Shipton That Untravelled World

The autobiography of a pioneering mountaineer and explorer
1. Auflage 2017
ISBN: 978-1-911342-66-3
Verlag: Vertebrate Digital
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 7, 204 Seiten

Reihe: Eric Shipton: The Mountain Travel Books

'It is often from our setbacks, even our weaknesses, that we derive some of our greatest blessings.' That Untravelled World is the autobiography of one of the greatest adventurers of the twentieth century. Eric Shipton was a pioneering explorer, journeying to places that did not feature on maps and to unexplored mountains, such as the High Dauphiné. Shipton describes early childhood days filled with adventures; his first encounter with the high mountains on a visit to the Pyrenees, and the onset of his climbing career inspired by travels in Norway with a friend. He reminisces on first meeting infamous explorer H.W. 'Bill' Tilman, and their first expedition together to Mount Kenya. Tilman and Shipton were later to become one of the most famous climbing partnerships of all time. Filled with anecdotes from different periods of his life, Shipton takes us on his journey from Kilimanjaro and Mount Stanley alongside Tilman, his discovery of the route to the Nanda Devi Sanctuary, summiting Mount Kamet with mountaineering icon Frank Smythe, and multiple expeditions to Everest. First published in 1969, That Untravelled World is the story of an adventurer who, inspired by Edward Whymper, travelled to feral landscapes across the globe, and has in turn inspired generations of climbers and mountaineers.

Eric Shipton (1907-1977) was one of the great mountain explorers of the 20th century, often known for his infamous climbing partnership with H.W. 'Bill' Tilman. He climbed extensively in the Alps in the 1920s, put up new routes on Mount Kenya in 1921, and in 1931, made the first ascent of Kamet with Frank Smythe - the highest peak climbed at that time. Shipton was involved with most of the Everest expeditions in the 1930s, reaching a high point of 28,000 feet in 1933. He went on to lead the 1951 expedition, which was the first to approach Everest from the north (Nepali) side through the Khumbu ice fall, and on which Edmund Hillary first set foot on the mountain.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Shipton, Eric

Leseproben

– CHAPTER TWO –

Mountains

Shortly before the school migrated from Pyt House, a Norwegian boy named Gustav Sommerfelt came there for two terms. He spoke little English, which provided the other boys with an irresistible opportunity for sport at his expense. Largely because of my interest in foreign lands, and perhaps partly because I had a fellow feeling for oddities, I took him under my protective wing, and we became close friends. Not that he needed my patronage, for though a year younger than I, he was an ebullient character, well able to look after himself. Early in the summer term he suggested that I should go with him when he returned to Norway, and spend part of the holidays walking across the Jotunheimen, the highest range in the country, and the rest at a chalet belonging to his family in the forest of Hallingdal. I had already been drawn to mountains, and my imagination deeply stirred by the vast precipices of the Cirque de Gavarnie and by books of mountain travel, particularly Whymper’s Travels Among the Great Andes of the Equator, with its wealth of strange experiences and its evocative illustrations. The prospect of wandering for several weeks among the wild mountains of Norway was unbelievably wonderful.

Gustav’s father arranged for us to travel free on a cargo ship from Blyth to Fredrikstad, and after two days in Christiania (as the capital was then called) collecting equipment we travelled by train and bus to Bygdin, at the southern edge of the Jotunheimen, where our adventure began. The first few days provided some spells of painful disillusionment. We humped enormous rucksacks, quite absurdly heavy considering that we carried neither food nor camping gear; Gustav had a kettle attached to his, which clanked monotonously and was never used. The straps of my pack bit cruelly into my shoulders, my new boots chafed my blistered feet, cold rain drenched my clothes and trickled down my spine, my whole body ached as I plodded miserably behind my companion, hating his unfeeling nonchalance. Worst of all was the bitter realisation that I was not, after all, of the stuff that made explorers. But these moods of blank despair were dispelled by food and warmth at the next hostel and by the sheer wonder at having survived long enough to reach it. In time, of course, my aches and pains eased and eventually vanished, and I began to experience the sensual pleasure of rhythmic movement over rough ground. My attention no longer concentrated upon my woes, I became aware of the scenes about me, and of the fascination of finding the way. Gradually the mountains regained their lost enchantment. They were very different from those I had seen in the Alps and Pyrenees, rounder, smaller, less aloof and mysterious, but there was a rugged desolation about the country, a breadth of horizon which was exciting. Crossing a pass and seeing a new range of peaks ahead, I was enthralled to learn that it would take us several days to reach it. Gustav, having often done this kind of trip before, was very much in charge; he instructed me in the use of map and compass and decided all the details of our journey. Mostly we were by ourselves, but once we joined with others to cross a difficult pass that required the use of a rope. Perhaps the most memorable day was one I spent alone. Gustav having decided to take a rest, I walked to the head of the valley, which was filled by a large glacier.

It was the first I had seen at close quarters, and the impression made by the vast mass flowing down from the silence of a mysterious ice world was all the stronger for my solitude. In fear and exultation I climbed up it until I came to a line of gaping crevasses.

After our strenuous weeks in the Jotunheimen the chalet in Hallingdal, a day’s march from the railway, provided a delicious contrast; we spent most of our time there pulling pink-fleshed trout out of the lake and eating them. When at length I set out on my return journey to England it was with a feeling of great contentment. This, however, was marred when I reached Bergen and found that, due to some slight miscalculation, I had only just enough money for my ticket to London and none to spare for food. In those days I had a healthy appetite, and the prospect of a two-day fast was not pleasant. I grew more and more ravenous as the voyage progressed. Finally, I could stand it no more and, as the other passengers were entering the saloon for the last meal, I accosted a kindly looking old gentleman and asked him if he would bring me some bread when he had finished. He looked at me in astonishment, and said, ‘But why don’t you come in and eat?’ I explained my plight, to which he replied pityingly, ‘But you don’t have to pay; meals are included in your ticket’.

That holiday in Norway was the best thing that had happened to me since the voyage in Kashgar. Moreover, it opened up a vista of wonderful possibilities. It is curious how few of my contemporaries went abroad in those days, particularly as it was so inexpensive. Apart from Gustav, not one of the boys I met at school showed any desire to do so, though some had, like myself, been born in the Colonies; certainly no one displayed more than a cursory interest in my own travels, and I soon learnt not to expect it. It would have been fun to have found someone with whom to share the seductive but highly speculative plans which now raced through my mind; but as I did not, I kept them to myself, assuming, not for the first time, that I must be a little odd. As yet my ambitions were not focused upon any one aspect of travel, and I would have been equally enchanted by a desert, a polar ice cap or a tropical forest. I was very intrigued by volcanic phenomena and had collected a number of books on the subject; the only classical writing which stirred my interest was the younger Pliny’s account of the eruption of Vesuvius, and that, naturally, in an English translation and not in the course of my Latin studies. Lately, of course, mountains had begun to assume a special importance because of my personal acquaintance with them, though hitherto I had not thought of them much in terms of climbing. Now, however, I acquired books by some of the early Alpine mountaineers and was thrilled to read in these the expression of so much of my own inarticulate feelings. I was reassured to notice that even these illustrious men found it necessary to justify their exploits, Tyndall on scientific, Leslie Stephen on aesthetic grounds, to a public who obviously regarded them as highly eccentric. Once again it was Whymper, with his simple approach and exciting narrative, his lively observation and power of description, who most captivated me. Significantly, I was more fascinated by his early explorations in the Dauphiné than by his much more dramatic and competitive adventures on the Matterhorn. I do not claim that my dislike of competition was a virtue, since it stemmed largely from my failure to compete successfully; but it is certainly true that part of the attraction that I later found in mountaineering was that it could be practised without any sense of rivalry.

For the Christmas holidays my sister and I were taken to Adelboden for winter sports. That year, 1924, there was no snow in the lower valleys, and as ski lifts did not then exist, at least in that part of Switzerland, there was no skiing to be had. While the rest of my party lamented the fact, I was secretly delighted, for it provided both the excuse and the opportunity to climb. The village was dominated by a mountain called the Gross Lohner, 10,023 feet high, which I had noticed on the map before leaving England. Mid-winter, I realised, was not the time for mountaineering, nor did I suppose that I could tackle it alone; nevertheless, I had nursed a forlorn but passionate hope that I might find a way of climbing it. Now, the general air of frustration enabled me to persuade five people in our hotel to join me in the venture and share the expense of two guides. We set out one afternoon, spent the night in a snow-bound hut in a silent combe below the Wildstrubel and started again several hours before dawn. In summer one could probably scramble up the Lohner without any difficulty, but in winter conditions, with the rocks sheathed in ice, steps had to be cut and a good deal of care was needed to avoid a slip which, but for the protection of the rope, would in many places have sent the victim hurtling down a precipitous slope. I was greatly impressed, and tried hard to emulate the balanced movements and nonchalance of the guides. I was gratified to notice that several of my companions, some of whom had been on a mountain before, were scared. From the summit we saw some of the giants of the Oberland and, far away to the south, the Matterhorn, the Weisshorn, Monte Rosa, names that now held magic. Then came the descent: the slow, cautious movements down the steep upper face; the sudden release of tension when the difficulties were passed; the wild plunge down long snow slopes to the forest; lastly the exultation and utter content as I plodded, tired, along the path through the resin-scented trees.

One of the guides offered to take me, for a greatly reduced fee, up a rock spire with the impressive name of Tschingelochtighorn. I had been very apprehensive at the prospect of rock climbing, for, despite my fondness for scaling trees, I had often been terrified standing at the edge of a tall building (in fact, I still dislike it intensely), and so assumed that I had a bad head for heights. But by...