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- Herausgeber: Vertebrate Digital
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
'As I studied the maps, one thing about them captured my imagination - Across this blank space was written one challenging word, "Unexplored"' In 1937 two of the twentieth century's greatest explorers set off to explore an unknown area of the Himalaya, the breath-taking Shaksgam mountains. With a team of surveyors and Sherpas, Eric Shipton and H.W. Tilman located and mapped the land around K2, the second-highest mountain in the world. It was their greatest venture, and one that paved the way for all future mountaineering in that area of the Himalaya. For Shipton and Tilman, exploration was everything, with a summit a welcome bonus, and Blank on the Map is the book that best captures their spirit of adventure. With an observant eye and keen sense of humour, Shipton tells how the expedition entered the unknown Shaksgam mountains, crossing impenetrable gorges, huge rivers and endless snow fields. There's a very human element to in Shipton's dealings with his Sherpa friends, and with his Balti porters, some of whom were helpful, while some were less so. The expedition uncovers traces of ancient cultures and visits vibrant modern civilisations living during the last days of the British Empire. Only when all supplies are exhausted, their clothes in tatters and all equipment lost do the men finally return home. A mountain exploration classic.
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BLANK ON THE MAP
Eric Shipton
www.v-publishing.co.uk
– CONTENTS –
– SHIPTON’S LEGACY FOR MOUNTAINEERS –
Hugh Ruttledge
When Mr Shipton honoured me by an invitation to write a foreword to his book, I accepted with a particular sense of both privilege and opportunity; of privilege because the book is an epic of mountaineering exploration, of opportunity because so little is yet known of three aspects of Himalayan travel: the comparatively easy and inexpensive access to some of the wildest regions, the almost unlimited scope for small but thoroughly competent parties, and the amazing strength and capacity of the Sherpa porter.
I had the good fortune to serve for nearly five years in the section of the Central Himalayan chain with which this book deals. I climbed there with Sherpa, Gurkha, Bhotia and Kumaoni – as well as British – companions; and we made four attempts to enter the great Nanda Devi Basin, as better mountaineers had done before us. It is therefore with some knowledge of the facts that I acclaim the success gained by Messrs Shipton and Tilman and their three Sherpa comrades as one of the greatest feats in mountaineering history. Not only that: it has proved beyond doubt that, in these regions at any rate, a small homogeneous party, self-contained, able to live off the country, with no weak links and ably led, can go further and do more than the elaborate expeditions which have been thought necessary for the Himalaya. What a field of adventure and enterprise this throws open to young mountaineers, now that most of the other great mountain ranges of the world are but too well known.
One word of warning is perhaps necessary: work of this kind should be undertaken only by those who have attained the highest degree of mountaineering skill, judgment and endurance. Those who read this book with understanding will realise the number of tight places this party got into, where nothing but the most brilliant technical competence could have got them out alive. It is not a game for the beginner, or for the lover of flesh-pots.
The greatest feat was the successful entry into, and departure from, the ‘inner sanctuary’ of the Nanda Devi Basin – a place only about seventy-five miles from Almora, yet hitherto more inaccessible than the North Pole. At last men have set foot upon the slopes of the greatest mountain in the British Empire; and to them will be extended the admiration of those who have struggled and fought for it – notably Dr T. G. Longstaff, who so nearly succeeded in 1907.
Less spectacular perhaps, but hardly less exacting, were the two great traverses of the Badrinath-Gangotri and the Badrinath-Kedarnath watershed, along lines famous in Hindu mythology. These were replete with all the misery that mountaineering in the monsoon season can entail, but the climbers have their reward in the completion of a task that was well worth accomplishment, and in the regard of good Hindus, in whose eyes this would be a pilgrimage of superabundant merit.
Mr Shipton has paid generous and well-deserved tribute to the three Sherpa porters who accompanied him. It is no exaggeration to say that, without men of this type, climbing the higher Himalaya would be impossible. On them are based our hopes of climbing Mount Everest, and for years to come there will be none among the Himalayan peoples to equal them as mountaineers, porters, and loyal, unselfish companions. They are well on their way to become a corps of guides as famous as the men of the Alps. In time there may be others as good – there is splendid material in Kumaon, in Hunza or in Baltistan, to name a few Himalayan regions; and the humble Nepalese Dotials who served Mr Shipton so faithfully in the Rishiganga are worth their salt. At present the Sherpa holds pride of place, and his morale and esprit-de-corps are tremendous assets. Given the right leaders – and they must be of the best – he is unbeatable. The description of him in this book is the most understanding and delightful that has ever been written.
The lists are now set for great deeds in the Himalayan snow-fields. Messrs Shipton and Tilman have shown the way; let us hope that many will follow.
Hugh Ruttledge
– Eric Shipton –
by Jim Perrin
Early in 1930 a young planter in Kenya unexpectedly received a letter from an ex-soldier ten years his senior, who had settled in the colony after the Great War. The letter mentioned that its writer had done some climbing in the English Lake District on his last home leave, and asked advice about visiting the East African mountains. Its immediate results were a meeting between the two men, an initial jaunt up Kilimanjaro together, and the first ascent, later that year, of the West Ridge of Mount Kenya – one of the major pre-war achievements of British alpinism.
The two men were, of course, Eric Shipton and H. W. Tilman, and their chance meeting, out in the colonies at the very beginning of the decade, led to one of the most fruitful partnerships and entrancing sagas in the history of mountain exploration. Indeed, the centrality of their role in that history throughout one of its vital phases is unarguable. The chance of their acquaintance and the magnitude of their travels aside, there is another aspect of these two men which is perhaps even more remarkable. For they were both inveterate chroniclers of their climbs and journeys, and the quality of the writings so produced places them absolutely in the forefront of mountaineering and travel literature.
For the span of their contents alone, Shipton’s books are noteworthy: Nanda Devi (1936), his first, deals with the 1934 penetration up the Rishi Gorge into the Nanda Devi sanctuary in company with Tilman, as well as the two traverses of the Badrinath-Kedamath and Badrinath-Gangotri watersheds. From the moment of its first publication, for reasons to be examined below, it was regarded as one of the revolutionary texts of mountain literature, and it remains an enthralling story of hazardous and uncertain journeying with minimal resources through unknown country. Blank on the Map (1938) describes the 1937 Shaksgam survey expedition undertaken with Michael Spender, John Auden, (brothers to the poets) and Tilman – an important venture into a little-known region of the Himalayas which provided a basis for much subsequent mountaineering activity in the Karakoram. (First editions of this very rare title now command fabulous prices amongst collectors.)
From 1940 to 1942 Shipton served as British Consul-General at Kashgar, in the Chinese Province of Sinkiang. During this period he completed a first volume of memoirs, entitled Upon that Mountain, published in 1943. This frank, vivid polemic set out his basic mountaineering creed, whilst also describing his early Alpine and Himalayan seasons, the series of climbs on Mount Kenya, and the four attempts on Everest and two survey-trips to the Karakoram in which he took part during the thirties. His next book was very different in tone. Mountains of Tartary (1950) is a series of light-hearted sketches of weeks or weekends seized from official consular work – in the main during his second spell of office in Kashgar – and spent on Bogdo Ola, Mustagh Ata, Chakragil (mountains which are again coming into vogue in the eighties since China’s relaxation of restrictions on travel). The Mount Everest Reconnaissance Expedition 1951 (1952) was basically a photographic volume, prefaced by a succinct and entertaining narrative about this vital piece of mountain exploration, which cleared the path for John Hunt’s successful expedition to the mountain in 1953. The final book in this series, Land of Tempest, written in 1963, takes for theme the period of Shipton’s life from 1958 to 1962 and includes accounts of three trips to Patagonia – on the last of which he made the first crossing of the main Patagonian ice-cap – and one to Tierra del Fuego.
The above bald catalogue suggests the range, but captures little of the flavour, of this extraordinary man’s life, the brief outline of which is as follows. He was born in Ceylon in 1907, his father a tea-planter who died before his son was three. Thereafter, Shipton, his sister and mother travelled extensively between Ceylon, India, France and England, before the family finally settled in the latter country for purposes of the children’s schooling. Shipton’s mountaineering career began in 1924 with holidays in Norway and Switzerland and was consolidated through four successive alpine seasons in 1925-1928. His first ascent of Nelion, the unclimbed twin summit of Mount Kenya, with Wyn Harris in 1929, and of the same mountain’s West Ridge with Tilman the following year, brought him to the notice of the mountaineering establishment of the day and elicited an invitation to join the expedition led by Frank Smythe to Kamet, in the Garhwal region, in 1931. Shipton distinguished himself on this trip, being in the summit party on eleven of the twelve peaks climbed by the expedition, including that of Kamet itself, which at 25,447ft was the highest summit then attained. His performance in 1931 led to an invitation to join Ruttledge’s 1933 Everest expedition. Thereafter the milestones slip by: Rishi Gorge 1934; Everest Reconnaissance 1935, which he led; Everest and Nanda Devi 1936; Shaksgam 1937; Everest 1938; Karakoram 1939 are the main ones amongst them, but virtually the whole decade was spent in Himalayan travel, and the extent of his exploratory achievement perhaps even now lacks full recognition.
He spent the Second World War in Government service in Sinkiang, Persia and Hungary, went back for a further spell in Kashgar from 1946 to 1948, accompanied by his wife Diana, and was Consul-General at Kunming, in Southern China, from 1949 to 1951. On his return to England he was asked to lead an expedition to reconnoitre the Southern approaches to Everest, in the course of which he and Ed Hillary first espied the eventual line of ascent up the Western Cwm to the South Col, from a vantage point on the slopes of Pumori. The following year he led a rather unsatisfactory training expedition to Cho Oyu. In the late summer of 1952, Shipton having been urged to lead a further expedition to Everest in 1953 and having accepted, the joint Himalayan Committee of the Alpine Club and the Royal Geographical Society performed an astonishing volte-face, appointing the competent and experienced but at that time virtually unknown Colonel John Hunt as leader, and accepting Shipton’s consequent resignation.
This sorry episode effectively formed a watershed in Shipton’s life. After the break-up of his marriage and loss of his post as Warden of the Outward Bound School at Eskdale, which occurred shortly after the events of 1952-53, he lived for a time in the rural seclusion of Shropshire, working as a forestry labourer. He was enticed back for a last trip to the Karakoram in 1957, and thereafter developed a new grand obsession with travel in the southernmost regions of South America, which absorbed most of the next decade in his life. Finally, in his sixties, he was a popular lecturer on cruises to such places as the Galapagos Islands, and leader of mild Himalayan treks. He died of liver cancer at the home of a friend in Wiltshire during the spring of 1977.
This, then, is the bare outline of an outstanding life. The man who lived it, through his involvement in the 1931 Kamet and 1933 Everest expeditions, had attained a considerable degree of national celebrity by the early thirties, yet at that time he was to all intents and purposes a professionless pauper and a kind of international tramp, whose possessions amounted to little more than the clothes in which he stood. There is an admirable passage in Upon That Mountain where Shipton recounts the dawning of a realisation that the way of life which most appealed to him perhaps presented a practical possibility. It happened on the way back to India from the North Side of Everest in 1933. In company with the geologist Lawrence Wager, he had made his way across a strip of unexplored country and over a new pass into Sikkim. Wager’s influence shifted the emphasis of Shipton’s interest away from the climbing of peaks to enthusiasm for a general mode of exploration – a fascination with geography itself. Twenty years later, this shift was to provide his detractors with an easy target. For the moment, his mind works over the ground thus:
‘Why not spend the rest of my life doing this sort of thing?’ There was no way of life that I liked more, the scope appeared to be unlimited, others had done it, vague plans had already begun to take shape, why not put some of them into practice? … The most obvious snag, of course, was lack of private means; but surely such a mundane consideration could not be decisive. In the first place I was convinced that expeditions could be run for a tithe of the cost generally considered necessary. Secondly if one could produce useful or interesting results one would surely find support …’
When he took into account his reactions to the milieu of the large expedition, (‘The small town of tents that sprung up each evening, the noise and racket of each fresh start, the sight of a huge army invading the peaceful valleys, it was all so far removed from the light, free spirit with which we were wont to approach our peaks’), then the virtue to be made of necessity was obvious, and of it was born what came to be known as the ‘Shipton/Tilman style of lightweight expedition’. I referred above to Shipton’s Nanda Devi as a revolutionary text, and it was just that. I doubt if there has ever been a less formulaic account of an expedition. It has a magical, fresh quality, a get-through-by-the-skin-of-your-teeth spontaneity, a candour, a clear rationale, an excited commitment, an elation about the enterprise undertaken, which no previous mountaineering book had approached. From the outset the terms are made clear: five months in the Garhwal Himalaya to tackle some of its outstanding topographical problems, ‘climbing peaks when opportunity occurred’, on a budget of £150 each for himself and Tilman (some of Shipton’s share of which is advanced by Tilman ‘against uncertain security’). The scenes throughout, from the broken-toed, frock-coated setting-out from Ranikhet to the final descent from the Sunderdhunga Col to Maiktoli, are evoked in a clear and economical style. But it is the message – the simple moral that it is possible, and in terms of response to the landscape and its peoples even desirable, to travel cheap and light, to move fast and live off the land – which is the book’s revolutionary charge, and which was to make Shipton and Tilman, in the words of the American writer David Roberts, ‘retroactive heroes of the avant-garde’.
Two major characteristics distinguish Nanda Devi and were to become hallmarks of Shipton’s writing. The first of these is an intense curiosity-which remains with him, his conclusions growing more authoritative with increase of experience – about natural landforms, whether they be mountains, valleys, rivers, volcanoes or glaciers. This curiosity acts as a stimulus, a fund of energy, in his explorations, continually used as a basis, a point of reference: ‘It was enthralling to disentangle the geography of the region … for me, the basic reason for mountaineering’.
Alongside this drive to understand the physical make-up of a landscape there operates a more reflective principle, very close to traditional nature-mysticism, which Shipton almost invariably carries off with great poise and delicacy, sure-footedly avoiding the obvious pitfalls of bathos or inflation.
We settled down on a comfortable bed of sand, and watched the approach of night transform the wild desert mountains into phantoms of soft unreality. How satisfying it was to be travelling with such simplicity. I lay awaiting the approach of sleep, watching the constellations swing across the sky. Did I sleep that night – or was I caught up for a moment into the ceaseless rhythm of space?
Blank on the Map
A very satisfying irony lies in suggesting an affinity with mysticism of a man who claimed througout his adult life to be an agnostic, and who would probably, even if only for the sheer joy of argument, have vigorously rejected the intimation. Perhaps his disclaimer of religious belief was like that of Simone Weill, and masked a genuine sense of divine mystery within the universe. Certainly much of the interest in Shipton’s writings derives from a tension between the very practical preoccupations with physical phenomena, and a frequent lapsing into a more quietistic mode of thought. (To compound the mischief, I have to say that Nanda Devi puts me in mind of no other text so much as one of the late poems of that most ascetic of saints, St John of the Cross, quoted here in the translation by Roy Campbell:
The generous heart upon its quest
Will never falter, nor go slow,
But pushes on, and scorns to rest,
Wherever it’s most hard to go.
It runs ahead and wearies not
But upward hurls its fierce advance
For it enjoys I know not what
That is achieved by lucky chance.
Those who knew Shipton well sound a recurrent note in their reminiscences which supports the contention that there was a mystical element to his character. It concerns a quality of detachment he possessed, and invariably fastens on a specific physical detail. The following is typical:
He had the most marvellous blue eyes, very kindly, very amused, and very wise. But there was always a sense, when you talked with him, that somehow he was not with you, was looking right through you, searching out farther and farther horizons.
In the course of researching Shipton’s biography, it was remarkable and eventually almost comical how often that impression, almost word-for-word, was repeated. Without the evidence of the text it could be taken as a mannerism, but in his books there recur time and again passages which define his response to landscape as one striving towards a mystical awareness.
In this he is very different to Tilman, his most frequent companion of the thirties, and it is interesting to compare the two men. The ten-year difference in age is for once significant, for Tilman’s seniority ensured that he underwent the determining influence on his character of the First World War, and it affected him profoundly. It is what made him a master of that most serious of all forms of writing, comic irony, and it is what causes him to veer dangerously close at times to a distinct misanthropy. It explains the prelapsarian vitality with which he imbues his native characters, the neglectful portrayal of his compatriots, and the isolation which identifies his authorial persona. In his personal conduct, it provides the reason for his taciturnity, his phlegmatism and unemotional responses to situations. The vulnerability of youth, its lack of circumspection and eager commitment to affection or cause were in Tilman’s case the victims of war, and the survivor, psychic and physical, of that particularly obscene war had need to be encased in adamantine.
Shipton’s enthusiasms, on the other hand, operate under no such constraint. He can indulge his feelings as freely as he will, the zest and gaiety of the twenties glitters around his early activities. He commits himself freely, and as equally with a climb as a journey of exploration or to one of the many women who shared his life. A couple of comments upon him from 1931 by Frank Smythe capture the temperament of the man:
No one who climbs with Shipton can remain pessimistic, for he imparts an imperturbability and confidence into a day’s work which are in themselves a guarantee of success.
Or again, about his climbing:
I saw Shipton’s eye light up, and next instant he went at the slope with the energy of a boxer who, after months of training, sees his opponent before him.
The differences in their characters probably acted as a bond between Shipton and Tilman, and account for their sharing of some of the most ambitious undertakings of their lives. For Tilman, his own youth lost, Shipton’s enthusiasm and boundless energy must have been inspiriting and invigorating, whilst the fatherless Shipton may well have found that Tilman’s wry, benevolent maturity fulfilled a need in him at a certain stage of his life. In mountaineering terms, the roles were reversed, and the more experienced Shipton was the leader. One very telling indication of this occurs in Tilman’s diary for 30 May, 1934. After reconnoitring one of the crucial – and very tortuous – passages of the route up the Rishi Gorge, they have to hurry back to camp. The subsequent diary entry briefly states, ‘Shipton’s route-memory invaluable as usual, self hopeless.’
It has to be said, though, that a change occurs in Shipton’s outlook, especially with regard to mountaineering, during the mid-thirties. It seems to me complex and cumulative rather than associated with specific circumstances. The influence of older companions such as Tilman and Wager would have played a part. So too, perhaps, did the relationship upon which he had embarked with Pamela Freston. But two related events could be seen as decisive in the transition from joyful mountaineering innocence to prudent experience. These were the two avalanches which Shipton witnessed on the slopes leading to the North Col of Everest during successive expeditions in 1935 and 1936. Of the first one, he had to say ‘I am sure that no one could have escaped from an avalanche such as that which broke away below us while we were lying peacefully on the North Col’. The following year, as he and Wyn Harris were climbing up the same slope, this is what happened:
We climbed quickly over a lovely hard surface in which one sharp kick produced a perfect foothold. About half-way up to the Col we started traversing to the left. Wyn anchored himself firmly on the lower lip of a crevasse while I led across the slope. I had almost reached the end of the rope and Wyn was starting to follow when there was a rending sound … a short way above me, and the whole surface of the slope I was standing on started to move slowly down towards the brink of an ice-cliff a couple of hundred feet below …
Wyn Harris managed to jump back into the crevasse and re-establish the belay, the snow failed to gather momentum, and Shipton survived. It was the last attempt on the mountain that year. The point is, that Shipton’s faith in the material he was climbing had been undermined – just as in personal relationships, when the trust has gone the commitment is withdrawn. Shipton’s heyday as a climber is delimited by these events. Though there are inevitably some exciting and perilous escapades after 1936 – the climb on the Dent Blanche-like peak above the Bostan Terek valley is a striking example – henceforwards, reading these books, we keep company with a much more circumspect mountaineer.
This line of reasoning inevitably leads us towards a consideration of what is generally and I think rightly regarded as one of the cruces of Shipton’s life – the circumstances surrounding the choice of leadership for the 1953 expedition to Everest. It is very difficult to summarise in brief the main points of what is still a controversial topic. Even Walt Unsworth’s Everest book, which comes nearest to being an authoritative history of the mountain, overlooked important material in its researches which throws a clearer light on some aspects of this vital area. What emerges, from close examination of relevant Himalayan Committee minutes and written submissions from its surviving members, is a bizarre tale of fudging and mudging, falsification of official minutes, unauthorized invitations, and opportunistic and desperate last-minute seizures of initiative by a particular faction. It is a perfect illustration of the cock-up rather than the conspiracy theory of history, from which little credit redounds upon the British mountaineering establishment of the time. The saddest fact about the whole sorry tale is that it appeared to place in conflict two honourable and quite innocent men – Shipton and John Hunt.
There are two basic themes to be considered. The first of these is the general climate of feeling surrounding Shipton’s attitude for, and interest in, the leadership of an expedition which, even in the early stages of its planning, was subject to a jingoistic insistence that Everest must be climbed by a British party. (That this was not to be achieved for a further 22 years scarcely mattered in the event, the national attachments of the first summiteers being clearly turned to the Commonwealth’s greater glory.) This climate of feeling, accepting some of Shipton’s own statements at face value, and drawing in other rather more questionable evidence, particularly that relating to the 1952 Cho Oyu expedition, where peculiar circumstances undoubtedly affected Shipton’s leadership, had drifted towards the view that Shipton lacked the urgency, the thrust, the killer instinct which would be necessary to ‘conquer’ Everest. 1 It was immeasurably strengthened by Shipton’s own submission to the Himalayan Committee meeting of 28 July, 1952, in which he expressed doubts about his suitability for the job on the following grounds: he had to consider his own career – with a wife and two young children to support, he was out of a job and needed to get one; he felt that new blood was needed to undertake the task; his strong preference was for smaller parties, lightly equipped.
At this juncture we need to pass over to a consideration of the second basic theme – the conduct of members of the Himalayan Committee over the matter of the leadership. The first point to be made is that the Committee was very weakly chaired. Because of this, the pro-Shipton faction carried the day at the meeting of July 28 and, chiefly through the efforts of Laurence Kirwan, Shipton was strongly prevailed upon to accept the leadership, the contention then resting with the matter of deputy leadership.
However, there also existed a pro-Hunt faction, headed by Basil Goodfellow and Colonel Tobin, who had both been absent from the July 28 meeting. These two men lobbied forcefully that the deputy – or assault – leadership should fall to Hunt, which would inevitably compromise Shipton, whose choice had been Charles Evans and to whom Hunt was therefore unacceptable in that role. The crucial committee meeting took place on September 11. The pro-Hunt faction was present in force, determined to reverse the decision of the previous meeting. The more ardent Shiptonians – most notably Kirwan and Shipton’s old friend Wager – were absent. Shipton was morally compelled to offer his resignation. The rest is history, apart from a few squalid diversions, such as the subsequent falsification of this meeting’s minutes by Claude Elliott, the chairman – in the words of one contemporary observer, ‘as bad a chairman of committees as one could find; he was hopelessly indecisive and hesitant and was too easily swayed by anyone (like Kirwan) who held firm opinions, however wrong these might be’.
What the effect would have been upon Shipton had he led the successful expedition to Everest is a matter for conjecture. John Hunt was patently well-equipped to cope with the ensuing celebrity, and used it tirelessly in the public good. It could perhaps be thought doubtful that Shipton would have enjoyed, and responded so positively, to the inevitably massive public acclaim.
After 1953, his life went through a difficult period, but it emerged into a golden late summer of exploration in an area completely fresh to him. His Patagonian journeys of the late fifties and sixties were a harking-back in many ways to his great Karakoram travels of the thirties. They would have been rendered immensely more public and difficult and perhaps thus less satisfying to him, by the burden of international fame. Instead, he was able to slip quietly away, pursue his own bent amongst the unknown mountains and glaciers of a new wilderness. It is a myth fulfilled, a proper consummation in the life of this explorer-mystic, whose outlook and progress resonate so closely with those of Tennyson’s ‘Ulysses’, from which poem he took the motto for the first part of Blank on the Map, and the title for his magnificent second autobiography, That Untravelled World.
There is a phrase of Shipton’s from this latter book which gives perfect expression to one of the great lives of our century – ‘a random harvest of delight’. That is exactly what the books collected together between these covers are, in general terms. But they are also an opportunity for a new generation of readers to engage with one of the most attractive personalities the sport of mountaineering has ever produced, to keep company with his spare, lithe figure loping off into the ranges, seeking out the undiscovered country, his distant blue eyes lingering on the form of a particular peak, the passage over to an unexplored glacier. If curiosity, appreciation, aspiration and delight are a form of praise – as assuredly they are – then here is one man’s testament of a lifetime spent in worship of the great world around him.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move.
It is the epitaph Shipton would have chosen for himself. No man lived out its theme more fully, nor finally more deserved its implicit tribute.
© JP 1/85
1In Upon That Mountain, for example, he had written that ‘there are some, even among those who have themselves attempted to reach the summit, who nurse a secret hope that Mount Everest will never be climbed. I must confess to such feelings myself.[Back]
– FOREWORD –
By T. G. Longstaff
Mountaineers usually seek the Himalaya in the hope of adding the ascent of some great peak to their experiences in the Alps or the Caucasus. But the exciting vastness and variety of the two-thousand-mile buttress of High Asia present conditions so different from anything which they have experienced in other ranges that their energies are often diverted from the climbing of peaks to the exploration of the unknown ridges and valleys which entice them on every hand. My own first climbing expedition to the Himalaya inevitably developed into a trek of nearly a thousand miles: I could not bring myself to waste time over second ascents on the same peak: there was too much to see and too many fascinating problems to be solved.
After notable ascents in Europe and Africa the author of this book made four long journeys in the Himalaya. With his old companion Tilman he has again this year tackled Everest, on whose grim slopes he reached 28,000 feet in 1933. The first to unveil the Sanctuary of Nanda Devi, he has achieved some thirty new peaks and passes in the eastern and western Himalaya. Last year he turned far to the north-west, to the solitudes of the Karakorum, and in the present volume he appears essentially as an explorer, subordinating the climbing of peaks to his main objective of filling in a great blank on the map.
Nowadays would-be explorers are more and more forced to seek high latitudes or high altitudes. In these empty regions achievement is limited by the number of days’ food the traveller can carry: success in both cases depends on a very special technique of travel. Today probably a majority of young explorers are dog-drivers or mountaineers. The days of the unveiling of continents are over: in almost all other regions of the world the tracks of an explorer will cross and recross those of former travellers.
But the mountaineer, whose training is so much longer than that required for any other form of travel, must further equip himself as a surveyor. For, as the actual area of the unknown shrinks, so rises the standard of accuracy and detail expected in his mapping. At once he is beset by new difficulties. His man-power must carry tentage, sleeping-bags, food and fuel for a sufficiently long time to complete his survey work. Therefore his instrumental equipment must be of the lightest consonant with accuracy. It is equally essential that this method of survey be as rapid as possible, in order to lessen the food he must carry. For several years past, officials of the Royal Geographical Society, working with mountain surveyors and instrument makers, have been elaborating a very light theodolite combined with a small camera. An efficient instrument has now been evolved, and it has fallen to Spender, the leading surveyor of Shipton’s party, to demonstrate its use by mountaineers in difficult country for filling gaps which could not be covered by his own more rigid survey. He worked out his results at Dehra Dun under the critical eye of Brigadier Clinton Lewis, the Surveyor-General of India, than whom there is no higher authority. One of the most inaccessible white patches on the map of the Karakoram is now filled in: the case for the new method is proven: but we badly need some generous benefactor who will give us a stereoplotter so that future photographic material can be quickly worked out in London.
It is to be feared that few readers of Shipton’s modest account will quite realize all that is implied by the remarkable success of this expedition. The combined party has surveyed 1,800 square miles of one of the most difficult mountain fastnesses in the world; and Auden has revealed its geological structure. With a reversion to the practice of a generation ago, the venture was organized and financed with an avoidance of publicity and with an economy quite unusual to-day. Sums ten times as large have often been spent on expeditions which brought back one-tenth of the results obtained by Shipton and his companions. He knows the secret of counting men before means. Equipment you can buy. Individual qualifications you cannot buy. The personal attainments of the individual members of an exploring party are more important than the funds at their disposal. This is the heartening message of Shipton’s book.
T.G.L.
The Athenaeum
– CHAPTER ONE –
How an Expedition Begins
‘…all experience is an arch where thro’ Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move.’
Ulysses, Alfred Lord Tennyson
A fascinating way of spending a few hours of leisure is to sit down with a paper and pencil and work out in minute detail the preparations for an expedition into unexplored country. The fact that there is very little chance of carrying out the project matters little. These dream expeditions can be staged in any corner of the world. I have imagined them in the forbidding mountains of Nepal, and in the wind-swept ice peaks of Tierra del Fuego, and across the Antarctic continent.
On the 1936 Everest Expedition, during the tedious hours of a snow-storm on the East Rongbuk glacier, lying in my sleeping bag, I discussed a detailed scheme with Noel Humphreys for the exploration of the remote snow range above the dense, steamy forests in the centre of New Guinea. The plan was to charter a dhow from a Dutch port on the south coast and sail to the southern extremity of the island; then to land with sufficient food and equipment to last one and a half years, and to relay the loads for three hundred miles, following a high ridge, above the fever swamps, that we hoped would lead to the snow range. We contemplated taking a dozen Sherpa porters with us to carry the loads inland and to help us live in the hostile country, and eventually to take part in the climbing. Lest the Sherpas be homesick so far from their country, for so long, we even considered allowing them to take their wives; and we discussed the possibility of planting crops in the foothills to help us live in the interior.
I often amuse myself by making a list of these imaginary expeditions in order of their attractiveness. Sometimes one heads the list, sometimes another. Always one plan is uppermost in my mind, until circumstances determine which shall be attempted.
Talking like this with John Morris, on the way down from Base Camp to Rongbuk, after the 1936 Everest expedition, he asked me if I had ever considered his pet plan of a journey from Hunza to Leh by way of the Shaksgam river. During the march back across Tibet there was plenty of time to discuss this project, and to weigh its possibilities. By the time we reached India it so far headed my list of plans as to exclude the thought of all others.
The Shaksgam river lies somewhere on the undemarcated frontiers of Chinese Turkestan, Hunza and Kashmir. It was necessary to obtain permission from the Government of India to take a party into that area. At the end of July I went to Simla to explain the project to the authorities. Some months later permission was granted. In August, while waiting for the start of a survey expedition to the Nanda Devi basin, I stayed with Bunty and Norman Odling in their lovely home in Kalimpong – a haven for so many travellers; during this pleasant interlude, with the aid of all the existing maps of the Karakoram, I made myself familiar with the geography of that range, studying the various routes, the costs involved, and the difficulties inherent in each plan of approach. Eventually I decided that instead of making the suggested journey it would be more valuable to establish a base in the middle of the Shaksgam area, with sufficient food to last three and a half months, and to make exploratory excursions from there in all directions.
At this stage my plans were necessarily vague, but I was fascinated by the idea of penetrating into the little-known region of the Karakoram. As I studied the maps, one thing about them captured my imagination. The ridges and valleys which led up from Baltistan became increasingly high and steep as they merged into the maze of peaks and glaciers of the Karakoram, and then suddenly ended in an empty blank space. Across this blank space was written one challenging word, ‘Unexplored’. The area is dominated by K2, the second highest mountain in the world, and is bounded on the south by the main Asiatic watershed.
The southern side of this range has been visited by many explorers and mountaineers who have partially surveyed its vast glaciers. But it is the northern side of this great watershed which has proved so difficult of access. The country is inhospitable and uninhabited, and no traveller can stay long in its remote valleys. These are deep and narrow with precipitous rocky sides. The unbridged rivers, fed by the huge glaciers, tend to flood to an enormous depth during the summer months when the ice is melting, and are then quite unfordable.
The first explorer of this part of the Karakoram was Sir Francis Younghusband, then a Lieutenant in the Dragoons. In 1887, at the end of his great journey across Asia, from Peking to India, he crossed the Aghil range, by what has since come to be known as the Aghil pass. This range lies to the north of the Karakoram. On the southern side of the pass he discovered a river which his men called the Shaksgam. From there he ascended the Sarpo Laggo glacier and crossed the main Karakoram range by way of the Mustagh pass. His account of this remarkable feat will be quoted later in this book.
Two years later he again crossed the Aghil pass to the Shaksgam river, which he followed upstream for a considerable distance. He then tried to enter the mountain country to the south-west; but failing to make his way up a great glacier, called by him the Crevasse glacier, he followed, in the late autumn, the lower reaches of the Shaksgam and so reached the Shimshal pass, which lies at the north-western extremity of this area.
Since then other travellers have visited various parts of this region. In 1926 Colonel Kenneth Mason led an expedition, financed by the Survey of India, to the Shaksgam. His object was to cross from the Karakoram pass, which lies at the eastern extremity of the Aghil range, to the head waters of the Shaksgam. From there he intended to work downstream so as to connect up with Younghusband’s route, and to fix the geographical position of the Shaksgam river and of the Aghil pass. His way was barred by a great glacier, which, coming down from the northern slopes of the Teram Kangri range, dammed the Shaksgam river. The ice was so appallingly broken that it was quite impossible for the expedition to cross the glacier and to continue its progress down the river. Mason named the glacier the Kyagar. His party went up into the Aghil range and explored its eastern section. There they were faced by the great difficulties of travelling in an entirely uninhabited area. In August they found another great river, which at first they imagined to be the Shaksgam itself. They failed to follow it down-stream owing to the enormous volume of water which was racing through its gorges. But they went far enough upstream to realize that this river was not the Shaksgam. So Mason named it the Zug – or false – Shaksgam. The lateness of the season forced the party to leave the problem of its course unsolved.
In 1929 a party from HRH the Duke of Spoleto’s expedition crossed the Mustagh pass into the Shaksgam valley, and followed it up to the Kyagar glacier. The work accomplished by this party will be mentioned in a later chapter.
In 1935 Dr and Mrs Visser, who have made three remarkable expeditions in the Karakoram, followed Mason’s route and succeeded in crossing the Kyagar glacier and in mapping the great glaciers coming down from the Gasherbrum peaks on the main watershed. They were prevented from going farther down the river by the summer floods.
