# Twenty Years in the Himalaya/A Minor Himalaya Valley

The valley of Kaghan, formed by the Kunhar river, is quite an ordinary unpretending western Himalayan valley, without any especial characteristics to differentiate it from other long western Himalayan valleys; but it has been dragged partially from obscurity by the fact that a good mule-road connects it with Chilas and the Gilgit districts, and that during the summer months there is a considerable traffic up and down. Nevertheless, as I have before pointed out, it is these same quite common Himalayan valleys which, to my mind, are the most delightful. In describing it as quite ordinary I do not mean that it is not beautiful and interesting, but that there are so many valleys with the same characteristics. This, to me, is one of its chief charms, its only drawback being that it holds but little game, and therefore, to the wanderer, there is less variety of entertainment. It makes up for this by being very accessible and by having a really fine climate, besides which its northern end is almost beyond the reach of the monsoon rains. I venture to say that no mountaineering or travelling party would ever make a journey through Kaghan with no further objective. They are always off to the monsters and to glory and discomfort. Real glory can only be obtained in Kaghan by climbing its one giant, Mali, and the giant’s height is not enough — a mere 17,345 feet.
The valley itself is a wedge driven up between the western border of Kashmir territory and the southern borders of the independent Kohistan tribes which inhabit the mountainous country on both sides of the Indus. The upper end of the valley actually starts from the Nanga Parbat massif, or perhaps I should say group, and runs in a southern direction for about 120 miles into the Punjab district of Hazara, by which it is connected with the aforementioned road. It is drained throughout its length by the Kunhar river, which finally joins the Jhelum in Kashmir territory.
My first journey up the Kaghan Valley was undertaken in the year 1890 — five years before the road to Chilas was begun. In those days there was an ordinary hill track up the valley, a very ordinary one indeed, and it was with the greatest difficulty that mules could be got along. In fact, while accomplishing the first two marches I had the misfortune to lose one of mine. The road was certainly very bad, but there was no actual necessity to repair it, especially as the people were satisfied, for in those days upper Kaghan was still very wild, and Chilas almost unknown. It is a great grazing country, and raids by the Kohistan and Chilas mountaineers were of constant occurrence. In fact, common reports put the whole of the Kaghan down as dangerous — a very mistaken idea indeed, as I found, for a more peaceable and friendly lot it would have been difficult to meet with, though I cannot describe them as a very admirable population. Kaghan is in a certain sense owned by families of Saiads, who have been settled there for many generations. Now Saiads are of the actual tribe of the Prophet, and, as such, are held in great consideration by the Mohammedan world. Further, they will do no actual agricultural labour. Since the Saiads obtained possession of the greater part of the Kaghan Valley they have multiplied greatly, and in consequence the greater part of the lands have been divided up amongst many families, the result being that there are but two or three families who are even decently well off, and the non-working remainder are paupers. As they are naturally ignorant and grasping, their tenants have had a bad time, and the Saiads themselves have degenerated in character — let us hope so, at least, for I should be sorry to think that they had always been the mean crowd they are at present. Besides the landowning Saiads, a certain portion of Kaghan lands are held by Swatis, the original inhabitants of Swat, which country is now in the hands of Eusafzai Pathan tribes. I have always found these Swatis a very much better people to deal with than the ruling Saiads. The other element, and possibly the most important, is the shepherd semi-pastoral tribe of Gujars, who either own or graze for wages the large herds of goats and sheep that come up into Kaghan in the summer months. They are usually an unpleasant folk, very ignorant, grasping, and surly, though often good hillmen, as are also the Swati tribes.
I have often wondered whether the Kaghanis themselves appreciated the valley being opened up and a good road made, for although they are now able to get a much better market for almost their only produce, ghee or clarified butter, and although life is now easier for them in many ways, still bad communications had for the upper classes among them many advantages. They were much more able to do what “they dam pleased,” and though now far better off, they ore more strictly supervised. In old days, when they wished to buy salt or sell their ghee, they were obliged to carry everything on their backs to the nearest bazaar, the village of Balakote, at the mouth of the valley, but now the traders can go right up the valley to the very end and on into Gilgit without any difficulty.
When I first travelled in the valley, prices were absurd, thirty-five quarts of milk could be bought for R. 1, and a sheep cost from R. 1 to Rs. 2, 8 annas (for a very large one) at the upper alps and grazing grounds, but now, though provisions cannot possibly be called expensive, they are nearly three times as dear as they were, on account of the opening up of the valley.
To refer back to my first dive into Kaghan in 1890, I could get very little information about the main valley, and virtually none about the side valleys, though more distant Kashmir and the adjoining Markhor districts of Karnal were well known. But it had been worth nobody’s while to travel in Kaghan, as it was gameless. I had only fifteen days at my disposal, but managed to put in a most exciting trip. Not knowing anything of the country, I took the Survey map and went as direct as possible to the first snow peak marked. We followed the main valley for a long twenty-two miles’ march of very hot and trying hill path, and managed to tumble one of our mules into the river. Most of his load caught on the way down, which was lucky, as it was chiefly provisions and cooking things in sacks. By night we arrived at the forest bungalow of Malakandi, situated among fine deodar forests which hang on the hills above it — a great relief as the general character of the march had been across steep and uninteresting hill-sides nearly bare of trees, very hot and shadeless, and steep enough to shut out the view up their sides, and almost, though not quite, up the main valley itself. The next morning the character of the country entirely changed. We left the main Kaghan Valley for the large Swati settlement in the Manoor Valley, and found ourselves immediately in far more interesting country. Before arriving at our branch road we had a really fine view of the striking Shikara peak at the head of the Shikara branch valley, and determined to get as close to it as we could. That march was uninteresting, and consisted chiefly in struggles with the mules, for the road was very bad again, and we took all day getting to our camp at the Bichala Kutta, only some six or seven miles. However, we were right among the mountains and among the most typical forest scenery in Kaghan, and therefore happy.
The headmen of the Manoor Swatis arrived from the village of Badalgraon the same evening, and guides were promised who would take me up in the surrounding mountains. Anywhere was good enough for me at that time. I just wanted to get up high and see what I could. So on the arrival of the guides, one of no account, but the other a capital fellow, Fazl Ali by name, we arranged to get up as high as we could into the snowy peaks directly above the camp. Fazl Ali was then an oldish man, and subsequently in 1891 sent his son, who turned out by far the best Kaghani I have ever employed, and who travelled with me often afterwards till his death in 1898. Up to this time my mountaineering experience consisted of an ascent of the Wetterhorn, and being lost with a friend on a small peak above the Grimsel. On this occasion our mountaineering equipment was equally sketchy. My Goorkha orderly had an umbrella, I had an ice-axe, which weapon I had then never handled, and the Kaghani had a little forester’s wood- and ice-axe combined, with a handle about two and a half feet long; we also had twenty-five feet of cotton rope.
Our camp was approximately 5500, the peak above approximately 16,000, the forest line is roughly 11,000 feet. We were quite happy to undertake this considerable proposition with a start at 5.30, and I expected to be down by night. These are the arrangements of beginners. I was young in those days, I had no real experience or knowledge, still I had wandered in the East End of London, I had actually seen a coster’s barrow knocked over by a four-wheeler, and luckily I had a good memory for words. Without these advantages and gifts, we should hardly have got through that jungle at the time we emerged, i.e. at 2 p.m. I had taken my own way in the morning, that is straight ahead, which led us through thick jungle and thick wet grass into the upper forest, and it was only after making a hopeless mess of it that I allowed Fazl Ali to take me the right way. However, we got out at last and on to a baby glacier, with a small schrund cutting us off from a ridge of rock which evidently led to the great ridge, some 3000 feet above us. Two of us fixed on to the twenty-five feet of cotton rope and passed Fazl Ali over, and we were soon making our way to the ridge, which was as rotten as possible, with lots of melting snow and the sun beating full upon it There were too many tumbling stones altogether for any of us, and we beat a retreat as fast as we could. My Goorkha orderly was a poor specimen, and I didn’t like the loose stones at all, so Fazl Ali had his work cut out. It was not surprising, therefore, that in leaving the rock-ridge for the snow-slope which took us to our ridge over the schrund, we should both have slipped and pulled Fazl Ali with us. Luckily we went straight to the bridge, and easily missed the schrund, only to be missed in our turn, as we picked ourselves up in the snow below, by a quite respectable thing in rocks which had a real “sitter” at us. Immediately after this incident I made an attempt to break the record for down-hill running. The snow below was easy and safe, and we did a meritorious performance. But we hadn’t yet quite finished. We were well in the forest when it got dark, and we had no food and no matches, and it began to drizzle, so we spent a cheerful night and arrived at ten o’clock the next morning at Badalgraon, “so meek and mild, so ready for any impression,” as I once heard a missionary describe a fellow-worker. I wonder if any one ever mode a greater number of idiotic mistakes all at once than we made that day. Still, it was quite a little beginning — and luckily not quite a little ending. Later on we continued our exploration up the valley through charming country, and tried one more little peak, of no real difficulty or particular height, but I developed mountain sickness through having tried to race a big active hillman, who had joined us, for the first 3000 feet. When he offered me a very dirty raw onion as a cure when I was at my worst, I remember I beat him on the nose. I was light-hearted in those days. Since this expedition I have had many and varied wanderings in those hills, usually for short periods, and have often taken the opportunity to traverse them on my way either on shooting or travelling trips, both going and returning. But I am glad to say that I have never chanced things again as I did that first time, for although the Kaghan mountains are generally well behaved, they have also a vulgar way of throwing stones at any one who is light-heartedly careless of his work.
We finished our trip by crossing and re-crossing the Shikara Pass, or rather twin passes, leading from Kaghan into the Droua district of Kashmir. This pass lies at the foot of the Shikara peak, separating it from the group of twelve Raji Bogee peaks, two of which we had attempted to climb. It is quite Alpine in character, and though quite easy, is steep.
After the return of my regiment from active service on the frontier in 1891, I found myself once again in Manoor. We had several minor scramblings and much search for ibex on the most southerly snow peaks of the Nila, and here I was joined by the aforementioned Hebat Khan. We had poor sport, but at any rate took away from Kaghan the reproach that it held no ibex, for we saw a considerable amount, but, alas! only one really shootable head, which eluded us. We crossed the range back and fore, and worked hard. An altogether interesting but unremarkable trip, with the exception of two days’ looking for game in the great Jamghur precipices, which are very steep and difficult to find one’s way about in. Here there is a small settlement of Gujars, who are quite wonderful in traversing their own country. They feed their flocks of goat and sheep all over these slopes, and are the only people who regularly do so, all travelling shepherds avoiding them as far as possible. I was told, and have since often heard, that fatal accidents are common, and I must say that it is not to be wondered at.
I did not return to Kaghan till 1894, but by that time had worked again in Switzerland, and with Sir Martin Conway in the Karakorams, and also for a year in the Chitral and Gilgit districts. By that time Chilas had been taken, and, as far as I remember, the Kaghan route was planned, if not started. I had further as my companion a most capable leader, Harkabir Thapa, now an accomplished mountaineer, besides one or two other men of my regiment, all quite reliable. We did one really good rock climb and some passes, and extended our knowledge of the country.
In the following year (1895) my wife accompanied me, the first English lady who had ever been high up in the valley, and I am quite certain the first that most of the inhabitants had ever seen. We made a most comfortable camp in the Shikara Valley, and had a very active but non-ambitious existence, in perfect climate and scenery; still, though we were not ambitious, Harkabir accomplished a great performance. He and another Goorkha companion started out to explore one of the Raji Bogee peaks above our camp. They all look hard from this point, but he thought he had discovered a feasible route. His companion was taken ill and had to give in, so Harkabir continued by himself and finally succeeded in reaching the top. On his return he had great difficulties, for it was really too early in the season, just the end of May, and the snow had degenerated; the crampons which he wore were of very little use to him, and it was a very scared mountaineer who finally arrived in camp.
To show how safe the country was even at this time, my wife returned to Abbottabad alone, I having to fly over the passes to Kashmir to make arrangements for Mr. Mummery’s expedition to Nanga Parbat, about which more will be told in a later chapter.
The actual road to Kashmir leads over the Shikara Pass into Kashmir territory, and cuts at right angles the Droua and Kishenganga Valleys, which have almost exactly the same character as Kaghan itself, though the first parts are possibly even finer. One of the most charming features of all these western Himalayan sub-Alpine valleys is their forests, finer than I myself have seen anywhere in the Alps, and probably quite as fine as any Caucasian forests, excepting the great beech forests, which occur nowhere in the Himalaya. The extent of hill-side covered by them is immense, from approximately 4000 to 12,000 feet above sea-level. The scale of even minor valleys in the Himalaya is vast, and it is curious, when the snow has left the higher levels, how very little these great and often equably coloured hill-sides impress one by their size. It is only when one comes to climb them that one realises what a number of feet have to be climbed before one emerges above the forest line.
Kaghan is a playground and a training-ground, and near enough to civilisation to give one a first-rate circular scramble in fifteen or even ten days. Many of my most enjoyable trips have only lasted for a very few days. In this way it is distinctly analogous to the Alps as they were, for one can always in fifteen days arrive at peaks and passes of which no one knows anything. Though all the ordinary passes are in continual use by natives, it is still possible to make one’s way backwards and forwards across the range by quite unknown ways. Such a trip I took in 1896, with Karbir as guide. We climbed two little points above the Bichala Valley of Manoor, and had intended to stay there and do more. But the wandering spirit seized me, and away we went over the range to the top of the Droua Valley to a grass alp known as Tōd Gali, my idea being to find my way over to the lakelet of Saifal Maluk in a side valley draining into Kaghan river. We could find no one who had been across, and indeed Hebat Khan, who, as usual, was with me, told us that he did not believe there was a way. We had some twelve or fifteen porters, all chosen by Hebat Khan, and quite ready to try, for Kaghan is not like the great mountains; supplies are always obtainable, and if one way won’t do another always will, so they did not feel they were cutting far adrift from food.
We had a very dull walk through fine scenery. This sounds a contradiction in terms, but is not so at all. Continual walking over stones and up scree slopes is more than dull, no matter what the scenery, and the slopes were much worse than the scenery was fine. However, Shikara was evidently in front of us, and an unpleasant rock-throwing scrubby mountain on our right, and we finally arrived at the pass between the two, and into really interesting surroundings. We had a fine view of Shikara, and also of the eastern face of the one real Kaghan giant, Mali by name, very rough and wicked looking, right to our front. We were less pleased to find that we were cut off from our valley by another pass, low enough indeed, and easy enough, but still involving another ascent The real question was how to get the coolies down the hundred feet or so of very steep and icy slope that led us on to the glacier, which we had to cross to reach the second pass. Kaghanies are neither clothed nor booted for ice. They have probably never seen a succession of even twenty steps cut up and down a steep face, and further, they really dislike crevasses, of which they have a needless and inherited dread. They would much rather carry loads down a really awkward rock passage than cross half-a-dozen perfectly simple crevasses. It is more or less new to them, and all simple folk dread what is new and unaccustomed. Our descent was at first over a rapidly shelving steep snow slope, and then fifty feet of what was practically ice at a good steep angle, but with comfortable snow on the glacier below. But in order to get to a convenient angle steps had to be cut diagonally across a small schrund and over a very substantial snow ridge, which could not be seen from the top. We halted our coolies and put out about 150 feet of rope. We then descended over the ridge to the edge of the ice slope, cut an immense step, and then did a lightning sitting glissade into the snow below. The coolies were passed down one by one by a Goorkha left for the purpose on top of the big step. They didn’t like it very much, though it was quite easy for them. Once there, they were invited by another Goorkha to rest, and before they had time to be afraid a gentle push from behind landed them scared but comfortably at the bottom, where we fielded them. They were quite upset, but soon revived, and several requested to be re-conducted up to repeat the process. We had, during the following days, many good looks at Mali, and saw several ways up, all quite easy to do when one is perfectly certain that one won’t be called upon to try one of them.
Pleasant as the side valleys are, they have their disadvantages; there are no roads, and hardly any paths, and travelling is not luxurious. The luxurious traveller sticks to the main route to Chilas, and lives in the comfortable bungalows of the Public Works Department. And he might do very much worse. The valley itself opens out considerably as it rises, and two marches beyond the village of Kaghan, the local capital, forest is almost entirely left behind. The climate is really fine, but the scenery, though large and rugged, is rather ugly; the mountain forms are without character, and the interest to one who has seen much mountain country rather lies in the masses of wild flowers and the really remarkably fine climate than in the actual surroundings themselves. The head of the valley, at the foot of the Babusar Pass, is, however, quite interesting. It is, to all intents and purposes, a Pamir. The near hills are insignificant grass-covered mounds, but there is a wideness and a Pamir-like and down-like appearance which is unexpected, and further, there is the great mass of the Nanga Parbat group immediately in one’s front, and the knowledge that once across the easy neighbouring passes one is sure of the finest shikar country in the Himalaya. Beyond the blockhouse of Gittidas (for, as one nears the Kohistan and Chilas frontier the comfortable bungalows become defensible block-houses) marmots abound. Where the valley opens out they simply swarm. I used to try to stalk between them and their holes when they were feeding. On the one or two occasions in which I was partially successful, their indignation was most amusing.
At this time I was travelling with Captain Browne of my regiment. I may introduce him by saying that, from a travelling point of view, this officer is nearly as unprincipled as I am myself. He has also an appearance of venerable respectability which attracts confidence in his dealings with the indigenous inhabitants of these wild parts. But, hard as we tried, all my powers of persuasion, and even the natural respect caused by my companion’s trustworthy and venerable appearance, could not induce any of the local people to take us over the range into the forbidden Chilas valleys. Further, our attempts to induce shikaries and parties from the other side were even less successful, for had not a shikari received a month’s imprisonment the year before for the very same thing? And had not the parties been fined? However, we were determined to go, and there was only one way, i.e. to carry our own camp. Our three Goorkhas and our two selves finally crossed into the Niat Valley, with outfit for a week. We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves — chiefly because we knew we oughtn’t to be there. But from a sporting point of view our enterprise was quite hopeless. The scale of the valleys is huge, and they are very long; and it was evident that the part of the valley we were in held little or no game. The only incident we had was a chase after a red bear, which I fired at and missed, for one cannot run and scramble uphill rapidly at 14,000 feet, and then shoot straight. Moving our camp back was not so enjoyable as taking it in. In fact, we returned well beaten and very tired.
We made one or two other unauthorised attempts at shooting in places we had no business to be in that season, with a minimum of shooting success but with a maximum of real enjoyment. We lived quite hard, and it really made one feel that one was exploring, whereas, of course, we were never more than a couple of days from the lap of luxury, i.e. the main camp, presided over by my wife. This was delightful; but for first-class enjoyment nothing could beat the epicurean progress made through the best bits of Kaghan scenery by Mr. Mumm and myself in 1907.
We had spent all the summer in Garhwal, a hard country to travel in, and in midsummer a wet one. When the weather quite broke we were in despair. There were so many months left at our disposal for mountaineering. I whispered, “Let us fly to Kashmir and sunshine.” The suggestion was simply sprung at, and away we went direct from Māna on the main chain of the central Himalaya — a journey of at least 800 miles, — depression leaving us at every stage. But the cussedness of things in general did its best to stop us on our way. We were drenched every day; we were nearly martyred by a gang of coolies with MʻAdam stones, and nearly killed with hospitality in Almora and Naini Tal. Finally, a coolie tried to wreck our train with his body on our way to Pindi, though, luckily for all parties, without success. We struggled through all obstacles, even an injured toe, which I had nearly damaged for good in Almora, quite recovering itself. We found perfect weather in Kashmir, climbed nearly all the peaks of Haramuk, and finally trekked across country through the beautiful Lolab Valley and the Kishenganga and Droua Valleys, to my old camp in Tōd Gali.
Shikara and Mali were our objects, and I proposed to cross via my old pass made in 1896 to Saiful Maluk. However, I kept too much to the north, and after another rather dull and very trying walk over scree and bad snow arrived at the top of another and new pass, separated from Shikara by the unpleasant mountain mass which I have mentioned. We had a most sporting descent to the glacier. As I said before, it was an epicurean expedition; we had everything that mortal travellers could wish for except a copy of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. We had even two geese and ducks, and we were enjoying ourselves to an extent which mere words cannot convey. The descent to the glaciers before mentioned was some four hundred feet over snow-slopes at a steep angle, and across some few not very formidable crevasses. There was also some ice to be negotiated. It really was quite a serious undertaking for so large a party, but Inderbinnen, our Swiss guide, engineered the descent most creditably. Cutting large soup plates until the really steep snow-slopes began, we then fixed two hundred feet of rope to a rock, leaving one of our Goorkhas to look after it; and the men were passed down and finally convoyed over the crevasses at the bottom. But this manoeuvre took some time, and we were obliged to camp on moraine, there not being time to negotiate the second pass that night. It also began to snow and blow, and we had a wild night. It was late in September, and Kaghan up high is very cold then, as we were later on to learn. The next day we set out with trepidation. We were behind our time, and the relief expedition with more luxuries was in front. We, or rather, I think, chiefly I, were filled with misgivings that it might have given us up for lost; and although we were fairly well supplied with the necessaries of life, such as champagne, etc., we were now so accustomed to luxuries that the mere chance of missing the relief expedition filled us with horror. I must mention again that this was an epicurean trip. We did eventually find it, however, and nothing was able to upset us — not even the loss of the last goose, who proudly walked out of camp at six o’clock in the evening without leave, and was never seen again. We had bad weather again that night, but we didn’t care if it snowed!
I am not certain that that snow was not a blessing in disguise. It quite put any chance of climbing Mali out of the question — at any rate from that side; and as we had not very much time left we could not go to the north or Bhatta Kundi side. We therefore turned our attention to Shikara. We had had a really very fine view of it on our journey to Saifal Maluk, and Inderbinnen had seen his way up. It was, in fact, unmistakable, the obvious and only. We therefore returned with a light camp to the top of our secondary pass, and spent a very pleasant but rather chilly night there.
The next morning’s climb has been lately described by Mr. Mumm in his book, Five Months in the Himalaya. To me it was a most interesting expedition, as for years I had been looking at this peak and wondering whether I should ever have a chance of tackling it. It is one of the most conspicuous and beautiful sights on the main road up Kaghan during the second stage of the journey, and often looks very formidable from below. There was no doubt about the route, but there was about the state of the snow; and we suffered considerably from cold, too, though it was a perfectly still day, and a bright sun was shining the whole time. I think it would have been nearly impossible for any one to have climbed steep rocks continuously, even with the sun out, in that temperature. This more than ever reconciled us to the fact that Mali was out of reach, for on that mountain we should have had to spend many hours in the shade on steep rocks, and no one’s hands could have stood it There were one or two rather ticklish snow questions, but Moritz Inderbinnen mode no mistake and was quite confident. There was one extremely narrow snow arête at a very steep angle, quite a little question to descend; altogether a most interesting day. From the summit we had an excellent view of the Raji Bogees and the neighbouring ridge, and on the other side of the Shikara Pass, at our feet on the southern side, I was able to show Mumm the last of these peaks (of which there are at least twelve), on the summit of which, in 1898, some twelve of us, myself and a party of Goorkhas, had been caught in a thunderstorm in late September, and four or five men had been struck by lightning. That was quite a day to be remembered. We were trying to traverse the last of the Raji Bogees from Tōd Gali to the Shikara Valley, and had a very amusing but not difficult climb to the top, where we were caught in the storm. We had to beat a retreat in awful weather, and did not get to the nearest houses till twelve midnight. We spent a very chilly night on the roof of a house. Another day of awful weather followed. Our food consisted of Indian corn porridge — for the villagers were all away, and our camp had previously crossed the Shikara Pass the day we attempted our traverse. On this day Harkabir gave another exhibition of his talent for locality. He brought us off at top speed in thick and howling weather over ground none of us had previously seen. He knew his points, but the natural guiding instinct, which took him by the shortest and easiest route in rather awkward ground and thick weather, was quite remarkable. Karbir was not to the fore. He was one of the unfortunates, and had been struck on the head, so that he was not fit for the work of a leader.
It may be as well for me to impress on those who have never experienced a thunderstorm at high elevation that they must not think being struck by lightning at a height is the same thing as being struck in the lowlands. In the former one is at the gathering of the storm. Directly the ice axes begin to hum they should at once be put away. A lightning stroke is like a blow from a stick. It may not always be serious, but it is always unpleasant. On this occasion one of the men who was struck did not properly recover the use of his arm for thirty-six hours afterwards.
In concluding this account of an insignificant Himalayan valley let me point out again the fact that though the climate is probably second to none in India, this valley will remain a minor valley in every way. It will attract few sportsmen, if any, and few travellers. There are many more beautiful valleys farther afield, and though very easy to travel in, there are few amusements except to the wanderer. I doubt very much if even the much-talked-of railway to Kashmir will change it, and I hope not. It will remain like the lesser valleys of the Alps, quite charming in its way, and still more attractive, to my mind, in its lack of too many charms, for it cannot become hackneyed. It is, for the Himalaya, commonplace, and unattractive to the average traveller, and it is my own particular playground.
One last reason which may explain in part why I like it so much: it has large stretches of bracken fern.