K2 – Borderless

Title: The Great Himalayan Ascents

Author: Frank S Smythe

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

The Himalaya

TWO HUNDRED YEARS ago mountains were regarded as useless and terrible masses of inert matter where dragons had their lairs and the spirits of the damned lay in wait to claim the unwary. But as man emerged from the superstitions and materialisms of the Middle Ages he began to realise that mountains were beautiful and their summits worthy of attainment. The nineteenth century saw the conquest of the Alps. Unknown difficulties and dangers had to be faced by the pioneers of mountaineering. Disasters occurred, lives were lost, and mountaineering thrown into disrepute. The mountaineer was not dismayed. He knew that beauty was his for the seeking; he rejoiced in a newfound comradeship and in the acquirement and exercise of a new craft.

The great alpine summits fell one by one; traditions were established; a technique was evolved; a literature was born. The ripples of alpine mountaineering radiated outwards, bearing with them mountaineers to other ranges: the Caucasus, the Rockies, the Andes, the New Zealand Alps. On their highest peaks the skill acquired in the Alps was sufficient to ensure success. But there remained one great range that defied invasion of its strongholds – the Himalaya. There, the technique acquired in the Alps was not sufficient. Height alone was a physical deterrent, and coupled to height was steepness and danger. Expeditions had to be organised to reach even the foot of the great peaks; time and money had to be found. Yet, despite these disadvantages, Himalayan mountaineering and exploration progressed steadily. Pioneers such as the Schlagintweit Brothers, Sir Joseph Hooker, The Duke of the Abruzzi, Mr W.W. Graham, Lord Conway, Sir Francis Younghusband, Mr D.W. Freshfield, Doctor T.G. Longstaff, Doctor A.M. Kellas, General Bruce, Mr C.F. Meade, Doctor and Mrs Bullock Workman, Messrs. Rubenson and Monrad Aas, and many other pre-war pioneers opened up a region unsurpassed for its beauty and grandeur, and by their experiences pointed the way to the highest summits.

Many people refer to the Himalaya as though their limitations in scenery and climate were similar to those of the Alps. The tourist who gazes upon Kangchenjunga, 28,226 feet, from Darjeeling returns home saying that he has seen the Himalaya. So he has, but how much of two thousand miles of mountains stretching from the Pamirs to the borders of Indo-China, and beyond these limits, in terms of mountains? A lifetime might be spent wandering about the Himalaya, yet the knowledge acquired would embrace but an infinitesimal portion of that vast labyrinth of peaks, valleys and plateaux scrawled across the map of Asia.

In climate alone there is an extraordinary variety. From hot steamy tropical valleys, filled with luxuriant vegetation, it is but a few horizontal miles to zero temperatures and the highest snows in the world. Between these two extremes is an immense range of climate, the common despot of which is a fierce sun. Added to the complexities of climate due to height alone is the added complexity of seasonal weather fluctuations, due directly or indirectly to the influence of the monsoons and weather conditions emanating from the plateaux of Central Asia.

Racial characteristics are as diversified as the climate. From the people of Hunza and Chitral to the Sherpas and Bhotias of Northern Nepal, the almost extinct Lepchas of Sikkim and the wild races of Bhutan, the Himalaya can show many different types, for they form a natural frontier between India and Tibet, and a pudding-bowl wherein is stirred a mixture of Mongolian and Indian blood.

Politically, only a comparatively small portion of the Himalaya is accessible to the mountaineer and explorer. Democracy is unknown in Tibet and Nepal, and both these countries have closed their frontiers to Europeans and resolutely set themselves against infiltration of European thought and ideas. Some of the finest peaks of the Himalaya lie within the borders of Nepal, including the southern side of Everest, 29,140 feet, Dhaulagiri, 26,795 feet, Gosainthan (Shisha Pangma), 26,305 feet, and many other great peaks. In addition there are other districts where the mountaineer is not always welcomed, owing to political and other objections. The three most interesting districts accessible to mountaineers and explorers are the Karakorams, the Kumaun and Garhwal Himalaya and the Sikkim Himalaya, including the eastern side of Kangchenjunga, and it is in these three districts that the most notable mountaineering expeditions have been carried out, with the exception of Everest (now barred politically) and the northern side of Nanga Parba (forbidden territory to expeditions at present). Each of these districts is magnificent in its own way. In the Karakoram there is no glacier to rival in grandeur the Baltoro, and no peaks surpassing in ferocity the terrific ice- armoured spires dominated by K2 (Mount Godwin Austin), 28,187 feet. From the Kumaun Himalaya rises Nanda Devi, 25,645 feet; the highest peak entirely within the confines of the British Empire, a mountain so difficult to approach that no one has yet succeeded in treading the glaciers at the foot of it, whilst Kamet, 25,447 feet, dominates the ranges of Northern Garhwal. In Sikkim, Kangchenjunga boasts the most wonderful snow and ice scenery in the Himalaya, owing to its exposure to the moisture-laden airs of the monsoon. It has defeated three determined attempts to climb it, in 1929, 1930 and 1931 by mountaineers well versed in the technique of high-altitude mountaineering. The highest point reached was 26,000 feet, by the gallant Bavarian expedition in 1931 and that only after incredible difficulty.*

Geologically, the Himalaya are a young mountain range, due to an uplift of the ancient seabed covering Central Asia. This uplift took place so slowly that rivers such as the Indus and the Brahmaputra, which have their sources to the north of the Himalaya, have been able to carve their way through the range as it rose. This is the only explanation that can account for the deep valleys cutting through from Tibet to India.

(Extracted from The Great Himalayan Ascents by Frank S. Smythe. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2025.)

About the Book

Frank S. Smythe (1900-1949) was one of the greatest mountaineers of the twentieth century, and a celebrated memoirist and adventure writer. This collection brings together three accounts of Smythe’s most thrilling ascents in the Himalayas—The Kangchenjunga Adventure, Kamet Conquered and Camp Six.

The Kangchenjunga Adventure narrates in detail the 1930 expedition to climb the third-highest mountain in the world: how Smythe, as part of an international team of mountaineers, attempts to reach the summit of Kangchenjunga, before a deadly avalanche—which kills one of the Sherpas— forces them to change course and scale the Jonsong Peak instead. In Kamet Conquered, Smythe makes a successful bid at ascending Mount Kamet in 1931, which was at that time still unscaled. On their way back, Smythe and his team chance upon the spectacular and colourful Bhyundar Valley, which they christen the ‘Valley of Flowers’, and which is now a National Park. Camp Six recounts a gripping adventure on the world’s highest mountain—the 1933 Everest Expedition, in which Smythe, climbing alone, ascends to a point higher than any human had reached before. Made without ropes or oxygen to support him, and in terrible snow conditions, the climb is regarded as one of the greatest endeavours in the history of mountaineering.

This majestic omnibus edition offers a fascinating window into early mountain climbing and Himalayan exploration. It is also a rare treat for every lover of fine, entertaining writing.

About the Author

Frank Sydney Smythe was a British mountaineer, botanist and adventurer. Smythe, who began his mountaineering career in the Alps, joined the international Kangchenjunga expedition of 1930 which ended in failure. In 1936, he led the expedition which successfully ascended Mount Kamet, then the highest peak ever to have been climbed. Subsequently, in the 1930s, Smythe was thrice part of teams which attempted to climb Mount Everest. An accomplished photographer and a prolific writer, Smythe wrote twenty-seven books in all, the best known among which are The Kangchenjunga Adventure, Kamet Conquered and Adventures of a Mountaineer. Smythe died in 1949.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Postcards from the Ledge

Prologue. There are fourteen mountains on the surface of the Earth higher than eight-thousand metres and recently it was found by observers on the ground they have all been sending postcards to the Royal Geographical Society but no one knows why…

Mount Everest. You say I am the tallest but that’s not quite true: I am just more obviously tall than you and everyone else you know. There is a mountain under the sea, Mauna Kea by name who is rather taller than me, 10,200 metres high as a matter of fact: it’s just a question of tact that she doesn’t loudly dispute my claim to fame (and yes, she’s a lady). And on the planet Mars stands Olympus Mons, highest mountain in our solar-system.

K2. I am not quite as lofty as my brother Mount Everest (see above) but he’s a softy when compared to me in terms of difficulty of climb. Mountaineers drop from fright on my slopes as well as from physical exhaustion. This is a warning, just a friendly caution. Don’t sleigh on my white suede snows. You can do anything but sleigh off my white suede snows.

Kangchenjunga. I invoke hunger in the bellies of those who try to get to my summit. A fellow named Crowley tried it back in 1905 and he survived while others of his team were avalanched into oblivion. He was snacking at the time in his tent on mints and thus was born his insistence that life is sweet.

Lhotse. I am the least prominent of the eight-thousanders despite the awfully vertiginous vertical relief of my South and Northeast Faces. I wouldn’t really mind swapping places with one of my sheerer fellows but I’m reluctant to make the offer. Should I stoop so low?

Makalu. I look like a pyramid, they say, but the comparison offends me most painfully. I am millions of years old, the pyramids, a few thousand. It should be the other way around, visitors to Egypt ought to gasp and cry: the pyramids look rather like Makalu. Now that’s the analogy that ought to apply.

Cho Oyu. My name in Tibetan means Turquoise Goddess and although I am modest I am pleased with the appellation. It seems I am the easiest of the eight-thousanders to climb but I don’t regard that as a disadvantage. Why be macho in the clouds? If you love Cho Oyu, she will be kind to you. Climb me and you’ll return like a human boomerang for I have the lowest death-summit ratio among the gang.

Dhaulagiri. I dazzle the eyes with my gleaming backside, and startle the minds of those who slide down my beauteous slopes. I hope and pray for a climber today to do something silly such as roll down Dhaulagiri all the way to the bottom after the snapping of his ropes: yes, to my shining base. It’s not a race, as such, because there can never be a winner, just a mess like a yeti’s dog’s dinner.

Manaslu. A serrated wall of ice hanging on the horizon like a bandsaw nailed to a door. That is how I am described by those who wish to ride my teeth: climb up one side and perch on my summit and you’ll find my mind is pure enough for gentler metaphors. I am not a tool, rarely the fool who tries to fix my own position in the scheme of things. In the valley below me snow leopards prowl and growl and so do you, softly, dreaming.

Nanga Parbat. When rats desert a sinking ship they expect it to really sink, not merely plunge its prow for a quick drink and then right itself again. That hurts, a betrayal of the laws of disaster. And the mice called climbers who scurried on my broad flanks when I sank into the spray of my own blown snows, crying avalanche! surely thought I had drowned for good in that illusory sea. But as you can see: I’m still here.

Annapurna. Now we come to the real test. I was the first eight-thousander to be climbed. Does that make me the easiest? Well, no. In fact I am the most dangerous of the fourteen. My fatality rate is twenty-five times as high as that of Miss Cho Oyu and my slopes are littered with those who have found their literal ever rest here. Get it? My propensity for making puns wasn’t mentioned in Maurice Herzog’s classic book about the first ascent of me. I wonder why? I took all his toes and most of his fingers with the aid of frostbite: a remarkable feat for him, paid for with both of his own astonishing feet.

Gasherbrum I. I have a brother who you will meet below, but in the meantime you ought to know that my eternal snows glow brightly across the region that is my home, and this is why I am mystified as to the origin of my nickname: the Hidden Peak. It’s inaccurate to my mind. Am I really so hard to find?

Broad Peak. My name is a physical descriptor but my views are broad too: I don’t care who or what climbs me. I welcome diversity. On July 23rd, 2016, a Frenchman by the name of Antoine Girard piloted a paraglider over my head. That’s a type of lightweight plane, but I didn’t complain. I never lodge objections with God.

Gasherbrum II. You have already met my brother a short distance above. He is above in height as well as in his location in this poem. I look up to him in everything, true, but he isn’t what I want to talk about today. No, I wish to briefly mention the Duke of the Abruzzi and also a certain Vittorio Sella, the former a brave aristocrat and intrepid mountain explorer, the latter the greatest photographer of high peaks who ever held a camera. Climbers wear trousers but their breath comes in pants: this pair arrived to reconnoitre me in 1909 and I was flattered, at least to the greatest extent that any giant is flattered by ants.

Shishapangma. I was the last of the eight-thousanders to be scaled, not because I’m any harder to climb than I am to rhyme but thanks to logistical and political considerations. Less of that! I wish to share with you a little snippet that I find pleasant to think about. When Tintin was in Tibet, he travelled with Captain Haddock towards me, looking for a crashed plane. I don’t recall either of them, but I have been told their journey was true, although they knew me back then by my Sanskrit name, Gosainthan. Epilogue. Mountains rise and fall like empires or supposedly solid walls. Postcards are more ephemeral than either, especially when written in verse. That’s the curse of time. But the Royal Geographical Society is never averse to receiving them from any interesting global feature that cares to write a few lines.