Pardesi Pahadi: Five books on the Himalaya and other Mountains
From Bandarpunch and Nanda Devi to the Annapurna and more, Zachary Conrad recommends five must-read books for a better understanding of the mountains we seek to scale—beyond us, and within us.
Author’s Note: The Himalaya are my favorite mountain range. I know that must sound obvious and banal, like being a Yankees fan, or being really into the Beatles. But they’re more than just the tallest mountains in the world. For the seven years that I lived in Landour, Mussoorie, these mountains were a constant presence, a beckoning horizon I could always look up to, and disappear to whenever I had the chance. These trips into the Himalayas were the best part of my life in India and how I connected with its people and its culture. These mountains are like nowhere on Earth, and I hope to share them with you.
Craving for the crisp Himalayan air, I know that even a second-hand experience of the mountains is as good as it’s going to get right now. Reading the best literature about mountaineering—and the human condition in reaction to these ascents—has the potential for being a truly moving experience.
Becoming a Mountain takes us on a quest for solace and healing among the most sacred peaks of the Himalaya. A confirmed atheist, Alter nonetheless understands the Himalaya cannot be separated from the myths and lore that envelop these high peaks like mists after a monsoon rain.
With that thought in mind, I set out to list a few of the best books I’ve read about the Himalaya and other mountains. These are all books I’ve read more than once. They’re all, in one way or another, important to me.
Here, I have limited myself to only one book by any author; and only one book concerning Nanda Devi. All of these books are readily available online, in print and e-book.
Mountains of the Mind (2003) - Robert MacFarlane
My wife recommended this book to me as one of her favorites, back when we were still smelly strangers in a tea-house in Nepal. A few months later, still sun-burned from a month of leading high-school students up Cascade peaks in the American Pacific Northwest, I found and promptly purchased a used copy of Mountains of the Mind in Portland, OR.
Here, Macfarlane tells the story of how we think about mountains, and shows how these notions have been shaped over centuries, raveled in our changing ideas about geology, natural selection, 19th century Romanticism, the Enlightenment, nationalism, the emergence of a middle class, and the Sublime.
This book, as the author himself professes, “is a history which scrutinizes not the ways that people have gone into the mountains, but the ways that they have imagined they were going into them, [...] It isn’t really a history of mountaineering at all, in fact, but a history of imagination.” Macfarlane tells how mountains moved from being dangerous ‘boils on the earth’s complexion’ strictly avoided, to being sought out as objects of adventure and beauty, taking us through the birth of Alpinism in Europe and Great Game in the Himalaya, from Coleridge to Whymper and Mummery to Herzog and Mallory. His scholarship and use of primary sources is anchored to first-hand experience in the Alps, Tian Shan, and the Scottish highlands and it is this experience in the mountains that imparts his writing with an authority and clarity, impossible to achieve by someone who has never clung to the side of a mountain, frozen with cold and fear, and then, in spite of everything, continued up.
Crossing snowy passes in Washington's North Cascades. Photo: Zachary Conrad
I was jammed into the snow with the toes of my boots, the slope rearing up in front of my face. I tilted my head right backwards and looked up to the skyline. Clouds were hurtling over the summit, and for a moment it felt as though the mountain was toppling slowly on me.
I turned back and called down to Toby, twenty feet below me, ‘Do we go on? I don’t like the look of this stuff at all. I reckon the whole lot could go at any time.’
Below Toby, the slope narrowed down to a chute which funneled out over the precipices on the south face of the ridge. If I slipped, or the snow gave way, I’d slide past Toby, pull him off, and we’d free-fall hundreds of feet down to the glacier.
‘Of course we do, Rob, of course we do,’ Toby called up.
‘Right.’
Macfarlane partnered with director Jennifer Peedom to adapt this book into the artful 2017 documentary Mountain, narrated by Willem Defoe.
Becoming a Mountain: Himalayan Journeys in Search of the Sacred and the Sublime (2014) - Stephen Alter
I often find myself recommending Stephen Alter’s books to people curious to know what living in the Himalaya is like. Alter has an insider’s knowledge and an outsider’s perspective, and he writes in a style that manages to be personal, educational, and engaging. Becoming a Mountain takes us on a quest for solace and healing among the most sacred peaks of the Himalaya. A confirmed atheist, Alter nonetheless understands the Himalaya cannot be separated from the myths and lore that envelop these high peaks like mists after a monsoon rain.
Though I felt a sense of awe, I did not prostrate myself, fold my hands, or pray but simply sat in silent reverence, aware of the far-off ranges but also looking inward. Whatever existed outside of me was also present in my mind, not just an image, but a sense of oneness with the mountains.
Bandarpunch stood directly in front, its twin turrets of ice trimmed with sunlight. Of all the peaks to the north of Mussoorie, it appears the largest and is the easiest to identify. From as long ago as I could remember, I have recognized its shape. My father pointed it out to me when I was a child. Later, I was told the story of Hanuman, the monkey god who flew from the battlefields of Lanka to the high Himalayas in search of a sacred herb, sanjeevani booti, which heals fatal wounds. [...]
These myths have always made the mountains seem more real for me, embellishing the natural splendor of the Himalayas with echoes of an epic imagination. Like the lore and legends of the night sky that bring the stars and constellations into focus, these stories define the mountains with added meaning. Hidden behind Bandarpunch is a third peak that is barely visible, except from certain angles. Known as Black Peak or Kaala Naag (the black cobra), it is the highest summit of the three. Together, the monkey’s tail and cobra’s hood evoke a mysterious, allegorical landscape that promises answers to eternal riddles and has fascinated me since boyhood.
Trisul looming high over Bedni Bugyal. Photo: Zachary Conrad
I have walked many of the same trails as the author, and lost myself gazing toward the same mountains, experiencing the majesty of the mountains just as he did.
Also consider Alter’s Sacred Waters: A Pilgrimage Up the Ganges River to the Source of Hindu Culture and his newest text, Wild Himalaya: A Natural History of the Greatest Mountain Range On Earth [Ed: The Chakkar published an excerpt from Wild Himalaya in December 2019].
Nanda Devi: Exploration and Ascent (2000) - Eric Shipton
Eric Shipton and Bill Tillman’s forays into Garhwal were a departure from the earlier ‘siege’ style tactics that fell back into vogue during the quest for 8000 m peaks and Everest. “If an expedition cannot be organized in a pub on the back of an envelope in a couple of hours, it isn’t worth going on,” Shipton once quipped. Later hailed as visionaries for pioneering the fast, light style that has come to define elite mountaineering Shipton and Tilman, along with Ang Tharkay and a small team of Sherpas went on to solve some of the hardest mountaineering problems in the Himalaya.
In Nanda Devi, Shipton recounts their most impressive exploit, penetrating the Rishi Ganga Gorge to explore the inner sanctuary of Nanda Devi. Also told in this book is their daring traverse from Badrinath to Gangotri, and another from Badrinath to the valleys in the Mandakini watershed, near Kedarnath Here, swollen rivers trap the party for days on the steep and sodden mountainsides, where “surely we would have perished if not for the ingenuity of our sherpa.”
Shipton’s writing is clear and unencumbered, and though very matter-of-fact, gives a clear sense of emotion. The freedom of being alone in the mountains, the joy and exhilaration of exploring somewhere new.
Nanda Devi high above the Gori Ganga. Photo: Zachary Conrad
Tilman was feeling the effect of altitude a good deal, and was suffering from the usual sickness and weakness. However, by now our retreat was cut off, and we had to go through with the traverse of a 21,000-foot peak to our north. We sat on the ledge near the col for half an hour, during which time we occupied ourselves by studying the view, forcing bits of biscuit down somewhat unwilling throats, and thawing our chilled limbs. Then we rose to tackle the eight or nine hundred feet of rock and ice which separated us from the summit of the peak. The climbing was not difficult until we got on to a sharp ice ridge which led to the summit. A cold wind was blowing, and it was a tricky job to retain one’s balance in the small steps which it was necessary to cut in the crest of the ridge. This was a type of climbing which I disliked, as one had to trust to one’s feet alone, and the slightest slip would be impossible to check. But it was exhilarating to see the Milam Glacier system beneath one heel and the Nanda Devi Basin beneath the other; and it is not often that these Himalayan ice ridges are even possible to climb along.
The wind was too cold and the ridge too narrow for us to stop even for a minute of the summit, and we passed straight over and continued climbing down along the ridge on the other side. Soon we were brought up by a vertical cleft in it, and we were forced to cut steps for some distance down the Milam side before we could get round this.
There now followed a very long bout of downhill step-cutting along a ridge which never allowed any relaxation while we were on it. I felt a mighty relief when after some hours we reached a steep snow gully leading down to the tracks of the morning, and found the snow to be in a safe condition. The snow on the glacier itself was soft and we broke through several times into small crevasses. Nevertheless, we made a very rapid descent and were back in camp by the middle of the afternoon.
In characteristically British style, Shipton plays down the hardship and difficulty of these expeditions; to him, this isn’t what makes them significant. He sums up his adventures around Nanda Devi saying this: “Return to civilisation was hard, but, in the sanctuary of the Blessed Goddess we had found the lasting peace which is the reward of those who seek to know high mountain places.”
The Snow Leopard (1978) - Peter Matthiessen
In The Snow Leopard, we join the author on a difficult and complicated journey through the Annapurna and Dhaulagiri region, to Upper Mustang in Nepal and his churning, troubled mind. Matthiessen’s account of this expedition, whose ostensible goal was to observe the Himalayan Blue Sheep (Bharal) in mating season stands with his vivid descriptions of observations, raw feeling, and dizzying leaps to connect “life, the universe, and everything” to errant observations.
To many, these are leaps too far; and Matthiessen’s attempts to explain and connect Buddhism and other ‘primitive’ religions with some idealized notion of a kind of ‘noble savage’ seem overly entitled and appropriative. We join the author in the wake of turmoil: his wife, with whom he had a difficult marriage, has recently died of cancer, and he is conflicted about leaving their young son, Alex, to go on a journey that feels equally frivolous and necessary. Matthiessen has recently converted to Buddhism, motivated by a sense of emptiness and dissatisfaction despite the comfort and material wealth of post-WWII America which fueled the larger counterculture movement.
The author's academic tangents about religion reveal a man grasping for meaning and some kind of contentment with his life. He is using this trek as personal 'reset', going deep into the mountains as a kind of crucible, hoping to be remade on his journey. There is a contradiction between his zeal for Zen and other forms of Buddhism, his tendency to overthink and intellectualise, and a penchant for fanciful and magical thinking. It shows just how far he is from embodying the ideals he upholds, and, it becomes very obvious to the reader of The Snow Leopard. Matthiessen’s explanations would be unacceptable if the intention of the book was to teach the reader about Buddhism—but that is far from the point.
Looking down on Braka Gomba on the way to Thorung La in the Mustang region of Nepal. Photo: Zachary Conrad
This feeling that western-enlightenment and consumer capitalism had overlooked something important, led to an exploration of other cultures and ways of thought. Matthiessen, like his contemporaries, is searching for something, and all his rhapsodizing says more about him than the people or cultures he attempts to explain.
In this way Matthiessen shows mountains echo our feelings and thoughts as well as our voices. High in the mountains, we have only that which we bring with us.
In a dark grove of mossy oaks, wet camp is made at 9000 feet. Through the ragged treetops, skies are clearing. There is a moon, and cold.
How strange everything seems. How strange everything is. One “I” feels like an observer of this man who lies here in this sleeping bag in Asian mountains; another “I” is thinking about Alex; a third is the tired man who tries to sleep.
In his first summers, forsaking all his toys, my son would stand rapt for near an hour in his sandbox in the orchard, as doves and redwings came and went on the warm wind, the leaves dancing, the clouds flying, birdsong and sweet smell of privet and rose. The child was not observing; he was at rest in the very center of the universe, a part of things, unaware of endings and beginnings, still in unison with the primordial nature of creation, letting all light and phenomena pour through. Ecstasy is identity with all existence, and ecstasy showed in his bright paintings; like the Aurignacian hunter, who became the deer he drew on the cave wall, there was no “self” to separate him from the bird or flower. The same spontaneous identity with the object is achieved in the bold sumi painting of Japan--a strong expression of Zen culture, since to become one with whatever one does is a true realization of the Way.
Amazingly, we take for granted that instinct for survival, fear of death, must separate us from the happiness of pure and uninterpreted experience, in which body, mind, and nature are the same. And this debasement of our vision, the retreat from wonder, the backing away like lobsters from free-swimming life into safe crannies, the desperate instinct that our life passes unlived, is reflected in proliferation without joy, corrosive money rot, the gross befouling of the earth and air and water from which we came.
Annapurna (1951) - Maurice Herzog
There is a moment in this story around which everything turns. The author and one of his climbing companions, Louis Lachenal, are slogging their way up the final summit ridge. It is incredibly cold up there at 8000 m and both climbers have lost all sensation in their toes. Louis, on several occasions, expresses concern and wishes to turn back. Herzog presses on. “If I go back, what will you do?” he asked Herzog. “I should go on by myself,” is Herzog’s reply. In the book, he paints this as himself at his most heroic, refusing to back down when they are so close to achieving their goal.
But Herzog was a fool. The summit cost him all of his fingers and toes, and all Louis’s toes as well. Only the selfless heroics of Lionel Terray and Gaston Rébuffat, who abandoned their own summit attempt to rescue their partners, and the sherpa team, made it possible for them to leave the mountain with their lives. As Lachenal knew, and Terray makes abundantly clear in the title of his own excellent memoir Conquistadors of the Useless (1963), a safe return, and climbing another day is far preferable to the glory of the summit.
Glory is a manufactured emotion, used to coerce young men and women to take risks that are not worth the gain. Perhaps my attitude would be different if, like the author and his companions, it was necessary for me to fight a bloody and senseless war. Perhaps, then, I might have had a different outlook on mortality. If your life is already precarious, maybe it is worth putting up against something important or beautiful.
A sharp horizon of peaks in the predawn light on Thorung La. Photo: Zachary Conrad
Still, this ‘summit or bust’ mentality is one I often need to help others unlearn when leading my own trips in the mountains. The top is just more rock and snow, a little higher of course, and inarguably tantalizing, but still just a small bit of the mountain. While the story of their harrowing descent is impressive, I enjoy the first two thirds of the book much more. The journey, rather than the destination.
Snow blows off the summits of Annapurna, the tenth highest mountain in the world. Photo: Zachary Conrad
Matthiessen is using this trek as personal 'reset', going deep into the mountains as a kind of crucible, hoping to be remade on his journey. There is a contradiction between his zeal for Zen and other forms of Buddhism, his tendency to overthink and intellectualise, and a penchant for fanciful and magical thinking.
Here, we find a group of eager explorers with wide eyes and insufficient maps, running reconnaissance missions among the highest mountains on the planet. Nepal had only just opened to foreigners and the thrill of the unknown is palpable as Herzog and his compatriots set off for high passes and ridges, looking for a practicable route to the top of Annapurna or Dhaulagiri. At one point, the party attempts to get to the base Annapurna by way of a pass from the village of Tini to Manang. Instead of Annapurna, they find a large, frozen lake.
After several hours’ march the shikari no longer seemed very confident of his previous assertions: though we plied him, with questions he didn’t appear to know where the Tilicho Pass really was. In fact, this shikari was just an ordinary shepherd; and all he really knew was the way up to the grazing grounds. His role and his self-importance tended to diminish with the altitude, and, in the end he walked quite happily along behind us. In this manner we came to the much talked of Tilicho Pass.
Here we had a surprise. According to the map we ought to have been at the opening of a deep valley coming up from Manangbhot. Where was the wonderful view of Annapurna we ought to have had on our right? In some bewilderment we gazed at a dazzling scene of snow and ice where a galaxy of summits scintillated against the clear sky. It was a winter landscape, with something of fairyland in its brilliance and clarity.
On our right, instead of Annapurna, rose a gigantic barrier of mountains with many summits of about 23,000 feet. Before us opened out no deep valley but a vast plateau, in the centre of which was a great frozen lake covered with snow, its size difficult to assess. On the left, cliffs fell sheer to the immense white expanse of the lake.
‘But where the devil is Annapurna?’
‘There can’t be much doubt, Matha. It’s almost certainly behind that handsome triangular peak over there -- look to the right, in the distance.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Ichac.
‘Nor am I,’ said Rébuffat.
It isn’t the first conquest of an 800-metre peak that stands out for me in this book, but the stories of coming to grips with a mountain range whose scale and complexities are beyond comprehension and imagination.
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Zachary Conrad is a teacher, hiker and climber. Raised in the woods of Vermont, Zachary spent 8 years in the Himalayan foothills of Landour, Mussoorie and worked in Guiyang, China. You can follow him on Instagram: @zachonrad
