Читать книгу Kingdoms Of Experience - Andrew Greig - Страница 11

6TH NOVEMBER – 5TH MARCH ’85

‘You don’t crack an egg because you want to crack an egg …’

Now that Pilkington had thrown their hat in the ring the rest followed in swift succession. Hutchinson made an offer for the Mustagh Tower book, then one for Everest. The Sunday Express commissioned a series of reports. BBC radio wanted us to record material for two 45-minute programmes. Now we needed a film of the Expedition proper, in addition to the ITN reports.

‘These days it ain’t enough to climb, you’ve got to get it down on celluloid.’ Mal and I had bumped into Kurt Diemberger and Julie Tullis on a warm, black night in Skardu, Baltistan. They had come from four months of climbing and filming, first on K2 with an expedition that eventually had to capitulate after sustained bad weather. Kurt and Julie went on to Broad Peak, where they both reached the summit and narrowly survived after being swept tumbling in an avalanche down the mountain during the descent. (‘It was very frightening,’ Julie said simply, ‘I thought, this is it.’)

‘Haven’t you been on Broad Peak before?’ I’d asked this balding, tubby, bumbly looking man in his fifties. ‘Yes,’ he replied in heavily accented English, ‘I first climbed it in 1957 with Herman Buhl.’ Only then did I realize who I was talking to. This was the man who made the first ascent of Broad Peak with Buhl, then went on to Chogolisa with him. As they descended from near the summit in a white-out, Buhl strayed over a cornice and disappeared forever. Kurt’s photo of the diverging lines of footprints, one weaving on and the other ending in nothing, is one of the most famous and haunting in all mountaineering.

Later Kurt climbed Dhaulagiri, making him the only man to make the first ascents of two 8,000 metre peaks – and then Makalu, Everest and Gasherbrum II. Latterly he’d become more involved in filming and general exploration expeditions, though his astonishing repeat of Broad Peak 27 years later showed that he was far from being over the hill. Julie Tullis had become his regular partner and sound-recordist on filming trips, and now she had just become the first British woman to do a 8,000 metre peak. She looked weathered, lean, calm and strong, giving an impression of great physical and psychological toughness – which she thinks derives in part from her training in karate and aikido; she has a black belt in both. We were considerably impressed by them, and spent more time with them at Mrs Davies’s Rawalpindi.

Our chance meeting seemed fated in retrospect, one of those things that had to happen. Now we needed a TV film to raise more money for the Expedition. So Mal found Julie’s card and phoned to ask if they’d like to come along as a film team. She in turn phoned Kurt in Italy, where he was happily putting on lost weight with pasta, and quarter of an hour later got back to Mal: ‘We’re coming.’

Like everyone else, they found the lure of Everest from the Tibet side irresistible, near-legendary to all of us who had grown up with stories of the exploits of Shipton, Tilman, Odell, Norton, Mallory and Irvine. After all the pre-war attempts on Everest, the Tibetan side had been closed for nearly 40 years. Pilks’ Company Secretary, David Bricknell, could scarcely believe what was happening to him as he made arrangements with Malcolm to fit in an introduction to snow/ice climbing before he too went to Everest. There was little time for training now, as the company agreed to give him six weeks’ leave to accompany the Expedition as Base Camp and Advance Base Camp Manager for the initial phase. From now on every minute of his spare time was spent co-ordinating between Pilkington’s, Terry and Malcolm as, buoyed up by money, the Expedition rose like a sunken liner from the depths of Malcolm’s dream to the unlikely light of day …

The Team. The climbing team was augmented. Rick Allen, a quiet, wiry, thin-faced Texaco chemical engineer based in Aberdeen, had heard about the Expedition when he was climbing in Nepal on Ganesh II with Nick Kekus. With the confidence of the first ascent of the South Face behind him (‘the hardest climbing I’ve ever done’), Rick wrote to Mal saying if there was a place for him, he’d be interested. He went to ask if there was a chance of somehow getting three months’ leave. Once again the magic word ‘Everest’ opened the door. ‘If you’ve got a once in a lifetime chance, the company should support you,’ he was told. That meant a lot, because while some of the climbers worked purely for cash between expeditions, Rick derived considerable satisfaction from his job. He was glad it hadn’t come to a choice between Everest and Texaco. After Pilkington’s made their offer, Mal phoned him up. ‘You’re in.’

‘Everest’, ‘Tibet’, the ‘Unclimbed Ridge’ – these proved to be the Open Sesame words that over and over made the unlikely possible and the possible actual. Liz Duff works for Scottish Life Assurance, and on impulse went to ask if she could add her various holiday periods past and future together to take six weeks off. Not only did they say yes, but they gave her extra unpaid holiday to cover the entire Expedition. She was very happy to be coming – partly for the adventure and partly because she was saved from the difficult position of staying at home waiting for news from the hill, which even when it comes is always out of date. ‘I’m not a great worrier about Malcolm,’ she said to me one evening in December, ‘because I’ve great faith he’ll be alright. Though this trip worries me a bit … It’s more that my being there saves him worrying about me and whether I’m paying the bills!’ It would be good having her there for her trenchant commonsense – and to keep up standards at Base and Advance Base. She’d done some rock and winter climbing in Britain, went with Mal to Nuptse, and hoped to do some load carrying on Everest if time and circumstance permitted.

We hadn’t at first considered Tony Brindle for the trip. He’d been Mal’s partner on the Mustagh Tower and they’d developed a good mocking father-and-son relationship there – but Tony was going into his final year in Outdoor Activities at Bangor College and didn’t want to jeopardize that. But Mal wrote directly to the Principal saying that this diminutive youth was indispensable, a star, and could he possibly be granted the chance to defer the last of his courses? He could, so Tony was in.

Tony is a small, compact Lancastrian born with an innocent butter-wouldn’t-melt face that belies his exceptional stamina. A few months older than Jon, because of his size, innocent appearance and open nature, he inevitably becomes the butt of much teasing – which as a rule he accepts with remarkable patience, though at the same time strengthening his resolve to prove himself as fast and fit as anybody. Unlike some of the climbers he never learned to hide his enthusiasm for climbing, hill-walking, fell-running, canoeing; he doesn’t go in for the customary pose of self-mockery and diffidence – which throws him open to more teasing. He was openly jubilant at having the chance to go to Everest, and Mal now had the satisfaction of having reunited the successful Mustagh team.

Our search for a doctor was becoming pressing when Julie suggested Urs Wiget, the Swiss doctor on the 1984 K2 expedition. He had been to 7,500 metres, had a lot of Alpine climbing behind him, and was knowledgeable about all aspects of the theory and practice of mountain medicine. Conscientious without fussing, he inspired confidence and trust from climbers. He was the best they’d known.

And so one day in late November Urs opened Mal’s letter in the surgery of an isolated village in Switzerland. ‘Merde!’ He beamed, frowned, then with a loud ‘Yahoo!’ rushed next door to see his wife Madeleine to ask if she could possibly once again handle the practice and the children alone for three months …

Allen Fyffe I’m writing this in Peking but this is how it started. In September or October ’84 Eileen and I were driving home from Inverness; at about Slocht a green car passed and in the back was this madly waving figure – Sandy Allan. Sandy got out and we chatted for a while about his last trip, routes, etc., and eventually he announced he was going to the North-East Ridge with Mal, etc., and Bob. He then asked me if I wanted to go. I prevaricated and said that I might see him in the Tavern for a pint that evening.

Eileen and I then talked about it and she said she wouldn’t mind if I went, so later that night I saw Sandy, had a few pints and said yes, I was on for it if I could get off work and the money was found. Then nothing happened for a long time so I eventually phoned Malcolm to see if I was in or out – I apparently was 1st reserve depending on money. Then I asked for time off and was to my surprise told that it should be no problem. Then eventually I was told I was included, the money was found from Pilkington’s and the trip was on.

I went to one team photocall in Glencoe which was good as for the first time I met the rest of the team and we had a chance to chat and discuss things. Only then did I get a vague feeling that it would happen …

In truth, Mal was uncertain whether to take Allen. At 39 he was a fair bit older than the rest of the team, and being mostly bald he was inevitably cast as the ‘old man’ of the team – but that was almost certainly an asset. Many Himalayan climbers seem to be at their peak in their forties, when experience, judgement and patience outweigh any decrease in pure power. Besides, a few older hands were needed to balance out the young revvers. And only Allen had had the experience of a large expedition, on Chris Bonington’s classic 1975 South-West Face of Everest expedition. No, the problem was on that trip he’d acclimatized badly and eventually was recovered, exhausted and scarcely in his right mind, on the fixed ropes at 7,300 metres. Mal had already gambled on Andy Nisbet’s acclimatization problem – could he afford to again? In the end he took him out of respect for his enormous mountaineering experience and good expedition character.

So that was the team completed: ten lead climbers plus a doctor who might well go high on the hill; Terry Dailey and myself to support as far as our abilities and other responsibilities would allow; Kurt and Julie to film; Dave Bricknell as Pilkington’s representative, Base and Advance Base organizer; Liz Duff playing a floating role – paying much of her own way, she was free to do as little or as much as she wanted; knowing her she’d do whatever she possibly could. And Sarah Squibb, Nick Kekus’s girlfriend, who was also paying her own way. She wanted to go to Tibet, to Everest, be with Nick, and hoped to learn something about Chinese music along the way.

By this time we had also acquired a large supporting cast. First an accountant to advise on and keep track of our finances, and then a lawyer. When a sponsor puts up £80,000 and the media put in additional cash, they naturally want clear contracts to ensure they have the exclusive rights and coverage they’re paying for. Pilks also engaged a PR firm to help create the media coverage and public awareness that would justify their sponsorship.

For all of us, apart from Allen Fyffe, this world of contracts, promotions, logos, newsletters, interviews and press conferences was new and slightly alarming. At times it felt as though the original point of the Expedition – the desire of a handful of people to take on the private and personal challenge of climbing the North-East Ridge of Everest – was being obscured by the bewildering spindrift of publicity and business. But dreams have to be worked for in an imperfect world and most of us went along with it all.

But we were taken aback by the scale and professionalism of the first press conference, where Pilkington’s announced the Expedition and their involvement in it. We drifted into the ballroom of a smart London hotel to find reporters and photographers waiting for us from all the national papers, in addition to radio and TV. Team jackets were laid out for us, each with the Pilks’ logo – the precise maximum size permitted on BBC – sewn across the chest. Beside them, the Expedition sweaters. Then labels with our names and roles in the team. A session at the free buffet and bar did little to diminish our sense of unreality.

Then Dave Bricknell, Terry Dailey, Mal and Julie did their bit for the Media. They explained our objective, that the North-East Ridge was the last unclimbed pure route on Everest, and probably the hardest of the lot. They went into its short and tragic history, explained our intention to use limited oxygen above 8,000 metres if necessary, the frightening statistics of the ‘Death Zone’. Then came the questions, most of them sensible and informed. ‘I suppose you’ll have to give up that,’ said one journalist, pointing at Mal’s cigarette. ‘Not at all,’ Mal replied, ‘in fact I intend to smoke as high as possible!’ He went on to explain the theory, which goes back as far as the doctor on the first 1921 Everest expedition and still has its adherents among climbers, that smoking aids acclimatization to altitude. It restores the lowered CO2 level in the blood that controls involuntary breathing. (As a smoker, I naturally believe this.) ‘Besides,’ says Mal, lighting up another – ‘it does your body good to be accustomed to a certain level of abuse.’ This is the Mal Duff theory of Abuse Training, and he adheres to it rigorously.

‘Will Julie Tullis be considered for a summit attempt?’ The media had naturally centred a great deal of coverage on Julie. ‘Anyone who is still on their feet can have a crack at the summit,’ Mal replied. Then came the inevitable questions about the fate of Joe Tasker and Pete Boardman: where did we think they were? Had they fallen down the Kangshung Face, or were they still on the Ridge? What would we do if we found them? Mal’s answers were models of tactful evasion, and I was struck by how much he’d changed, in terms of public persona at least, from the irreverent and casual enthusiast of a few months before. He now seemed the very model of a serious, responsible and business-like leader of a major expedition – at how much personal cost, I wondered. His preoccupation with the Expedition’s overall planning and the demands made on him as our figurehead, had put a distance between him and the rest of us, and perhaps him and himself.

‘I can’t say I get any special thrill out of leading this trip,’ he later said to me. ‘It’s more that I really wanted to go to Everest and no one else seemed keen to pick up the ball and run with it.’

Then one by one we were taken aside for photos and factual details, as if queuing for school medical examinations. Being processed. Name, age, role in Expedition. Then one of the photographers suggested we go onto the roof for team pictures. ‘Be careful up there,’ one of the hotel employees said nervously, ‘there’s ice on the roof.’ We said we thought we could handle that, and trooped up.

‘All I want to do is go climbing,’ Jon complained, voicing a general feeling.

‘So do I, Jon,’ Mal replied. ‘But it’s not as simple as that, not on this one.’

No point in denying that elements of publicity and its attendant gravy-train are fun – particularly the free drinks and taxis and hotel rooms. And it’s some recompense for parents and relatives after years of despairing of their off-springs’ dangerous, erratic and unprofitable life-style, to have them enter the public realm.

I’d gone through the publicity process before in book promotions, and accepted it as a commitment made in return for someone else risking their money. Often it’s silly, sometimes you’re being asked to be false, mostly it’s good fun. But the lads were uneasy. Their private pursuit had become public property. If anyone takes up serious mountaineering in order to become famous, I’ve never met them. What climbers do is deeply personal, between them and the rock and ice. They are reluctant to speak seriously about it because they fear they will be misunderstood or misrepresented – as heroes, perhaps, or people ruled by a death-wish, or seekers after enlightenment, or squaddies without nerves or imagination. At most they want the respect and recognition of their peers, and among peers there is little need to speak of the why and what of climbing.

‘Still,’ said Sandy as he opened The Times next morning, ‘you don’t crack an egg because you want to crack an egg, but because you want to eat an omelette, eh?’

Jon Tinker’s Glencoe Notebook, Jan – Feb ’85.

Duff climbing on Cam Dearg Buttress. A helmet pokes into view, Garfield-like sleepy eyes check the turf. Crank and clatter, huff and puff. ‘You are definitely psychotic, Jon!’ ‘I blame it on Duff.’ ‘You always do.’

Half an hour later they’re on their way back down to the Clachaig with a new Grade VI route under their belts. For these few weeks they’ll be guiding six days a week and climbing on their own account on the seventh. ‘Well, it’s better than training,’ says Mal, ordering another lager. Somewhat to their surprise they climb extremely well together in Scotland, swapping leads, silently urging each other on to the undiscovered limits of what’s possible.

A semi-formalized relationship with Sandy. The bickering keeps the edge which lets us both perform at higher standards. Many’s the quiet giggle we’ve had at outsiders’ views on this ménage à deux.

Andy G. going up beside Clachaig Gully – the fluency is there now – next step is to find the rhythm out in front.

Liz too sensitive about her role. The Lizometer – check the age jokes. Does she know her role yet? At least she’ll stop Malcolm pining for the fiords. Don’t worry, kid.

Pre-route manoeuvring – who’s going to make out on E., make it up and off. All a waste of time. Sandy and Bob the consensus so far. I’ll keep quiet on this one. There must be no pairing off at the beginning though.

It’ll be relaxing being on the hill again with my mates – Mal, Sandy, Tony, Nicko and Wattie. The rest will be by the end. Monk-cowled figures staring into the thin. That bitter taste of altitude. The sweet smell of sweat and the soured deflation of success.

Mal trains on beer and chips. Jon trains on fear and loathing. Tony trains on climbing and training. Sandy keeps quiet. Andy G. must learn to be stupid.

One-pint Wattie – flair and apeshit. Watch this man go! A dark horse by inclination. That youth will go far.

Dr Aido’s PATENTED GO FASTER (GRADE V) PILL

½ oz garlic

⅛ oz snuff (Black Death brand)

2 slivers of red pepper

2 grains of cocaine

1 cut-down amphetamine suppository

MIX WELL AT BASE CAMP. ALLOW TO SET.

INSERT WHEN FACED WITH

– Grade V

– FAILURE, DEATH, PANIC

– BORING PARTIES

EFFECTS UNCERTAIN BUT IT WILL MAKE YOU GO FASTER!!!

Chris Bonington lecturing at the Clachaig. ‘I’ll be sitting on the South Col with loads of Sherpas carrying up tons of food and oxygen; I’ll look across at Mal Duff and his merry men and I’ll think “You poor buggers, hee hee!” … I hope they reach the top but even more that I reach the top.’

Later, after the lecture, we had a quick talk. He thinks we’ve got a chance, and emphasized how bloody high, hard and long it is. I came away almost certain that I will not get above 8, 000 metres and even that will take all I’ve got. It’s quite nice to go without summit pressure or financial worries. Even load-carrying will be a privilege, so many people would sacrifice a lot to go on this sort of adventure.

The photo-call at the Clachaig. We play around on an ice-fall for the cameras. Kurt and Julie have seen it all before – they sit around – also they’re outside their home ground. A trifle ruffled by the lads trying to pin down what they’d done the day before. ‘We just went up the mountain.’ It transpires they went up Summit Gully – a descent route off Bidean Nam Beith which Mal not unkindly calls ‘a steep walk’. Later in the pub Kurt toasts Julie to a good day out ‘even though Mal says it’s just a steep walk’. I fall about. Legends can play this game better than most.

Andy said that he hadn’t got the same excitement or sensed the same feeling about this trip. I think most of us feel the same. It’s too big to comprehend, so many people are involved.

Andy playing guitar much later in the Lounge, Mal in babble-mode, Dave thumping his chair – it’s great having him on our side. Meanwhile I’m reading Hornbeim on thin cold air, Willi Unsoeld and the North Face traverse1 in a back issue of National Geographic …

I needed to take the occasional weekend away from writing Summit Fever to go climbing in Glencoe and remind myself why I’d actually become involved in this game. There’d be little technical climbing for me on Everest, just the bottomless weariness of carrying loads at altitude, and from the point of view of training I’d have been as well just walking on the Scottish hills with a 40 lb rucksack. But I’d become addicted to the anxiety, adrenalin and purifying concentration of extending myself on a technical Scottish route.

My literary friends, surprised as I was at the way my life had been hi-jacked by climbing, asked if this was not a form of escape, its excitement being a distraction from more real problems. At the time I shrugged; they hadn’t known what it was like. To climb is to know it’s the real thing. I was going to Everest and I didn’t care much why. What mattered now was a gradual physical and mental focusing – yes, a narrowing if you like – on the adventure ahead. Ask the big questions later when I had time to catch up with myself. Always later, sometime later …

Dave Bricknell, the Pilkington Company Secretary, who had now definitely obtained leave to come on the Expedition, came up to Glencoe for his initiation into climbing. On his first route he suffered the agonies of hot-aches through wearing inadequate gloves, and quietly passed out on a belay stance halfway up. Mal heard a rattle and looked down to see only Dave’s feet resting on the ledge – the rest of him had slipped away and he was peacefully hanging upside down. Mal descended, put him on his feet again, and finished the route with an extremely embarrassed Dave struggling to make sense of it all through a confusion of axes, ropes, slings and gear.

The second day he went out with Mal and Liz. Halfway up, Liz heard ‘Shit!’ drift down from Dave who was seconding Mal up above her. ‘What is it, Dave?’ she shouted up, concerned. ‘I think I’m beginning to enjoy this!’ came the reply.

Dave was fitting in. ‘The Right Stuff – not half bad for a Company Secretary’ was Mal’s verdict. ‘Only trouble is he’s too fit and doesn’t drink enough. We’ll have to handicap him. Going climbing with a hangover and four hours’ sleep is the best rehearsal for altitude.’ Dave, who was beginning to adjust to the style of these shuffling dossers he’d fallen among, promised to try to put this good advice into practise. He made no effort to conceal his excitement at the adventure he’d been caught up in. I could easily empathize with him; the first trip is like no other.

‘The North-East Ridge is a typical modern mountaineering route – very bold, very brave, very stupid,’ Jon asserts in the Clachaig Bar. ‘Great!’

‘What’s our chance of climbing it?’ Dave asks.

‘At the moment I’d give us an 80 per cent chance of doing the Pinnacles, 30–35 per cent for the Summit,’ Mal replies.

Jon, ‘I’d say we’ve nil chance of doing it, and it’s odds on someone will croak.’

That’s their natures. Mal’s commitment and belief are absolute, they have to be. Not a ‘go out and see’ but ‘we will do it’. At the same time, a detached part of him is quite objective and realistic – he wouldn’t still be alive otherwise. Whereas Jon says we’ll go on till we drop, expecting us to drop.

Mal stretches out his legs, relaxed for once. He and Jon have had a good day. ‘I don’t expect to die young,’ he observes into his pint. Jon turns to me.

‘How do you think you’ll die, Andy?’ This is not a question demanding an answer, but Jon’s characteristic testing-out. ‘The statistics say 1.3 people should snuff it on this trip, and you’ve got as good a chance of croaking as anybody else. More, I should say.’ And he leans back and laughs, eyes alight with mischief and something between malice and affection.

I’d thought about it. Everyone had in their own way weighed up the risk and the hardship and the separations before reaffirming their commitment to going to Everest. It had been something of a shock when Pilkington’s came in and I realized this was really going to happen. This expedition was going to be much harder, more demanding and probably more dangerous than Mustagh, making that affair seem like a holiday jaunt. There I’d carried to 5,600 and it had taken more out of me than I’d ever imagined was there in the first place. This time Malcolm’s sports plan was for me to carry to 7,000 metres if possible, on to the crest of the North-East Ridge. I’d seen the photos in The Unclimbed Ridge, particularly the steep exposed traverse above their first snow cave, and carried them in the back of my mind ever since. From Bonington’s account, the weather at times would be desperate, light-years out with my experience. If anything at all went wrong up there, I’d be in serious trouble.

So you think it all through again, consider your life as it is, with its problems and satisfactions and hopes and regrets, realize how very much you want to live and yet discover deep down a certain fatalism that verges on indifference. You weigh quality against quantity of experience. And in the end, because that is the way you have become, you decide yes it is worth it, yes of course you will go and give it your best shot and accept the outcome.

Then your life becomes as simple as it’s ever going to be.

‘I suppose you do it for the money,’ my dentist says hopefully as he probes inside my mouth. In my choking laughter his pick digs into my tongue and draws blood.

Walking back to the Clachaig after a day on the hill, Mal tells me he has phases of nightmares when he wakes up soaking with sweat but no memory of why. The only one he can remember is of being trapped in an airliner falling out of the sky from 30,000 feet, knowing it’s going to deck out, that he is falling and going to die and there’s nothing he can do, looking over at Liz to say goodbye …

‘Suppose it shows there must be a lot down there. Bit worrying that.’

I nod and we talk about dreams and the anxieties one tries to suppress. It’s the first time he’s opened up with me for a while, being so preoccupied with the Expedition, and I know it’s something he does very rarely, except maybe with Liz. He’s like most good climbers in that respect: emotions are to be rigorously controlled; fear, anxiety and doubt are there to be overcome. That battle with oneself is at the heart of climbing. It’s appropriate in that situation, but restrictive and unhealthy in everyday life, I suggest. ‘I’m interested more and more in uncontrolling,’ I say.

‘With the state of your private life, that’s just as well!’ Mal laughs.

‘Yes, well … Better to ride wild horses than try to drag them to the ground.’

This is definitely not a climbers’ conversation, though it’s only possible because of the time we’ve spent together in the hills.

‘When I was 14 I discovered I could will myself not to feel anything I didn’t want to,’ he says casually.

‘Was that when you took up climbing?’

‘Soon after … It became a habit. Only recently I’ve come to think it’s maybe not such a good way to live. And living only for climbing is like abseiling off one pin – if that pulls, you’ve got nothing left. By the time you get to climbing in the Himalayas you’ve forgotten why you started in the first place.’

We trudge down the road in silence through the gathering dark. The air smells of snow and moor, a three-quarter moon is rising yellow over Bidean. Ahead of us are lights where the world of warmth, laughter and climbing talk awaits us. These moments linger in the mind as significant pauses, as milestones in the Expedition we’re already on.

In Aberdeen Andy Nisbet gets a phone call from an insurance broker. ‘I hear you’re going to Everest soon – have you ever thought of taking out life insurance?’ Andy laughs, declines politely, puts the phone down.

Jon presses me persistently to tell him how much my recent Scottish Arts Council Bursary is worth. Eventually I say, ‘Look, I’m not telling you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s private.’

‘I thought climbing was private,’ he retorts. Must have been saving that one up for a while. I nod, concede the point. ‘It used to be – though all those pre-war Everest trips had newspaper contracts. And books. If you can think of any other way of paying for this trip, let me know.’

We have another media session, this time in Glencoe.

It’s good for us to be together again, for most of us know only two or three others in the team and just dealing with the media gives us a kind of solidarity. We go to a nearby ice-fall for a photo-session; Kurt and Julie decline to participate, explaining they’re not prepared to take the outside chance of even a minor injury which could put them out for Everest. The Press look slightly baffled as meanwhile the lads are casually swarming up and down the 750 ice, without bothering with ropes or helmets. I do it in more cautious style, but the ice is in good condition and the climb is very straightforward.

‘This “Ultimate Challenge” is bullshit,’ said Sandy next morning, looking at a newspaper with that headline. ‘The ultimate challenge has got to be having a normal life with kids and a job and doing that well. Maybe I should try that some day … As long as I can still go off climbing once in a while!’

Our Expedition was inevitably attracting a degree of criticism in the climbing world because of our sponsorship commitments, media coverage and intention to use oxygen. ‘If some of the people who slag us got off their backside and put together an expedition themselves they’d find out what it’s all about,’ Mal said, peeved. Jon delighted in spreading the rumour that all the lead climbers were being paid £5,000 each, and anyone who got to the top would be given a brand-new Porsche. ‘Well, would you climb the North-East Ridge for free?’ he’d reply with wide-eyed sincerity when asked if this was true.

The final weeks before departure were a desperate rush against the calendar. Chris Watts hassled, bullied, begged and cajoled for gear, some of it custom-made, to be delivered in time. Nick and Andy pressed on, assembling some four tons of food. Sandy finished on the oil-rigs and drove the Pilkington’s van from Aberdeen to London to Liverpool to Edinburgh, frequently overnight and dozing off at the wheel. His driving is as terrifyingly approximate as his climbing is exact. An old man in Nepal had once looked into his eyes and told him he’d die in a van – but Sandy counted this vehicle as a truck, ‘So that’s alright, eh?’

British Airways came in to offer free flights to Peking for us and, crucially, to fly out much of our gear free. This prevented our escalating budget from getting completely out of hand.

Pilkington’s were proving to be the ideal sponsor – supportive, involved but non-interfering. They seemed as excited by the project as we were. They didn’t just give us money; they gave us secretarial services, a warehouse for the accumulating mountain of gear, the truck. They had a team of apprentices turning out snow-stakes and deadmen for us. From their diverse companies we received Reactolite sunglasses, an optical nightsight, and heat-reflecting foam mats like giant innersoles to go under our tents. These were a real find, making a tremendous difference in both warmth and comfort to tents pitched on rough moraine in Arctic conditions.

A crucial factor was Dave Bricknell’s and Terry Dailey’s flair for organization and co-ordination that among other things produced a 200-page computer print-out record of all our equipment down to the last tuna fish and toothbrush. Planning and providing food, clothing, shelter, cooking gear and climbing equipment for 19 people for three months is a military-scale undertaking. There is no room for mistakes or shortages – if you run out of lighters, pitons, gas, toilet rolls at Everest Base Camp, there’s no popping round the corner for more.

It was only this combination of organization, facilities, and sheer hard work that made it possible to put together the Expedition in five months. Items still hadn’t arrived a week before we were due to leave; the last odds and sods were picked up on the evening before departure.

The last pieces fell into place. Kurt and Julie concluded a contract to make a film for ‘Pebble Mill At One’ in addition to the ITN reports. The Scottish Daily Record printed that we were taking vast quantities of wine and whisky, and when we told them this was unfortunately no longer the case, they compensated in the best possible way – by arranging to have us given six crates of MacKinlay’s blended whisky. Liz used her contacts to arrange for a precious crate of The Macallan malt. These were of limited medicinal use, but added greatly to morale and Base Camp relaxation.

On 2nd March I typed ‘The End’ to Summit Fever and went up to the attic to collect together all the gear accumulated there; I selected a few positive and high-spirited tapes and books, bought a lot of rolling tobacco and pencils and notebooks and a few personal treats like Drambuie and chicken breasts in jelly. Then the camera system, the Walkman, special fast-and slow-speed film, all the etceteras of contemporary expedition life. Across the country, 18 others were doing the same. Any anxiety was now replaced by a feverish impatience to be gone.

Then the final farewell drinks and meals, a party, all enjoyed and appreciated but in one’s heart one has already left. The sudden poignancy of the last walk to the end of the harbour, gazing down into the water and wondering what lies ahead. The last handshake with a friend. The last night with a lover. Wake at dawn, clean the last dishes, close the doors, stroke the cats, lock the front door and walk away.

Isobel drives me to Turnhouse airport. It’s a perfect Scottish morning of sun and dew, anticipating spring. There’s little left for us to say as I sit and stare out the window at everything I’m leaving. We unload the car. Her silk shirt is cool on my palms, her red hair flares in the low, brilliant sunshine. It’s a moment that will recur involuntarily over the next three months as I lie trying to sleep at altitude, or push myself one more time up the fixed ropes on the Ridge.

We look at each other.

‘Bye.’

‘Bye.’

A brief embrace and she walks away, drives to her office to do a day’s work.

‘Are you going to make it this time?’ the check-in man asks cheerfully.

‘It’s uncertain enough to make it worthwhile,’ I reply, glancing back to see her car turn on to the main road, ‘I hope so.’

That afternoon we congregated at the London hotel Pilkington’s had booked for our farewell Reception. Some of the faces are becoming familiar, hi Nick, hello Sarah, this is Bob Barton. I shake hands with the burly, bespectacled Yorkshireman, liking his warm and concerned air. Chris Watts handed out our remaining gear, and we packed it all in our individual blue barrels. Much bustle, commotion, everyone a little tense as we sorted out the final details. ‘I’ve never felt so twitchy about any project as I do about this one,’ Dave confessed. The ballroom was now crowded with media, family, friends, climbers, everyone who’d been involved with our Expedition. It was moving to feel all this support and we began to realize how many hopes were pinned on us.

A Pilkington director, Sol Kay, made a short speech; Mal replied, at once casual and formal, growing into the role as time went on. We were presented with a stained-glass picture to give to the Chinese Mountaineering Association – only Mal noticed that the Union Jack was upside down and wondered if that’s a sign of bad luck. We decided to have it re-done and brought out by Terry Dailey five weeks later when his leave from Saatchi’s began.

The media departed and it was time for some ‘serious jollification’ in Sandy’s phrase. Allen Fyffe found himself in distinguished company with Lord Hunt and Sir Alastair and Lady Pilkington, but with a suitable amount of alcohol the situation was enjoyable, and he and Hunt discussed Everest at some length. Then we slipped away from the jollification for the Business Meeting.

It was the first time we’d all met together. Our doctor, Urs Wiget, was introduced, a small, broad, smiling, bearded man immediately dubbed ‘the gnome’. We’d just started going over the contracts and finances when a tall lad with over-sized hands and feet stumbled in and slumped down. Eventually someone asked, ‘Well, who are you?’ Julie explained he was Danny Lewis, coming along as their film porter to help hump gear on the hill. ‘How high have you been then, mate?’ Jon enquired. Danny looked embarrassed, and I felt for him among this group of complete strangers. ‘Twelve thousand’ he replied awkwardly.

Eyebrows went up in silent incredulity. Kurt and Julie had picked a 19-year-old rock climber (climbing a very respectable 6b) with virtually no snow/ice experience and none whatsoever of altitude, to do heavy-duty carrying on an extreme route. We wondered if this was a very bright idea. ‘Nothing against you personally, we don’t even know you.’ It was too late to do anything about it, and it wasn’t his fault, so we just had to hope he wouldn’t prove a liability to himself or anyone else. He sat quietly through the rest of the meeting, wide-eyed and attentive.

Our accountant set out our financial situation. Inevitably we’d considerably overspent our budget, but counting the newspaper, book, BBC and ITN money, we had a small surplus. Personal differences used to be the great unmentionable in climbing books, now it is often finance. One thing we learned from this trip was the importance of having financial details and contracts out in the open, to be candidly discussed and with luck agreed on. Jon made my position easier by asking outright if I got any of the Sunday Express money, and I was able to say no, that all went straight to the Expedition, as did the first part of the book advance.

And Nick was thinking to himself, Why are all these buggers making money out of us and we’re not? The truth was, as Mal pointed out, these buggers (Kurt and Julie, myself, the PR firm, our accountant, lawyer, everyone down to the caterers) were being paid for doing a job, and that job was raising the publicity and money that gave us a three-month Everest expedition with a lot of valuable gear to keep, for the princely sum of £200 each. Without the climbers there’d be no film, no book, but without the media contracts there’d be no Expedition.

‘So, can we sign the contracts, please?’ We all signed, wrote out our nominal cheques, formally enlisting ourselves to the common venture. Then Dave Bricknell made a welcome and unexpected statement: Pilkington’s were aware that we might feel a certain pressure to succeed because of all the money put behind us. They didn’t want that. ‘What we want to see,’ Dave continued, ‘is a successful expedition, and by that we mean going out and doing your best, which you will anyway, and coming back all in one piece and as a cohesive team.’ Silent, appreciative nods. The ideal sponsor’s ideal parting words.

Business over, we broke up the meeting and returned to pleasure. Though there was the usual laughter, drinking and carry-on, Jon noticed there was slightly less excitement and high spirits than customary before an expedition. It may have been the size of the team, and us not knowing each other well. There was also less of the death-and-destruction humour, precisely because this was a death route. There was a lurking seriousness behind the smiles. We were also very tired by the weeks and months of activity it had taken to get us to this point.

These factors, together with the prospect of a 5.0 am start next morning, kept most of us under control. We slipped away quietly upstairs with our partners by midnight, leaving only Jon and Sandy in full cry pursuit of a good time …

At 6.0 am on 6th March we stumble through our last Press conference in a basement room at Heathrow. We try to look suitably keen, fit and enthusiastic, but in reality we were grey and hungover. Allen Fyffe in particular is grim as Dundee in November. ‘Can’t you guys smile? Please!’ We assume hideous rictus snarls.

In an alley on the way back to the departure lounge a ladder is propped against the wall. Bob Barton and Sandy hesitate then walk deliberately round it. Already we’re becoming superstitious.

1 Unsoeld and Hornbein climbed Everest via the West Ridge and North Face in the 1963 American expedition.