the Himalayan and Karakoram giants are documented in this book.
Initially I did not plan to tackle them all. I just wanted to climb some of the highest most challenging mountains out there. Over the years it gradually became an odyssey and a test of my resilience, stamina and determination and once I had knocked eight of them off I decided to go for the final six. I made 27 attempts before I succeeded in standing on all 14 summits; some I climbed on my first try, others took three attempts as I often decided to retreat rather than risk everything in a do-or-die assault. Over that 18-year period I would be away every year on at least one and usually two or more expeditions. It was a huge commitment, but it was where I wanted to be.
Many people have pestered me over the years to write a book about climbing the 8000ers, but there was never enough superglue to keep me stuck to a chair in front of a computer to get it done. I was always more interested in going out to play, climbing and being in the hills and I kept putting it off. Sorting out the thousands of photographs and writing the copy was a huge and detailed task, but it was a labour of love, bringing back great memories of friends, climbing mates, epics, gnarly adventures and summits. I took almost every shot myself, often with a self-timer. Sometimes I wonder how I managed to do it in a pre-digital age, carrying many rolls of film and fiddling with manual cameras in bitter cold conditions at extreme altitude.
Now the book is finished, I can go back out to play and enjoy myself in the hills, or perhaps start writing another...
Jay and Mia, my two grandchildren, are the future. I hope they will appreciate the photos and climbing stories in their grandad's book.
K2: Setting off from the Shoulder at 8000m in the early morning. Looking up towards the Bottleneck – a narrowing couloir topped by a band of huge threatening seracs. These massive ice cliffs look like the White Cliffs of Dover but are rather less friendly. The route, up and left beneath them, is very dangerous as huge sections can – and do – collapse, wiping out anyone below.
INTRODUCTION
I have always been adventurous. As a child I was outside at every opportunity, ‘raking about’ as they say in Yorkshire, exploring the becks, woods and fields near where I lived in Northallerton. On family drives into the Yorkshire Dales or the North York Moors I felt attracted to the wild, rugged hilly landscape. In my teens, when the chance came to take up climbing on trips with Northallerton Grammar School, the seed was well and truly sown and it very quickly germinated into a passion, eventually becoming a way of life. I knew from the first time that I went out on the moors and fells that it was where I wanted to be. It was a kind of ‘calling’.
Going out into the hills of Northern England was an exciting adventure, especially in bad weather. It often seemed to be wet and windy and I quickly learned to cope with and enjoy inclement conditions. In real terms it was more committing than today if only because, in those days before GPS and mobile phones, you had to be more self-reliant. I relished the physical exertion as well as learning the skills of survival and navigation using an Ordnance Survey map and compass. Geography was my favourite subject and to this day I find maps interesting; you could say that I enjoy a good map read. I had a natural talent and quickly became competent at finding my way in the hills, even in poor visibility. I delighted in the challenge of navigating in bad weather and would often go out on the North York Moors in thick hill fog and rain just for fun, to practise map, compass and navigation skills. The vagaries of dense cloud, rain and wind out on the hills and fells did not put me off. I enjoyed the battle against the elements.
Sometimes, just for fun, I would go out onto the moors for a survival experience and spend a night in a ‘bivvy bag’ – a heavy-duty plastic bag, about the size of a sleeping bag. I learned about exhaustion, exposure and hypothermia, and developed an innate resilience that has served me well.
Tents on Everest’s North Col 7000m in 1996. To the right is the slope that drops to the East Rongbuk Glacier and Advance Base Camp 6400m.
You might have an uncomfortable night, you might be shivering, but as long as you can protect yourself from the wind you will at least survive. Later, I practised bivouacking on small ledges, 25 metres up cliff faces. Cramped on such rocky eyries, I had to be tied on all night. Although I was then still at school, I knew that this would be good practice for the bigger mountain faces I would one day climb. Even then, I saw myself ascending Alpine peaks and difficult big walls, such as the North Face of the Eiger, although the Himalaya seemed an unattainable dream.
Progressing from hill walking on the North York Moors, my first mountain was Helvellyn in the Lake District, which I ascended along the rocky knife-edged ridge known as Striding Edge. The topography was a revelation. The
peak was like a giant page out of my Physical Geography textbook. In a corrie below the steep summit slopes of Helvellyn there is a small lake called Red Tarn, the last remnant of a melted glacier. Rocky arêtes cradle Red Tarn, Striding Edge to the south and Swirral Edge to the north. Helvellyn remains one of my favourite hills and the climb via Striding Edge above Red Tarn and descent by Swirral Edge is a classic mountain scramble.
On this first scramble it was a wet, windy day, the rock was slippery and I was nearly blown off the ridge by crosswinds. I did not have a waterproof mountain jacket and instead wore a voluminous plastic cycle cape that acted like a parachute, catching the wind and trying to drag me off the mountainside. The experience did not put me off. My passion for the hills and mountains only grew stronger and I wanted more. I yearned for bigger, more testing challenges.
Spindrift spills from above as we climb the 600m big wall on the South Face of Manaslu.
My first rock climbing forays were on sandstone outcrops such as Scugdale and the Wainstones on the North York Moors. I joined the local Cleveland Mountaineering Club, which gave me access to the wisdom of older more experienced climbers as well as lifts to the crags and weekends away. I was fortunate to live close enough to these outcrops to start my climbing outdoors, on real rock. Nowadays many climbers get their first taste of the sport on indoor walls. After learning in relative safety, climbing outside can come as a shock, especially on a cold or wet day.
My first climbs on those 10m faces in North Yorkshire were memorable. It was school winter term and the rock was bitterly cold, with snow lying. My fingers grew numb from touching and gripping holds, causing excruciating pain as they warmed and the blood began to flow through them again. Climbers refer to such re-warming pain as ‘heat aches’ or ‘hot aches’. I have now experienced it a lot more and sometimes the pain has been so intense that I have nearly vomited, but at least I know that I have prevented frostbite by keeping my digits warm.
Climbing fixed ropes in spindrift conditions on Broad Peak’s steep snow slopes.
Longer, more serious routes on the 35m limestone crags of Peak Scar and Whitestone Cliff caught my eye next. Here, I could stretch the rope out and experience more ‘exposure’ – the term climbers use for the drop below you as you climb. Controlling anxiety and fear when in such exposed positions, high above the ground, is an essential element of rock climbing. I extended my climbing into the Pennines and Yorkshire Dales, on gritstone crags such as Brimham Rocks and Almscliff Crag, as well as limestone faces including Malham Cove and Goredale Scar. In the Lake District I climbed on the big multi-pitch mountain crags, mostly composed of rough, volcanic rocks. As I progressed from hill walking to the steeper
