Authors: Maurice Herzog
Seated in the shade of some great banyan trees, I held a pay parade which lasted all day long. The coolies, interested but wary, shoved their noses close to the beam of the scales. Each of them received six rupees and one packet of ‘Red Star’ cigarettes, acknowledged it with hands clasped, Hindu fashion, and then signed his name on G. B. Rana’s list. (In front of what he is told is his name, written by the babu, each porter presses his thumb previously dipped in ink.) As the list lengthened, supplementary bits of parchment had to be stuck on – by the time the operation was finished it was getting on for four yards long!
Terray allotted the loads to the coolies before they passed the check point. He felt their calves and their biceps, and inspected
their
lung-expansion, just as he used to do on his farm at Les Houches. The ‘strong man’, as the Sherpas called him, handled the heaviest of the containers with disconcerting ease, and the porters treated him with great respect. They came forward one by one, gauged the loads at a glance, and tried their weight, with sidelong glances in the direction of the others. With considerable ingenuity they made frames for the loads out of bamboos and lianas, and in time everything was picked up. The coolies carry and balance the loads by bands round their foreheads, and in this way our six tons of gear was carried over 120 miles of mountainous tracks to the scene of action. Now, on to Tukucha!
The coolies filed ahead of us as far as the eye could see, along the banks of the Kali Gandaki. Towards midday we came to a large tributary; the Mayandi Khola. Marcel Ichac couldn’t make it out.
‘Why, it’s as big as the Gandaki. If it drained only the south face of Dhaulagiri it would be just a stream.’
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And in fact, judging from the map, the proposed route up Dhaulagiri from our headquarters at Tukucha would, without any apparent difficulty, follow a valley running up into the north face. But if instead of going towards Tukucha this valley should descend in a westerly direction, as we were now beginning to suspect – judging from the extent of the waters draining it and pouring into the Mayandi Khola – then there must be a ridge, not marked on the map, cutting Tukucha off from the north face of Dhaulagiri, which would certainly be an obstacle to our proposed plan of ascent.
‘Well, yes,’ I had to admit, ‘the Mayandi Khola ought to be far smaller than this before the monsoon.’
‘I think I have it,’ suggested Ichac with remarkable intuition, ‘it drains all the north side as well as the west.’
‘But what about the map?’
‘There’s no doubt, it must be wrong.’
This logic struck me as plausible. However, before questioning the map I would wait for more positive proof. This we were going to be given; a month later the puzzle was cleared up.
Next day, April 20th, as we passed through Dana we tried to pick out the lesser peaks and ridges of Annapurna.
‘Well, aren’t you going to show us this Annapurna of yours?’ I reminded Ichac.
We couldn’t see Annapurna, but right opposite us there opened out the deep winding valley of the Miristi Khola. On the map was a clearly-marked path which followed these gorges to the Tilicho Pass from which a short arête led to the summit of Annapurna.
‘This Tilicho Valley doesn’t look very attractive,’ said Schatz.
‘There’s a path marked on the map.’
Noyelle came back looking gloomy after having asked some shikaris or hunters for information.
‘Nobody’s heard of the Tilicho Pass.’
‘That blasted map again!’
‘It would be too much to expect,’ said Rébuffat, ‘a pass over 19,000 feet high with a good path and a 26,000 foot peak just at hand!’ Later, when we came to explore the country, we found that the Miristi gorges were impassable and the famous Tilicho Pass was not where it was marked.
Meanwhile our path skirted the cliffs. Looking down through the conifers we could barely make out the wild, rumbling waters of the Krishna Gandaki; tremendous waterfalls gushed here and there from the limestone cliffs. We gained height imperceptibly, and realized it by the party’s heavier step and slower pace.
At Ghasa it began to get chilly, for we were now about 6500 feet up, with another 1600 feet to climb up to Tukucha. There were no longer any bananas or rice, only a few poor-looking crops, mostly barley. A little further on we saw the upper slopes of Dhaulagiri, streaked with blue ice. The south-east ridge running down towards us, of which we had had some hope, extended endlessly, as sharp as the blade of a knife and bristling with ice pinnacles and snow cornices – absolutely impregnable, as seen from here.
We all craned our necks to get a view of the gigantic walls which disappeared nearly four miles up into the clouds and the blue sky. The rock was dark brown, the snow dazzling, and the light so intense it made us blink. To try to pick out a route seemed presumptuous. Nevertheless we couldn’t hide our pleasure, so happy were we to be in the mountains and able, from now on, to devote ourselves to the real object of the whole expedition. As for myself, I should at last be able to give up a role which was more
that
of a carrier or impresario than leader of a mountaineering expedition.
At Lete we passed, with some surprise and feeling, through a pine-wood which reminded us astonishingly of our own mountains – the same trees, the same scattered blocks of granite and cool mosses. I could not know that two months later this beautiful idyllic place would witness my sufferings.
We came out on to a long stony plain formed during the centuries by the impetuous and irregular flow of the Gandaki which had cut a colossal corridor right through the great Himalayan chain. Tremendous gales blew down this funnel and held up our advance. These hurricanes rage all the year round, and prevent any kind of growth. Columns of dust were whirled up into the air, the wind howled round this gloomy, rocky inferno, and Ichac, who was protecting himself as best he could, yelled in my ear, ‘We might be in the Karakoram!’
The barefoot coolies doubled themselves up and kept together in tight little groups for mutual protection. Everyone was in a hurry to reach Tukucha.
Angtharkay soon felt quite at home. He is an ardent Buddhist and he had just caught sight of Larjung with sacred streamers flying from its housetops, their prayers agitated by the wind.
In the distance, at the far end of the stony desert, we could see a village gay with hundreds of prayer masts and encircled by what looked like fortifications.
‘Tukucha, Sahib!’
We all hurried on, forded the swirling torrent – the Dambush Khola, of which we shall hear more later – and so made our entry into Tukucha.
There were, after all, far fewer people than we had expected. Numbers of dirty children surrounded us, observing our every move with curiosity, and playing about in the water conduit in the middle of the village in which the women washed their pots and got the water for their tea. The old men remained on their doorsteps, suspicious and mistrustful of these white men who were here with such obscure intentions. We were through the village in a few minutes, and before us lay an open stretch. On a Buddhist temple with rose-coloured walls flags flapped in the wind. Although it was not a very prepossessing spot, and was made rather gloomy by a
naked
grey cliff rising above it, it was the only suitable place for our camp.
The preliminary marches were now over. The date was April 21st and we had taken just over a fortnight to travel practically right across Nepal.
1
A large river, a tributary of the Ganges, which we were to follow to Tukucha (map,
see here
).
3
The Hidden Valley
THE PROGRAMME NOW
before us was clear-cut. First we should have to establish camp, unpack, check, list and sort out the equipment and food; for the next forty-eight hours everybody would have a definite job. They were soon at it, dirty, noisy and cheerful. Ichac delved into his precious crates of films and equipment, Oudot was deep in his dressings and medical supplies, and the Sherpas were pitching the tents, fixing up their kitchen, and helping the Sahibs stow everything away.
The weather was superb, and this first day at headquarters the mountains were looking their very best. It was marvellous to get at last a proper view of the peaks all round us. The Gandaki Valley is a long rift between two immense mountain groups: the Dhaulagiri massif on the west rising to 26,795 feet, and the Annapurna massif on the east rising to 26,493 feet. Mist often lies in the depths of this rift, giving even greater majesty to the inaccessible walls that towered over us. The shapely Nilgiris,
1
the ‘blue mountains’, glittered nearly 15,000 feet above us. Towards the north the sky was much clearer, and as far as we could judge, vegetation was sparser up there towards Tibet.
Tukucha is a maze of alleys, and the houses, regular little fortresses, are mostly caravanserais where passing travellers can find lodging for the night. The majority of the 500 inhabitants are Buddhists, whose piety can be judged from the wall of prayer-wheels, 50 yards long. Our Sherpas never omitted, when passing, to give a joyful turn to the metallic cylinders upon which sacred texts are engraved – a far more practical idea than the reciting of lengthy prayers.
A caravan surrounded by a host of children had assembled not far from our camp, and everyone was talking hard – Tibetans, no doubt.
The
women wore very becoming coloured aprons, and their typically Mongolian faces were adorned with pats of cowdung applied to both cheeks. Confident in their power to charm, they laughed, exposing all their teeth. A crowd gathered, and suddenly a wild dance started. The dancers were silhouetted against a magnificent background of snowy mountains. The ballet, which appeared to express the eternal dualism of joy and sorrow, life and death, was perfectly controlled. Its beauty was rough and primitive, for a dance always reflects the spirit of a people.
Abruptly they stopped. A Tibetan woman placed a copper dish in the centre of the circle; the dancers began to mime most expressively, and their gaze travelled from the dish to us and back again. With great dignity the Bara Sahib generously tossed in a few rupees. This was a great success. Immediately the dance began again, even wilder than before, and again they all stopped suddenly. The Bara Sahib was obliged once more to display his generosity.
Since our arrival at Tukucha we had all nursed a secret hope of discovering a safe and easy ridge that would lead us straight to the summit of Dhaulagiri or Annapurna. The south-east ridge of Dhaulagiri, which was clearly marked on the map, and which we had seen from Baglung, gave some slight encouragement to this hope, but no one was very certain. Then there was the north ridge; it was undoubtedly ice, but, judging from the general structure of the mountain, its moderate angle and slight rise in height would make it very suitable for an attempt. Now, by pitching a few intermediate camps, we might … As for Annapurna, its proximity to the Tilicho track seemed to make it easily accessible, and for that very reason it lost a good deal of its interest from the climber’s point of view.
Next day Couzy left with Pansy on a reconnaissance to make observations from the 13,000-foot point that dominates Tukucha and should command a wonderful view.
At 11
A.M
. I was in radio communication with them.
‘Coucou speaking. Just reached the top. The view is marvellous; Dhaulagiri dominates everything. The south-east ridge looks absolutely frightful. Very long, with lots of ice towers. Camp sites dubious.’
‘What about the north ridge?’
‘Ice all the way. Looks very steep. Certainly great technical difficulties. The ticklish part is towards the middle, but there’s another snag, how to get on to the ridge. From here the East glacier,
2
which you would expect to be the normal approach, looks extremely broken up.’
‘Can you see the north face?’
‘Those great walls of seracs make it a very dangerous proposition. At its foot there is a relatively easy slope, which ought to give access to the north-west ridge, but from where I’m standing I can’t see very well.’
‘What do you think of the Nilgiris?’
‘Absolutely sheer. Not a hope from this side.’
‘Thanks, Coucou. See you later.’
‘O.K., Maurice. Off.’
This first report did not do much to encourage optimism. When he returned we should proceed to a first examination of the problem, with the help of his sketches.
That evening in the mess-tent Couzy, between cups of tea, confirmed what he had told us by radio.
‘We must find a way to the foot of the final pyramid,’ began Rébuffat. On this point everyone was agreed. But on the means of getting there opinions differed.
What ought we to do? Ought we to go up this East glacier of Dhaulagiri, which was in a chaotic condition and was without question extremely dangerous? Or skirt round the Tukucha Peak, which marks the end of the north arête, and follow this Elbow Valley shown on the map,
3
in order to reach the northern basin of Dhaulagiri?
‘We must reconnoitre in all directions,’ I said, ‘and to do so we shall obviously have to split up. During this period of reconnaissance, when we shall be working our way round Dhaulagiri and Annapurna, we need parties of two only .’
‘There’s certainly something to be done on Annapurna,’ declared Schatz. Then, dreamily, ‘A pass at 20,000 feet, a track …’
‘Dhaulagiri has a nasty look. I’d prefer the other fellow,’ admitted Couzy.
‘Very well. Tomorrow, we’ll all get going. You, Lachenal, and you, Gaston, will go and reconnoitre the East glacier. The M.O. and Schatz will take horses, and go up above Lete to get a view of the Tilicho Pass and Annapurna. Matha and I will take a little trip up to the top of the Elbow Valley, marked as the Dambush Khola. Perhaps we shall be able to see the north side of Dhaulagiri.’
‘And what about me?’ said Couzy, deeply disappointed.