The Everest Years

by Chris Bonington

  I barely gave them a second thought then, as my horizon was filled with our own climb and later with the loss of Pete and Joe. The Americans, too, lost one of their team on the north side of the mountain and it was while I travelled out to Chengdu with them after the sad end of our two expeditions that Dick and Frank told me of their plans and invited me to join them the following year, particularly on the Antarctic venture but, with typical generosity, they also extended it to all seven summits which they ambitiously intended climbing all within one calendar year. At that moment I could not contemplate going back to Everest and could not commit myself to any venture, though my imagination was immediately caught by the prospect of visiting Antarctica. Even so, I temporised. The shock of grief was too great to make an immediate decision.

  On getting home, however, I had quickly realised that my love of climbing was as great as it had ever been and that I could never give it up so I wrote to Frank asking him to count me in on the trip to Mount Vinson. With 1983 came their onslaught on the seven peaks. Aconcagua was the first in January, the southern summer. Frank had had a hard struggle but he made it to the top. The odyssey had got off to a good start. Their next objective was Everest, the toughest of them all. They had bought their way into an expedition organised by Gerhard Lenser, a German climber who had permission for the South Col route for spring 1983. Frank managed to get up to the South Col, while Dick very nearly made it, reaching a height of almost 8,400 metres on the South-East Ridge before being turned back by the weather.

  But they didn’t give up. That summer, they climbed McKinley, Elbrus and Kilimanjaro. By far the biggest challenge, however, was Antarctica – just getting there was the problem. It wasn’t a matter of obtaining permission. Since no one nation owns Antarctica, no one can actually stop you going there. The problem is getting the logistic support.

  Antarctica today is very different from the empty continent that Amundsen, Scott and Shackleton first explored in the early twentieth century. With modern aircraft and satellite observation and communication it is difficult to conceive the mystery and appeal that the totally unknown immensity of Antarctica must have held for the early pioneers. Now bases are scattered over the continent and the South Pole itself is encapsulated in American suburbia, with deep-freezes full of steak and hamburgers, video, hi-fi and exercise machines, all buried under the snows in windowless huts at the temperature of an overheated hotel.

  If you are in the system you can be whisked to the Pole within a couple of days of leaving Washington or London but, if you are an adventurer, without official approval, the barriers are considerable. If you have plenty of time, it is easier. Nobody can stop you sailing down to Antarctica and a growing number of intrepid mariners are penetrating the fjords and sounds of Graham Land. But Vinson, the highest point of Antarctica, is more remote. It is in the Sentinel Range which in turn is part of the Ellsworth Mountains, on the ice cap near the base of Graham Land, the peninsula that reaches out from the solid mass of Antarctica towards the southern tip of America. The range is less than 100 miles from the southern coast of the Weddell Sea but that part of the sea is permanently frozen. It would be a long trek from where a party had to leave its boat and would mean having to winter in Antarctica before setting out for the mountain.

  Frank and Dick certainly didn’t have the time to do this, and that meant flying in to Vinson. This was perfectly practicable, provided they could find a way of refuelling their aircraft. The only other major expedition that had climbed in the massif was an American one in 1966. This had had the blessing of the establishment and was flown in by C130, the four-engined workhorse of Antarctica. With a large team, Skidoos for transport and plenty of time, they climbed all but one of the major peaks of the Ellsworth Range. But having seen the stars and stripes on the highest peaks of Antarctica, the National Science Foundation, who control American Antarctic operations, felt they had done their bit for frivolous adventure and since then have refused all requests for help.

  They also actively discouraged any alternative sources. It was at this stage that Frank discovered the Japanese skier, Yuichiro Miura, the man who had skied down from the South Col of Everest in 1970, was anxious to ski down the seven summits and had done them all except Vinson. He had plenty of backing from Japanese television as well as some useful contacts with the Chilean Air Force. The Chileans had bases in Graham Land and would probably be willing to charter one of their C130s. The problem, though, was that they did not have ski landing gear to land on unprepared snow runways. This didn’t seem insuperable. Frank, who was the main organiser of this trip, even contemplated buying the ski fittings for the C130, only to find that they were classified as strategic weapons and that under no circumstances would they be released to a foreign air force.

  He then heard about the existence of the modified DC3. It had the capacity and range to get the team down to Vinson with one refuelling stop each way from Punta Arenas on the southern tip of South America. This is where I came in, for the British Antarctic Survey had a base with an airstrip at Rothera, halfway down the Graham Land peninsula. If we could purchase fuel from them or even have some carried in by their supply ship, the trip was on. But the attitude of the British Antarctic Survey was much the same as that of the National Science Foundation. A lengthy correspondence brought little more than sympathetic letters full of regrets.

  But Frank never gave up. Each rebuff was a further challenge, and in between all the expeditions of 1983, he was working away to find new avenues. It was on and off and on again to within a week of our departure. There were problems with insurance; the Chileans threatened to abandon their entire Antarctic programme and therefore would not be able to make the essential airdrop of fuel on to Rothera. The pilot the owners insisted on us using for the venture was forced to drop out at the last minute. But Frank found solutions and at the beginning of November I had a phone call that the trip was definitely taking place.

  Frank and Dick had invited two climbers to take part in this venture, the American, Rick Ridgeway, and myself. I had met Rick once before when I had gone climbing near Santa Barbara with him and Yvon Chouinard. Short and thick-set, full of warmth and fun, he wasn’t a super-hard climber, either on rock or in the big mountains, and yet had achieved a great deal, reaching the South Col of Everest and, in 1978, getting to the top of K2 with John Roskelley as a member of Jim Whittaker’s expedition. I liked him and was delighted when I heard he was to be my climbing partner on Mount Vinson.

  We had both had busy years in 1983. In the tradition of Shipton and Tilman we planned the food and gear we were going to take on the back of a menu over a boozy meal in an east side restaurant when our paths crossed in New York. The trip was by no means certain at that stage and consequently seemed unreal.

  I arrived in Santiago the day before Rick and Dick Bass flew in from California and it was only in the taxi on the way from the airport that we really began to co-ordinate our detailed organisation. Frank had done a magnificent job in getting the logistics of our flight down to Antarctica organised. It had cost around a quarter of a million dollars. The pilot was to be Giles Kershaw, an Englishman who is undoubtedly the most experienced Antarctic pilot in the world today. But the mountaineers’ forward planning was a shambles.

  ‘Have you got enough rope?’ I asked Rick, who had barely caught up with himself after the long flight.

  ‘I thought we agreed that people were responsible for bringing their own. I’ve got enough for us, but Frank and Dick should have some. Say, Dick, have you got the rope?’

  ‘Gee, no, I thought you were getting all that stuff. I’m not sure I’ve even got my boots.’

  ‘What about hardware?’ I was remorseless.

  ‘I’ve got a few ice-screws. We shouldn’t need that much.’

  ‘A first aid kit?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything. Maybe Frank’s got it. Must be one on the plane.’

  Back at the hotel we sat down and made out a list. There was a lot we hadn’t got,
including medical supplies. The plane carried a few plasters and the odd burn dressing. Within twenty-four hours we had bought a comprehensive medical kit and had borrowed ropes and other equipment from some helpful Chilean mountaineers whom Frank and Dick had got to know in January on their way into Aconcagua.

  We were now on course for Antarctica; the plane’s freight hold was filled with food for three weeks, sledges, tentage, film equipment and climbing gear. Besides the crew of three, there were eight of us, Frank, Dick, Rick and myself, Steve Marts, who was the cameraman and film-maker who had accompanied them on all the summits, Miura and his cameraman, and finally Captain Frias, a lugubrious Chilean C130 pilot, who had been appointed our liaison officer.

  We were crammed into the little heated passenger compartment, looking out of the small windows for the occasional glimpse, through the clouds, of the stormy ocean below. We gazed forward, peering over the pilot’s shoulders, for a first sight of Antarctica. It was difficult to discern distant snow peaks from the boiling clouds that filled the horizon. Then, suddenly, we were over real mountains with glaciers sweeping down into the dark waters of deep fjords, their broken ice forming an untidy jigsaw of white on black.

  We flew down the peninsula with Giles pointing out landmarks, until we swept over a big mountainous island to land on a snow field with a strip marked out by empty fuel drums. Three twin-engined Otters, painted a cheerful orange, were tied down into the snow at the side of the strip. A few huts and a little camp of tents formed the Chilean base and the British base was nearby. Rothera didn’t have many visitors and they had never seen an aircraft like ours, so we had an enthusiastic reception committee. Giles knew several of the British Antarctic Survey team and it was a pleasant surprise to find that I knew the base commander, John Hall, who had been married to the daughter of our local doctor back in Caldbeck.

  Our fuel had already been dropped by parachute from a C130 of the Chilean Air Force. Whilst the aircrew were refuelling, Giles got in radio contact with Siple, an American base 180 miles from the point in the Sentinel Range where we planned to land. Siple was clouded in and it looked as if Vinson was affected by the same weather. Giles had a huge responsibility, for we only had sufficient fuel at Rothera to get us to Vinson and back, and then return to Punta Arenas. Should he arrive at Vinson 700 miles to the south but be unable to land because of the weather and then have to return to Rothera, we wouldn’t have enough fuel for a second try. But Giles was perfectly calm about things.

  ‘We’ll stop here for a few hours and see what the weather’s going to do. It’ll give you a chance to see the base and get some sleep,’ he told us.

  We all piled aboard a Snowcat which carried us the three-mile journey down to the shore where the British base was situated. It was much bigger than I had imagined, a collection of single and two-storey buildings, with big workshops, laboratories and comfortable, though quite spartan, living quarters. We were given a wholesome meal of stew, mashed potatoes and vegetables, followed by sponge pudding and custard. After dinner, though it could easily have been lunch, since the sun never sets in the summer at these latitudes, we were shown the base which was an intriguing combination of modern and traditional. They were getting ready for the summer scientific work, most of which would be done from outlying camps under canvas.

  Rothera is one of the very few Antarctic bases that still have some dog teams, who stay outside throughout the year, tethered in their teams to a steel cable. They were in beautiful condition and friendly, very different from the dogs I had travelled with in Baffin Island some years earlier. These animals, though, are used more for recreation than serious work. The Skidoo, with its greater speed and pulling power, has taken their place for the long scientific trips, so the huskies are kept mainly out of sentiment and to give the people over-wintering at the base an interest.

  Talking over a beer in the bar, I could easily see how addictive life in Antarctica must become. In some ways it is like a long drawn out expedition with the simplicity and clarity of purpose that goes with it. There were the scientists who undertook the research, and a support staff whose primary job was to look after the scientists, getting them to their camps, maintaining all the gear and running the operation. A proportion of these stayed on over the Antarctic winter getting everything ready for the summer work. They did have some leisure during this period and it was then that they could set off on their own exploratory journeys with the dog teams.

  They weren’t meant to do any climbing because of the accident risk but there was no one to check what they got up to once they were away from base and a tolerantly blind eye was turned.

  The weather was still unsettled to the south, so back at the airstrip we bedded down for our first Antarctic night. It was nearly as bright as it had been at midday, though just a little colder, with the sun slightly lower on the horizon. We were woken by a call from the Chileans, an invitation to breakfast in their little officers’ mess, a deep snow hole, reached by ladder. It was cramped and dark, lined with plywood, with a wobbly oil cloth-covered table filling most of the space, but it was warm and the atmosphere was friendly. We had hardly finished eating when Giles arrived.

  ‘Time to go, folks. It’s all clear down at Vinson.’

  This was the most critical take-off on the trip. The plane was loaded to full capacity with fuel and the snow on the runway was wet and heavy. There wasn’t much joking as we fastened our seat belts and sat listening to the whine of the engines. Giles slowly taxied to the end of the runway, swung round to face towards Alexander Sound, opened the throttle, and we surged forward sluggishly, as if the skis were fighting their way through syrup. We gathered momentum, the tethered Otters flashed past the window, Giles eased back on the stick and the plane pulled tentatively into the air, then flopped back on to the snow. We were approaching the end of the runway and the sheer ice cliff that dropped away to the sea. Just before we reached it the plane nosed up once again and this time stayed airborne. There was a relieved cheer from the passengers.

  We gained height slowly, climbing to an altitude of around 3,000 metres over the open waters of Alexander Sound. There were peaks and islands, walls of ice-veined rocks, icebergs glinting with a greenish sheen and the pack ice broken up by a mosaic of thin dark lines delineating the convoluted channels of open water. There was an empty desolation and beauty, the like of which I have never seen before.

  It went on for hour after hour – unclimbed, unnamed peaks, walls as challenging and big as the North Wall of the Eiger. The channels and the sea itself were now frozen, an unrelieved carpet of white and then, on the far horizon, difficult to distinguish from an upthrust of clouds, was a mountain mass, much higher than anything we had yet flown past.

  These were the Ellsworth Mountains, which soon stretched across the horizon with great glaciers coiling down from their spine towards the flat frozen expanse of the Weddell Sea. We were heading straight for the high point of the Sentinel Range, and the rounded complex of peaks that was Mount Vinson, but it was difficult to tell which was the highest bump. To the west of Vinson the peaks became more defined, a bristling spine of mountains, Shinn, Epperly, Tyree and Gardner. We were heading for the col between Vinson and Shinn. Beyond you could see an ocean of ice stretching to the far horizon. This was the ice cap, over 2,000 metres of solid ice at an altitude of between 2,500 and 3,000 metres, stretching across the continent. Giles swung the plane to the right and followed the line of peaks, contouring from cirque to cirque. At times the wings almost seemed to touch the ice-shattered rock.

  I had seen photographs of the West Face of Mount Tyree. It was even more impressive close to – a 2,000-metre face of rocky spurs and steep ice fields leading to a dramatically steep summit. Rick and I had talked of tackling this big unclimbed face once we had climbed Vinson. The highest point in Antarctica looked little more than a long walk, whilst the face was as exciting a climbing challenge as any I have seen.

  Then Giles turned the plane away from the mountain wall
and out over the ice cap to look for a place to land. This time it would be an unprepared site. As we skimmed down close to the surface it looked far from smooth with sastrugi, furrows of snow carved by wind like sand dunes, spread in haphazard patterns. There were troughs and mounds, long ridges and gullies over what had seemed a smooth surface from altitude.

  He made a tight circuit of a valley leading up towards the col we would have to cross to reach our objective, but dismissed it as a landing ground. It was too close in to the mountains and could be subject to gusts and eddies coming from different directions. Flying out into the ice cap, the wind direction would be more consistent. He coursed over the surface seeking out a smooth stretch on which to land, while Rick Mason, the engineer, threw out a smoke bomb. The smoke rose almost vertically, a sign that there was little wind. We swung round in another circuit, swooped in low, touched the ground, bounced violently and, with an open throttle, took off once again.

  ‘Just to check it out,’ Giles reassured us.

  We came in again and this time landed smoothly, the tail ski easing down on to the snow. We were on mainland Antarctica some 2,500 metres above sea level. The sun glared from a pale blue sky but there was no heat from it. The contrast after the warmth of the cabin was fierce. We gathered in a little group, gazing across at the Vinson Massif. You couldn’t see the summit but it all seemed very close and the angle so easy. Ever optimistic, I was convinced we could climb it in two or three days and then, once Rick and I had fulfilled our duty to Dick and Frank, we could go and grab a new route, the West Face of Mount Tyree or perhaps climb Mount Epperly, the only major unclimbed peak in the range.

  First, however, we had to make ourselves secure on the ice cap. Both Rick, who had climbed in the peninsula of Graham Land, and Giles had regaled us with tales of sudden changes of weather, of windstorms that gouged out the hard snow, carrying splinters of ice that could tear all but the strongest tents to bits. I was uncomfortably aware of how flimsy were our standard lightweight mountain tents and wondered how well they would stand up to a fully-fledged Antarctic storm. At Rothera I had seen some of the pyramid tents used by the British Antarctic Survey. They were made from heavy nylon and had solid tubular poles – fine for sledging but much too heavy to carry up a mountain.