At first glance Wendy and I have little in common. She does not climb, nor is she particularly interested in the climbing fraternity. But she has always supported my projects in so many direct and practical ways over the years, in the selection of pictures and the design of my books, in the creation of audio-visual sequences for my lectures and a critical appraisal of my writing. The most important thing for me is that she is always there, quietly supportive of all my ventures.
Her adventures are of the mind, exploring her own creative ideas. She went to art school and when we met was working as an illustrator of children’s books. Since then, whilst rearing our children, she has pursued folk singing and become interested in pottery. Whilst I was working on Quest for Adventure, Wendy had an equally challenging project, building a large wood-fired kiln for her pottery at the bottom of the garden. Yet we do enjoy doing things together. It was Wendy who introduced me to orienteering. Although we chase off on our different courses, it’s deeply satisfying at the end of the day to return home together swapping tales of our tribulations in trying to find the elusive markers hidden away in clumps of trees or in sneaky little dips in the ground. We also have fiercely competitive yet light-hearted games of squash, Wendy offsetting my greater strength with skilful ball placement. It is in our tempo of living, a similar level of social stamina (not very high in either of us), and basic values that we are very close. Wendy has a quality that is both tender and very gentle, and yet within this there is a great strength. Not only I, but also many of our friends, especially in moments of crisis or tragedy, have found solace from it. Our love and enjoyment of each other has grown stronger and stronger over the years.
In 1979 an opportunity that I couldn’t resist came my way – the chance of going to China. It had been closed to foreign climbers since the communist take-over but the Chinese Government had now decided to open up eight mountains, including Everest from the north. The Mount Everest Foundation, which had been established with the profits from the 1953 Everest Expedition to support British mountaineering ventures, had decided to promote one of the first trips into China. Michael Ward, the chairman, and I were sent to Peking to negotiate with the authorities in early 1980.
From the eight peaks available we chose Mount Kongur, in Western Xinjiang, as our objective. It was the only unclimbed peak on the list and the combination of its height at 7,719 metres, and the fact that so little was known about it, made it particularly attractive. We quickly discovered that mountaineering in China was going to be extremely expensive. However, we were very fortunate on our way back through Hong Kong to get the promise of sponsorship from Jardine, Matheson, the celebrated trading house.
So little was known about the Kongur region that a reconnaissance seemed essential and so it was decided that Michael Ward, Al Rouse and I should set out that summer to take a closer look at the area. It was a delightful experience, a little adventure in mountain exploration with none of the concentration of vision that accompanies the siege of a single mountain objective. As the three of us travelled through Xinjiang, we were invited same nomadic life that they always had, travelling with their herds of sheep and goats from one desert pasture to the next. They were now members of a collective rather than a tribe, with a chairman rather than a chief in charge, but I suspect the pattern of family life was much the same as it had always been. They were a jolly, friendly people, with the natural hospitality and courtesy of all nomads. We were offered bowls of delicious yoghurt drink accompanied by a plate of cake-like bread whenever we visited one of their encampments.
The reconnaissance also enabled me to get to know my two new climbing partners. Michael Ward, a doctor on the 1953 Everest Expedition, was a general surgeon at a London teaching hospital but was also very interested in mountain medicine. It was he who had treated Dougal and me for frostbite after the Eiger. Our main expedition was going to combine medical research with climbing. Michael had been an outstanding rock-climber in the late thirties and early forties but in recent years he had done comparatively little climbing.
Our small team certainly covered a broad age range, with Michael in his late fifties, me in my late forties and Al Rouse in his early thirties. He was a brilliant rock climber who had progressed from British rock, first to the Alps and then to the Himalaya. A Cambridge mathematics graduate, he had played chess to county standard, but his commitment to climbing had stopped him following a conventional career and, like me, he was making a living from a combination of lecturing, writing and working with equipment manufacturers. I enjoyed his company. He had a buoyant enthusiasm and a range of interests that went well beyond climbing.
At the end of a month’s exploration we had viewed the mountain from several different aspects and had decided that an approach from the west gave us the best chance of success, though the summit of Kongur remained a mystery. From the west, the view of it is barred by a high shoulder. It was a massive sprawling mountain that I had a feeling might have some unpleasant surprises awaiting us.
On the main expedition the following year there were to be ten in the team but, of that number, only four of us were to attempt the mountain. Pete Boardman and Joe Tasker were to join Al and me. The rest of the team were mountain scientists and helpers, with Michael Ward in overall command, though I had the title of climbing leader.
We set up Base Camp on a grassy alp at the side of the Koksel Glacier at the end of May 1981.
I was nearly knocked out of the expedition at its very start. An influenza virus struck several members of the team and I went down with pneumonia, my chest weakened, perhaps, from my injury on the Ogre. I could not have had a more powerful medical team to care for me. As well as our leader, Michael Ward, there was Jim Milledge, a consultant physician specialising in lung complaints, Charlie Clarke, our doctor on the 1975 Everest expedition and a consultant neurologist, and Edward Williams, a professor of nuclear medicine. It was Charlie who put me on a powerful course of antibiotics, and whilst the others set off for a training climb on a neighbouring peak I tried to concentrate my entire being into recovery. I think it is a question of accepting the ailment for what it is, and then just trying to relax, to enable one’s body to recuperate from the illness. I have always been a great reader on expeditions and in the next few days lost myself in my books and went for gentle convalescent walks on the hillside above the camp.
The weather was unsettled and, as a result, I missed very little. The others had not managed to climb their peak. Once they returned we took stock. We decided to have a closer look at the mountain, since there were two possible approaches to the high shoulder that barred our view of the summit. This would also give me a chance of building up my fitness and discovering if I was strong enough to accompany the others on the final push.
Although I had the title of climbing leader, my role was more chairman of the discussion group that naturally formed whenever we had to come to a decision. In a four-man team there is neither the need nor the place for a leader as such. We were a group of peers who could share in the decision-making. Nonetheless, it can still be useful to have some kind of chairman to help direct the discussion and sum up what the group has decided. There were differences of opinion that arose in part from the way Pete and Joe as a pair and Al separately had evolved their mountaineering careers. All of us had started from the same base of rock climbing in Britain, followed by mountaineering in the Alps, but our expedition experience had been different. Pete and Joe, like me, had used both siege and alpine tactics on different objectives. Since their bold, two-man ascent of Changabang and our abortive attempt on K2, they had climbed Kangchenjunga with Doug. Their attitude was essentially pragmatic; to use the technique that the occasion demanded. In this their approach was very similar to mine.
Al, on the other hand, had only climbed alpine-style, starting with a barn-storming tour of South American peaks from the Fitzroy range, up the line of the Andes to the Cordillera Blanca and going on to make a very impressive ascent of Jannu, followed by the North
Face of Nuptse. In addition Al enjoys arguing, at times, I suspect, for its own sake. He can seize on any ambiguities in an argument with a mathematician’s logic and pursues it with the enthusiasm of a senior wrangler. He was quick to point out that we had announced in our promotional brochures, and at press conferences, that we were planning to climb Kongur alpine-style and we were now compromising by making a reconnaissance foray. He was shouted down, but took it amicably, saying that he just wanted us to be clear about what we were doing.
We had already established an Advance Base on the Koksel Glacier and now climbed to around 6,000 metres, deciding to go for the steeper of two ridges that rose from the Koksel Col. It gave a shorter, if more difficult, route to the subsidiary summit. I was reassured that although I was still going quite slowly, I could keep up with the others and I seemed to be gaining strength daily.
After a couple of days’ rest we set out for our alpine-style summit push, carrying about fifteen kilos each, to include food and fuel for a week, two tents, personal gear and some climbing equipment. The ridge above the Koksel Col rose steeply, an elegant staircase into the sky. It took us all day to reach its crest and we were still a long way from the summit of the intermediate peak.
One of the snags of climbing in the Kongur region was proving to be the weather pattern. It was much worse than we had anticipated, with only two or three days of fine weather before a fresh storm rolled in. We were pinned down halfway along the ridge, unable to see where to go or exactly where we were. Living in a tent in high winds is always a nerve-racking business. The constant rattle and flap of the nylon fabric emphasises one’s vulnerability.
I was sharing a tent with Joe Tasker. We paired up throughout the expedition and, consequently, were able to build on the understanding that had only just started on K2 after we had climbed together for a day. We settled into an easy role allotment in which I did most of the cooking, while Joe did more than his share of trail breaking, particularly towards the end of the day when I was beginning to tire. We didn’t talk that much, but our silences were companionable, and I was beginning to discover that underneath a hard protective shell there was a warm, concerned heart.
None of us got much sleep that night, though it was worse for Al and Pete. They hadn’t tied down their tent as securely as we had and spent the early hours of the morning sitting fully dressed, with rucksacks packed, ready to abandon the wreck if necessary. That morning, through driving clouds of spindrift, we had our first glimpse of the summit pyramid at relatively close range. It looked frighteningly formidable, and it was only at this instant that we began to realise just how serious and committing our climb was going to be.
At least we could see where we were going and soon reached the top of the subsidiary peak, a rounded snow dome from which we had a magnificent view. To the south-west was Mustagh Ata, massive and rounded like a huge extinct volcano, whilst to the south the snowy crest of the ridge we had just followed pointed to a myriad snow peaks stretching to the far horizon and the distant summits of the Karakoram. To the north-west, across the brown desert hills of Central Asia, was Russia and, in the distance, little more than a white blur, the peaks of the Pamirs and the Tian-shan. But most commanding was the summit pyramid of Kongur.
To reach it we were going to have to lose height and cross a precarious bridge formed by a knife-edge ridge linking the col with the summit mass. We had had enough of tents after the previous night so dug a snow cave on the col. It took us four hours to make but, once complete, we had a secure and relatively comfortable base in which all four of us could fit and plan our next move together. Separate tents can be divisive even on the happiest expeditions.
Pete was undoubtedly emerging as the most forceful of us, largely because he was the most physically powerful with a great reservoir of stamina. I noticed how much more self-confident he was than he had been in 1978 on K2. I suspect Joe, with his leaner build, had always operated more on willpower than sheer stamina. I don’t think he was any stronger than I was, in spite of our age difference. He just had a greater capacity to endure fatigue, but our perceptions of risk and strategy were very similar. I had already noticed a competitive tension between Pete and Joe, which had been present on their ascent of the West Face of Changabang and to which they both alluded in their books describing the climb. It was combined with a very real friendship and mutual respect but it led to neither of them ever wanting to be the first to counsel retreat. But I was not in their peer group. I didn’t compete with them physically and I felt that Joe welcomed my presence and was happy to let me be the advocate of caution in our discussions.
The following morning we were late in waking. Nonetheless, Pete took it for granted we were continuing the push for the summit, but both Joe and I were concerned about our position, for we were now out on a limb, with a 150-metre climb to the top of what we had called Junction Peak and a long complex descent back to safety. Four days out from Advance Base, we were beginning to run low on food and fuel. We finally agreed to make a bid for the summit from the secure base of the snow cave, though I suspect that none of us was under any illusion that this would be little more than a reconnaissance. It took us most of the day to reach the base of the summit pyramid – sensational, exciting climbing with giddy drops. There was no question of going for the top, but at least we had spotted a gully running down into the North Face that looked as if it might contain enough snow in which to dig a cave.
The following morning the argument resumed, but this time more heatedly. Pete wanted to press on, even though it was now obvious that it would take at least two days to reach the top and that our supplies were even lower. I was in favour of retreat, so that we could replenish our supplies, and Joe came in on my side. Al didn’t seem to want to commit himself to either view but, after an hour’s fierce discussion, the forces of caution won and we started back with the long hard haul over Junction Peak.
The weather broke the following day. If we had gone for the summit we would have been defeated by the storm and had to sit it out provisionless in a whiteout. Our four days’ rest went all too quickly. Sleeping, lazing and reading filled in the gaps between huge meals of well-cooked Chinese food. Our scientists also got their hands on us, taking our blood and putting us through an exhausting treadmill exercise with a mask clamped over our mouths to capture our exhaled breath. They could thus trace our levels of acclimatisation.
The two themes of the expedition had combined well and the four scientists, with David Wilson, the Political Adviser to the Governor of Hong Kong who had come with us as our interpreter, and Jim Curran, our filmmaker, gave life at Base Camp a pleasant variety. Michael Ward, as overall leader, chose the very sensible course of leaving the various components of the expedition to function naturally. Because everyone knew what needed to be done, and had their own clear set role and responsibility, the entire enterprise worked harmoniously.
But we were running out of time. It was 4 July when we started back up the mountain, taking three exhausting days to reach the snow cave on the other side of Junction Peak. After a day’s rest, we set out along the ridge with sacks loaded with four days’ food, our sleeping bags and some climbing gear. It was very different from when we had last been there for there was a metre of fresh snow covering ice and rock. Nonetheless, we made faster progress than we had on our first crossing – familiarity always breeds confidence. But we were being chased by a great wall of cloud that was already lapping around the summit of Kongur Tiube, the second peak of the Kongur range. I just prayed there was going to be enough snow in the gully to dig a snow cave.
There wasn’t. After digging for a metre we hit hard ice and, not far beneath that, rock. By this time it was six in the evening and the cloud had swept over us. There was no other place to find shelter and we ended up burrowing in narrow slots parallel to the gully sides that were little larger than coffins. The outer walls were only centimetres thick and there was barely room to sit up. We were trapped in the ‘coffins’ for three days
and four nights. It was a strange experience. The only incident was when my cave collapsed when Pete trod through the roof. It was as if the world was falling in and triggered in me a furious rage which, fortunately, quickly evaporated. We had no books and there was nothing to do for most of the day. We could only cook or brew up very occasionally, for we were short of food. I committed the unforgivable crime of upsetting a complete panful of boeuf stroganoff over Joe. We scraped what we could off his sleeping bag and forced ourselves to eat it. Our sleeping bags got progressively damper, the chill enveloping our undernourished, under-exercised bodies.
We were sealed within our coffins and relieved ourselves against the walls or into little holes dug under our sleeping mats. It was just as well the temperature was well below freezing. And yet I don’t think any of us even considered retreat. We knew that we would never have the strength or the time to return for another try. We had committed so much that we were now prepared to accept a very high level of risk to complete the climb. This had nothing to do with obligation to sponsors or the reaction of the rest of the world. Another group, with a different chemistry between them, might well have retreated in similar circumstances. The decision to retreat or go on is intuitive rather than one of logical analysis, though of course that intuitive feel is born from one’s years of experience in the mountains. We shared complete unity as a team and confidence in each other, which gave us our upward drive.
The Everest Years Page 15