by Michael Gill
Three days later, a ski-equipped Hercules landed us on the ice near Hallett Station, a scruffy assortment of orange and green huts sprawled on a shingle spit jutting into the sea ice of Moubray Bay. We stepped out into air that was noticeably warmer – ‘It’s called the Banana Belt,’ said Murray – and Mt Herschel was a spectacular presence, rising abruptly to a summit pyramid of sharp rock. In the nesting season, 80,000 Adelie penguins share the spit, and already straggling black lines of birds showed where they were coming in from the open sea, some waddling upright, others tobogganing on their shirt fronts, propelled by flippers and feet. At the station were 30 American sailors under the charge of a tough little petty officer who immediately made us welcome.
A day later, our two snowmobiles – tin dogs they were called – were with difficulty dragging our four sledges across the bay to a line of 30-metre ice cliffs guarding access to the foot of Herschel. Beside them we saw our first seals, huge, blubbery creatures lounging beside holes in the ice which they kept open as access to food from the sea beneath. Some had new pups, soft creatures with liquid black eyes. White snow petrels fluttered overhead. The day was brilliantly fine, bright blue and pure white, as it would be for the whole of the week of our climb.
As we drove across the ice we looked for routes on the mountain. Back home we’d examined photos and talked easily of climbing a steep east buttress leading direct to the summit. Faced with the reality, we spoke no more of it. The obvious route now was to climb a steep, snow-filled tributary valley to a campsite at 3000ft on a north-east ridge which, higher up, swung left to the summit. The snow-filled valley was harder than it looked because of its steepness, its soft snow and its thinly roofed crevasses, but eventually Ed was able to lead the carry of our camp on to the ridge. To Jenks and me he gave the first attempt on the summit. The plan had been to establish a second camp 4000ft higher on the mountain, but the more we looked at it, the less was the appeal of carrying more loads. Why not strike out for the summit from the present camp? We talked with Ed. ‘Why not?’ he agreed, and we decided to go for the top next day. At least there’d be no threat of spending a night out – the next night wasn’t due for four months.
We woke early to the best day yet, perfectly still and clear. Our camp was still in shadow, but behind Cape Hallett was an orange glow where the sun was swinging northwards from below the horizon. Then the soft light of morning caught the towering east face of Herschel as we began to climb. For two hours we grappled with an ice wall astride the ridge. At midday, with the sun at its highest point on the northern horizon, we hauled ourselves on to a shoulder at 8000ft and lit the primus for coffee and biscuits. The ridge was never too difficult but nor was it easy. At 7 p.m., after we had spent two hours climbing the gullies, cracks and chimneys of the summit pyramid, the angle suddenly eased and we were on top. The patches of sunlight were shrinking and the shadows darkening. Stretching west and south were vast, anonymous ranges of mountains amid a tangle of icefalls and glaciers. It was beautiful in the soft light, but how inhospitable, how desolate those wastes of snow and ice. Shivering, we turned and fled. When we reached our camp after midnight, we had been climbing for 19 hours.
A couple of days later, after Pete Strang and Mike White had repeated the climb, we retreated off the mountain to start on the second half of the expedition, the crossing of Adare Saddle, 80 kilometres to our north, to reach Cape Adare. There were several reasons for making such an attempt. The first was that it had not been done before, but beyond this was Larry Harrington’s interest in the geology of the area. Of particular interest to Larry was a comparison of the Cape Adare rocks with those of adjacent Australia which, according to Continental Drift theory, had once been joined.
There was history at Cape Adare too. In 1895 the Norwegian Carsten Borchgrevink landed there, the first person to set foot on the Antarctic continent. He returned in 1899 and sailed south to the Ross Ice Shelf, then east to a bay where the ice cliffs came down to sea level and a landing could be made. This was the Bay of Whales. Here in 1911 his Norwegian compatriot Roald Amundsen established the base Framheim from which he would set off to become the first man to reach the South Pole.
We were confident we’d soon be up the gently rising Moubray Glacier to Adare Saddle, from which we would have an easy descent to the cape. A reading of the US Sailing Directions for the region of the cape would have tempered our optimism: ‘The weather is extremely variable with cycles of winds of great intensity alternating with periods of calm.’ We’d had our period of calm. Ahead of us were the winds of great intensity. It was not until 7 November that we reached Adare Saddle and saw the view we had been waiting for. On our right the long black finger of Cape Adare pointed north, but we could see no easy route down to it and that was as close as we got to it.
During the night a southerly gale blew up, and the blizzard that followed for two more days was the worst Ed had ever encountered. At midnight on the third day the wind began to ease but time had run out. We ate briefly, crammed the wildly flapping tents into their long bags, lashed them to our two sledges and set off down the glacier, hoping that the wind would not break up the ice in Moubray Bay that was our route home. With fresh snow making conditions more difficult, Ed and Murray joined the two snowmobiles in tandem to one sledge, while the rest of us on skis began man-hauling the other.
The snowmobiles had a close encounter with a crevasse. Murray was in the lead machine when he felt the snow sinking. He knew what that meant – he hadn’t travelled to the Pole and back for nothing – and opened the throttle. With a ‘whoosh’ a black hole appeared under the back end of the machine. Ed peered down into an ice-walled chasm, the floor of which was too far down to be seen. Had Murray gone in, Ed would have been dragged down to join him.
For the rest of us, man-hauling was the safer and more exhilarating option, but it was slower. At 9 p.m., two kilometres short of camp, a lone figure came towards us. It was Ed, worried that we might have fallen into a crevasse of our own. When he saw us dragging our sledge easily downhill, his face lit up.
Back in camp Murray watched sardonically as we swaggered in. ‘All you lot need is a bloody standard-bearer out in front!’ he said as he handed us some orange juice.
Next morning the sea ice was still there and we reached Hallett in time for a gala dinner, as much beer as we could drink, and four movies. For just a moment we had an inkling of how Ed might have felt when he reached the Pole.
Jet boats up the Sun Kosi River in Nepal
The Sun Kosi expedition of 1968 linked Ed’s liking for flooded rivers with his interest in using mechanical vehicles: tractors, skidoos, and now jet boats. Bill Hamilton, inventor of the jet boat, was born a New Zealand back-country farmer but his creative brain turned him into a highly successful engineer. All farmers had a collection of tools and a workbench, but the Hamilton workshop was much larger and became a site of active research and development. A side-interest for Hamilton was how to navigate the local shingle rivers to reach better fishing spots. Tempestuous in flood, the rivers more usually ran swift but shallow in braids across a wide shingle valley. A propeller hanging off the bottom of a boat made movement impossible. An aeroplane propeller above deck was one solution but likely to decapitate the owner in the wild movements of a rapid. But planes had switched to jet engines – why not boats? Bill Hamilton saw the connection, and went on to develop a high-powered pump that sent a jet of water out the stern of a boat which could be steered by changing the direction of the jet. It worked brilliantly not only in shallow water but also in big white water where the boat’s miraculous manoeuvrability allowed a skilful driver to pick a line up a rapid that at first sight looked impossible. An ascent of the Colorado River in 1961 was sensational.7 Why not, Ed thought, try the Sun Kosi, the big river of East Nepal whose tributaries included the Arun draining Makalu and part of Southern Tibet, and the Dudh Kosi draining Everest? Perhaps jet boats on rivers would become the trucks of Nepal.
By 18 September Ed had ra
ised funds for an expedition, bought two Hamilton jets to which he gave the names Kiwi and Sherpa, and assembled them on the banks of the Sun Kosi above its junction with the mighty Ganges. Besides Ed there were nine others, including four Sherpas. Lead driver was Jon Hamilton, son of the inventor, who had earned his reputation on the Colorado and had wide experience of white water in New Zealand. After Jon, and separated from him by a gap the size of the Grand Canyon in terms of driving experience, came the other five New Zealanders. Ed was leader but not keen to be a driver. I was the cameraman who perched safely on the banks of the more dangerous-looking rapids. Jim Wilson won – or lost, one might have said – the position of second driver. Jim had natural sporting skills, strength, balance, a good eye for the best route in a rapid, and reflexes that made the right decision in an emergency. He had everything except experience. Completing the party were doctors John McKinnon and Max Pearl.
Coming face to face with the monsoon-swollen Sun Kosi was a sobering experience. It was huge, brown and of immense power as it poured from between high banks on to the plain of the Terai before joining the Ganges in India. The surface was pressured into huge irregular waves, and there were big upwellings and whirlpools, though the gradient was as yet only modest. What would happen when the river steepened and narrowed?
Our first camp was at Tribeni, Nepali for confluence of three rivers – the Tamur from the east, the Arun from the north, and the continuation of the Sun Kosi from the west. A quick look at the smaller Tamur showed that within a short distance it had become too rough, so that afternoon we turned our attention to the much bigger Arun which, to begin with at least, looked benign. A local peasant tried earnestly to dissuade us from turning up the Arun.
‘It is very bad,’ he said, ‘very, very bad,’ and shook his head.
Well, it was only an afternoon reconnaissance. We’d turn back if it got difficult. And how could he understand the capabilities of the jet boat anyway?
The first four kilometres were easy, with tall forest on either side. Then the river narrowed into a gorge and steepened, and the water became progressively rougher, with big broken pressure waves filling most of the river’s width. Jon led up the easier water against the bank, but always this ended at an impossibly rough corner, forcing the boat to cross to the other side through the pressure waves. Jim was coping with difficult water brilliantly, but the level of risk was rising.
Then difficulty turned into disaster. In the lead boat driven by Jon, Ed and I were watching the violent movements of Jim’s boat behind us when suddenly its stern was vertical, blowing a jet of water into the sky. Then it disappeared beneath the waves. Jon turned his boat back to rescue the four occupants. There seemed to be only three of them until we realised that the submerging figure in mid-stream was Ang Pasang clinging tightly to John McKinnon. Sherpas weren’t swimmers and his loose-fitting life jacket had been torn off during the sinking. By the time both men were hauled aboard Jon’s boat, they were tiring fast.
A landing spot having been found, Ed called for volunteers to walk back. The response was overwhelming, particularly from the Sherpas. Ed changed the call to volunteers to return by boat. I was among the walkers, and as we made our way back we met the Nepali who had warned us of the dangers ahead. He was now happily carrying on his shoulder one of the padded seats from the sunken boat.
Back at Tribeni with our main objective, the Sun Kosi, still ahead, Ed was philosophical about losing a boat and thankful that no one had drowned. A re-write of the plan led to two Sherpas, along with John and Max, leaving the boats. Of the others, Ed would lead, Jon would drive, Jim would be back-up driver and I would film. Two Sherpas, Sardar Mingma and strong man Siku, would portage loads around big rapids and do the cooking.
In the 400 kilometres of Sun Kosi that lay ahead of us between Tribeni and Dolalghat near Kathmandu, there were harder rapids than the Arun, but none was so buried in a gorge. We could anticipate the big rapids found wherever a large tributary joined the main river. We would hear the roaring of water, catch glimpses of tossing white waves. Jon would get out, make a careful inspection and plan a route. For the worst rapids, we emptied the boat of all passengers and freight. For a boat to be manoeuvrable it has to be planing – that is, moving fast on flat water, or poised on water moving fast beneath it in a rapid. Standing on the river bank, we marvelled at how easily Jon handled his lightened boat in tempestuous white water. His handling of a long succession of difficult rapids was a master-class in jet-boat driving.
Where the river met the road to Kathmandu, we hauled out and were met by waiting journalists.
‘Are jet boats the transport of the future for Nepal?’
‘Well, no, not really.’
‘Could boat trips to Tribeni be recommended for tourists?’
‘They’d need to be risk-tolerant and heavily insured.’
‘Have you enjoyed your trip?’
That was easy. It had been amazing. And Ed was already thinking of a much bigger river to negotiate. The river was the Ganges.
Return to Mt Cook
Among his resolutions on his fiftieth birthday, Ed listed a Grand Traverse of Aoraki–Mt Cook. The opportunity came one fine day in February 1971. His party of six included his early mentor and guide Harry Ayres, now 59. The long ridge, with steep faces falling away on either side, is a magnificent arête of snow and ice, a long and exposed climb which is risky in icy conditions. A television crew filming from a helicopter exhausted their flying budget before they had even found the conqueror of Everest, but they touched a skid briefly on the summit. From the Low Peak, Ed looked down on the South Ridge, the first ascent of which 23 years earlier had brought him fame in the small world of New Zealand climbing. We climbed over the Middle Peak, the Tasman Sea visible to the west and the plains of Canterbury to the east. In the snow on the summit was a small rock with a piece of thin line dropping down the east face. Attached to it was a half-bottle of red wine. We drank a toast to the Southern Alps, now spread around us, and to TV crews who deliver wine to fine summits. Continuing the traverse down the ice cap, we made the sad discovery that a black dot marked with a cross stamped in the snow of the Linda Glacier was the body of a young climber who had fallen to his death earlier in the day.
A day later, outside The Hermitage Hotel, an attractive middle-aged woman greeted Ed warmly. ‘You remember me, Ed. James, from The Times.’ By the time Ed had realised this was James Morris, now Jan, conversation had come to an end. Discomfited by his failure to recognise one of the Everest team, Ed watched the retreating figure, adding, reflectively, ‘Old James has changed a bit, hasn’t he.’
Commitment to the Himalayas
By the early 1970s, Ed’s life had slipped into a more regular pattern. The months of October, November and December were taken up with business visits to Australia, Chicago, London and Nepal. His diary and letters from 1970 offer glimpses of his thoughts and experiences.8 In Chicago he wrote to Louise:
My salary for next year has been raised from $6,800 to $9,200 and I nearly fell over. It looks as though I’m appreciated here. I gave my lecture to 80 of the most important businessmen in Chicago – and it seemed to go extremely well even though I hammered them on the Affluent Society …
… I’m a bit of a hero here because of my swim across the Middle Fork of the Salmon.
Nevertheless, when writing to senior management at Sears the image of the dauntless adventurer was not discarded entirely:
Dear Bill, The last 3 weeks have been rather eventful. I’ve walked a couple of hundred miles and visited all our schools. The last week has been devoted to the Rolwaling Valley right on the Tibetan border. To save time getting into this isolated place I decided to use a pass that as far as I know had only been crossed once before. It proved higher (18,500ft) and more difficult than I had anticipated. Night was coming on as I finished lowering 14 porters and their loads down a 150 foot drop over the pass. Then there were crevasses and some steep slopes to negotiate before we could camp on f
lat snow at nearly 17,000 feet … I suffered quite a few altitude effects, including headache, nausea, and impairment of sight. I was relieved to get down to Beding village at 12,000ft and duly recovered … I agreed to try and build them a school.
A visit to London always included an excellent lunch with his publishers:
London was foggy and grimy with all the piles of rubbish all around but for some reason I feel an affinity for the place … I had lunch with Hodders and they said I must, must, must do my autobiography. Maybe they’re right! I want to anyway, even if I’ve lost a lot of the confidence in any writing ability I might have possessed. I always seem to be writing things on planes or in hotel rooms and I’m fed up with it … I think more than anything I’d rather be doing a camping trip with the kids. It’s funny how often I think of the views along the coast of Great Barrier Island when I was there with Peter.9
Nepal was the last stop before returning to New Zealand. Mingma would meet him as he stepped out of the plane at Lukla, and they would walk up to Khunde Hospital and Khumjung School. He wrote to Louise:
In Khunde I woke with a rotten headache. You know I’ve always had a fear of really violent headaches ever since my altitude problem on Makalu in 1961. At the hospital [Dr] Selwyn Lang suggested I go down the hill and I did, finding the headache slowly eased until by the bottom of the Namche Hill it had pretty well gone. Selwyn is sure it was altitude compounded with wild Sherpa parties and I think he’s right. Why I should think I can come back to Nepal after being away six months and dash crazily about I’m damned if I know. I really am about the stupidest person I know. You should have married the musician.