Kingdoms Of Experience. Andrew Greig
a minor injury which could put them out for Everest. The Press look slightly baffled as meanwhile the lads are casually swarming up and down the 750 ice, without bothering with ropes or helmets. I do it in more cautious style, but the ice is in good condition and the climb is very straightforward.
‘This “Ultimate Challenge” is bullshit,’ said Sandy next morning, looking at a newspaper with that headline. ‘The ultimate challenge has got to be having a normal life with kids and a job and doing that well. Maybe I should try that some day … As long as I can still go off climbing once in a while!’
Our Expedition was inevitably attracting a degree of criticism in the climbing world because of our sponsorship commitments, media coverage and intention to use oxygen. ‘If some of the people who slag us got off their backside and put together an expedition themselves they’d find out what it’s all about,’ Mal said, peeved. Jon delighted in spreading the rumour that all the lead climbers were being paid £5,000 each, and anyone who got to the top would be given a brand-new Porsche. ‘Well, would you climb the North-East Ridge for free?’ he’d reply with wide-eyed sincerity when asked if this was true.
The final weeks before departure were a desperate rush against the calendar. Chris Watts hassled, bullied, begged and cajoled for gear, some of it custom-made, to be delivered in time. Nick and Andy pressed on, assembling some four tons of food. Sandy finished on the oil-rigs and drove the Pilkington’s van from Aberdeen to London to Liverpool to Edinburgh, frequently overnight and dozing off at the wheel. His driving is as terrifyingly approximate as his climbing is exact. An old man in Nepal had once looked into his eyes and told him he’d die in a van – but Sandy counted this vehicle as a truck, ‘So that’s alright, eh?’
British Airways came in to offer free flights to Peking for us and, crucially, to fly out much of our gear free. This prevented our escalating budget from getting completely out of hand.
Pilkington’s were proving to be the ideal sponsor – supportive, involved but non-interfering. They seemed as excited by the project as we were. They didn’t just give us money; they gave us secretarial services, a warehouse for the accumulating mountain of gear, the truck. They had a team of apprentices turning out snow-stakes and deadmen for us. From their diverse companies we received Reactolite sunglasses, an optical nightsight, and heat-reflecting foam mats like giant innersoles to go under our tents. These were a real find, making a tremendous difference in both warmth and comfort to tents pitched on rough moraine in Arctic conditions.
A crucial factor was Dave Bricknell’s and Terry Dailey’s flair for organization and co-ordination that among other things produced a 200-page computer print-out record of all our equipment down to the last tuna fish and toothbrush. Planning and providing food, clothing, shelter, cooking gear and climbing equipment for 19 people for three months is a military-scale undertaking. There is no room for mistakes or shortages – if you run out of lighters, pitons, gas, toilet rolls at Everest Base Camp, there’s no popping round the corner for more.
It was only this combination of organization, facilities, and sheer hard work that made it possible to put together the Expedition in five months. Items still hadn’t arrived a week before we were due to leave; the last odds and sods were picked up on the evening before departure.
The last pieces fell into place. Kurt and Julie concluded a contract to make a film for ‘Pebble Mill At One’ in addition to the ITN reports. The Scottish Daily Record printed that we were taking vast quantities of wine and whisky, and when we told them this was unfortunately no longer the case, they compensated in the best possible way – by arranging to have us given six crates of MacKinlay’s blended whisky. Liz used her contacts to arrange for a precious crate of The Macallan malt. These were of limited medicinal use, but added greatly to morale and Base Camp relaxation.
On 2nd March I typed ‘The End’ to Summit Fever and went up to the attic to collect together all the gear accumulated there; I selected a few positive and high-spirited tapes and books, bought a lot of rolling tobacco and pencils and notebooks and a few personal treats like Drambuie and chicken breasts in jelly. Then the camera system, the Walkman, special fast-and slow-speed film, all the etceteras of contemporary expedition life. Across the country, 18 others were doing the same. Any anxiety was now replaced by a feverish impatience to be gone.
Then the final farewell drinks and meals, a party, all enjoyed and appreciated but in one’s heart one has already left. The sudden poignancy of the last walk to the end of the harbour, gazing down into the water and wondering what lies ahead. The last handshake with a friend. The last night with a lover. Wake at dawn, clean the last dishes, close the doors, stroke the cats, lock the front door and walk away.
Isobel drives me to Turnhouse airport. It’s a perfect Scottish morning of sun and dew, anticipating spring. There’s little left for us to say as I sit and stare out the window at everything I’m leaving. We unload the car. Her silk shirt is cool on my palms, her red hair flares in the low, brilliant sunshine. It’s a moment that will recur involuntarily over the next three months as I lie trying to sleep at altitude, or push myself one more time up the fixed ropes on the Ridge.
We look at each other.
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
A brief embrace and she walks away, drives to her office to do a day’s work.
‘Are you going to make it this time?’ the check-in man asks cheerfully.
‘It’s uncertain enough to make it worthwhile,’ I reply, glancing back to see her car turn on to the main road, ‘I hope so.’
That afternoon we congregated at the London hotel Pilkington’s had booked for our farewell Reception. Some of the faces are becoming familiar, hi Nick, hello Sarah, this is Bob Barton. I shake hands with the burly, bespectacled Yorkshireman, liking his warm and concerned air. Chris Watts handed out our remaining gear, and we packed it all in our individual blue barrels. Much bustle, commotion, everyone a little tense as we sorted out the final details. ‘I’ve never felt so twitchy about any project as I do about this one,’ Dave confessed. The ballroom was now crowded with media, family, friends, climbers, everyone who’d been involved with our Expedition. It was moving to feel all this support and we began to realize how many hopes were pinned on us.
A Pilkington director, Sol Kay, made a short speech; Mal replied, at once casual and formal, growing into the role as time went on. We were presented with a stained-glass picture to give to the Chinese Mountaineering Association – only Mal noticed that the Union Jack was upside down and wondered if that’s a sign of bad luck. We decided to have it re-done and brought out by Terry Dailey five weeks later when his leave from Saatchi’s began.
The media departed and it was time for some ‘serious jollification’ in Sandy’s phrase. Allen Fyffe found himself in distinguished company with Lord Hunt and Sir Alastair and Lady Pilkington, but with a suitable amount of alcohol the situation was enjoyable, and he and Hunt discussed Everest at some length. Then we slipped away from the jollification for the Business Meeting.
It was the first time we’d all met together. Our doctor, Urs Wiget, was introduced, a small, broad, smiling, bearded man immediately dubbed ‘the gnome’. We’d just started going over the contracts and finances when a tall lad with over-sized hands and feet stumbled in and slumped down. Eventually someone asked, ‘Well, who are you?’ Julie explained he was Danny Lewis, coming along as their film porter to help hump gear on the hill. ‘How high have you been then, mate?’ Jon enquired. Danny looked embarrassed, and I felt for him among this group of complete strangers. ‘Twelve thousand’ he replied awkwardly.
Eyebrows went up in silent incredulity. Kurt and Julie had picked a 19-year-old rock climber (climbing a very respectable 6b) with virtually no snow/ice experience and none whatsoever of altitude, to do heavy-duty carrying on an extreme route. We wondered if this was a very bright idea. ‘Nothing against you personally, we don’t even know you.’ It was too late to do anything about it, and it wasn’t his fault, so we just had to hope he wouldn’t prove a liability to himself or anyone else. He sat quietly through the rest of the meeting, wide-eyed and attentive.
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