Bear Grylls

by Bear Grylls

  Numerous expeditions during the pre-war years took on the epic challenge of attempting to be the first to reach the summit of Everest. All failed, often with tragic results. These great men of adventure recognized the magnitude of the task in front of them. Mallory, who failed to return and was never seen again after his summit attempt in 1924, said beforehand: ‘The issue of Everest will shortly be decided – the next time we walk up the Rongbuk Glacier will be the last, for better or for worse . . . we expect no mercy from Everest.’ As time showed, he was tragically right; the mountain retained her secret.2

  It was not until 1953, 101 years after the discovery that Everest was the highest mountain on earth, that she was eventually climbed. Just before noon on 9 May, Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tensing ‘stamped to the top with their teeth in the wind’.

  Hillary wrote: ‘My solar plexus was tight with fear . . . I wondered, rather dully, whether we would have enough strength left to get through. I cut around the back of another hump and saw that the ridge ahead dropped away and we could see far into Tibet. I looked up and there above us was a rounded snow cone. A few whacks of the ice axe, a few cautious steps, and Tensing and I were on the top.’

  The news raced back down the valleys, reaching Queen Elizabeth on the eve of her coronation. The Times broke the story and the nation erupted at the British triumph. Morris, a young correspondent, wrote: ‘The moment aroused a whole orchestra of rich emotions among the British – pride, patriotism, nostalgia for the lost past of the War and derring-do, hope for a rejuvenated future.’

  The eventual success had come at last. The cost? Fifteen expeditions, the lives of twenty-four men, and the passing of over a century in time.

  One of the reasons, I believe, that Everest was never climbed earlier was the fear of the effects that exposure to those sorts of heights would cause. Nobody knew whether the human body would be able to endure such stress. Similarly, before Roger Bannister successfully ran the four-minute mile, doctors declared that it was a physical impossibility; if you ran that fast, they said, your heart would literally ‘burst out of your chest’. Likewise, the fear of what would happen to the human body so high on Everest was another unknown, waiting to be tested.

  On the summit there is one third of the amount of oxygen that there is at sea-level. From about 18,000 feet the human body begins to deteriorate as it struggles for survival in the thin air. Above this height for weeks on end, you are on borrowed time. Your body, literally, is dying. Still today, forty-five years after the first successful ascent, the statistics of deaths on Everest remain constant. Out of every six climbers who reach the summit, one of those will die. Equipment improves, forecasts get more accurate, and technology changes, yet the mountain remains the same.

  In all of Everest’s history, still only thirty-six Britons have ever stood on her summit; a shockingly low proportion of those who have tried. She doesn’t give her secret out easily, and she always has a price.

  During the early 1990s, Nepal saw the emergence of commercial expeditions being launched to Everest. Climbers could now pay up to US$60,000 for the privilege of attempting the climb. This fee was intended to cover the logistical cost of the expedition, including all the oxygen, the permit to climb, as well as the cost of three months living on the mountain. The trouble was that advertising to get clients widened the market. Genuine climbers could rarely afford such fees. Instead the climb was opened to less fit and less capable clients, with little knowledge of the hills. The pressure upon expedition leaders to justify the cost often meant that these people found themselves too high on the mountain, dangerously tempting disaster.

  It took until 1996, when the combination of a freak storm, and inexperience amongst certain climbers, resulted in that fateful pre-monsoon tragedy. On top of the eight lives lost that stormy night, the mountain took a further three lives the next week, bringing the toll then to eleven.

  It wasn’t only the inexperienced though who died up there. Among the dead was Rob Hall, the expedition leader of Adventure Consultants, and one of the most highly acclaimed climbers in the world. He endured a night at 28,700 feet, in temperatures of –50°C. Without any further supplementary oxygen and severely weakened by the cold, the mountain was about to show that no one, not even the best, were infallible.

  At dawn, Rob spoke to his wife in New Zealand via a patch-through from his radio and a satellite phone at Base Camp. She was pregnant with their first child, and those on the mountain sat motionless as he spoke his last words to her, ‘I love you. Sleep well, my sweetheart.’ He didn’t survive the day, unable to find the strength to move any more.

  Shock ran through the climbing fraternity and the world at large. Fingers were pointed and blame was thrown around. The fact is that it took the lives of so many, and the desolation of so many families left behind, to show the climbing world that mountaineering cannot be purely commercial. People thought that they had found a formula that was fool-proof on Everest. But, as is the nature on high mountains, such systems have a funny way of breaking down.

  People of course still make money by running commercial expeditions, but now the vetting of climbers involved is much stricter. The motives of these expeditions has now, for the most part, reverted back from being financially driven to what the essence of climbing is really about – namely a love of the hills. It’s tragic that it took such a disaster to remind the world of such a simple lesson. Maybe it is a criticism of Western attitudes, and just showed a deep misunderstanding of the power of these mountains. Maybe it was just bad luck. In reality I think the truth lies somewhere in the middle. Whatever the answer, the fact is that mountains, like the sea, always demand a deep respect.

  To the Nepalese and Tibetans who live under the shadow of the Great Himalaya, the nature of the mountains is well understood. Their force is a higher force, and their attraction is their beauty. Within Nepal, Everest is known simply as the ‘goddess of the sky’, or Sagarmatha. Even this name reflects their respect for nature. I guess that this reverence is the greatest lesson you can learn as a climber. You climb only because the mountain allows it. If it says wait, then you must wait, and when it allows you to go, then you must struggle and strain in the thin air with all your might. Listening to the mountain and having patience on it are the keys to survival.

  Everest is so high that she actually creates her own weather-cycles round her. The huge mass causes such gravitational pull that a micro-climate exists around the mountain. The weather here can change in minutes, as wind and storm clouds flood through the valleys.

  The summit itself stubbornly pokes into the band of wind that circles the earth at around 30,000 feet upwards. This band of wind blows continually at about 200 m.p.h. and is known simply as the ‘jet stream’. The long plume of snow that pours off Everest’s peak is caused by these winds, blowing frozen snow across the sky. It is hardly surprising that the temperatures high on the mountain can reach as low as –100° wind chill factor.

  Standing far above the clouds is this place, so wild, yet so beautiful, that I can so easily understand what Mallory meant when he described her as: ‘rising from the bright mists, vast and forceful . . . where nothing could have been more set and permanent – more terrific – more unconquerable.’

  At first sight, Everest is awe-inspiring beyond belief and holds a certain magic over the entire Himalaya.

  For some reason, human nature through the decades is still irresistibly drawn to Everest, and I suppose always will be. The challenge, the beauty, the simplicity of nature, or maybe all three. I don’t really know. All I know is that I am now sitting at my typewriter and looking at the picture of Everest in the glow of dusk beside me – the same picture that I used to look at as a wishful eight-year-old, and as a recovering patient. But now, having been so privileged to have crouched briefly on her summit, I view it in a new light; with an even greater awe. The mountain holds me entranced and still I burn with excitement when I see it. Sagarmatha is so much more than just the highest mountain
in the world.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MOVING MOUNTAINS

  Blake wrote in the eighteenth century that:

  ‘Great things happen when men and mountains meet,

  That is not done by jostling in the street.’

  For the time being, though, I was doing my fair share of jostling – madly charging around, trying desperately to find sponsorship for the expedition. The sum of US$25,000, when compared to the savings of a bottom ranked soldier, seemed as elusive as a pork pie in a rabbi’s kitchen. Painting pictures to large corporations of the benefits of sponsorship and getting companies to catch the vision is the first and one of the hardest challenges of high-altitude climbers, and after 203 rejections it was beginning to take its toll.

  Apparently it took Colonel Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken 1,009 ‘No’s before anyone would support his idea of fast-food chicken. Most of us would have thought that maybe we needed to change our recipe. Like Colonel Sanders, though, this was my only card, so I kept plugging away.

  Admin is most definitely my worst point, and I remember on one occasion dialling a number and speaking to someone who I thought was the marketing director of ‘North Face’ equipment. After twenty minutes of exuding down the telephone about the expedition, they informed me that I was through to a Sheffield industrial cleaning firm, and could I please hurry up with my booking.

  I soon found that sitting at my desk with piles of proposals, numbers and names, was beginning to addle me in no uncertain terms.

  I managed to escape from all this for two months during the build-up to Everest to join the team that was attempting to climb Ama Dablam. This was a commitment that I had promised Neil I would undertake; he would be eager to hear how I performed. For me, this trip was also a chance to clear my head a bit amongst the madness of the preparations for Everest, and to put in some valuable training.

  Fitness was going to be fundamental on Everest, and I was now spending as much time as possible climbing and going berserk in the hills of Wales and Scotland. But I needed also to be training at greater heights. The other objective therefore of climbing Ama Dablam was to train at these higher altitudes and to see how my body would react.

  Despite climbing with the Army and friends in European ranges, I had never been exposed to the extreme heights that Everest would present. If my body shut down, as can easily happen to people at those altitudes, there would be no point pursuing the dream any further. It was how I would react that Neil wanted to see.

  In the 1960s Sir Edmund Hillary, on seeing the great peak of Ama Dablam in the Everest valley, described it as ‘unclimbable’. Looking at her from the bottom, one can understand his sentiments; she stands impressively and majestically pointing straight up into the sky 22,400 feet above sea-level. Climbing it successfully would be an essential step on the road to Everest, both physically and mentally. This brought with it, though, a degree of pressure.

  I spent five weeks living on this peak, pushing my body harder and higher. I was now testing my climbing skills to their limits, in situations where, rather uncomfortably, my life depended on them daily. A lifetime of concentration became crammed into the intense hours on her face each day – it left my body drained of energy and strength. I could hardly even think about Everest now. It was too large a step away. This climb itself was demanding my all. Unless I could perform here, what was I doing aspiring so much higher? Over and over I found I was telling myself, Just concentrate on the now. This is where it counts.

  Finally, by the grace of God, I was huddled on the summit of Ama Dablam. As I squatted there, I glanced left through my goggles, and through the haze of the mist and howling wind I saw the peak of Everest slowly reveal herself. Strong, detached, and still two vertical kilometres above where I was now, Everest suddenly filled my mind all over again.

  It had taken my all to be one of the few from our team to reach the summit of Ama Dablam, and now cowering there against the wind, feeling unable to take another step further, the sneer of Everest way above scared me. But something was drawing me. I couldn’t explain it. It just somehow felt right. I knew that I would see the mountain again. For me, that time couldn’t come fast enough.

  Ten days later, back in Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal, the mass of Everest photos for sale in the market had me captivated again. More so now than ever before. To the commercial tourist, the pictures were just pretty postcards on the stalls. To me, though, each one seemed to jump out.

  I know it’s possible, I told myself. I’ve tested the formula, and it’s worked. Put up with the discomfort and the pain, keep going and never give up, and understand that if you’re moving up, then you’re always getting closer.

  Encouraged by how the climb had gone and this gut feeling that felt so strong inside, I returned home for the real phase to begin.

  I was soon back in the ‘jostle’ of preparation. The team was gradually coming together now. Geoffrey Stanford, a Grenadier Guards Officer, aged twenty-seven, had joined Neil and me. He had climbed a lot in Europe and had done some high-altitude research in the Himalaya before – spending six weeks at 19,000 feet studying how the body copes and adapts to those sorts of heights. This, though, was to be his first attempt on Everest. His perfect manners and English exterior covered a grit determination; he was like a dog with a bone – a bone he wouldn’t let go. A veritable British bulldog – but in black tie.

  The final member of the team to join us was Michael Crosthwaite. I had grown up with Mick since I was a boy, and had climbed extensively with him over the years. Physically and mentally he was exceptionally strong, and because I remember him having hairs around his willy at the age of eight (whilst I didn’t) I had grown up with an inherent respect for him.

  Straight out of Cambridge University, and fresh into the City Stockmarket, Mick felt he was rapidly going stale. In his own words he felt he had been ‘swimming underwater for too long and needed to come up for fresh air’. Of ‘fresh air’, we assured him, there would be no shortage. Thus the pull of Everest had her enigmatic way with him; he made the brave decision to leave the City and join the team. The team was better off for it, and I was greatly relieved to have the company of a soul mate. With Neil and Geoffrey as such openly driven people, maybe the two of us could be a more ‘relaxed’ dilution for any tension in the future. Time would tell.

  And so the team was finalized. It was small, strong, and despite consisting of very different characters, was bonded by a deep desire to climb this mountain. Neil had had the foresight to keep it small, the idea being that each member was to be capable of forming part of a summit team. We would need to work together, supporting each other constantly, and helping each other when required. I suppose, in some respects, this is similar to how a troop of gorillas operates in the jungle – picking nits out from each other’s hair. In fact, thinking about it now, and remembering the state in which we cohabited a lot of the time on Everest, I don’t think that this is too bad an analogy.

  They say familiarity breeds contempt, but in the intensity of the relationships that we were to have, there was no room for this to be the case. We would be spending every day together for three months, living, eating, sleeping and crapping in some of the harshest conditions this world offers. Such experiences make or break friendships. As a team we were well aware of the need for trust and tolerance between us in the months ahead, and this needed to start now.

  Three days after I had raised my first few hundred pounds for the expedition – a sum that felt like a drop in the ocean towards the total – I was loading some climbing equipment into Neil’s car. My ice-axe accidentally scraped against the paintwork. Although my car is battered and covered in scratches which never really bother me, I knew Neil’s TVR was first of all worth a lot more than mine and, secondly, was important to him. The next day, those precious few hundred pounds went towards paying for the repairs. This was somewhat depressing, but it was little things like this that I felt would make the difference later on. Neil appreciated it,
and remembered.

  Over the years the Army had sponsored a considerable number of Everest attempts. Out of all of these, only one had ever successfully reached the top. ‘Brummy’ Stokes and ‘Bronco’ Lane, in the 1970s, reached the summit in atrocious conditions. The bad weather then drove them back. In escaping, they suffered very severe frostbite and lost several toes to the cold; but they had heroically survived. Apart from this expedition, all the other military attempts had been turned away empty-handed; and much lower down.

  One of the fundamental reasons, we believed, for this run of military sponsored teams not reaching the top was the size of their expeditions. They had always taken tens of people and mounted huge assaults, with the intention of eventually choosing just two or three to actually go for the top. Within a military framework, this inherently bred excessive competition rather than mutual support. In an environment such as Everest, this all too often spelt disaster.

  Another mistake, I believe, was having too many chiefs and not enough Indians. Mountains are great levellers and care nothing for hierarchy – least of all ‘chiefs’. From my time in the hills I have learnt a fundamental lesson: mountains are only ever climbed by ‘Indians’.

  So we didn’t leave to any resplendent military fanfare. On the contrary, the Army understandably thought that we would go the same way as all the previous attempts. All we received from them was a promise of a party if we returned alive. I guess that is the way the world works.