Author

2009AD

Mon, 1 Mar 2010 21:00:13 +0000

In 2002 I wandered past Ama Dablam and stared in awe at her beauty. It was only three years since I had suffered severe frostbite and was on my way to climb Island Peak – ‘enough of a challenges for now’, I thought. Time passed, expeditions came and went and then one day…

I was sitting in Papua after climbing Carstenz Pyramid with Sibusiso Vilane, one of South Africa’s most prominent climbers. He had been up Everest twice, almost completed the seven summits and wanted a new challenge. Unbeknown to me we had briefly met during my Island Peak trip and almost without a word, agreed that Ama Dablam was our next challenge. Over the next two years we kept in touch and I flew down to Johannesburg to catch up with Sibu and meet his family in Swaziland, but that’s another story…

Months passed, then I received the unfortunate news that Sibu had to pull out. It was a great shame as he is both an excellent climber and good friend, but life goes on and I ploughed ahead with my preparations. I left for Katmandu in October 2009…

The team assembled in Tamil, where little had changed. We were a mixed bunch of guides and climbers, with about 30 years between our respective ages who were soon landed at the airstrip in Lukla and heading into the hills. I was surprised of the teams’ experience, thinking I would be a middle of the road sort of bloke. I soon learned that after Ben, the guide, I was the most traveled…

Passing through Namche and onward to Base Camp, we got our first views of the peak. She stood majestic, towering over Kunde and Kumjung, silhouetted by deep blue cloudless sky. I sat down wondering what the hell I was doing, tackling such a beautiful beast. Losing your fingers and toes makes life hard enough, but to take on one of the classic Nepali ridges was something else.

We entered Base Camp to awful news – an Austrian climber had suffered a cerebral oedema close to the summit, and it had taken two days to rescue him. During that time he had suffered severe frostbite to his hands. Only when you have been through something yourself can you truly appreciate the depth of feeling and emotion that it provokes within you heart. He was flown out the next day, confused and with his hands bagged. I can only wish him the very best for the future.

After a days rest and Puja ceremony (great chanting, throwing of beer and rice), we began our assault. Climbing the SW ridge is a huge logistical exercise as much as a climb – ferrying supplies up and down, acclimatising and in my own way, gaining peace with the peak. She looked beautifully alluring, ghostly and damn huge. Again and again I questioned my right to even face her, never mind climb her. Having the support of my fellow climbers and guides gave me much needed confidence as we took on the ridge.

Unfortunately we lost two members of our team through illness, taking the original team of seven down to five. It’s always sad to lose people from an expedition, but good to know that they are safe. Recovery from any illness is hard enough at sea level, never mind in the heavens.

After a grueling crossing of the boulder field, we reached camp 1. It sits perched on crazed and fantastic rocks just under the true start of the ridge. Tents are pitched wherever you can get them on previously leveled slabs above the long scramble into camp. It is protected from the worst of the weather and is the most comfortable encampment on the route. I was sharing a tent with Ian and Allun, two lads full of life and laughter, and though cramped, we worked well together. The stove burned with a reassuring roar as the brews began to flow and food soon followed. We had been eating piles down at base camp, now it was time to slim as consumption began to fall due to the altitude.

The ridge between camps 1 and 2 is epic. Soon after leaving camp 1 you clip onto the un-assuring fixed ropes which adorn the ridge like lazy, sun bleached cobwebs. At time you rely on them totally, hanging out and tiptoeing across bare slab, but when you see some of the fixings, you do wonder why. Typically they are made of three ply nylon with a little kernmantle thrown in for good luck. The pace was too hot for me to handle and Ben stayed with me as the others assaulted the rocks to Camp 2. Occasionally I would catch them at some obstacle, but again and again they were away in the distance as I lumbered on behind.

The final few hundred feet into Camp 2 are dominated by the fabled Yellow Tower. Only a few hundred feet high, it is vertical, hugely exposed and if you have vertigo (hint, hint), bloody terrifying! It hangs over a few hundred, nay thousand feet drop into a rocky oblivion where chances of fall survival would be almost nil. Top marks to the guys who led this pitch, as even in my most capable days I would have struggled at sea level, never mind altitude. I clipped my jumar onto the fixed line and just went for it. Believe me it wasn’t pretty watching me struggle and fight with the ropes and my ever nagging mind, but after what seemed forever I stood at the top and scrambled into the famed camp 2 – balancing quietly on the top of a huge pinnacle overlooking the ridge below.

The pictures you see in magazines do little to prepare you for this ‘Eagles Nest’ of a place. I collapsed into the tent and opened the rear zip from to throw my bag through, suddenly realizing that a sheer drop was staring at me. All over camp were fixed ropes to clip into, even if you went for a slash or further fun! The mountain towered above us from this point, and folk sat about discussing the summit push. I just wanted to sleep, but was repeatedly disturbed by folk on their mobile phones. Yes I know, five and a half thousand metres up a ridge and people were sending texts and chatting. What is the world coming to? I slept badly, awaking in the early hours to the voice of an American climber suffering with altitude sickness and going on and on about it over the radio. I was taught to send short, concise messages to save airtime and battery power. This guy was almost on a chat line!

Morning came and I scraped myself out of the tent into another sunny day. The grey tower stood above me and above that camp 3 with its perilous position under the fabled Dablam. Again we fought upwards, everyone off at breakneck speed, whilst I hobbled on, escorted by the patient Ben. The grey tower was at least a little easier and above it we clipped on crampons ‘at last!’ I thought. I feel much happier with spikes on my feet and almost kept pace with everyone else. I even ended up in front as we teetered across thin shelves that I would think nothing of on a Via Ferrata, but the ubiquitous three ply kept me swinging out over the abyss.

The final approach to camp 3 was over windslabbed neve onto a small plateau. Our guides had built camp and looked relaxed as we fought for every inch into camp. Miraculously I was the vanguard of the party and collapsed into the tent, tearing off my crampons and sorting out the stove. Outside the wind was beating across the mountain and above us stood the menacing layer caked Dablam. From a tiny shelf at base camp, she had become a monster cliff, looming over us. One by one the lads came in and a chaotic evening of cooking and trying to sleep ensued. As I lay entombed in my down bag all I could hear was the sound of the tent bouncing left and right under the tremendous strain of the elements. The plan was to be out for 4am. Well, that was the plan…

At 3am the alarms sounded. Allun, Ian and I crept out of our bags as the tent continued to flex and bounce. Screamed voices ricocheted through camp debating the issues of the day – the summit, and mans ability to fly unaided. Eventually we got out at 5am with voices form the Sherpa’s that the wind would be easier the higher we got. Now call me daft, but…

One by one we clipped onto the fixed ropes and set off. The morning was clear and the wind buffeting. I soldiered on accompanied by Dowa Sherpa and watched as the others disappeared into the distance ahead. With all my might I fought, for hour after hour to make it to the top. The sun rose, the wind blew, I flew over and then heard a call for me on the radio. I fumbled with the set, not wanting to expose my stumped fingers to the cold. It was Ben. The main party had made it to the summit, been greeted with poor views and bitter cold, and were heading down. As I pushed the radio into my jacket I saw them heading down. Within minutes Ben had reached me, but was the bearer of bad news. ‘Nige, the wind is awful and we’re out of time. I need you to turn back mate’. Even sitting writing this story now, those words run icy through my veins. All the work, all the effort seemed wasted, but I was shattered, cooling fast and could see the weather closing in. It was only 150 vertical metres to the top, but I knew Ben was right. How a heart faces such tragedy is hard to bear, but bear it I did and I turned around and began my decent. Dowa was determined to make it to the top and sped off at speed, summit bound.

Slowly I abseiled and slid home towards camp 3, my head down and heart broken. Camp 3 appeared below me, offering respite and refreshment, but as I got closer a scene of devastation revealed itself. The tents were smashed. Poles jutted from the torn cloth and we were forced down to camp 2. My physical body was failing, but thankfully my mind held, indeed strengthened for the battle ahead. I worked my way through the broken mass of ice and down towards the rock. One by one the lads passed me by one their way home, wishing me well and commiserating me at the same time.

My hands began to fail me and I began a long abseil with a safety rope attached, just in case. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was to play a major role over the coming minutes. I laid back and began to walk down when I became party to one of those cartoon moments I used to watch as a child. The rope suddenly went slack and for a moment I stood in mid air awaiting Wile E. Coyote or Tom and Jerry to come by. I gulped and hurtled down the slope with little control. Snow and ice plumed past my face and all I could see between the powder flying up were rocks galore below me, aching to smash my legs and ankles at best. After the rocks I would be airborne. My axe was locked in my harness and I knew that frontpointing my crampons would bring certain back flips. You may be asking ‘what about the safety rope?’ That was attached to Ben who was only a few feet above me as were falling together. The anchor had failed and we were attached. Wherever I went, he was going too. After about 80m we came to a gradual halt. A combination of soft snow, rucksacks digging in and Ben grabbing another rope and burning through his gloves managed to hold us. Teetering on a 75’ slope lying on your side is hardly safe, but it was better than the moments before. I controlled my hyperventilated breathing and considered my options. Only a few feet above me lay Ben with his crampons pointing towards my head. Before me and only a few feet away was a mass of old ropes and relative safety. With extreme delicateness I stepped across and grabbed a handful of rope, pulling the safety line behind me. My thoughts were ‘thank God’, Bens were ‘sorry about that!’

Down we went, eventually entering camp 2 after abseiling in the dark for an hour or two. There’s something nerve wracking about descending into the pitch black, hoping that something exists on which to stand. Still, modern head torches pierce the darkness well and thankfully the night was clear. I found my tent and met Allun and Ian, both laid out, dozing. They held little interest in eating where as expedition after expedition had taught me that food was paramount. I fired up the stove and got going…

Descending back to base camp should have been easier, but the weather closed in and brought classic Scottish conditions of wind and snow. I fumbled down the Yellow Tower and across to camp 1, again watching the lads sprint away. Ben and I sat in camp 1 with a well needed brew and then set off on the final leg. The boulder field was unwelcome, particularly as snow covered the rocks and made any route hazardous. I plodded on, keeping focused on the fact that base camp wasn’t far away and there would be rest and comfort. The conversation became more and more bizarre the lower we got, and my legs got slower, but a welcome recharge of tea brought up by a Sherpa got me home. I fell through the mess tent door, surprised that I was only 45 mins behind the rest. Being a sensible chap I immediately began rehydrating on San Miguel (classically brewed in Katmandu), before sleeping like the dead.

Back in the UK I sat considering my climb and what Ama Dablam had meant to me. I was physically exhausted, but mentally stronger than I had been for years. Ok, so I hadn’t made it to the summit, but so what. If we only climb to stand on the pinnacle then we will be very disappointed in our mountaineering lives. The journey, experience and friendship we share are paramount. The summit is a bonus, but for some a bonus which costs them dear. I could have indeed, stood on the top of Ama Dablam, but the journey home was perilous enough with the time we had. What would another couple of hours done?

Ladakh and Back...

Mon, 9 Feb 2009 14:04:16 +0000

Leaving Heathrow I had little idea what the next four weeks had in store for me. I’d read guidebooks and researched on the web, but these sources can only stir the senses, whereas being in the mountains gives the full experience. I was traveling with two climbing friends – Jamie & Clare Glazebrook, both seasoned travelers and previous visitors to Ladakh. Their stories and slides told me more than any guide…

Arriving in Delhi we had to visit the Indian Mountaineering Federation (IMF). Hardly the easiest place to find, it is the centre for administration and permits. We’d had a hell of a time organising our X mountaineering visas at home, due to numerous cock up’s their end. It is only thanks to Jamie that we got them at all. He had to make numerous visit to the Indian Consulate Office in Birmingham and got more mixed messages than we could cope with. First you didn’t need a visa, then you did, then it didn’t matter, then go anyway… The IMF were business like and asked for their $400 peak fee for Kang Yatse. It had to be in dollars and a receipt seemed impossible. We did get to meet our Liaison Officer, who was a great guy from Sikkim, but privately he said that all the bureaucracy was a waste of time and a money making exercise. I’d worked that one out already. No one seemed to be able to tell us where the funds were spent and rumour abound that it was all a money making exercise anyway. Their HQ was undergoing a refurbishment and piles of climbing wall kit was sat in the hallway gathering dust. Stuff the politics; it was time to get into the hills…

We took the overnight bus from Delhi to Manali and then jumped into jeeps bound for Leh. The next two days we drove some of the most incredible roads I have ever seen and crossed passes galore, including the Taglung La (5328m), the second highest drivable pass in the world. The road is carved out of cliff faces, occasionally metalled, but mainly rock, landslip and dust. Two days of driving really numbs your backside, but you never close your eyes.
Leh is an oasis of peace and relaxation. Travelers galore congregate here before disappearing into the Marka and Zanskar ranges, or just to forget reality. Half of them walked around like ghosts as if life had just forgotten them. The green fields of Leh are in sharp contrast to the dusty mountains and we spent a couple of days enjoying the climate and acclimatising. The town sits at 3500m, so driving gave us a great advantage over anyone who had flown direct from Delhi. I remember flying into La Paz some years ago and how bad I had felt. This time I was fine.

Talking with companies in Leh about visas and the difficulties, we found that many don’t even bother. No-one is there to check them and why spend the money seemed to be their attitude. Everyone knew of the difficulties, but high in the mountains people have a relaxed attitude and Delhi is a long was south.

In Leh was the HQ of RIMO Expeditions. Jamie had been talking with them for months to organise the trip and finally met everyone face to face. Here was a much more relaxed attitude to climbing and with our kit bags bulging we set off for the hills. The Marka Valley Trek draws thousands every year and for the first few days we would be surrounded by the crowds until we left the trail, bound for Stok Kangri. There are a few bottlenecks, particularly the cable bridge at Skiu, where everyone and everything is pulled across the river on a trolley. It’s a bit of an Indiana Jones job, but safe enough and brings a bit of excitement to the start of the trek. A lad from Sheffield came over to say hello. He was covered from head to foot in hats and scarf’s, and looked haggard. He’d got sunstroke after three days and was heading out. Here I was in shorts and T-shirt, feeling a bit worried. I needn’t have been as the weather broke the first afternoon and it rained on and off until the end of the trip. Ladakh is supposed to be in a rain shadow and receive very little during the summer months. Talking with the guides we found that nothing like this had been seen for ten years! The dusty paths turned to mud, your boots weighed heavy and slipping down the hillside was a real possibility. Having no toes makes trekking hard enough when conditions are good, but once the path deteriorates I really begin to struggle. I can’t feel my way as I once did and slipped downhill repeatedly, before almost walking backwards downhill as I crossed the mountain passes.

We reached Stok Kangri base camp after five days and tried to dry out. A rest day helped, but still the weather was changeable and unpredictable. Fresh snow sat on the peak and stories filled camp of thick cloud and poor climbing conditions. It was here that I met a steady stream of World Challenge groups all heading for the peak. It was wonderful to see so many youngsters wanting to adventure and climb across the world, although one or two were suffering the effects of altitude and a change in diet!

We moved to advance camp and set off for the summit at 2am. It was silent and clear for our attempt, but the sliding screes soon made the day rather interesting. I struggled to grip and couldn’t keep up with the others. I felt a bit embarrassed to be honest, but kept going slowly, slowly. My crampons and axe stayed firmly attached to my bag as what ice and snow there was could be easily crossed in safety. Below us were groups of dots, all torches following us up. I just kept my mind focused and slid down, walked up and slid down again. When we finally reached the ridge I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally I had something solid to walk on. Behind me the dawn began to break, and the sun illuminated mile after mile of snow, mountain and valley. The fine dust which covers Ladakh allows beautiful beams of light to shine out their glitter in the sky.

The summit stood only feet above my head, it’s lines of prayer flags waving in the breeze. The last few at least brought hard snow and I kicked my boots firmly in before hauling myself onto the top. Jamie and Clare had been there a minute or two and I suddenly realized how little you talk to eachother when at altitude. Once your head is down and the air is thin your mind closes off and fights a mental battle with your lungs to keep climbing.
I’ve carried a Union Flag up every peak for ten years, but this time I had a special occasion. A 96 year old Lady from my Hometown had presented me with one in memory of her husband. He had served in India during the Second World War and she had asked me to fly the flag from a summit. I unfurled it with pride and the picture was taken. I’m a great one for beating myself up inside, and here was no exception. My performance on the hill had been poor, or so I felt. Yet we had climbed it over an hour and a half faster than the guides thought. I had struggled with the height and compared it to other 6000m climbs I had done in the past, knowing full well that we had really pushed the acclimatisation time to get here. Over the next day or so things began to sink in a little more, but as a group, climbers do tend to push themselves hard and that can reflect in their attitude to life. Since suffering frostbite I have pushed myself more than I ever imagined possible. Next stop – Kang Yatse

Standing at around 6500m (it depends which map you buy), Kang Yatse 1 is what the X mountaineering visa was all about. It’s sister peak, Kang Yatse 2 needs no paperwork and is regularly climbed by large groups, but is a 6000m snow plod. Peak 1 holds exposed steep snow and looked fresh and clean as we approached it from Nimaling. It was of course piles of new and possibly unstable snow which made my mind race. As we got closer the weather closed in again, bringing rain and even a day of driving wet snow at base camp. High on the peak the cloud closed in and I thought we would never get out of camp, let alone try a summit attempt. Thankfully the weather cleared and we managed to get to high camp. Our sherpas had made a superhuman effort to establish the camp high on the SE ridge and without them we could not have even got close. Climbing to high camp was a horrible experience. Laden down with big bags and trying to negotiate horrific scree drained us physically and mentally, but eventually we piled into the tents. Here we were in the heavens on a ridge only a few feet wider than the tent and the summit close at hand. The problem was that we shouldn’t have been there at all. The normal route had been blocked as high camp had been washed away by either rock or icefall. It looked the much more approachable and shorter route too.

Dawn broke with a steady breeze and we set off. The route was just like a steady alpine ridge, but the snow was powder and the rocks loose. Time and time again I slipped and didn’t feel as if I could trust my crampons. Thankfully the air was mild and we were dressed as for a Scottish winters day. The summit came into view and, as ever with these things, looked awfully close. The illusion was broken by the fact of the ridge getting more and more technical and we were running out of steam. Jamie was struggling after yesterday’s exertions and had to stop for food and water. It wasn’t just Jamie though. We were all fighting this battle and losing. The end of our efforts soon came as we hit a large and blank looking rock band. It was over. Though the summit was only a few hundred feet about us, we had to turn back. We were exhausted, the snow was melting into porridge and downhill would not be fun.
We made it safely back to high camp in a couple of hours and set off down the screes to Base. It was after dark when I walked in, footsore and shattered, but with no regrets. I work in a business world of demands, power and personal development. It’s almost forced down your neck every day by e-mail and management memo, but in mountaineering none of this matters. We hadn’t been defeated by a failing project or world business climate, just good old fashioned climbing. Should we push people so far that they feel the need to succeed whatever the conditions? There would be fewer of us if we did. Summit fever costs lives and we only have the one to play with. Could we have made it to the summit? Perhaps, I don’t know, but would we have made it back? Now, there’s another question… and perhaps a lesson to all you high-powered executives out there.

Back in Delhi the IMF eagerly awaited our report. It was now explained to us that all reports were being used to construct web pages of information for future expeditions to use. Now why hadn’t they told us that to start with? I didn’t have the heart to ask about funding and where it goes and accepted my IMF trekking hat with a smile.

Once Bitten - Chapter 1

Thu, 1 May 2008 08:46:36 +0100

Approach 
“There’s the Alaskan Alps Guys!” screamed the pilot. He pointed vigorously towards a cluster of small jagged peaks down to our left. The din of the engine was overpowering and I struggled to hear him through the aged headphones strapped to my head. I peered over the nosecone and noticed a clutch of peaks dwarfed by the monsters of the Alaska Range which surrounded us with their towers of ice and snow, stretching as far as the eye could see. In moments they were gone. Only half an hour ago we had left the sugar-coated pines of Talkeetna behind us and now we were dodging the mountain tops heading for the Kahiltna Glacier. I was wedged in the co-pilots seat of a four-seat Cessna ski plane and my feet were pushing my knees up almost into my chin. I rattled from top to bottom as the plane buffeted along and before me dials galore confused my eyes with their needles whizzing round. Behind me were Steve and Ant, crammed side by side into the tail section with the climbing gear and supplies. “How’s it going lads?” I shouted, but there was no reply. They were busy staring out of the windows and anyway, it was too loud to hear me. I turned back to do some staring myself but inside I felt tired and queasy. I’d suffered a long night lying in my bunk. Jet lag kept me awake and I’d coughed the house down from my dry, wheezy chest. I’d thrown some tablets down my throat and managed a few hours precious sleep before I had to force myself out of bed. I had risen early to take my last shower, knowing that on my return the classic climbing odour of stale sweat and caked on food would have taken its hold.

Suddenly the mountains parted and below us lay the Kahiltna Glacier. Burning sunlight beamed up from the snow but in the distance I could just make out a small cluster of dots on the ice. It was base camp. The pilot threw the stick forward and right and swooped down at a near vertical angle for the runway. I hate flying in these little cans and detest landing but I wasn’t going to admit it. I gripped the seat and clenched my teeth. ‘Some bloody climber I am,’ I thought. The plane leveled off and we began our approach onto the ice. Outside it was a near perfect day and I noticed a lonely windsock flapping in the breeze. Seconds later we hit the ice with a reassuring bump, shot up the slope, did a handbrake turn and stopped. “Here we are guys, it’s all yours,” the pilot said comically. The roller coaster ride was over. To him this was just a normal day in the office.

I pulled the door open to be hit with the fresh, biting cold mountain air. My cheeks tightened and my breath clouded as I jumped out onto the iron like ice. “Thank God that’s over”, I whispered. I was a bit shaken, but not stirred. I knew the flight home would do the same to me but that was weeks away and my mind had more important things to consider. Steve and Ant bundled themselves out and began tossing kit out onto the ice. There were 120lbs of food, tents, climbing gear and equipment for each of us to carry. From this moment on we had to be self-sufficient until our return to the town of Talkeetna, three weeks climbing and forty minutes flight time away.

In the corner of my eye I noticed a little bundled figure bounding down the slope towards us. She waved her arms with joy and screamed “Hi guys! I’m Annie; I’m the ranger here. Welcome to Camp!” She was based on the glacier to register climbing groups on and off the range and was always glad to see a few new faces. Her face was deeply tanned but I could see little else of her under all the layers of fleece and down. What did shine out was her personality. She was a bundle of fun and obviously loved being on camp. She lived in a plastic cabin just off the runway with a view out the front door to die for. Mts. Foraker and Hunter stared right in her face. They soared above the glacier with a perfect blue sky to silhouette them against the snow.

The air was now silent save for the distant buzz of the Cessna and Annie said, “There’s a good camping spot already dug out if you want it.” Before any of us could get a word in she was tearing off up the slope to our prospective home for the night. We dragged the bags up the snow to a large flat terrace which had been dug deep into the snowy bank. “It only wants a bit of tidying up lads and we’re in,” said Steve in a happy voice. A dump of fresh snow had recently fallen making it an easy job to square off the walls and make our nightly home. We had more gear to come but it was delayed until late afternoon, so we pitched the tents and set about cutting ice blocks to build a wall around camp. The weather in the Alaska Range can be fierce. Winds in excess of 100mph and storms lasting for days at a time are not uncommon, even at base camp. If you leave your tent exposed in such conditions the wind will pick it up and roll it down the glacier, complete with you and all your kit in it. It would be like watching a paper bag blow around a field.

I walked down towards Annie’s hut and grabbed four gallons of white gas and three sledges. I had never towed a sledge before as on my previous climbing exploits we had used porters. Up here, you’re on your own - what you take, you carry. This is what makes McKinley such an epic challenge. Steve loaded his kitbag onto a sledge, roped it onto his harness and tried a pull. After only a few feet it had rolled over, tumbled down the slope and dragged him staggering behind it. Ant and myself sniggered like a couple of school lads. We tried the same and Steve had his laugh. There is nothing worse than looking like a bunch of idiots before a group of people, particularly climbers. You are supposed to know exactly what you are doing at all times and look calm and collected. Bravado can soon take over. A few choice words were said but after a couple of hours we had mastered the art of sledge pulling. One thing did worry me though. I’d heard horror stories of sledge pulling on McKinley. It was the one thing you never forgot. The constant drag of it behind you and the fear of falling into a crevasse with it dragging you down niggled at the back of my mind but there was nothing I could do about it. 
The camp was up, kit was packed and there was nothing to do. Boredom began to creep in. “I could take a wander around camp and see who else is here,” I thought to myself. I grabbed my cup of tea and stood up straight to scan the clusters of stationary tents. The scene was reminiscent of the trenches in World War I. Shelters were dug deep into the snow and equipment was lying around drying under the sun. The few people who were around dodged the cold shadows and ran from tent to tent. I hardly said a word to anyone and wandered along with my thoughts.

Shade began to cloak the valley and I felt the cold begin to bite. I walked back to camp, pulled on my down jacket and got inside the tent. The stoves were roaring away as Ant boiled pans of water for a brew. I always find the sound of a stove reassuring. If you can brew up then all is usually fine with the world and it is almost physically impossible to drink too much tea, coffee and hot chocolate when you’re on a mountain. Ant rattled the cooking pans and served up our first meal of the trip. Mashed potato, beef jerky and a special Ant sauce. It was marvelous. When everything around you is frozen solid, the warm feeling that food gives you inside is a dream. Ant had a large bag of spices hidden away in the gear and he intended to use a good dose of them in every meal. Expedition food has the reputation of being very dull, but not with Ant. He was an excellent and imaginative cook. With every bite I could feel my throat tingle but the aftertaste kept me burping all evening.

Within the hour we had eaten up, cleaned up, and were huddled inside our sleeping bags trying to keep what little warmth we had inside us. “Don’t worry lads, I’ll keep you warm” cried Ant. I looked across to his tent and saw an outstretched hand clutching a bottle of whisky. “Here, try a spot of this!” Ever since I had known Ant he had always been a bit of a lad and as ever he had come prepared. Drinking alcohol in the cold doesn’t warm you up at all but the bravado between the three of us had got its way and we all threw a large dram down our throats. I felt it burn reassuringly as it sank into my stomach and I coughed like a barking hound. My throat was still sore.

I laid back and stared up at the tent roof. I breathed out and watched the cloud of mist turn into millions of tiny ice crystals. They were stationary for only a moment before I felt them rain cold down on my face and melt into my skin. We were here at last. The months of planning and training had ended and tomorrow we would be off up the glacier to begin the long drag to McKinley - kit, sledges and all. Inside I felt relaxed, happy and cold. The adventure had begun.

My eyes burst open in the early hours. I needed the toilet and I needed it now! I tried to ignore the impending pain of my overanxious bladder, but it was no good. I hadn’t got a piss bottle in the tent yet, so I forced myself out of my bag and sprinted down the glacier to the toilet. The rangers have built permanent ones on camp to prevent contamination of the ice and they insist you use them. It was so cold that my piss froze as it hit the ground and my hands fumbled at the zip with a numbing throb as I tried to pull it closed. “Come on, work you little bastards!” I mumbled as I forced my fingers to respond. They had only been exposed for a few seconds but it had been enough to numb them to the bone. I ran back to the tent and buried myself inside my bag in an attempt to warm up. When I eventually got up at 7.30am, I looked at the thermometer on my watch, it was still –15C in the tent. I dreaded to think what it had been earlier. My feet were cold and I was shivering. I reached out to open the tent zip and was instantly hit by a shower of ice, which rained down from the roof. “Bloody hell!” I cried. Tiny crystals ran across my neck and began to melt down my spine. It wasn’t a good start to the day.

Soon the stoves were roaring but the water took an age to boil. A single pan needed almost an hour to turn from its freezing state to bubbling. I could feel an unsaid air of concern rise over the camp. Ant looked out from his tent door “We’d better take another can of fuel up top I think, “he said. Steve and I agreed. It would be extra weigh, but we needed it.

We left camp and descended the gentle slope of Heartbreak Hill, before turning right and moving up onto the main flow of the Kahiltna. The sledge began banging into my heels with an incessant tap, tap, tap. I tried re-setting the ropes but no matter what I did the tapping returned. It didn’t take long to get me really wound up but by the time I had sorted out the knots we had walked to the bottom of the slope and were pulling uphill on the Kahiltna. Sanity returned. Before us a beautifully carved path was running right up the centre of the ice, weaving only here and there where a crevasse blocked the straight route.

The sun beat down on us with a vengeance and sweat ran down my back. I looked at Steve. He was still in his fleece jacket. “It keeps the sun off the back of my neck” was his reason but it would have killed me to wear mine. It must have reached over 30C on the exposed glacier and I plastered enough sun cream on my face to resemble the entire Aussie Cricket Team. It felt cool against my skin but it blocked the pores and just made the sweating worse than ever. I was carrying 60lb on my back and towing the same on my sledge. My shoulders felt ok under the rucksacks weight but my waist felt sore round the edges of my hips with the sledge’s incessant pulling. As soon as you stopped walking, the sledge would drift back downhill but at least it didn’t pull you backward too hard and it was easy enough to start again.

After a couple of hours we stopped for a brew and took a break. When you are fully concentrating on what you are doing, where every foot is going, getting your breathing right and keeping body and soul together, you forget who and what is around you. We hadn’t talked much except for a few shouts here and there. Being tied 30 feet apart and roped together doesn’t do much for conversation. I sat down on my rucksack and stared in awe at the size of the surrounding peaks which were almost exclusively white from top to bottom, save the occasional rocky outcrop sticking out from the ice. They looked close enough to touch but they were over a mile away. The glacier seemed a never-ending expanse of icy desert, barren and empty but for the now distant drone of a plane descending to base camp, or the odd climbing party slogging up the plateau. I find a great deal of inner peace when I’m in these surroundings and all of work’s stresses and strains seem to melt away in the silent snows. “ The boss can do what the hell he likes now, I don’t care a toss,” I thought to myself. It is pitiful that it takes a place such as this to let me clear my thoughts and empty my mind. I got so involved with my work most of the time that everything else got blanked out. Relationships, family, friends, all seemed to suffer because of my job. It’s a lame excuse I know but work had been much of my life for the past 14 years. Only climbing and expeditions had ever kept me sane.

Steve led the rope, Ant brought up the rear and I was sandwiched in the middle. After only a few hours on the ice I had noticed the two very different attitudes between them. Steve was the leader, ready to try anything and lead by example. Ant was happy just plodding along making sure everyone was ok and playing Tail End Charlie. I was happy to do either and everyone seemed happy enough. It was 7pm before we reached the cut off for the Kahiltna North east Fork (or Death Valley) and built our Camp 1.

Most climbers tend to attempt the Washburn Route and camp here before continuing up the ice for another mile or so but we were keeping well away from the commercial enterprises and heading for the hopefully peaceful West Rib. There was no luxury of an empty hole to pitch our tents this time, so we grabbed the shovels and set about the snows with a vengeance. For years I had worked on road gangs smashing up tarmac and concrete, so shifting the soft snow was a joy. I paced out the hole to be about 15 feet square and 4 feet deep. We piled a good wall around the edges and got on with the domestic side of climbing – food! I was aching for a cup of tea and a bite to eat.

I hadn’t long finished scraping the last morsels of food from my pot when I glanced down at my watch and noticed the time – it was five to eight. “Who’s got the radio?” I asked. “It’s nearly time for Annie’s weather forecast”. There was a rustle from behind me and out popped the handset. The Air Taxi office in Talkeetna had supplied us with the only means of contact with the outside world. I had been in the mountains many times before and never had communication with base but just consider your position. If anything goes wrong with the radio - that’s it. There’s no mobile phone or calling for help out here. No voice in the outside world to talk to – nothing – no one. This little piece of kit was of paramount importance to us all.

Climbers know the effect the weather can have on them – it can mean the difference between a summit attempt or not, a life or a death. I turned on the handset and through the crackles came Annie’s distant voice. Tomorrow would be cloudy, warm and quite bearable but we would be in crevasse country and visibility would be everything. Walking under a white sky against a white floor full of white crevasses would be difficult if not impossible. I forced my way out of the tent door and stood outside staring down the glacier. I sipped away at a cup of steaming tea and contemplated the day. We had worked well together and pulled all our gear up to camp 1. I glanced at my watch and was shocked to see it was 10.30pm. The light evening had fooled me into thinking that it was much earlier. I was still used to the sunset times back home but we were much further north now and darkness hardly fell. It only took a dim light to fall onto the ice to make it seem like the daylight I was used to. I slurped down the last dregs from my cup, tossed it inside the tent porch and eased my stiff body into my sleeping bag.

After the exertions of yesterday, we got up late. The sledge towing had taken its toll on our backs and muscles. I reached out a cold hand and suddenly stopped myself. I remembered what would happen the minute I rattled the tent – the morning ice shower would come! I carefully pulled everything away from the tent door before daring to touch the zip. With a gentle ease I slowly pulled it back and spilled not one crystal. Outside it was bright and cold with very little wind - a perfect morning but I could feel a dull ache inside my head. I still had a terrible cold and threw down a couple of headache tablets to help numb the pain. Packing up the camp warmed me up bodily but my hands were suffering badly. I hadn’t felt the cold like this at such a low altitude before. 63 degrees north (the Arctic Circle is 66.5 degrees north) makes the summers bright but cold and height for height, McKinley is colder than Everest.

A ghostly cloud began to roll silently out of Death Valley but occasionally the West Rib broke through. It was a four-mile pull to get to the base and we had managed over seven the day before. The map showed dense crevasse fields but with a little skill and patience they could be overcome. In Talkeetna, the Rangers had briefed us about the dangers of Death Valley. It was renowned for avalanches but this year we were lucky. Snow had not built up on the cliffs and we were about to be the first people in two years to enter it. Imagine that. There are few places left in the world where no foot has trodden for so long. The last century has seen man extend his grasp on the world and hardly a place is left where we don’t go but imagine being that first man. It would be like casting your eyes on a lost Amazonian city or some untouched jungle. It would be clean, perfect and untouched.

We left camp and began the drag into Death Valley. There were no tracks to guide us now, no footprints to follow. Today’s success or failure was going to be down to good navigation, skill and old-fashioned luck. This time I led but with no bag to weigh me down - just snowshoes and walking poles. It was my job to spot the crevasses, find a safe way through them and guide the lads as they followed on behind me. Steve took the middle of the rope and once again Ant brought up the rear. After quickly covering the flat ground, a frozen labyrinth reared its ugly head before me. Deep down the ice was breaking itself apart with enormous pressure and bringing to the surface the fractures it created - crevasses. My eyes flashed from left to right as I mapped in my mind the best way through the maze. It looked an awesome undertaking to find a way through but I wound my way through the first sections with some success. We crossed a large ice bridge but behind us the cloud was forming high in the valley and tumbling downward. The visibility dropped in minutes and I felt exhausted from the incessant start stop of crevasse navigation. The temperature fell dramatically and ice crystals began to glitter through the air.

We were forced to make camp. Despite our hardest efforts we had only covered three miles all day but we had gained some height and distance. It’s easy to be self critical in situations like this and at that I was expert. Annie’s voice rang out at 8pm with tomorrows forecast. Light winds, snow showers and mild temperatures.

I walked a few feet away from camp, stared blankly into the distance and closed my eyes. A slow shiver ran up my spine but it wasn’t from the cold - an inner peace was filling up my soul. I felt strangely alone and in a perfect environment - no litter, no smells, and no noise, just me. I was rid of the world of mobile phones, pagers, five o’clock deadlines and traffic jams. The months of pollution were clearing from my lungs in the clean, cold air. It was a wonderful moment. “Tea’s up Nige!” shouted Ant. The moment was lost but not forgotten.

A dull rumbling woke me in the night. I prised my eyes apart and whilst my mind considered whether I was dreaming or asleep it dawned on me what was going on – it was an avalanche! I jumped up but I soon realised that it was a long way up the valley and anyway, if it were going to engulf me, it would have already done it. The tons of ice and snow thudded along for a few moments and silence reigned again.

The next time I opened my eyes the tent was illuminated with bright sunlight and the air felt warm. I stuck my hand outside to find soft powdery snow falling silently to the ground. Cocooned in my downy bag, I felt little like getting up, but we had to climb. Last night we had decided to go back down to camp 1 today and bring up all the supplies we had left behind. This was going to be not only a technical climb but also a logistical one. Supplies had to be ferried up and down the route whilst still wanting to make the summit and be back home in three and a half weeks.

In just over an hour we were back down at camp 1, a journey which yesterday had taken seven. A few scattered tents had taken up residence but they were deserted. Tracks lay in lines heading up the glacier but one set had left the motorway and followed ours. An American team were joining us on the West Rib. Their progress was slow but they were carrying over thirty days worth of food and supplies. We had met them briefly at base camp and already seemed like old friends.

We hauled our way back to camp 2 laden with all we needed, leaving the rest for our return. We soon approached the American’s Camp and saw a ghostly figure shaking a thermos flask. Tony, Steve, Geoff and Barbara fed us hot juice and talked of routes, crevasses and radios. They had flattened their batteries by leaving the set on by mistake one evening. They could receive no weather reports or advise base camp of their position so we agreed to give Annie a shout later and to keep in touch when we could. They seemed an experienced team and looked hardened climbers. All the men wore thick beards and beaming smiles while Barbara wore a bronze tan and had deep brown hair which flicked in the wind. We joked about the weather and drank more juice before saying our goodbyes and heading off to camp.

That evening the suns shadow fell across the valley with eclipse like speed. The temperature fell similarly but my face was still burning from the heat of the sun. I plastered on thick cream every day but the UV was still getting through. My nose stung and both my earlobes were peeling.

The next morning was bitter cold and we lay in until the sun warmed the tent. It was just too cold to bear. We buried half the food and fuel and set off for camp 3. As usual, Steve led with me in the middle and Ant bringing up the rear. Armed with snowshoes, Steve crossed the snow bridges and navigated our path. The warm sunshine was softening the ice, making the bridges a serious problem but with great care Steve straddled the cracks and shouted their position back.

I approached an unassuming looking depression in the snow, strode over the crack and shifted my body weight forward. Suddenly I flew forward, dropping onto the floor out of control. Before I had time to scream, I had sunk up to my armpits. My feet flayed around, but there was nothing below me but emptiness. A silence filled the air and everything seemed still. I opened my eyes and looked out only inches above the floor. My arms were stuck out sideways and ice was pushing hard into my armpits. I caught my breath and realised what had happened. I was up to my chest in a crevasse and jammed tight by my rucksack. I felt the sledge give a dull thud as it tapped against my back. My heart was racing at breakneck speed and my lungs pumped air frantically. “Think about what you’re doing Nigel”, I nervously thought to myself “calm down for Gods sake or you’ll never get out!” Neither Steve nor Ant could help as they were holding the rope tight to stop me going down any further. I was on my own. I threw my feet out looking for the icy walls of the crevasse. Both crampons bit into good ice and with a gentle push, they took my weight. Thank God I had got my crampons on. My ski poles flapped uselessly as I tried to get a purchase on the snow above. They were a hindrance still strapped to my wrists, so I ripped them off and flung them away. Slowly I stood up and rolled forward onto the snow. I gave a deep breath and smiled. I was safe. I began to laugh but I don’t know why. I had hardly cheated death by any means but my nerves just lost control and I howled. I fell twice more that afternoon, and laughed every time.

The ground began to steepen as we approached the head of the valley. Before us stood the Icefall. It is a well-known landmark and stories abound of its difficulties. Many climbers suffer nightmare journeys through this short section of ice and straight away we could see why. We had to rig pulleys to drag the sledge and fought for every foot of ground. Pressure ridges towered ice 40ft above our heads and navigating a path between them seemed almost impossible. We just kept coming up against dead ends. Tension began to rise as time went by and eventually we camped in the maze. It was a precarious place to stay the night but we had little choice. Steve buried all the snow stakes and ice screws we had and roped the tent up. Ant and I started digging. The snow soon gave way to ice and axes replaced shovels. I broke into a crevasse at one point and we had to move camp. A magenta sunset flooded the valley ending the day, which seemed the only conciliation for our work. I skulked into the tent and dug out a bottle of whisky. We toasted the day in a somewhat uneasy mood and closed up shop for the night. The uneven floor pushed into my back but I didn’t care, I was so tired I could have slept on a clothesline and within minutes I was gone.

Next morning the sun was high in the sky but the Cassin Ridge leered its shadow over our tents and it was still icy cold. In the distance I saw four dots approaching our last camp. The American Team was catching up. All they had to do was keep following our tracks and although nothing was said at the time I could feel the air of a race had begun.

Steve and Ant looked over the horizon to find a path through the maze. Before us lay a tremendous crevasse with no obvious way round. “Nothing for it lads, we’ll just have to go through it,” said Steve confidently. We tried setting up a pulley for the bags but it was no good. Instead they were dragged down by hand whilst I climbed out the other side. I smashed my crampons into the ice but they had little effect. My axes did little better. The ice was as hard as iron and brittle as glass. Halfway up I tried to get an ice screw into the wall but it just sheared it away. ‘Sod it’ I thought, ‘I’ll just have to risk it’. Blow after blow I plodded my axes and crampons up the face sending shattered ice down onto Ant and Steve. I threw an arm over the top and buried my axe shaft into the snow above. I was safe. In quick procession Steve and Ant followed me, but it had taken over an hour to travel just 100yds.

Eventually we pulled into camp 3. It was late in the evening and the sun was fading. I was starving. Dried food isn’t usually appetising but with a little flair Ant cooked up a delicious meal of minute rice and reindeer jerky. Your food goes from piping hot to stone cold in minutes, so manners are minimal. I could have eaten loads more but you have to balance weight with volume. What you carry you can take. Fortunately I had feasted for the last few weeks before coming out and put half a stone on but already it was vanishing fast.

Annie’s voice brought us a changing forecast with stiffening winds and snow showers on the cards. We were now over 11,000ft above sea level and the first twinges of altitude were beginning to bite.

Once Bitten - The Book

Sun, 27 Jan 2008 12:19:16 +0000

Once Bitten is the story of my fateful climb on Mt. McKinley in Alaska during May 1999 and my recovery back to climbing.
 I suffered severe frostbite and was pulled off the mountain in the highest altitude helicopter rescue in North American history.  The story propelled me into the media spotlight and was the subject of a Discovery Channel/Channel 4 Documentary in 2007.

It will be available from March 2008 to order at all good bookshops and via Amazon.co.uk

Seventh Heaven

Sat, 27 Oct 2007 01:34:27 +0100

It was with some trepidation that I boarded the plane to Madagascar. The final chapter in my 7 x 7 challenge was about to begin. Before me lay fourteen days hard mountain trekking to climb Maramokoto, the final peak to setting the British mountaineering record.
My guide for the journey, Aristide Hery had everything in place and we quickly left the town of Diego Suarez bound for the Tsaratahana Massif. Madagascan roads are notoriously bad and our 4WD was tested to the limit before we stopped in the small village of Amborondolo. From here we were on foot, all eight of us. The party consisted of myself, Aristide and six porters, as we had to be predominantly self-sufficient for the next two weeks.  It took seven days of hard mountain trekking to reach Maramokoto. We crossed baking savanna, hacked through dense forest, waded up to out chests in swirling rivers and spent every night under canvas. This was not a trip for the faint-hearted. My feet ached permanently as my skin grafts fought with the non-stop pounding of up to 20 miles a day. I pampered them every evening but could see the wear and tear they were suffering. I don’t think the doctors had imagined me trekking this far!  Village life is fairly relaxed in these parts and I became the subject of much curiosity. A few simple words and gestures went a long way in bringing our two very different cultures closer.  And so summit day came, the landscape began to change from its forest and scrubland taking on an almost peak district view. It reminded me on Bleaklow and Kinder Scout in my home county of Derbyshire. Peat bog, granite outcrops and deep pools littered the landscape with Maramokoto standing silently above them. I walked to the summit cairn, placed my hand on its rocks and stared silently into the distance, the time was 12.08pm on the 12th October 2007. My challenge was complete. You may think that emotion would have overtaken me but inside I felt empty and quiet. Was this because the challenge was over? I didn’t know and it took many days for my achievement to begin sinking in.

What did follow was an epic jungle journey, demanding 15 hours of hacking through dense bamboo groves and fallen trees. We ended up clambering down to the rivers edge in the pitch black trying to find a campsite for the night. It was a day I will never forget. I pitched my tent on a rock ledge and slept an uneasy sleep. When I awoke the next morning I found myself perched on the waters edge a quarter of a mile off course. We waded down stream to regain the path and left the forests behind us. It took another four long days of savanna trekking before I finally crossed the last river and boarded a 4WD for home. My body was spent, my feet were aching and my walking boots had collapsed, but I had survived unhurt, climbed the mountain and set my British record.  Upon my return home I was asked why I had undertaken this challenge. “They are not the worlds highest peaks.” I was told. “ Why bother?" Some of the questions stung deeply and I found the only real question people seemed interested in was why I hadn’t climbed Mount Everest.  Wasn’t a British record enough?