While waiting for dinner in camp, I brought my accounts up to date and wrote a letter to Paris.
Tukucha, May 15th, 1950
My dear Devies,
We are just back from a long and tiring reconnaissance to the north of Annapurna, and I am writing at once to give you our news.
To begin with you can tell all our families that we are all very well indeed. Everybody’s in grand form, and Oudot’s tests confirm it. We’re all working splendidly together as a team. I can now report that the period of exploration is practically at an end.
Climbing: Upon my return we went thoroughly into the technical situation: the various routes on Dhaulagiri are not only extremely difficult but also, on certain sections, highly dangerous. On the other hand Annapurna offers several possibilities.
So yesterday I took the decision to direct the Expedition’s efforts towards this objective, and to send off a large-scale reconnaissance at once, which can be transformed without loss of time into a definite assault.
Actually, while Dhaulagiri rises alone like a monstrous pyramid, Annapurna dominates a mighty range comprising about fifty summits over 23,000 feet high, some very high ridges, and an almost inaccessible upper basin, with probably only one line of weakness – a depression by which we shall make our attack.
Yours ever,
MAURICE HERZOG
Why did we all feel so melancholy? Was it because some of our friends were already off on the adventure? Or was it because there was still some element of indecision? Or was it simply that we were tired? I couldn’t say. So while Gaston snored away conscientiously in his sleeping-bag, I worked late on figures, making estimates and drawing up my budget till my eyes closed.
The camp slowly came to life next morning; people got up and began to get busy.
The second party was due to leave early in the afternoon. The kitchen smoked and the Sherpas bustled around the tents, while the village children stared wide-eyed. One of the locals placidly twirled his distaff as he looked on, another had his eye on an old tin which spelt treasure to him, and a third blew into an old tube of condensed milk and burst it with a frightful pop.
The porters began to arrive one by one. They had been told to come in the afternoon, so of course they turned up in the morning; they would just have to wait and watch us. Pansy, Sarki and Aila had their heads deep in their wide-open sacks. I kept an eye on them because, with an excess either of prudence or mistrust, they tended to take all their belongings along with them. I thought it quite unnecessary for them to be burdened with three pairs of trousers, but on the other hand I did not hesitate to load them up with extra ropes.
Sounds of Indian music reached me from the mess tent where Noyelle was trying to get the news on the wireless. This renewed contact with the world beyond turned our thoughts away for a moment from our tasks. What news had they of us in France? Here we had heard nothing from home – not a word; in spite of all our inquiries, complaints to the Nepalese, and special messengers, the mystery of our mail remained unsolved.
When our meal appeared we threw ourselves upon the food, making free, while we had the chance, of all condiments, vinegar and anything spicy.
Now it was time for the second party’s departure; yesterday’s scenes were repeated in an atmosphere of mounting excitement. Rébuffat supervised the provisions and Couzy the equipment. The horses arrived; by good luck the porters were there.
The afternoon was already well advanced, hot and thundery. Saying goodbye to Ichac, Noyelle and Oudot, we dug our heels into our horses’ flanks.
It was our turn to set out on the great adventure.
7
The Miristi Khola
WE PASSED ALONG Tukucha’s main street at a gentle trot, through a crowd of lousy children, women scouring their pans and old men who observed us from their doorways; the Sahibs were up to something new.
The crossing of the Dambush Khola was a tricky operation. Perched up on our mounts we tried to avoid getting our boots wet, and might have managed it if we had not been obliged to keep close to our horses’ heads to guide them firmly through the rushing river, and if the local saddles had not had the disagreeable habit of slipping round the animals’ bellies, or the over-taut girths had not chosen the most inconvenient moments to give way. Rébuffat, who has long legs, crossed over boldly, with his feet in the water.
‘It’s better to get your feet wet,’ he explained, ‘than be soaked all over.’
On the broad plain of Tukucha we urged our steeds to a decent pace. One of the straps of Rébuffat’s saddle broke and he completely lost his balance; he did not seem to be aware of the comic figure he cut as he clung to his horse. I offered to change mounts with him but eventually we got things straight and galloped on.
Passing through the familiar villages of Khanti and Larjung we came to the little village of Dhumpu – extremely primitive, but with most friendly inhabitants – and then started up the slope to Lete. The garawalas, or grooms, who were waiting for us there were getting anxious: it was late – how were they going to get the horses back to Tukucha? Since the path was good, why should we not proceed with the horses and so save time? The grooms could trot along behind us. The moment came when we really had to dismount. The garawalas came up dripping with sweat and did not conceal their satisfaction at seeing the end of the gallop – nor did we, for that matter.
We started off along a poorish track which struck off to the left and which, according to Couzy, should lead us to the hamlet of Choya. Soon we came in sight of the village; there was a lot of coming and going at the first house, and coolies were climbing up and down a ladder. The sounds of laughter, singing and general hilarity led me to suspect that chang – rice-alcohol – was being generously distributed. Its sale is forbidden in Nepal; but that was no good reason for giving one’s guests a poor welcome!
Not long after we had left the village we came upon the main body of porters – whom I had sent on ahead, in view of the long march – comfortably settled in the cool grass with their loads lying round them. We shouted at them, and in the twinkling of an eye the loads were picked up and the porters disappeared with a rapidity of which I should not have thought them capable. As darkness fell we skirted some large boulders and came out on to an alp perched on the edge of a precipice. Sarki and Aila quickly got the tents up, unpacked the evening’s provisions and lit a great fire. It was late, and we ate our meal in silence and then all got into our sleeping-bags.
Next morning we soon found ourselves all together on a narrow track leading down to the river-bed. It was at this spot that, later on, Marcel Ichac and Jacques Oudot met a band of monkeys going up the valley. We now followed a path along the side of the cliff, and after a steep descent we emerged suddenly beside the Chadziou Khola, not, at this season, a very large stream. There was no difficulty about crossing it, but even for those who had been there before, it was quite impossible to make out the slightest vestige of a track on the other side where a stretch of thick and apparently impenetrable jungle seemed to run far up the mountain side. Couzy informed us that this was the last water until the evening of the next day, and we filled up every available container. The Sherpas and the porters went on drinking indefinitely, like camels.
The ascent began with a climb up a vertical slab of rock. The track went up in steep zigzags, obstructed by bamboos, dead tree-trunks and trees which straggled over the path in an attempt to reach the light, and the air was damp and heavy. Couzy and I embarked on a long discussion: we had got as far as Bergson and Jünger when we came upon a delightful meadow bright with snowdrops and a variety of other flowers.
‘It was here that Oudot, Schatz and I bivouacked on April 27th,’ said Couzy. Mountaineers are great lovers of routine, so we had lunch there. Tubes of condensed milk were passed round. Those who were not sick of this form of nourishment sucked concentrated fruit tablets, and while the last of the sweating porters were still arriving, the smoke curled up from our cigarettes. Couzy had grown meditative as a
result of our discussion and Rébuffat thought of his little Dominique, of whom he had received no news.
Resuming our march, we suddenly found ourselves, at a turning of the path, in a grove of trees resplendent with brilliant coloured flowers whose names I did not know. No vaulted roof could have been more magnificent. The track went on across a beautiful clearing. Round us was a cemetery of charred deodars whose trunks rose well over a hundred feet high, and giant rhododendrons bordering our path hung out great clusters of pink and red flowers. The Sherpas rushed up to some trees like red birches, made holes in the trunks with their ice-axes, fixed an empty tin underneath and so got a few mouthfuls of fresh water.
We now climbed painfully up a desperately long and steep couloir full of loose stones.
‘There are lots of marmots here,’ said Rébuffat.
But though I kept my eyes skinned I did not see a single one. At the top, which must have been about 13,000 feet high, we stopped again to smoke a cigarette while we waited for the porters. They had gone splendidly so far, but I could see they were tired. The ground was becoming more difficult and their loads, which were held by straps round their foreheads, tended to make them overbalance downhill. It was rough and painful for their bare feet and they did not feel at all safe. Further on, we had to cross a large patch of snow where we enlarged the track and stamped it down, but our porters, doubled under the weight of the containers, looked most unhappy. I felt vaguely guilty as I walked along in my comfortable boots.
The weather turned really bad and it rained solidly. We kept together so as not to lose each other, and advanced by guess-work over the gentle slopes of an alp up to the cairn which marked the pass that was the goal of this day’s journey. We pitched the tents in an indescribable muddle; our only thought was to get under cover the minute they were up. We had climbed over 6000 feet in the day to reach the pass which we decided once for all to call ‘Pass of April 27th’. Couzy, Oudot and Schatz, who discovered it, deserved great credit for picking out the various vague tracks and following them up to the end.
The day’s route was planned to cross the buttresses of the Nilgiris, always keeping well above the Miristi Khola. When impassable ravines barred our way we went higher up and then descended again right to the river’s edge where the gorges became practicable once more. Endlessly we carried out these flanking movements, going up and down the ravines, crossing streams, large and small. Here and there, by good luck, we found boulders which had been up-ended. These guiding marks were dotted along the route taken by the first party the day before, and on a patch of snow I read the time at which they had passed, written by Schatz. Roughly speaking, we were keeping to the same time-table.
We were covered in cloud and I could get no general view of the ground over which we were passing. Early in the afternoon we got to a point from which any further progress appeared very difficult, so we hailed Couzy, our guide: he hesitated a bit, retraced his steps, then called to us triumphantly: on a small boulder, held in place by some stones, was a pennant of the Club Alpin Français which marked the beginning of the descent to the Miristi Khola. We started down some steep grassy slopes where the porters, whose morale was not very good, kept on slipping. It rained and snowed and the way seemed interminable. Suddenly I heard a shout, and as I went forward I saw a wood fire, and round it, the porters of the first party who, having deposited their loads, were returning to the valley. Conversations began in Gurkhali. Once more I noticed how well this language of short words and guttural sounds can be understood at a great distance.
The slope continued over steep rock slabs, and then skirted along cliffs in which we could make out some enormous caves. Couzy assured me that the previous time he had been that way a herd of thar, taking things easy by the entrance to these grottos, did not even trouble to move as he went by. But today I had the rifle, and of course there was not an animal to be seen.
A few minutes later we were all assembled on the banks of the Miristi Khola, a turbulent river that drains all the waters from the upper basins of Annapurna, the Great Barrier and the Nilgiris. From now on the route lay along the opposite bank, so we had to cross over. I spotted some tree-trunks which the others had placed the day before, but our coolies refused to venture on them with their loads. Rébuffat and I did not hesitate: we would take the stuff over ourselves.
Now Rébuffat was transformed into a porter; he had the straps supporting the containers placed round his forehead, and his head, his neck and his long body swayed dangerously. He approached the torrent, started across with Couzy’s support, then balancing by himself took a few steps over the foaming water, and stretching out his arms reached me where I was standing on a boulder sticking out of the water: from that point I could take the loads on safely.
This manoeuvre was repeated a number of times, but one of the loads made me anxious; it was very heavy and very awkward, consisting of two base camp units and one high-altitude unit. Rébuffat advanced, hesitated, lost his balance, just managed to regain it, and advanced again, slowly. Then the strap round his forehead slipped, the load was hurled into the water, and in a flash I foresaw the irreparable loss of our tents.
Couzy and I reacted in the same way: from our opposite banks we each tried to grab the tents, and madly hopped about from boulder to boulder. I missed once, jumped along further, and just before a big eddy which held up the load, managed to stick the point of my ice-axe into a bit of stuff and pulled the load out. The rest of the operation went off perfectly.
Next day, in appreciably better weather, we left early. I went on about an hour ahead of the rest of the party and, towards midday, met Marcel Schatz, who had come out to look for us. He gave me the latest news: Louis Lachenal and Lionel Terray had left that morning on a reconnaissance of the north-west spur of Annapurna. Near the Base Camp the moraines flattened out, the valley of the Miristi widened, and there was a better view of our surroundings. The spur which ran down and petered out a few hundred yards from where we were did not look too bad, but without quite knowing why, I did not feel keen on this route. Since our experiences on Dhaulagiri I was suspicious of ridges. I was afraid that even if it did not present any insurmountable difficulties, this ridge would be troublesome, and I could not bring myself to turn the reconnaissance into a full-scale assault until we had completed our exploration. This meant, practically speaking, not before we had set foot upon the upper plateau of Annapurna. Schatz and I arrived at Base Camp, which was pitched among the moraines in the midst of a vast stony desert with little blue-green lakes dotted about in the hollows. From here it would be a day’s march to the Great Barrier which blocked the horizon to the east, or to the Nilgiris on the north. Snow was falling and we sheltered in one of the tents where hours passed in prolonged discussions …
There were sounds of stones displaced, ice-axes clanging against the rocks, bad language – evidently the Lachenal-Terray party had arrived. A flap of the tent was jerked back and a boisterous greeting flung in: the pair were clearly in full cry. I could see they were very tired, but resolute and optimistic. They pulled off their snow-covered clothes and while they sipped their tea told me what they had done during the day. This celebrated partnership, which had conquered all the finest and most formidable of our Alpine faces, was today living up to its reputation.
‘It’s not exactly a picnic,’ said Terray.
‘I should say not!’ put in Lachenal vehemently. ‘There are pitches which are easily grade 5.’1
‘Grade 5!’ I was horrified. ‘How on earth do you think Sherpas can climb pitches of that difficulty?’
‘There are only sections here and there.’
‘We can fix ropes and by pulling and pushing the Sherpas we’ll manage all right.’
‘We’ll see. And apart from these pitches what’s the ridge like?’
‘It’s certainly very long,’ said Terray, ‘and the further you go the more difficult it becomes.’
‘And no doubt becomes impossible beyond the point you got to!’
‘I don’t really think so. We stopped at about 11 o’clock this morning, climbing since dawn up to somewhere near 18,000 feet. A bit higher up the ridge steepens again and becomes snowy. After that we could see no more, but I think, and Biscante agrees with me, that it must run up into the upper plateau of Annapurna a few hundred yards higher up.’
‘Perhaps!’ I remarked sceptically.
‘Listen, Maurice, it’s quite simple. All we have to do,’ proposed Terray, ‘is to go there in strength. Tomorrow we’ll all set to work and move Base Gamp to the summit of the grassy saddle and then begin the assault.’
‘And we shall have saved several days of indecision,’ added Lachenal.
‘And perhaps we shall have spoiled all our chances,’ I replied. ‘If the attack upon the spur should be unsuccessful we’d have to move Base Camp again and come down into the valley and then start up once more. It’s out of the question. I’ve no intention of hazarding the whole strength of the Expedition on a route we know so little about. Let’s push on further with the reconnaissance you have already made; tomorrow let’s go beyond the point where you stopped – on until we are certain that it’s practicable right up to the summit. We won’t make the final decision until then.’
‘You are an obstinate old devil!’
Lachenal and Terray stormed away at me. They thought we ought to decide to attack at once, and kept on insisting how sure they were this route would go. I knew my friends well and had my doubts of their wild enthusiasm; they were in a very excitable state after their day’s exertions. I was the responsible person and it was up to me to supply the element of prudence: I stuck to my decision. Tomorrow morning we would all go up the spur, taking light camping gear, and we would return only after we had made sure. Base Camp would remain where it was for the moment, and our explorations would be on the scale of a strong reconnaissance party. While my friends dried themselves, tidied up, and got things ready for the next day, I wrote a note for the rearguard:
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