Shipton's Lost Valley

by Martin Moran

Part 8: Point 2685

A mile  downstream from our camp, the upper valley terminated in a pronounced downfall. In Shiptons words: The river disappeared under-ground for a short distance above the bank of the precipice and issued forth in a great waterspout to crash down into the depths below. Standing on the jammed blocks spanning the river at the brink, we peered down into a dense mantle of giant oak trees which fell away for 800m to the junction with the side river from Mandani Parbat which the map marks as 2685m. If the crossing of the col was our initial objective, the attainment of this obscure confluence deep in the jungle was our greater goal. Not only was this the lowest point of our planned route but the crossing of this sidestream was also the pivotal passage of the 1934 venture, the place where Sherpa Pasang was nearly killed by a falling boulder and two rainy days were spent in finding a fording point.

One of the questions which had aroused our keenest conjecture was the likelihood of human traces in the valley. Already this had been answered. Up above we had found a rudimentary wire animal trap, and several cut branches on trees, proving that local hunters must, from time to time, penetrate this for up the gorge. We wondered how they managed to negotiate the vetgetated slabs which ring the area, we hitched our ropes round juniper roots and gladly trusting to their dubious strength, abseiled the steepest bluff; all expect Sobat whose solo display of downclimbing on vertical grass tufts at this step would doubtless have impressed Mick Fowler!

By cautions route-finding and retracing our steps at each impasse we descended steep aakwood and rock slabs without further recourse to the rope. Distinctive clawmarks on tree branches and large piles of droppings showed that black bears still roamed the forest. We could however be confident that our incessant noise, crashing through the undergrowth and snapping off tree branches, would keep them at a safe distance. Where a canopy of old trees shielded the sunlight, the forest floor was open and the going was relatively easy. But a dense scrub of dwarf pines and thorn bushes was fighting for space in every clearing, forcing us down on hands and knees. The twisting branches snagged our rucksacks constantly, forcing us to push forward head first until they gave way and we went crashing forward, propelled by the weight of the loads.

We had all but forgotten about the mornings evidence of human visitation in the forest when sobat spotted a wood-framed shelter at a clearing on a spur. Outside was a makeshift shrine and outside we found goat skins and muslin bogs filled with crushed roots and herbs.

We surmised that these must have considerable medicinal value making it worth the while for locals from Kalimath to penetrate the gorge. Had these visits commenced since or even as a result of the 1934 journey, or had Shipton and Tilman simply failed to spot the evidence in the vegetational explosion of the monsoon.

The great sidestream could now be heard pounding its path down a gorge to our right. Having found the hut we were duped into searching for trails in the forest. The only track we found led us past a spring to the brink of the gorge, which was quite impassable upstream for as far as we could see. So with mounting concern we hurried back down the spur to the confluence with the main Gandharpongi river at Pt 2685. A terrifying roar located the meeting of the two great streams. Ben and I left our loads on a leafy terrace and scrambled to the edge of a slimy crag overhanging the side river. There below we spied a makeshift bridge of three wooden spars between raised boulders at precisely the where Shipton and Tilman must have crossed in 1934. If our passage was thus assured, then perhaps it was offered at too cheap a price, for I suppose we had really wanted the challenge of bridging the stream ourselves. Nevertheless, a relaxed and happy team made open camp and fire beside the crossing that night. Neither the rapid depletion of our rations nor even the exhaustion of our meagre stock of teabags made much dent in our pleasure to be couched by the crux of the route.