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
