# Twenty Years in the Himalaya/Suru

In the summer of 1898, some two months after the retiring of the troops from the different expeditions which had taken place in the North-West Frontier of India (for indeed the whole of that Frontier, as is well known, had risen in the summer and autumn of 1897, and peaceful conditions were not established until the spring of 1898), I arranged a rather ambitious trip into the Suru district of Ladakh. By ambitious I do not mean that we proposed to climb Nunkun (23,000 feet) or to go for any description of record, but ambitious in that I proposed to take with me a few men from several Goorkha regiments, my idea being that practice in mountaineering, or rather mountain exploration, is one of the finest educations for an infantry or hill scout. Not only is he thrown on his own resources, but his training as a pathfinder alone is worth anything to him; and in the wilds of the Himalaya this training can be obtained in a way that can probably not be matched in any other part of the world. However good the maps may be — and in general the India Survey maps, considering the country covered, are quite astonishingly good — one is thrown quite on one's own resources, and it can be easily understood that crossing country which is entirely unknown to all members of the party, and being dependent on one's own arrangements to get back just before one's food supply is finished, is a really good training for men who are to be used as hill scouts in war-time.
Further, men trained in really difficult country will, when they have to work in much easier country, do so with great confidence and certainty; they are therefore far less likely to make mistakes — in itself a great consideration. This being my object, combined with having as good a time as possible, both climbing and shooting, if any came in my way, we set off for Suru by way of Ganderbal and the Scinde Valley in Kashmir. The party was a very formidable one, consisting of my wife and myself and sixteen Goorkhas, to say nothing of servants and coolies. From my point of view the success of the tour was very great, but beyond that, I'm afraid, I cannot pride myself. At any rate, we were not haunted by the demon of a really high mountain to be attacked. The most awful thing that I know of is the future prospect of having to go for a real giant. Mountaineering among the second and third raters is just as hard work, and at the same time nearly, but not quite, as enjoyable as mountaineering in the Alps. There is generally in the Himalaya more grind on the lower slopes before the interesting part is arrived at. For purposes of explanation I count everything over 20,000 feet as first-rate, and therefore unpleasant. Any mountain on the southern watershed of up to 20,000 feet must be a long business and hard work; over that height it is too hard for pleasure. My advice, therefore, is, do not be ambitious. There are innumerable climbs all over the Hindu Koosh and Himalaya below the 20,000 line which will give one all one wants, and at the same time leave room for more. If one sets out wound up to do something unpleasant, i.e. to go above 20,000 feet as often as possible, this comes under the head of achievement; but for purposes of a purely mountaineering expedition I cannot imagine anything nicer than arranging a trip when each member of the party is determined not to stay longer than necessary in any named valley, and is also bound down not to pass the 20,000 limit. This was quite my idea, and we never attempted anything distinguished in any way, but had a great travel across country, did many climbs, successful and unsuccessful, and only on one occasion did I suffer from any form of mountain sickness — that even being entirely my own fault.
We left my regimental station in the Punjab on July 20th, with three months' leave at our disposal, and therefore in the middle of the rains. Our men and luggage had all marched on ahead of us, for the route lay up the Scinde Valley, and the main route to Leh, the capital of Ladakh, is of course a good made road. We intended to branch off from the first at Dras, two marches beyond the Zoji La (Pass), over the Umba La for Suru, as I had heard that mules could be taken the whole way. This was nearly the truth, but not the whole truth. On our way up we stopped for a couple of days at Sonemarg, a charming alp of about 8000 feet altitude, and were lucky enough to have some fine weather. Consequently we arranged for two parties to go out on the mountains to the south, not mountains of particular distinction, but with small glaciers on their sides, and offering an infinite variety of not too serious climbing, the object being to teach the new Goorkhas how to use a rope and ice-axe. Major Lucas of my regiment was spending a month of his leave with us; he and I therefore went with one party led by Subadar Karbir Burathoki, whose name is now remembered as being one of the successful climbers of Trissul, the other party being led by Subadar Major (as he is to-day) Harkabir Thapa. The latter has had a most varied mountaineering career for a soldier of the Indian Army. He first accompanied Colonel Stewart of the 5th Goorkha Rifles to the Pamirs in 1890, at the time when Sir Francis Younghusband was, so to speak, temporarily detained by the Russian authorities. He next earned the Order of Merit for soldiers of the Indian Army, the nearest reward to, though not actually equivalent to, the V. C. that can be obtained by a native soldier. Afterwards he accompanied Sir Martin Conway in the Karakarum expedition in 1892, and among other climbs reached with him and myself the summit of Pioneer Peak. From 1892 to 1899 he was my chief companion, sometimes with and sometimes without Subadar Karbir Burathoki, in the Kaghan range and Kashmir. He was the leading guide of the expedition I am now describing, and in the following year travelled with Professor Norman Collie and myself in Switzerland (1899), and afterwards in the Coolin Hills in Skye.
His companion, Subadar Karbir Burathoki, had an almost equal record. He had also been with Sir M. Conway's expedition in 1892, but had not then come to his full strength. He afterwards led me in my climbs of 1892 to 1898, and also accompanied Sir M. Conway in his march across the Alps, as related by him in The Alps from End to End, primarily as an Alpine porter, and latterly as his only assistant with another Goorkha, who went to Europe with him. Since 1898 he has done but little mountaineering proper, but has, of course, been continually working in the foot-hills, not only at his regimental work. He had also won the Indian Order of Merit for work during the Tirah Expedition in 1897. These two set to work with their thirteen recruits, and in a very few days got them to use the rope and axe well. They all, of course, were hillmen and excellent on most kinds of rock, especially steep slabs or on any ground requiring good balance and steady heads.
Goorkhas are naturally very reckless on the hill-side. At first they don't know anything about snow and ice work and refuse to believe there is anything to learn, but after a small accident or so, such as stones coming down among them or tumbling through snow bridges, generally owing to their habits of chancing everything, they very soon take hold.
Our little jaunt over, we crossed the Zoji La to Dras, the weather having got bad again, and when once over the main watershed found ourselves, as we had expected, in fine weather, and further, in a Thibetan climate, dry air and burning sun, with a great drop of temperature at night.
Dras was very warm in the day, but although the altitude is not great — very little over 8000 feet — the nights were quite cold. Then we journeyed over the Umba La to Sanku. The Umba La has a pony track, and is quite a pleasant walk with a steep descent. Major Lucas and I decided to stay here for some days and explore the neighbouring peaks and glaciers. My wife went on by the ordinary route to Suru with the luggage and main camp. We kept a very light camp and only necessaries. We had some very pleasant scrambling, and reached one morning a height of approximately 18,000 feet, on a perfectly easy and perfectly humdrum hillside. Here we made acquaintance with the peculiar shale of the district, beyond anything the most tiring that I have come across; broken up into the smallest particles and quite unstable, and nearly always at the steepest angle at which it is possible for it to lie; quite the most leg-wearying and hideously uninteresting stuff I have ever walked on. Further, we were in Thibet, which means a snowline at least 2000 feet higher than on the southern slopes; the consequences were that whereas these slopes would have been still deep in snow in the south, here they were bare and there was no getting away from them. In fact, the whole aspect of the country was Thibetan; no grass except where water could be laid on by canals; the hill-sides an abomination of desolation, but wherever water can be produced most fertile, with a wealth of wild flowers equalled in few places and surpassed by none, always, of course, in the very limited water area. In fact, one day my wife picked fifty-five different kinds, including five different blue gentians, and edelweiss.
To return to our peak. The toil of the ascent was quite worth it, for though we had expected a fine panorama, we did not anticipate the view we got. To our surprise, there was the whole of the great Mustagh range — absolutely clear to the north, including my old friends Gasherbrum and Masherbrum. Still farther to the east were the Nubra Peaks, a wonderful coup d'oeil, but hard as iron, and though the largeness was apparent, by reason of the iron dryness and hardness, the sense of scale, and of depth in particular, was wanting, and further, the want of rich colour makes such views inferior to those of the eastern Himalaya, and in my point of view to far smaller ones, which are almost everywhere to be found on the southern slopes. The want of atmospheric effect is very much felt everywhere north of the range, though (and this is very much the case in lower Ladakh) to a degree compensated for by the rich colouring of the rocks themselves. These rocks and scrubby mountains have a beastly ugliness which is distinctly impressive, but it is meagreness and hideous desolation — things to have seen but not to live with.
We had designs on another neighbouring point, and the two guides, Subadar Harkabir Thapa and Subadar Karbir Burathoki, were sent off to explore. They attempted to climb it, but had to turn back when within 300 feet of the summit, as they said the rocks were too rotten for anything, and further added that they had done some of the hardest climbing that they had ever attempted. In their opinion a small party of three would probably get along, but as it was impossible to move without dislodging stones, a large party would be out of the question. Instead of attempting this undesirable point, we determined to make a fancy pass over the ridge into the Suru Valley proper, and did so the following day, having quite by chance hit off a very convenient pass, with an easy ascent and no particular difficulty in the descent, though it was very steep, the fall to the river being approximately 8000 feet. We joined the Suru road some miles short of Suru itself, and after walking for a considerable time along a very good road, congratulated ourselves on the ease with which the mules had been able to get along. We soon got a shock, however. About two miles off Suru we came upon a wide roaring torrent, and saw all our mules on the near bank. “Where is the bridge?” we said. They pointed to two barked trees, the thick ends embedded in stones on either side, the thin ends lashed together and sagging in the middle. I said to the mule-men, “You don't mean to tell me my wife crossed that?” They answered, “Oh yes; the servants stretched a rope across and she went over.” “And the riding ponies?” I asked. “Oh, they put some of your ropes round them and the Bhutias hauled them through.” I must say I did not enjoy it; it was much more difficult or rather unpleasant than any rope bridge. Whether the regular bridge had been washed away, I don't know, but that was probably the case; and its substitute was the most unstable of makeshifts. We spent the next fortnight very pleasantly, making a hurried march with a light camp to see the Thibetan monastery of Rangdum, while the greater number of the men left for the Ganri glacier, under the Nunkun peaks, to be exercised in the ice-falls round Nunkun under the two instructors. On our return the main camp was left at Tonglo while we organised an expedition over the Sentik La, expecting to be away for from ten to fifteen days, and return if possible by the Bhot Khol Pass, which lies at the head of the Suknes Valley, and is the recognised approach to Suru from the Wardwan Valley of Kashmir. I am afraid the Survey map of our proposed route is most imaginary here, though that is not to be wondered at, for how is it possible with the men and money at the disposal of this department for it to cover the whole of the Himalaya above the snow-line? Still, I had expected a very much harder job than I found.
We delayed for two days, as Major Lucas's time was up and he had to fly back; so we determined to have a last walk together and ascend if possible the point approximately 18,000 feet immediately above the Gauri glacier, and separated by it from the main Nunkun peaks. However, we had a much too good lunch at Tonglo, and further, on arrival at our camp had much too much to talk about, so we did not get to bed till late. The next day came Nemesis. After arriving at a little over 17,000 feet of easy climbing we both got very bad indeed; we both said, “This is typical mountain sickness.” That is to say, typical tinned lobster, Irish stew, cake, bottled stout, and commissariat rum sickness. We both smiled a sickly smile and returned to camp by different paths.
The following day Major Lucas left us for the Wardwan Valley, while we prepared for our round of explorations. We started a party of no less than twenty-eight, not knowing how long we should be away, and also not having enough Mummery tents for the whole party. We also had rather more luggage per man than would have been comfortable to carry, so, as coolies were easily obtained, we took twelve Bhutias from Tonglo village. They were very good men, though prodigiously dirty.
The ascent to the Sentik La was quite easy, but instead of finding an intricate country we found ourselves looking down on a large glacier evidently rising in the Nunkun massif and flowing in the direction of the Wardwan. As the pass we were on crosses the great ridge which connects the Amarath group, Kenipater and Pt. 17,904, with the Nunkun group, it seemed more than probable that the map was wrong in this particular instance, and that we had only to follow the glacier to arrive at the Bhot Khol Pass. The ridge opposite to us on the southerly side of the glacier looked formidable, and it seemed to me of interest to march straight over the glacier to see if it took us to the Kashmir side of the Bhot Khol or not. This we proceeded to do; a short scramble brought us to the glacier, over easy snow-slopes, and then we had to rope up. There was about 350 feet of rope, a short allowance for twenty-eight people, but we managed very well by giving the leader sufficient scope. It was almost a flat walk, but with a certain amount of fresh snow and a good many small hidden crevasses, there were a good many breaks through up to the thigh, and on one occasion up to the waist, so that the rather annoying trail of such a serpent was a correct precaution to have taken. We camped at about four o'clock on a small alp by the side of the glacier, but we had come quite far enough to see what must evidently be the Bhot Khol immediately below us. In front of us lay the only question of the tramp: a very large and broken ice-fall (vide photo). Karbir and myself and another Goorkha put on crampons and went to explore it. We stuck to the right bank, and had a very exhilarating climb down formidable seracs, but it was evidently too bad for our train of laden men. The Bhutias especially would have been terribly handicapped with their leather footgear, which are nothing more than thick leather socks.
Our passage the next morning down the centre of the ice-fall was very exciting and gymnastic, but easy enough for those with crampons; the ice-fall was very broken, though luckily without any very wide crevasses. A great deal of jumping, swinging down loads, and catching of coolies had to be done, and owing to the inadequate amount of rope at our disposal, we were much delayed by having to pass it backwards and forwards. The crampon-wearers, however, were able very often to jump to the lower lips of the crevasses and cut big landing-places for the rest of the party and the coolies to be swung on to. Though the distance was short from our upper camp, we took six hours to get to the mouth of the pass, where we camped in an open space on the moraine, and had an exhilarating lunch.
It had previously been arranged that the main camp should march round from Suru and meet us on the north side of the pass, and as we were before our time we halted for the day, and held during the afternoon an impromptu gymkhana of some fifteen different events, three kinds of putting the shot, mounted combats, hopping races, etc. I went to bed with the sun, a complete corpse, and did not move till eight o'clock the following morning.
We then crossed the Bhot Khol, and found my wife and our camp actually arriving up as we came down. Not long after leaving camp in the morning we came across the remains of a party that had been lost near this spot some years before, amongst them remains of what appears to have been a handbag; also more ghastly remnants in the shape of bones. I believe the party was one led by a Dr. King, who had been overwhelmed in bad weather, probably by a snow avalanche.
On top of the pass was a large cairn which we could see above us. Some of the men were well ahead of me, and shouted out to me to come to them. When I got there I saw a pair of human feet clothed in Bhotia boots sticking out from the middle of the cairn. It turned out that a woman had died on the top and been buried there.
We spent some days at this very charming camp, and all the party had two good climbs, one of no particular distinction, as it consisted of a scramble up to a particularly nasty gap between two undistinguished and unnamed points. However, Karbir's party were very keen to make this climb, and did so, returning after seventeen hours of very hard work. It was educational if nothing else. The second climb was under Harkabir's leadership; they reached a point to the west of Bhot Khol La, and directly above it, approximately 19,000 feet. He reported a very interesting climb, but what proved more difficult than the peak was his return after dark across a very noticeable branch of the Bhot Khol glacier. I had, unfortunately, strained my knee, and was unable to join either party, but I was considerably nervous when I found, some time after he had left, that he had forgotten the lanterns. However, they turned up safe enough at midnight, and said they had had a most exciting time, but had pushed home, being determined not to sleep out if possible.
The Bhot Khol at the right time of the year is quite easy, and our move to Kashmir was easily accomplished. Eighty yaks, ponies, and coolies made up the train. Now, though the pass is easy, it is quite a business to get such a following over glacier and moraine. I much prefer the glacier to the moraine, and indeed the lower end of the Bhot Khol glacier, though considerably crevassed, was not difficult to negotiate.
We took our time from here to Suknes, the highest village of the Wardwan, or rather the weather took it for us, for on two days we nearly had all our belongings washed into the river. Still, we did well, capturing another peak over Konnag, approximately 17,500 feet, which gave us a most enjoyable day, with some of the best ice and rock climbing we had had; indeed a big traverse across an ice face was quite as sensational as I personally care for — a long day from camp, but only one day, and really typical of one of the best kinds of quite insignificant Himalayan peaks in which one can really enjoy oneself, and about which no one can quarrel or accuse one of not having done one's best, or of having generally behaved in any way deleterious to the sport of mountaineering.
The next little interlude occurred during the ascent of a valley with the euphonious name of Wishni Wăjăn, at the head of which is an apparently easy point which suggested a fine coup d'oeil, and from which I was anxious to obtain a view over the mountains to the north. The weather broke again and stopped climbing, but I managed to account for two red bears, after rather an exciting experience. They were feeding on the opposite side of the river from where we were, and near the head of the valley, and some 2500 feet above us. Now bears can't see far, and the wind was entirely in our favour, so we went up the stream in full view without exciting their attention. Unfortunately, the stream was rapid and deep, and we did not find a way across till near a very steep little glacier snout higher up. Still, we had to get through somehow. Four of us first took most of our clothing off, and with the help of a rope and locked arms got through, though the water came nearly to our waists. Harkabir and Karbir arranged the stalk and luckily carried my rifle, for here we had no time to lose, and they went off as hard as I could follow them. Our costumes were quite suitable; theirs consisted of a waistcoat apiece, while mine was a shirt and shoes. We were, in fact, thoroughly suitably equipped. The stalk was successful, and the bears were rolled down the hill-side and dragged through the stream with the assistance of the whole party with the climbing ropes.
We spent a few pleasant and rather epicurean days in the Wardwan at Suknes, or near it, and then determined to try and traverse two of the three heads of the Kohenar peaks, Karbir taking the most southerly and I the northerly peak, sending a very light camp to the Shisha Nag to meet us, while my wife escorted the base camp over the Márgán Pass to Pahlgam in the Lidder Valley, where we were to foregather with them. With our party came an elderly shikari, a very active old man, with quite an exceptional amount of go for a Kashmiri; in fact, from what I saw, the men of the upper Wardwan were considerably superior to the villagers in and around the valley of Kashmir. I saw many men of very good physique and fine load-carriers, though it never does to judge a Kashmiri by appearances.
Our party had an easy, though steep ascent, and put on the rope for the last hour, as the final slope was very hard snow and the schrund below large. The descent also was not difficult, with the exception of the passage of a large and awkward schrund. There were no less than three places which, under ordinary conditions, would not have delayed us long, but large stones were continually coming down, and we did not dare chance either of them, exposed as we should have been for about twenty minutes; so we had to face an awkward crossing, which meant a traverse under the upper lip and cutting wholly away a great nose of ice which blocked our way, ending up with a final sideways jump of six feet — a sufficiently awkward position, as it took about twenty minutes to cut the ice away.
Easy glacier and steep moraine slopes took us on to the main line to the little lake of Sheesha Nag, where we made a most delightful bivouac in the pleasantest grass. The only incident in the descent was a very rapid tumble I took on a slippery rock, which not only shook Kohenar to its base, but also displaced my hat.
Our intention on arrival at Pahlgam was to arrange for a trip to Kolahoi or Gwashbrari, a very beautiful peak and beautifully situated. In fact, the whole valley of the Lidder and its branches is most striking — typical Kashmir mountain scenery and fine specimens of forests. Near Pahlgam itself there is nowadays a regular summer settlement A few houses have been built, but the average visitor still camps under the fir trees. Our plans were very soon upset, however, for I found a telegram awaiting me, telling me to go to Darjeeling for recruiting duty, and to be there as early as possible in October.
I must say I was very loth to close the season prematurely, and thought that with a little arrangement we could manage a peak on our way home and still be in as soon as the baggage, but it required a good travel. This appealed peculiarly to my particularly restless mind. Accordingly, we departed from the Lidder and took boat at Islamabad for Srinagar, and thence to Sopur on the Wular Lake. My wife escorted the luggage direct by the usual main route, and we arranged to meet again at our station, Abbottabad. The rest of us, with the lightest kit, did a forced march through Kashmir across the Kishenganga to the Kaghan Valley, where we achieved our final climb on a peak which, in company with eleven others, rejoices in the name of Raji Bogee. From thence we marched down the valley to Abbottabad. A fuller account of this expedition will be found in the following chapter.