offered a site for our tent. After putting down his load Angtharkay went off quickly so as not to be overtaken by the dark.
We soon began to suffer from splitting headaches, which are frequent above 16,000 feet, and were glad of the tablets of aspirin which Oudot, with foresight, had handed out. Although we were both very tired, we could not sleep a wink, and at sunrise we started in the direction of our wretched pass, leaving the tent up. We ascended much faster than the day before, and reached the pass in barely an hour. The morning sun made the ridge ahead of us stand out in extraordinary relief and bathed it in lovely clear colours.
‘Bad luck – this isn’t the true pass yet,’ I said to Ichac, who was deeply disappointed.
Instead of looking out on to a valley, we had before us a basin of crusted snow.
‘Maurice, look over there! The pass is the other side, at least two hours from here.’
In spite of our preliminary marches we were feeling our lack of training and acclimatization. It showed itself in our abnormal tiredness.
‘Everyone, including the Sherpas, will have to go on reconnaissance and sleep out between 16,000 and 20,000 feet up,’ I said to Ichac. ‘Today has made me realize that without previous acclimatization, one can’t go really high.’
An icy wind greeted us as we approached the pass. We put on our nylon anoraks and trousers, which were both snow- and wind-proof.
‘Well I’m damned! This is most odd. A valley starting here –’
‘It’s not marked on the map,’ said Ichac. ‘It’s an unknown valley.’
‘It runs down in a northerly direction, and divides into two great branches.’
‘No sign of Dhaulagiri! Surely it’s not that pale imitation over there, that impostor opposite us?’ said Ichac, pointing towards a 23,000-foot peak which had an odd likeness to Dhaulagiri.
Before us the ‘Hidden Valley’, as Ichac called it – he loved giving things names – ran gently downwards. It was broad, like a valley scooped out by a glacier, and the alternation of snow and yellow grass reminded one of a tiger’s striped coat.
‘To see the north face of Dhaulagiri, we’d have to go round to the left, right to the other end of the valley; it must be a terrific sight from there!’
But my words did not seem to arouse any enthusiasm in Ichac.
‘It’s too late now,’ he replied, ‘and we haven’t got the necessary camping gear.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Go on down a bit, if you like, I’ll take a panorama and then we’ll be off.’
On the other side of Tukucha, above the Nilgiris, there rose a mighty summit which Ichac identified as Annapurna. He made a rapid sketch of it while I was climbing up to him again. There was a keen wind from the north, and clouds were coming up, so after swallowing the contents of a tube of condensed milk, we started back.
Walking automatically, and looking straight ahead, we advanced in silence: we were both short of breath. Our minds wandered off into daydreams. I thought of the gentle valley of Chamonix with its trees, of so tender and restful a green, and its shady paths, so pleasant to stroll along. I felt my strength ebbing. The last rise before the pass was hard going, and Ichac made the trail. I tried to follow him; I just couldn’t. Every ten steps I lay down in the snow. I couldn’t go any further! Ichac cursed me roundly – the only thing that does any good at times like that. At last we got on to the ridge. God, what a relief! But we still had the whole descent before us.
To my great surprise, from the moment we started going down I felt as light as air. We went careering down to the camp, reaching it in a few minutes. This was a new experience for me: going up, one suffers from the height, the lack of oxygen and difficulty in breathing; coming down is quite a different story – everything seems dead easy.
While the water was heating for tea, Ichac told me a queer thing had happened while we were on the
We soon began to suffer from splitting headaches, which are frequent above 16,000 feet, and were glad of the tablets of aspirin which Oudot, with foresight, had handed out. Although we were both very tired, we could not sleep a wink, and at sunrise we started in the direction of our wretched pass, leaving the tent up. We ascended much faster than the day before, and reached the pass in barely an hour. The morning sun made the ridge ahead of us stand out in extraordinary relief and bathed it in lovely clear colours.
‘Bad luck – this isn’t the true pass yet,’ I said to Ichac, who was deeply disappointed.
Instead of looking out on to a valley, we had before us a basin of crusted snow.
‘Maurice, look over there! The pass is the other side, at least two hours from here.’
In spite of our preliminary marches we were feeling our lack of training and acclimatization. It showed itself in our abnormal tiredness.
‘Everyone, including the Sherpas, will have to go on reconnaissance and sleep out between 16,000 and 20,000 feet up,’ I said to Ichac. ‘Today has made me realize that without previous acclimatization, one can’t go really high.’
An icy wind greeted us as we approached the pass. We put on our nylon anoraks and trousers, which were both snow- and wind-proof.
‘Well I’m damned! This is most odd. A valley starting here –’
‘It’s not marked on the map,’ said Ichac. ‘It’s an unknown valley.’
‘It runs down in a northerly direction, and divides into two great branches.’
‘No sign of Dhaulagiri! Surely it’s not that pale imitation over there, that impostor opposite us?’ said Ichac, pointing towards a 23,000-foot peak which had an odd likeness to Dhaulagiri.
Before us the ‘Hidden Valley’, as Ichac called it – he loved giving things names – ran gently downwards. It was broad, like a valley scooped out by a glacier, and the alternation of snow and yellow grass reminded one of a tiger’s striped coat.
‘To see the north face of Dhaulagiri, we’d have to go round to the left, right to the other end of the valley; it must be a terrific sight from there!’
But my words did not seem to arouse any enthusiasm in Ichac.
‘It’s too late now,’ he replied, ‘and we haven’t got the necessary camping gear.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Go on down a bit, if you like, I’ll take a panorama and then we’ll be off.’
On the other side of Tukucha, above the Nilgiris, there rose a mighty summit which Ichac identified as Annapurna. He made a rapid sketch of it while I was climbing up to him again. There was a keen wind from the north, and clouds were coming up, so after swallowing the contents of a tube of condensed milk, we started back.
Walking automatically, and looking straight ahead, we advanced in silence: we were both short of breath. Our minds wandered off into daydreams. I thought of the gentle valley of Chamonix with its trees, of so tender and restful a green, and its shady paths, so pleasant to stroll along. I felt my strength ebbing. The last rise before the pass was hard going, and Ichac made the trail. I tried to follow him; I just couldn’t. Every ten steps I lay down in the snow. I couldn’t go any further! Ichac cursed me roundly – the only thing that does any good at times like that. At last we got on to the ridge. God, what a relief! But we still had the whole descent before us.
To my great surprise, from the moment we started going down I felt as light as air. We went careering down to the camp, reaching it in a few minutes. This was a new experience for me: going up, one suffers from the height, the lack of oxygen and difficulty in breathing; coming down is quite a different story – everything seems dead easy.
While the water was heating for tea, Ichac told me a queer thing had happened while we were on the
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