Twenty Years in the Himalaya/Dharmsala and Chamba
Of the innumerable picturesque districts in the Himalaya it would, I believe, be very hard to find more delightful country than the section of the range included in the country from the Kulu Valley to the Kashmir border. Comparisons are, however, odious, and quite beautiful as all Kashmir is — both valley and mountain — it does not surpass in fascination many parts of the large sections of country that I have mentioned. I have not been fortunate enough as yet to have had a chance of travelling in Kulu, which is a pleasure, I hope, yet in store, nor have my wanderings in any part of this district been very extensive, but I have seen enough to make me thoroughly appreciate its fascinations.
The Kangra Valley of the southern Punjab is in itself of great interest — a district of small broken hills usually well clothed with jungle and of rich cultivation, and presenting a great contrast to the deadly plains of the true Punjab, so close to it. The average elevation of the valley is about 2000 feet above the sea, though there are, of course, small points which exceed this by 1000 feet or so; but the feature which gives special character to this district is the great wall of the Dhaoli Dhar range, which bounds the valley on the north, and may best be called the outer Himalaya. It lies directly east of the broken Kangra tableland to a maximum height of 17,000 feet odd, and having, roughly speaking, an average elevation of 15,000 feet, runs from the Kulu border to the Kashmir border. It is far too grand and imposing to be described as foot-hills, although it forms a barrier between the main chain and the plains.
I wonder whether anywhere else in the world there is such an abrupt wall without foot-hills, for, as I have said, the broken hilly country of the Kangra cannot be described as foot-hills to this ridge. The rise is too abrupt, there is far too great a wall-like effect, and indeed from any of the points one passes on the ridge, the impression given is that of looking directly into a flat country. It is an extraordinarily precipitous wall, and, of the many passes across it, there are very few that are not regular staircases for the last 3000 feet or so. The effect is picturesquely heightened by the dark, heavy forests of ilex and rhododendron on the middle and lower slopes, which, when one is among them, give a curious dark and striking appearance to the scenery in contrast to the great grey precipices above them.
The whole of this district suffered most terribly from the calamitous earthquake of 1905. The loss of life has been variously computed, but I believe 20,000 people would be a fair estimate, including the Kulu Valley, which also suffered heavily. It certainly, as an estimate, does not err on the side of exaggeration. To give an idea of the violence of the shocks, the great fort of Kangra, 600 years old, and built of the solidest of masonry, was completely destroyed; as also was the Golden Temple in Kangra town itself — a very great loss, if only for its extraordinary and picturesque situation. The military station of Dharmsala on the actual slopes of the Dhaoli Dhar range was simply flattened; the church, nearly all the barracks, and the officers’ houses being thrown down in two minutes. The loss of life, amongst both Europeans and natives, was very heavy, as, owing to the earthquake occurring at about six o’clock in the morning, most people at that time of year — early in April — were still in bed. However, such a catastrophe is not likely to be of frequent occurrence, as it was shown by experts not to have been volcanic in character, but to have been caused by flaws in the strata, and to a sudden settling of these strata over a large area.
Mountain scenery is always, to my mind, affected by the character of its inhabitants and the buildings they live in. The flat-roofed houses of the western Himalaya, with their squalor and dirt, are seldom, however well situated, an assistance to the scenery, whereas the neat villages of the Kangra Valley, with their slate and thatched roofs, are most picturesque, whether in the actual valley itself or in the hill villages. The villages of the hill folk are often very strikingly placed, and have frequently quite the appearance of Swiss chalets. Anywhere in the world mountain villages are dirty. It is only a question of degree, though it is true that there are many degrees, and, taking it all round, the hill villages on the Dhaoli Dar range take a very good degree indeed. The higher the mountains and the more trying the winter the greater the dirt undoubtedly.
Very large numbers of the hill people belong to the Gaddi tribe, a tribe of pastoral semi-nomads, great numbers of whom spend three-quarters of every year out herding sheep, and only the other quarter at their homes. For all that, their homes are not badly built, and are fairly comfortable, infinitely better than the usual villages in the higher valleys of Garhwal. They herd immense flocks of sheep and goats, many being their own and many belonging to other people, who place them in their charge. The other great tribe of professional herdsmen in the Himalaya is a Mohammedan tribe named Gujars. Comparing these two tribes, the Gaddi show up very well, and are infinitely better people to deal with, having a good reputation for honesty, which is not a characteristic of Gujars as I have seen them. They are generally good-looking and picturesquely dressed, their loose home-spun shirts being well made, and the outer one sufficiently large to stow away quite a little flock of lambs or kids too weak to keep up with the rest of the flock. I once saw a man who seemed extraordinarily swollen, and by special request he extracted lamb after lamb to the number of sixteen. This occurred during a trip I made in 1902, over the Sarai Pass into Chamba, from the tea-growing Palampur district of the Kangra Valley, in search of red bear. Chamba is still the headquarters of Ursus Isabellinus, now getting so scarce in many of its old haunts, where forty years ago it was to be found in quite considerable numbers.
From a sporting point of view my trip was fairly successful, but the time at my disposal was short, and the season September, and the weather still atrocious. The country, like all the parts of Chamba that I have had the luck to travel in, was perfect of its kind; this part is sub-alpine in character, though this is hardly a fair criticism, as I was in rather minor and out-of-the-way valleys which did not give an idea of the near neighbourhood of the great mountains.
The climate of the Dhaoli Dhar ridge, from its position directly over the plains of the Punjab, is a humid one, as of necessity it has an immense precipitation of rain, amounting this year (1909) to 180 inches in three months; and the reverse slope gets a very large though diminished share of it, any gap in the ridge, such as the Sarai Pass, letting in an extra quantity. However, though I travelled far too much — a great fault for a sportsman — it means, of course, want of patience, — we saw fifteen red bears in fourteen days across the pass, of which I took my little toll, though on several days bad weather and consequent mist spoilt the shooting entirely.
Chamba is noted for its hill shooting, whether large game, pheasants, or the chicken partridge. The high hills hold ibex and thar, red and black bear, and on the lower slopes gooral, often, but not very wisely, called the Himalayan chamois, for though there is a slight resemblance in shape and head, in personal habits no two animals could be further separated. The Dhaoli Dhar ridge, its southern boundary, used to hold a good head of game, though indiscriminate shooting of all kinds has very much diminished it. There appears, in fact, to have been very little supervision on the part of the authorities, the worst kind of poaching, especially of pheasants, to supply the English and foreign markets, having been allowed for a long period.
As I have before stated, for the wandering mountaineer, the pleasantest places of the Himalaya lie in the medium ranges and the minor valleys, and this great ridge is an ideal playground. One has, however, to put up with the usual coolie nuisance in a very exaggerated form, because, for some reason which I do not know, there appears to be no civil process by which porters can be engaged. In all other districts that I have travelled in, arrangements for travellers are made either directly by the civil authorities, or through the head men of the villages, who are bound to assist travellers at fixed rates. In this district there seems to be difficulty in getting coolies at all, and even then agreements with them seem to favour their side and not yours. It is lucky that the inhabitants are in general a pleasant and willing people. Across the border in Chamba, under a different régime, I believe, there is no difficulty, as the ordinary arrangements to assist travellers are in force. This is no question of forced labour, but simply amounts to the fact that unless in these difficult countries some such arrangement is in force, all travelling, except for those capable of carrying their own kit, must cease entirely, although it may on occasions, such as harvest time, bear hardly on the peasant.
Nevertheless, the coolie difficulty having been overcome, this is the one district where quite short mountaineering trips can be made. Where else in India can one leave the train in the morning and drive directly to the foot of the great hills, which one does from the station of Pathankote, if one is lucky, in twelve hours? If one is still more lucky and has a local friend to make the arrangements, and if one has, further, got over the shock and disgust of driving for twelve hours behind obviously inadequate ponies, a start can be made the next morning for the mountains. I have made some few trips under these conditions, though my luck in this district with regard to weather has been really bad.
In December of 1904, however, we managed to bring off a most sporting little climb (Alpine J., 1904.) Although the weather had a good shot at us, it did not make up its mind to be really disagreeable to me, as it has invariably done since that date. Directly above the station of Dharmsala, at a height of about 10,200 feet, is the high alp of Lakkar, most picturesquely situated and with a character quite its own, chiefly due to the peculiar darkness of the forest of those hills which I have before mentioned, the contrast between their darkness and the snows above being most striking. We spent a chilly but very cheerful evening, “we” being my friend Money, of the 1st Goorkhas (my local provider, guide, and philosopher), his Goorkha, and my Goorkha Karbir Burathoki, often before mentioned. We climbed on the following day a most sporting little peak, and had some ice and rock work of a quite respectably high order, the chief incident being a climb into a deep-cut chimney over a bulging lump of ice, and the further scramble up the chimney, unpleasantly iced, and, as usual, A.P. (I apologise for using this term again, but it is the only way of being impressive, unless one says one measured the angle of slope and found it 75°. Either of these methods is adequate, always assisted by photography.)
Karbir distinguished himself by his own methods. These were most effective, but I do not recommend them to the average person. He managed to fix himself at the top of the chimney, though in a most awkward position, we remaining in big steps cut out of the ice near its mouth; then, as both hands and feet were employed, he held the rope in his teeth and assisted me up on it I was, on arrival, directed into a small cave some way above him, into which I crept like a lizard. Short of being cut in two, nothing could have moved me, and the strain was soon over, but I was glad when those three had done pulling. Finally, after another hour or two we got to the top of the peak, only to discover that it was not the one we wanted, but the next one to it. Here was a good chance for my local guide to show me his philosophical side. He did this quite nicely, but, as for me, I used most of the forcible words I could remember. As we had no time to waste, having to get down for dinner to old Dharmsala at about 4000 feet elevation only, we at once started home by the ridge, since to have returned by that gully would have taken too long, and, making good time by a convenient snow couloir to our camp and running the remaining way, we were able to arrive, as they say across the Pond, “on time.”
One other expedition, also unfortunately late in the year, a design on a very fine peak locally called the Matterhorn, was completely spoilt by weather, though we came in for some of the usual trials of Himalayan travel, coolie difficulties, and having to carry one’s own kit in consequence. We had a most delightful bivouac one night, and a most unpleasant one on another occasion, before some of the porters disappeared. Colonel Powell, who was one of the party, and myself went up a different nullah from the coolies and spent the night à la belle étoile, ordinarily quite a pleasant thing to do, but chilly in December. The pleasant bivouac, also à la belle étoile, was reinforced by ample food and bedding, and we celebrated the occasion. Colonel Powell had a new soup which he was very keen to try, and cooked it himself. So savoury was the smell that the entire party collected in a circle round him: two lieutenants, a lance-corporal, and two privates; or rather three worthy representatives of the great Turanian race, two who represented, I may say worthily, the genius and fire of the Celt, and one stolid miserable Englishman, no less than our before-mentioned guide, philosopher, and friend. The weather broke during the night, and certain of the coolies decamped, so the two Celts exercised with success their genius and fire in giving the stolid Saxon all the heaviest kit to carry. They exercised some more the next day by leaving the Sassenach out to shoot in the rain, while they went home as quickly as possible. Next day one Celt had not had enough. Genius was at a low ebb, but he exercised the other characteristic by burning his brother Celt’s boots!
My second and last attempt on the local Matterhorn occurred this year, the year of writing, and again the weather interfered in a most tantalising manner. It has always treated me badly in these parts, but never more scurvily than on the present occasion. I had been able to allot fifteen days to a reconnaissance and an attempt We had together, my companion Minchington of the 1st Goorkhas and myself, laid out our days’ programmes in what we hoped would be the most economical way; further, October in ordinary circumstances ought to have been perfect weather, as indeed with one break it was. Our intention had been to cross the ridge by the Andrea Pass, approximately 15,000 feet, and make a high camp, exploring our peak from this camp and sending most of our porters back.
We started on October 14th from Dharmsala in beautiful weather, although clouds the previous evening had been hanging about the summits of the range, and bivouacked at the before-mentioned Lakkar. There was a slight thunderstorm at night and broken clouds on the following morning, but apparently no sign of a thorough break in the weather. We had had the usual difficulties with porters, and our last remaining baggage did not turn up until the morning. Then the laggards refused point blank to cross the pass, and skedaddled when we were starting the other men.
The rear-guard, consisting of Minchington, myself, and our Goorkha assistants, two of whom had been in Garhwal with me, and one of whom, Budhichand, was one of Mr. Mumm’s three musketeers, had to divide up the loads and take them ourselves. This is one of the essential differences between Himalayan and European mountaineering, which are — first, the greater quantity of baggage that is required; secondly, the difficulty of getting adequate porterage; and thirdly, the necessity of being able to carry oneself, or rather, I should say, oneself plus a very good load besides.
The exigencies of Himalayan travel were brought home to me with considerable vividness before we got into camp that day, or down to the first Chamba settlement on the following evening. After the first hour we had trouble with all our coolies, a mixed lot of inferior Gaddis, who disappointed me very much, as I had heard so much of Gaddis, and my previous experience of them had been so good. A scud of wind and sleet lasting half an hour took all the go out of them, and they evidently dreaded the pass. They were right in their judgment of the weather, however, and we were wrong, though at the moment, with the sun shining below us on the Kangra fields, it did not seem possible that the weather could quite break up. However, in an hour it did break with a vengeance, bringing thunder, wind, and driving snow, and a very cold atmosphere. We kept on expecting it would turn out to be only another short storm. But not a bit of it; it got worse and worse, and then began our real troubles. The rear-guard, as before mentioned, began finding deserted loads on the ground and no porters, and as the loads mounted up, so the road got more and more precipitous, the last 1000 feet being steep and rough walking at any time, but now, covered in fresh snow and with the wind driving a mixture of snow and sleet through everything, harder work than ever, and it was a very blown rear-guard that finally arrived on the pass.
This only shows, what has often been pointed out, how quickly bad weather can change the easiest mountain, and how careful one has to be when in charge of a train of porters, not to run any risk. The descent, after the first 300 feet, which is steep, is ordinarily almost a run down, but it now took a long time, the path being very difficult to find, and the steps of the leading men being completely obliterated. Trouble immediately began with the men, partly through cold and partly from their being dazed by the wind and driving snow. We were in for a big fall of snow, that was evident. Whenever the clouds lifted, as they occasionally did, we could see fresh snow far below us, and caught glimpses also of precipitous hill-sides and great gorges. Night, moreover, was closing in, the lost two or three coolies were logging, and the rearguard’s loads getting bigger and bigger and their tempers beginning to wobble a little. Then came almost the last straw; two more loads were found, including the only Whymper tent; the last two coolies wept without restraint, and the rear-guard sat down to enjoy the catastrophe in profane silence.
Having done itself a certain amount of good in this way, the loads were readjusted, and we proceeded in the growing dusk along very slippery hill-sides. Every one came down once or twice, but still the silence was maintained. Shortly after it was quite dark we arrived at a very small cave just under the wood-line, and managed to put our Whymper and Mummery tents up and get the coolies into the best shelter possible. The worst day has an ending, and there are always compensations to every evil. We dug out our bottle of ginger wine. Quoting from the story of the former and his wife and the pot of beer, I remarked to Minchington, “Drink ʻearty, Maria; drink wery nigh ʻalf. ” He took a long pull of — spirits of wine. It would have comforted any one to have seen his face and to have heard our smiles. Truly there are compensations in this world.
It snowed all night, and was snowing the next day, and, as we had expected from the views of the precipices and gorges beneath, we were told that in the present state of the weather the coolies would not be able to carry more than a few pounds, and we must pack up and get out as quickly as possible. So, stocking everything in our Whymper tent, we left for warmer regions. A very rough and slippery road we found it. Not for a minute until five in the evening did it stop snowing, when we came in sight of our destination, the village of Kwasi, in the Chamba district. Notwithstanding our “demnition moist unpleasant bodies,” we were both most tremendously struck by our surroundings. They reminded me at the time of the finest parts of Garhwal, south of the Trissul range, though I modified my opinion next morning when we were able to see better. The village of Kwasi itself is suggestive of a high Swiss village, the houses having very much the same character as small chalets. We were received by the Lambardar and given very comfortable quarters, and spent quite a refreshing night in spite of wet clothes and sleeping-bags. We awoke in the morning to find a sprinkling of snow in the village itself — a most unusual occurrence at this time of the year, as the leaves of the walnut trees had hardly begun to turn.
Struck as we had been the night before by the scenery of the valley into which we were descending, we were not prepared for what was to meet us in the morning. I think I have rarely come across a more beautiful and impressive scene, even assisted as it may have been by the fresh snow. The sculpture of the valley of Kwasi is on the boldest lines, and steep almost to the verge of being precipitous on both sides, faced at its lower end by the bold points of the Manimais massif, some 18,500 to 19,000 feet, and at its upper end enclosed by the great high Dhaoli ridge. The valley itself joins the valley of the Ravi some eight miles lower down with over 4000 feet of descent, the track winding along the most precipitous hill-side. On the southern slopes there is the typical Chamba forest of fir, pine, and deodar, the opposite slopes being still bolder, but nearly bare.
This sounds like a description which would apply to Garhwal or parts of Kashmir equally well. But Chamba has its own characteristics and is quite distinct, even as the Kangra slopes on the Punjab side are entirely different in character.
We were obliged to stay in Kwasi village for three days to arrange for new coolies, as, unfortunately, some five of our old ones had suffered severely from the storm. As a result of forty-eight hours’ continuous snow at this time of year, all chance of climbing was at an end for at least a fortnight. The Gaddis themselves cross this part in numbers about as late as November, and they all agreed that the pass would be ready for them to take their sheep over in a fortnight. Still the three days we spent were full of delight. We wandered about, went on to the nearest point of view and photographed, and lazed and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. If we had been shooting we could have had a first-rate time. It is a great game country. As it was, we saw both tahr and gooral, and numbers of monal and kohlass pheasants, and chickore partridges. So, as usual, there were compensations. The Gaddis were very interesting, and the children the most pleasant little people, quite independent and full of play.
Among other most tempting views which we obtained were some of peaks to the north of Chamba, Chobia and the Chobia Pass, leading to Lahaul, and a great neighbouring peak, Tundah by name, extremely fine. What a perfect six months could be spent by a sporting and mountaineering party in this beautiful Chamba, especially if they did not have that real bugbear of all expeditions, an object in view! That is the real bogey — a big peak to be tackled, and no time for real enjoyment, either of sport or of mountaineering; nothing, in fact, but glory to be gained.
“This goin’ ware glory waits ye,” as the Biglow Papers say,“hain’t one agreeable feetur!” Nothing could be truer than this of very high climbing, whereas the amount of sport that could be obtained and the amount of real mountaineering that could be done, with a limit of 20,000 feet, is enormous, and an unexampled time could be put in.
The return journey over the range to Dharmsala was full of interest and beauty, but uneventful. We returned to our camp at Ravi and found our belongings unharmed, though the Whymper tent in which we had left them had to be dug out of a snowdrift. The actual crossing of the pass gave quite a little scramble, owing to the presence of verglas wherever it could form, and to the amount of snow on the northern slopes. We came in for a most marvellous view from the pass itself over the Punjab plains, some 14,000 feet below us, and we were more than ever impressed by the wall-like appearance of the Dhaoli Dhar ridge. One curious effect was that the rough Kangra hill country appeared absolutely flat.
Thus ended, eliminating the much-to-be-deplored harm to the porters, a most interesting and beautiful trip — a trip, however, which only stimulated an appetite naturally voracious for travel; and, considering the amount of glorious country still to be explored, it is most inconvenient that man’s years are but threescore and ten; and if, by chance, one is spared for the extra ten, which are supposed to be a pain and grief, well, there are various ways of being carried in the Himalaya, and something may still be accomplished. L’appétit vient en mangeant which means greater enjoyment and appreciation even when one may be “shorter of wind, though in memory long.”
Au revoir, Chamba! Given health and strength, if I don’t come back, as Brer Rabbit remarked, “bust me right side inwards.”