The Ascent of Rum Doodle

My thoughts went back to that evening, which seemed an eternity ago, when we had stood on the summit of the Rankling La, our hearts beating with hope, eager to challenge the mountain. All the effort, the suffering, the planning, had been in vain. The confidence of those who had chosen us was betrayed. We were failures and frauds; the world would laugh at us, and rightly.

I thought of my comrades below, struggling against bodily weakness, building up their strength for the work which they imagined lay ahead, forcing their way up the mountain slowly but valiantly, and all to no purpose. It seemed infinitely pathetic. A lump rose in my throat and I fought back unmanly tears.

I looked up at the summit of Rum Doodle, so serene in its inviolate purity, and I had the fancy that the goddess of the mountain was looking down with scorn upon the puny creatures who had set sacrilegious feet upon her slopes, daring them to do their utmost, daring the whole world. She it was who had led us astray, and would lead astray or destroy all who set foot on her.

Would the mountain ever be climbed, I wondered.

And as I looked I had the answer.

On the broad slopes of the summit a small black speck had appeared. As I watched, it moved slowly upwards. Behind it came another speck. Then another.

Men!

Who could it be, upon our mountain? I felt a surge of indignation. Who had dared to come to the mountain in secret, to beat us to the summit and make fools of us? Who?

The three specks moved upwards. Behind them appeared other specks, in ones and twos and larger groups. There were ten of them, twenty, dozens, scores; the virgin whiteness of the summit snow was dotted with them. They swarmed all over it, like slow-moving ants.

The porters! It could be no one else. Ninety-two had been left at Base Camp. They must all, or nearly all, have climbed the mountain.

But why? Why?

And where was Prone? Was he with them, or had he been abandoned? Had he led them himself?

I seized my radio. The distance was beyond normal range, but contact might be possible in this clear air. I buzzed and called:

‘Binder to Ailing. Binder to Ailing. Are you receiving me? Over.’

No reply. I tried again, and went on trying. I became frantic.

So Lo and Pong were seated placidly on their loads, smoking stunk and watching their friends on Rum Doodle with no sign of interest. It seemed to be all in a day’s work to them. The specks on the summit were working in groups. Tents were being erected. They were evidently going to camp on the mountain top!

I went on calling.

At last, to my great relief, there came a faint voice:

‘Ailing to Binder. Ailing to Binder. Receiving you strength 2. Are you receiving me? Over.’

And he told me his incredible story. On the day Constant and I left Advanced Base for the last time the porters had started to pack up all the equipment which we had left at Base Camp. When everything else was ready they pulled his tent down too and indicated by signs that he was to get out of his sleeping-bag. Assuming that they were carrying out Constant’s orders to move the camp to a safer site, he did as requested, and they moved off in good order, Prone, who was suffering from suspected catalepsy, being carried by a porter on top of his load.

To his surprise, instead of making for the chosen site they marched straight to the North Wall and began to climb it. He shouted and wriggled, but the porter who was carrying him took not the slightest notice. He kicked and bellowed, and banged the fellow on the head with his fist. The man bore it for a while, then threw Prone off and went on alone. Greatly alarmed, Prone staggered after him, calling on him to stop. The porter halted, waited for Prone to come up, flung him over his shoulder and went on again. Prone, quite demoralized, made himself as comfortable as he could and fell asleep.

He awoke to find himself being carried into his tent. From a brief glimpse which he caught of the surroundings he guessed that they were encamped on the South Col. He was given food and his personal equipment was brought to him. After treating himself for Bavarian measles he turned in for the night.

Next morning they struck camp and Prone with it. Taking no notice whatsoever of his expostulations, the same porter threw him on top of his load, and off they went again.

And they kept hard at it, day after day, until they reached the summit. Prone said that he had never been so miserable in his life. The things he had endured, he said, would make a strong colonial turn pale by the mere telling. Rum Doodle was a far stiffer mountain than he had ever, in his most pessimistic moments, dreamed. He was carried all the way by the same porter, whose name was Un Sung.

I sympathized with him, and gave him my news. We then considered what was to be done. Obviously, Prone and the Base Camp must be got down the mountain. But how? At my suggestion Prone tried, by signs, to persuade his gang to go downhill, but they took no notice of him. They had by now finished pitching the tents. Those not engaged in preparing food were sitting inside smoking and apparently quite contented with their unusual situation. Prone said it was hopeless.

I said I could not imagine how the thing had happened. Prone said that he, on the other hand, knew exactly. The Yogistani word for mountain base was evidently the same as the word for summit, except for a grunt, gurgle or other internal convulsion which Constant had got wrong. In his opinion the porters would stay where they were until told by Constant to come down, or until supplies gave out. He expected to be dead long before either of these happened.

I begged him to bear up, for all our sakes. I told him that his sufferings had not been for nothing. Had we not, after all, reached the summit of Rum Doodle? We had, in fact, accomplished far more than we had set out to do, having climbed both Rum and North Doodle.

Prone said that, in years to come, if ever he sat again in comfort before a blazing fire, this fact might be of some small satisfaction to him. At present it was a raindrop in his ocean of misery. He begged me to get him off the mountain.

To comfort the poor fellow I promised that this would be done at once; though how, I had not the faintest idea. We said good-bye, and started downhill with my small party.

It was a pair of belches which woke me next morning. I looked at them both suspiciously, but Pong had brought a piece of leather for me to eat with my lentils and pemmican. I took this to be a friendly gesture and was ashamed of my suspicions.

I can remember little of the next two days except my continual struggle with Binder’s Butter Beans. At 27,000 feet I called up the others and asked them to direct me to Camp 1. They were very helpful, but their detailed instructions did nothing but lead me in a circle. But it was good to hear Burley’s voice again. In the background, as he spoke, I could hear the sound of singing, and now and then someone would break into our conversation with a friendly enquiry, such as: ‘How’s old Binder today?’ or ‘Binder, old boy, did I ever tell you the story of the Young Lady from Kettering?’ and so on. Burley himself offered to sing for me. It was very kind of them, and after my lonely journey I was touched; but it was no help to me in my search for Camp 1.

At last I gave it up. I said I would go down to Advanced Base, and asked them to follow next day. Burley consulted the others and I heard Shute say: ‘We might as well; there’s none left, anyway,’ – meaning cinematograph film, I suppose.

I have since discussed with Totter the mystery of Camp 1. Why was I never able to find it, in spite of repeated instructions? Why had Constant been able to find it easily when he went down from Camp 2? And why did the others, notably Burley, who never went higher, find it so difficult to leave the camp? Was it a local climatic effect similar to the enervating air one often finds on a glacier? We never found a satisfactory explanation. To this day the mystery of Camp 1 remains unsolved.

So down I went to Advanced Base, and one day later we were all together for the first time for nearly a fortnight.

The question was: what was to be done about Prone? Jungle’s telescope revealed that Base Camp was still pitched on the summit. A dark cloud which hung over it was doubtless the smoke from ninety-two pipes of stunk. Did they intend to stay there, as Prone feared, until ordered down or food ran out? Constant consulted the porters, who assured him that this was undoubtedly the case. Orders, they said, were orders; and these particular orders had been to take Base Camp to the summit and wait there for the rest of the expedition.

Clearly, someone would have to be sent after them. But who? Since none of the Europeans was fit to try we must send porters. Constant asked for volunteers, with disappointing results. He picked out two of them and ordered them up. After a haggle about overtime rates they packed their loads and set off at once without a sign of enthusiasm or reluctance. It was all in a day’s work to them.

The South Col was no place for a group of tired mountaineers. Next day we descended to the glacier and set up our camp at the foot of the North Wall.

We waited.