Andrew Czyzewski travelled on our Sikkim - Beneath Kangchenjunga Trek and took some amazing photos that can be seen throughout this article. Now as the 70th Anniversary of it's first accent looms, he reflects on this mighty mountain and his time in it's shadow.

The below blog has been republished with kind permission from Andrew.

You can browse more of his fascinating articles and images here: https://drewczphotography.wordpress.com/2025/04/23/finding-my-five-treasures-in-the-high-snow/

Seventy years ago this month, Joe Brown and George Band completed a daring first ever ascent of Mount Kangchenjunga, the third highest peak in the world and arguably the most technically difficult, which sits on the border of Nepal and Sikkim (now part of India).

Over the past several years, I’ve been on a journey of discovery – of both the body and mind – involving the sport of rock climbing, remote trekking, the history of high-altitude mountaineering, Himalayan politics and just a little bit of spirituality.

In 2020 I met the most incredible woman and love of my life, Louise, whose attributes are far too numerous to mention but include being an experienced and capable rock and ice climber. I’d been mildly scarred by a previous relationship with a semi-elite road cyclist, so was slightly nervous about being athletically ‘beasted’ yet again, in another discipline! Especially given what I see as a perfectly reasonable wariness of heights. But Louise gently introduced me to the intricacies of this world both at the indoor climbing wall and occasional jaunts outside on actual rock in the crags of Yorkshire. I’ve slowly come to cautiously embrace the sport and face my fears (to the extent that anyone hanging off a deadly precise ever realistically can).

Before we met, Louise had been on a high Himalayan trek, something I’d always wanted to do myself but never committed to. Since she’d already ticked off perhaps the most iconic expedition in the region, the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal, we decided to go a little leftfield, somewhere neither of us had been to. We settled on a trek in the Indian State of Sikkim (a former Himalayan Kingdom), which is home to the Kangchenjunga National Park, and half of the eponymous mountain.

There are almost too many superlatives to describe the trip: breathtakingly beautiful; unnervingly remote; cripplingly cold at times.

Our trek got underway in Darjeeling, in West Bengal, India. I distinctly remember the winding and steep drive up to this unique city, which is a former hill station of the British Raj, where the great and the good would retreat from the simmering heat of the Indian summer.

Turning one of the many hairpin corners I caught a glimpse of what I thought must be an unusual cloud formation; in a split second I dared to entertain the possibility that it could be a mountain, but immediately dismissed that notion, as it was suspended simply far too high on the horizon. It couldn’t be, could it?

But it was of course Kangchenjunga and my first ever sight of a towering 8000 metre peak.

For those not willing or able to trek long distances, Darjeeling actually affords one of the best views of Kangchenjunga, being just far enough away and relatively high (at 2045 metres above sea level) so as to take in all of its gargantuan massif in the field of view.

In fact, it was another two weeks before we caught another view of the mountain from a closer vantage point, after trekking through the incredible concertina foothills and forested valleys. In which time I was bitten by an absolute monster of a tic (probably hopping over from one of the pack animals for a bit of culinary variety), Louise halve froze to death on a windy plateau and we both had a wobble with the altitude and thinning air.

We became friendly with one of the porters, a diminutive but indomitable Sherpa called Dawa, whose face always carried the cheekiest smile. Working through his wall of modesty, we eventually learned that he’d climbed Everest a couple of times as well as the far more technical Kangchenjunga which was looming right above us. It’s fair to say that our own trek, which reached a respectable maximum height of 4800m (roughly the height of the EU’s highest peak Mont Blanc), really took it out of us, mentally and physically.

So what was it like to go up another 4000m nearly, where the terrain became more precipitous, heavily glaciated and lacking in vital oxygen? It seemed utterly incomprehensible. But when we asked Dawa what it was like to ascend this mighty peak, in typical chipper fashion he just laughed it off and remarked that it was ‘quite cold’ up there. I bet.

We came to within 15km of Kangchenjunga’s main summit, as the crow flies (or more appropriately the Himalayan vulture flies), with an excellent if slightly obstructed view of its mighty south face. But we were prevented from going any closer due to strict laws protecting the endangered native snow leopard. We weren’t lucky enough to see any, but we did catch a glimpse of the moderately elusive Bharal or Blue Sheep (not really blue); Himalayan griffon vulture; Lammergeier or Bearded Vulture; and a Himalayan giant honey bee hive. Quite rightly Sikkim has always been protective of its incredible, diverse landscape and nature.

Suffice to say, the trek had firmly piqued my interest around all things related to Kangchenjunga. There’s a whole canon of literature and film dedicated to Everest and increasingly K2 (the first and second highest peaks in the world, respectively). But I’d wager the vast majority of the general public wouldn’t be able to name the third highest (ok, granted, the name doesn’t help – Kangchenjunga or the more faithful translation Khangchendzonga – meaning ‘Five Treasures of the High Snow’).

Fewer people have summited Kangchenjunga (243) than Everest (5656) or K2 (283). Partly because of how remote it is and the tremendous technical challenge. The very first to do so were Joe Brown and George Band, on 22 May 1955. Not that nationalism should play an oversized role, particularly when it comes to matters of geological eons that shape mountains, but its notable that it was an all-British team. The successful Everest expedition in 1953 was a British-led and funded team, but with New Zealand climber Edmund Hilary and Nepalese Sherpa Tenzing Norgay the first to make the summit. I’m slightly amazed more is not made of the all-British Kangchenjunga expedition at home.

So who were Joe Brown and George Band? George was actually the youngest member of the Everest expedition from 1953, where he excelled himself and caught the eye of British Alpine Club. Without wanting to diminish his incredible achievements in any way (or be accused of inverse snobbery), he was very much in the typical mould of the established mountaineering set, being from an upper-class background. By contrast, Joe Brown was resolutely working-class, born and bred in Manchester. One of seven children, Joe’s father died at sea when he was a baby, leaving his mother to raise the family and go out to work as a cleaner. It seems though that this gave young Joe ample opportunity to explore the rocky crags within reach of Manchester and hone the skills that would later catapult him to climbing royalty.

This is where things intersect a little with my own story as an absolute beginner, slowing learning complex climbing lore. There are two main types of climbing outside. Sport climbing is done on natural cliffs or in quarries where someone has drilled deep holes in the rock and placed solid bolts that you clip into as you are going higher and have near-absolute confidence that they will hold if you fall off. Then there is traditional or ‘trad climbing’ where you essentially wedge different shaped metal nuts and expanding ‘cams’ into cracks in the rock and basically hope they stay fast if you fall and tug at them (they are then removed by a ‘second’ follow climber).

It’s a real art form in itself to judge which particular bit of metal might be best suited to which crack. A basic understanding of geology, the type of rock you are on and how it might behave under stress is also useful. My beloved Louise is skilled at this, but I’m not sure I will ever have trust in myself enough to potentially fall onto protective gear I have haphazardly placed. Though I do admire the principle of ‘leave no trace’ and alter nothing, which is part of the reason why this form of trad climbing is so prevalent in the North Pennines and Yorkshire. The unique gritstone rock formations are seen as sacred, hallowed ground, not to be sullied with drilled bolts. Plus, there’s perhaps just a whiff of machoism in terms of taking calculated risks on hand-placed gear, coupled to the Yorkshire ‘it’ll be reet’ attitude.

This brings us back to Joe Brown’s exploits climbing in the 1940s Peak District. Back then it seems they climbed with very little if any protective gear. They certainly didn’t have the myriad of specially engineered nuts and cams climbers have in their arsenal today. Apparently, Joe and chums often simply fashioned whatever they could for protection, including old twine washing line (that his mother had thrown out because it was no longer reliable enough for hanging clothes) and pebbles jammed into cracks but had absolutely no intention of actually falling and testing their integrity.

For those interested in taking a diversion, there’s a whole library of rock-climbing literature on the incredible accomplishments and new routes that Joe and climbing partners like Don Whillians achieved in the UK and European Alps. Most significantly for this story, Joe’s prodigious talent and easy-going nature caught the attention of the British Alpine Club, who were planning an expedition to Kangchenjunga. He was perhaps the first unequivocally working-class member of such an expedition in a sport that for so long had been the preserve of the gentleman class. While the trip was fully funded by the Alpine Club, they did apparently ask Joe to bring £20 pocket money, which he failed to muster up.

With a coalition of the willing so to speak, the team seemed all set and ready to go. However, just before they were due to depart from Liverpool, they found out that the government of Sikkim forbade any attempt to climb the mountain – half of which rests of their land – due to its sacred status to the local population. They didn’t even want climbers approaching from Nepal where the other half of the mountains falls.

The name Kangchenjunga means the ‘Five Treasures of the High Snow’ in the Tibetan dialect of the local Lhopo people, who believe that the treasures are hidden but reveal themselves to the devout when the world is in peril and include things like scriptures, amour and medicine. Handy indeed.

At this time, Sikkim was an independent, self-governing Himalayan Kingdom. So when the climbing party arrived as planned in neighbouring India (via Darjeeling, as I did on my own trek), the expedition leader Charles Evans travelled over the border to the Sikkimese capital Gantok to petition the Dewan (prime minister). It seems they managed to reach a compromise, agreeing that the climbers would turn back a few metres from the summit and not desecrate the very highest point.

I’m not going to get into a nerdy keyboard debate about the hardest 8000m peak, but it’s patently clear Kangchenjunga is right in the mix. Objectively speaking, it involves the longest ascent from final camp to summit of any peak, covering a vertical ascent of 1036 meters. It has several graded rock-climbing sections including what Joe Brown described as a ‘slightly overhanging V Diff section’ immediately before the summit. Again, I can bring a tiny bit of perspective here, having climbed at V Diff level (with protection gear pre-placed by somebody else) and it is still a major challenge that had me mentally and physically shook. The fact that Joe and George were the first people to ever look upon this and complete it, at an altitude of around 8500 metres is something I find utterly incomprehensible.

Certain passages from George Band’s report of the expedition gives some first-hand colour:

“We spent two days of the most exhilarating ice-climbing of our lives, trying to find a route through … it made the Khumbu Icefall [on Everest] look like a children’s playground … Were we to be defeated so soon?”

Tellingly, it would be another 22 years before anyone repeated the feat, when a team from the Indian Army summited Kangchenjunga in 1977 (and made it back down alive as others had failed to do).

By that time the region and world had changed somewhat too. Sikkim was annexed by India in 1975, as part of what I can gather was a peaceful democratic process voted for by the people of Sikkim. That’s of course in marked contrast to Tibet, another former Himalayan Kingdom, which was forcibly and violently annexed by China in 1951 and its Buddhist culture and traditions suppressed. Nepal too was a Himalayan Kingdom, but its people decided to become a republic in 2015. Mustang, Ladakh and others have also had varying degrees of independence and autonomy over the centuries. The only Himalayan Kingdom now remaining and untouched by modern politicking is Bhutan, which was where I had in mind for my next Himalayan adventure.

However, life has a habit of getting in the way of these things (as they say, ‘if you want to make god laugh, tell him about your plans’). Since travelling to Sikkim in 2022, I’ve battled with mental and physical health issues, financial difficulties, career disillusionment and an immediate family bereavement. Which has meant no more trips to the Himalayas or anywhere really – beyond Filey in Yorkshire (don’t knock it)! Which is the source of some frustration and I’ve no idea when or if I’ll ever make a similar excursion (first-world problem, I realise). But it has meant that my original experience in the Himalayas has been elevated in my mind to almost mythical proportions – and I’ve studied all the peaks in my photos and researched the area and obviously found out about some fascinating characters in Joe Brown and George Band. I’ve also no idea if I’ll continue to progress in rock climbing, it’s a committing, all-or-nothing pursuit, with no margin for error in terms of the set-up. But again, I’m glad I’ve had a go and got some sense of the incredible accomplishments of these men, and also a great many men and women who have followed in their footsteps, as the sport of climbing continues to grow.

The main philosophy/ religion in Sikkim and indeed the entire Himalayan region is of course Buddhism. Beyond the pretty temples, prayer flags and cheerful disposition of the people, I can’t pretend it had any transformative impact on me when I was actually out there. However, doing a little reading since, I’ve been struck by this idea that life is constantly in flux and therefore chasing a notion that we’ll someday reach a blissful state where we’re completely grounded only causes more angst and suffering. That of course means accepting that if the Himalayas come calling again, then great. But if not, I’m blessed to have been given this opportunity of a lifetime and I’ve certainly found my Five Treasures in the High Snow, namely: love, adventure, knowledge, creativity, gratitude.