Expeditions, the lightweight trip and true alpine style. What is the Future? Stephen Venables, with spadework by Ken Wilson, discusses the evolution of lightweight Himalayan climbing, its key influences and its likely future direction.
Britain is lucky to have developed a tradition of lightweight expeditioning going back to early days mountaineering. In at the start of the “sport” of alpinism in the mid-nineteenth century it was not long before forays were being made to the greater ranges of the Caucasus and the Himalaya, much of which lay conveniently within Britain’s area of political influence at the height of the Empire.
The names of Freshfield, Younghusband, Conway, Moorcroft, Everest, Bruce, Godwin Austen, Montgomerie resonate down through the ages as intrepid explorer/mountaineer/surveyors who delved into the great Himalayan ranges during those early years – all recorded in Kenneth Mason’s classic Himalayan history Abode of Snow.
Having identified the great mountains and pinpointed their approaches it was not long before sporting mountaineers (usually with their European guides), hotfoot from their Alpine and Caucasus adventures, began to tackle the mountains themselves. Among a range of projects were major attempts on K2 (1902, 1909), Nanga Parbat (1895) and Kangchenjunga (1895, 1905). There were also a variety of more modest expeditions including C.F.Meade’s near successful attempt on Kamet (1913).
Perhaps two key events can be singled out that typify this period – the Duke of Abruzzi’s great Karakoram expedition of 1909 and the Longstaff / Bruce / Mumm expedition to the Nanda Devi region in 1907. These made a considerable impact. Abruzzi had taken Vittorio Sella on his trip whose photographs of such mountains as K2, Paiju, Mustagh Tower, the Gasherbrums, Chogolisa and Broad Peak left a profound and enduring impression. Longstaff later wrote a classic book – This My Voyage – in which he related his Garhwal travels in an inspiring manner, introducing Changabang with an evocative full-frontal photograph, investigating the Rishi Gorge and finally pulling off a rapid lightweight ascent of Trisul 23,360ft.
Although there were many other interesting expeditions during the pre-World War 1 decade (by the likes of the Workmans, Neve, Meade, Kellas and others) it is fair to say that these two well-publicised ventures – Abruzzi’s Karakoram campaign and Longstaff’s lightning dash up Trisul – came to typify the different styles of mountaineering for the next half century – the large well-organised expedition, served by armies of porters contrasting with the fast-moving, cross-country trip, living off the land and aided by locally recruited men.
The Great War intervened, its carnage and later austerities slowing the advance of mountaineering in the subsequent years. Again the British were the ones best placed for recovery because of their Empire position in India and associated influence on Tibet. This enabled them to mount repeated expeditions to Everest via Sikkim and Tibet – ponderous affairs which proved that Everest, particularly from the north, is actually a very awkward mountain. Nevertheless many of the climbers performed very well, far above 8000 metres, with the most basic equipment and no oxygen assistance, providing inspiration for later pioneers such as Hermann Buhl and Reinhold Messner. The original Everest reconnaissance in 1921, and a later reconnaissance trip (led by Shipton) in 1935, proved the exception to the dogged intensity of the struggles on the mountain itself. These two reconnaissances were notable for the simple reason that they ranged around the great peak rather than on it, gaining passes, ascending vantage point summits – moving fast, traveling light. Charles Warren, the doctor on the 1935 trip, was in the thick of these swashbuckling travels. “Was it twelve peaks that you climbed in 1935” he was asked during an interview shortly before his death. There was a long pause while the aging brain cogs slipped slowly into place. “No, it was twenty-two” came the response accompanied by a weak but perceptible chuckle.
These fast moving ascents of Mallory, Bruce, Nyima and their friends in 1921 and Shipton, Warren, Tilman et al in 1935 enlivened the otherwise repetitive Everest events. It is doubtful whether any modern expedition has knocked off virgin summits with quite the same nonchalant abandon. As for the big set pieces (1922, 1924, 1933, 1936 and 1938) given the limited equipment and knowledge at the time, there were comparatively few cases of frostbite and only two expeditions tarnished by death – seven sherpas killed by avalanche in 1922 ; two porters and Mallory and Irvine killed in 1924.
The experience was worse on the other great peaks. An International trip to Kangchenjunga in 1930 (which included Frank Smythe) baulked at the serious avalanche danger (which killed the sirdar Chettan and came close to wiping out sixteen others) and turned instead to a series of less serious ascents of satellite peaks including Jonsong Peak (24,344ft). A 1931 Kangchenjunga venture by Paul Bauer (building on an earlier attempt in 1929) also experienced tragedy (one climber and one sherpa) and cut its losses when confronted by awesome difficulties. In 1936 Bauer returned with a small group to make a scintillating alpine-style ascent of Siniolchu (22,600ft), a captivating peak made famous by one of Sella ‘s early photos. Four climbers and a local dog (Wastl – uninvited) made the ascent – the final summit tower being completed by Adi Göttner and Karl Wien with Bauer, Günther Hepp and the dog remaining below in close support following a high final camp using bivouac sacs.
On the harder parts of the descent Wastl adopted a novel technique. He waited until the roped climbers were spaced below him and then jumped from climber to climber, repeating the process after the climbers moved down further. Wastl thus joined the ranks of plucky mountaineering dogs – a distinguished group that includes Coolidge’s Tschingel and Muir’s Stikine, though in Wastl’s case he might reasonably claim to be the first alpine-style canine Himalayan climber.
The Siniolchu success closely followed the 1935 winter first ascent of another Kanchenjunga satellite – Kabru (24,002ft) – by Charlie Cooke (solo on the final climb), a fine achievement that also needs reappraisal in the annals. Nanga Parbat proved an anvil that broke some of Europe’s finest climbers. In 1895 Mummery, Hastings and Collie made a fine lightweight attempt on the Diamir Face but Mummery and two porters later disappeared while trying to cross a high pass to mount another attempt on the Rakhiot Face. Worse was to come. In 1934 a very strong German expedition had a disastrous retreat from the Silver Saddle in a storm when Willo Welzenbach and Willy Merkl and four sherpas died and other porters narrowly escaped some with frostbite injuries. Mountain commentators at the time looked on this as the scandalous consequence of overambition and recently there have been even more damning revelations from Ang Tsering (the last survivor) in the new book Tigers in the Snow.
This tragedy was to pale into insignificance when matched against the demise of the 1937 trip in which seven climbers and nine sherpas died when their camp was engulfed in an ice avalanche. This included three of those that had been involved in the first ascent of Siniolchu the previous year.
The whole ethical question of placing sherpa porters at risk when serving major expeditions came sharply under scrutiny after these twin German disasters, a scandal that gained even more strength after the sad demise of three sherpas on K2 in 1939 while trying to reach the stricken Dudley Wolfe, who had become stranded high on the peak . The sherpas were led in their heroic “mercy dash” by the respected sirdar Pasang Kikuli (Nanga Parbat survivor in 1934 and a key figure on the 1936 Nanda Devi expedition). A few days before the disaster Fritz Wiessner achieved some astonishingly hard oxygen-less climbing very close to the summit of K2; but his leadership was questionable. To many critics he was overambitious and the expedition was only brought to a halt high on the mountain by the caution of Pasang Dawa Lama but unfortunately not sufficiently early to save Wolfe and his brave rescuers. Their sacrifice remains as a lasting memorial to sherpa honour.
Thus the record of big expeditions during the 1930s was grim … they appeared to attract all the factors (ambition, national prestige, overcommitment) that could combine into a tragedy. Conversely lighter and more frugal enterprises, providing they involved skilled and fit mountaineers, had a far better record – climbers could concentrate on the matter in hand, free from the distractions and unnecessary complications frequently suffered by a big expedition.
The highlights of this type of free-range climbing during the interwar years are Tilman’s and Shipton’s Rishi Gorge expedition in 1934, their aforementioned Everest travels in 1935 and their stunningly wide-ranging Karakoram explorations of 1937 (described vividly in Blank on the Map). This fabulous trip, celebrated in an equally fabulous book, has proved inspirational for many post-war explorers. It inspired Diemberger to penetrate the Shaksgam, a string of highly talented climbers to tackle the Latok peaks, the whole Trango Tower saga including the similar rock essays on nearby Uli Biaho Tower and what has become known as Shipton Spire. The climbs on the Ogre, Sosbun Brakk and even the north side of K2 can be traced back to the influence of this trip. And there is more to come as the many of the peaks that were identified alongside the Skamri Glacier on the Chinese side of the range, such as The Fangs, still await detailed investigation. Shipton could barely conceal his excitement at the climax of the expedition as the party reached the watershed area of passes linking the Skamri Glacier to Snow Lake:
“Now at last we were in a position, still with many weeks’ food at our disposal, to make a prolonged exploration of this exciting country, and to indulge in that most absorbing of all forms of mountaineering – the search for passes which lead from one unknown region to another. But there was a very large field to be covered, and so many alternative plans, that it was hard to choose between them. For this reason we decided to split into three self contained groups, each with its separate objective ….”
Tilman and his team crossed Snow Lake and a pass north of Sosbun Brak to explore the ranges around Hikmul and Ganchen, Auden’s party crossed to the Nobande Sobande glacier system and Shipton and Spender concentrated their attentions on the Braldu Glacier to the north.
Shipton was so enthralled by the region that he returned with another strong survey group in 1939 to put a base camp on Snow Lake and from there investigate the surrounding ranges. Its main result was a greater understanding of the intricacies and possibilities of the Ogre and Latok massifs. One photograph of the Choktoi face of Latok in Upon That Mountain had the same inspirational effect as seeing a Himalayan Grandes Jorasses with its Walker Spur for the first time. Despite several powerful attempts by British and American teams during the last twenty years the route remains unclimbed.
Shipton and Tilman might thus reasonably be hailed as the true popularisers of lightweight mountain exploration. They did not invent the idea – nor were they its only exponents – but the sheer scope of their explorations and the quality of their books continue to enthrall and inspire. Though their actual ascents were modest (apart from the orgy of peak-bagging around Everest in 1935), the discoveries on their trips and the strategies and projects suggested for the future were immense. The Garhwal explorations of Smythe’s Kamet expedition (in which Shipton played a prominent role) were also of great importance. Indeed the Garhwal proved the ideal venue for mountaineers in the 1930s with peaks of just the right size for the experience, equipment and knowledge of the day. In 1936 Tilman and three other Brits joined with Charles Houston’s Harvard quartet to pull off the first ascent of Nanda Devi (25645ft/7816m) – the highest Himalayan peak to be climbed until 1950. This stunning success topped the 1931 Kamet ascent. But in 1937 Smythe and Peter Oliver and a small sherpa team enjoyed a fabulously successful lightweight trip to the Zaskar range south of Kamet, climbing Mana Peak and Nilgiri in exemplary style (and also making strong attempts on Rataban, Nilkanth and Dunagiri) – climbs described in Smythe’s fine book The Valley of Flowers.
Other Garhwal highlights of this period were the Swiss and Polish expeditions of 1939 led by André Roch and Adam Karpinski. Both recorded success and tragedy. The Swiss team made a host of first ascents, notably Hathi Parbat, Gauri Parbat and Dunagiri (7066m), but finally overreached themselves on Chaukhamba when they were avalanched and two porters died. The Poles climbed Nanda Devi East (7434m) after a tough struggle but then turned their attention to Tirsuli where Karpinski and Stefan Bernadzikiewicz died in a high camp, buried by an avalanche. For British readers perhaps the most interesting of all the lightweight successes of this period was the 1933 first ascent of Bhagirathi III (which they mistakenly called Satopanth II) by Colin Kirkus and Charles Warren, both on their first Himalayan trip with the great Liverpudlian Tibetologist, Marco Pallis. Modern climbers descending the Kirkus/Warren route after climbing one of Bhagirathi’s big modern rock routes) have been impressed by its sections of hard rock climbing done on sight in 1933 and described in Kirkus’s Lets Go Climbing.
The writings of Shipton, Tilman and Smythe in particular, following on from Longstaff, are essential reading for prospective lightweight expeditioner. Whether any really clear-cut line can be drawn between a heavyweight expedition (with porters, cooks etc) and a true alpine-style trip is a much-debated question. Many relatively frugal, yet major ascents have resorted to some fixed roping and stockpiling to achieve their ends. Examples of this type of climb are Kanchenjunga (1979), our Everest Kangshung Face venture (1988), Changabang (1974, 1976) and the now legendary Ogre ascent of 1977, only recently repeated after many failed attempts.
Alpine-style purists like the late Alan Rouse (Jannu 1978, Kongur 1981) and Mick Fowler (Spantik 1987, Taweche1995, Changabang 1997) may well look from the lofty heights of true purism at these flawed ventures. They may be right but I feel that the true credo should be a generally lightweight approach to climb the mountain in the safest and most logical and most enjoyable way. I, for one, like to have enough to eat, and somewhere comfortable to sleep, and aim to return alive. I am happy to compromise to achieve those ends. However, the main thing is to climb the route in the most logical and efficient way. Sometimes this will be a fast, no-turning-back push (as employed on Shisha Pangma 1982) but on other occasions some pre-preparation will be sensible. It is the degree and suitability of such expediency that forms the kernel of this debate. Andy Fanshawe and I weighed all of this in the balance in Himalaya Alpine Style; many of the climbs we described were not actually achieved in true alpine style – but were alpine style in spirit.
Certainly there are many Himalayan climbs, such as Messner’s solo ascent of the Diamir Face on Nanga Parbat , where alpine-style is the best and safest option to minimise exposure to objective danger. Where the future will lie on the bigger and more technical projects remains open to speculation. Already French, Polish, Spanish and Slovenian teams have made or attempted big climbs of this type. The steady improvements in food, fuel and equipment will allow bolder and bolder ascents using snow holes, lightweight tents and (on steep rock) portaledges. Good training, acclimatisation and speed will also be a factor, particularly on ice where very rapid movement is now possible because of improved techniques and equipment (prominently displayed on the recent Ama Dablam ascent by Jules Cartwright and Rich Cross). But it is well to understand that the higher the peak, the tougher the project. Altitude is a harsh examiner of physique, stamina and acclimatisation; technical ability allows speed but it does not guarantee survival. Rock climbing, in particular, becomes extremely arduous at the higher altitudes.
Notwithstanding these problems we are now surely looking forward to an era of the super traverse? These will be Himalayan versions of the Bezingi Traverse in the Caucasus on peaks like Lhotse/Everest (the Kangshung Horseshoe?), Kangchenjunga/Jannu, all the Gasherbrums, and Nanga Parbat.
The Broad Peak traverse was done in the eighties by Kukuczka and Kurtyka in pure alpine style, proving that such things can be done at 8000 metres. So far no one has managed to do the same thing at nearly 9000 metres (the Russian traverse of Kangchenjunga was a massive, oxygen-assisted, team effort with careful pre-placing of high camps). As for the really technical mixed/rock climbs on peaks over 7000 metres such as the Ogre … people talk a lot about alpine-style but few genuinely achieve it. A notable exception was the Saunders/Fowler ascent of Spantik’s Golden Pillar (with one cache half way up) in 1987. Most people, faced with routes of similar altitude and difficulty, have ended up doing quite a lot of jumaring. And no one has yet – despite all the talk – even begun to get to grips with the ultimate high-altitude technical challenges such as the North Face Direct on Jannu, the North Spur of Masherbrum or the West Face Direct on Makalu.
While most of us content ourselves with amiable wanderings amongst the easier, unknown, unclimbed lower peaks of the Himalaya – or stir ourselves to join the queues on the increasingly crowded “voies normales” up Everest, Cho Oyu, Ama Dablam and the like – it will be interesting to see what the groundbreakers get up to. No doubt much ink will be spilt – and much hot air blasted through the pubs, lecture halls and chai houses frequented by Himalayan climbers – but sooner or later the stars will emerge, redefining what is possible. In the meantime, for the sheer joy of Himalayan wandering and exploration, we have the books of people like Longstaff, Tilman, Smythe and Shipton to inspire us.
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