To summarise the two performances. The first party established a camp at
an altitude of 25,000 feet, occupied it for one night, and finally
reaching a point 26,985 feet in height, and 1⅛ miles from the summit,
returned without a break to the North Col. The second party established
a camp at an altitude of 25,500 feet, occupied it for two nights and
almost two days, and eventually reaching a point of 27,300 feet high and
less than half a mile from the summit, returned without a break to Camp
III. The weather conditions throughout were incomparably worse than
those experienced by the first party. The difference between the two
performances cannot be ascribed to superior climbing powers on the part
of the second party, for the simple reason that all the members of the
first party were skilled and proven mountaineers, while Geoffrey Bruce
and Lance-Corporal Tejbir, though at home in the hills, had never before
set foot on a snow and ice mountain. No matter how strong and willing
and gallant an inexperienced climber may be, his lack of mountaineering
skill and knowledge inevitably results in that prodigality of
effort—much of it needless—which invariably and quickly places him at a
grave disadvantage when compared with the trained mountaineer. The
strength of a climbing party is no greater than that of its weakest
member. Judged on this basis the second party was very weak compared
with the first, and the superior results obtained by the former can only
be ascribed to the fact that they made use of an artificial supply of
oxygen.

The contention, therefore, that the disadvantages of its weight would
more than counterbalance the advantages of an artificial supply of
oxygen, may be dismissed as groundless, and the assumption may be made
that on any further attempt upon Everest oxygen will form a most
important part of the climber’s equipment. The question next arises as
to the exact stage in the proceedings at which recourse should be made
to the assistance of oxygen. The strongest members of the Expedition
felt fit and well, and recuperated readily from fatigue, at Camp III,
21,000 feet above sea-level, but at the North Col this was no longer the
case. Thus it would seem that the upper level of true acclimatisation
lies somewhere between 21,000 and 23,000 feet. I would therefore
advocate commencing to use oxygen somewhere between these two levels,
preferably at the foot of the steep slopes leading up to the North Col.
The use of small quantities would allow the climber to reach the Col
without unduly tiring himself. From the North Col to a high camp
situated at an altitude of about 26,500 feet, a slightly increased
quantity of oxygen would suffice to enable the climber to progress
almost as rapidly as he would in the much lower levels of the Alps. We
know from experience that a camp at the above-mentioned altitude can be
readily established, and in all except the worst of weather conditions a
party can make its way down again. Between the camp and the summit there
would be a vertical height of only 2,500 feet, and it is conceivable
that with a full supply of oxygen this distance could be covered in as
little as four hours. I am strongly of the opinion that only one camp
should be used between the North Col and the summit. No matter what
precautions are taken, man’s strength is rapidly sapped during the stay
at these great altitudes, and the plan of campaign most likely to ensure
success would appear to be leisurely and comfortable progress as far as
the North Col, the establishment of a high camp at 26,500 feet, and a
final dash to the summit. This last part of the programme, however,
would not be feasible unless a small dump of oxygen were made at a
height of about 27,500 feet. To do this it would be necessary for a
specially detailed party to spend one night at the high camp, and on the
following day employ their strength in making a dump somewhere above the
shoulder. This done, they would then be able to return to the North Col
with the satisfaction of knowing that they had made it possible for the
actual climbing party to win through.

It is by no means yet certain which is the best line of approach to the
North Col. The route hitherto followed, viâ the East Rongbuk Glacier, is
tedious and roundabout, but it has the advantage of being well sheltered
from the wind, and, except for the final steep slopes beneath the col,
safe under any conditions. Much more direct, however, and probably less
arduous, is the approach from over the main Rongbuk Glacier. The line of
ascent thence to the summit of the col presents no real difficulty, and,
provided it is not found to be too exposed to the wind, is undoubtedly
much safer, even after heavy snowfalls, than that previously followed.
In the light of past experience one can hardly hope to count on good
weather as an ally; adequate protection in the form of windproof
clothing will enable the climber to face all but actual snowstorms.

Climbing parties making the final assaults on the summit should be
small, consisting of two men and no more. In the event of one man
collapsing, his comrade, if at all up to scratch, should be able to get
him down in safety. By so limiting the size of the parties, a number of
attacks, each one as strong as if effected by a large and cumbersome
team of, say, four, could be carried out. Again, in the case of small
parties as suggested, mutual attention to each other’s oxygen outfit is
possible and any necessary repair or adjustment more expeditiously made.

The type of climber who should go farthest on Mount Everest would appear
to be similar to that which best suits the Alps. Of the physical
attributes necessary, the following points, in addition to what is
usually termed perfect physical fitness, may be emphasised. In the
rarefied atmosphere of high altitudes the larger the vital capacity the
better. By the term “vital capacity” is meant the maximum amount of air
an individual is able to expel from the lungs by voluntary effort after
taking the deepest possible inspiration. Compared with the lean, spare
type of individual, the thickset, often musclebound man, though possibly
equal to an immense effort provided it is of short duration, is, as a
rule, at a great disadvantage. The Expedition has also shown beyond all
possible doubt that the tall man is less prone to become fatigued than
one of shorter stature. Again, as is well known amongst mountaineers,
the long-legged, short-trunk type of body is immensely superior to the
short-legged, long-trunk type.

Perhaps more important than perfect physical fitness to the would-be
conqueror of Everest is the possession of the correct mentality.
Absolutely essential are singleness of aim, namely, the attainment of
the summit, and unswerving faith in the possibility of its achievement.
Half-heartedness in even one member of the attacking party spells almost
certain failure. Many a strong party in the Alps has failed to reach its
objective through the depressing effect of the presence of one doubting
Thomas. Like an insidious disease, a wavering, infirm belief is liable
to spread and cause the destruction of the hopes of those who come into
contact with it. The man who cannot face Mount Everest without at the
same time proclaiming that the mountain has the odds in its favour would
do better by himself and others to leave the proposition severely alone.
Of almost equal importance is the possession of what may be called
mental energy or will power, or simply “go.” Mountaineers may be divided
into two classes according to their behaviour when, tired and well-nigh
exhausted, they are called upon to make yet one more supreme effort.
There are those who, lacking the will power necessary to force their
jaded bodies on to still further action, give in; others, possessed of
an almost inexhaustible fund of mental energy, will rise to the
occasion, not once, but time and again. Physical pain is the safety
valve which nature has provided to prevent harm being done to the body
by exhaustion. But nature’s margin of safety is a wide one. On Everest,
this margin must be narrowed down, if necessary, to vanishing-point; and
this can only be done by the climber whose fund of mental energy is
sufficient to drive his body on and on, no matter how intense the pains
of exhaustion, even to destruction if need be.

                               CHAPTER IX

                           NOTES ON EQUIPMENT

Our recent experiences having shown that the greatest altitude at which
acclimatisation takes place is about 22,000 feet above sea-level, it may
be reasonably assumed that, from the climber’s point of view, high
altitude on Mount Everest begins at that height. Incidentally, also, on
approaching the North Col over the East Rongbuk Glacier, the snow and
ice conditions met with up to this level approximate very closely to
summer conditions in the Alps. Above 22,000 feet, however, such
conditions, particularly the state of the snow, resemble those met with
in the Alps in mid-winter. This high-altitude zone may be further
divided into two sub-zones—the first, from 22,000 feet (the foot of the
steep snow and ice slopes leading up to the North Col) to 23,000 feet,
in which climatic conditions are by no means severe, as the North Col
affords protection from the prevailing west wind; and the second, from
23,000 feet onwards, of which extreme cold and strong wind are the
predominant characteristics.

It is therefore evident that the climber must be equipped according to
the zone in which he finds himself. In the first zone clothing somewhat
warmer than that used in the Alps in the summer is practically
sufficient. Owing to the marked intensity of the sun’s rays, however, it
is advisable to cover the trunk with at least one layer of sunproof
material, such as a sunproof shirt with spine pad, while a solar topee
and suitable snow-glasses constitute the best form of headgear. Crookes’
glasses of smoke-blue colour proved superior to other varieties; they
afford complete protection from glare and do not cause eye-strain and
subsequent headache. As sunburn, even very superficial and involving
only a small area, is invariably followed by conditions of feverishness
which must impair one’s fitness, a veil should be worn over the face and
gloves on the hands. Oxygen should be employed from the foot of the
North Col slopes onwards, for no useful purpose can be served by tiring
oneself through not using it, when, as we have seen elsewhere, full
recovery from fatigue is no longer possible at 23,000 feet. The second
zone (from 23,000 feet onwards), where a radical change in climatic
conditions is manifest, demands more complicated preparation. Wind is
seldom absent, and the degree of intensity of the cold is comparable
with that met with at the Poles, and indeed probably often exceeds it.
Also, owing to the rarefied state of the atmosphere, the cold is felt
much more severely than would be the case at sea-level. A far greater
volume of air is expelled from the climber’s lungs, and this air, at
blood heat and under a low pressure approximating to one-third of an
atmosphere, is saturated with moisture drawn from the body viâ the
lungs. The result is a proportionately far greater loss of animal heat.
Further, the partial pressure of oxygen contained in a normal atmosphere
becomes so low at altitudes over 23,000 feet that, unless the climber
has recourse to a supply of oxygen carried by himself, his climbing
efficiency is enormously reduced. The climbing equipment of the
mountaineer in this second zone of high altitude should therefore
include, firstly, a supply of oxygen; secondly, warm and windproof
clothing and foot-gear; thirdly, plenty of food and drink, as the use of
oxygen has a most stimulating effect upon the appetite.

The oxygen equipment has already been fully described by Mr. Unna in the
_Alpine Journal_, vol. xxxiv., page 235. The apparatus is, in principle,
quite simple. It consists of a frame carried on the shoulders of the
climber, at whose back, in a rack attached to the frame, are four steel
cylinders filled with oxygen compressed to 120 atmospheres. From the
cylinders the oxygen is taken by means of copper tubes over to an
instrument arm in front of the climber. This instrument arm, also
attached to the frame, carries the pressure gauges and so forth which
indicate how much oxygen the climber is left and how rapidly the
supplies are being used up. Close to the instrument arm and readily
accessible are the valves necessary for controlling the rate of flow of
oxygen from the apparatus. From the instrument arm the oxygen passes
through a flexible rubber tubing up to a mask covering the face of the
climber. The two types of mask supplied to the Expedition proved
useless, partly owing to their stifling effect upon the wearer, and
partly to the fact that saliva and moisture collected rapidly under them
and froze. Both, therefore, had to be discarded, but fortunately I was
able to make a substitute which functioned successfully. This mask
consists of a rubber tube into which is let a rubber bladder by means of
a glass T-piece, or by means of two straight pieces of glass tube let in
at opposite ends of the bladder. One end of the rubber tube is fastened
to the tube of the apparatus out of which the oxygen flows, the other
end being held in the climber’s mouth. On exhaling, the climber closes
the rubber tube by biting upon it, and the oxygen issuing from the
apparatus, instead of being wasted, is stored up in the rubber bladder.
On inhaling, the pressure of the teeth is released sufficiently to allow
the rubber tube to open, thus permitting the oxygen stored up in the
bladder to flow into the climber’s mouth, whence, mixing with the air
exhaled, it is drawn into the lungs. The chief advantages of this mask
are that, firstly, it economises oxygen to the greatest possible extent,
and secondly, the swelling and the shrinking of the bladder during each
exhalation and inhalation respectively give the climber a fair idea as
to how rapidly the oxygen is flowing from the apparatus, and thus
enables him to keep a check upon the readings of the flow-meter, or
instrument which indicates the rate of flow of gas. In actual practice
it was found that in the space of a few minutes the climber used the
mask quite automatically. The biting upon and closing the rubber tube
and subsequent opening were performed without mental effort.

A certain amount of breathing takes place viâ the pores of the skin. As,
however, the best clothing for a climber on Mount Everest is windproof,
there is a likelihood of the air surrounding the body becoming stale, in
which case the process of skin-breathing is seriously impeded. This
difficulty could be easily surmounted by flushing out the stale air by
means of a tube inserted inside the climber’s clothes, the flushing-out
process being done at intervals by temporarily fixing this tube to the
orifice of the oxygen apparatus. It is not known definitely whether the
advantage gained would be worth the trouble, but there is every reason
for believing so. In any case it is a matter which might well be
critically tested on the next Expedition.

Cigarette-smoking proved of great value at high altitudes. Geoffrey
Bruce, Tejbir, and I, after pitching camp at 25,500 feet, settled down
inside our little tent about 2.30 in the afternoon. From then until
seven o’clock the following evening we used no oxygen at all. At first
we noticed that unless one kept one’s mind on the question of
breathing—that is, made breathing a voluntary process instead of the
involuntary process it ordinarily is—one suffered from lack of air and a
consequent feeling of suffocation—a feeling from which one recovered by
voluntarily forcing the lungs to work faster than they would of their
own accord. There is a physiological explanation for this phenomenon. At
normal altitudes human blood holds in solution a considerable quantity
of carbon dioxide, which serves to stimulate the nerve centre
controlling one’s involuntary breathing. At great altitudes, however,
where, in order to obtain a sufficiency of oxygen, the climber is forced
to breathe enormous volumes of air, much of this carbon dioxide is
washed out of the blood, and the nerve centre, no longer sufficiently
stimulated, fails to promote an adequately active involuntary breathing.
A voluntary process must be substituted, and this throws a considerable
strain upon the mind, and renders sleep impossible. On smoking
cigarettes we discovered after the first few inhalations it was no
longer necessary to concentrate on breathing, the process becoming once
more an involuntary one. Evidently some constituent of cigarette smoke
takes the place and performs the stimulating function of the carbon
dioxide normally present. The effect of a cigarette lasted for about
three hours. Clothing is a most important matter. It would be difficult
to exaggerate the intensity of the cold encountered at high altitudes on
Mount Everest. Several layers—the innermost of which should be of silk,
the others wool of moderate weight—form a much better protection against
cold than one or two heavy layers. The chief item of clothing, however,
should consist of a jumper and trousers made of windproof material. Two
of these windproof suits should be worn one above the other, and every
precaution taken to reduce the circulation of the air to the smallest
possible extent. The hands must be protected in accordance with the same
principles, and the head. I used a R.N.A.S. pattern flying helmet and
found it most satisfactory. Helmet and snow-glasses should completely
cover the head and face, leaving no skin exposed. Boots were a source of
trouble to all, but fortunately we had so many different designs which
we could test out thoroughly that we are now able to form a very shrewd
idea as to which kind is the most suitable. Leather conducts heat too
well for reliance to be placed upon it for the preservation of warmth.
The uppers of the boots should be of felt, strengthened where necessary
to prevent stretching, by leather straps covered by duroprened canvas.
Toe and heel caps must be hard and strong, and the former especially
should be high, so that the toes are given plenty of room. The sole of
the boot should be composed of a layer of thin leather attached to a
layer of three-ply wood, hinged in two sections at the instep. A thin
layer of felt should form the inside of the sole. The boots should be
large enough to accommodate in comfort two pairs of thick socks, or,
even better still, two pairs of thin socks and one pair of thick socks.
Nails used in the boots should penetrate through the leather into the
three-ply wood, but not through the latter.

In conclusion, I should like to thank the Governing Body of the Imperial
College of Science and Technology for granting me the necessary leave to
enable me to take part in the 1922 Mount Everest Expedition, and also
for granting me facilities for carrying out a considerable number of
investigations in the laboratory of the Department of Chemical
Technology upon questions relating, amongst others, to oxygen equipment,
fuels, and vacuum flasks. These last were required in order to enable us
to keep foods liquid at heights over 23,000 feet, and the flasks
obtained on the market proved quite useless for this purpose in view of
the fact that they had not been sufficiently well evacuated.

                           THE THIRD ATTEMPT

                                   By
                          GEORGE LEIGH-MALLORY

                               CHAPTER X

                           THE THIRD ATTEMPT

The project of making a third attempt this season was mooted immediately
on the return of Finch and Geoffrey Bruce to the Base Camp. There in
hours of idleness we had discussed their prospects and wondered what
they would be doing as we gazed at the mountain to make out the weather
on the great ridge. We were not surprised to learn when they came down
that the summit was still unconquered, and we were not yet prepared to
accept defeat. The difficulty was to find a party. Of the six who had
been already engaged only one was obviously fit for another great
effort. Somervell had shown a recuperative capacity beyond the rest of
us. After one day at the Base he had insisted on going up again to Camp
III in case he might be of use to the others. The rest were more or less
knocked out. Morshead’s frostbitten fingers and toes, from which he was
now suffering constant pain, caused grave anxiety of most serious
consequences, and the only plan for him was to go down to a lower
elevation as soon as possible. Norton’s feet had also been affected; he
complained at first only of bruises, but the cold had come through the
soles of his boots; his trouble too was frostbite. In any case he could
not have come up again, for the strain had told on his heart and he now
found himself left without energy or strength.

Geoffrey Bruce’s feet also were so badly frostbitten that he could not
walk. Finch, however, was not yet to be counted out. He was evidently
very much exhausted, but an examination of his heart revealed no
disorder; it was hoped that in five or six days he would be able to
start again. My own case was doubtful. Of my frostbitten finger-tips
only one was giving trouble; the extremity above the first joint was
black, but the injury was not very deep. Longstaff, who took an interest
which we all appreciated in preventing us from doing ourselves permanent
injury, pointed out the probability that fingers already touched and
highly susceptible to cold would be much more severely injured next
time, and was inclined to turn me down, from his medical point of view,
on account of my fingers alone. A much more serious matter was the
condition of my heart. I felt weak and lazy when it was a question of
the least physical exertion, and the heart was found to have a “thrill.”
Though I was prepared to take risks with my fingers I was prepared to
take none with my heart, even had General Bruce allowed me. However, I
did not abandon hope. My heart was examined again on June 3, no thrill
was heard, and though my pulse was rapid and accelerated quickly with
exertion it was capable of satisfactory recovery. We at once arranged
that Somervell, Finch, and I, together with Wakefield and Crawford,
should set forth the same day.

It was already evident that whatever we were to do would now have to
wait for the weather. Though the Lama at the Rongbuk Monastery had told
us that the monsoon was usually to be expected about June 10, and we
knew that it was late last year, the signs of its approach were
gathering every day. Mount Everest could rarely be seen after 9 or 10
a.m. until the clouds cleared away in the evening; and a storm
approaching from the West Rongbuk Glacier would generally sweep down the
valley in the afternoon. Though we came to despise this blustering
phenomenon,—for nothing worse came of it than light hail or snow, either
at our camp or higher,—we should want much fairer days for climbing, and
each storm threatened to be the beginning of something far more serious.
However, we planned to be on the spot to take any chance that offered.
The signs were even more ominous than usual as Finch and I walked up to
Camp I on the afternoon of June 3; we could hardly feel optimistic; and
it was soon apparent that, far from having recovered his strength, my
companion was quite unfit for another big expedition. We walked slowly
and frequently halted; it was painful to see what efforts it cost him to
make any progress. However, he persisted in coming on.

We had not long disposed ourselves comfortably within the four square
walls of our “sangar,” always a pleasant change from the sloping sides
of a tent, when snow began to fall. Released at last by the West wind
which had held it back, the monsoon was free to work its will, and we
soon understood that the great change of weather had now come. Fine,
glistening particles were driven by the wind through the chinks in our
walls, to be drifted on the floor or on our coverings where we lay
during the night; and as morning grew the snow still fell as thickly as
ever. Finch wisely decided to go back, and we charged him with a message
to General Bruce, saying that we saw no reason at present to alter our
plans. With the whole day to spend confined and inactive we had plenty
of time to consider what we ought to do under these conditions. We went
over well-worn arguments once more. It would have been an obvious and
easy course, for which no one could reproach us, to have said simply,
The monsoon has come; this is the end of the climbing season; it is time
to go home. But the case, we felt, was not yet hopeless. The monsoon is
too variable and uncertain to be so easily admitted as the final
arbiter. There might yet be good prospects ahead of us. It was not
unreasonable to expect an interval of fine weather after the first heavy
snow, and with eight or ten fair days a third attempt might still be
made. In any case, to retire now if the smallest chance remained to us
would be an unworthy end to the Expedition. We need not run our heads
into obvious danger; but rather than be stopped by a general estimate of
conditions we would prefer to retire before some definite risk that we
were not prepared to take or simply fail to overcome the difficulties.

After a second night of unremitting snowfall the weather on the morning
of June 5 improved and we decided to go on. Low and heavy clouds were
still flowing down the East Rongbuk Glacier, but precipitation ceased at
an early hour and the sky brightened to the West. It was surprising,
after all we had seen of the flakes passing our door, that no great
amount of snow was lying on the stones about our camp. But the snow had
come on a warm current and melted or evaporated, so that after all the
depth was no more than 6 inches at this elevation (17,500 feet). Even on
the glacier we went up a long way before noticing a perceptible increase
of depth. We passed Camp II, not requiring to halt at this stage, and
were well up towards Camp III before the fresh snow became a serious
impediment. It was still snowing up here, though not very heavily; there
was nothing to cheer the grey scene; the clinging snow about our feet
was so wet that even the best of our boots were soaked through, and the
last two hours up to Camp III were tiresome enough. Nor was it a
cheering camp when we reached it. The tents had been struck for the
safety of the poles, but not packed up. We found them now half-full of
snow and ice. The stores were all buried; everything that we wanted had
first to be dug out.

The snow up here was so much deeper that we anxiously discussed the
possibility of going further. With 15 to 18 inches of snow to contend
with, not counting drifts, the labour would be excessive, and until the
snow solidified there would be considerable danger at several points.
But the next morning broke fine; we had soon a clear sky and glorious
sunshine; it was the warmest day that any of us remembered at Camp III;
and as we watched the amazing rapidity with which the snow solidified
and the rocks began to appear about our camp, our spirits rose. The side
of Everest facing us looked white and cold; but we observed a cloud of
snow blown from the North Ridge; it would not be long at this rate
before it was fit to climb. We had already resolved to use oxygen on the
third attempt. It was improbable that we should beat our own record
without it, for the strain of previous efforts would count against us,
and we had not the time to improve on our organisation by putting a
second camp above the North Col. Somervell, after Finch’s explanation of
the mechanical details, felt perfectly confident that he could manage
the oxygen apparatus, and all those who had used oxygen were convinced
that they went up more easily with its help than they could expect to go
without it. Somervell and I intended to profit by their experience. They
had discovered that the increased combustion in the body required a
larger supply of food; we must arrange for a bountiful provision. Their
camp at 25,000 feet had been too low; we would try to establish one now,
as we had intended before, at 26,000 feet. And we hoped for a further
advantage in going higher than Finch and Bruce had done before using
oxygen; whereas they had started using it at 21,000 feet, we intended to
go up to our old camp at 25,000 feet without it, perhaps use a cylinder
each up to 26,000 feet, and at all events start from that height for the
summit with a full supply of four cylinders. If this was not the correct
policy as laid down by Professor Dryer, it would at least be a valuable
experiment.

Our chief anxiety under these new conditions was to provide for the
safety of our porters. We hoped that after fixing our fifth camp at
26,000 feet, at the earliest three days, hence on the fourth day of fine
weather, the porters might be able to go down by themselves to the North
Col in easy conditions; to guard against the danger of concealed
crevasses there Crawford would meet them at the foot of the North Ridge
to conduct them properly roped to Camp IV. As the supply officer at this
camp he would also be able to superintend the descent over the first
steep slope of certain porters who would go down from Camp IV without
sleeping after carrying up their loads.

But the North Col had first to be reached. With so much new snow to
contend with we should hardly get there in one day. If we were to make
the most of our chance in the interval of fair weather, we should lose
no time in carrying up the loads for some part of the distance. It was
decided therefore to begin this work on the following day, June 7.

In the ascent to the North Col after the recent snowfall we considered
that an avalanche was to be feared only in one place, the steep final
slope below the shelf. There we could afford to run no risk; we must
test the snow and be certain that it was safe before we could cross this
slope. Probably we should be obliged to leave our loads below it, having
gained, as a result of our day’s work, the great advantage of a track.
An avalanche might also come down, we thought, on the first steep slope
where the ascent began. Here it could do us no harm, and the behaviour
of the snow on this slope would be a test of its condition.

The party, Somervell, Crawford, and I, with fourteen porters (Wakefield
was to be supply officer at Camp III), set out at 8 a.m. In spite of the
hard frost of the previous night, the crust was far from bearing our
weight; we sank up to our knees in almost every step, and two hours were
taken in traversing the snowfield. At 10.15 a.m., Somervell, I, a
porter, and Crawford, roped up in that order, began to work up the steep
ice-slope, now covered with snow. It was clear that the three of us
without loads must take the lead in turns stamping out the track for our
porters. These men, after their immense efforts on the first and second
attempts, had all volunteered to “go high,” as they said once more, and
everything must be done to ease the terrible work of carrying the loads
over the soft snow. No trace was found of our previous tracks, and we
were soon arguing as to where exactly they might be as we slanted across
the slope. It was remarkable that the snow adhered so well to the ice
that we were able to get up without cutting steps. Everything was done
by trenching the snow to induce it to come down if it would; every test
gave a satisfactory result. Once this crucial place was passed, we
plodded on without hesitation. If the snow would not come down where we
had formerly encountered steep bare ice, a fortiori, above, on the
gentler slopes, we had nothing to fear. The thought of an avalanche was
dismissed from our minds.

It was necessarily slow work forging our way through the deep snow, but
the party was going extraordinarily well, and the porters were evidently
determined to get on. Somervell gave us a long lead, and Crawford next,
in spite of the handicap of shorter legs, struggled upwards in some of
the worst snow we met until I relieved him. I found the effort at each
step so great that no method of breathing I had formerly employed was
adequate; it was necessary to pause after each lifting movement for a
whole series of breaths, rapid at first and gradually slower, before the
weight was transferred again to the other foot. About 1.30 p.m. I
halted, and the porters, following on three separate ropes, soon came up
with the leading party. We should have been glad to stay where we were
for a long rest. But the hour was already late, and as Somervell was
ready to take the lead again, we decided to push on. We were now about
400 feet below a conspicuous block of ice and 600 feet below Camp IV,
still on the gentle slopes of the corridor. Somervell had advanced only
100 feet, rather up the slope than across it, and the last party of
porters had barely begun to move up in the steps. The scene was
peculiarly bright and windless, and as we rarely spoke, nothing was to
be heard but the laboured panting of our lungs. This stillness was
suddenly disturbed. We were startled by an ominous sound, sharp,
arresting, violent, and yet somehow soft like an explosion of untamped
gunpowder. I had never before on a mountain-side heard such a sound; but
all of us, I imagine, knew instinctively what it meant, as though we had
been accustomed to hear it every day of our lives. In a moment I
observed the surface of the snow broken and puckered where it had been
even for a few yards to the right of me. I took two steps convulsively
in this direction with some quick thought of getting nearer to the edge
of the danger that threatened us. And then I began to move slowly
downwards, inevitably carried on the whole moving surface by a force I
was utterly powerless to resist. Somehow I managed to turn out from the
slope so as to avoid being pushed headlong and backwards down it. For a
second or two I seemed hardly to be in danger as I went quietly sliding
down with the snow. Then the rope at my waist tightened and held me
back. A wave of snow came over me and I was buried. I supposed that the
matter was settled. However, I called to mind experiences related by
other parties; and it had been suggested that the best chance of escape
in this situation lay in swimming. I thrust out my arms above my head
and actually went through some sort of motions of swimming on my back.
Beneath the surface of the snow, with nothing to inform the senses of
the world outside it, I had no impression of speed after the first
acceleration—I struggled in the tumbling snow, unconscious of everything
else—until, perhaps, only a few seconds later, I knew the pace was
easing up. I felt an increasing pressure about my body. I wondered how
tightly I should be squeezed, and then the avalanche came to rest.

My arms were free; my legs were near the surface. After a brief
struggle, I was standing again, surprised and breathless, in the
motionless snow. But the rope was tight at my waist; the porter tied on
next me, I supposed, must be deeply buried. To my further surprise, he
quickly emerged, unharmed as myself. Somervell and Crawford too, though
they had been above me by the rope’s length, were now quite close, and
soon extricated themselves. We subsequently made out that their
experiences had been very similar to mine. But where were the rest?
Looking down over the foam of snow, we saw one group of porters some
little distance, perhaps 150 feet, below us. Presumably the others must
be buried somewhere between us and them, and though no sign of these
missing men appeared, we at once prepared to find and dig them out. The
porters we saw still stood their ground instead of coming up to help. We
soon made out that they were the party who had been immediately behind
us, and they were pointing below them. They had travelled further than
us in the avalanche, presumably because they were nearer the centre,
where it was moving more rapidly. The other two parties, one of four and
one of five men roped together, must have been carried even further. We
could still hope that they were safe. But as we hurried down we soon saw
that beneath the place where the four porters were standing was a
formidable drop; it was only too plain that the missing men had been
swept over it. We had no difficulty in finding a way round this
obstacle; in a very short time we were standing under its shadow. The
ice-cliff was from 40 to 60 feet high in different places; the crevasse
at its foot was more or less filled up with avalanche snow. Our fears
were soon confirmed. One man was quickly uncovered and found to be still
breathing; before long we were certain that he would live. Another whom
we dug out near him had been killed by the fall. He and his party
appeared to have struck the hard lower lip of the crevasse, and were
lying under the snow on or near the edge of it. The four porters who had
escaped soon pulled themselves together after the first shock of the
accident, and now worked here with Crawford and did everything they
could to extricate the other bodies, while Somervell and I went down
into the crevasse. A loop of rope which we pulled up convinced us that
the other party must be here. It was slow work loosening the snow with
the pick or adze of an ice-axe and shovelling it with the hands. But we
were able to follow the rope to the bodies. One was dug up lifeless;
another was found upside down, and when we uncovered his face Somervell
thought he was still breathing. We had the greatest difficulty in
extricating this man, so tightly was the snow packed about his limbs;
his load, four oxygen cylinders on a steel frame, had to be cut from his
back, and eventually he was dragged out. Though buried for about forty
minutes, he had survived the fall and the suffocation, and suffered no
serious harm. Of the two others in this party of four, we found only
one. We had at length to give up a hopeless search with the certain
knowledge that the first of them to be swept over the cliff, and the
most deeply buried, must long ago be dead. Of the other five, all the
bodies were recovered, but only one was alive. The two who had so
marvellously escaped were able to walk down to Camp III, and were almost
perfectly well next day. The other seven were killed.

This tragic calamity was naturally the end of the third attempt to climb
Mount Everest. The surviving porters who had lost their friends or
brothers behaved with dignity, making no noisy parade of the grief they
felt. We asked them whether they wished to go up and bring down the
bodies for orderly burial. They preferred to leave them where they were.
For my part, I was glad of this decision. What better burial could they
have than to lie in the snow where they fell? In their honour a large
cairn was built at Camp III.

A few words must be added with regard to this accident. No one will
imagine that we had pushed on recklessly disregarding the new conditions
of fresh snow. Three members of the Alpine Club, with experience of
judging snow for themselves, chiefly, of course, in the Alps, had all
supposed that the party was safe. They had imagined that on those gentle
slopes the snow would not move. In what way had they been deceived? The
fact that the avalanche snow came to rest on the slope where they were
proves that their calculation was not so very far wrong. But the snow
cannot all have been of the quality that adhered so well to the steep
ice-slope lower down. Where the avalanche started, not from the line of
their steps, but about 100 feet higher, it was shaded to some extent by
a broken wall of ice. There, perhaps, it had both drifted more deeply
and remained more free and powdery, and the weight of this snow was
probably sufficient to push the other down the slope once its surface
had been disturbed. More experience, more knowledge might perhaps have
warned us not to go there. One never can know enough about snow. But
looking up the corridor again after the event, I wondered how I ever
could be certain not to be deceived by appearances so innocent.

The regret of all members of the Expedition for the loss of our seven
porters will have been elsewhere expressed. It is my part only to add
this: the work of carrying up our camps on Mount Everest is beyond the
range of a simple contract measured in terms of money; the porters had
come to have a share in our enterprise, and these men died in an act of
voluntary service freely rendered and faithfully performed.

                               CHAPTER XI

                              CONCLUSIONS

It might be supposed that, from the experience of two expeditions to
Mount Everest, it would be possible to deduce an estimate of the dangers
and difficulties involved and to formulate a plan for overcoming the
obstacles which would meet with universal approval among mountaineers.
But, in fact, though many deductions could hardly be denied, I should be
surprised to find, even among us of the second party, anything like
complete agreement either in our judgment of events or in our ideas for
the future. Accordingly, I must be understood as expressing only my
personal opinions. The reader, no doubt, will judge the book more
interesting if he finds the joint authors disagreeing among themselves.

The story of the first attempt to climb the mountain in 1922 will have
no doubts on one point. The final camp was too low. However strong a
party may be brought to the assault, their aim, unless they are provided
with oxygen, must be to establish a camp considerably higher than our
camp at 25,000 feet. The whole performance of the porters encourages us
to believe that this can be done. Some of them went to a height of
25,000 feet and more, not once only, but thrice; and they accomplished
this feat with strength to spare. It is reasonable to suppose that these
same men, or others of their type, could carry loads up to 27,000 feet.
But it would be equally unreasonable to suppose that they could reach
this height in one day from the camp on Chang La at 23,000 feet. No one
would be so foolish as to organise an attempt on this assumption. Two
camps instead of one must be placed above the Chang La; another stage
must be added to the structure before the climbing party sets forth to
reach the summit.

But how exactly is this to be done? It is to this question that one
would wish to deduce an answer from the experience of 1922. It is very
unlikely that any future party will find itself in the position to carry
out any ideal plan of organisation. Ideally, they ought to start by
considering what previous performances might help or hinder the aim of
bringing the party of attack in the fittest possible condition to the
last camp. What ought they to have done or not to have done, having
regard to acclimatisation? It is still impossible to lay down the law on
this head. After the first Expedition, I supposed that the limit of
acclimatisation must be somewhere about 21,000 feet. It now seems
probable that it is higher. One of the physiologists who has been most
deeply concerned with this problem of acclimatisation considers that it
would probably be desirable, from the physiological point of view, to
stay four or five days at 25,000 feet before proceeding to attempt the
two last stages on consecutive days. Those of us who slept at Camp V for
the first attempt would certainly be agreed in our attitude towards this
counsel. The desire to continue the advance and spend another night at a
higher elevation, if it persisted at all for so long a time at 25,000
feet, would be chilled to tepidity, and the increasing desire to get
away from Camp V might lead to retreat instead of advance. The
conditions must be altogether more comfortable if the climbers are to
derive any advantage from their rustication at this altitude. It would
not be impossible, perhaps, if every effort were concentrated on this
end, to make a happy home where the aspiring mountaineers might pass a
long week-end in enjoyment of the simplest life at 25,000 feet; it would
not be practicable, having regard to other ends to be served by the
system of transport. But it might be well to spend a similar period for
acclimatisation 2,000 feet lower on the Chang La. There a very
comfortable camp, with perfect shelter from the prevailing wind and good
snow to lie on, can easily be established. Noel actually spent three
successive nights there in 1922, and apparently was the better rather
than the worse for the experience.

No less important in this connection is the effect of exertions at high
altitudes on a man’s subsequent performance. We have to take into
account the condition of the climbing parties when they returned to the
Base Camp after reaching approximately 27,000 feet. With one exception,
all the climbers were affected in various degrees by their exertions, to
the prejudice of future efforts. It would seem, therefore, that they
cannot have had much strength to spare for the final stage to the
summit. But there was a general agreement among the climbers that it was
not so much the normal exertion of climbing upwards that was in itself
unduly exhausting, but the addition of anything that might be considered
abnormal, such as cutting steps, contending with wind, pushing on for a
particular reason at a faster pace, and the many little things that had
to be done in camp. It is difficult from a normal elevation to
appreciate how great is the difference between establishing a camp on
the one hand and merely ascending to one already established on the
other. If ever it proves possible to organise an advanced party whose
business it would be to establish at 25,000 feet a much more comfortable
camp than ours in 1922, and if, in addition, a man could be spared to
undertake the preparation of meals, the climbers detailed for the
highest section of all would both be spared a considerable fatigue and
would have a better chance of real rest and sleep.

The peculiar dangers of climbing at great altitudes were illustrated by
the experience of 1922. The difficulty of maintaining the standard of
sound and accurate mountaineering among a party all more or less
affected by the conditions, and the delays and misfortunes that may
arise from the exhaustion of one of the party, are dangers which might
be minimised by a supporting party. Two men remaining at the final camp
and two men near Camp V watching the progress of the unit of assault
along the final ridge, and prepared to come to their assistance, might
serve to produce vital stimulants, hot tea or merely water, at the
critical moment, and to protect the descent. It is a counsel of
perfection to suggest providing against contingencies on this lavish
scale; but it is well to bear in mind the ideal. And there is, besides,
a precaution which surely can and will be taken: to take a supply of
oxygen for restorative purposes. The value of oxygen for restoring
exhausted and warming cold men was sufficiently well illustrated during
the second attempt in 1922.

  CHANG LA AND NORTH-EAST SHOULDER OF MOUNT EVEREST
]

The question as to whether the use of oxygen will otherwise help or
hinder climbers is one about which opinions may be expected to disagree.
Anyone who thinks that it is impossible to get up without oxygen can
claim that nothing has shown it to be impossible to get up with its aid.
For my part, I don’t think it impossible to get up without oxygen. The
difference of atmospheric pressure between 27,000 feet and the summit is
small, and it is safe to conclude that men who have exerted themselves
at 27,000 feet could live without difficulty for a number of hours on
the summit. As to whether their power of progress would give out before
reaching 29,000 feet, it is impossible to dogmatise. I can only say that
nothing in the experience of the first attempt has led me to suppose
that those last 2,000 feet cannot be climbed in a day. I am not
competent to sift and weigh all the evidence as to whether, how much,
and with what consumption of gas it was easier to proceed up the slopes
of Mount Everest with oxygen so far as Finch and Bruce went on that
memorable day. But I do venture to combat the suggestion that it is
necessarily easier to reach the top in that manner. I think no one will
dispute the statement that the final camp for the second attempt was too
low, as it had been for the first, to enable the oxygen party to reach
the summit. With the same apparatus it will be necessary in this case
also to provide a second camp above the North Col. And the question for
the moment will ultimately be, is it possible to add to that immense
burden of transport to 27,000 feet the weight of the oxygen cylinders
required?

The weather in all probability will have something to say to this
problem. The Expedition of 1922 was certainly not favoured by the
weather. There was no continuous spell of calm fine days, and the summer
snows began a week earlier than the most usual date. One wonders what
sort of weather is to be expected with the most favourable conditions on
Mount Everest. It is conceivable that a series of calm fine days
sometimes precede the monsoon. But when we consider the perpetual winds
of Tibet at all seasons, it seems unlikely that Mount Everest is often
immune from this abominable visitation. It is far more likely that the
calm day is a rare exception, and only to be expected when the
north-westerly current is neutralised by the monsoon from the
South-east. The ill-luck of 1922 may probably be computed as no more
than those seven days by which the monsoon preceded expectation. With so
short a time for preparations and advance, we were indeed unfortunate in
meeting an early monsoon. And it is hardly possible considerably to
extend the available time by starting earlier. There was only the barest
trickle of water at the Base Camp on May 1, 1922, and the complications
involved by the necessity of melting snow for water, both here and at
all higher stages, for any considerable time, would be a severe
handicap. But it must be remembered that the second attempt was made a
week before the monsoon broke. Time appeared short on the mountain
chiefly from the threat of bad weather and the signs showing that the
majority of days were, to say the least, extremely disagreeable for
climbing high on the mountain. If others are confronted by similar
conditions, they too will probably feel that each fine day must be
utilised and the attack must be pressed on; for the fine days past will
not come back, and ahead is the uncertain monsoon.

A final question may now be asked: What advantages will another
Expedition have which we did not have in 1922? In one small and in one
large matter the next Expedition may be better equipped. It was
disappointing, after so much time and thought had been expended upon the
problem of foot-gear, that nothing was evolved in 1922 which succeeded
in taking the place of Alpine boots of well-known patterns. The great
disadvantage of these sorts of boot is that one cannot wear crampons
with them at these high altitudes, for the strap bound tightly round the
foot will almost certainly cause frostbite; either different boots or
different spikes must be invented if the climbers are to have crampons
or their equivalent. It is essential that they should be so equipped to
avoid the labour of step-cutting, and the lack of this equipment might
well rob them of victory on the steep final slopes below the summit.
This matter of foot-gear is not so very small, after all. But a still
more important one is the oxygen apparatus. It is conceivable, and I
believe by no means unlikely, that a different type of cylinder may be
used in the future, and capable of containing more oxygen, compared with
the same weight, than those of 1922. A 50 per cent. improvement in this
direction should alter the whole problem of using oxygen. With this
advantage it might well be possible to go to the top and back with the
four cylinders which a man may be expected to carry from a height of
25,000 feet or little higher. If a second camp above the North Col
becomes unnecessary in this way, the whole effort required, and
especially the effort of transport, will be reduced to the scale of what
has already been accomplished, and can no doubt be accomplished again.

The further advantage of a future Expedition is simply that of
experience. It amounts to something, one cannot say how much. In small
ways a number of mistakes may be avoided. The provision of this and that
may be more accurately calculated according to tried values. The whole
organisation of life in high camps should be rather more efficient.
Beyond all this, the experience of 1922 should help when the moment
comes towards the making of a right plan; and a party which chooses
rightly what to do and when to do it, and can so exclude other
possibilities as to be certain that no better way could be chosen, has a
great advantage. But, when all is said as to experience and equipment,
it still remains true that success requires a quality. History repeats
itself, perhaps, but in a vague and general fashion only where mountains
are concerned. The problem of reaching the summit is every time a fresh
one. The keen eye for a fair opportunity and resource in grave
emergencies are no less necessary to the mountaineer everywhere, and not
least upon Mount Everest, than determination to carry through the high
project, the simple will to conquer in the struggle.

                                 NOTES

                                   By
                          T. HOWARD SOMERVELL

                                   on

                        ACCLIMATISATION AT HIGH
                               ALTITUDES

                            COLOUR IN TIBET

                            TIBETAN CULTURE

                              CHAPTER XII

                   ACCLIMATISATION AT HIGH ALTITUDES

The Everest Expedition of 1922 had no preconceived programme of
scientific investigation, and was first and foremost an attempt to get
up the mountain; though, as I had been connected with physiological
research for some years, I was naturally anxious to make observations on
the effect of altitude on the human frame. These observations were
rather subjective, and were unaccompanied by any accurate data—in other
words, the reader will be relieved to hear that there are no tables of
figures to be reproduced. Barcroft and others were in the course of
their Expedition to the Andes, and I knew full well their results would
supply more accurate information on the exact process of acclimatisation
at high altitudes than anything we could do with our simpler apparatus.
We left it to this other Expedition, therefore, to supply the figures,
while our observations were exclusively on the practical side; that is
to say, we observed the rapidity and effect of acclimatisation, while
not investigating exactly how it is brought about.

The first effect of altitude, in such moderate degree as we encountered
it on the plains of Tibet, was almost entirely a mere breathlessness,
which limited our rate of walking, and increased the popularity of our
uncomfortable Tibetan saddles when travelling uphill. A few of us had
severe headaches from time to time; at the modest height of 17,000 feet
I noticed Cheyne-Stokes respiration at night when lying down, though
never when sitting or standing; and I remember being distinctly amused
at the fact that one was unable to control it.[7] A few of the party had
a single attack of vomiting, but no permanent effect was noticed, and by
the time we had lived on the Tibetan Plateau for a few weeks we had lost
all ill effects save only breathlessness, which, of course, persisted to
some extent until we reached comparatively low elevations. Further
effect at these heights was not noticed save in the case of some of the
older members of the party, who suffered from a considerable loss of
appetite while at the Base Camp at 16,000 feet; this effect on appetite
did not improve as time went on.

Footnote 7:

  For the benefit of the non-medical reader, Cheyne-Stokes breathing is
  the gradual alternation of shallow and deep respirations: usually
  about ten shallow breaths are followed by respirations which get
  gradually deeper; then by three or four really deep ones, which become
  shallower until the cycle recommences.

It was when we began the more serious work on the mountain that we made
the most interesting observations on acclimatisation, and proved both
its rapidity (which was known before) and its persistence to great
heights. Scientists of various schools had, before the start of the
Expedition, predicted that acclimatisation would be impossible above the
height of 20,000 feet. Why they had done so will always remain a mystery
to me; but possibly they were misled by the fact that so many climbing
expeditions in the past have failed somewhere in the region of 23,000
feet above sea-level. We were enabled, however, to prove conclusively
that acclimatisation does go on to greater heights; in fact, I do not
see a theoretical limit to it at any elevation below the top of Mount
Everest. Our observations were largely subjective, but for that reason
they are perhaps all the more to be appreciated by the general reader;
and in view of their subjective nature I may perhaps be pardoned in
substituting “feelings” for figures and putting information in the form
of a personal experience.

When Mallory and I arrived at Camp III and established it on the site
chosen by the reconnaissance party, our first concern was the
preparation of another camp at the North Col. I shall never forget our
first ascent up that accursed slope of snow and ice, each step a
hardship, every foot a fight; until at last we lay almost exhausted on
the top. After a day or two at Camp III below, we went up again to the
col, this time with Strutt and Morshead, and I think Norton. The ascent
of the col this time was hard work, but not more than that; and after
the col had been reached Morshead and I were sufficiently cheerful to
explore the way leading up to Everest. A day or two later we again
ascended the North Col, and never really noticed more discomfort than
was occasioned by breathlessness. Though not possessing the scientific
data which explained this change in our condition, yet in those few days
of life at 21,000 feet we had become acclimatised to our altitude to a
very remarkable degree; what had previously been a hard struggle had now
become a comparatively easy job. By this rapid change in our
constitution we had not only proved the predictions of scientists to be
wrong, but had gained the physical power which took us without
artificial oxygen supply to 27,000 feet, and we had determined that
acclimatisation is not only possible but is also quite rapid at these
high altitudes.

Thus, by sojourn and exercise for a week above 20,000 feet, we obtained
the physiological equipment necessary for an attempt on the mountain,
and at this point some personal experiences may be of interest, though
possibly of no great importance. We found that, as we ascended, we fell
into an automatic rate of breathing; Mallory preferred to breathe slowly
and deeply, while rapid and shallower respirations appealed to me; but
we all walked upwards at almost exactly the same rate at any given
height. Below the North Col, I took three breaths to a step, while at
26,000 feet I was taking five complete respirations; but as long as I
was walking slowly enough I experienced no distress or discomfort. If
one hurried for a short distance, one was forced to rest for a few
seconds—a rest was imperative, and one felt it were impossible to do
without it; but as long as an even pace was kept up, one had no desire
to stop, nor to make one’s admiration of the landscape an excuse for
delaying one’s comrades. At the height of 26,000 feet, I took my pulse
(which was 180) and my respirations (which were 50 to 55 to the minute);
but withal one felt perfectly comfortable even though these abnormal
physiological conditions were present. No doubt the heart must be young
to stand this rate of beating for many hours; yet not too young, or it
will easily become enlarged and permanently damaged.

In view of our experiences it seems justifiable to predict that
acclimatisation at 23,000 feet will be sufficient for the attainment of
the summit of Mount Everest, if indeed a sojourn at 21,000 feet is
insufficient—which is to my mind more than doubtful. The other important
practical observation we made is less encouraging: namely, that we all
varied in our rate of acclimatisation, and in fact some of our number
(especially the older ones among us) actually seemed to deteriorate in
condition while staying at a great height. But I think we proved that it
is possible to climb to the summit of Everest without the use of oxygen,
though the selection of men who are able to do so is very difficult
until those heights are actually reached at which acclimatisation
becomes established. Personally I felt perfectly well at 27,000 feet,
and my condition seemed no different at that height from what it had
been at 25,000 feet, or even lower; and I have no doubt there are many
people, if only they can be found, who can get to the top of Everest
unaided save by their own physiological reaction to a life at 21,000
feet for a few days. If a number of such people were allowed to live at
a height corresponding to our Camp III for a fortnight or so, making
perhaps a few minor excursions to 23,000 or 24,000 feet, then I have no
doubt from the physiological point of view that they will be able to
climb Mount Everest, provided the weather is fine and the wind not too
violent. Without allowing time for acclimatisation to take place, it is
probable that nobody—that is, unless some _lusus naturæ_ exists—will
reach the summit; if artificially supplied oxygen be used, the
acclimatisation may not be necessary; but the danger of an attempt by
non-acclimatised men with oxygen apparatus is that a breakdown of the
apparatus might lead to serious consequences, while a fully acclimatised
man is probably just as capable of standing a height of 29,000 feet,
unaided, as you or I would be able to stand the height of Mount Blanc
to-morrow. When the Expedition of 1922 started I was personally of
opinion that nobody could exist at a height about 25,000 or 26,000 feet
without oxygen; but since we have proved that this can be done, it seems
that the chances of climbing the mountain are probably greater if oxygen
be not used. For the apparatus, and the spare cylinders required,
necessitate the use of a large number of coolies; while in an attempt
without oxygen only three or four coolies are required for the camping
equipment and the food at the highest camp. Therefore it seems that the
best chance of getting to the top of Mount Everest lies in the sending
out of some nine or ten climbers, who can remain at a high camp, become
thoroughly acclimatised, and then make a series of expeditions up the
mountain, three or so at a time, as continuously as weather conditions
will allow. By adopting these tactics the number of possible attempts up
the mountain can be increased; and it seems to me that the chances of
climbing to the summit lie in the multiplicity of possible attempts
rather than in any other direction. It were better to prepare for a
number of attempts each by a small but acclimatised party, rather than
to stake all on one or two highly organised endeavours, in which oxygen,
and a large number of coolies, are used. It is only a small proportion
of coolies who can get up to the heights of 25,000 or 27,000 feet, and
they should be used for any one attempt as sparingly as possible. During
the war we all had our ideas of how it should be run, and they were
generally wrong; the above plan is the writer’s idea of how to climb
Mount Everest, and may or may not be right, but is enunciated for what
it is worth.

Among subsidiary effects of extreme altitudes, were those upon appetite,
temper, and mental condition generally. Most of us will admit a good
deal of peevishness and irritability while at a level of 22,000 feet and
more; for the altitude undoubtedly makes one lose to some extent one’s
mental balance, and the first way in which this appears on the surface
is by a ruffling of the temper. In addition, one has a certain lack of
determination, and when at a height approaching 27,000 feet I remember
distinctly that I cared very little whether we reached the top of
Everest or not. A good instance of this altered attitude of mind is
provided by the fact that Finch and Bruce took a camera with them on
their ascent, and forgot to take any photographs of their last day’s
climbing.

I have mentioned the deleterious effect of altitude on the appetite of
some of our older members; but the same was to some extent true of us
all. I have the most vivid recollection of distaste for food during our
first few days at Camp III, and especially of the way one had almost to
push a prune down one’s throat on the way up to the North Col; but with
the majority of us this distaste for food (especially for meat and the
slowly-digested foods) diminished during our sojourn at great heights,
though our appetites never became quite normal until we reached one of
the lower camps. Those who had oxygen reported that they had large
appetites above the North Col; and there is no doubt that it is the
rarefaction of the air that causes this alteration of the appetite. One
may perhaps be justified in assuming that the secretion of gastric juice
is diminished while air that is poor in oxygen is inhaled, though it is
rather hard to understand how this is brought about.

Although acclimatisation is not entirely connected with the actual
increase in the number of blood corpuscles (as has been proved by
Barcroft in 1922), yet this is still recognised as one of the important
factors in its production. But this increase in the concentration of the
blood must be associated with a great increase in its viscosity, and
when that is combined with intense cold with its accompanying
constriction of all the smaller blood-vessels, there are present all the
conditions necessary for the production of frostbite. Therefore
acclimatisation with all its benefits probably increases the risk of
frostbite; hence one who is acclimatised must be especially careful of
feet and hands and their coverings. It is hard to put on too many
clothes at a great altitude, and very easy to put on too few.

The chief point still remaining to be mentioned concerns the
after-effects of the climbing of Everest; but these varied so much that
they give us little or no scientific information. Some of us were tired
for twenty-four hours only, some for many days; some were reported to
have enlarged hearts, while in some the heart was normal; some were
incapacitated by frostbite, though their general physical condition was
very probably good. One therefore cannot generalise about after-effects,
but as a medical man I felt strongly (by observation on myself and my
companions on the Expedition) that if one is to “live to fight another
day” and to require the minimum recuperation period after an attempt on
the mountain, it is essential during the attempt to keep oneself well
within one’s powers. One is tempted to go too hard, and to exert one’s
strength to its limits; but it is just the last few ounces of strength
which call forth the greatest effort and make the maximum demands on
one’s resources; and if these resources are to be used to their full
extent they should be continuously conserved by an avoidance of definite
hurry. Personally I am of opinion that exercise before the climbing
begins is of great value. Mallory and I were the only ones whom
Longstaff allowed to make two attempts on Everest; and we were probably
rendered fit in this way by the subsidiary expeditions we had made on
the way to Mount Everest and by our preliminary work in getting the camp
ready on the North Col. It is, however, hard to generalise on a point
like this, but each man knows the idiosyncrasies of his own
constitution, and it should be left to individuals to a great extent to
see that their condition on arrival at the foot of the mountain is the
best that is possible.

                              CHAPTER XIII

                            COLOUR IN TIBET

In order to bring before the reader a vivid picture of Tibet, and
especially of the region around Mount Everest, a comparison between
Tibet and other better-known countries is almost inevitable. The
Expedition of 1922 took with them no official artist, or no doubt he
would have been deputed to write this section of the book; there were,
however, two people who tried to paint pictures of the country, Major
Norton and myself; and though I realise how inadequate our efforts were,
perhaps those of an official artist might have been almost as bad.
However, as one who looks on the world with an eye for its beauty,
although lacking the ability to transfer that beauty to canvas, one may
perhaps be pardoned for endeavouring to describe certain general
impressions of the scenery encountered by the Expedition.

In the course of our journey we passed through a great variety of
landscape; in Sikkim, for instance, we found a land of steep slopes and
dense forests, while Tibet is almost a desert country. We experienced
the clear air of the winter, and the mists and storm-clouds of the
monsoon. While we were on the rolling plains of the Tibetan Plateau,
only a few miles away were the snow-covered summits of the highest
mountains in the world.

Sikkim is a country of deep valleys and of luxurious vegetation; the air
is generally damp and the skies cloudy, and there is often a beautiful
blue haze that gives atmosphere to the distance. Sikkim is not unlike
the Italian side of the Alps, in many ways. True, its scale is larger,
and it possesses some of the most beautiful and impressive peaks in the
world (for no Alpine peak can vie with Siniolchum or Pandim for sheer
beauty of form and surface), but on the whole the scenery of Sikkim is
of the same general build as the valleys and peaks of Northern Italy. In
this sense Sikkim did not offer to the new-comer anything entirely
different from what he had seen before. But Tibet and Everest certainly
did; and the difference between Sikkim and Tibet is twofold—first, Tibet
is almost uniformly over 13,000 feet above sea-level, and therefore
bears no trees at all; second, Tibet is almost free from rainfall and
is, in consequence, a desert country. One’s eye travelled, for mile
after mile, over red-brown sand and red-brown limestone hills, finally
to rest on the blue and white of the distant snows. The air, before the
monsoon commences, is almost always clear—clear to an extent unimagined
by a European, clearer even than the air of an Alpine winter. So peaks
and ridges 30 or 40 miles away are often almost in the same visual plane
as the foreground of the landscape. In some extensive views, such as we
had from the hills above Tinki Dzong, one came to look upon hills 30
miles away as the middle distance of one’s picture, while the background
was formed of mountains a hundred miles from the point of view. It is
this lack of atmosphere which makes pictorial representation of these
Tibetan scenes so very difficult; the pictures I made on the course of
the Expedition have all had one criticism from many different
people—“there is no atmosphere.” Many as are the demerits of these
pictures, this is the one merit they have; and if they had an
“atmosphere” they would cease to be truthful. In the Alps one has often
seen mountains with extreme clearness at a great distance, but I never
remember having viewed an Alpine landscape in which there was
practically no effect of distance, and practicably no blueness of the
more distant shadows. Yet that is precisely what obtains in Tibet before
the month of June. And then, with startling suddenness, comes the
monsoon, with its damp air; for some months the landscape is entirely
altered, and also much beautified. The blue haze of the monsoon converts
the distant shadows from their crude purple-brown to the most
magnificent and sometimes brilliant blue. Once or twice one looked in
vain on one’s palette for a blue of sufficient brilliance and intensity
to reproduce the colour of the shadows 20 or 30 miles away. Then the
monsoon brings clouds and rain-storms, all of which tend to give variety
to the scene, and to endue the distant peaks with that effect of mystery
which renders them so alluring and so beautiful.

As far as the scenery among the higher mountains is concerned, the
comparison of photographs of the Everest group of peaks with those of
the Alps will give one more idea of the differences between the two
districts than can a mere verbal description, save in the matter of
scale and colour. In colour, the Alps are more varied and the rock is,
as a rule, a darker brown; the snow-shadows are more blue and the
outlines less clear; while Alpine foregrounds so often contain trees
which are totally absent from the foregrounds of Tibet. There both rocks
and stones, scree and valley-bed are of a light reddish-brown, almost
uniform in tone from near foreground to extreme distance; Makalu, for
example, is a colossal rock-pyramid of quite a light ochre colour; the
rocks of Everest are of a light amber brown relieved in the
neighbourhood of 27,000 feet by a lighter yellowish band of quartzite.
The snow of the range on its northern side resembles that of Alpine
peaks, but on the southern face the festoons and grooves of ice, so well
known to many from photographs of Himalayan mountains, decorate the much
steeper and more uncompromising slopes. Most of the higher peaks are
swept by continual gusts of wind which whirl clouds of snow from the
topmost ridges into the sky.

                              CHAPTER XIV

                            TIBETAN CULTURE

The Tibetans are a very simple folk, though not without a very definite
civilisation of their own. Art and music exist in all nations, if the
art be merely the fashioning of utensils, and the music be the crudest
of rhythms played on a tom-tom. Yet in Tibet the rudimentary music and
art associated with so many Eastern races is carried a stage farther,
and what is in wilder people merely natural instinct has become in Tibet
a definite culture. For I presume that culture is merely organised art,
and certainly on that criterion the Tibetan is to some extent cultured.

He is a fine architect, and many of his houses have a simple stateliness
which raises them in artistic value high above the average
dwelling-house of most other Oriental countries, to say nothing of our
own garden suburbs. The Monasteries of Tibet are still more imposing,
and some of them are real objects of beauty, for the dignified
simplicity of the buildings themselves is combined with an elaborate and
often beautiful decoration of windows and cornices. The Tibetans have
learned the true principles of decoration—they do not cover the surfaces
of their buildings with unnecessary ornament, but reserve the wooden
parts alone for elaboration. The cornices are often intricate in
workmanship, but throughout the great principle of design is carried to
perfection—the principle that all ornament should be founded on utility.
Thus economy in the use of scrolls is combined with the multiplication
of brackets, supports, and rafter-ends, so that the whole is satisfying
to the eye as being beautiful, rather than useless. Considerable Chinese
influence is shown in their decorative art, but the Tibetans have a
personal, or rather national, touch which distinguishes their work in
all branches of art from the Chinese. In painting, too, the influence of
China, and very occasionally of India, is felt: though through it all
the refined austerity of the better-class Tibetan shines unmistakably.
The older pictures, nearly always of sacred subjects, are drawn with
consummate skill, coloured with great taste, and in the matter of design
rank much higher than the contemporary art of India. But, alas! the
story of painting in Tibet is the same as it is everywhere in this
commercial world of ours; the modern Tibetan picture is worthless,
careless and meretricious. No doubt the demand for “native art” at the
bazaars of Darjeeling and other places around has caused this
deterioration of what was once a fine and noble art; pictures which used
to be the life-work of devoted lamas and conscientious hermits are now
“dashed off” to satisfy the capacious maw of the tasteless traveller.
Though Tibet is still in measure “The Forbidden Land,” yet the tentacles
of commercialism cannot but penetrate between its bars, and the same
thing is now happening to Tibet as happened to Europe last century and
produced oleographs and official artists. It seems almost as if man by
nature does bad work only when he is working for reward.

  RELIGIOUS BANNERS IN SHEKAR MONASTERY.
]

This is a mere flashlight sketch of the art of Tibet, for details of
which other books must be consulted; but the music of Tibet will be
described more fully, for two reasons—first, that no accurate record of
it has to my knowledge been obtained until now, and second, that the
writer is himself particularly fond of music, which he believes to be
the highest of the arts.

Just as in Europe to-day we have both the traditional folk-song and the
highly organised orchestral music, so in Tibet both these forms of the
art exist. The two are also more or less interdependent in Tibet, while
in Western nations each often goes its own way without the other.

The airs sung by the Tibetan people are usually simple, short, and
oft-repeated. They are nearly always in the pentatonic scale,
represented best to the general reader by the black notes of the piano.
Most isolated races evolve this scale at some time during their history,
and the tunes of the Highlands of Scotland, the Forests of Central
Africa, the Appalachians of America, and the Tibetans are all in this
scale.[8]

Footnote 8:

  Sir Walford Davies has pointed out that, starting (on the black notes)
  from A flat, and using only the perfect fifth, this scale is very soon
  developed. From A flat one gets E flat and D flat, each a fifth away;
  from D flat one obtains G flat, a fifth down, and from E flat a fifth
  upwards gives us B flat. Thus we get the five notes of the scale by a
  simple series of fifths, the fifth being the most perfect interval in
  music, and the one which will appeal most readily to a primitive
  people.

A typical well-known pentatonic tune is “Over the Sea to Skye.” Those
who know, for instance, the songs of the Western Highlands, will be able
to appreciate the cheerful and non-Oriental character of the tunes of
Tibet, which are more akin to those of Russia and Eastern Europe than to
the music of China or India. This general spirit of the music which the
Tibetans play or sing points to a common origin of the folk-tunes of
Tibet and Russia. It seems probable that in Turkestan was the real
origin of this music, which very likely spread eastwards into Tibet and
westwards into Russia; or if Turkestan is not the country of origin of
the music, it may be the musical link between Russia and Tibet. The
tunes of Nepal, as sung by our coolies, are many of them of a similar
nature to those of Tibet, though more often the whole major or minor
scale is used, giving them often a strangely European sound; some of the
Nepalese airs have a jolly lilt and swing; others in the minor key have
quite a haunting beauty; and they too are quite unlike the music of the
plains of India with its rather pointless wailing characteristics.[9]

Footnote 9:

  A more technical article on the subject of Tibetan Music, with musical
  quotations, will be found in the _Musical Times_ for February 1, 1923.

In Tibet, then, the folk-tunes are simple, short, and emphatically not
such “good tunes” as the airs of Nepal. But, in addition to the songs of
the peasants and beggars, there is the more highly-organised and
orchestrated music of the monasteries. This is usually played with three
groups of instruments—first and foremost the percussion; drums of all
sizes from those made of a human skull to others 3 and 4 feet in
diameter, and cymbals of great resonance and good tone, coming often
from China. The cymbals are taken very seriously, and each different way
of clashing them has a special name and a special religious
significance. The hard-worked percussion department keeps up a
continuous rhythm throughout the performance of a devil-dance or other
musical festival; and to its strenuous and often sinister efforts are
added from time to time the sounds of the two groups of wind
instruments. The first of these, playing airs which often possess great
charm, are the double-reed oboes, about twice as long as our European
oboe, and very often provided with equidistant holes, rendering them
incapable of playing save in the scale of whole tones (or a close
approximation to it). The second and larger wind instrument is the long
straight trumpet, 8 to 12 feet long, of which the fundamental note is
almost continuously blown. Most monasteries have two of these, about one
tone apart in pitch; but as the longer of the two is blown so as to play
its first overtone, while the fundamental note is played on the other, a
drone bass of a minor seventh is the resulting sound. This adds to the
sinister impressiveness of the music, and provides an effective
accompaniment to the quaint tunes of the oboe-like instruments. At a
devil-dance performance, the orchestra plays for a whole day, or perhaps
two, almost without rest either for itself or for its listeners.

In addition to these instruments, a fairly civilised violin is used in
Tibet, especially by wandering beggar minstrels. This is about
two-thirds as long as our violin, and has four strings, tuned A,D,A,D,
in that order. The bow has two hanks of hair, one of which passes
between the first and second strings, while the other goes between the
third and fourth. Thus, by pressing the bow in one direction the two A
strings are sounded, producing a reinforced note (i.e. two notes in
unison); by pressing the bow in the other direction the sound of the D
strings is obtained. The strings converge towards the top of the
instrument, so that they can all be fingered at once. The Tibetans
become very agile with their fingers, and I have heard very skilful
performances of rapid, jolly dance-tunes by wandering minstrels; these
tunes, like the songs of the peasants, are usually in the pentatonic
scale.

One more instrument must be mentioned—the trumpet made from a human
thigh-bone. This is not very commonly used in the larger monasteries,
but occasionally sounds a note in the ritual of the worship of smaller
villages.

                            NATURAL HISTORY

                                   By

                         T. G. LONGSTAFF, M.D.

                               CHAPTER XV

                            NATURAL HISTORY

Previous experience of the conditions of Tibetan travel had taught me
that collection and observation was a task requiring complete immunity
from other duties; but to the doctor of such an Expedition this
condition was not attainable. In the collection of specimens we were,
however, fortunate in obtaining the assistance of several other members
of the Expedition. But it is especially to Major Norton that the thanks
of the Everest Committee are due, for in addition to his other duties,
he took over the whole of the botanical work and worked equally with
myself in all other branches of Zoology. His gift of painting was
particularly valuable in leading to the certain identification of birds
in districts where collecting was prohibited. At the time of writing he
is on duty at Chanak, and the following notes lose half their value
through lack of his promised collaboration, which I had anticipated with
particular pleasure.

In his absence I must omit all reference to botany, for personally,
owing to the wintry conditions during our outward march and to the speed
of my journey back with the invalids, I saw nothing that has not been
already better described by Wollaston. But Norton, with our Lepcha
collector Rumoo, obtained some 350 flowering plants in Kharta, and we
also sent back samples of agricultural seeds.

It must be remembered that it was the constant aim of General Bruce to
render it easier for any subsequent party to pass through the country.
The objection of the Tibetans to the taking of any wild life is almost
universal amongst the clerics and is devoutly shared by the lay
population in certain localities. These considerations unfortunately
applied particularly to the districts of Tengkye, Shelkar Dzong and
Rombuk, where the killing of even domestic animals is prohibited.

There are, however, other parts of Tibet where the same restraint is
unnecessary, and even where hunting is habitually practised by the
semi-nomadic population. This immunity in our case applied especially to
the Chumbi Valley and the country round Phari, and in consequence we
have been able to bring back some material which it is hoped will add to
the value of the larger collections brought back last year by Dr.
Wollaston.

That portion of Tibet visited by the Expedition, and indeed it is
typical of most of its provinces, is a region of bare uplands and naked
mountains. Such physical conditions combine with a violent type of
radiation in the thin dry air to evolve a daily strife of winds,
ceaselessly seeking to rectify the balance of atmospheric stability;
this continual wind is indeed the foundation of the traveller’s
discomfort and the worst enemy of the mountaineer.

  ROMOO, THE LEPCHA COLLECTOR, WHO ASSISTED
  DR. LONGSTAFF AND MAJOR NORTON.
]

  KARMA PAUL, THE EXPEDITION’S INTERPRETER.
]

Owing to its aridity, due to the intervention of the rain-catching
Himalaya, the country is practically treeless. Distant open views
prevail over vast landscapes, lit by strong lights in an atmosphere
devoid of fogs or softening mist effects. Usually nothing can move
without being visible from a great distance. Hence, though it is not a
region particularly rich in life, yet those forms which do prevail are
not easily overlooked. Concealment is only to be obtained by burrowing
underground, or by immobility combined with protective coloration.

Nowhere is this more obtrusively shown than on the great stony uplands,
at an altitude of from 14,000 to 17,000 feet East and South of Khamba
Dzong. Here we were in constant sight of bands of wild asses, gazelle,
and sheep: from a distance of a couple of miles a prowling wolf was
easily discerned. The ground is nowhere here covered by a continuous
carpet of grass or herbs, but each plant is several yards from the next.
Hence even a small herd of game will cover the ground with innumerable
tracks, suggesting to the uninitiated a far greater number of
individuals than really exist. To watch a flock of Tibetan sheep or
goats grazing seems like watching a migration, for the herd moves at a
smart walk, often breaking into a run, each individual racing for the
next mouthful a few yards ahead. They move on a wide front, with the
shepherd and his wolf-dog well in evidence. On one occasion we came on a
wolf devouring a lamb: 50 yards away lay the guardian dog, waiting
apparently for any scraps the robber might leave.

It might be supposed that as in the Arctic the birds and animals would
turn white in winter. But two sufficient reasons against this necessity
have already been indicated. Firstly, the snow line is so high, probably
between 19,000 and 20,000 feet, that vegetation does not extend up to
it: even the predatory beasts are dependent on vegetation for the
pasture of their prey. Secondly, evaporation is so rapid that the
country is never snow-clad for long even during the winter season.

But some modification of habit to meet the hostility of winter, under
conditions of life already so severe, is to be looked for. Of Marmots we
saw nothing during the journey to Everest; probably they were still
hibernating. Norton found them later in Kharta and obtained a welcome
specimen. Yet Hares were very common at 16,000 to 17,000 feet, several
haunting the old moraines of the Rongbuk Glacier even above our Base
Camp. Here also, at 17,000 feet, was a small herd of Bharel, or Blue
Sheep, which having some familiarity with the hermit monks permitted a
fairly close approach.

More interesting are the Mouse-hares, or Pikas, of several varieties,
small friendly creatures which live in colonies, mainly (_Ochotona
curzoniæ_) on the open plains, where even their small burrows sometimes
undermine considerable areas so that one must ride with care. They are
quick and lively in their movements, darting from hole to hole with
extreme rapidity, and peeping from their burrows at the stranger with
obvious amusement. They are often first seen sitting up on their
hind-legs. They lay in stores of grass for winter use, though the
evidence all goes to prove that they do not regularly hibernate. They
frequently utter a nearly inaudible high-pitched whispering call, a sort
of subdued whistle, from which no doubt comes the (Shoka) Bhotia name of
_shippi_, “The Whisperer,” which I obtained in Gnari Khorsum in 1905.
Certain birds, as will be subsequently noted, live in association with
these small rodents, and add a further note to the charm of their
colonies. It appears impossible to trap them, and as their skulls are
usually damaged by shooting, a good series of skins, in both summer and
winter pelage, of the different species, is still much wanted for study
in our museums.

The collection of small mammals is always difficult, and under the
circumstances already detailed our collection of skins was necessarily a
very small one. Geoffrey Bruce, however, obtained a perfect specimen of
the Panda (_Ailurus fulgens_) from the forests on the Chumbi side of the
Jelep La. This curiously aberrant animal, sometimes called the Bear-Cat,
is about the size of a fox, and has rich thick fur of a chestnut colour
on the back, black below, and with a thick bushy ring-marked tail; in
appearance it resembles somewhat the badgers, the bears, and the cats.
Its relative, the Great Panda of Tibet, is one of the rarest of large
mammals, owing to its very circumscribed distribution.

A Hamster and a few Pikas of three varieties were caught at night in our
tents. A Weasel (_M. temon_) shot in Sikkim, with another Weasel and a
Marmot from Kharta, complete our list of mammal skins. We are much
disappointed at our failure to see or obtain any specimens from 20,000
feet, where Wollaston’s Pika was actually handled last year—the greatest
known altitude for resident mammals.

As to the birds, we were fortunate in having been able to go over Dr.
Wollaston’s collection with Mr. Norman B. Kinnear of the Natural History
Museum, who provided us in addition with a series of careful notes by
which we could identify those likely to be met with in localities where
we could not shoot. It is hoped that our material will be found
sufficient for Mr. Kinnear to publish a supplement to his recent paper
in the _Ibis_ on last year’s collection.

Dr. Percy R. Lowe, Keeper of Birds of the Natural History Museum, was
particularly anxious for us to obtain for him a specimen of the
Himalayan or Ibis-billed Curlew (_Ibidorhynchus struthersi_) in the
flesh, for purposes of dissection, nothing being known of its anatomy up
to the present. Luckily this bird haunts the Chumbi Valley, and Norton
and I were able to spend a day in its pursuit. It is of the form of a
small curlew, of a general french-grey hue with bold dark markings, and
coral red beak and legs. There were several of these birds, not yet
(April 3) paired, about Yatung in the Chumbi Valley, but they were very
wary. They utter a high-pitched wader-like note not at all resembling
our curlew. They always flew directly over the main river, whence we
never could have retrieved them. The shores of this river are fringed by
beaches of large round grey pebbles, and resting amongst these the birds
were invisible. Eventually I lay up under the bank and Norton succeeded
in driving a bird on to an island in mid-stream, where I shot it. With
an outward display of truly scientific eagerness we divested ourselves
of our nether garments and waded waist deep through the torrent. We came
near quarrelling as to whether the water or the air was the coldest. But
at any rate we retrieved our bird, and what is more brought it, duly
preserved in spirits, through all the trials of travel and climate,
safely back to Dr. Lowe.

In the Chumbi Valley also we obtained the Great or Solitary Snipe
(_Gallinago solitaria_), an addition to last year’s list. But my
favourite family, the Redstarts, were the most interesting. The
beautiful White-capped Redstart (_Chimarhornis leucocephalus_), mostly
widely distributed in the Himalaya, was still with us. The Plumbeous
Redstart (_Rhyacornis fuliginosus_) and the Blue-fronted Redstart
(_Phœnicurus frontalis_) we had already obtained in Sikkim. These also
were present at the beginning of April in the Chumbi Valley. We obtained
in addition the beautiful Blue-tail or Red-flanked Bush-Robin (_Tarsiger
rafiliatus_). I understand that the three latter species have not been
previously recorded from this locality. The Blue-tail frequents dense
bushes over marshy spots and is very quiet and furtive in its habits,
while the Redstarts are the most obtrusive of birds, as to me they are
one of the most beautiful of families. At Phari I luckily obtained a
specimen of what I thought was the Indian Redstart, but the bird in the
hand proved again to be the Blue-fronted sort. At 17,000 feet, above the
Base Camp over the snout of the main Rongbuk Glacier, I saw a cock-bird
of Güldenstadt’s Redstart (_Phœnicurus erythrogaster grandis_),
fortunately a very easily recognisable bird, and one I had previously
seen in Nubra and the Karakoram country.

Although I had previously become somewhat familiar with bird-life in
Tibet, I was not prepared to see the teeming flocks of finches,
buntings, and larks which we met with on the bare stony uplands at every
old camping ground or village we encountered. A portion of this swarming
bird population appears to have been due to the spring migration being
at its height. Of this we had evidence before and during our passage of
the Jelep La, from Sikkim into the Chumbi Valley. At Phari and at Khamba
Dzong especially, the birds appeared not yet to have dispersed in pairs
to their breeding territory, but, though actually arrived at their
destination, to be still collected in migration flocks. Yet this
condition of things may be more apparent than real, for neither Norton
nor I ever managed to find any evidence of nesting behaviour in such an
extremely common bird as Brandt’s Ground Linnet. It is conceivable that
the inimical climatic conditions of Tibet are such as to condemn a
larger proportion than usual of the bird population to a celibate
existence, a condition which is at least by no means rare even in the
British Isles. A small piece of evidence is that the only four nests of
larks and wagtails which I found contained only three eggs each, as if
the altitude had reduced the number of eggs laid. It is to be noted that
in each case the eggs were incubated, and so the clutches were
presumably complete. But as an exception to this rule, at Chushar, on
June 13, I found a nest of the Eastern Desert Wheatear with a normal
clutch of five eggs.

In writing of nesting, it may be recorded that we obtained the eggs of
the Tibetan Snow Cock (_Tetraogallus tibetanus_) from nearly 17,000 feet
on the Pang La. At the Base Camp (16,500 feet), a Brown Accentor
(_Prunella f. fulvescens_) commenced building its nest in a crevice
between a stack of provision boxes in the middle of the camp on May 16.
Laying did not commence till May 25—a long period of delay—and was
completed with the third egg on the 27th. The hen commenced to sit at
once, and no more eggs were laid. Norton observed Alpine Choughs and
Rock Doves nesting in the cliffs above the Base Camp at an altitude of
17,000 feet. Besides the usual Ravens, and the species already named,
the Base Camp was visited by Brandt’s Ground Linnet (_Leucosticte
brandti_), a Sparrow, a Snow Finch, the Ground Chough (_Podoces
humilis_), and the Shore Lark (_Otocorys alpestris elwesi_).

Noel, during his vigil on the Chang La (23,000 feet), saw a small bird
fly above him, borne on the Westerly gale. But Wollaston’s Lammergeyer
maintains still the first place in altitude with a record of over 24,000
feet.

At Trangso Chumbab, on June 11, I had the opportunity of observing the
habits of Blandford’s Mountain-Finch (_Chionospiza blandfordi_). This
bird seems to live in amity with the Pikas (_Ochotona curzoniæ_) in
their burrows. I marked the birds bringing food to a Pika burrow, and
wishing to see what the young in down were like, Finch and I commenced
to dig out the hole. It proved, however, beyond our powers in the
sun-baked ground, so I fell to watching again. We had laid open the
burrow for about 2 feet. The hen-bird at once returned with food, but
alighting at the spot where the burrow formerly commenced, began
immediately to tunnel into the ground, quite oblivious of the true
opening in full view only 2 feet away. What would our nature writers say
to such a lapse of intellect? The bird burrowed with its beak, diving
its head into the ground and boring with a very rapid jerky twist so
that the sand was scattered in a small cloud. This was repeated several
times and on several visits. I then filled up the trench, leaving the
nesting hole open. On the next visit the bird flew down the hole, which
I then stopped with loose earth. In the morning the burrow had been
completely cleared and the birds were busily feeding their young again.
This seems to point to the conclusion that these birds are naturally
ground-dwellers, and are fully capable of making their own tunnels, but
that the abundance of Pika burrows has induced lazy habits. Mandelle’s
Snow-Finch (_Montifringilla mandelli_), not obtained by last year’s
Expedition, was shot by us at Pika warrens at Phari (April 7), and seen,
always associated with Pikas, on the following days.

On June 11, also, we were witnesses to what must be a common tragedy. A
family of small Brahminy ducklings—the Ruddy Sheldrake of Europe—were
making their noisy way down from some nesting site on the steppe to the
headwaters of the Arun—and safety. The parent birds may have taken
fright at our camp, through which the ducklings scuttled fearlessly. The
loathsome Ravens, gathered, as always, for carrion or camp refuse,
swooped down and attacked the hapless family, bolting a whole duckling
at each mouthful. Surely a gun would have done no harm here.

Norton made the interesting discovery that the Meadow Bunting (_Emberiza
cia godlewskii_) breeds in the Kama Valley, thus extending its breeding
range far to the South. It may, indeed, be expected that several species
now believed to breed only in Siberia may in fact be found nesting on
the Northern slopes of the Himalaya, and even in other highland regions
of Tibet. For here altitude comes to the assistance of latitude to
produce an arctic type of climate, flora, and fauna; though it must be
admitted that the aridity of Tibet must produce very different climatic
conditions to those obtaining in the far North. In Gnari Khorsum, 400
miles West of Everest, I had obtained specimens, with young in down, of
the Large Eastern Sand Plover (_Cirripedesmus mongolicus atrifrons_),
which previously was only known as a breeding species from much farther
North; and again, the day we left Tibet, at 17,000 feet, on the Serpo
La, I found another pair of these Dotterel, from their behaviour
obviously nesting, so to speak, at the very gates of India, for 10 miles
further on we had left everything Tibetan behind us—landscape, flowers,
birds, beasts, and insects were all different. Nowhere else in the world
can there be a sharper natural division than between the Tibetan
Highlands and the true Himalayan Zone.

The physical and climatic conditions prevailing in this part of Tibet
produces an environment hostile to reptilian and amphibian life. The
single Toad obtained last year was quite new to science, and Norton’s
capture of a second specimen is a great piece of luck. Miss Joan B.
Procter, F.Z.S., of the Natural History Museum, has described and named
it (_Cophophryne alticola_). It is remarkable by having the toes fully
webbed. She also writes that the Toad, together with the Frog (_Nanorana
pleskei_) and the Lizard (_Phrynocephalus theobaldi_), are all devoid of
external ears, the tympanum itself being absent in the Toad. This
unusual modification is attributed to the effect of altitude, but it has
also been suggested that the absence of ears is due to inherited atrophy
following generations of frost-bite—an interesting subject for the
followers of Weissman!

The fish, rejoicing in the name of _Schizopygopsis stoliczkæ_, is stated
by Mr. Norman never to have been previously obtained from such an
altitude.

With the Molluscs we drew blank, in spite of Norton’s energetic dredging
of tarns and pools at Kharta. Nor did any member of the Expedition
produce a single snail-shell, though all were armed with pill-boxes and
on the look out for them.

It is probably only among the various families of insects that any
important biological results may be hoped for from this Expedition. Our
collection from the Base Camp, greatly due to the assistance received
from Morris, of more than 300 beetles of a dozen or more species, may be
sufficient to show some evidence of the effect of environment. A number
of them are new to science, and, with one or two exceptions, were not
obtained last year. There are already described over 100,000 kinds of
beetles, and under these circumstances it is obvious that even such a
modest collection as ours will take some time to work out. Mr. K. G.
Blair, of the Natural History Museum, has it in hand, and, with the
assistance of Mr. H. E. Andrewes and Dr. G. A. K. Marshall, will
certainly make the most of it. His preliminary note gives 160 specimens
of four or perhaps five kinds of Ground Beetles (_Carabidæ_) belonging
to genera of Palæarctic distribution. Of the Tenebrionids there are 140
specimens belong to six species, probably all new, but characteristic of
the mountainous regions of Central Asia. Of the Weevils there are only
seventeen specimens, but they appear to belong to seven new species. Two
of these were kindly collected by Norton’s Toad.

Mr. B. P. Uvarov is working out the Orthoptera, and writes that our
Stick-Insect (Phasmid) is of great interest because the family is
essentially a sub-tropical group and has never been recorded from any
such high altitude before. We were lucky, also, in getting three more
specimens of Wollaston’s curious new Grasshopper (_Hypernephia
everesti_, Uvarov). At the same time, my old specimens from Purang have
been elevated into the type of a new species of a new genus (_Hyphinomos
fasciata_). Future visitors are earnestly requested to collect every
grasshopper-like insect they meet here, for the orthopterous fauna of
High Asia is wholly unexplored.

It must be remembered that we constantly passed through localities in
which it was inadvisable to show even a butterfly-net. When recrossing
the Pang La (17,000 feet), I lagged behind and spent a laborious hour
collecting disconcertingly quick-flying, woolly-bodied flies; these and
others are being worked out by Major E. E. Austen, D.S.O.

There is also a Burrowing Bee (_Ammophia sp._), the most interesting
insect I met. It is of a repellent ant-like aspect, of an evil black and
red pattern. It flies astonishingly fast, and can only be netted by
careful stalking when it lands to burrow in the sand. It is preparing a
tomb for a paralysed grub in which it will lay its own egg; on hatching,
the bee grub will feed on the living corpse of its entertainer. I first
observed it by noticing, as I rode along the banks of the Phung Chu,
tiny jets of sand being shot violently upwards from the ground, the
insect itself being quite invisible. My pony, a true Tibetan, loathed
the sight of a butterfly-net; I had no companion to hold him, and the
pursuit of science was attended by more than the usual trials.

A series of small Moths was obtained at the Base Camp, and Norton
collected more in Kharta. These are being worked out by Mr. W. H. T.
Tams, but in the case of Moths, identification is a particularly lengthy
and laborious business.

The Butterflies are naturally few in such an environment; nor does the
constant wind make their breathless capture any easier. Captain N. D.
Riley is working them out, and tells me that in general they resemble
our English butterflies, with other Alpine families. On a recent visit
to the Museum, I was excusing the scantiness of our collection,
explaining that, as a rule, I had only been able to collect while
crossing high passes. Indicating a series of small dark brown
“Ringlets,” rather the worse for wear, I said that that was all I saw
above 16,000 feet. “Why that,” said Riley, “is a new species of a new
genus!” So may our successors seize every opportunity that offers of
collecting even the least and most inconspicuous-looking insects in the
endeavour to assist our research workers in adding some particle to the
sum of our knowledge of nature.

   SKETCH-MAP OF MOUNT EVEREST AND THE RONGBUK GLACIERS.
  From surveys by Major Wheeler, with Route and Camps of the 1922
    Expedition added by Colonel Strutt.
  _London: Edward Arnold & Co._
]

  The Route of the
  MOUNT EVEREST EXPEDITION 1922
  CHUMBI TO MT. EVEREST
  _Published by Edward Arnold & Co. for the Mount Everest Committee_
    _from maps prepared by the Royal Geographical Society._
  (Click on map for larger version.)
]

                                 INDEX

 Abruzzi, Duke of, the, 115

 Acclimatisation, 77–78, 126–240, 288–289, 299–308

 Altitude, zones of, 262 _ff._;
   effects of, 305.
   _See_ Acclimatisation

 Ammu Chu valley, 29

 Army and Navy Stores, 21

 Arun river, 39, 43, 82–87, 97;
   gorges of, explored, 98–102

 Avalanche on Mount Everest, 69, 282–285

 Base Camp, the, 49–51, 124

 Bhong Chu, river, (= Arun, _q.v._)

 Bride Peak (Baltistan), 115

 Brown, Mr., 21

 Bruce, Captain J. G., 8, 20, 33, 130, 325;
   in second attempt on Mount Everest, 61–62, 116–117, 236–249, 254–257;
   leaves Base Camp for Kharta, 65, 80, 85, 89–90, 95

 Bruce, General C. G., 4–6, 8, 19–20;
   author of the _Narrative of the Expedition_, 17–118, 130, 143

 Bullock, Mr. G., 139, 156, 162

 Camp IV (on North Col.), 57;
   route to, from E. Rongbuk glacier, 125, 153–159, 173–175;
   from main Rongbuk glacier, 259

 Camp V (above North Col), 288

 Camps, problem of, 141, 258, 287, 291–292

 Camps I, II, and III on E. Rongbuk glacier, 52, 54–56, 145–152, 231

 Chang La (= North Col, _q.v._), 289, 329

 Changtse, mountain, 158

 Chey La, 105

 Chiu, camp, 108

 Cho Uyo, mountain, 72, 158, 209, 246

 Chobu village, 104

 Chodzong, camp, 43, 79

 Chog La, 89–90

 Chokarbo, camp, 89–90

 Chomolhari, mountain, 28

 Chomolonzo, mountain, 91

 Chomolungmo (= Mount Everest), 123

 Chongay, tent-mender, 21, 31, 92–94, 103

 Chongay La, agent of the Shekar Dzongpen, 42, 53, 57

 Chongray, Tibetan deity, 45

 Chotromo, camp, 98

 Chumbi valley, 27, 29–30, 38, 105, 111, 326–327

 Chushar, 329

 Cigarette-smoking, effects of, 266–267

 Clothing, 186–188, 262, 307.
   _See_ Wind-proof clothing

 Cooks, 23, 56

 Crampons. _See_ Foot-gear

 Crawford, Mr. C. G., 8, 20, 22, 38, 227–228;
   at Camp III, 168–169;
   in third attempt on Mount Everest, 275, 280–284;
   return to Darjeeling, 96–97, 114

 Dalai Lama, the, 85, 118

 Damtang, village, 92, 103

 Darjeeling, 20, 22, 114

 Dasno, Mallory’s porter, 153, 159

 Donka La, 32, 111

 Doya La, 66, 81–82

 Dra, village, 105

 Dreyer, Professor G., 253, 279

 Dzakar Chu, river, 43, 81, 104

 East Rongbuk glacier, 51, etc.
   _See_ Camps I, II, III

 Everest, Mount, 18, 114, 125;
   compared with Mont Blanc, 231–233;
   first attempt on, 58–60, 182–224, 253–254, 256;
   second attempt, 61–62, 227–250, 254–257;
   third attempt, 66–70, 273–286;
   weather conditions, 18, 170–171, 233–234, 275, 292

 Farrar, Captain J. P., 8–10

 Father William, 84, 104

 Finch, Captain George, 6, 10, 20, 22;
   joins main body at Kamba Dzong, 38, 227–228; 39, 58, 59;
   to site of Camp I, 230–231;
   at Base Camp, 231 _ff._,
   to Camp III, 234–235;
   second attempt on Mount Everest, 61–62, 116–117, 237–250, 254–257;
   starts on third attempt, but returns, 66–67, 251–252;
   return to Darjeeling, 67, 252.
   Author of Chapters VII, VIII, and IX

 Food, 177–180

 Foot-gear, 197, 268, 293

 Fuel, 51, 52, 93

 Gembu (= headman), 100

 Gnatong, bungalow, 26, 27, 112, 130

 Gurkhas, 5, 20

 Gyachang Kang, mountain, 72, 158, 209

 Gyaljen, sardar, 32–33, 63

 Gyamda, pony, 29, 80, 82

 Gyang’ka-nangpa, camp, 39, 133, 136–137

 Gyantse, town, 29, 110

 Hats, Homburg, as gifts, 42, 85

 Head-gear, 263, 268

 Howard-Bury, Colonel, 3, 4, 8, 17, 32, 39

 Hung Zungtrak, camp, 36

 Hurké Gurung, naik, 32

 Jelep La, 27, 38, 112, 131, 227

 Jelep valley, 29

 Jykhiop, camp, 107

 Kalimpong, 21, 22, 27, 227

 Kama valley, 88–89, 93, 171, 331

 Kanchenjunga, 112, 114

 Karma Paul, interpreter, 24, 45, 47, 63, 79

 Kehar Sing, cook, 80, 92

 Kellas, Dr., 38

 Khamba Dzong, 32, 37, 39, 109, 228

 Kharta valley, 65, 83

 Kharta Shika, 83, 87–89

 Khartaphu, mountain, 158

 Khombu La, 54

 Kosi river, 97

 Kyamathang, village, 97, 99–100

 Kyishong, camp, 106

 Laden La, Mr., 27

 Lal Sing Gurung, lance-naik, 32

 Leeches, 113

 Lhakpa La, 158

 Lhakpa Tsering, boy, 38

 Lhotse, 126

 Longstaff, Dr. T. G., 19, 130;
   first reconnaissance to site of camp III, 51–53, 64;
   return to Darjeeling, 65, 252.
   Author of Chapter XV

 Lumeh Camp, 104

 Lungdo, village, 100

 Lungtung, village, 26, 113

 Macdonald, Mr. John, 29–30, 63, 72, 106, 111, 113

 Makalu, mountain, 152, 171, 312

 Mallory, Mr. G. L., 4, 6, 9, 19, 130;
   attempt on Sangkar Ri, 39, 133–137;
   ascends 21,000 ft. peak near Base camp, 140;
   to Camp I, 144;
   Camp II, 146;
   Camp III, 148;
   to North Col and back, 57, 152–160, 301;
   at Camp III, 160–168;
   establishes Camp IV, 169–174, 300;
   first attempt on Mount Everest, 56–59, 175–224;
   third attempt, 273–286, 308;
   return to Darjeeling, 96–97.
   Author of Chapters IV–VI, X and XI

 Monsoon, the, 18, 50, 58, 68, 70, 275–276, 292

 Morris, Captain C. G., 8, 20, 21, 33;
   establishes Camp I, 52;
   meets party of second attempt on Everest at Camp III, 223;
   conducts evacuation of Camps I–III, 66–71;
   explores the Arun gorges, 95, 98–102

 Morshead, Major, 4, 8, 20, 130;
   on first reconnaissance to site of Camp III, 51–52;
   arrives at Camp III, 168;
   establishes Camp IV, 169–175;
   to 25,000 ft. camp on first attempt on Mount Everest, 56–59, 175–203,
      211–224;
   return to Darjeeling, 64–65, 252

 Mules, 27, 31, 34

 Nepal, Maharajah of, 75, 96, 103

 Nepalese language, 33;
   sheep, 91

 Ngangba La, 54

 Noel, Captain J. B., 8, 20, 23, 85, 130;
   at Base Camp, 50, 73–74;
   to North Col with the party of second attempt on Everest, 237;
   spends three nights there, 249, 289, 329;
   explores the Arun gorges, 95, 98–102 (his own account);
   leaves the main body and goes to Gyantse, 110

 North Col, 55;
   camp on, 57.
   _See_ Camp IV

 Norton, Major E. F., 6–7, 19, 24, 130, 131;
   to site of Camp I, 230–231;
   on first reconnaissance, 51–52;
   first attempt on Mount Everest, 58–59, 173–224;
   leaves Base camp for Kharta valley, 65, 84, 86;
   joins the main body, 87, 89, 95;
   botanical and zoological work, 321–322, 326, etc.

 Oxygen, 9–10, 52, 60, 69, 115–117, 231, 235–237, 243, 252–259, 263–266,
    291, 294, 303–305

 Pang La, 43, 334

 Pangli, camp, 105

 Pawhunri, mountain, 36

 Phari Dzong, 30–31, 33, 111, 131

 Pharmogoddra La, 108

 Popti La, 92, 103

 Porters, 5, 63, 94, 117, 286, etc.

 Pou, a cook, 151

 Primus stoves, 151, 176

 Pumori, mountain, 158, 247

 Rapiu La, 152, 168, 171, 236

 Rawlinson, Lord, 20

 Richengong, Camp, 29

 Rongbuk monastery, 43, 73

 Rongbuk Lama, 45–47, 74–75, 78, 275

 Rongli Chu, 26, 112, 114

 Rumoo collector of plants, 322

 Sakiathang, Camp, 89–91

 Sakia Chu, 102

 Samchang La, 89

 Sangkar Ri, mountain, 39, 133–137

 Sarabjit Thapa, lance-naik, 32

 Sedongchen, Camp, 113

 Serpo La, 331

 Shekar Dzong, 39–41, 105

 Sherpas, 33, 54, 63

 Shika. _See_ Kharta Shika

 Shiling, plain, 107, 136

 Shing (= fuel), 52

 Sikkim, 25–28, 110, 113, 309–310

 Snow-glasses, 263

 Somervell, Dr., 7, 10, 19, 130, 167;
   attempt on Sangkar Ri, 39, 133–137;
   ascends a 21,000 ft. peak near Base camp, 140;
   first attempt on Mount Everest (_see_ Mallory), 56–59, 144–224,
      301–302;
   third attempt, 273–286, 308;
   return to Darjeeling, 96–97, 114.
   Author of Chapters XII to XIV

 Strutt, Colonel E. L., 6, 19;
   fixes site of Camp I, 230–231;
   leader of first reconnaissance, 51–53;
   returns to Camp III and visits North Col, 56–58;
   return to Darjeeling, 65, 252

 Tang La, 32, 34

 Tashilumpo, Lama of, 85, 118

 Tatsang, village, 39, 110;
   nunnery, 37

 Tea, 177, 223;
   Tibetan tea, 46, 78

 Tejbir Bura, lance-naik, 20, 32, 58;
   in second attempt on Everest, 62, 234–244, 248, 254–256, 78, 81, 85

 Teng, village and camp, 82–85, 96–97

 Tibet, 228, 323

 Tibetan architecture, 313–314;
   atmosphere, 79–80, 311;
   colour, Chap. XIII;
   coolies, 53–54, 63;
   fauna, Chap. XV;
   food, 44;
   music, 230, 315–318;
   painting, 314;
   wind, 165, 228, 332–333;
   weather, 170

 Tinki Dzong, 39, 107–108;
   pass, 107, 132, 310

 Training, 39, 118, 130.
   _See_ Acclimatisation

 Trangso Chumbab, camp, 329

 Transport, 143, 168

 Trateza, camp, 82

 Tsanga, waterfall, 100

 Tzampa (= flour), 100

 Unna, Mr. P. J. H., 10

 Wakefield, Dr., 7, 19, 39, 130;
   meets the party of the first attempt on Everest, 223, 236;
   to Camp III with party of third attempt 70, 252, 275, 280

 Weatherall, Mr., 20–21

 Wheeler, Captain E. O., 4, 147

 Wind, 165, 172, 186.
   _See_ Everest, Tibet

 Wind-proof clothing, 59, 62, 117, 255, 259, 264, 266–267

 Wollaston, Dr. A. F. R., 322, 326, etc.

 Yaru, river, 39, 107, 138

 Yatung, 29, 131, 326

 Yulok La, 102

               Uniform with “Mount Everest: The Assault.”

                            MOUNT  EVEREST.
                       The Reconnaissance,  1921.
              By LIEUT.-COLONEL C. K. HOWARD-BURY, D.S.O.,
                  AND OTHER MEMBERS OF THE EXPEDITION.
         With 33 full-page illustrations and maps. Medium 8vo.
                               25s. net.
       Also a Limited Large Paper Edition, with additional plates
              in photogravure. Quarto, each copy numbered.
                              £5 5s. net.

“A remarkable contribution to the long and glorious story of British
endeavour in the high places of the earth. The whole is a splendid
record of clever and courageous enterprise.”—The Times.

“The book under review tells the tale of the doings of last year’s
journey, and a notable tale it is, well told, finely illustrated with
wonderful photographs, and excellently printed. The accompanying maps
enable us for the first time to describe the articulation of the whole
mountain region and to replace the vaguely guessed indication of
culminations and connexions by a labyrinth of glaciers and ridges, full
of meaning to geographers and those for whom the actual shape of the
surface of the earth has interest.”—Sir Martin Conway, M.P., in the
Manchester Guardian.

“Mr. Leigh-Mallory, who led the climbing party of the Everest
expedition, has written in ‘The Reconnaissance of the Mountain’ an epic
of mountaineering which deserves to be an abiding possession for all
those who have ventured themselves into the silence and desolation of
the high peaks.”—Morning Post.

“The book put together by the members of last year’s expedition, more
especially the maps and illustrations, makes us envious. Colonel Howard
Bury has told his story simply, with evident enjoyment. Mr. Leigh
Mallory, who gives us the story of the reconnaissance, is terse and
human and never tedious. He tells us exactly what we want to know.”—Mr.
Edmund Candler in the Nation.

“The story of the journey and the climbing adventure as told separately
by the leader and Mr. Mallory combine to make a narrative of singular
variety which sustains its interest to the end, and is agreeably
supplemented by the chapters of ‘Natural History Notes,’ contributed by
Dr. Wollaston.”—Mr. Douglas Freshfield in the New Statesman.

“As fascinating and picturesque as it is valuable. It will rank with the
best of its kind, and is assured of a success that is exceptionally well
deserved. It will satisfy both the expert and the casual reader, and
there can be nothing but praise for all concerned in it.”—Illustrated
London News.

“The book is admirably and enthusiastically written, very finely
illustrated, and in every way an ideal record of what will always be
considered a classical example of exploration in its first
stage.”—Country Life.

“Quite apart from its intrinsic interest it will be of the greatest
value to everybody who wishes to appreciate the attempt which is now
being made to continue the work and reach the absolute summit of the
highest mountain in the world.”—Westminster Gazette.

                      ----------------------------

                      LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD & CO.

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