Quest for Adventure

by Chris Bonington

  And yet the army seemed to open up the only road to any kind of adventure, and so he signed on for twenty-two years at the age of seventeen, going into the Engineers to train as a surveyor which he hoped would take him into unexplored lands. Diffident, unsure of himself, he failed to get a commission and, within weeks, bitterly regretted joining the army. He spent most of the next three years fretting over whether they would let him out at the end of this initial period. Fortunately they did; once again, he showed an adventurous streak, hitch-hiking home from Egypt around the Middle Eastern countries and back to England, where he started looking for a job. He seemed a long way from a life of exploration and adventure in a job at a surveyors’ office on the south coast.

  He made few friends; quiet, introverted and very lonely, he seemed trapped in a humdrum life with very little future. As so often happens, it was a coincidence that led him to the life to which he was most suited. Wally told me:

  ‘I was sitting in a bus; my raincoat was soaking wet and there were drips coming off everything, steaming in this horrible smelly bus. The bus lurched and a newspaper fell off the luggage rack smack into my lap. It was open at the public appointments page and two of the things I noticed straight away were one advert for a surveyor in Kenya and another one for team members for an expedition to the Antarctic.’

  He had found the answer to his discontent. On reaching the office he didn’t dare answer the advertisements during working hours, so slipped into the lavatory, sat on the loo with the top down and wrote off for further details. Interviews followed and he was offered both jobs.

  ‘I had to make a choice, Kenya or the Antarctic. I’d always dreamed of going to Kenya and had never really thought much about the Antarctic at all, but at this point, without really thinking it out, I immediately chose the Antarctic. There was some magic in the word “expedition” which touched the romantic in me. I could easily have gone to Kenya and have spent the rest of my life in the hotter parts of the world.’

  At twenty, Wally Herbert joined the Falkland Islands Dependencies Survey, at Hope Bay, Antarctica, and found a contentment he had never known before:

  ‘A monastic life without religious exercise. There, we were a world of men in harmony with our environment – twelve men around a bunkhouse fire, or two men in a drumming tent, or one man in the solitude of summer-warmed hills. We saw a paradise in snowscapes and heard music in the wind, for we were young and on our long exploratory journey we felt, with the pride of youth, that we were making history.’

  At the end of his two-and-a-half-year stint, Wally hitch-hiked through South America and the United States before returning home to England. A trip to Spitsbergen, another stint in the Antarctic, this time with a New Zealand expedition operating out of Scott Base, and he had achieved the experience and, perhaps, the spur that led him to undertake his journey across the Arctic. In Antarctica he had conceived an exciting plan of exploring a range of mountains last visited on Scott’s expedition and then, at the end of the season, making his own dash to the South Pole to mark the fiftieth anniversary of Scott’s ill-fated journey. It meant a tremendous amount to Wally Herbert, but the authorities turned it down. He had too great a respect for authority to ignore the veto, as his name had allowed Hillary to do in 1958. As a consolation, he made his way with his dog teams down the Axel Heiberg Glacier, the route taken by Amundsen in his historic journey to the Pole in 1910. But Herbert’s memory of the Antarctic was forever tarnished by his disappointment.

  ‘I didn’t ever want to go to the South Pole from that moment on or to ever go back to the Antarctic – I’d worked it completely out of my system because I knew that next year they’d be coming in with aeroplanes to photograph the area and to put their surveyors on our bloody mountain peaks and on our survey claims. They’d make better maps than we’d made ourselves. It seemed like the end of this whole phase of my life – I must go and do something new.’

  Back in England, living at his parents’ home, he was existing off the small advance for a book about his Antarctic experience and the proceeds of a few lectures. It was at this stage that he started to think of the Arctic and that longest great polar journey, the crossing of the Arctic Ocean. Wally has a very strong sense of history and he is intensely patriotic.

  ‘It was absolutely imperative that it was a British expedition that did it because of the four-hundred-year tradition and heritage and all the blood, sweat and scurvy and folklore that was built into this.

  ‘But at the time it didn’t occur to me that it should be me because I hadn’t enough experience, I was still too young and I hadn’t had an expedition on my own. I’d led expeditions in the field, but I’d never actually organised them or raised the money for them.’

  The idea was there, but also the self-doubt. I felt very much the same before I led my first expedition to the South Face of Annapurna. In Wally’s case the transition from vague dreams to a dogged determination to get his concept off the ground came through a growing realisation of how feasible the scheme was, given the right mixture of dedication and support. The ice floes of the Arctic Ocean are in constant movement, driven by the ocean currents. Explorers of the past had tried to utilise this movement; Nansen, in Fram, allowed himself to be trapped in the ice off the coast of Siberia, hoping to drift over or close to the Pole. In the event, he did not get close enough to make a successful dash over the ice to his objective. But now much more was known about the pattern of drift. The Russians had been establishing scientific stations on the ice and were drifting slowly across towards North Greenland. Since the drift was in a circular direction, swinging round and over the Pole, Wally saw that it would be possible to go in with a small party, using dog teams for fast, light progress when conditions were suitable, but always going on the line of drift, so that even when sitting out the summer period when there were too many open leads of water, or the winter when it was too cold and dark, they would still be sweeping, however slowly, in the right direction. He liked the idea of dog teams, had little sympathy with the encroaching technology of the noisy Snowmobile that he had seen used more and more in the Antarctic. His preference for dogs was both romantic and practical. Quite apart from being a traditional mode of transport, completely in keeping with the spirit of adventure, there was less to go wrong with a dog and, if it should die, at least its fellow-dogs could eat it. A broken-down Skidoo or Snowmobile, if you could not repair it, was just a pile of useless scrap metal.

  Even so, Wally realised that he could not be completely independent. There was no way his party could carry enough food for the sixteen months it would take dogs and men to cross the Arctic Ocean on its longest axis from Point Barrow to Spitsbergen. This meant he would have to depend on supplies from the air, which also meant that he would need good radio communications with the outside world. All this was going to cost a lot of money, and the co-operation of government bodies, not just in Britain but in the United States and Canada as well. It was a formidable challenge for a thirtv-two-year-old, who was not well known, had no connections with the establishment or media, and no real qualifications except for some sound experience in the Antarctic. But in spite of his doubts and frequent rebuffs Wally Herbert doggedly pursued his vision.

  In 1964 he took the first draft of his plan to Sir Vivian Fuchs who was both interested and encouraging. Wally then managed to get a small grant from the Royal Geographical Society and went off to the States to research his project. He even flew his proposed route in a DC8 but, on his return to England, now heavily in debt, the Royal Geographical Society rejected his 20,000-word submission on the grounds that there was too much adventure and insufficient scientific weight to the scheme.

  But Wally struggled on, writing hundreds of letters to everyone who had ever had anything to do with the Arctic. His determination paid off and, slowly, he gathered a body of influential people to support his plans in a Committee of Management, bristling with illustrious names, from Sir Vivian Fuchs to the Sergeant Surgeon to the Queen. With this
kind of support, Wally was now able to get the approval of the Royal Geographical Society. It was important to him not merely for the launching of his expedition, but also on a personal level, as a seal of acceptance by the exploratory and scientific establishment of which Wally desperately wanted to be part. This extract from his book Across the Top of the World is revealing:

  ‘By the time I left I was almost certain I had, at last, the approval of the Society – an approval confirmed later by the pleasant expressions and, in some cases, even the smiles of the members of the Committee as they walked in threes and fours through the halls to the gentlemen’s cloakroom (where I had hung about for almost halt an hour, knowing that I would, if I waited long enough, meet them as they came in to collect their bowler hats).’

  Wally was now able to go forward at full bore with his plans, but it was still very much a one-man venture. He had chosen his team – all of them old hands from the Antarctic – Roger Tufft, a school teacher living in the Lake District, Allan Gill, whose life has been devoted to the empty spaces of the Antarctic and Arctic, and Fritz Koerner, a glaciologist who was working at an American university. From my own experience of climbing expeditions, I have always found that a level of involvement by all members of the team has helped in both increasing commitment to the venture and in building a sense of unity before setting out. It was perhaps unfortunate that as Wally’s team were all so scattered, it was impractical for any of them to help in the actual organisation. This led to even greater pressure on Wally while the others remained almost uninvolved until they actually joined the expedition, though it seems unlikely that Wally would have delegated much responsibility, even given the chance. Allan Gill commented, ‘I think Wally has to do the whole lot; he has to do it his way and I would never even suggest taking on a share because I just don’t think it would work.’ Roger Tufft, who was particularly interested in the design of the sledges and practical details of the training expedition, regretted that he was not consulted and been more involved.

  It was now October 1966; Wally was still a long way from getting the £54,000 he thought he was going to need, but he had just enough to carry out the training expedition that he felt was an essential prelude to the main venture. Fritz Koerner was tied up with his job in America, but Allan Gill and Roger Tufft were free to go. They planned to spend the winter near the Eskimo settlement of Qanaq, in North-West Greenland, so that they could try out the little prefabricated hut Wally had ordered for wintering on the main expedition. In the early spring they set out on a long sledge journey across Ellesmere Island and then up the Nansen Sound to the top of Axel Heiberg Island, the place that Cook had claimed to have set out from on his bid for the Pole. They had to prove themselves and their gear capable of a long sledge journey over the broken pack ice of the sounds between the islands to convince potential sponsors that their plans for the polar crossing had at least a chance of success. So Wally was determined, at all costs, to complete the journey.

  The project also provided a test in their own relationships. Roger Tufft was the same age as Wally, had joined the Falkland Islands Dependencies Survey at the same time; they had sledged together and had got on well, but that was ten years before. Since then they had seen little of each other. After leaving the Antarctic Roger Tufft had gone with Bill Tilman on two of his long and adventurous sea voyages; he had also been exploring in Lapland and Spitsbergen and manhauling sledges across the Greenland Ice Cap. Welsh by birth, a school teacher with an excellent mind, he was used to taking the initiative and it was, perhaps, inevitable that he and Wally would clash. Allan Gill, on the other hand, was much more easy-going than Roger. Polar regions were his life, with the short periods he spent in civilisation a slightly uncomfortable interlude. Quiet, very modest, lean almost to the degree of emaciation, Allan Gill, then aged thirty-six, was the oldest member of the team. He had learnt as much as possible about polar regions, turning himself into a first-class scientific assistant who could cope with almost any aspect of polar life or research. He did not have the same conflict of loyalties that Roger had between a life and career in civilisation and the expedition they were about to undertake. For Allan, it he were not on the polar crossing, would have joined some other Arctic expedition and, in fact, had already turned down an invitation to lead a very attractive American scientific expedition.

  Their journey stretched them and their equipment to the limit. The lightweight sledges disintegrated under the loads and they had to obtain the heavier Eskimo variety. Having thought themselves proficient dog drivers from their experience in the Antarctic, they now found that they were little better than novices when compared with the Eskimos. They ran out of food, reached the last stages of exhaustion, were well behind with their schedule and yet Wally still clung doggedly to his original plan, knowing how vital it was to gaining his sponsors’ confidence.

  Altogether, they travelled 1,200 miles and were only 143 miles short of Resolute Bay, their eventual destination, when Wally realised that they could afford no more time. In only six months he wanted to set out from Point Barrow on their great journey. He therefore radioed for a plane to fly in to pick them up.

  It was on 19 June, while they waited for the plane, that Roger Tufft told Wally he had decided to pull out of the expedition. Roger felt that there was insufficient time to get the main trip organised; their gear had proved inadequate and the radio had not been sufficiently powerful but, most important of all, Roger and Wally had found their personalities no longer seemed compatible. There had been a level of stress throughout their journey, with Roger frequently disagreeing with Wally’s decisions.

  Wally flew out first with some of the gear and it was six days before the plane was able to fly back to pick up Allan Gill and Roger Tufft – six days of agony for Wally for he could not help wondering whether Allan, also, might decide to defect. Wally wrote:

  ‘I knew, and I guess he knew too, that if he joined Roger and backed out, the trans-Arctic expedition would fold up; for it would be impossible for me to convince my Committee, sponsors and many supporters that the plan was still viable and that I, as the leader, was still competent, if two of my chosen companions, after a nine-month trial in the Arctic, had lost confidence in my leadership and in the feasibility of the plan.’

  There would be no time for private discussion, for Allan Gill had to fly straight on from Resolute Bay to join a summer scientific camp on Devon Island. As he climbed into the aircraft, he said to Wally, ‘I’ll see you in London in September’. It was an expression of support and loyalty that Wally would never forget.

  The Committee were undoubtedly shaken by Roger Tufft’s resignation, insisting that Wally telegram Gill and Koerner to obtain their assurance that they were till part of the expedition. Fritz Koerner, who had not been on the training expedition, had a difficult decision to make. A close friend of Roger Tufft, he had great respect for his judgement. In addition, Fritz’s wife, Anna, was due to have their first baby around the time they were going to set out from Point Barrow. He was also concerned about the scientific content of the expedition. He was attracted by the adventurous concept of the crossing of the Arctic Ocean, but only if he was also going to be able to complete some sound glaciological research on the way. Nevertheless, setting aside his doubts, he cabled his acceptance.

  But Wally still had to find a replacement for Roger Tufft. His Committee of Management favoured a doctor and, accordingly, made enquiries through the Royal Army Medical Corps for a suitable candidate. This was how Ken Hedges came into the expedition. At thirty-one, he was medical officer for the crack Special Air Service Regiment. He had no polar experience, but did have an impressive set of adventure credentials as a military parachutist and frogman.

  While working for the necessary qualifications to get into the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, he had had a serious motorbike accident. He was very lucky to survive at all and was in hospital for nine months. He made an almost complete recovery but had lost some mobility in his limbs and this
was sufficient to stop him getting through the army medical tests. The trauma of the accident with the accompanying physical pain, enforced immobility and fears for the future proved an important turning point in his life. He had had a happy childhood with a close-knit family background in which a Christian belief had played an important part; the accident had strengthened his belief, directing it into a positive evangelistic conviction which was to form the main stream of his life. With a strong sense of gratitude for the medical skill that had saved him, he resolved to devote his life to medicine and thought initially in terms of studying to be a male nurse. It was his father who gave him the necessary encouragement and financial backing to get the A levels he needed to gain a place at medical college, become a doctor and eventually join the Royal Army Medical Corps.

  Wally had never seen the need to have a doctor on the expedition. Of the applicants, he favoured a seasoned Antarctic man, who was also a geophysicist, called Geoff Renner. With the same background as the other three, he knew and understood polar life and travel. But Wally was overruled partly, I suspect, because he did not put over his own views strongly enough, always having been in awe of the polar establishment on his Committee. He told me:

  ‘It was easier for Fuchs. He was very much older than I at the time he did his trans-Antarctic crossing, and had a certain authority and charisma through having been the Director of the British Antarctic Survey. He could say, “Right, now look here gentlemen we’ll do it this way”, and they would listen and go along with it. But I couldn’t do that. Possibly it was my training from Dad; I had a kind of awe and respect for age, prestige, position and title. I felt that I had to call them Sir. One or two of them called me Wally occasionally, but it sometimes seemed to stick in their throats. They were absolutely charming and very helpful, but there was this very strange sort of relationship I had with them.’