William Tilman stopped on a narrow rock ledge and stared down. Below him, the Rishi Ganga thundered furiously – wild and raging. White rapids pounded huge boulders, poured over rocks and slammed into cliffs – as if trying to drive out the intruders who had dared to set foot on forbidden ground.
“This isn't a route,” said Tilman drily, wiping his face with a dirty hand. “It's a trap.”
Eric Shipton stood nearby. He was thoughtfully studying the steep rock wall towering above them. It was smooth and sheer, as if the Earth itself had decided to block anyone who tried to push further.
“If it doesn't go this way…” he began.
Tilman snorted. “…then we have to find another way. You've said that at least a hundred times.”
“And it still holds.”
Just then they heard a sound. Somewhere above them, a stone had come loose. Everyone instinctively pressed themselves against the wall; the porters muttered their mantras. A crack in the rock exhaled – and then a whole block broke away with a roar and plunged into the depths. Its impact on the river below was like an explosion. The water burst sideways with a tremendous crash and millions of tiny droplets hung in the air. And then – silence.
Tilman and Shipton looked at each other. Both knew what it meant: this way wouldn't go.
It was 1934. The Himalayas had not yet been mapped in detail. And Nanda Devi – the sacred mountain, the Bliss-Giving Goddess, rising to over seven thousand eight hundred metres – remained untouched. She was guarded by a ring of impenetrable mountains, the highest in the entire Indian Himalaya, six-thousand-metre monuments. Several expeditions had already tried to reach her foot – and all had failed. Nobody had got to her. Nobody knew the way.
Now here they stood. British climbers, explorers. Looking at a seemingly impossible task.
After a string of earlier reconnaissance trips, the gorge carved between the mountains by the wild current of the Rishi Ganga had proved to be the only natural passage through them. The narrow valley, winding deep between the precipices, seemed to be the key to the mystery. But getting through it – that wasn't a route, it was hell. Treacherous and dangerous. The rock walls rose straight up out of the churning water – without a single hint of weakness left by the mountains for little humans to pass through.
Many a day, Shipton and Tilman advanced only a few hundred metres. They climbed over huge boulders, down steep walls with heavy packs, and waded icy mountain streams. The ground underfoot was unstable. It slid into the abyss, threatening death with every step.
“Damn,” Shipton swore as a boulder shifted beneath him and his foot slipped. He managed to grab a hold, but the scree below him slid into the river.
Tilman immediately grabbed his arm. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Shipton breathed. “But if this happens a few more times, I'll start seriously doubting it's worth it.”
“It is,” Tilman snapped. “Trust me. It has to be.”
The worst night of their lives. The wind howled through the narrow gorge like an enraged beast. The tent they had pitched on the stony riverbank flapped in the gusts. The walls around them loomed like dark giants, their menacing silhouettes now and then lit by the moon. Shipton rolled over and pulled his soaked boots out from under a layer of blankets. His teeth were chattering with cold.
“We can't stay here,” growled Tilman as a hollow rumble sounded outside. An avalanche.
“We both know that,” replied Shipton, but there was doubt in his voice. “But where to? There's nowhere to go.”
The gorge was blocked. The spot where they had planned to continue had collapsed, and the wild current had carried off the boulders they meant to cross to the other side. They were stuck at a dead end. A sheer rock face on one side, a raging river on the other.
“We'll find a way in the morning,” Tilman added after a while. But he didn't sound convincing.
They didn't sleep. All night they listened to the roar of the water, the wail of the wind and the sound of sliding stones. Then morning came. Cold, misty, merciless. Tilman scrambled out of the tent, stretched and looked up at the dark walls around them. An idea struck him.
“What if we went…” He trailed off and his eyes met Shipton's.
“You're thinking of that col?” Shipton finished for him, nodding up towards the heights, the steep rock steps and the heaps of loose scree.
Tilman gazed in that direction. He was silent for a moment. Then he nodded.
It was madness. But there was no other option.
Their small team moved slowly. Very – slowly. Day after day they faced a new obstacle. Steep drops, rockfalls, icy fords. Sometimes they had to turn back and climb a whole section again by a different line. It was exhausting. Until – one day – a new landscape opened up before them. Beyond the rock gates, beyond the steep, lifeless ramparts, lay the Nanda Devi Sanctuary.
When they emerged from the narrow gorge that morning, the sun was just rising. Its rays fell on the snowy peaks around them, casting long shadows across the glacial valleys. And there, in the middle, she stood – Nanda Devi. Enormous. Unreachable. Cut off from the world like an ancient temple. Bathed in orange morning light, the crown of the Himalaya.
Shipton grabbed Tilman's arm and pointed ahead.
“Look at that,” he said quietly.
Tilman didn't answer. He was too stunned.
This was it. The sacred valley nobody had laid eyes on before them. For hundreds of years, Nanda Devi had been hidden behind her ring of mountains, like a queen protected by her guards. Every attempt to reach her had failed. Everyone who tried to break through the barrier had been turned back. But they had done it. They had found a way where there was none.
“This is the beginning,” Tilman said at last. His voice was quiet but full of conviction.
Shipton nodded. Now they knew the route existed. It was only a matter of time before someone followed it further.
In 1936, another expedition returned to Nanda Devi. The British and the Americans joined forces to finish what Shipton and Tilman had started. This time it wasn't just reconnaissance. This time they were going for the summit.
William Tilman was once again at the forefront – but now his rope partner was Noël Odell. An experienced British climber whose nailed boots had years earlier bitten into the slopes of Mount Everest.
The climb began in midsummer. The first few days looked more like a building site than mountaineering – they had to set up high camps, carry up supplies and establish the route. The weather was changeable. Above six thousand metres, the true scale of the mountain revealed itself for the first time. Icy wind lashed the slopes and at night temperatures plunged far below zero. Every high camp meant a new battle.
“If it doesn't work now, it never will,” Tilman muttered one evening, sitting in the small tent, shivering with cold and trying to breathe life back into his frostbitten hands.
Odell nodded. “We have to try. Tomorrow.”
And in the morning they set off. On 29 August 1936, with the first rays of the day, they started up the final section. The snow was hard, the wind sharp. Every step hurt, their lungs were on fire, their throats parched. They breathed shallowly, focusing only on the rhythm of their steps. One. Two. Three. Above them, only the blue horizon. Just a few metres to go.
Then – the last step. And that was it. They stood on the summit.
“This is it,” Tilman said hoarsely. His face weathered, his lips cracked. Beneath his feet rose the queen of mountains he had first seen two years earlier. Now there was nowhere higher to go.
Odell looked around and then smiled. “We did it.”
When Tilman and Odell got back to base camp, they were exhausted to the bone. They had done it – Nanda Devi. The highest summit anyone had ever stood on. But that evening, when they sat down by a small fire and warmed their frozen hands over the flames, Tilman was silent.
“What's up?” asked Odell.
Tilman stared into the darkness for a long time. Then he sighed. “I don't know. I feel like we've taken something from that mountain.”
Odell looked at him, puzzled.
“She was alone for so long,” Tilman went on. “One of the last secrets of the world. And now… now she'll never be the same.”
Silence. Only the crackle of the fire and the distant hum of the wind among the boulders.
Odell tossed a dry twig into the flames. “Maybe,” he said. “But surely she wasn't made to stay hidden forever? Was she?”
Tilman looked up towards the summit of Nanda Devi, the Bliss-Giving Goddess. Wisps of snow flickered in the starlight. He didn't answer, didn't say a word. Finally he stood up and brushed off his trousers. The fire died down. The wind picked up.
Nanda Devi (7,816 m) is the second-highest mountain in India. Surrounded by a ring of high ridges known as the Nanda Devi Sanctuary, it resisted attempts to reach it for centuries. The mountain's sacred status among local people and its extreme isolation meant that the first humans reached its foot only in 1934. For fourteen years after its first ascent in 1936, Nanda Devi was the highest mountain ever climbed. It was not until 1950 that the French climbed Annapurna (8,091 m).
Today the area around Nanda Devi is strictly protected. Since 1983 it has been a national park and later a UNESCO World Heritage Site, where climbing and human activity are heavily restricted to preserve its unique nature and ecosystem.
Eric Shipton (1907–1977) discovered the route into the Nanda Devi Sanctuary with William Tilman in 1934, opening the door to the first successful ascent of the mountain. Shipton led many exploratory expeditions, including several attempts to find a route up Mount Everest. He believed that small teams and simple equipment were the key to success. Although he never reached the summit of an eight-thousander, his mapping and discoveries helped future generations of climbers.
William Tilman (1898–1977) discovered the way to Nanda Devi in 1934 and two years later was part of the team that first stood on its summit. His style was simple, tough and uncompromising – he believed mountaineering was above all about endurance and the ability to improvise. After the Second World War he turned to sea voyages, sailing small boats to the Arctic and Antarctic. His life ended in mystery – in 1977 he was lost at sea on a voyage to Antarctica. The boat was never found.
Noël Odell (1890–1987) was the last person to see George Mallory and Andrew Irvine on Everest in 1924 before they both vanished into the clouds. In 1936 he was a member of the Nanda Devi expedition and, together with William Tilman, stood on its summit on 29 August 1936. Odell lived to the remarkable age of 96 and stayed active into old age. He died in 1987 and is still regarded as one of the key figures in British mountaineering history.
