Geoffrey Bruce’s feet also were so badly frostbitten that he could not walk. Finch, however, was not yet to be counted out. He was evidently very much exhausted8, but an examination of his heart revealed no disorder9; it was hoped that in five or six days he would be able to start again. My own case was doubtful. Of my frostbitten finger-tips only one was giving trouble; the extremity10 above the first joint11 was black, but the injury was not very deep. Longstaff, who took an interest which we all appreciated in preventing us from doing ourselves permanent injury, pointed12 out the probability that fingers already touched and highly susceptible13 to cold would be much more severely14 injured next time, and was inclined to turn me down, from his medical point of view, on account of my fingers alone. A much more serious matter was the condition of my heart. I felt weak and lazy when it was a question of the least physical exertion15, and the heart was found to have a “thrill.” Though I was prepared to take risks with my fingers I was prepared to take none with my heart, even had General Bruce allowed me. However, I did not abandon hope. My heart was examined again on June 3, no thrill was heard, and though my pulse was rapid and accelerated quickly with exertion it was capable of satisfactory recovery. We at once arranged that Somervell, Finch, and I, together 275with Wakefield and Crawford, should set forth16 the same day.
It was already evident that whatever we were to do would now have to wait for the weather. Though the Lama at the Rongbuk Monastery17 had told us that the monsoon18 was usually to be expected about June 10, and we knew that it was late last year, the signs of its approach were gathering19 every day. Mount Everest could rarely be seen after 9 or 10 a.m. until the clouds cleared away in the evening; and a storm approaching from the West Rongbuk Glacier20 would generally sweep down the valley in the afternoon. Though we came to despise this blustering21 phenomenon,—for nothing worse came of it than light hail or snow, either at our camp or higher,—we should want much fairer days for climbing, and each storm threatened to be the beginning of something far more serious. However, we planned to be on the spot to take any chance that offered. The signs were even more ominous22 than usual as Finch and I walked up to Camp I on the afternoon of June 3; we could hardly feel optimistic; and it was soon apparent that, far from having recovered his strength, my companion was quite unfit for another big expedition. We walked slowly and frequently halted; it was painful to see what efforts it cost him to make any progress. However, he persisted in coming on.
We had not long disposed ourselves comfortably within the four square walls of our “sangar,” always a pleasant 276change from the sloping sides of a tent, when snow began to fall. Released at last by the West wind which had held it back, the monsoon was free to work its will, and we soon understood that the great change of weather had now come. Fine, glistening23 particles were driven by the wind through the chinks in our walls, to be drifted on the floor or on our coverings where we lay during the night; and as morning grew the snow still fell as thickly as ever. Finch wisely decided24 to go back, and we charged him with a message to General Bruce, saying that we saw no reason at present to alter our plans. With the whole day to spend confined and inactive we had plenty of time to consider what we ought to do under these conditions. We went over well-worn arguments once more. It would have been an obvious and easy course, for which no one could reproach us, to have said simply, The monsoon has come; this is the end of the climbing season; it is time to go home. But the case, we felt, was not yet hopeless. The monsoon is too variable and uncertain to be so easily admitted as the final arbiter25. There might yet be good prospects ahead of us. It was not unreasonable26 to expect an interval27 of fine weather after the first heavy snow, and with eight or ten fair days a third attempt might still be made. In any case, to retire now if the smallest chance remained to us would be an unworthy end to the Expedition. We need not run our heads into obvious danger; but rather than be stopped by a general estimate of conditions we would prefer to retire before 277some definite risk that we were not prepared to take or simply fail to overcome the difficulties.
After a second night of unremitting snowfall the weather on the morning of June 5 improved and we decided to go on. Low and heavy clouds were still flowing down the East Rongbuk Glacier, but precipitation ceased at an early hour and the sky brightened to the West. It was surprising, after all we had seen of the flakes28 passing our door, that no great amount of snow was lying on the stones about our camp. But the snow had come on a warm current and melted or evaporated, so that after all the depth was no more than 6 inches at this elevation (17,500 feet). Even on the glacier we went up a long way before noticing a perceptible increase of depth. We passed Camp II, not requiring to halt at this stage, and were well up towards Camp III before the fresh snow became a serious impediment. It was still snowing up here, though not very heavily; there was nothing to cheer the grey scene; the clinging snow about our feet was so wet that even the best of our boots were soaked through, and the last two hours up to Camp III were tiresome29 enough. Nor was it a cheering camp when we reached it. The tents had been struck for the safety of the poles, but not packed up. We found them now half-full of snow and ice. The stores were all buried; everything that we wanted had first to be dug out.
The snow up here was so much deeper that we anxiously discussed the possibility of going further. With 27815 to 18 inches of snow to contend with, not counting drifts, the labour would be excessive, and until the snow solidified30 there would be considerable danger at several points. But the next morning broke fine; we had soon a clear sky and glorious sunshine; it was the warmest day that any of us remembered at Camp III; and as we watched the amazing rapidity with which the snow solidified and the rocks began to appear about our camp, our spirits rose. The side of Everest facing us looked white and cold; but we observed a cloud of snow blown from the North Ridge; it would not be long at this rate before it was fit to climb. We had already resolved to use oxygen on the third attempt. It was improbable that we should beat our own record without it, for the strain of previous efforts would count against us, and we had not the time to improve on our organisation31 by putting a second camp above the North Col. Somervell, after Finch’s explanation of the mechanical details, felt perfectly32 confident that he could manage the oxygen apparatus33, and all those who had used oxygen were convinced that they went up more easily with its help than they could expect to go without it. Somervell and I intended to profit by their experience. They had discovered that the increased combustion34 in the body required a larger supply of food; we must arrange for a bountiful provision. Their camp at 25,000 feet had been too low; we would try to establish one now, as we had intended before, at 26,000 feet. And we hoped for a further advantage in going higher than 279Finch and Bruce had done before using oxygen; whereas they had started using it at 21,000 feet, we intended to go up to our old camp at 25,000 feet without it, perhaps use a cylinder35 each up to 26,000 feet, and at all events start from that height for the summit with a full supply of four cylinders36. If this was not the correct policy as laid down by Professor Dryer37, it would at least be a valuable experiment.
Our chief anxiety under these new conditions was to provide for the safety of our porters. We hoped that after fixing our fifth camp at 26,000 feet, at the earliest three days, hence on the fourth day of fine weather, the porters might be able to go down by themselves to the North Col in easy conditions; to guard against the danger of concealed38 crevasses39 there Crawford would meet them at the foot of the North Ridge to conduct them properly roped to Camp IV. As the supply officer at this camp he would also be able to superintend the descent over the first steep slope of certain porters who would go down from Camp IV without sleeping after carrying up their loads.
But the North Col had first to be reached. With so much new snow to contend with we should hardly get there in one day. If we were to make the most of our chance in the interval of fair weather, we should lose no time in carrying up the loads for some part of the distance. It was decided therefore to begin this work on the following day, June 7.
280In the ascent41 to the North Col after the recent snowfall we considered that an avalanche42 was to be feared only in one place, the steep final slope below the shelf. There we could afford to run no risk; we must test the snow and be certain that it was safe before we could cross this slope. Probably we should be obliged to leave our loads below it, having gained, as a result of our day’s work, the great advantage of a track. An avalanche might also come down, we thought, on the first steep slope where the ascent began. Here it could do us no harm, and the behaviour of the snow on this slope would be a test of its condition.
The party, Somervell, Crawford, and I, with fourteen porters (Wakefield was to be supply officer at Camp III), set out at 8 a.m. In spite of the hard frost of the previous night, the crust was far from bearing our weight; we sank up to our knees in almost every step, and two hours were taken in traversing the snowfield. At 10.15 a.m., Somervell, I, a porter, and Crawford, roped up in that order, began to work up the steep ice-slope, now covered with snow. It was clear that the three of us without loads must take the lead in turns stamping out the track for our porters. These men, after their immense efforts on the first and second attempts, had all volunteered to “go high,” as they said once more, and everything must be done to ease the terrible work of carrying the loads over the soft snow. No trace was found of our previous tracks, and we were soon arguing as to where exactly they might be as we slanted43 across the slope. It was remarkable44 that the snow adhered so well to the ice 281that we were able to get up without cutting steps. Everything was done by trenching the snow to induce it to come down if it would; every test gave a satisfactory result. Once this crucial place was passed, we plodded45 on without hesitation46. If the snow would not come down where we had formerly47 encountered steep bare ice, a fortiori, above, on the gentler slopes, we had nothing to fear. The thought of an avalanche was dismissed from our minds.
It was necessarily slow work forging our way through the deep snow, but the party was going extraordinarily48 well, and the porters were evidently determined49 to get on. Somervell gave us a long lead, and Crawford next, in spite of the handicap of shorter legs, struggled upwards50 in some of the worst snow we met until I relieved him. I found the effort at each step so great that no method of breathing I had formerly employed was adequate; it was necessary to pause after each lifting movement for a whole series of breaths, rapid at first and gradually slower, before the weight was transferred again to the other foot. About 1.30 p.m. I halted, and the porters, following on three separate ropes, soon came up with the leading party. We should have been glad to stay where we were for a long rest. But the hour was already late, and as Somervell was ready to take the lead again, we decided to push on. We were now about 400 feet below a conspicuous51 block of ice and 600 feet below Camp IV, still on the gentle slopes of the corridor. Somervell had advanced only 100 feet, rather up the slope than across it, and the last party of porters had barely begun to move up 282in the steps. The scene was peculiarly bright and windless, and as we rarely spoke52, nothing was to be heard but the laboured panting of our lungs. This stillness was suddenly disturbed. We were startled by an ominous sound, sharp, arresting, violent, and yet somehow soft like an explosion of untamped gunpowder53. I had never before on a mountain-side heard such a sound; but all of us, I imagine, knew instinctively54 what it meant, as though we had been accustomed to hear it every day of our lives. In a moment I observed the surface of the snow broken and puckered55 where it had been even for a few yards to the right of me. I took two steps convulsively in this direction with some quick thought of getting nearer to the edge of the danger that threatened us. And then I began to move slowly downwards56, inevitably57 carried on the whole moving surface by a force I was utterly58 powerless to resist. Somehow I managed to turn out from the slope so as to avoid being pushed headlong and backwards59 down it. For a second or two I seemed hardly to be in danger as I went quietly sliding down with the snow. Then the rope at my waist tightened60 and held me back. A wave of snow came over me and I was buried. I supposed that the matter was settled. However, I called to mind experiences related by other parties; and it had been suggested that the best chance of escape in this situation lay in swimming. I thrust out my arms above my head and actually went through some sort of motions of swimming on my back. Beneath the surface of the snow, with nothing to inform the senses of the world 283outside it, I had no impression of speed after the first acceleration—I struggled in the tumbling snow, unconscious of everything else—until, perhaps, only a few seconds later, I knew the pace was easing up. I felt an increasing pressure about my body. I wondered how tightly I should be squeezed, and then the avalanche came to rest.
My arms were free; my legs were near the surface. After a brief struggle, I was standing61 again, surprised and breathless, in the motionless snow. But the rope was tight at my waist; the porter tied on next me, I supposed, must be deeply buried. To my further surprise, he quickly emerged, unharmed as myself. Somervell and Crawford too, though they had been above me by the rope’s length, were now quite close, and soon extricated62 themselves. We subsequently made out that their experiences had been very similar to mine. But where were the rest? Looking down over the foam64 of snow, we saw one group of porters some little distance, perhaps 150 feet, below us. Presumably the others must be buried somewhere between us and them, and though no sign of these missing men appeared, we at once prepared to find and dig them out. The porters we saw still stood their ground instead of coming up to help. We soon made out that they were the party who had been immediately behind us, and they were pointing below them. They had travelled further than us in the avalanche, presumably because they were nearer the centre, where it was moving more rapidly. The other two parties, one of four and one of five men roped together, must have been carried 284even further. We could still hope that they were safe. But as we hurried down we soon saw that beneath the place where the four porters were standing was a formidable drop; it was only too plain that the missing men had been swept over it. We had no difficulty in finding a way round this obstacle; in a very short time we were standing under its shadow. The ice-cliff was from 40 to 60 feet high in different places; the crevasse40 at its foot was more or less filled up with avalanche snow. Our fears were soon confirmed. One man was quickly uncovered and found to be still breathing; before long we were certain that he would live. Another whom we dug out near him had been killed by the fall. He and his party appeared to have struck the hard lower lip of the crevasse, and were lying under the snow on or near the edge of it. The four porters who had escaped soon pulled themselves together after the first shock of the accident, and now worked here with Crawford and did everything they could to extricate63 the other bodies, while Somervell and I went down into the crevasse. A loop of rope which we pulled up convinced us that the other party must be here. It was slow work loosening the snow with the pick or adze of an ice-axe and shovelling65 it with the hands. But we were able to follow the rope to the bodies. One was dug up lifeless; another was found upside down, and when we uncovered his face Somervell thought he was still breathing. We had the greatest difficulty in extricating66 this man, so tightly was the snow packed about his limbs; his load, four oxygen cylinders on a steel frame, 285had to be cut from his back, and eventually he was dragged out. Though buried for about forty minutes, he had survived the fall and the suffocation67, and suffered no serious harm. Of the two others in this party of four, we found only one. We had at length to give up a hopeless search with the certain knowledge that the first of them to be swept over the cliff, and the most deeply buried, must long ago be dead. Of the other five, all the bodies were recovered, but only one was alive. The two who had so marvellously escaped were able to walk down to Camp III, and were almost perfectly well next day. The other seven were killed.
This tragic68 calamity69 was naturally the end of the third attempt to climb Mount Everest. The surviving porters who had lost their friends or brothers behaved with dignity, making no noisy parade of the grief they felt. We asked them whether they wished to go up and bring down the bodies for orderly burial. They preferred to leave them where they were. For my part, I was glad of this decision. What better burial could they have than to lie in the snow where they fell? In their honour a large cairn was built at Camp III.
A few words must be added with regard to this accident. No one will imagine that we had pushed on recklessly disregarding the new conditions of fresh snow. Three members of the Alpine70 Club, with experience of judging snow for themselves, chiefly, of course, in the Alps, had all supposed that the party was safe. They had imagined 286that on those gentle slopes the snow would not move. In what way had they been deceived? The fact that the avalanche snow came to rest on the slope where they were proves that their calculation was not so very far wrong. But the snow cannot all have been of the quality that adhered so well to the steep ice-slope lower down. Where the avalanche started, not from the line of their steps, but about 100 feet higher, it was shaded to some extent by a broken wall of ice. There, perhaps, it had both drifted more deeply and remained more free and powdery, and the weight of this snow was probably sufficient to push the other down the slope once its surface had been disturbed. More experience, more knowledge might perhaps have warned us not to go there. One never can know enough about snow. But looking up the corridor again after the event, I wondered how I ever could be certain not to be deceived by appearances so innocent.
The regret of all members of the Expedition for the loss of our seven porters will have been elsewhere expressed. It is my part only to add this: the work of carrying up our camps on Mount Everest is beyond the range of a simple contract measured in terms of money; the porters had come to have a share in our enterprise, and these men died in an act of voluntary service freely rendered and faithfully performed.
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1
mooted
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| adj.未决定的，有争议的，有疑问的v.提出…供讨论( moot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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finch
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| n.雀科鸣禽(如燕雀，金丝雀等) | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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monsoon
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| n.季雨，季风，大雨 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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solidified
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| （使）成为固体，（使）变硬，（使）变得坚固( solidify的过去式和过去分词 )； 使团结一致； 充实，巩固； 具体化 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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combustion
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| n.燃烧；氧化；骚动 | |
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cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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cylinders
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| n.圆筒( cylinder的名词复数 )；圆柱；汽缸；（尤指用作容器的）圆筒状物 | |
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dryer
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| n.干衣机，干燥剂 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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crevasses
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| n.破口，崩溃处，裂缝( crevasse的名词复数 ) | |
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crevasse
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| n. 裂缝，破口；v.使有裂缝 | |
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41
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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46
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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48
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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49
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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50
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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51
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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52
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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53
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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55
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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57
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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58
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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59
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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60
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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62
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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64
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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65
shovelling
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| v.铲子( shovel的现在分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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66
extricating
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的现在分词 ) | |
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67
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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68
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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69
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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70
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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