head down over the Mustagh Tower book, which now had a possible early deadline: early March, when we would fly to Peking.
Developments fell into place thick and fast, overlapping and obscuring each other like cards being rapidly shuffled and dealt …
The Team, We were looking for another seven lead climbers. They had to have proven high-altitude abilities; just as important, they had to be able to get on and work together over three intense and stress-filled months. To have any chance of success, this had to be a team effort, demanding a great deal of selfless and possibly unrewarded load-carrying from everyone – so no stars, no prima donnas.
There was a limited field for Mal, Jon and Sandy to choose from. The grim truth was they could number on one hand the surviving British climbers who had been to 8,000 metres, and enquiries proved that all of them had other ploys for spring ’85. There was a new generation of talented, thrusting young mountaineers, but they had concentrated on bold Alpine-style ascents, by very small teams, of hard routes on the ’smaller’ Himalayan peaks. So any team we took to Everest would all be operating above their previous height records just in getting to the foot of the Pinnacles at 8,000 metres. ‘It’s not ideal,’ Mal said, ‘but we’ve all got to start sometime and it might as well be on Everest.’
‘I just don’t know if you’re ready for it, Malcolm,’ Liz said one evening.
‘Look, Liz, what can you tell me about the North-East Ridge that I don’t know already? That it’s very long, very high, very hard, and it’s a death route? I know that. There’s only one way to find out if we’re ready, and that’s to go there. I’ve always jumped in at the deep end, it’s the only way to learn …’
Sandy nominated Bob Barton – an exiled Yorkshireman and self-adopted Scot, working as an instructor at Glenmore Lodge outdoor centre. He had the requisite Scottish and Alpine background, expeditions to the Hindu Kush, Peru, Kenya, Alaska, and two notable Himalayan successes on Kalanka and Bhaghirathi II. Sandy had met him in Chamonix and the Cairngorms and been impressed by his steady, unflappable temperament and quiet determination. A natural team-member, he thought: friendly, selfless, easy-going.
‘Want to come to Everest, Bob?’ Sandy asked over the phone. Bob is a family man who, as he put it, at 37 is ‘old enough not to want to die young’. He’d consider it if it was to be a non-Alpine style attempt with oxygen used above 8,000 metres. Assured that it was, the only remaining problem was that Bob realized his second child was due to be born just before our planned departure for China in early March. He was torn between two events he did not want to miss, but after talking it over with his wife Anna he said ‘Yes’ – and prayed that the baby would arrive on time.
Jon in turn suggested Nick Kekus, with whom he’d climbed on Annapurna III. Nick, like Jon, was known for being young and very bold. He’d made the usual transitions from hill-walking to scrambling to rock-climbing to snow and ice; progressed to the Alps, Kenya, Peru, then the challenge of altitude and sustained big mountains: Kalanka, Shiveling, Annapurna III. He’d just come back from another success on Ganesh II in Nepal and with his appetite for climbing undiminished said ‘Yes, I’ll come.’ Tall, lean, forceful and temperamental, he was the antithesis of calm Bob Barton. He took on the responsibility of organizing food for some dozen people for three months – a massive piece of planning, involving endless letters and phone calls cajoling products from manufacturers and suppliers.
‘Meanwhile in Aberdeen a red beard is munching marzipan …’ Sandy suggested to his friend Andy Nisbet that he get in touch with Mal about Everest. Mal confessed he felt somewhat put on the spot: Andy was a good friend whom he trusted, had a good expedition temperament, was a brilliant technical ice climber – but he had problems at altitude. He’d been with Mal on the West Ridge of Nuptse in 1981, and had beome seriously ill at 6,000 metres. Okay, so they’d rushed the acclimatization a bit, but the fact remained he’d got ill and the others hadn’t. One is seldom given a second chance.
Mal talked it over with Andy, who admitted the problem but believed that given more time to acclimatize he’d be okay. Convinced of his sincerity and commitment, Mal decided to gamble on Andy.
Andy is an Aberdonian with wild red hair and a long pointed beard that some say make him look like a demented garden gnome. He’s ill at ease in company, sits on his hands, fiddles and fidgets, finds it hard to look at people directly; he hides his inner nature and feelings almost completely. If he’s interested in anything other than climbing, not many people know about it. He also has the sweetest tooth in Christendom, living mostly on fudge and whole blocks of marzipan. So he was nominated to work with Nick on food, with particular responsibility for planning hill-food and sweet goodies. He based his projection of our needs on his average daily consumption … When we finally left Tibet we left behind enough chocolate to ruin an entire generation of Tibetan teeth, and my last sight of the ruined Rongbuk monastery was of a beaming old nun munching a Twix bar.
The Permit. Mal and I had arranged to go out for a formal Mustagh celebration meal with his wife Liz, my girlfriend Kathleen Jamie and Adrian Clifford, who had been our doctor on that trip. Just before we set out for the restaurant Mal answered the phone. He walked back in, trying to keep a straight face. He held out his hand. ‘The Nords have given us their permit – we’re on the way.’ We shook on it and went to celebrate one trip by toasting the next.
Of course it wasn’t as simple as that. The Chinese still had to agree to the transfer. The Norwegians wrote to Peking cancelling their permit and recommending us, while we wrote at the same time applying for the route. A long and nerve-wracking wait ensued. By this time we were heavily committed to the trip, without actually having secured the permit – an inadvisable way to proceed but we hadn’t time to play it any other way.
Unfortunately Adrian was unable to come with us again as a support climber and doctor, having just started his obstetrics at Kirkaldy hospital. So we had to look again for a medic who was an experienced climber, had been to altitude, understood the ways of climbers and every aspect of mountain medicine – and was free to go.
Around this time Mal was interviewed in a climbing magazine and mentioned we were still looking for lead climbers and a climbing doctor for the trip. He was promptly smothered by an avalanche of letters:
‘I am a 17 year old student … I’ve always been interested in climbing and go to the Fells most weekends. I’m sure I can carry a 50lb rucksack at 26,000 feet …’
‘I have done some rock climbing and will be in Kathmandu next spring so I can join you on the way in …’ (Overlooking the fact we would be in Tibet, not Nepal.)
‘I have recently retired and have plenty of spare time on my hands …’ The search went on.
The money. Raising £80,000 for a non-profit-making venture was always going to be difficult. Our public profile was so low only the tip of Mal’s nose showed. And we needed the money fast. Only the magic word ‘Everest’, coupled with ‘Unclimbed’ gave us a chance. We drew up and Mal printed at his own expense a small brochure about the Expedition as though it actually existed, and we prepared to make a list of all the possible companies and individuals worth approaching, with an accent on the Scottish ones. It was going to be a big, time-consuming, expensive job. Then Liz Duff had an inspiration: one of their old climbing friends was now working for Saatchi & Saatchi as a strategic planner …
In his London office, Terry Dailey picks up the phone with his customary adrenalin rush. ‘Mal here, Terry. How’s things?’ Terry feels guilty because he’d intended to call Mal to congratulate him on the Mustagh Tower ascent, but had never quite got round to it. ‘Can we meet sometime today?’ Mal continues. ‘I’ve a proposition you might be interested in.’
Terry
