Made by the mountains – a journey of adventure, endurance and understanding
In 1976 James Crowden left his career in the British army and travelled to Ladakh in the Northern Himalaya. The Frozen River is his extraordinary account of his life there
Mountains live on in your imagination, they live on the horizon, they live in your heart and in the maps of your mind. Mountains can have a profound effect on one’s being. In many ways mountains dominate our lives, even from afar. Occasionally, my uncle, the actor Graham Crowden who lived in Edinburgh for many years, would sometimes say that, like Thomas de Quincey, he was ‘botanising in the Himalayas.’
In my own case Scottish mountains played a large part in my early life. When I was only ten my father took me up Schiehallion and Ben Nevis. I soon got used to long climbs and the extraordinary feeling of isolation and freedom. A few years later I traversed the Cuillin ridge, the whole shebang, on midsummer’s day in perfect weather. Magnificent views of the Hebrides – not a cloud in the Skye…
Then by contrast in midwinter, the ‘Big Four’ under two feet of snow, Cairngorm, Ben Macdui, Cairn Toul and Braeriach. Twelve gruelling hours, followed the next year by ice climbing on Ben Nevis. Then a three day snow holing expedition in a blizzard around Ben Alder. ‘Winter survival’ they called it in the army. Sleeping in snow caves tunnelled out under cornices. Low cost housing. Brilliant training without which I would never have had the courage to take on the Hindu Kush and Himalayas. Instead of a plant press I took ice axe and crampons as well as a set of wooden Norwegian skis from the 1950s lent to me by a Scottish doctor, Kenneth Lumsden. Another Scottish doctor, Peter Steele from the Yukon, lent me his Labrador snowshoes.
My career in the army was, alas, short lived. The mountains beckoned and having been posted to Cyprus I went further east each summer in search of mountain ranges. Kurdish bandits on Ararat, then the Elburz. The army even turned a blind eye and let me loose on the Hindu Kush. A four week trek from Badakhshan in the north east, past the ancient lapis lazuli mines over the main ridge and then a traverse through Nuristan. A ‘Long Walk in the Hindu Kush’. But I wanted more.
And so it was I came to Ladakh on the northern side of the main Himalayan range, tucked away between Kashmir and Tibet. Central Asia. It had been closed to foreigners for nearly 30 years and had only just re-opened. I grabbed my chance, resigned my commission and hot-footed it to this remarkable Tibetan Buddhist kingdom. A summer reconnaissance. Walking 250 miles in the mountains led me to believe that spending a winter in Zangskar was just possible. I also climbed a new peak. A strange and wonderful experience seeing K2 from 150 miles away. Added to this was the opportunity to descend the frozen Zangskar river sleeping in caves with butter traders. No stove. No tent. A dangerous journey right through the heart of a mountain range down an otherwise impenetrable gorge, to reach the old trading town of Leh. Six days there. Six days back. I also planned a week’s ski journey out. I applied for a Churchill Fellowship and set off on my own. I was 22.
In the RGS and Alpine club library I did some research. Several eminent Scottish explorers had been to Ladakh in the 19th century. Dr Thomas Thomson, a botanist, army surgeon and friend of Joseph Hooker, had been to Zangskar in the 1840s. Major General Sir Alexander Cunningham had written book about Ladakh, published in 1854, the same year as the Charge of the Light Brigade. The pages had not even been cut. His father, Allan Cunningham, was friends with Rabbie Burns and James Hogg aka the Ettrick Shepherd.
Alexander also founded the archaeological survey of India and discovered many old Buddhist sites. Then there was the Edinburgh journalist Andrew Wilson who wrote Abode of Snow. He was caught out on the pass leading into Zangskar in six feet of snow with his pack ponies. Then there was the soldier and trader Andrew Dalgleish, murdered on the Karakoram pass by an Afghan servant in 1888. I was treading in some very interesting footsteps.
The year was 1976. I only just managed to get into Zangskar with four pack horses before the snow came down, then trapped in the valley for six months. The only other westerner to have spent a winter in Zansgkar was a Hungarian linguist called Csoma de Koros. 1826. Exactly 150 years earlier. He ended up compiling the first Tibetan English dictionary. I stayed in the capital Padum in a small room, I had a stove built and a fire for a few hours every other
“Climbing peaks was one thing but being in the mountains for a year was something else”
day. Outside temperatures were around -30C.
Life was fascinating and I spent time in the monasteries and skiing between villages. There were festivals and parties, weddings and funerals. As Tibetan Buddhists they were very colourful. As part of my preparation I had visited Samye Ling Monastery near Eskdalemuir and promised the Abbot and Sherab the resident artist that I would bring back photographs of historic monastic wall paintings.
The 100 mile journey down the frozen river or Chadar trek with butter traders was unbelievably cold and dangerous. Ice was unpredictable and if you fell in, there was very little chance to get out. Sometimes we had to climb along cliff walls on narrow ledges. The butter they traded was from yak pastures and had a high price in Leh. This was a holiday for them. Climbing peaks was one thing but being in the mountains for a year was something else; a chance to see the bazaar and bring back supplies. The one thing I valued above all else was the deep silence in the mountains, remoteness and isolation. The curious feeling of freedom. A treasure beyond words.
Also as a civil engineer I was studying the building of a road into the valley. I wanted to observe the changes that the road would bring but the construction was a slow process, as the engineers could only work in the summer months. Much of the road was constructed with pick and shovel.
As to wildlife there were yaks and marmots, ibex, wolves, bears and snow leopards. Slowly I began to feel part of their lives and the Zangskaris were very generous and warmhearted. They brewed their own beer called chang and distilled it into arak like poteen.
After the frozen river I had one last venture up my sleeve, the solo ski journey out of the valley. Only 100 miles but I nearly came unstuck with avalanches. The whole winter experience was liberating and I realised how important it was to grow your own food. These were some of the highest fields in the world. Wheat at 12,000ft and barley at 14,000ft.
So when I returned to England I spent 20 years working as a casual agricultural labourer: a shepherd, sheep shearer, back woodsman and cider maker. Survival in the mountains had taught me many lessons.
And yes, I did meet a man who was ‘botanising in the Himalayas’ – Adam Stainton whose family wealth came from Dewar’s whisky. This enabled him to give up being a barrister and travel widely. His excellent book Flowers of the Himalaya came out a few years later.
Mountain spirits live on in your imagination. A quick nip in the air.