Authors: Maurice Herzog
The day’s route was planned to cross the buttresses of the Nilgiris, always keeping well above the Miristi Khola. When impassable ravines barred our way we went higher up and then descended again right to the river’s edge where the gorges became practicable once more. Endlessly we carried out these flanking movements, going up and down the ravines, crossing streams, large and small. Here and there, by good luck, we found boulders which had been up-ended. These guiding marks were dotted along the route taken by the first party the day before, and on a patch of snow I read the time at which they had passed, written by Schatz. Roughly speaking, we were keeping to the same time-table.
We were covered in cloud and I could get no general view of the ground over which we were passing. Early in the afternoon we got to a point from which any further progress appeared very difficult, so we hailed Couzy, our guide: he hesitated a bit, retraced his steps, then called to us triumphantly: on a small boulder, held in place by some stones, was a pennant of the Club Alpin Français which marked the beginning of the descent to the Miristi Khola. We started down some steep grassy slopes where the porters, whose morale was not very good, kept on slipping. It rained and snowed and the way seemed interminable. Suddenly I heard a shout, and as I went forward I saw a wood fire, and round it, the porters of the first party who, having deposited their loads, were returning to the valley. Conversations began in Gurkhali. Once more I noticed how well this language of short words and guttural sounds can be understood at a great distance.
The slope continued over steep rock slabs, and then skirted along cliffs in which we could make out some enormous caves. Couzy assured me that the previous time he had been that way a herd of thar, taking things easy by the entrance to these grottos, did not even trouble to move as he went by. But today I had the rifle, and of course there was not an animal to be seen.
A few minutes later we were all assembled on the banks of the Miristi Khola, a turbulent river that drains all the waters from the upper basins of Annapurna, the Great Barrier and the Nilgiris. From now on the route lay along the opposite bank, so we had to cross over. I spotted some tree-trunks which the others had placed
the
day before, but our coolies refused to venture on them with their loads. Rébuffat and I did not hesitate: we would take the stuff over ourselves.
Now Rébuffat was transformed into a porter; he had the straps supporting the containers placed round his forehead, and his head, his neck and his long body swayed dangerously. He approached the torrent, started across with Couzy’s support, then balancing by himself took a few steps over the foaming water, and stretching out his arms reached me where I was standing on a boulder sticking out of the water: from that point I could take the loads on safely.
This manoeuvre was repeated a number of times, but one of the loads made me anxious; it was very heavy and very awkward, consisting of two base camp units and one high-altitude unit. Rébuffat advanced, hesitated, lost his balance, just managed to regain it, and advanced again, slowly. Then the strap round his forehead slipped, the load was hurled into the water, and in a flash I foresaw the irreparable loss of our tents.
Couzy and I reacted in the same way: from our opposite banks we each tried to grab the tents, and madly hopped about from boulder to boulder. I missed once, jumped along further, and just before a big eddy which held up the load, managed to stick the point of my ice-axe into a bit of stuff and pulled the load out. The rest of the operation went off perfectly.
Next day, in appreciably better weather, we left early. I went on about an hour ahead of the rest of the party and, towards midday, met Marcel Schatz, who had come out to look for us. He gave me the latest news: Louis Lachenal and Lionel Terray had left that morning on a reconnaissance of the north-west spur of Annapurna. Near the Base Camp the moraines flattened out, the valley of the Miristi widened, and there was a better view of our surroundings. The spur which ran down and petered out a few hundred yards from where we were did not look too bad, but without quite knowing why, I did not feel keen on this route. Since our experiences on Dhaulagiri I was suspicious of ridges. I was afraid that even if it did not present any insurmountable difficulties, this ridge would be troublesome, and I could not bring myself to turn the reconnaissance into a full-scale assault until we had completed our exploration. This meant, practically speaking, not before we had set foot
upon
the upper plateau of Annapurna. Schatz and I arrived at Base Camp, which was pitched among the moraines in the midst of a vast stony desert with little blue-green lakes dotted about in the hollows. From here it would be a day’s march to the Great Barrier which blocked the horizon to the east, or to the Nilgiris on the north. Snow was falling and we sheltered in one of the tents where hours passed in prolonged discussions …
There were sounds of stones displaced, ice-axes clanging against the rocks, bad language – evidently the Lachenal-Terray party had arrived. A flap of the tent was jerked back and a boisterous greeting flung in: the pair were clearly in full cry. I could see they were very tired, but resolute and optimistic. They pulled off their snow-covered clothes and while they sipped their tea told me what they had done during the day. This celebrated partnership, which had conquered all the finest and most formidable of our Alpine faces, was today living up to its reputation.
‘It’s not exactly a picnic,’ said Terray.
‘I should say not!’ put in Lachenal vehemently. ‘There are pitches which are easily grade 5.’
1
‘Grade 5!’ I was horrified. ‘How on earth do you think Sherpas can climb pitches of that difficulty?’
‘There are only sections here and there.’
‘We can fix ropes and by pulling and pushing the Sherpas we’ll manage all right.’
‘We’ll see. And apart from these pitches what’s the ridge like?’
‘It’s certainly very long,’ said Terray, ‘and the further you go the more difficult it becomes.’
‘And no doubt becomes impossible beyond the point you got to!’
‘I don’t really think so. We stopped at about 11 o’clock this morning, climbing since dawn up to somewhere near 18,000 feet. A bit higher up the ridge steepens again and becomes snowy. After that we could see no more, but I think, and Biscante agrees with me, that it must run up into the upper plateau of Annapurna a few hundred yards higher up.’
‘Perhaps!’ I remarked sceptically.
‘Listen, Maurice, it’s quite simple. All we have to do,’ proposed Terray, ‘is to go there in strength. Tomorrow we’ll all set to work and move Base Gamp to the summit of the grassy saddle and then begin the assault.’
‘And we shall have saved several days of indecision,’ added Lachenal.
‘And perhaps we shall have spoiled all our chances,’ I replied. ‘If the attack upon the spur should be unsuccessful we’d have to move Base Camp again and come down into the valley and then start up once more. It’s out of the question. I’ve no intention of hazarding the whole strength of the Expedition on a route we know so little about. Let’s push on further with the reconnaissance you have already made; tomorrow let’s go beyond the point where you stopped – on until we are certain that it’s practicable right up to the summit. We won’t make the final decision until then.’
‘You
are
an obstinate old devil!’
Lachenal and Terray stormed away at me. They thought we ought to decide to attack at once, and kept on insisting how sure they were this route would go. I knew my friends well and had my doubts of their wild enthusiasm; they were in a very excitable state after their day’s exertions. I was the responsible person and it was up to me to supply the element of prudence: I stuck to my decision. Tomorrow morning we would all go up the spur, taking light camping gear, and we would return only after we had made sure. Base Camp would remain where it was for the moment, and our explorations would be on the scale of a strong reconnaissance party. While my friends dried themselves, tidied up, and got things ready for the next day, I wrote a note for the rearguard:
May 18th, 1950
Dear Noyelle,
I am now at the Base Camp. Lionel and Biscante have just come back from the spur, and are fairly hopeful about it. We are keeping to the same tactics: we remain a strong reconnaissance party. At the moment the weather is bad, and this threatens to delay operations considerably.
Provisions:
I’m afraid I may be a bit short. Please send up at once three Base Camp containers, three high-altitude containers, and one container of heavy’
2
tins.
Equipment:
10 rock-pitons, 10 ice-pitons. 300 feet of nylon line and 3 50-foot full-weight ropes. 2 high-altitude units.
Porters:
Pay off the porters of the first party and give them all the same baksheesh. Pay off the second party too: full baksheesh to those who have a note for you. The two old boys half baksheesh, and nothing to the others as they didn’t go well.
Future provisions:
After the dispatch of what I have asked for, could you, unless you hear to the contrary, send up three more Base Camp containers, and three high-altitude containers?
Matha and Oudot:
For the moment, there’s nothing to tell them; bad weather has so far prevented me from seeing Annapurna. As soon as there is any news I will send it.
Greetings from us all,
MAURICE
On May 14th, the day on which we had held our council of war, after we had made the decision to turn our attention towards Annapurna, Ichac had told me of his wish to pay a visit to Muktinath with Oudot, I said goodbye to them on the 15th, before leaving for Annapurna. They set off next morning, accompanied by the Sirdar Angtharkay, for whom Muktinath was the holy of holies. A fervent believer, zealous in all his religious practices, he took this as a unique opportunity to go on a pilgrimage so many of his brethren had had to renounce. All day long the little party ascended by the right bank of the Gandaki and by the end of the afternoon they came in sight of a large group of buildings: white houses, red temples, the whole dominated by a ruined Tibetan fortress. Angtharkay, in transports of excitement, announced: ‘Muktinath!’
As they approached this marvellous city the fine buildings turned out to be dirty and dilapidated. At the end of the village were a few bedaubed chortens. Where, then, were the temples, the monasteries and the multitudes of Lamas? Over to the east Marcel Ichac saw some rather newer buildings protected by zinc roofs. Making some inquiries, he discovered that Muktinath consisted of only five or six buildings, and that this was Chahar. It couldn’t be helped, the pilgrimage would have to be put off to the following morning. They found shelter for the night in a ruined castle, made a quick meal and went to bed before the interested gaze of fifty natives.
Next day at crack of dawn they started up towards the holy place. After leaving their horses at the door of the first building,
they
passed by a rock on which there was a vague imprint, something like the shape of a foot.
‘Buddha, Sahib!’ Angtharkay cried out, throwing himself on the ground.
They passed by a first temple, rather like the one at Tukucha, and came to the sacred fountains: water from the stream ran along a horizontal conduit and fed some sixty spouts in the form of cows or dragons. In the centre of the square was a Nepalese
gompa
. Some pilgrims came to fill up their vessels and drink. Angtharkay, carrying one of the expedition’s water-bottles, made a tour of every fountain, and our two friends were not able to use the bottle for the rest of the trip.
A little way to the south they visited another temple guarded by a dozen maidens, dressed in coloured robes. A stone was lifted up and Ichac and Oudot were shown two narrow apertures. Along them came the sound of the flowing water, and in them flickered the blue flame of a natural gas which burned perpetually. The vestals sang and danced, and the Sahibs offered their mites; Angtharkay showed himself particularly generous with the Expedition’s cash.
Early next afternoon the pilgrims were back at Tukucha where Noyelle was awaiting them impatiently, for he, too, was very keen to go to Muktinath. His turn came next day, with G. B. Rana. Then on May 20th at 9.30 Angdawa and Dawathondup arrived, bringing the message written at the Base Camp near the spur, after Lachenal and Terray had come back from their reconnaissance.
1
Rocks are graded according to their difficulty from grade 1, the easiest, to grade 6, the hardest, reaching the limits of the possible. Only very few climbers get to grade 6. Most of the classic expeditions in the Alps are grade 4. In the Himalaya where the altitude makes every movement more of an effort, parties do their best to avoid all climbing difficulties. Where these are met, they do not generally exceed grade 4.
2
Expedition slang: tins containing main meals.
8
The Spur
WE WERE UP
and doing before dawn on May 19th, in our provisional Base Camp at the foot of the spur.
It was still pitch dark. The Sherpas could not make out what this untimely commotion was all about. On other expeditions they had never left before sun-up! Still half asleep they prepared
Nesthé
and
Tonimalt
while Rébuffat, Terray and Schatz packed their sacks. Then the climbers went off one by one across the moraine and disappeared into the night. I was not long in following and, my eyes still heavy with sleep, I stumbled over the loose stones which I could hardly see in the dark. I made for the foot of the spur, and the clink of ice-axe on rock soon told me the others were not far away; we had one more moraine to cross. We were all heavily laden with equipment for three camps and several days’ food. The Sherpas would carry the loads up as high as they could and then go back to the Base Camp as quickly as possible so as not to use up the high-altitude provisions. It was daylight when we reached the snow – it was hard, and my vibram soles held nicely. Our progress was slow, and somewhat laboured, but we gained height steadily.