Mountains

Modern day climbers on the Kolahoi Glacier © "Outlook" Magazine 2018

Each foolscap page of my father's  account of his wartime mountain adventure in Kashmir in the summer of 1944 takes me an hour to type inclusive of light editing. This means that the task has taken me around forty hours so far with about another ten hours to go.

As a good number of visitors to this blog  have enjoyed previous posts on this topic, I am now going to share a couple more extracts from recent typing. 

My father Philip and his companion Arnold had spent a day away from their camp, exploring the head of the valley with some useful guidance from a local shepherd. They climbed up onto the Kolahoi Glacier, traversed it  and then tackled the snow field that led to the base of a 16000 foot mountain they hoped to climb the next day.

They were both exhilarated and weary when they returned to camp that evening...

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Even before the sun had ceased to shed its warming rays on the west side of the valley, we felt an extra chill in the air that presaged a more bitter cold to follow. Taking this as our cue, we spent the remaining minutes of daylight on a swift foraging expedition for fuel. We did not have to search far for the valley was plentifully supplied with the remains of dead and broken trees. 

As a result of the number of trunks and large branches we manhandled and dragged to the fireside we felt rather warm and in fact perspired. As a reward for our labours, we had accumulated a supply of wood sufficient to keep the fire going all night if necessary. The pile of wood we heaped over the fire made it look more like some fantastic beacon than a camp fire. 

As the night came creeping into the valley, our fire grew larger and brighter, driving the shadows afar. So while the more distant features of the valley around were drowned in a sea of darkness, those nearest remained lit up by our artificial daylight – the dancing orange flames of the fire. Soon the light of the moon allied itself with the fire and together they drove back the encroaching night. The valley was immersed in a sea of silver while the snow-caps of the adjacent peaks reflected the glory of the moonlight to the insipid dark blue of those starlit heavens. 

As the flames of the fire grew so the encircling ring of heat enlarged and we were compelled to make a staged retreat from the furnace. That night we were not alone for the fire was ringed around by curious mountain sheep, attracted no doubt by the unfamiliar blaze. Our conversation was interspersed with the intermittent bleating of goats and the more sonorous baying of ewes. Yet even this did not disturb the peace of the valley for mingled with the diapason of the nearby rushing waters, the cries of the sheep seemed if anything to be a natural part of the background symphony. We turned in earlier than usual and through the walls of our tent the rosy glow of the still bright fire illuminated our canvas shelter.

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Arnold and my father woke early the next morning ready to get back to where they had been the previous day -  intent on conquering a little climbed peak there on the edge of  the Western Himalyas. By the way, they had no helmets or ropes nor Gortex snow jackets bought from some fancy outdoor gear shop. However, they did have their trusty hobnailed boots  and a shoulder of mutton and my father had his pipe.

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The sun had not yet penetrated the valley which was wrapped in the grey cloud of early dawn. There was a forlorn, cold and lonely look about the peaks, similar to the appearance of the streets of a town at early morn. As we ate breakfast, the veriest tip of the highest peak was touched with gold and as we looked, the gold of the rising sun cascaded down the sides of the peaks driving back the cold loneliness of the night and replacing it with the warm and friendly light of day. By the time our meal ended the sunlight had reached us and we felt almost instantly the need for lighter clothes so we changed into our shorts and sweaters. I superintended the packing of the tiffin into our haversacks. Lusul and Sidi had evidently been busy for the chief feature of the tiffin was a whole shoulder of roast mutton. At seven o’ clock, we turned our eager faces to the glacier and the day’s adventure began.

Whether it was the freshness of the morning or the hearty meal that lay comfortably inside us, I do not know, but something put a spring in our step and we crossed the rock-scarred stretch of ground that lay between us and the glacier in fine style. By seven thirty we were back at the snout weighing up our best route up onto the ice. At this time of day there was little risk of rocks detaching themselves from the glacier thereby endangering anyone below. We were therefore able to pick out the easiest route up without much consideration for the rocks. A short, sharp scramble brought us to the top of the glacier snout and within view of the ice falls. There they lay ahead of us, golden and crenellated like the walls of some fairy castle, looking benign in the still golden rays of sunrise. Here was no cold challenge but a warm welcome. Even as we watched, the mask was removed as Earth continued to turn in its orbit and the ice falls stood there revealed in their true fashion. Old Kolahoi stood, the cornice of snow on its summit glistening in the sunlight, like a king surveying his kingdom. There was an inviting friendliness about the whole scene no doubt due to the warm light of that early morning. The high hanging glaciers of Hurbhagwan were of finest gold, the grey rocks that lay around and the drab precipices of rock that surrounded us were tinged with a faint orange that camouflaged them and effectively disguised their antagonism.