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
