White Limbo: The Classic Story Of The First Australian Climb Of Everest

by Hall, Lincoln

  Interest in Everest was bountiful, but converting that interest to concrete assistance was difficult. Most of those who had the means to sponsor our expedition were the least likely to wish to do so. So often the power of distribution of large amounts of money belonged to those who saw financial prosperity rather than adventure as the worthwhile pursuit in life.

  Sponsorship certainly was necessary. Organising an expedition through Tibet proved to be several times more expensive than through India or Nepal. We had been able to finance expeditions to those countries ourselves but a climb in Tibet was beyond our means.

  Sponsorship was a moral question for all of us. No one felt happy about accepting money for vague promises of publicity, especially when such promises were often difficult to fulfil. The media were understandably reticent to provide free advertising which was how they saw acknowledgement of sponsors. We preferred the situation whereby our sponsors made use of the expedition in their advertising and publicity campaigns.

  The task of raising the finance was left to Tim and me. Geof decided his skills did not lie in a job that required his presence in Australia for the best part of a year. Greg was committed through his marriage and his work to living in New Zealand. Though Andy lived and worked in Sydney he lacked the necessary organisational experience. The world of high finance was foreign to Tim and me as well, but slowly we began to discover it. A mosaic of meetings, formal and surreal, where we made reluctant protestations of our ability, introduced us to lifestyles whose tenets were completely different to our own. Through those meetings and by carefully worded letters and nervous phone calls we sent out one message—Help Us Climb Mt Everest. We left it to the advertising managers and public relations people to sort out exactly why they should.

  The first encouraging response came from the Brisbane-based company Mountain Designs which agreed to provide the expedition with sleeping bags and specialised clothing that the company would make to our specifications.

  The potential for our expedition to benefit relations between Australia and China was recognised by the Australia-China Council which gave a generous grant to our cause. Part of the Department of Foreign Affairs, the Council’s brief is to work to develop and deepen the understanding between the two countries through cultural and sporting exchanges.

  Further help came from the Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation. Its sphere of influence extended through Asia in a fashion which tried not to regard political borders as barriers.

  When we left Australia in August 1983 to climb Annapurna II we had raised less than a third of the necessary funds. Our success on Annapurna II provided the impetus we needed. That climb received a great deal of publicity in Australia, largely because we were reported missing by the press and our return had some of the appeal of a resurrection. We capitalised on the publicity in an attempt to make people aware of our planned Everest climb. Public knowledge, we hoped, would lead to public support.

  The support we needed came from a major television network. The promise of a dramatic documentary was enough to prompt Sydney’s Channel Nine to cover the remainder of our costs and outlay the enormous expense of filming in Chinese-administered Tibet.

  The deal with Channel Nine was a clear-cut business arrangement. The Channel financed the project, and in return we would co-operate in the making of the film. Our only concern was that the filming did not interfere with the climb, either by demanding too much of our energy or through personality conflicts with the climbers. The compatibility of the film crew was vital. Its members needed to be able to relate comfortably to both the climbers and to the harsh environment of Tibet. Being able to meet the second requirement almost assured compliance with the first. People who could appreciate life in the dusty wastes of Tibet had by definition the same broad outlook on existence, whether they sought to grapple closely with the challenges presented there or simply observe them. None of those who came to Tibet would need to complain about the cold and the barrenness, nor of the altitude, nor ask why climbers needed to go to such inhospitable places. The lure of the unknown, the indefinable romance of adventure would be our common bond. The climbers sought to experience that mystique by living through a struggle with a mountain. The film crew’s object was to understand that struggle by faithfully recording it.

  The selection of the film crew was made easier by the limited size of Australia’s population of professional adventurers. The one person about whom no decision had to be made was Michael Dillon. Mike had worked as a cameraman and producer all over the world, including making several films in Nepal with Sir Edmund Hillary. In terms of camera expertise and the ability to shoot with the final product in mind he had few equals. For our small expedition it was necessary that the film crew be kept as small as possible to prevent the project becoming more of a film-making event than the climb of a mountain. Mike was ideal for the job as he could perform the work of both on-site producer and cameraman.

  With David Hill, the executive producer, Mike Dillon reviewed our list of suggested additions to the film crew, and from it chose Mike’s three assistants.

  Most experienced in the realm of mountaineering cinematography was Jim Duff, a British doctor who lived in Hobart. Jim had climbed up to 7500 metres on Bonington’s Everest South-West Face expedition in 1975. Apart from his role as doctor he worked as sound recordist with the BBC-TV team which made a documentary of the climb. He had also done the sound work for the 1978 British K2 Expedition film, and helped make a climbing documentary of Mt Cook in New Zealand. At the age of thirty-nine he had twenty-five years of climbing experience behind him, including several expeditions to the Himalaya and the Karakoram. He was also one of the world’s most experienced high-altitude doctors. Jim’s travels had left him with a large stock of stories which he had learnt to tell well.

  The assistants to Mike and Jim were Colin Monteath and Howard Whelan.

  Born in Scotland and raised in Australia, Colin had for many years been living in New Zealand where until recently he had directed operational aspects of the New Zealand Antarctic programme. He had climbed widely in those three countries and also in South America and the Himalaya. He was well practised in catering for the whims of scientists in harsh Antarctic conditions. Little effort was needed for him to adapt to the needs of film-makers in inhospitable Tibet.

  Howard’s background was as much in mountaineering as in cinematography. Most of his life had been spent in the mountains of Utah where he was born. He trained as a journalist and cinematographer but his work in those fields was eclipsed by his need to be in action out in the mountains. He worked in ski patrols, ski-raced and helped make skiing films, before he married an Australian and eventually moved to Australia. Though life had not been easy for Howard it was always fun, or as close to it as he could manage. His dynamism and eagerness to learn blended well with Mike’s quiet but busy professionalism.

  Largely through the encouragement of staff journalist Simon Balderstone, the Age newspaper came to appreciate the news potential of our climb. Simon’s enthusiasm came from his wish to join the expedition. He and I were friends from guiding work we had done together in Kashmir, and it pleased me (and eventually all of the expedition) that when the Age bought the newspaper rights to the climb, the deal included Simon as the reporter to accompany us. Though he had little technical experience, he had visited the Kashmir Himalaya many times and was certainly familiar with the rigours which his work as journalist would demand.

  Channel Nine’s sponsorship through its “Wide World of Sports” programme came at just the right time. With only six months before we were due to leave for China we needed to be able to forget about financial worries and switch our concentration to the logistical aspects of our expedition. Channel Nine’s involvement and the inclusion of four extra people added to our organisational burden. Time was short, but with money to pay the bills, our food and equipment orders could be quickly filled. This did not mean that our deadlines were always met. Much of our gear did not arrive in
Australia from specialist factories overseas in time to be shipped to Beijing. The Chinese Mountaineering Association required our equipment two months in advance of our arrival, which meant shipping everything at the end of March 1984. It wasn’t until the end of May that our goods left Australia. Tim, Andy and I packed everything into sacks and barrels and delivered the lot to Scotpac, the packing agent which had donated its services to the expedition. In turn Scotpac delivered it to the dock. Unfortunately the arrival of the intended carrier to Hong Kong coincided with a wharfies “go-slow”. As our timing was tight even without the delay at the wharves, we gave up and airfreighted the entire thirteen hundred kilos. It arrived in China six weeks before we did, two weeks late but in enough time to be transported overland to Lhasa in Tibet.

  After our climb of Annapurna II we realised the benefit of two or three climbers working in a support role. The task was a difficult one as it held no promise of the summit yet shared most of the risks. Narayan and Tenzing, who had contributed so much to our Annapurna II success, eagerly accepted our suggestion that they come with us. Both were thoroughly dependable in the mountains and Tenzing had the extra virtue of speaking fluent Tibetan.

  In April I left the organisational problems of shipping the gear to Tim and went to Nepal. There I guided the ascent of an easy Himalayan mountain, arriving back in Kathmandu at the same time as Geof and Narayan. Both of them were jubilant, in a modest way, about reaching the summit of Pumori. Geof in particular had a good reason to be proud. He had organised the expedition, and all seven members made it to the summit of the 7000-metre-high outlier of Everest. Narayan, Tenzing, Geof and I flew from Kathmandu together after our friend Kunga wished us good luck at the airport. Geof continued through to Australia while Narayan, Tenzing and I stopped in Bangkok to arrange their visas for Australia.

  After living in the crowded rural country of Nepal the affluent city-oriented lifestyle of Australia was a shock to the two Nepalis. Through their work as trekking guides they had made many Australian friends. There was no shortage of people to visit nor of things to do and see. Tenzing was very shy and openly questioned little, forming his opinions by constant observation. Narayan was always alert and never worried about appearing naive by asking too many questions. Because of his interest and directness he was a refreshing person to be with. In Nepal our different cultures imposed a gap between us and our Nepali friends which our different roles exaggerated. It was satisfying to be with Narayan and Tenzing in a situation where they were not our employees.

  The seven weeks between our return from Nepal and our departure for China was a hectic time. The previous year Tim had become a director of the adventure travel company “Wilderness Expeditions”. As well as worrying about Everest, he had to train someone to replace him for the three months we planned to be away. The others, too, had to perform similar shufflings of their lives, except for Geof and me who led less timetabled, more itinerant existences. Andy and Howard resigned from their jobs. Greg and Colin flew over from New Zealand. Jim was busy until the last moment moving out of his professional premises and into new ones.

  We spent a couple of late nights packing and labelling the perishable foods and odds and ends we had accumulated since dispatching the bulk of our gear to China. Our plastic boots were widened and insulative gaiters permanently attached to them. An extensive repair kit was assembled. We bought spares of everything, as little would be available in Tibet. We made sure we found the time to keep fit and go rockclimbing, and even devoted the best part of a week to a cross-country skiing trip.

  It was an exacting time for us, not only because of the many last-minute things that needed to be done. The emotional pressures of leaving for a major expedition are immense. For all of us adventure was a basic need. The people we cared for and who cared for us knew that, even if they could not understand it. Their promise of loneliness contrasted with the excitement we felt at our imminent departure. The problem was not one that could be resolved, only accepted.

  The base of our operations in Sydney was a large ramshackle house in Manly which Tim and I shared with several other people. For months the underneath of the house had been jammed full with kitbags and barrels labelled “Australian Mt Everest Expedition”, and the hallways and corners cluttered with obscure pieces of equipment. The night before we flew out of Sydney was the occasion of a party to celebrate not only our departure but also the cessation of the endless phone calls for the Mt Everest Expedition.

  At last we told ourselves that what we had not done by now would have to remain undone. The long months of preparation were behind us. A good feeling came from knowing that the mountain awaited us, that within a couple of weeks we would be beneath its flanks. Our excitement kept us fired with energy. For the last time we put Mt Everest to the back of our minds, then kicked up our heels to the music.

  The only traffic noise was the quiet swish of bicycles carving paths through the warm air. The few cars on the road were slowed to a crawl as they doggedly drove through fleets of two-wheeled, man-powered machines. The green trees which grew in lines between the footpaths and the roads almost obscured the low buildings. The modest advertising and unpretentious window displays revealed only at second glance that most of the buildings were shops. The paths were crowded by many people walking with definite and different purposes but without the eager rush we had seen in Hong Kong two days before.

  A few blocks away it seemed like another city. The streets were as broad as airport runways. Along the flanks were streams of bicycles, cars, trucks and concertinaed buses all driving in clearly marked lanes. Wherever the huge avenues met, giant Ts supported horizontal traffic lights. On the wooden platform beneath the signals there sometimes stood a policeman, illustrating the essentially Chinese precept that however sophisticated the mechanisation only human presence could ensure perfect operation. In the West, technology had become a drug, immortalising and addictive. In China it was a fallible, impersonal, yet vital tool.

  It was good to be in Beijing again. After one day the overwhelming impression was the same as that which had flooded our senses three years before—the uniqueness of the Chinese way of life. If they existed, and no doubt they did, ripples of discontent passed unnoticed before us, since our eyes were glazed and our ears deafened by the novelty and appeal of China. Nowhere else in the world had we encountered so pervasive an atmosphere of peace and tolerance in such an inescapably crowded place.

  During our previous visit I had realised the futility of judging a country about which I understood neither the ethic of government nor the sophisticated and complex civilisation. Yet it was impossible not to contemplate facts that were driven home at every street corner, in every shop, and at every tourist attraction we visited. China was bursting with humanity.

  To me, as a casual observer, it seemed that the unaggressive atmosphere I sensed in the Chinese had evolved as the social conditions tightened and eliminated personal space. That was many centuries ago now. History has shown that when the dam of accepted provocation breaks, the flood of violence is merciless. There was no hint of that emotion amongst the people who laughed at our frisbee games or patiently gesticulated the price of fruit in the markets. However, the vast plazas and intimidating architecture of Mao’s Tomb and the other huge buildings around Tiananmen Square, spoke of a fervour and dedication hidden from an outsider’s scrutiny.

  All mountaineering expeditions to China are organised through the Chinese Mountaineering Association, a body whose main function is to act as travel agent for foreign climbing teams. All our transport, accommodation and sightseeing were arranged by the C.M.A. Although this approach made operations very smooth and comfortable, it further insulated us from reaching any real understanding of the Chinese people. In a land where very little English is spoken there was some relief in passing on the important responsibilities of moving all our equipment and ourselves from Guangzhou, our arrival point in China, to the mountains. But there was also regret at losing the satisfaction, i
nsight and sense of freedom that would have come from coping by ourselves.

  From the time of our arrival in China we were in the C.M.A.’s hands. Its representative in Guangzhou met our train from Hong Kong and made sure we and our luggage caught our connection to Beijing. We travelled by luxurious “Soft Class”. There were fourberth compartments with bed linen, curtains, a pot plant and a thermos for topping up our tea.

  The thirty-six-hour journey allowed us time to relax and forget the rush of the last few weeks in Australia. As the kilometres rolled by we began to appreciate what it meant to be in China, the most populous nation in the world. Every view from every window showed intense cultivation or dense and crowded towns and cities. The huge rivers of the Yangtse and the Hwang Ho hinted at the hugeness of the country which they drained. Our mission to climb a mountain somewhere far beyond all this seemed foreign, which indeed it was. China was our pathway to Tibet, a country which until twenty-five years ago had been an isolated mountain theocracy. Now Tibet was administered by the Chinese. Our ten-day approach through China allowed only a superficial look at the enigmatic nation.

  There was, however, enough time to assemble a series of images in each place we stayed. In Beijing the traffic scenes were contrasted by the quiet of the Temple of Heaven. The huge park surrounding the Temple was only five minutes’ run from the Bei Wei Hotel where we stayed. Each morning we would jog down and through the grounds to the Temple.

  The fifteenth-century architecture captured with lasting effect the peace and mightiness of the Chinese conception of heaven. Every year on the day before winter solstice, the Son of Heaven—the Emperor—had travelled ceremoniously to the Temple where he prayed for good harvests.

  These days thousands of Chinese took their daily exercise there. People of all ages performed the graceful martial art form of Tai Chi amongst the trees, sometimes in classes of a hundred or more, but often alone or in small groups. Old men met at the same places every morning to chat and admire each other’s caged birds. They sat and smoked while the birds sang to each other. Younger people played badminton, hacky-sack or handball. After our run the others would play frisbee while I practised yoga. By the time we had jogged back to the hotel we were invariably late for breakfast. It was worth hurrying the meal to make such a refreshing start to the day.