🪖
🤔
Ponderings of a Pongo 🤔 🪖
An encounter with an
unconquered mountain and human endurance.
“My courses are set
on the storm winds,
I sail on the
lightning stream.”
The Mountain That Refused to Yield
Umba, also known as Amba, is a name
steeped in local legend. The peak, rising to approximately 5,970 metres (19,600
feet) above mean sea level, dominates the Sankoo Valley in the Kargil district
of Ladakh. Deriving its name from Umba village at its foothills, the mountain
stands majestically, its lofty summit swathed in snow for most of the year and
guarded by glaciers on all sides. To a mountaineer, it presents a formidable
challenge; to the superstitious, it is an abode best left undisturbed.
Local lore had it that no living being
could ever reach its summit. An expedition led by a Westerner in 1948 was said
to have ended in tragedy and bewilderment, with the leader reportedly returning
alone and mentally disturbed. Whether fact or folklore, the tale acquired a
life of its own. Subsequent attempts met with failure, reinforcing the
mountain’s sinister reputation.
The High-Altitude Warfare School
(HAWS), Sonamarg, was not inclined to be intimidated by folklore. It had
attempted the ascent in 1971, but that expedition too had to retreat. In 1973,
the School decided to have another go.
What follows is the story of that
expedition - an adventure in which courage, endurance and professional skill
were tested to their limits, the mountain had the last word, and we returned
with memories that have survived longer than many a summit triumph.
The Cast Assembles
On 2 August 1973, Expedition UMBA,
comprising a motley assortment of forty personnel - including signal and
medical detachments, porters, animal handlers, ponies, and, of course, the
climbers - set forth from HAWS. The climbing party consisted of instructors and
students attending the Mountain Warfare Advanced Course.
Morale was high. The summit seemed a
perfectly reasonable objective, provided one did not spend too much time
contemplating the intervening 19,600 feet of mountain.
Our Expedition Leader and instructor
was Major Pushkar Chand of the Para Commandos. A man whose previous commando
missions had evidently done wonders for his self-confidence, he appeared to
have few doubts about the outcome. He seemed determined to transform the
mountaineering expedition into something resembling a commando raid!
His deputy, Captain S. C. Thakkan of
the Grenadiers, was less carried away by such enthusiasm. His long tenure at
HAWS, spent trekking and climbing in the mountains, had taught him that nature
did not always appreciate military-style deadlines. He viewed the enterprise
with the cautious realism of a seasoned mountaineer.
Then there was Captain Shetty, our
mountaineer-doctor, who remained his usual calm and reassuring self. He
appeared confident that his mules would accompany him, together with his
medical satchels and oxygen cylinders, to a conveniently located forward medical
station. The mountain, as we were soon to discover, had other arrangements.
The students presented a mixed picture.
Some were bubbling with enthusiasm; others appeared to have left their morale
somewhere behind at HAWS. All, however, were united by one comforting
assumption: that the instructors knew what they were doing!
The Road to Sankoo
By midday, after crossing Drass, we
reached Kargil. Thereafter began a journey that tested not merely our endurance
but, more immediately, the resilience of our digestive systems.
The road wound through the Sankoo
Valley, passing a succession of small settlements with unfamiliar names. They
appeared and disappeared like mirages in an otherwise barren landscape. The
road itself resembled a long brown ribbon laid carelessly across the rugged
slopes of the surrounding massifs.
Occasional patches of green, cultivated
fields and the impassive faces of the local inhabitants provided welcome
interruptions to the monotony. The mountains, meanwhile, seemed to watch our
progress with detached indifference, as though wondering what these ambitious
little creatures were up to!
By evening, the road took a sharp bend
and our vehicles came to a halt before an old school building. Its whitewashed
walls and tin roof stood out conspicuously against the surrounding
mud-plastered dwellings.
We had reached Sankoo - and the
end of the motorable road.
Beyond
this point, our journey would depend upon human legs, animal backs and,
ultimately, sheer determination.
Into the Mountains ⛰️
After a day of rest and recuperation at
Sankoo, we set out for our Base Camp at Vakoza village, accompanied by a train
of ponies and locally commandeered yaks laden with fifteen days’ rations and
climbing equipment.
We passed through several settlements
before reaching our destination shortly before darkness fell. Tents were
pitched, essential arrangements completed, and we surrendered ourselves to a
well-earned night’s sleep.
One feature of these villages
particularly impressed me: the ingenuity of their irrigation systems. Every
cultivable plot seemed to receive its share of water through an intricate
network of indigenous channels. Watermills, with their wooden funnels gaping
like dragon mouths, were a familiar sight. In this harsh terrain, where nature
appeared to ration every blade of grass, human ingenuity had managed to extract
a livelihood from the land.
At dawn, the sun’s first rays streamed
through the surrounding massifs. The previous day’s clouds had lifted,
revealing Umba in all her splendour. She towered above the neighbouring peaks,
magnificent, aloof and faintly menacing.
Our objective was now before us. The
dream was visible. The difficulty of realising it was about to become painfully
apparent.
The First Assault
On 5 August, the Assault Party moved
out to establish Assault Camp No. 1. The expedition was divided into two
groups: an Assault Party consisting of two instructors and six students, and an
Administrative Party comprising the remainder.
The latter was responsible for transporting
supplies, supporting the climbers and maintaining the line of communication to
the forward camps. In mountaineering, as in war, the glory may belong to those
at the front, but the effort of keeping them there is often shouldered by those
behind.
The movement of stores began the
following day. Unfortunately, our four-legged transport system proved less
cooperative than anticipated. Ponies, yaks and their handlers declined to
venture beyond the Base Camp. Their refusal was firm, unanimous and apparently
beyond appeal.
The burden
therefore fell upon us.
Loads weighing between thirty and forty
kilograms had to be carried on our backs. The climb towards Assault Camp No. 1
was generally gradual, punctuated by steep stretches that demanded considerable
effort. Persistent drizzle converted the trail into a slippery mess. What
appeared to be progress often turned out to be a temporary illusion: one step
forward, two steps back.
A biting wind, blowing at an estimated
fifty knots an hour, added to our misery. The combination of heavy loads,
slush, slippery slopes and freezing gusts made every movement an exercise in
perseverance.
Our expedition had begun to
resemble less a sporting adventure and more a punishment devised by someone
with an exceptionally cruel imagination.
Shanshila Pass and the Glacier ⛰️
On 7 August, the Assault Party set out
on reconnaissance. Our intended route to Camp No. 1 lay beyond Shanshila Pass,
which presented the first major obstacle - a steep ascent of nearly 2,500 feet.
The approach involved negotiating loose
scree slopes, and it took us three to four hours to cover the distance. Beyond
the pass, the glacier lay ahead.
It was a forbidding sight.
Deep crevasses split the ice,
revealing layers of astonishing colours that disappeared into unfathomable
depths. These bands of ice, formed and compressed over centuries, were a
reminder that the glacier was not merely frozen water but a living record of
time and pressure.
We marked our route with flags,
negotiating dangerous stretches with extreme care. Occasionally, enormous
chunks of ice broke loose and came crashing down, carrying avalanches of soft
snow in their wake. The slopes were alive with unpredictable movement.
Where necessary, we cut steps
into steep snowfields. At particularly hazardous points, we fixed pitons and
ropes to facilitate our return. Every movement demanded concentration; a
moment’s carelessness could have disastrous consequences.
By midday, the weather began to
deteriorate. Thick fog descended, reducing visibility until the climber ahead
was barely distinguishable. A hailstorm threatened. Crevasses that had been
visible from a distance became treacherous traps, detectable only when one was
dangerously close.
Nevertheless, we pressed on, moving
like phantoms through the mist. Our immediate objective was to reconnoitre the
route to the saddle connecting our approach with the summit ridge.
The final stretch proved particularly
arduous. For nearly three hours, we cut steps into snow hardened almost to the
consistency of rock. Eventually, Major Chand’s rope (a rope indicates 4 to 5
climbers Linked together on climbing rope for safety) reached the saddle.
By then, our fingers had become numb. The
protection afforded by our mittens and snow gloves was woefully inadequate
against the bitter cold. Hands that should have been manipulating ice axes and
ropes were barely fit for the purpose.
Yet the sight of progress appeared to have an
exhilarating effect on our leader. Major Chand was ready to press on and
attempt the summit that very day!
His rope mates, however, had other
ideas. Empty stomachs, exhausted bodies and distinctly unenthusiastic
expressions persuaded him that even a commando raid required some consideration
for the personnel conducting it.
We began our descent, following the
route marked by flags and, at places, glissading down the slopes.
Back at camp, Chand entertained us with
an account of his own adventure. At one point, he had fallen into a crevasse
and found himself hanging upside down from his rope, resembling a spider
suspended in its web. He narrated the episode with considerable amusement,
apparently regarding it as an entertaining interruption rather than a close
encounter with death.
Not everyone had emerged equally
unscathed. Naik Heera, one of his rope mates, began hearing someone calling him
from behind. The voice persisted, although no one was there. Chand had to
resort to a literal slap to bring him back to his senses from his hallucinations
and persuade him to concentrate on the climber ahead.
Mountains, it seemed, had their own
methods of testing both body and mind.
By the time we returned, heavy snow had begun
to accumulate. Two to three feet of fresh snow covered the camp, with no
immediate prospect of improvement. The entire party made a hurried descent
towards the Base Camp.
When the Mountain Closed Its Doors
For the next two days, rain and heavy
snowfall paralysed our operations. There was no progress towards the objective.
One could not help wondering whether
the local superstition was beginning to assert itself !
Until our reconnaissance, the weather had been so clear that
we had occasionally sought refuge from the sun beneath the sparse rhododendron
bushes. Now, precisely when the assault had begun, the mountain had wrapped
itself in cloud, rain and snow.
The
second night, 9 - 10 August, brought the first tentative signs of improvement.
While on sentry duty, I noticed a few stars struggling to emerge through gaps
in the clouds.
It was a small sight, but in those circumstances,
it seemed almost an assurance from Providence that the campaign was not yet
over.
Dawn brought a clearer sky, and every
available man was immediately dispatched to restore the abandoned Assault Camp
No. 1.
After an hour’s climb, we
encountered fresh snow. The previous days’ slush had given way to a new
obstacle: soft snow that yielded beneath our feet.
Then, quite suddenly, we emerged above
the mist and fog. The snow ahead glittered brilliantly under the sun,
reflecting intense ultraviolet radiation. We appeared to be crawling across an
enormous silver platter, while a magnificent double rainbow arched across the
clear sky.
It was a spectacle of
extraordinary beauty. For a moment, the hardships of the preceding days seemed
almost worthwhile.
Unfortunately, nature’s generosity came
with a penalty.
None of us had snow goggles. The
intense reflected light was unbearable, and we had to squint painfully as our
eyes struggled to adjust. At the
camp, we discovered that the tents were almost buried beneath the accumulated
snow. We dug them out and pitched them afresh before returning to the Base
Camp.
By evening, ten members of the party
were suffering from snow blindness. Their eyes watered incessantly, and even
opening or closing their eyelids became agonising. The irony was cruel: the
very sunshine we had welcomed as a sign of hope had temporarily blinded many of
us.
That night, sleep became an elusive
luxury. Some preferred to crawl out of their pup tents and walk about in the
falling hail and snow, waiting for dawn to bring relief.
The mountains had once again
demonstrated that beauty and brutality could coexist within the same landscape.
The Second Assault
On 11 August, the weather was bright again.
Determined not to waste the opportunity, the climbers scrambled back to their
forward position. By 12 August, Assault Camp No. 2 had been established beyond
Shanshila Pass.
At last, the expedition appeared
poised for its decisive attempt.
At 4 a.m. on 13 August, four climbing ropes
set out, carrying packed brunch, tins of fruit juice and generous supplies of Cadbury
chocolate bars. In those rarefied heights, chocolate was more than a
confectionery item; it was a small, edible argument for continuing the
struggle.
The route markers left during the
earlier reconnaissance had disappeared beneath the snow. We had to find our way
afresh.
Captain Thakkan led two ropes towards
the right-hand approach, while the remaining two explored the left. The
glacier, indifferent to our previous efforts, presented its familiar hazards.
As the sun rose, loose snow began
sliding down the slopes. Massive blocks of ice broke away from their parent
faces and crashed into the depths below with deafening roars. Beneath the
glacier, hidden streams and subterranean water channels seemed to change course
continually. The resulting sounds were unnerving - like gigantic chains being
dragged through the bowels of the earth by unseen demons.
At first, the noise was frightening.
Gradually, we became accustomed to it. One learns, in the mountains, to
distinguish between the sounds one can tolerate and the dangers one must never
ignore.
The glacier itself was continually
changing. A route that appeared safe one moment could become hazardous the
next. We negotiated crevasses, cut steps, climbed steep snow slopes and
scrambled over difficult ground, advancing painfully towards the summit.
The rarefied air extracted its own toll. Every
step required disproportionate effort, and our remaining reserves of stamina
dwindled rapidly. There was little room for conversation. Our world had
narrowed to the next foothold, the next step, the next ridge. It was sheer grit
and determination that kept us moving.
By about 3 p.m., we reached the base of the
peak. Umba appeared tantalisingly close. The summit seemed almost within our
grasp.
But the mountain was not finished with us.
Savage winds lashed our bodies,
and driving snow tore at our clothing, searching mercilessly for the smallest
patch of exposed skin. The gusts seemed determined to blow us back down the
slopes we had struggled so hard to climb.
Major Chand, however, was now
within sight of his dream. Unmindful of the howling wind, he assembled the
final assault rope and began cutting steps upwards.
At 4.30 p.m., the party reached what
appeared to be the summit.
And there, to our utter dismay, another
peak rose before us.
That was the real Umba!
Between us and the actual summit lay a
deep gorge. Even in favourable weather, crossing it and climbing the remaining
ground would have required at least another day.
We had been deceived by the mountain’s
deceptive topography. After hours of exhausting effort, the summit we thought
we had reached was merely an intermediate high point.
The altimeter read approximately 19,500 feet.
We were tantalisingly close to our intended altitude, yet the true summit
remained separated from us by an impassable gulf of time, terrain and
deteriorating weather.
Night was approaching. The weather was
closing in once again, and a storm was brewing. There was no realistic prospect
of completing the climb and returning safely.
For Major Chand, this was a bitter
moment. His determination had carried the team through formidable obstacles,
but even a commando could not negotiate a deep gorge, an approaching night and
a mountain storm by issuing orders.
Reluctantly, the assault was abandoned.
Umba had once again refused to yield.
The Descent: A Race Against Darkness
If the ascent had been arduous, the
descent proved even more dangerous.
With heavy hearts, exhausted bodies and
sodden legs, we began retracing our route. The weather was deteriorating, and
the glacier that had tested us during daylight now threatened to become a death
trap.
At one point, an entire rope of
instructors went plunging down towards a deep crevasse. For a few terrifying
moments, disaster seemed inevitable.
It was then that Havildar Manohar displayed
remarkable presence of mind. Reacting instinctively, he drove his ice axe into
the snow and dug in his crampons, arresting the rope’s headlong slide. His
quick action prevented what could have been a catastrophic fall.
In the mountains, the difference
between a near miss and a tragedy can be measured in seconds. Manohar’s
reflexes and courage had saved his comrades from what might otherwise have been
a fatal accident.
Darkness soon enveloped the glacier.
The world around us dissolved into
desolation and silence, broken only by the movement of our feet and the
occasional sounds of the mountain. Snow lay everywhere, and the bone-deep cold
seemed to penetrate every layer of clothing, setting our bodies trembling
uncontrollably.
We stumbled onwards like zombies,
guided by the faint starlight and the instinctive determination to get back
alive. Then a slender crescent moon appeared above the horizon, as though
Nature, having tormented us throughout the day, had finally decided to offer a
little assistance.
By 10 p.m., we reached the assault camp.
There, waiting in the open with a
hurricane lamp, stood our good doctor, Captain Shetty. Like a shepherd waiting
anxiously for his scattered flock to return to the fold, he had prepared
gallons of hot tea and brandy for the returning climbers.
It was a sight calculated to restore faith in
humanity - and in the medical profession.
The tea revived our spirits, the
brandy warmed our insides, and the knowledge that we had returned safely was
more intoxicating than either.
We had failed to reach the summit, but
every member of the party had come back. In the circumstances, that was no
small achievement.
The Return
On 14 August, we reached the Base Camp.
The following day, the entire party descended to Sankoo village, having spent
the intervening hours winding up the assault camps, recovering equipment and
completing the necessary administrative tasks.
On 17 August, we returned to HAWS, where we
received a hero’s welcome.
The
expedition had not achieved its principal objective, but it had provided an
unforgettable education in the realities of high-altitude mountaineering. We
had experienced the deceptive beauty of glaciers, the ferocity of mountain
weather, the limitations imposed by altitude and fatigue, and the extraordinary
value of teamwork.
In retrospect, one cannot help
wondering whether the outcome might have been different had Assault Camp No. 2
been positioned closer to the foot of the actual peak, or had we discovered a
more favourable approach. Perhaps another route, better timing or more
cooperative weather might have made the summit attainable.
But mountains do not entertain
hypothetical arguments. They remain unmoved by our calculations, our ambitions
and our regrets.
And so, Umba remains unconquered
in the memory of our expedition.
The Mountain Wins, the Memories Endure
Looking back after more than half a
century, I realise that the expedition was about far more than reaching a
summit.
It was about discovering the limits of
human endurance - and learning how far those limits could be pushed by courage,
discipline, comradeship and determination. It was about men carrying burdens
that seemed impossible, persevering when every step hurt, and looking after one
another when the elements threatened to overwhelm them.
It was also about humility. Major Chand’s
commando spirit, Captain Thakkan’s seasoned caution, Captain Shetty’s
reassuring presence and Havildar Manohar’s split-second heroism each found
their place in the story. We had our share of ambition, apprehension, humour
and misadventure. The mountain had its own uncompromising agenda.
We had gone to conquer Umba. Instead, Umba
taught us that not every battle is won by pressing on, that a timely retreat
can be an act of courage, and that survival itself can be a victory.
The summit eluded us, but the
experience became ours for life.
As the evening of life advances,
memories such as these return with remarkable clarity. The biting winds, the
treacherous crevasses, the dazzling double rainbow, the terror of the descent
and the welcome glow of Captain Shetty’s hurricane lamp remain etched in my
mind.
Above all, I look back with profound
gratitude to the Almighty, whose unseen hand seemed to guide us through our
darkest hours and bring us safely home. 🙏 🙏
Umba still stands, majestic and
unconquered, indifferent to the ambitions of those who dare to challenge her.
And we, the survivors of Expedition UMBA,
carry away something no mountain can take from us: the enduring memory of
having stood in her shadow, tested our mettle against her might, and returned
with our lives, our comradeship and our stories intact.
The mountain kept her summit. ⛰️
We kept our memories 🤔.
And, in the end, that was enough.🙏
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