Dartmouth in the High Hills
A Junior Paints a Vivid Picture of the Latest Assault On K-2, Unconquered Himalayan Peak GEORGE C. SHELDON '41
HAD YOU BEEN ON MARS last June and had you availed yourself of that planetary position to look through a telescope at a rugged strip of land some fifteen hundred miles long apparently tying India to Central Asia, you could have rightly said, "Those are the Himalaya mountains." Had your telescope been especially powerful you would have been able to see, June 31, three tiny figures sitting before the immense massif of snow and rock which was K-2, the second highest mountain on earth. Then you undoubtedly would have said, "I'll be a son-of-a-gun .... these Dartmouth guys sure get around." Indeed they do! The American and Canadian Rockies, Switzerland, New Zealand, Norway, the Andes, Australia, .... wherever you find mountains. And last summer one senior and two juniors took to the Himalaya as members of the 2nd American Karakoram Expedition
Jack Durrance, Chappell Cranmer, and myself. Therein lies a story. Jack Durrance was the guiding star in the formation of the Dartmouth Mountaineering Club back in the fall of '36. As one might guess, it was founded to meet and mould the active interest in mountains which at that time was beginning to flicker about the campus. Anybody who wanted to climb was eligible. Charter members of the club trained them in the technique that they might climb safely. As time progressed, those early neophytes reached the point where they could carry on and train others as they appeared. To Jack Durrance goes the credit that in the four years of the club's activity there has been no injury to any member of the club. To Jack Durrance too goes the fruit of the training when he and two of his pupils were judged capable of the toughest mountaineering task in the world .... the Himalaya.
The three of us together with Fritz Wiessner, the leader, Tony Cromwell, and Dudley Wolfe landed at Bombay the 10th of April after a torrid but pleasant trip down the Red Sea and across the Arabian Ocean. At Srinagar, the capitol of Kashiir, we loafed and packed for a fortnight before starting the 350 mile trek through the heart of the Himalaya to K-2. Not without reason is Srinagar called the Venice of the East we happily discovered. Our western feet wandered through the town; our infidel bottoms rode dainty shikars over the canals and lakes. The land of the Lotus Eaters! We skied above it for eight days on snow white hills while fleecy clouds rode on the steamy Vale below us.
The and day of May we began our long journey.... eastward from the Vale and over the Zoji La by moonlight into the very depths of the Himalaya fastness. Down through the Indus valley, pausing in the evenings at little villages where in fragrant orchards the pale lavender apricot blossoms cloaked the ground in misty whiteness. The crescent moon shone down upon us and we breathed deep of eastern mysticism. Crossing the Indus .... a swirling glacial flood from the highest of the snow mountains. Up the Braldo Valley. Only occasional villages now, squalid pathetic places where the natives smiled and worked in the face of the most exacting environment. Fording icy rivers which clutched your feet and enveloped them in cold which made you cry. The crazy high riding zakhs rafts made from inflated goat skins.... which took us across one river .... a river any man in his right mind would have stayed away from. Rope bridges .... the scourge of the Himalaya traveler. Three spider webs stretched across gaping chasms. Three puny ropes made of birch twigs woven together. One for the feet and one for either hand. They swayed; you gulped. At any moment they threaten to turn over and dump you into the pounding torrents below. A discouraging rumour: rope bridges are never replaced until they have fallen with some unfortunate victim upon them.
Then suddenly we are past the last little village and on the Baltoro glacier the winding ribbon of ice which stretches some forty miles down between the highest group of mountains in the world. Mountains which ride high above you, all around you, spearing the clouds with their fantastic ridges and spires. Higher than any mountains you dreamed existed until you suddenly come to the head of the glacier. Around the corner onto the Godwin-Austin glacier. There she is. K-s, 28,250 feet of her, rock, ice, snow, and wind. Little clouds play on her lower flanks like daisies in a field. It's the mighty crescendo of a Beethoven symphony; you hardly expect more.
Yet you go on, and on May 31 Base Camp is established at the foot of the mountain. You're there; now you've got to climb the thing. Trouble hits the expedition hardly before we catch our breath. Chappell becomes seriously ill. His recovery is slow and he's out for the rest of the summer. A short setback, but time is precious and you have to keep going. The 100 odd coolies who packed in the equipment are paid off and the attack begins. Camp I a week of incessant packing by the members of the expedition and the eight Sherpa porters before it is established. The first foothold. Another week and Camp II is placed at an altitude of 19,600 feet. The altitude is beginning to tell. Every inch is a bitterly contested yard. There is a paucity of air. A few steps and you bend over your ice axe gasping for breath. Camp III is just a dump. From II you climb to Camp IV, 21,500 feet up in the air. Mountains around are beginning to sink beneath your feet. You sense your progress and swell with hard won pride. As if to slap you for your gains, it strikes. Out of nowhere, a swirling madness of a blizzard sweeps at you and your puny tents. For eight days you lie crouching in two tents perched on the edge of nothing. The wind blasts at you with all its force. Cold seeps into your sleeping bag and numbs your body. Then suddenly it's over. An eerie silence and the storm sneaks back to its home on the high plains of Tibet.
The storm has left its mark. Nerves are tattered and strained from the incessant gale and cracking of tents. One man returns to the Base with a frozen foot. He too is out for the summer. That leaves but four. The mountain is winning. Yet wait. Four figures toil painfully up the steep slopes above IV. Camp V and Camp VI are established. On the way to VII the pitch sharpens. One man, Durrance, drops out. Weeks of packing on the lower part of the mountain while waiting for boots to arrive by runner have taken the core of his strength. He cannot go higher. Only three left.
Camp VIII is established at the quarter way mark. The terrific altitude hits one more man. Wolfe has to drop back in reserve. Wiessner and one Sherpa porter push on where no man has trod before. Camp IX. Close enough to the summit for the final push? They decide to try. Early in the morning they start out. Slowly now. A step and they stop for breath. The slope is unbelievably steep and treacherous. Above their heads towers a massive ice cliff, threatening at any moment to loose tons of ice on their heads. Still they go on. At last the worst is over. Ahead lies the summit separated by an easy 800 foot snowfield. But it is six in the evening. To the west the sun dips to the horizon. In the blue cold of early night two men stand trying to decide to push on to the summit at night or to retreat to their camp below. One wants to go on; the other holds back. The secrets of the mountain have been discovered. They decide to go back and try the next day.
They never got that high again.
The mountain now begins its fight. With relentless force it pushes Wiessner, Wolfe, and the Sherpa back. Wolfe tarries too long. Three Sherpas go to his rescue. The rest wait anxiously below looking up to the mist shrouded peak. Snow sets in, piling steadily deeper day by day. The four men are never seen again.
So runs the story of the 2nd American Karakoram Expedition. A trip of happiness and sorrow, comedy and tragedy. Four men lie on the frozen slopes of that mountain, monuments to a fight begun back in 1909 when an Italian expedition first sought to reach the summit of K-2. A fight begun 31 years ago and still going on. It's a fight which will ultimately be successful. And when that time comes, four men in their icy graves will smile. Their death will have been avenged.
Expedition's Base Camp (Alt. 16,000) atFoot of Majestic K-2, 28,250-foot HimalayanPeak. At Right, Rope Bridges are ReplacedOnly When They Break.
DURRANCE, CRANMER, SHELDON PAUSE BEFORE LOFTY ADVERSARY
