Perfectly Mobile-Perfectly Still

Land Artists-Andy Goldsworthy,David Kemp and David Nash.

SCULPTURE need not be a bronze stat­ue of a town councillor or a marble figure of a goddess, respectfully plinth­ed in gallery or plaza; or a curvaceous wood­en form strung like a harp which we gaze at in dumbfounded silence. These days, it may well be a drystone wall winding be­tween trees before burying its end in a lake, like the great Norse serpent for ever drink­ing the world's waters dry. Or a cairn on a Highland headland with a fire flaming in­side it. Or a longboat made of stakes and stones and turf, grounded in the under­growth of a forest.

These works often use materials that have come to light in the place itself – leaves, rubbed red stones, dry sticks, thorns, the dark fluid from mushroom gills, stones picked from scree, blocks of snow and slivers of ice, earth, deer-dung, scrap iron, fern fronds, spruce thinnings and off-cuts. In this, the land artists are following the footsteps of the original Australians, who ground their ochres from earth in rock holes next to the overhangs which they adorn­ed with fish and birds and lizards and spirit-figures. They are also working as nearly as humans can to the processes of nature itself. If you look at the photographs by Paul van Vlissingen taken monthly from one August to the next at Rudha Cailleach, or Witches' Point, on the north shore of Loch Maree, you find you're watching a mobile image, pregnant in each of its 13 stages, the more so because it alters so much as the winds and currents urge and repos­ition the four types of stone that compose the spit. 

Now it resembles the tail of a ray or skate, now it's a sea-tangle head, now it's a hand whose forefinger points west­ward. Sometimes it settles down as the head of a bear with an eye and snout that look east in July, west in the second August. If the images were printed on successive pages of one of those tiny flick-books, the tongue of shingle would lash to and fro like a dog shaking a rat.

Compare this work of nature with Spiral Jetty, which Robert Smithson built out into Great Salt Lake in Utah thirty years ago. It's more neatly coiled than the spit at Rudha Cailleach. Both change continually,the one in its shape, the other in its invisibility.

Indeed, Salt Lake rose recently and drowned the jetty. At some stage in the submersion it must have become a tapering tongue,until finally,a mere stub.

Smithson,an adventurous character (who was killed when flying a light aircraft to look at one of his works from above), might have welcomed the flood – he was working with the dirt and gravel of the desert and knew his work was exposed to weathering. The land artists are at ease with change. They go beyond Henry Moore's pleasure in the greening of his bronzes by oxidation (especially near the sea). Talking to John Fowles in 1987, Andy Goldsworthy came out with this wonder­fully relaxed notion: 'Ten years ago I made a line of stones in Morecambe Bay. It is still there, buried under the sand, unseen- All my work still exists, in some form.'That is of course true of all matter: particles from the canvas and pigment of the Mona Lisa will blow about the world some day.

The difference is that the land artists usually garner their materials from the place where the work finally blossoms; and they process these thorns, stems. stones and feathers as little as possible be­fore embodying them in their works_ Chris Drury's Whale Bone (1993), illustrated in his recent Silent Spaces, is 'simply' a pilot-whale vertebra with 13 ochre lines etched into each of the twin tines where the upper bone structure forks. The symmetry of its -"wings". the converging ridges in its 'face', the meer­schaum shadings of boney stuff itself are untransmuted. Goldsworthy's sea-urchin­like icicle cluster, made in the winter of 1987, consisted of icicles 'with their thick ends dipped in snow then water, held until frozen together. He arranged the ice daggers-That is all.Their ribbing,their smoothness or roughness, are as the freezing of water moulded them.

 

All that is left of the natural material used by Picasso or Michaelangelo is some salient property-the hard white sheerness of marble, the egg-yellowness of chromate. The materials of the land artists — the bush, the tree, the moor from which the material has cropped up — retain their fibrousness or graininess, dirtiness or translucency, as nearly as can be in their natural state.This already typifies, even stereotypes, the land artists too much. They are not a school or group, although later it will be worth considering why so many artists tend­ed this way at this time. What does link them, inside their luxuriant variety? The most austere among them, Richard Long, makes his  works by walking, shuffling, treading. Many of them have probably been seen only by his camera. He fashioned a circle in the gibber-desert of the Hoggar region of the Sahara by clearing the grav­el and shingle, leaving the dusty sand. He also made a straight line pointing towards a blunt tusk of mountain — the result is a minimal artefact, forming as distinctively human a trace as Man Friday's footprint on the  beach.

Probably the circle and line are gone now,overlaid by sifting minerals. The (usually) black and white photographs complete Long's obsessional ritual. Near my home in Cumbria, Sally Matthews has worked very differently. In A Cry in the Wilderness (1990), two hounds jump over a ragged drystone wall in the permanent twi­light of Grizedale Forest. Their colours are rendered in the black of peaty mud, the bronze of stripped branches. Although the artist used fondue cement on a rabbit-wire armature to firm up the crumbliness of the earth, the details are crafted from found materials. The tendon behind one dog's hind leg is created by a minor root spring­ing from the taproot that makes the limb. Follow the dogs over the dyke and down the bank to a beck and you see a third dog trailing a deer made from branches, twigs, withered grasses, peat. The drab stems and blades that make her coat precisely imitate the look of a hind starving after a hard win­ter. They remind us that deer make and re­make themselves by ingesting grass.

 

Matthews is a consummate figurative art­ist. When my Doberman Cross jumped over the wall beside her work, the likeness was exact — the athletic thrust of the hind leg, the avid jut of the head. Long is at the other end of this gamut, a devotee of ab­straction, of number and geometrical form. What links them is that both work with the components of the place, in the place, lab­ouring outdoors for many hours at a time and leaving the work where it was made, to take its chance among the rotting and the blowing.

These artists delight in the growing and slow forming of things,they ease themselves into the happening of nature and try to work as its processes do.Stones settle,water freezes,buds unfurl into leaves. On the plateau of the Cairngorms in Central; Scotland,which is virtually an Arctic island in a temperate zone,prolonged extreme cold has formed patterns like pointilliste paintings or weaving on the mountainous moorland. You would swear as you looked out over the ribbed and scalloped surfaces,the marled blue greys and browns and olive greens,that they had been designed.

Freezing and thawing have sorted and heaved large boulders and soil into gelifluction lobes. as the naturalist Adam Watson puts it. Nothing could be less purposeful. This beautiful marking of the land, which works on the planes of colour, relief and texture, has simply come about. Coming nearer to the animate: accord­ing to the research of an inspired zoolog­ist at Glasgow University called Mike Hansell, several quite different animals craft the ground, in the course of their nest-build­ing, into remarkably regular patterns. The stubby earthen nests of Gentoo penguins are evenly spaced and sized, like circular tesserae with channels between them. Mole-rats and termites in Southern Africa also build consistent patterns of circular mounds, called mima prairie. Scrub fowl do the same in northern Australia, making a terrain which looks so deliberately planned that their nests have been taken for Aboriginal middens. 

These animals don't intend to create symmetry, let alone delight in it. The spacing probably flows from their need to be at a convenient distance from their neighbours. Coming finally to the conciously created;we know that human activity constantlly and typically creates patterns that give is pleasure, as they are meant to,through their consistency-the repitition of pattern across a carpet,or hoops and stripes across a knitted fabric. (Metre, rhyme and recurrent  melody appeal to the same pleasure in recurrence, and in variations on it). The mountain, the mole rat, the weaver and the poet, all act,whether aware of it or not,in a way that gives rise to forms we rejoice in because they are not chaotic.

 

Goldsworthy has said that 'the way my walls are made, stone upon stone, is like growth.' An installation he made out of broken branches in spring last year for an exhibition curated in Glasgow by Mike Hansell looked like a nest built by a bird from dried-out, crooked, knotty twigs and branches, without following a plan, letting the hands (or claws and beak) weigh up and the eye assess, until the outcome felt right. That this is one of Goldsworthy's preferred forms is clear from Time, his first major publication for four years, which includes a chronology of his career.

If you happen on a real nest, or a clutch of eggs laid by a wayward hen well away from the farmyard, the stoup of delight that goes through you is a recognition of order achieved in the midst of what sometimes seems like the general stramash — the shat­tered stone of scree, the litter of splinter­ed and rotted debris on the floor of an un­managed forest, the spongy black jets on a river bed. Among all this, there it, calmly perfect: the bundle of hay-wisps knit into circles, making a cup, the four or five eggs, rounded and intact. If we're lucky, we come on a piece ofland art with the same sense of surprise. Grizedale Forest Park, in a leafy dale between Windemere and Coniston, teems with amazing works in wood and stone. When I first walked about in it twenty years ago, there was no leaflet listing numbered pieces, and as we walked along foresters' tracks, there, unexpectedly, was a channel­led tree held horizontal on stilts, with water running down it. Was' it a relic of old wood­craft or a necessary drain? It was Wooden Waterway (1978) by David Nash. 

What de­lighted me was the slender pour of the trans­lucent water, and the way the thing looked almost like an accident of nature, a fall­en sapling become a duct. A little further on, perched on a pair of 'goalposts' strad­dling a dip in the track were a dozen crows, made from the offcuts of pointed fence-posts. Creosoted black, the little toys with two wedges for wings and two more for the head were so crow-like that they reminded us of the sinister flock that gathers on the school climbing-frame in The Birds. A little further on a horizontal timber was loping through a clearing on four branch-legs; perfectly mobile-perfectly still. Nash's Run­ning Table (1978).

Now works of monumental presence look out at you from between the trees. Lifelike boars and wolves and elephants. A group of older men with rounded shoulders, hud­dled in conversation. Wooden axes uncurl­ing from the ground like seedlings. David Kemps' Ancient Forester (1988) twenty feet high,leaning on his axe above the car park with antlers growing through his green hat and bunions on his toes bulging out of the wood. Goldsworthy's massive Side­winder (1984-85),an anaconda of pinned together spruce trunks, swerving off between the boles of the still-living trees. Families cycle through the forest, tracking down the pieces, laughing at Andy Frost's Red Indian Chief (1985) with smoke signals puffing up from his headdress, wondering at Golds-worthy's Seven Spires (1984) that taper finely from the forest floor almost to the needle canopy. (They're now collapsing, as he had anticipated.)

 

This tribe of creatures. poised between organism and artefact, can be found where now, in Kielder Forest in Northumberland and the Forest of Dean in Gloucestershire and Loch an Eilean in Speyside,on the banks of the Eden upstream from Carlisle and the south bank of the Tyne in Gateshead and on an islet in the middle of the Teign in Devon, in woodland on Silkstone Common west of Barnsley and on a landscaped spoil-heap near Stanley in County Durham, on the shore of a lochan in North Uist and in a dewpond on Malling Down in

Sussex. Old materials being recycled into half-familiar forms David Kemp's massive idols, an iron-master and  a miner, made out of transformer castings from Northern Electric's works in Newcastle, Goldsworthy's cone built of flat scrap iron pieces on the Gateshead bank of the Tyne.

People use them. They climb onto the knees of Kemp's idols to be photographed. They leave heartfelt messages. On Tyneside-near the soaring slim piers of the new railway bridge, Colin Rose has made a great arc of silver-white alloy with a sphere ' at its zenith – Rolling Moon. In felt near its base I read "I will always love my beloved boyfriend for eva-12-5-91'

Is this vandalism?  According to the recently retired maestro of Grizedale; the forester Bill Grant, only one thing has ever been destroyed there: the crows, which were trashed by a school party in the late 1980's. 

By and large it is nature which puts a term on these things.In time wood rots from the ground up.Wind topples trees, onto walls, metal oxidises, moss and fungus infest and blear, water rises, submerges, effaces. The Running Table has been renewed three times but the present manager of Grizedale, Adam Sutherland, is dubious about this policy and knows that immaculate gardening is hardly possible —it took ten men a week to clean forty tons of fallen pine needles off a piece of Donald Urquart's. laid out in chips of radiant-white Skye marble. Goldsworthy's Spires may well be left to decay where they they lie, and the artist himself is unworried about this. Such things ask to be neither conserved nor re­stored. They don't live by exquisite patina, precise nuance of colour, minute detail or the like. A certain roughness, as of a field stone or the bark of a tree, is of their es­sence, however much skill is involved in their making. Peter Randall-Page's Granite Song (1991), on the Teign near Chagford, is a Dartmoor boulder sawn in half, each facet carved with his characteristic symmetry and finesse into a tubey, intestinal figure.

No roughness here (except in the husk of the stone). What makes it kin to the other works I've mentioned is the effect of nature having blossomed into a brand-new form. Land artists seem singularly free of ideological baggage,tending to talk practically about how they make their works — how the available materials suggested a shape or feature, prompting a new outgrowth from their accustomed styles. When Matthews writes about Cry in the Wilderness that anim­als have 'senses and a reality that we have lost or never had', or Kemp writes about Ancient Forester that 'he lives in responsible husbandry with nature, and seeks a symbiotic relationship with his environment and its renewable resources 'we recognise notions from green thinking.

The dismaying findings of Rachel Carson in Silent Spring are ingrained in us now. So positively,are Dawins' demonstrations of how life works,how it 'self developing energies' unfold, in that unobtrusive phrase from his diary which at once disposes of all that is supernatural and plants us in the world as it really is. Atomic nuclei are split, genes are inserted into or removed from organisms —such exquisite fingerings into the pith of matter are now potent in our world, for ill and for good. The land artists don't look beyond, to gods or demons; they deal with the trees, the rocks, the waters as they are, drawing material from them, returning it to them.

 

The work of Goldsworthy's that has most found me is one he doesn't distinctly remember making. His book Hand to Earth contains a black and white photograph call­ed Bow Fell, Cumbria: May 1977. Four big, rough flakes of rock balance on a crevice in the face of a sunlit crag. The rock is grainy as pumice. It's photographed so that in­finite thousands of feet of cliff might as well stretch above and below this poised structure. The flakes must have gone long since, destabilized by ice, snow, gravity, even one of our occasional earth tremors, which have shaken cups off hooks in Carlisle and shuddered a huge chunk out of a rock-climb on Kern Knotts, Wasdale, called (un­believably) Sepulcher. This work of Goldsworthy's finds me because I learned to climb on Bow Fell and I know what it is to cling by toes and finger-ends to the hundred metre face of its eastern buttress. 

Touch, balance, friction, leverage, precarious equi­poise, height, drop: all climbing is embod­ied in those four stones. The doyen of Scottish rock-climbers, Cubby Cuthbertson, who made the first ascent of Britain's most imposing route, the colossal Atlantic-facing arch on the Hebridean island of Pabbay, remarked while filming the climb that what he loved was aesthetic, the textures of the rock.

I have no idea whether Goldsworthy had to climb to make his Bow Fell sculpture, but what it does, in its rough,transient,apparently abstract way,is to compress into one knot of stone the complex of sensations and thoughts which seethe in me as I occupy the focal points on the face of the earth.

 David Kemp's Wooden Whaler

David Craig.First published in the London review of Books.December 2000.

 

The undiscovered country

 Brief as the lighting in the collied night, That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to say, 'Behold!' The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion.
Midsummer Night's Dream

The project of making a third attempt this season was mooted immediately on the return of Finch and Geoffrey Bruce to the Base Camp. There in hours of idleness had discussed their prospects and wondered what they would be doing as we gazed at the mountain to make the weather on the great ridge. We were not surprised to learn when they came down that the summit was still unconquered, and we were not yet prepared to accept defeat. The difficulty was to find a party. Of the six who had been already engaged only one was obviously fit for another great effort. Somervell had shown a recuperative capacity beyond the rest of us. After one day at the base had insisted on going up again to Camp 3 in case he might be of use to the others. 

The rest were more or less knocked out.Morshead's frost-bitten fingers and toes, from which he was now suffering constant pain, caused grave anxiety of most serious consequences, and the only plan for him was to go down to a lower elevation as soon as possible. Norton's feet had also been affected; he complained at first only of bruises, but the cold had come through the soles of his boots; his trouble too was frost-bite. In any case he could not have come up again, for the strain had told on his heart and he now found himself left without energy or strength.

 

Geoffrey Bruce's feet also were so badly frost-bitten that he could not walk. Finch, however, was not yet to be counted out. He was evidently very much exhausted, but an examination of his heart revealed no disorder; it was hoped that in five or six days he would be able to start again. My own case was doubtful. Of my frost-bitten finger-tips only one was giving trouble; the extremity above the first joint was black, but the injury was not very deep. Longstaff, who took an interest which we all appreciated in preventing us from doing ourselves permanent injury, pointed out the probability that fingers already touched and highly suscep­tible to cold would be much more severely injured next time, and was inclined to turn me down, from his medical point of view, on account of my fingers alone.

 A much more serious matter was the condition of my heart. I felt weak and lazy when it was a question of the least physical exertion, and the heart was found to have a "thrill". Though I was prepared to take risks with my fingers I was prepared to take none with my heart, even had General Bruce allowed me. However, I did not abandon hope. My heart was examined again on June 3rd, no thrill was heard, and though my pulse was rapid and accelerated quickly with exertion it was capable of satisfactory recovery. We at once arranged that Somervell, Finch and I, together with Wakefield and Crawford, should set forth the same day.

It was already evident that whatever we were to do would now have to wait for the weather. Though the Lama at the Rongbuk Monastery had told us that the monsoon was usually to be expected about June 10th, and we knew that it was late last year, the signs of its approach were gathering every day. Mount Everest could rarely be seen after 9 or 10 a.m. until the clouds cleared away in the evening; and a storm approaching from the West Rongbuk Glacier would generally sweep down the valley in the afternoon. Though we came to despise this blustering phenomenon — for nothing worse came of it than light hail or snow, either at our camp or higher — we should want much fairer days for climbing, and each storm threatened to be the beginning of something far more serious. 

However, we planned to be on the spot to take any chance that offered. The signs were even more ominous than usual as Finch and I walked up to Camp I on the afternoon of June 3rd; we could hardly feel optimistic; and it was soon apparent that, far from having recovered his strength, my companion was quite unfit for another big expedition. We walked slowly and frequently halted; it was painful to see what efforts it cost him to make any progress. However, he persisted in coming on.

We had not long disposed ourselves comfortably within the four square walls of our "sangar", always a pleasant change from the sloping sides of a tent, when snow began to fall. Released at last by the west wind which had held it back, the monsoon was free to work its will, and we soon understood that the great change of weather had now come. Fine, glistening particles were driven by the wind through the chinks in our walls, to be drifted on the floor or on our coverings where we lay during the night; and as morning grew the snow still fell as thickly as ever. Finch wisely decided to go back, and we charged him with a message to General Bruce, saying that we saw no reason at present to alter our plans. With the whole day to spend confined and inactive we had plenty of time to consider what we ought to do under these conditions.

We went over well-worn argu­ments once more. It would have been an obvious and easy course, for which no one could reproach us, to have said simply: The monsoon has come; this is the end of the climbing season; it is time to go home. But the case, we felt, was not yet hopeless. The monsoon is too variable and uncertain to be so easily admitted as the final arbiter. There might yet be good prospects. ahead of us. It was not unreasonable to expect an interval of fine weather after the first heavy snow, and with eight or ten fair days a third attempt might still be made.. In any case, to retire now if the smallest chance remained to us would be an unworthy end to the expedition. We need not run our heads into obvious danger; but rather than be stopped by a general estimate of conditions we would prefer to retire before some definite risk that we were not prepared to take or simply failed to overcome the difficulties.

After a second night of unremitting snowfall the weather on the morning of June 5th improved and we decided to go on. Low and heavy clouds were still flowing down the East Rongbuk Glacier, but precipitation ceased at an early hour and the sky brightened to the west. It was surprising, after all we had seen of the flakes passing our door, that no great amount of snow was lying on the stones about our camp. But the snow had come on a warm current and melted or evaporated, so that after all the depth was no more than 6 inches at this elevation (17,500 ft). Even on the glacier we went up a long way before noticing a perceptible increase of depth. We passed Camp II, not requiring to halt at this stage, and were well up towards Camp III before the fresh snow became a serious impediment. It was still snowing up here, though not very heavily; there was nothing to cheer the grey scene; the clinging snow about our feet was so wet that even the best of our boots were soaked through, and the last two hours up to Camp III were tiresome enough.

Nor was it a cheering camp when we reached it. The tents had been struck for the safety of the poles, but not packed up. We found them now half-full of snow and ice. The stores were all buried; everything that we wanted had first to be dug out.

The snow up here was so much deeper that we anxiously discussed the possibility of going farther. With 15 to 18 inches of snow to contend with, not counting drifts, the labour would be excessive, and until the snow solidified there would be considerable danger at several points. But the next morning broke fine; we had soon a clear sky and glorious sunshine; it was the warmest day that any of us remembered at Camp III; and as we watched the amazing rapidity with which the snow solidified and the rocks began to appear about our camp, our spirits rose. 

The side of Everest facing us looked white and cold; but we observed a cloud of snow blown from the North Ridge; it would not be long at this rate before it was fit to climb. We had already resolved to use oxygen on the third attempt. It was im­probable that we should beat our own record without it, for the strain of previous efforts would count against us, and we had not the time to improve on our organization by putting a second camp above the North Col. Somervell, after Finch's explanation of the mechanical details, felt perfectly confident that he could manage the oxygen apparatus, and all those who had used oxygen were convinced that they went up more easily with its help than they could expect to go without it. Somervell and I intended to profit by the experience. 

They had discovered that the increased com­bustion in the body required a larger supply of food; we must arrange for a bountiful provision. Their camp at 25,000 ft had been too low; we would try to establish one now, as we had intended before, at 26,000 ft. And we hoped for a further advantage in going higher than Finch and Bruce had done before using oxygen; whereas they had started using it at 21,000 ft, we intended to go up to our old camp at 25,000 ft without it, perhaps use a cylinder each up to 26,000 ft, and at all events start from that height for the summit with a full supply of four cylinders. If this was not the correct policy as laid down by Professor Dryer, it would at least be a valuable experi­ment.

Our chief anxiety under these new conditions was to provide for the safety of our porters. We hoped that after fixing our fifth camp at 26,000 ft, at the earliest three days hence, on the fourth clay of fine weather the porters might be able to go down by themselves to the North Col in easy conditions; to guard against the danger of concealed cre­vasses there Crawford would meet them at the foot of the North Ridge to conduct them properly roped to Camp IV. As the supply officer at this camp he would also be able to superintend the descent over the first steep slope of certain porters who would go down from Camp IV without sleep­ing after carrying up their loads.

 

But the North Col had first to be reached. With so much new snow to contend with we should hardly get there in one day. If we were to make the most of our chance in the interval of fair weather, we should lose no time in carrying up the loads for some part of the distance. It was decided therefore to begin this work on the following day, June 7th.

In the ascent to the North Col after the recent snowfall we considered that an avalanche was to be feared only in one place, the steep final slope below the shelf. There we could afford to run no risk; we must test the snow and be certain that it was safe before we could cross this slope. Probably we should be obliged to leave our loads below it, having gained, as a result of our day's work, the great advantage of a track. An avalanche might also come down, we thought, on the first steep slope where the ascent began. Here it could do us no harm, and the behavior of the snow on this slope would be a test of its condition.

The party, Somervell, Crawford and I, with fourteen porters (Wakefield was to be supply officer at Camp III), set out at 8 a.m. In spite of the hard frost of the previous night, the crust was far from bearing our weight; we sank up to our knees in almost every step, and two hours were taken in traversing the snowfield. At 10.15 a.m. Somervell, I, a porter, and Crawford, roped up in that order, began to work up the steep ice-slope, now covered with snow. It was clear that the three of us without loads must take the lead in turns stamping out the tracks for our porters. These men, after their immense efforts on the first and second attempts, had all volunteered to "go high", as they said once more, and everything must be done to ease the terrible work of carrying the loads over the soft snow. No trace was found of our previous tracks, and we were soon arguing as to where exactly they might be as we slanted across the slope.

It was remarkable that the snow adhered so well to the ice that we were able to get up without cutting steps. Every­thing was done by trenching the snow to induce it to come down if it would; every test gave a satisfactory result. Once this crucial place was passed, we plodded on without hesitation. If the snow would not come down where we had formerly encountered steep bare ice, a fortiori, above, on the gentler slopes, we had nothing to fear. The thought of an avalanche was dismissed from our minds.

It was necessarily slow work forging our way through the deep snow, but the party was going extraordinarily well, and the porters were evidently determined to get on. Somervell gave us a long lead, and Crawford next, in spite of the handicap of shorter legs, struggled upwards in some of the worst snow we met until I relieved him. I found the effort at each step so great that no method of breathing I had formerly employed was adequate; it was necessary to pause after each lifting movement for a whole series of breaths, rapid at first and gradually slower, before the weight was transferred again to the other foot. About 1.30 p.m. I halted, and the porters, following on three separate ropes, soon came up with the leading party. We should have been glad to stay where we were for a long rest. But the hour was already late, and as Somervell was ready to take the lead again, we decided to push on. We were now about 400 ft below a conspicuous block of ice and 600 ft below Camp IV, still on the gentle slopes of the corridor. Somervell had advanced only 100 ft, rather up the slope than across it, and the last party of porters had barely begun to move up in the steps. The scene was peculiarly bright and windless, and as we rarely spoke, nothing was to be heard but the laboured panting of our lungs. This stillness was suddenly disturbed. We were startled by an ominous sound, sharp, arresting, violent, and yet somehow soft like an explosion of untamped gunpowder.

I had never before on a mountainside heard such a sound; but all of us, I imagine, knew instinctively what it meant, as though we had been accustomed to hear it every day of our lives. In a moment I observed the surface of the snow broken and puckered where it had been even for a few yards to the right of me. I took two steps convulsively in this direction with some quick thought of getting nearer to the edge of the danger that threatened us. And then I began to move slowly downwards, inevitably carried on the whole moving surface by a force I was utterly powerless to resist. Somehow I managed to turn out from the slope so as to avoid being pushed headlong and backwards down it. For a second or two I seemed hardly to be in danger as I went quietly sliding down with the snow. Then the rope at my waist tightened and held me back. A wave of snow came over me and I was buried. I supposed that the matter was settled. However, I called to mind experiences related by other parties; and it had been suggested that the best chance of escape in this situation lay in swimming. I thrust out my arms above my head and actually went through some sort of motions of swimming on my back. Beneath the surface of the snow, with nothing to inform the senses of the world outside it, I had no impression of speed after the first acceleration – I struggled in the tumbling snow, uncon­scious of everything else – until, perhaps only a few seconds later, I knew the pace was easing up. I felt an increasing pressure about my body. I wondered how tightly I should be squeezed, and then the avalanche came to rest.

My arms were free; my legs were near the surface. After a brief struggle, I was standing again, surprised and breath­less, in the motionless snow. But the rope was tight at my waist; the porter tied on next me, I supposed, must be deeply buried. To my further surprise, he quickly emerged, unharmed as myself. Somervell and Crawford too, though they had been above me by the rope's length, were now quite close, and soon extricated themselves. We subse­quently made out that their experiences had been very similar to mine. But where were the rest? Looking down over the foam of snow, we saw one group of porters some little distance, perhaps 150 ft, below us. Presumably the others must be buried somewhere between us and them, and though no sign of these missing men appeared, we at once prepared to find and dig them out. 

The porters we saw still stood their ground instead of coming up to help. We soon made out that they were the party who had been immediately behind us, and they were pointing below them. They had travelled farther than us in the avalanche, presumably because they were nearer the centre, where it was moving more rapidly. The other two parties, one of four and one of five men roped together, must have been carried even farther. We could still hope that they were safe. But as we hurried down we soon saw that beneath the place where the four porters were standing was a formidable drop; it was only too plain that the missing men had been swept over it. We had no difficulty in finding a way round this obstacle; in a very short time we were standing under its shadow. The ice-cliff was from forty to sixty feet high in different places; the crevasse at its foot was more or less filled up with avalanche snow. Our fears were soon con­firmed. One man was quickly uncovered and found to be still breathing; before long we were certain that he would live.

 Another whom we dug out near him had been killed by the fall. He and his party appeared to have struck the hard lower lip of the crevasse, and were lying under the snow on or near the edge of it. The four porters who had escaped soon pulled themselves together after the first shock of the accident, and now worked here with Crawford and did everything they could to extricate the other bodies, while Somervell and I went down into the crevasse. A loop of rope which we pulled up convinced us that the other party must be here. It was slow work loosening the snow with the pick or adze of an ice-axe and shovelling it with the hands. But we were able to fallow the rope to the bodies. One was dug up lifeless; another was found upside down, and when we uncovered his face Somervell thought he was still breathing.

We had the greatest difficulty in extricating this man, so tightly was the snow packed about his limbs; his load, four oxygen cylinders on a steel frame, had to be cut from his back, and eventually he was dragged out. Though buried for about forty minutes, he had survived the fall and the suffocation, and suffered no serious harm. Of the two others in this party of four, we found only one. We had at length to give up a hopeless search with the certain knowl­edge that the first of them to be swept over the cliff, and the most deeply buried, must long ago be dead. Of the other five, all the bodies were recovered, but only one was alive. The two who had so marvellously escaped were able to walk down to Camp III, and were almost perfectly well next day. The other seven were killed.

George Leigh Mallory: First published in The assault on Mount Everest: Gen George Bruce: 1923.

Photos: Bentley Beetham Collection: Durham University