrons a glow of colour still brighter; unfathomable deeps and gentleness bloomed in the sky’s blue. This newness taken on by the world was like that of something freshly created. Its loveliness had youth and vigour and an immortality so obviously not of its manifested self, but of that ever new and ancient beauty, wherein all individual things have being and life, and which they serve. Five thousand feet under me, from the dark greens of the Nandakini Gorge up to the brown tip of the lammergeyer’s wing, turned to the sky where it wheeled in thin pure air, and in all that lay between, there was displayed the overwhelming harmony of things sharply strange and separ- ate, that fully and from their beginning were entered into one another and oned. How clearly this integrating principle of the universe disposed and flung forth His power that morning. His name men called God, or the Infinite One, Beauty or Truth, according to the context in which His works happen to be seen.

I spent an hour at the head of my avenue on Jatropani. There were clouds gathering when I rose to go, still high and not threatening. But the summit of Jatropani was capped; nothing would be seen if I went there. Farther ascent loomed as an anti-climax. After a step or two I halted and turned down. A pair of lammergeyer were now circling the pass below me. They are one of the greater birds of the Himalaya. They seem to be particularly fond of bones, breaking them up just as a herring-gull opens mussels—by dropping them from a height.

From the pass I sped downhill to Kanol. It began to seem that my quick return was providential, for the expedition had not stopped at Kanol. MacKinnon was wearing moulded rubber soles (Italian Vibrams), and I could follow his spoor in the dust, going on and on, passing the village by detour and descending along the flank of the Mani Gad. The Mani was the deepest gorge I had yet seen. At the distant bottom of that immense V I could hear the roar of a torrent and sometimes glimpse a white

1 IVA. FHL NO SNOUGNAGOGOHY ll

“4 WY) x On >

109° “(J Aq 0104] Port a

NORTHWARD BOUND TO THE DHAULI 51

flash where the water shot down to the Nandakini. Both flanks were smouldering with reddened embers and the smoke curled blue at every yard. Had we not stopped that extra day at Wan, we should have been forced to stop at Kanol. The track must yesterday have been enveloped in flame. Everywhere on our march through the foot-hills we saw evidence of these fires, which the villagers start by plan to keep the undergrowth in check and to preserve the timber. If the bush is fired before it gets too high and dense the trees come to no harm; otherwise an accidental fire may destroy the forest.

Surrounded thus by white ash and red embers, the young pines stood clean of trunk and fresh green against the blackened earth. The sun filtering through the tops and tips gave them all a peculiarly live look. They were thrusting youngsters bursting with may-time energy. The very look of them revived my own flagging energies. The benefit was well timed. I was beginning to feel scared that a sudden typhoon of enthusiasm had seized the party in front and carried them off to distant Ramni, which ought to be next day’s march.

The track, descending now into the Nandakini Gorge, was extremely steep and stony. It punished the feet. This was the first and last time since Ranikhet that I regretted wearing rubbers instead of boots. At last, on the final and most abrupt descent of all to the Nandakini River, I saw on the floor of the gorge a flat meadow, and standing on it our green Base Camp tent.

Dak bungalows and rest-houses are a boon in the hills, yet I felt glad to be away from them now. This camp site reminded us of the wildest and remotest part of the Nevis Gorge in Locha- ber, save that the river cauldrons were less dangerous. Scott and MacKinnon were bathing, so I promptly joined them. The pool was fast-flowing and deep, cold as a highland burn. One quick plunge and straight out was all we could take. Mac- Kinnon and I spent an afternoon’s fishing in the Mani River, which swept into the Nandakini just below the camp. Mac- Kinnon had a hook and a length of surgical gut, while Perimal produced bait from underneath stones—small, strongly wriggling

worms. Alas, no fish honoured us with a nibble. All the z

52 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

coolies tried in turn. But fish seem to be unnecessary to the joys of angling. Man asks only water.

Biting flies were especially bad in this camp. It seemed im- possible to eat a meal unless to windward of a smoky fire. The moment the coolies saw our need they set about fetching wood without waiting for orders. In other ways too they seemed unable to do enough for us, and thus tempted us to respond by issuing cigarettes. This took them by surprise: at Ranikhet they had asked me for a cigarette ration as part of wages and I had refused outright. They had accepted the verdict and ex- pected none, so now were delighted beyond measure. At this early stage the issue had some appearance of a psychological error; for my original idea had been to keep all the cigarettes for issue when spirits were low, as encouragement—and the day was fast approaching when such a psychological surprise might have helped to ease a difficult situation. On the other hand, Dotials have all the alarming subtlety of mind that goes with simplicity. If ever we issued cigarettes just to get extra work out of them, they would know it as soon as we. Instead, we gave them cigarettes when they were either in the full tide of happiness or short of tobacco, and so never by dark design. They enjoyed the cigarettes the more for this, and perhaps in the end such straightforward dealing in all matters gave them a sense of trust, which they might otherwise have lacked. How- ever, that trust was not established yet. The foundations were still being laid. And the foundations consist of a multitude of little daily dealings, which only the foolish think of no concern or consequence. In the end they constitute a rock upon which the great events of later days will stand—or the sands on which they will fall.

Flowing westwards and parallel to the Nandakini River, and only six miles to our north, was the Bireh Ganga. We had now to cross the watershed between the two by the pass of Chechni Binaik, 10,510 feet. Our first stage led us to the village of Ramni on the south slope of the pass, by a march of eight miles rising along the north flank of the Nandakini. The trail became an airy ledge on a mountain wall, cutting deep into ravines and

NORTHWARD BOUND TO THE DHAULI 53

out again to the open flanks, which were precipitous. The drop varied between one and two thousand feet. We had a narrow escape from falling stones.

Lammergeyers and griffon-vultures were out in force, patrolling up and down the gorge. The griffons are the largest Himalayan bird, larger even than the lammergeyer.

We passed through several little villages, where many houses had the same whitewashed walls and thatched roofs as the Scottish shieling. But outside them women wearing gaily coloured nose-rings were spreading grain in stone-flagged court- yards. We had never yet seen a man working.

In the early afternoon we entered Ramni and climbed three hundred feet above to a flat camping ground. After pitching the tents, Kuar Singh and Jung Bir—the latter seemed to grow more Chinese-looking every day and was now second in com- mand of the kitchen—prepared soup and potatoes, raisins, and rice. We observed them peeling the potatoes with their finger- nails, so MacKinnon walked over and gave them a knife. They accepted politely—and carried on as before. I then noticed Jung Bir stretch out a hand for the plates and begin polishing them with the end of his scarf. I went closer to inspect opera- tions and must admit that all finger-nails were spotlessly clean, perhaps cleaner than the knives, and the scarf was at least as clean as any dish-towel. So I made no protest. The coolies always washed their hands before cooking meals.

At midnight a thunder-storm wakened us. The rain began lashing the fly-sheet. Suddenly we heard a noise of digging round us and discovered that Kuar Singh, Perimal, and Jung Bir were out in their shirt-tails making a trench round the tent. They had left their own beds in a byre and accepted a soaking in order to do this for us. No sooner were they done than a heavy thunder-plump swished down. Had no trench been there the floor of the tent must have been flooded. A marked fall in temperature followed.

We made a late, seven o’clock start next morning. It was cold and dull and a mist clung round. For once the coolies

lacked zest. They had spent a cold night, and now a long grind

54 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

lay before them to the Chechni Binaik. We plodded glumly to the pass to find mist sailing through as though the monsoon had broken. Eastwards and far above the cloud, Nanda Ghunti gleamed in blue skies, close enough now to show us the un- mistakable glint of ice under the summit, which was less than twelve miles distant. We were drawing in to the high Himalaya.

As soon as we began the descent the sun broke through in strength and we entered the most delightful woodland. Syca- mores and silver fir, Himalayan oak, holly, chestnut, and pine, stretched down the hillside to the rounded spur of the Sem Kharak, then dropped more abruptly to the Bireh Ganga. | felt loath to leave this woodland, and so did Kuar Singh. He pressed us to stop overnight. But the unreasoning hustle of western civilization was still too close to us, and the idea of a mere five-mile march to Sem Kharak, followed next day by an- other five miles to Kaliaghat beyond the Bireh, shocked our inexperienced souls. In truth, these hills should be lingered over, unless there is some very pressing reason for speed. We paid no heed to Kuar Singh, pressed on regardless, and aimed to make Kaliaghat in one day.

It was a long, hard descent to the Bireh Ganga, and a stiff climb of two thousand feet faced us on the other side. For the first time since Ranikhet the Dotials stopped for a midday meal in the river-gorge. Normally they take only two meals daily, morning and night. I followed this practice myself and found it sufficient. But to-day blue smoke sullied the noonday air and a great flip-flapping of chupatties resounded among the rock- walls of the Bireh. While we ate under the northern cliff, Perimal pointed out a dark brown object, hanging like a gigantic fungus from an overhang a hundred and fifty feet up. It was six feet across by four feet high. He called it a ‘mowrah,’ and was most excited—anxious that we should understand what it was. We think that it must have been a bees’ nest.

Our day’s longer march involved us in the afternoon thunder- storm, which caught and soaked us on the two-mile ascent. From the last shoulder below Kaliaghat we looked down the Bireh to a lake of pale yet brilliant green. It was the famous

Photo by D. Scott CASTLES IN THE AIR

Nanda Ghunti from the Middle Hills of Kumaon

NORTHWARD BOUND TO THE DHAULI 55

lake of Gohna, where the Bireh had once been dammed by landslide, the later bursting of the dam bringing disaster to the lower valley. A short way farther we came on the camping ground at Kaliaghat. So thickly was it covered with sheep- droppings that hardly any ground showed through. Mac- Kinnon and I continued a few hundred yards on to the brow of a hill, where we came on a great crag, from underneath which— out of the very bowels of the earth—came the strains of a magic flute. While we listened, and the beliefs of childhood crept upon us once again, suddenly up popped three shepherds from the mouth of a cave and walked past us downhill, the leader still piping. We looked in at the cave. It was dry, would hold ten coolies, and beside it green grass awaited the tent. We camped there.

The kitchen staff moved into the cave. The rest of the coolies vanished, dispersing in groups among a variety of Cluny’s Cages on the abrupt and wooded slopes below. Wondering what their quarters were like I went in search of them after dinner, but in half an hour I had failed to find one. I returned to meet Unra Singh, a tall young Dotial with a fine face, whom we rarely saw around camp. He had come from his hidden lair to dig a trench for us, to the chagrin of the kitchen staff, who then dropped everything to help. We never again saw Unra Singh at work around the tent. These little touches, however, endeared the Dotials to us.

Between us and the Dhauliganga lay only the Kuari Pass, in all respects the piéce de résistance. It was 12,140 feet and would be snow-covered. We reckoned two days for the crossing, the first to Dhakwani grazing ground, twelve hundred feet below the pass, then over and down to Tapoban on the Dhauli. We prayed for good weather; the crest of the Kuari is known as one of the great view-points of the world.

Sunrise at Kaliaghat came with a clear sky, which had clouded again by seven. We contoured northwards at a height of nine thousand fect along the flanks of the Pui Gadhera, which flows from the Kuari Pass into the Gohna lake. From the first shoulder beyond Kaliaghat we could see below us the great scar

56 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950 of the landslide, which still partially blocks the Bireh. We felt

less surprised at the size of the slide than at the absence of others of equal calibre. Everywhere the slopes seemed to plunge at dangerous angles. The timber is carefully preserved for its binding value.

However, the combination of alarming slopes and binding woods makes for fascinating travel. Our path to-day came to its climax with a descent into a profound cauldron, where a giant waterfall lurked, almost invisible behind its own cloud of spray. J thought often that photographs could never give a true picture of such country. The deeps are too deep—the heights too high. They need a brush and paint artist, not a camera. In the valleys the peaks rise so abruptly that one can hardly take photographs without cutting off the tops, and tilting the camera gives an even worse effect. Luckily, Scott had a wide-angle lens, which he used more often than the normal lens. It is not too much to say that this was the salvation of his photography.

We toiled a thousand feet out of the cauldron, gaining a first close view of the Kuari Pass. It was a true mountain pass, high and bare, scooped below by a corrie, where Dhakwani lay. We crossed the Pui Gad in its upper reaches and followed the true right bank to a camping ground five hundred feet below Dhak wani.

We pitched the tent on a patch of gross-growing weeds, typical of ground on which herds of goats have been accustomed to lie. The coolies moved uphill to a great crag overlooking the camp site. Shallow caves yawned round its base. When all were settled I went round the lairs with a cigarette ration. One of the caves was an eyrie commanding the tremendous depth of the Pui Gad. Here I found the Matbir-Phakir-Shivlal- Narbir combine, whom we called ‘the jungly wallahs.’ This independent partnership had never given help around the kitchen or camp. They had none the less emanated an unmistakable friendliness and carried superbly. We liked them no less than those who gave us more personal service. In exchange for the cigarettes they asked me to sit down and share some roasted potatoes. I took only one, raked out from the red embers—

me)

Photo b

ipwe

y I. Weir

THE KUARI PASS

NORTHWARD BOUND TO THE DHAULI 57

delicious!—white and floury, piping hot, the full flavour retained. This is the one and only way in which the most noble potato should be cooked. I did not have to feign my delight and rarely have I seen such gratification on a man’s face as on Matbir’s. This was one man who would have to stay on with us for the full five months. He would never let us down and would go anywhere. We held no conversation, but I stayed five minutes with them, then raced down the slope to the tent. Heavy and continuous rain fell that night.

The morning was dry but too cloudy for photography. An hour and fifteen minutes took us up to the pass, the broadest of all, sheeted by snow-fields. There was no view. Thus far everything had gone well. The Dotials had moved quickly and all of us were in good spirits. While we rested by the edge of the snows I tried lifting an 80-lb. load by its head-band, and, lacking the knack, failed to get it off the ground—it pulled back my head. The coolies chuckled. But when MacKinnon came along, picked up the load with ease and went trotting a hundred yards across the pass at a brisk pace, they rocked with laughter. The idea of a sahib running off with a load was a huge, in- credible joke. I was relieved to see that altitude was affecting them not at all. But the moment we crossed the pass and started the long, gentle descent of six thousand feet to the Dhauli, everything began to go wrong. Thus far the routine of the march, our plans, our relations with the Dotials, and the health of the whole body—all had gone harmoniously. All things had worked in our favour. In one day the situation changed.

We were barely below the snow-line and still out on the open heath above the woodland area when Scott, who had been lagging, began to stagger drunkenly. He had quite suddenly developed a high temperature and felt ill. We did not take his plight too seriously at first, but when the sun came out and we moved down through fresh and delightful alps among the trees, he got worse instead of better. He had to lie down every few minutes, got up only with reluctance, and then moved like a snail, Latterly, MacKinnon gave him chlorodyne, which kept him going by easy stages. I began to fear that Scott was

58 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

destined not for the Rishi but for the hospital at Joshimath, where the Dhauliganga flows into the Alaknanda six miles west of Tapoban.

From the snows of the Kuari Pass we dropped to the dust and flies of Tapoban on the Dhauli, at 6,000 feet. The village spread over the last thousand feet of the hillside. As we came on to its fringe we had an excellent and most useful view six miles eastwards along the valley to the great wedge of Lata Peak (12,624 feet). To its right was the mouth of the Rishi Gorge, at the heart of which lay Nanda Devi, nineteen miles distant. But no entry can be made this way, for the route by the river is barred by a box-canyon, said to be impassable.

The heart of the Rishiganga is protected by an inner and outer screen of mountain ridges, which we had now to cross by two passes of 14,000 and 15,000 feet. The first of these, or its approximate whereabouts, could be seen on the ridge to the left of Lata Peak and situated eight thousand feet above the Dhauli. On its right-hand, Rishi side, Lata Peak fell in sheer precipices ; but the left-hand, Dhauli side was an immense, thickly wooded slope. Somewhere under the slope lay the village of Lata, whence we should depart for the Rishi country and Bethartoli Himal.

This seemed to be a good place to let Kuar Singh know about our plan of action. So I took him aside and pointed out the Rishiganga, Lata Peak, and the pass. He recognized them all instantly. He had never been into the Rishi, but had come thus far once with Tilman. I told him then (after some laborious searching through my vocabulary) that we should probably spend seven days travelling through the Rishi, ten days in the Trisul Nala to climb Bethartoli, and six days withdrawing—a total of twenty-three days. After this had sunk in, and an understanding light had appeared in his eye, I went on to say that all eighteen coolies would go as far as the Trisul Nala, then twelve would be sent back and only six would stay. Did he think that six men would stay with us for mountain work? We wanted six men to stay with us for the full five months. Would we get them?

NORTHWARD BOUND TO THE DHAULI 59

I was anxious about this last point. Friends in both London and Bombay had warned us that Dotials would not stay so long. Yet I felt certain that these men were as devoted to us as they very well could be: that wherever we chose to go, they would come too—and few questions ever be asked. To my con- sternation, however, I saw dismay written all over Kuar Singh’s face. He waved his hands in expression of sheer incredulity. He said that he did not understand me, meaning that he could follow my words but refused to believe their implication. Some misunderstanding had arisen and my Hindustani was inadequate to get to the bottom of it. Nor could I explain more clearly what we wanted of the Dotials. However, I tried again. I was satisfied then that Kuar Singh followed my words, but the worried and pained expression on his face was more marked than ever. I broke off the conversation.

We wound our way through the village to reach the main Dhauli track. There was no camping ground here, nor wood for our camp-fires, but a bungalow rest-house (wood-fuel supplied) stood at the eastern outskirts, beside the track and overlooking the river. There we stopped. The bungalow was locked and the chaukidar would not let us in without a permit, which we did not have. This chaukidar was tough; the fact that Scott was ill made no difference. We blew up Scott’s lilo and made him a bed on the open stone-flagged porch. His temperature was 103°. Flies hovered round him in clouds and a handkerchief had to be spread over his face. MacKinnon dosed him with various medicines.

The chaukidar took himself off.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Halt at Tapoban

\ X 7" WERE CONVINCED that after a decent interval the chaukidar would return with the keys; meanwhile, we sat around the door and waited. I calculated the

loads for the move into the Trisul Nala, and prepared sentences to overcome the difficulties with the Dotials, or rather to find out what these difficulties were. This work took some little time, at the end of which we heard that MacKinnon and Kuar Singh had discovered some hot springs along the road, and there had met two Swamis, devotees of the religious life, one of whom spoke good English. He might be of help with the coolies. Weir and I hastened to visit him.

The hot springs were only three hundred yards up the valley, hidden from the track by rising ground. Into three square baths of grey stone a channelled stream spouted, the water draining away through the joints of the walls. It was clean water, its heat tolerable to the skin. At the edge of the upper bath were low stone huts. The centre room was occupied by the Swamis. In the dark interior we could just catch the gleam of saffron robes.

Within a few minutes one of them came out. He flashed a brilliant smile at us. He was a tall man of good bearing. I should guess his age to be thirty-five. His fine features were set off well by the carriage of his head. He seemed at first to have mastered that rare art of combining dignity with friendli- ness. But the smile was unnaturally dazzling. It was too good to be true. Where did we come from? he asked. And what were our plans? No sooner had we told him than he flew off into an exposition of elementary theology. He laid down the

basic principles. But he was too enthusiastic; at first all the 6o

THE HALT AT TAPOBAN 6I

more likeable on that account; but enthusiasm unbounded needs the more discipline and just a little restraint to make its impact on others effective. He went on and on. He did not know when to stop. The flash of his eyes and the dazzle of his smile became familiar play, to which we grew resistant. This man, we felt, is a most remarkable character, but he talks too much and is unbalanced. He is a happy man, but he laughs too much. He is interesting, but an exhibitionist. So that his seed fell on stony ground. And the tragedy of his energetic act was that his ideas were irreproachable. His central idea was the unity of man, the great cosmos, and God. All his other ideals and principles were rooted in that one, primary principle, and so were sound. From them could have sprung a doctrine that gave men real inspiration. Instead, he wrecked all by lack of self-control and restraint. He intended well and did harm.

We had to be rude to him to get away, none the less receiving from him a promise that later he would come to the bungalow and interpret the coolies’ troubles. This he duly did, arriving most fortunately at the same time as the chaukidar.

The chaukidar was still in aggressive mood, and would not, he said, settling himself on the low wall round the bungalow courtyard, let us use the bungalow without a permit from Ranikhet. This was the kind of situation in which our Swami revelled. His very vices now became virtues. He fastened on to the chaukidar and talked. Flashing eye and dazzling smile shone a thousandfold. We were, he said, turning up his eyes, the guests of India, and the chaukidar’s duty to his country was to honour us. He spoke of love and the unity of man—as always his ideas were good and true and his argument wrecked by self-display. The Dotials and chaukidar were laughing now, laughing at the Swami’s too splendid performance, and we perforce were laughing also.

For the first time the chaukidar shot us a glance of fellow- feeling. It was clear that unless he gave way the Swami would be at his ear all night. Suddenly he rose, strode to the bungalow, jangled his keys authoritatively, and turned the lock. He stepped back and majestically waved us in, the picture of a

62 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

maharaja condescending to be persuaded. The egos of chauki- dar and Swami were bursting with satisfaction, and we, the authors of all this happiness, crept humbly into our new home.

We made Scott comfortable, had a quick meal, and rewarded the Swami with biscuits and cheese and a cup of tea. Only with difficulty was he dissuaded from coming with us to climb Bethar- toli Himal. At eight o’clock we turned him on to the Dotials. He got to the root of the matter immediately. I had told the Dotials, he said, that eighteen coolies must come to the Trisul Nala and then twelve must be dismissed. But they argued that the Ranikhet bandobast had been for all eighteen to stay with us five months.

There had been no such bandobast. If the contractor had told them that, he had done so on a misunderstanding. I asked the Swami to say so and to explain our plan of action. At each of several widely separated mountain groups, we should have long stops of ten to thirty days in order to reconnoitre and climb mountains, during which time we should need no more than six coolies. There would be no work for an additional twelve.

This was the kind of explanation for which my Hindustani was inadequate. Unluckily, it is also the kind of explanation that cannot be mixed up with a theological exhortation. The, Swami talked and talked. Sometimes the coolies broke in. The controversy lengthened. The Swami was speaking far too much, never referring to us, and at length, and obviously, giving an altogether wrong impression of our plans. The coolies’ faces were getting more and more distressed. I stopped him and asked him to go away.

The day had been more tiring than usual, and especially exhausting after the long argument. I guessed that the Dotials must be feeling much as we did, and this was no time to press them further. So I drew Kuar Singh aside. Would the coolies come into the Rishiganga? He consulted Perimal. Yes, they would all come for seven days more, after which all must be retained or else all would go back.

That was a most enlightening answer. The truth was that they all were gasping to come with us. Our advisers who

Photo by D. Scott

THE THRESHOLD OF THE RISHI (LATA PEAK FROM TAPOBAN) Dhauliganga in the foreground. Rishiganga below and to the right of the peak. Pass over the outer curtain to the left of the peak. Lata village on the lowest left

slopes of the peak

THE HALT AT TAPOBAN 63

promised that Dotials would not stay long with mountain travellers had been very wrong indeed. The coolies were grieved at our repudiating what they thought to be the true bandobast, and out of loyalty to one another were refusing to yield to us. It was an attitude that I felt to be altogether correct and admirable and I respected them for it the more. But their attitude was based upon an error for which neither party had been responsible. Had I been able to talk fluent Hindi, this trouble would not have lasted five minutes; for there was mutual friendliness at the back of it all. I smiled somewhat sadly at Kuar Singh. He salaamed.

The outlook seemed black when we went to bed that night. However, we must plan as best we could and act for the best in the ways left open to us. I calculated that next morning we must buy 200 Ib. of ata, 50 lb. of dal (pulse), and §0 Ib. of rice to feed ourselves and six problematical Dotials in the Trisul Nala.

Scott’s temperature was still 103°.

Weir, MacKinnon and I were up early on the morning of 21st May. Scott’s temperature had gone down at last, although how long it would be before he could cope with the Rishi country was another matter. We took the supremely optimistic view that to-morrow he could move to Lata, and planned accordingly. There was a heavy morning’s work ahead. Weir had worked out in detail the concentrated foods required for our mountain camps, so the immediate task was the extraction of stores from crates and kit-bags, followed by re-nailing and re-packing. We hoped to dump thirteen crates at Tapoban.

Before starting work, I offered eight days’ advance pay to the Dotials. To my joy they accepted. Having taken eight days’ pay they would give eight days’ service. Kuar Singh and I then went a hundred yards down the track to a merchant’s shop, where we ordered ata, lentils, and rice for delivery next morning. In this shop I was surprised to see such varied stores as salt, coarse brown sugar (gur), tea, cigarettes, matches, paper, pencils, and mirrors.

MacKinnon, Weir, and I then settled down to drawing nails

64 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

out of crates. There was only one small room in the bungalow, with a hard mud floor and whitewashed stone walls. We had to work inside because the flies outside were the notorious black mora, smaller than a house-fly. They bit. Every bite raised blood and inflamed the skin. I understood now why the Dotials usually wore long trousers, drawn tight at the leg rather like clumsy jodhpurs, unless on fly-free territory. At Tapoban we too gave up shorts in favour of long trousers.

Our work was lengthened by the confusion of gear, bags, crates, tins, all kinds of impedimenta, crammed over every inch of space. Every change in crate or kit-bag had to be entered in penny note-books. It was temper-trying work, finicky, requiring an output of energy—lifting, dragging, nailing, lashing —out of all proportion to the small product. Early in the afternoon everything was sorted out.

To get away from it all I walked a mile along the track towards Lata. The track rose steeply above the hot springs and turned a corner, giving there a good view of Lata Peak. On the hills behind the outer curtain there seemed to be an un- conscionable amount of snow, which made me wonder if we should have trouble crossing the passes. And once we were in, with all our gear, we should have to spend our remaining time not climbing Bethartoli Himal but ferrying the loads out again— if the Dotials left us. On the face of it, the sensible course seemed to be to discharge the Dotials at once and engage fresh coolies either from Joshimath, Lata, or Surai Thota. When I made that suggestion to myself I loathed it; for I disliked parting with our Dotials. They were good men. I swore that we should stick to them and trust to finding ways unforeseen of winning them over during these next eight days.

I turned at that and walked back. On approaching the rest- house I saw a cavalcade outside. Several mules, bearers, and coolies stood beside the compound wall. Within the compound a group of four Indian officials were talking to Weir, Scott, and MacKinnon. I was a little taken aback by Scott’s appearance. He was talking with animation and interest and looked as though nothing had ever been wrong with him. Somewhere, it seemed

THE HALT AT TAPOBAN 65

to me, a wand had been waved. Weir introduced me to our visitors. They were Mr. Hartwell P. Singh, an agricultural officer on tour, and a young Professor Chowfin of Allahabad University. With them were two scientific assistants. Singh was a most charming man. Moreover, he had taken his degree at Edinburgh University and was delighted to meet four Scots- men in the Dhauli. His immediate job, he told us, was that of travelling north up the Dhauliganga to the Niti Pass on the Tibetan frontier, in order to test soil and introduce suitable seeds, potatoes, and fruit trees. We could hardly believe our ears when we heard that the potatoes grown in the Himalaya came from Scotland. He gave us various names, of which we recall only the Dunbar and the Arran Banner. We had been greatly impressed by the quality of Himalayan potatoes—white and floury, well formed, and of flavour superior to anything I had ever tasted in Scotland. Himalayan soil must be especially favourable.

While the conversation was going on I could see the chaukidar out of the corner of my eye. He was hovering well in the background, terror-stricken lest he had committed sin by allow- ing us into the rest-house, thus depriving a government official of his proper lodging. But Hartwell Singh made us so wel- come that the chaukidar’s tense face began to relax. Singh arranged instead to occupy the school. The day was Sunday, which is observed as a rest-day by schools and post offices.

His appearance could not have been a more timely aid to our own affairs. I told him of our lack of a good interpreter to clear away the coolies’ misconceptions, and at once he agreed that after settling into the school he would come along and help. We parted then, to refresh ourselves with tea.

At nightfall Weir began calling in the Dotials. I fetched Hartwell Singh and we placed our chairs in front of the squatting group. Singh began. Straightaway he told them our plans, explaining that our long halts in different districts quite pre- vented our retaining coolies. Indeed, he asked them, what good reason could they suggest for holding and paying coolies when there was no work for them? As for the Ranikhet bandobast,

66 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

they had misunderstood the intention of sahibs who could have no interest in misleading them.

I asked him to add that we should love to take them all for five months, but that that could not be. He did so. In these two minutes the coolies’ faces had completely cleared. They did not even consult together. Kuar Singh replied that six coolies would stay with us in the Trisul Nala. I asked for volunteers, but he said that a// were volunteers. It was for us to choose.

The Dotials dispersed, but Kuar Singh stayed on to answer questions. For long we had been eager to hear how the Dotials live. Hartwell Singh could give most of the story himself, and only points of detail came direct from Kuar Singh or Perimal.

All our Dotials came from villages in or around the district of Doti in West Nepal. Nine of our eighteen were married. There is no legal restriction on the number of wives a man may have, and some Dotials have several, but for the most part they are too poor to maintain more than one. In this respect, I reflected, they were no worse off than the citizens of Britain, and better off than myself. Marriage under the age of fourteen is not allowed, but the point is not strictly observed.

Each spring the male Dotials of working age come out of Nepal into India by way of the Jhulaghat bridge over the Kali River, and so to the bazaars and railheads of Kumaon (which used to be a province of Nepal before the war of 1814-16). They work as professional load-carriers or coolies (the Hindi word is gui) at Ranikhet and Almora and the little townships of the foot-hill country; there especially during the summer. In late autumn back they go with their earnings to wife and family, stop just for a week or two, then are off again to the railheads, especially Tanakpur, for the winter. In early spring they return, stop briefly, and again are off. They have little enough home life. They are continually on the move. When they leave home they simply tell the local shopkeeper to feed their wives and families while they are away. And such is their known honesty that this is done without question. When they

THE HALT AT TAPOBAN 67

return with their season’s earnings they ask what has been supplied and pay without fail or quibble.

Among themselves, dishonesty over money matters would seem to be almost inconceivable. If a Dotial on the march meets another Dotial from his own village returning home, he will often hand over his savings and ask for delivery to his wife. I met witnesses of this practice. It is not, when one considers, so much extraordinary as gladdening.

The Dotials are Hindus, and that was the limit of the informa- tion about their religion that we could hear from Hartwell Singh, who was Christian. To what degree they understand their religion we had no way of telling. To its better principles they gave every sign of being true. Their moral standards were in no way inferior to that of men of their own age in western countries. Nor did we find their intelligence lower. Indeed, there is no reason why it should be.

When we came to shrines or crossed passes, it was always the younger men who stopped and prayed—Matbir, Ring Badr, Toshi, and Shivlal—all men in their teens. The over-thirties passed on. One could draw several different conclusions: that the young Dotial is by nature more religious than his elder brother ; that the old become sceptical ; that the young are more demonstrative and the elder more reticent. But no one con- clusion of mine is sure or to be preferred on the evidence. I favour the latter explanation.

The Dotials never lost their tempers with one another. We never saw them quarrel, or use violence, or show the inclination to use it. But they would, on provocation, quarrel with the men of another tribe and ‘fly off the handle.’ Such a quarrel would close as quickly as it opened, to be instantly forgotten. They never harboured a grudge. And in service they were not mercenary. Like all coolies they were not willing to move without an acceptable wage; but once a bandobast was agreed, they soon made it obvious that they served and followed us and not just the eternal rupee. On pay day they hoped for more than they got. On this score I sympathize; only Dotials do

not hide their feelings. F

68 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

We invited Hartwell Singh’s party to visit us that night. We gave them crates for seats and extravagantly lit three of our precious candles. The light reflected well from the white- washed wall. We drank tea—and talked: first about India and England. ?

Professor Chowfin cited examples to show and remind us how widely differing in natural talents were the two races, and how diverse in point of character, and therefore how much they had to learn from each other, if only they would. This same idea had been occurring to me ever since arrival in India. ‘No one nation of men,’ I said, ‘can ever manifest the full potentialities of Man. Not only does every individual man represent a unique aspect of Man, but each nation of the earth has something distinctive to contribute to the manifesting of Man in his whole- ness—something that no other nation can give. The diversities of men and nations are needed for the showing forth of Man, with all his powers and attributes and beauty. The very differences of character are the essential things to be welcomed, honoured, and welded in commonwealth.’

Unanimously we agreed. The question arose whether Com- munism was a means to that good end. The Indians respected its efficiency and the urgency of its call in countries overtaken by famines and social miseries, but Communism appeared to demand forfeiture of the essential freedom of men and nations.

I suggested that Communism, allied to a philosophy such as dialectical materialism, could not be a practical ideal, and that ideals not practical are profitless. In its ideal form Communism attracts men of noble mind; it demands of men much self-denial and sacrifice in the service of their fellows. But such a demand ignores the fact that men are unregenerate and must first of all be changed. Selfless service and denial of self-interest can be attained only when a man transforms his character. The demand and need is for purification of soul, which is not afforded through dialectical materialism. I had heard of only one means to such purification. It is provided by one or other of the higher religions. I had heard of no other way to the kind of character change required. It is a means tried and proved and highly

THE HALT AT TAPOBAN 69

practical. In divorcing Communism from a higher religion, its directors had made it an impractical ideal and ensured its abortion. Starting with good intentions, they had produced a monster.

Professor Chowfin pointed out the difficulty of getting starving refugees at Bombay to appreciate that truth, with which he and Singh fully agreed. The conversation naturally turned to religion. Our guests were Christian and Hartwell Singh thought poorly of Hinduism as understood in the hills. The Himalayan scene filled him with reverence, for the purpose of the natural universe, he believed, was to mirror God’s attributes and per- fections. The Himalaya displayed the divine beauty and power in unparalleled grandeur, commanding the awe of every man who beheld. But in the valleys, where the scriptures are not taught, understanding lags; the holiest awe felt by men is per- verted by mistaken thought into superstitious practice. The gods in their multitudes are believed to inhabit the mountain- tops, and are worshipped with propitiating ritual.

I could not forbear reflecting that since diversity in men and nations, and in the natural scene, serve to manifest the infinite glory and attributes of the one God, so too might ‘the gods’ represent the host of divine principles and perfections that pro- ceed from the Infinite One. To the integrating wisdom should men aspire. Only through it could they know truth.

Our talk ended at ten o’clock, which is a late hour in the Himalaya. We looked to an early start in the morning—if Scott stayed well.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Threshold of the Rishi

N THE MORNING of 22nd May Scott was com- () pletely recovered.

We gave orders for the move to Lata. Our thirteen crates were deposited with the merchant near the rest-house against a receipt. Fortunately this was not the man from whom food had been ordered—at what I now discovered were extor- tionate rates. Kuar Singh learned that cheaper food could be had in plenty in Lata, so I cancelled the order—to find that ata for which I had agreed to pay Rupees 2 per seer (2 Ib.) was promptly offered for Rupees 1/4. However, I agreed with Kuar Singh in again refusing; there seemed no point in making the coolies carry a needless 300 Ib. up to Lata. In this decision we erred greatly.

The coolies moved off alone.

Only one thing remained to be done: the Swami had asked to be photographed. We called at the hot springs and there he duly revealed himself as the partial fake he was—greedy for self- display and full of vanity. He had himself photographed like a cheap entertainer in a variety of devout positions, robed and nude and with his eyes and hands turned up to heaven. I refused to stay and watch the performance, which brought dis- credit on things that are good. Yet, I insist that the man was only partially fake. He gave too much time to breathing and concentration exercises, did little or no work, and so had built up great energies, which he did not know how to control; consequently, they controlled Aim. He was verging on mad- ness. There are probably more men of his kind in India than elsewhere in the world, because greater numbers follow the religious life, and of these more fall into the wayside traps.

At 9 a.m. I took the six-mile road to Lata. The track went

70

THE THRESHOLD OF THE RISHI 71

eastwards, high on the steep right-hand wall of the gorge. It seemed to me that morning wellnigh incredible that we had stopped just one day at Tapoban. I felt as though we had been there a week and rejoiced to be out on the open road again. And this road was very different from the roads of the foot- hills. We were truly on the threshold of the high Himalaya.

‘4 Kalanka Changabang » “

AS Bethartoli Himal &

The Rishi

The scale of the whole scene had altered. Every feature of the landscape had grown big, or stark, or powerful. Far under me the glacial flood of the Dhauliganga rolled with grey and over- whelming force. No creature could have lived in it. Far above on the opposite side a long mountain-ridge exposed a crest of dark rock-needles—too sharp to be reached by any wingless creature. We should finally cross the threshold when we crossed the curtain ridge to the left of Lata Peak. The tidge was there, in front of me, and from behind it came a sparkle of remote snow mountains far in towards Dunagiri.

72 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

They were nameless, unclimbed; on their tops all the inhuman aloofness of the Himalaya seemed to be concentrated, and on them no living creature would find welcome.

At first sight it was not a world friendly to life at all, save to birds like the giant vultures, numbers of which were roosting at the edge of the track, so close that I could have struck them with a stick, and so much at home that they did not trouble to stir when I passed. In this world man’s footing had to be made good by toil and in the face of physical risks squarely faced and accepted. As Hartwell Singh had remarked, it was a world that induced awe; and that not only in passing travellers but in the Bhotias who lived there and were familiar with the scene by daily use. Here a human feels very much the pawn or play- thing of great and elemental forces, and if he would hold fast to the real greatness of his status in the universe he must needs be well and truly grounded in the God of his choice—in belief at least, better still in the practice of the spiritual life. Of this truth we were to find plenty of evidence in the shrines of the villages and grazing grounds.

Thus it was the greatness of power and feature that first drew the eye. It tended to obscure the underlying beauty, which was there, waiting, vivid on the mountain crests if more subdued down on the river’s walls. It was a gloriously sunny morning after the night’s usual rain. The track was thickly covered with mica dust shining like silver foil. More restful were the blue and yellow flowers blooming all along the edge of the path; and more enlivening the occasional waterfall foaming over the road- way. Nesting by the shores of these torrents were many plumbeous redstarts, little blue birds with vivid red tails.

At the second stream I came on the coolies, who were much inclined to idle, thus tempted by light loads and a short march. I chivied them on, for as near noon as possible I wanted to place an order for food at Lata, and so to-morrow make the first stage up towards the pass.

At the great northward bend of the Dhauli we crossed and re- crossed the river by two suspension bridges, made of wooden slats on thin wire rope. Between these bridges the Rishi burst

THE THRESHOLD OF THE RISHI 73

out from its mountain tangle to meet the Dhauli. It was flanked far back by peaks of 12,000 and 16,000 feet. Seven or eight miles up the gorge I could see the snow-plastered ridge of Bethartoli Himal’s northern spur, but of the true summit nothing as yet. Opposite the junction of the two rivers a square, slated shrine of Tibetan character was ringed by a score of tall poles, from which flew strips of tattered cloth offered in honour to the Seven Rishis, who dwell in the sanctuaries of the Rishiganga.

We crossed to the Lata side of the Dhauli and turned north. On either wall bare yellow rock rose several thousand feet. A true canyon split the main chain. The path along the base of the cliff was much exposed to stonefall, and a large boulder or two on the track gave emphatic reminder that this happened. Risks are so common that no man worries in this land. Ever since approaching the threshold, I had felt the Hindu hillman’s carefree attitude coming over me too. But I kept a wary eye aloft.

The rock-walls on our right eventually fell back, giving way to terraced slopes, until we could see that Lata must lie eight hundred feet above. Kuar Singh and I went ahead, climbing a winding narrow path among the wheatfields. The slope was remarkably steep and the noonday sun unusually fierce. We were streaming with perspiration when we came to the first houses. They were set back on stone-built terraces, one above the other. Each house stood in its own courtyard, was roofed with stone slabs, and was stone-built in its lower storey, of solid wood in its upper. In the upper wooden half, which normally had a balcony, lived the owner and his family. Women and children were already crowding these balconies, and one man of some thirty-five years came forward to meet us. I was much taken by his frank approach and firm hand-shake. His name, he said, was Murkulio. He wore a jacket and trousers of grey homespun. His whole bearing was so unassumingly confident that I wrongly guessed him to be the headman.

He invited us into the courtyard of his house, situated at the village centre. Rugs were spread for me on a bench and a

74 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I9)50

tumbler of hot sweet milk presented. The sun blazed on the outward half of the courtyard, but we sat in the shade of the house behind and looked over the gorge of the Dhauliganga, which from here seemed almost vertically under us. It was the most wonderfully sited village that we were ever to see in the Himalaya, a mountain eyrie at 8,000 feet affording a vulture’s prospect down the Dhauli. Directly opposite was the rock- wall of a 13,600-foot peak set far enough apart to let us savour the height and space and the air between, in which we were poised. The light and shade and contrasting colour in the courtyard grew fascinating, for all the inhabitants were gathering —except the younger men, who were working out of doors, engaged with flocks or trade or in other ways not known to me.

The working of such a hillside must make great demands on the vigour of the community. The people are Bhotias, but incorporate a small number of low-caste Garhwalis, called doms, who are the drummers, leatherworkers, and labourers.

The half-dozen principal men or elders had formed a cross- legged semicircle round Murkulio and me, and behind them were crowded men of lower status, not more ragged but more peasant-like. Behind them again came the women and children. Two hubble-bubble pipes were circulating, but only among the front-bench councillors. They put no questions to me. They just smiled, sucked swiftly at the pipe, and waited. The whole day was ours.

I told them where we came from, how many we were, and our immediate plan. They understood at once. We were not the first expedition to pass Lata. Murkulio produced a chitthi signed by the Swiss mountaineer, André Roch, testifying that Murkulio had served him well as a porter in his 1939 expedition. I saw now that Murkulio could not be the village headman, and was proved right by the latter’s arrival. He was a tall and energetic man of forty, dark-eyed, with a shrewd and friendly face. He heard our plans from Murkulio (who then retired), ordered two more tumblers of boiled milk, then took a quick but careful look at me. In that instant I knew that the price of my food had been fixed, unchangeably.

THE THRESHOLD OF THE RISHI 75

With this man there could be no beating about the bush. I ordered ata, rice, and dal for Rupees 1/6, 2, and 1/10 respec- tively. This was more expensive than Tapoban. Then came the blow. Our food could not be ready until to-morrow evening. The ata had still to be ground. Everywhere in Kumaon we found this same hand-to-mouth existence. The villagers keep no store of ata, but grind on one day only enough for the next. There may be some good reason, but it cannot be that ata quickly goes bad, for we were to get plenty of experience to the contrary.

Thus a day was lost through our not buying at Tapoban. But I could think of ways of turning this loss to advantage. The route from Lata up to the pass was notoriously difficult to find, and most previous expeditions had taken a Bhotia shepherd to guide them over the outer curtain to Durashi, a summer grazing ground for goats. I felt that we ought to do our own moun- taineering. But each of the two stages over the pass would have to be reconnoitred in advance, and the first could be to-morrow’s work. So I accepted the news of delay with a happy sigh and drank down my second tumbler of milk.

The headman offered us the use of a house in the middle of the village, which I hastily declined. There were thirty-two families in Lata. Our hearts were set on privacy, so far as that could be had now that MacKinnon wore a bright red beard. I declared for a camp site outside the village. As it happened, there was only one level patch of field on the whole hillside, lying a quarter of a mile to the north-east. We went there at once and pitched camp. The field was of bare, crumbly earth, but the headman lent his best carpet, which, folded double, filled the tent’s floor space. The coolies faded away into the trees. Peace reigned, briefly.

An hour later Scott, Weir, and MacKinnon arrived. The dispensary opened and in no time the camp swarmed with patients. One or two of the young men came to offer them- selves as guides. We had agreed among ourselves that next day two of us should prospect the route four thousand feet up to the Lata kharak (grazing ground). Accordingly, we refused

76 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

the guides. This greatly excited Kuar Singh. He had never seen us in action away from a good track. The thought of our adventuring all on our own up a mountainside worried aim beyond measure. He appealed to me to hire a guide. I con- trolled myself and tried to tell him of our reconnaissance to- morrow morning—mistaken tactics; for in despair he appealed to the others. Weir got angry and banged the map, wkich was the right answer. Kuar Singh withdrew.

At seven o’clock in the morning Scott, Weir, and MacKinnon, accompanied by Perimal and Goria, set off for the Lata kharak. I stayed below to take in the food supply. It was a brilliant morning, which I spent sitting leisurely on a lilo and writing. From time to time Kuar Singh plied me with cups of tea, or sent up little vegetable dishes—unknown greens found by the Dotials, invariably good but overspiced. The ‘jungly wallahs’ were making a study of me to-day. Matbir, Shivlal, and Narbir sat by the door of the tent, for the blast of the forenoon sun had driven me inside. Inch by inch and one at a time, they edged through the doorway. Their expressions reminded me of Labrador gun-dogs, edging guiltily but hopefully into a for- bidden drawing-room. But I was in fact delighted to see them. When they were all inside and inwardly rejoicing, I showed them the quarter-inch maps and explained the rivers, hills, and villages. They grasped the idea at once, and followed the river systems of the Alaknanda and Dhauli with their fingers, stopped at the principal villages, which I would name (since they could not read Roman script), and which they greeted with yelps of delighted recognition: ‘Niti, Malari, Lata! Tapoban! Joshi- math!’ They were so keen to learn and showed such a quick intelligence, that in the end they left me with a sense of the real tragedy that full exercise of the mind was to be denied them. Matbir, but for the accident of his birth-place, would have had a better brain than I.

Early in the afternoon our village ata was declared to be ready. Kuar Singh collected six kit-bags and the spring-balance, and with a tail of a dozen Dotials accompanied me to the head- man’s courtyard. The village elders were already squatting

THE THRESHOLD OF THE RISHI 77

round a coloured carpet and the hubble-bubble pipe was passing freely, when I arrived to take my prepared and be-rugged bench at the carpet’s edge. ‘The small boys were driven off and the ornamented wives and daughters hung out of the top windows. The first sack of ata was heaved forward. They dumped it before me on the carpet and the village scales were produced. They were the traditional type. Two iron chupatty bowls were suspended by old bits of string from a central wooden bar. A hole in the middle of the bar, threaded by a string, was the pivot. One of the bowls was heavier than the other, so a chuckie-stone wrapped in canvas had been tied to the string suspended on the opposite side. For weights there were pro- duced before me several bits of stone and one old iron weight, which bore the printed legend Rupees 424. The headman ‘proved’ the stones to me by balancing them against the iron. I had no doubt of the accuracy of this remarkable instrument. It had survived generations of Bhotia trading, and they deal as hard and close as Welsh farmers.

The task of weighing 300 lb. on pans holding only a seer would have held us there until evening. I signed to Kuar Singh. He presented my spring-balance to the headman. I told him that two notches meant one seer, that fifty seer could be weighed at one time, and that all was achchha and thik (good and correct). It passed from hand to hand and the notches were carefully counted. Then they took it away into a storehouse and made a test, returning it with a confirmatory nod and a terse ‘Thik.’

We began weighing the dozen grain-bags, all of odd amounts. It was then revealed that no dal was available in the form of lentils, but only as a black-skinned split bean. I accepted twenty-five seer, feeling that here was good nourishing food. And in right conditions at low altitudes I suppose it must be. But we were soon to be disillusioned about its rightness now. The ata, too, turned out to be excessively brown and coarse. There was too much husk in it. The Dotials’ faces were a study; down at Tapoban the ata had been snow-white. We were to find in our travels that good ata can be had only where

78 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

it is ground in water-mills, and that is happily in most villages of Garhwal and Almora. Where ground by hand it is always full of husk and grit, as at Lata. Kuar Singh was beating his breast in self-reproach, as well he might. I was glad to see that from his own men came no recriminations. They gave despairing moans, and were silent.

The noting and estimation of prices per sack were done by myself and a village youth of fourteen years. He spoke a word or two of English and was in charge of the village school. The schoolmaster at Tapoban had been likewise not more than sixteen years; he had spoken English passably well, given time. The Lata boy was unusually charming, for he was unspoiled. The other young schoolmasters we met in the Himalaya were too much on the defensive, unnaturally and laughably haughty in their effort to keep up appearances and to assume a rare dignity in dealing with us. They had my sympathy; they were doing good work without having been equipped. The Lata boy, however, was as natural asa Dotial. He gave mea friendly smile on meeting, then sat by my side and quite frankly cribbed over my shoulder, so that our estimates of prices were identical and our final additions agreed.

He got to his feet then and presented his paper to the head- man, who studied the figure carefully, then cast an inquiring glance at me. I looked down at my note-book and read: “Rupees 220 and 8 annas.’ His face lighted up in apparent relief at my unexpected accuracy. ‘Thik!’ he exclaimed. ‘Thik!’ I rose solemnly and held out my hand to the boy, who grasped it firmly. I shook his hand and said ‘Shabash!’ which means ‘Well done!’ A deep flush of unaffected joy spread over his whole face. His eyes sparkled. It was a most wholesome sight.

A special grace was given me, so that I did not laugh.

I paid up and departed. We returned to camp in time to welcome the Lata kharak party. They arrived in high spirits. I had never seen them all in better form. The reconnaissance had after all been of real value, for the way had been hard to find and the best route discovered. From the kharak they had

THE THRESHOLD OF THE RISHI 79

been able to see Bethartoli Himal. The north ridge, by which we hoped to climb, had been clear, massively corniced, they said, and bearing an ice-cliff high up, which they thought might be turned on the west.

I was interested to hear, too, that Perimal and Goria had expressed great keenness to stay with us. They were a tough pair, inseparable friends, strong of personality. It seemed to us that we could ask for no better men, if we could be sure of them. Perimal especially I have already likened to a brigand chief, with merry and mischievous dark eyes. If we had his goodwill all would be well. If we lost it, he would be a trouble- maker and have too great an influence over the others. On the other hand, if we made him head coolie, his responsibilities might steady him down.... That seemed to be the answer. We had wanted six Dotials who above all were of tough character. Two had chosen themselves, so we chose them too.

CHAPTER SIX

Into the Rishi Cine

HE DOTIALS HAD looked after their own food supply on the march out, and I thought that they might safely do so as far as the Rishi Gorge. Consequently at Lata they had bought in their own food for eight more days— four days into the Rishi and four out. These arrangements I left to Kuar Singh. But just before setting off on the morning of 24th May I checked up, asking individual men: ‘You have ata for eight days?’ Each said‘ Yes.’ All seemed to be well. We began moving uphill.

We had a good track at first. It rose steeply for eight hundred feet and then contoured the hill-flank among trees for nearly a mile, finally petering out among crags where the route turned up in twisting curves to the kharak, still a mile away and between two and three thousand feet overhead. Its where- abouts remained screened by the forest and hill-slope, and by successive ravines and ribs and knolls. MacKinnon had yester- day built several tiny cairns; with these to help we made good speed. The route invited loitering, leading repeatedly on to promontories where great Dhauli vistas opened among the branches. If we kept steadily onwards it was only because so much work had to be done aloft; and we wanted to see Bethartoli Himal before the afternoon clouds gathered. In three and a half hours we arrived at the Lata kharak. The time was ten o’clock.

The kharak was a broad grassy saddle depending at right- angles from the main ridge above, and set between two wide and deep ravines. Eight miles south-south-east Bethartoli Himal was clear, a more splendid mountain than I had ever dared to expect. From this angle it towered above all peaks to our south, dome-shaped and shining white, presenting a north

80

INTO THE RISHI GORGE SI

face thickly iced. From the dome’s right-hand edge the great arc of its north ridge swept down to the north col. The instant I saw the line of our proposed route I admired its elegance but disliked it on two counts. First, and most important, the approach line to the north col from the Trisul Nala must go right through a great glacier basin close under the north face, which threatened avalanches. Secondly, high on the north ridge and just under the summit, a bit of the crest had been nibbled out. That tiny step might have escaped the eye of any one not a mountaineer. It was a blemish on the grace of a swift curve: it meant an ice-wall of three hundred feet at least.

Our distance was too great, however, for the drawing of con- clusions. The glacier basin, seemingly so narrow, might really be wide enough to accommodate both ourselves and the ava- lanches. The ice-wall might be turned, as the others suggested, by the ice-slopes on its west side, although we should never see these properly until we were actually on them.

Bethartoli Himal adorned the inner curtain, which we had to cross much farther north and so get round behind our mountain by way of the Trisul Nala. Meantime, we had still to get across the outer curtain, now only two thousand feet above and only one and a half miles to our left, as judged by the map. I could see it to be true mountain ground, but not difficult in a technical sense apart from the matter of route selection. I re- membered that Shipton and Tilman had experienced trouble in finding the route sixteen years before and been bogged down by deep snow. They had been forced to spend two days in crossing the pass from here. Accordingly, I resolved to profit and to make an immediate reconnaissance.

We pitched the tent. There was wood in plenty around but no water. However, an old snow wreath lingered several feet down the north slope, and Kuar Singh was soon boiling it down by the potful. I waited only long enough for a mug of tea, then snatched a few biscuits and set off alone. There was a rounded hill two thousand six hundred feet above the camp, and my half-inch map marked the pass immediately to its left. I took

82 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

no spare food or clothing, for I intended to be back for after- noon tea. The ground looked easy for a mountaineer. The scale had deceived me.

I climbed eighteen hundred feet on a leftward slant, then began contouring eight hundred feet under the summit. This was in fact the correct line of the summer route, but in May it carried far too much snow for laden coolies. Repeatedly I found myself crossing broad, shallow gullies, brimming with old, well-packed snow. A coolie who slipped there would slide several hundred feet and might easily strike one of the projecting boulders and so break bones or kill himself. Dotials, of course, are as sure- footed as goats, but I had still to see them at work on mountains. To-morrow, I decided, they must go by a lower route. We could not afford time to rope them over so long a traverse.

Other and no less cogent reasons for preferring a low route appeared when at last I had contoured round the hill to the slopes under its long north-easterly ridge, which embarrassed me by offering not one col but four. From each hung shallow gullies filled with soft snow. Between them were long, gently inclined rock-ribs. This whole flank, having a north-easterly aspect, bore far more snow than the westerly aspect above the kharak.

I had no choice but to try each of the four cols in turn and the true pass was the fourth. Up each I toiled several hundred feet in knee-deep snow, only to find myself on sharp rock- edges, from which cliffs dropped six thousand feet to the Rishi- ganga. Then back I had to go, scramble over the rock-rib lower down, then try the next gully. The drain on energy was immense. Driving myself hard, I spent five hours reaching the pass. The seven-thousand-foot ascent from Lata had been too much without a meal, and now I proceeded to pay the penalty.

I took my descent direct by a snow-gully, dropping a thousand feet or more and then contouring below the snow-line. I had hoped that this route might be easier, but the only advantage it gave was freedom from snow. It traversed in and out of the same gullies, which had now cut deeper into the hill. My pace grew slower and slower. I had made too high an expenditure

INTO THE RISHI GORGE 83

of energy for too low a fuel intake. Darkness fell when I was little more than half-way to the kharak. Halts became neces- sary every five minutes, yet if I did halt fits of shivering came over me, for at thirteen thousand feet the cold after sundown is around freezing point. In short, I was exhausted. I cannot recall ever having felt so exhausted on a mountainside before. To feel an urgent need to rest, in order to summon up energy for each hundred-yard move, and yet to be scared of halting because of the penetration of cold into the body, is a punish- ment to fit the crime of bad mountaineering tactics. But I had not thought to find myself mountaineering at all.

The situation was partially saved by the discovery, in the pocket of my bush-shirt, of a handful of sugar, in the form of sweets, which had been a parting gift to the expedition from Miss Jenny McNeil, of the old Tricouni Club of Glasgow. These got me back to the slopes above the kharak after a fourteen- hour day. I was still several hundred feet above camp, creeping down foot by foot in the dark, when suddenly I came on Kuar Singh and Ram Badur. They were wrapped in blankets and coming up the hill in the faint hope of meeting me. I have never heard such sa/aams/ as I heard then. It did me as much good as a noggin of rum.

Scott, Weir, and MacKinnon, knowing me better than Kuar Singh, had bedded down, but had kept a potful of ‘hoosh’ simmering beside the fire for me. I could take no more than a spoonful or two. I had a high temperature and felt flat out and shivery. Just before falling asleep I heard Scott saying that Kuar Singh had brought us bad news: some of the Dotials had insufficient ata for the double journey. (Truly, I thought, this is one of my bad days.) He had sent Gulab Singh and Gopi back to Lata to fetch up more. But I knew that we should never see them again. To-morrow we should be over the outer curtain.

We had barely lain down, I felt, before we were up again. At half-past six we were moving up the hillside, climbing six hundred feet to clear the scrub on our left, then contouring well below the snow-line. My regrets about yesterday’s reconnais-

Sance vanished as we contoured, for the Dotials were inclined G

84 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

to grouse at this low route; they wanted to go high as I had done. From below the snow higher up looked ever so much less than it was. It is an optical illusion common to all moun- tains that expose crag. But for the good fortune of my un- fortunate reconnaissance, we should certainly have gone high and quite as certainly been benighted.

So, the Dotials toiled among rough heath and broken ground and called on Shiva to preserve them on their next birth from route-selecting sahibs.

At the half-way mark they set fire to the heath behind them, which I assumed to be a route-marker for the benefit of Gulab and Gopi. An acre of the hillside was burning well, and the smoke might well persist until the afternoon.

After four hours we entered the thousand-foot gully below the pass. We were now at thirteen thousand feet, the approxi- mate height of Jatropani, and the altitude began to tell on the Dotials. MacKinnon went ahead and kicked the steps. He was the heaviest man we had (about 200 Ib.). Where Mac- Kinnon treads, no snow will again subside. Accordingly, the first ten Dotials enjoyed a staircase, but wear and tear left un- pleasantly outward-sloping steps for the last half-dozen, who by natural process were the very men who needed good ones. For the men who were most ill at ease had modestly dropped to the rear. From a good strategic position on top I watched every- one coming up. Like myself, Scott and Weir were impressed by the strenuousness of Zungia. We could see now that he was a man of immense energy and could use it unsparingly. He was thoroughly happy on steep snow with a 50-Ib. load. He arrived well ahead of the others, grinning widely. And we knew why. We had nearly turned him down at Ranikhet because we had thought him too old. He had then claimed to be thirty-six and we hadn’t believed him. This he knew well. Now and hence- forth, until the end of the expedition, he proved himself the best coolie we had for mountain work.

A close second was Goria, aged twenty-two, who climbed fast and confidently despite a high-altitude headache. The men who did least well were the very young. They had heavy loads to

INTO THE RISHI GORGE 85

contend with, were unfamiliar with snow, and not confident of their own capacities. It was obvious that Shivlal and Ram Badur could not be asked to go on high mountain work. The latter was such an excellent servant that we regretted ruling him out.

We rested on the sunlit col for half an hour and gazed across the chasm of the Rishi to the jagged miles of rock slabs rising six thousand feet on its far side. On the face of the highest and barest slabs clumps of stunted pines sprouted incongruously. Below us were seemingly bottomless cliffs ribbed by sharp edges and split by gullies. We could see the ledge of our route traversing the first wing of the cliff leftwards and vanishing at the edge. If the ledges were continuously snow-banked ahead, we might still not be able to make Durashi in one day, or be unable to send the Dotials back alone from the Rishi Gorge. We pressed on.. The goat track went well round several wings of the cliff face, largely free from snow by grace of its south aspect, until at last we came on snow steeply banked on a long ledge. The crags below and above were almost vertical. We fetched out two hundred feet of nylon rope.

The snow being hard-packed, MacKinnon went ahead and cut a line of steps. The rope stretched exactly across the ledge and the Dotials used it as a handrail. There was no need to rope them. If any man slipped, he need just throw back his head and away the load would go, leaving him free. But Dotials, we could see, do not slip. They may go slow, and hesitate, but they stay on their feet. They all used the hand- rail, Matbir revealed himself as a first-class man on snow. He had confidence and made several journeys at speed to carry loads for his weaker brethren. Four of our permanent men were now fixed—Perimal, Goria, Zungia, and Matbir.

The line of ledges led downwards into the bed of a gully. To get the continuation we climbed two or three hundred feet up the bend then again struck a rightward slant up a steep and snowy ledge. Close to the top Munmir’s head-band slipped off. His load went sailing over the cliff, never to be seen again. At one stroke he lost us five days’ ata. His own bedding and

86 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

jacket were lost also. I felt exceedingly sorry for Munmir. He was the only Dotial we ever saw drop a load, and he clearly felt the moment’s carelessness to be a professional disgrace. He had dismay in his eyes from then onwards. Our first reaction was profound thankfulness that we had lost a load and not Munmir. But the blow to our plans in the Trisul Nala was severe.

Shortly afterwards the ledges became much easier. When we had travelled half a mile from the pass we emerged on a broad, grassy gully, down which we dropped fifteen hundred feet, collecting juniper firewood as we moved, to the deserted kharak of Durashi. It lay in the fold between the outer and inner curtains. Several grey stone huts marked its entrance, doubt- less to shelter the shepherds in summer, for the monsoon rains must be exceptionally heavy in the Rishi country. We passed on across a boulder-field to a meadow of wild, blue irises and garlic, watered by a rivulet from an old snow-bed. There we camped. The alp was a sun-trap. We sat back and relaxed, looking far across the Rishiganga to the great and gleaming ranges of Badrinath.

Everyone was exhausted. The Dotials had done nobly but we had never seen them look so weary. All had felt the alti- tude. To give them a hand, I fetched out the kettle and a canvas water-bucket and made the first of the fifty paces to the snow-bed. At once Kuar Singh, Ring Badr, and Ram Badur leapt to their feet, exploding with concern at the very thought of my doing camp chores in the presence of sixteen Dotials. Ring Badr ran up to me and pleaded in a horrified tone of voice for the kettle and bucket. I handed them over. Off he went to fetch water, while Kuar Singh got a fire going and the others helped to pitch the tent.

We gave them an issue of tea-leaves that evening, which pleased them mightily, and more cigarettes, for there was going to be frost at night and the firewood ration was too small to keep the cold at bay. They had only one blanket each. We allowed them to pitch the high-altitude tents, and these must have been warm enough in all conscience, with three men in

Photo by T. Weir

BETHARTOLI HIMAL, 20,840 feet (deft), and ROCK PEAKS OF THE RISHI GORGE from the Lata Kharak

INTO THE RISHI GORGE 87

each. The remainder used caves and a tent made from the spare groundsheet. For my own part, my high temperature was still with me, so for the first time I took refuge in both of my duck- down sleeping-bags.

As might well be imagined we made a late start in the morning. At 8 a.m. Kuar Singh and Goria left us to return towards the pass in hope of salvaging Munmir’s load, and to see if they could link up with Gulab and Gopi. A forlorn hope. We gave them nylon rope and said that they must be back and across the second pass and down to Dibrugheta before dark. This they promised. Our day’s work was indeed much easier, in terms of physical strain, than yesterday’s. Eastwards lay a gentle slope of two thousand feet to the pass on the inner curtain. We arrived there early.

As our heads rose above the rim we were suddenly con- fronted by Nanda Devi. It filled the whole world. A vast projectile bursting arrow-like from the bent bow of the Rishi Gorge. Essentially it was a rock mountain, 25,645 feet, and the greatest that we had ever seen or imagined. Circling round its foot within the blue depths of gorge and chasm were the great peaks of the Sanctuary Basin, raising at their iced centre the broad, dark plinth, from which the peak fairly hurled itself through thin air, tapering to a flame-tip, white upon blue space.

The main body of peaks due south of us were much closer and more awesome in their detail of ice and rock. Bethartoli Himal was only seven miles away (as against Nanda Devi’s thirteen). We looked straight on to its eight-thgusand-foot north wall, heavy with ice both from hanging glaciers and the cornice cliffs of its ice-cap. The north ridge seemed from here more feasible than from the Lata kharak, the ice-wall being worse, but hope of turning it westwards somewhat better. On the other hand, the glacier basin under the north col had become still more intimidating as a line of approach. It looked certain now that ice avalanches coming off the north wall would sweep the basin from side to side. I accordingly favoured trying the east ridge, which ran left from the summit. We should thus avoid entering the north basin, but would need an additional

88 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

camp and take a day longer to make the summit. nx route we should require to traverse two minor tops of 18,110 and 20,730 feet; but the loss in height between the two would be only six hundred feet. I had no hesitation, then, in urging that we try this route in preference to the north ridge.

The Dibrugheta alp was three thousand feet below us, a bright green hollow tucked away in a fold of the opposite mountain, which was called Hanuman (the Monkey God). Between us and it a deep ravine cut southwards from the Hanuman glacier to the Rishi. Weir and I descended with the coolies while Scott and MacKinnon followed a ridge northwards from the pass to bag the peak 16,280 feet. Our descent went on good ground in a broad, grassy gully flanked by birch-trees and rhododendrons and much wild rhubarb of good flavour.

High rock-walls edging the glacier stream delayed us. On the near wall the Dotials gave a splendid display of rock- climbing. They showed ease of movement even when climbing at high angles. They climbed ‘on their feet’ in the best English style, using the hands only for balance. We have still to see a rock-climber in Britain capable of climbing with a 5o0-lb. load plus a Dotial’s grace.

We crossed the torrent by a snow-bridge. The farther flank of the gorge was marked by the scar of a long narrow land- slide. The route up to Dibrugheta went by its left-hand side, then through pines to the alp. The route we had followed would not have been possible for goats, therefore it is certain that an easier passage must lie farther upstream—if indeed goats are grazed at Dibrigheta. We could see no trace of last summer’s droppings, whereas Durashi had offered plentiful evidence. It may be that Dibrugheta is no longer used.

The alp is a great bowl of grass and flowers shaped like a triangle, with its apex pointing down to the Rishiganga and its either flank demarcated by wooded ravines, these too rushing to the Rishi. Across each of these ravines soared mountain- walls, on the Hanuman side heavily wooded, on the Durashi side bare and culminating in vast sheets of shining mica, crested

by a ridge of leaning towers. Across the Rishiganga the black

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Rishi Gorge below

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INTO THE RISHI GORGE 89

and white spires of the Nanda Ghunti group stared down at us, starkly hostile. And that made the alp itself all the more a heavenly spot. Carpets of irises and white garlic and forget- me-nots were spread across its wide lawn. At the lower end an ancient birch-tree sprouted from a great block of rock. In its soothing shade we all rested awhile.

We offered up praises to Dr. Longstaff, who made this alp famous after his entry to it in 1907, in which year he climbed Trisul.

But there is no water at Dibrugheta. Reluctantly we made reconnaissance into the farther ravine, then climbed down and crossed it to the jungle on the far side. We camped beside the stream among the blackened boulders of old camp-fires. Soon we had a smoke column ascending to guide in the parties on detachment.

Kuar Singh and Goria arrived first. They had had no luck. The failure of Gulab and Gopi to find and cross the pass was not at all prejudicial to our food position. The Dotials had been somewhat short of food for eighteen men for eight days, but now it was only sixteen men, of whom only ten would return, and I knew well that they could go back unladen in two days instead of four. The really serious matter was the loss of five days’ ata for the Trisul Nala.

An hour later in came Scott and MacKinnon. The climb had gone well. Except for poor Munmir, everyone was now happy, including even myself, for my high temperature had sub- sided, leaving me with nothing worse than a bad cold in the head. Rhubarb was plentiful at the camp site and gave us an excellent dessert with rice and sugar. The freshness of fruit is doubly welcome on an expedition, and there seems no need to carry it in eastern Garhwal.

We were now truly within the ante-room of the Rishi Gorge. Next day was the great day. We had to force a way along the left flank of the gorge to approach the Trisul Nala—a distance of only three and a half miles, but which, judging from the records of our predecessors, would take us two days. We had no idea where the best route went from Dibrugheta, save that

go THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I950

we had to turn the wooded shoulder between the Dibrugheta stream and the Rishi.

At 7 a.m. we took a steep slant uphill towards this shoulder, climbing a thousand feet through a pine forest on softly carpeted ground. That move brought us on to the south flank of Hanuman, fourteen hundred feet up on the wall of the Rishi- ganga. At this average level we contoured for the rest of the day, rising and falling in and out of shallow ravines, scrambling up or down to turn crags. Underfoot was a fearsome tangle of dwarf cotoneasters, rose bushes, berberis, brier, laburnum, dwarf rhododendron, flowering currant, and plain thorn, which, literally, ripped the pants off the porters. Our climbing boots were scored and the backs of our hands scratched all over; I still cannot understand how the Dotials, wearing only flat rubber sandals, were able to cover the ground without tearing their feet. In any event, we had to go slow. MacKinnon did most of the reconnaissance, travelling ahead of us all the time and signalling back the best line to follow. Even with such help it was an arduous day for all—except Toshi. He was the out- standing Dotial, maintaining dash and vigour to the end.

At the end of eight hours’ hard work we had travelled three miles. The easiest ground for travel lay high, well above the tree-line, but there was no ground here flat enough to give rest for the night. The only patch of flat ground that we could see in the gorge lay far below at the edge of the river, and was named Duti on the quarter-inch map. It was half a mile short of the Trisul Nala. We descended and pitched camp at three o'clock.

Again this was a jungle camp, set among birch and pine and flowering laburnum. Rhubarb was abundant. The ground, too, was warm in comparison with Durashi and Lata kharaks. The westering sun deluged the full length of the Rishi and the trees made great play with it, spraying it through the leaves in scattered showers or between the branches in pale cascades of gold, wherein our tents and sprawling bodies were bathed. From a hundred feet below came the million-throated roar of the Rishiganga. All around us were birch-trees from which the

INTO THE RISHI GORGE OI

bark hung peeling in huge sheets of several ply, like men dis- robing in the heat of the day. The Dotials—and we too when we saw what they were about—stripped off the bark in six-foot lengths and used them as groundsheets. They gave perfect insulation at night. I realized now why birch bark is used for covering canoes; it is as tough and light as several layers of good brown paper, and impervious to water. Only the surface layers of the tree peel in this way. The trunk remains wrapped in close-fitting undergarments.

After dinner we had to face up to the unpleasant task of dis- missing ten Dotials. We hated this task. They all wanted to stay and we wanted them all to stay. We liked them. To myself fell the unpleasant task of informing the men. We decided to choose Perimal, Zungia, Goria, Matbir, Phakir, and Ring Badr. Kuar Singh we turned down because he carried no load and was getting too old for high mountain work. Toshi we rejected only with the most extreme reluctance, because the expedition work had transformed him out of all recognition from a vacant-faced bazaar sloucher into an alert youth of quite unusual strenuousness, who enjoyed every minute of the day. But we thought his enthusiasm ill-controlled, like that of a puppy, and we could too easily imagine him getting into trouble on mountains through excess of audacity. In this opinion I believe now that we erred.

I then called Kuar Singh into the tent and asked him whether he would recommend Perimal or Zungia as the new head coolie. He strongly urged Perimal on us. ‘Then looked at us wonder- ingly and asked: ‘Ni Kuar Singh?’ I replied that we must have younger men. He nodded and laughed resignedly. All the Dotials were now waiting anxiously round the door of the tent. Without more ado I gave them the six chosen names. Perimal, Zungia, Goria, and Matbir broke into great smiles, but Phakir hung back and Perimal and Goria would not have Ring Badr. The six coolies would have to live together for several months, so that strong feelings could not be ignored. I asked Perimal to choose his sixth man. Matbir, meanwhile, was persuading Phakir, who made it clear that he hung back rather

92 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION 1950

than desert Narbir. Perimal promptly urged Narbir on us. We agreed. He was a good carrier, without the strong per- sonality of the other five. He, with Matbir and Phakir, would be a unit independent of Perimal and Goria and not to be swayed by them in times of trouble. In Zungia we had an ideal sub- stitute for a head coolie. But Perimal, we reckoned, would not be a trouble-maker—his unlooked-for responsibility would ballast him. Just how right we were became evident in succeed- ing days.

I now paid off the unlucky ten. Toshi in particular took his money with unhappy eyes; for him the world had this night come to a temporary end. We paid half rates for the return to Ranikhet. It was most noteworthy that not one of the ten asked for baksheesh. To Kuar Singh, none the less, we paid 10 per cent. As for Munmir, we asked him to put a price on his lost jacket. He said Rupees 12, which we paid. He continued sitting out- side our tent, long after the others had dispersed, just watching us and waiting as though trying to think of something to say. Eventually he gave it up and wandered slowly off. It dawned on me, then, too late, that had we only chosen him he might have been our best coolie.

My high temperature was now back in full force. Foolishly enough, I said nothing about it, until at midnight it felt so bad that I woke up MacKinnon, who doped me with sulphadiazine. In the early morning I wrote a chitthi for Kuar Singh and said good-bye to the ten Dotials. We shook hands with each in turn. Then they were off, speeding up the mountain-flank, aiming to be at Joshimath in three days.

Photo by D. Scott THE RISHI GORGE

The Trisul Nala comes in to the right of the peak

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Attempt on Bethartolt Himal

EFORE LEAVING DUTI on 28th May, Perimal and B I dumped 80 Ib. of rice and beans in a cave against the return journey to Lata. This left six loads of 80 |b. for the Trisul Nala—each a much too heavy load for mountain country. ‘To-day’s journey, however, was only half a mile up- stream. Thereafter we proposed to ‘ferry’ the loads in two halves into the Trisul Nala. At half-past eight everyone except me started steeply uphill to cross a forested spur, from which they would descend again to the Rishiganga, and there build a bridge. I stayed behind to look for my ice-axe, which had vanished. ‘Ten Dotials had vanished too. But I refused to put two and two together. After half an hour’s search I was finally convinced that my ice-axe, to which I feel a sentimental attach- ment, was definitely not at Duti. The circumstantial evidence was so strong that I sat down to reflect which of the ten might have taken it. I was in no merciful or generous mood at that moment, but the inescapable conclusion to which I came was that no single one of these ten men was capable of theft.

I went on without the axe, feeling like death after last night’s high temperature treatment. It took me four hours to cover the half-mile, climbing a thousand feet up the spur, then forcing a way through dense scrub and thorn down to the Rishiganga, where I met the others. We were still below the Trisul Nala, though very close to it, and had now to find a bridging point. The river was here a bellowing flood. We made reconnaissance along the beach, scrambling on a jumble of stone, and chose the narrowest place where enormous boulders on either side could be spanned by saplings. We wanted three of these and fetched out our hatchets. ‘They were seized by Goria and Matbir, who

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94 THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION I95¢

selected and cut the trees. They had a birch and a pine down in half an hour. We tied ropes to the top of the birch, four men poised it on one end and four men on the ropes let it slowly fall. But the final drop was too sudden. The far end bounced on its block and the whole birch fell into the river. While we dragged it ashore the water tossed it about like a straw. Two more attempts failed in the same way. We were new to bridge-building in the Himalaya.

The art of bridge-making is to get a light birch across first to act as a guide rail for the heavier logs. The Dotials were first in realizing what was wanted. ‘They cut a third, more slender birch, which was forced across by MacKinnon and three coolies, who sat down and pushed the butt with their feet, while Perimal and I pulled on a rope tied to its top. The heavier birch, its tip resting on the lighter one at a slight angle, was then forced over in the same way. The structure was most unsafe, because the face of the opposite block sloped like a roof and was much higher than that on our own side. Scott tied on a rope, took to his bare feet, and crossed gingerly. Matbir sped after him and together they adjusted the ends of the two trunks. Matbir was in tremendous form, romping like a monkey. He wanted to manage everything himself and to show off a little; for he had real powers of initiative and was young enough to be still freshly aware of them. The heavier pine was now pushed over the other two. All were straightened out and lashed at each end. Goria, Zungia, and Matbir were the dominating trio, and remained so always.

We now used two hundred feet of rope to form a double handrail and began crossing. The Dotials crossed on their feet, carrying 80-lb. loads, and only with difficulty could they be persuaded to tie on to a climbing rope. They were regardless of risk, when one slip on the two uppermost logs, which were wet, would otherwise have cost loss of life.

It was late afternoon, for the bridge-building had taken several hours. As the last man crossed, lightning streaked into the lower Rishi. ‘Thunder rolled.

We pitched camp on ground as flat as a tennis court, raised

VONVOIHSIY FHL ONIOCIE |

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THE ATTEMPT ON BETHARTOLI HIMAL 95

thirty feet above the river, and were no sooner in shelter than rain was hissing on the rocks and drilling on the roofs. Grey and dismal veils choked the Rishi.

As invariably happened in the pre-monsoon days, the morning was again dry. By the afternoon we hoped not only to have found a way up the Trisul Nala but to have established Base Camp at the foot of Bethartoli Himal. To lighten the Dotials’ loads we offered to leave 120 Ib. of food at the Rishi camp to be fetched up to base two days later. But Perimal waved an impatient hand, almost