15

The Politics of a Mountain

The scene under the Hillary Step was still weighing on me. It had been crazy up there, close to catastrophic. Did people understand what it really took to climb Everest these days? Twenty-four hours earlier, I’d scrolled back to the photo of those waiting climbers. Then I logged into Facebook and Instagram and uploaded the images, not for one second picturing the political headache to come.

Before long, my shot of one hundred and fifty climbers, clustered along the thin ridge below the Hillary Step was pinging around the world. On social media I received click after click, like after like, and while a lot of the attention was focused upon the chaos of that morning, the image’s quality had helped too.

As any high-altitude mountaineer will testify, it’s tough to take a half-decent picture above 8,000 metres. Because of the detrimental effects that altitude can have on the body and brain, the simple act of taking off the gloves, rummaging around in a pocket for a camera, and then pointing and shooting can be bloody knackering. If someone wants a portrait, lifting the camera to take a selfie can be challenging in itself, and not a lot of Sherpas were qualified photographers. Unless the climber is fortunate, a lot of shots that come back from Death Zone expeditions are blurry or out of focus. But I’d got lucky.

While waiting to leave Makalu’s base camp, with Phase One of Project Possible smashed, I scrolled through my laptop, emailing potential investors and sponsors, reminding them I was well on track to completing my mission. Then a friend, who was a professional photographer, messaged me with an idea. What if I sold the Everest picture? So many people were commenting on it; plenty of others were sharing it with their mates, and one or two climbers had even asked for a copy. Could this be a clever way to drum up some extra funding?

I advertised the print online, offering to sign a limited number of copies and slapped on a price tag of three hundred quid. I wasn’t entirely sure of how much money I could expect to make, but I was keen to make up the shortfall in financing for Phase Two. I needed all the help I could get.

One of the things that I’d learned by living in Nepal was that Everest makes money – a lot of money. Where there’s money, there’s politics. And whenever politics arrives, trouble is sure to follow. Apparently, a number of people had registered complaints with the Nepalese government about my posting the image from the Hillary Step on social media and were accusing me of working to give the country a bad name, which was bullshit – the truth was that well over one hundred people had approached the mountain at once, all of them hoping to top out during what was a very short weather window of three days.

(Interestingly, some of the complaints came from people that were either directly or indirectly connected to guiding companies that were rivals to Elite Himalayan Adventures. Some of them even asked the government to ban me from climbing in the Himalayas, which would have prevented me from finishing Project Possible.)

When the authorities learned that I was hoping to make a little extra cash from the same photograph, they called me in for a meeting, but the cat was very much out of the bag by then. After leaving Base Camp, the picture had gathered 4,000 comments on Instagram and was being splashed across newspapers and websites, but an incorrect version of what had taken place underneath the Hillary Step was circulating and, in many people’s minds, my photo was being misconstrued as a daily event. Suddenly the public were calling for a cap on the number of climbers allowed onto the mountain.

The backlash was fierce. Certain social media voices seemed sceptical about its authenticity. They claimed I’d created the image to draw attention to the politics surrounding the mountain, the environment, or to hype up my mission, but they hadn’t heard my side of the story. Figures in the mountaineering community were reacting angrily, too.

In the Nepali Times, a climber and a good friend of mine, Karma Tenzing – who had summited Everest a week prior to my summit push – was explaining how the mountain had been quiet during his ascent. He’d also posted a photo of the empty ridgeline arguing, rightly, that my experience had been a once-in-a-season occurrence. (Though once-in-a-season was surely too much, when the risks were so high.)

‘It has been portrayed around the world as an everyday event at the summit,’ he complained, in an article entitled, ‘Most Days It’s Not So Crowded on Mt Everest’.

But Karma’s anger wasn’t being aimed at me; he seemed frustrated at the kneejerk reaction to my viral photo that claimed the annual number of people climbing Everest should be capped. He later argued on Twitter against restricting access:

 

Weird seeing non-mountaineers voice opinions about the rush to summit of #Everest. No, don’t cap the number of climbers! These are ‘real’ climbers who’ve paid their dues & are qualified & remain. With only 3–4 clear window days to summit, this will happen every darn year. I feel you should voice yourself only if you’ve been in the mountains and climbed the deadly Khumbu Icefall trying to avoid any killer falling ice, climbed to Camp 3 with brute jumar strength pulling yourself up for hours and hours and then to Camp 4 where the air has hardly any oxygen. Finally making it to the summit, dead tired after 12 hours of intense climbing (with 3 days of no sleep & non-stop walking) only chocolate bars for nutrition. After that, making it down to Base Camp walking for 2 days calculating every step in case you slip & fall. Only then, I’ll hear your opinion. PS: Even with very little climbers on the 15th and 16th, folks perished in Camp 4 and above. In the end, the climb to the summit ain’t a catwalk or easy as in photos. #Stupidity.

 

I couldn’t argue with his position. When I eventually returned to Kathmandu, I was invited to meet with several concerned politicians, including representatives from the Department for Tourism. They wanted to know what I’d experienced and why I’d decided to sell my photograph. That annoyed me. The previous day, I scanned through Google Images, checking for evidence that other people had taken a similar picture, either from that summit push, or any other year. There were dozens and dozens. By the time of my appointment, I was feeling a little slighted. Why the fuck are they picking on me? I arrived with a PowerPoint presentation on my laptop and a gallery of old images detailing the queues on Everest.

‘Is it because I’m trying to do something different?’ I asked, when we settled down to talk. ‘So far I’ve been nailing these mountains in the way I said I would. I’m putting the focus back on to the Sherpas with our work, too. So why are you treating me as the enemy? I’m not the first one to take this kind of picture. It just so happened it was my picture that captured a lot of attention.’

I registered one or two nods of understanding around the table. Someone pointed out that a number of complaints had been raised regarding the fact I was selling my photo online, and it was their job to get to the bottom of what was happening on Everest.

‘Yes, fine,’ I said, ‘but let’s get to the point: the queue is there. If you’re saying it’s a bad situation, why don’t we do something about it? Are you just going to hide it? Or, now that everybody knows about it, are you going to fix it? This situation can cost peoples’ lives. It’s been like this for years, but it doesn’t have to be so crazy. Maybe the time to make a change is now.’

I worried that their first suggestion when looking to correct the issue of congestion on Everest might involve a financial adjustment. A number of people online had proposed that the overcrowding problem was solvable by simply increasing permit costs. If the price point became much higher, they argued, fewer people would feel inclined to visit Everest. Meanwhile, the government could still make the same yearly profits from those adventurers with the cash and determination to climb. But it pissed me off that certain people in Nepal, and beyond, wanted to reduce Everest to a luxury available only to the very rich.

‘Whatever you decide, can you please not increase the cost of climbing Everest?’ I said. ‘A price shouldn’t be placed on nature. The mountains are there to be enjoyed by all.’

I then explained that, sure, there was an argument for introducing certain restrictions on who could climb and when, but they had to be fair. For example, the problem was easily fixed by creating a qualification system. As with Gurkha Selection, the process would be designed to weed out those that could, from those that couldn’t.

For example, if a mountaineer was able to prove that they’d successfully topped out on an 8,000-er, such as Manaslu or Cho Oyu, only then could they apply for a permit to climb Everest. (Or perhaps they could climb a series of 6,000- and 7,000-metre peaks in Nepal, which would generate more money for the local community.) Adjusting the Everest climbing calendar might help in the future, too.

The problems I’d encountered in 2019 were down to the fact that the lines on Everest had been fixed very late in the mountaineering season, and that had created a backlog of climbers waiting to make their summit push. Once the ropes were set, everybody made their ascent from Base Camp at the same time, creating the traffic jam I’d witnessed under the Hillary Step. Resolving that logistical issue would also help to ease congestion.

‘How about we fix the lines on Everest a month earlier, in April, when the season starts? So, when people arrive they can have a full month to pick and choose when they’d like to summit.’

The people at the table nodded and told me my suggestions would be taken under consideration. The pressure upon them was rising. Eleven mountaineers had died on Everest that year already and a number of new rules would be set in motion by 2019’s end. The Department of Tourism would ultimately ask climbers to prove they had already scaled at least one 6,500-metre peak in Nepal, which was not quite as challenging as my idea, but was a start at least.

Elsewhere, any Sherpas working on the mountain would need to prove their experience if they were to guide on Everest, and every climber had to validate their good health. Of course, there were some downsides to all of these proposals. Almost every Sherpa would qualify under the new criteria, and health certificates were easily forgeable, but again, they were a step in the right direction.

After all the tragedy I’d experienced in the Himalayas during Phase One, these efforts, while not being perfect, were better than nothing.

* * *

Mum wasn’t getting any better. Her heart condition was worsening.

As she rested in hospital, regular updates on Project Possible were given to her by Binesh, a friend of the family. He had first come into our orbit when I joined the Gurkhas in 2003, and at that time Mum and Dad were on their own, after all the kids had left home, but I hadn’t known they were struggling with the stresses of day-to-day life in Chitwan. The realisation only dawned on me while visiting them on leave.

One afternoon I took the local bus with Mum, but when it rumbled into view, I noticed that the carriage was jam-packed, a commuter trip from hell. During busy times, the drivers accepted passengers only if they were travelling for longer distances; it was a way of charging more money. Because our destination that afternoon was only around six kilometres away, our chances of getting on were slim, and we’d probably have to wait a while for the next bus.

Sure enough, the driver tried to wave us off. ‘I can’t take you,’ he said.

Mum, undeterred, stepped up to get on, but then a bus conductor quickly shoved her away and slammed the door shut. I couldn’t believe it; I lost my temper as the bastards drove off and in a fury I ran home to get my motorbike, bombing through the streets until I’d caught up with the bus. Pulling in front, I got on board and beasted the conductor.

‘Never, ever do that to anyone!’ I shouted as he cowered in a seat. ‘Especially not to elderly women.’ The guy looked terrified.

‘I’m not having you do this any more, Mum,’ I said, when I finally got back to her. ‘I’m going to get a car for you, that way you won’t ever have to use the bus again.’

There were two downsides to my plan: the first was that Nepal sometimes charged as much as 288 per cent tax on purchased vehicles and I’d have to get a loan from a Kathmandu bank. The second was neither Mum or Dad could drive, and so having bought a car, I employed Binesh to take them grocery shopping whenever they needed food and he often drove them to their friends’ houses for get-togethers and dinners. Before long, Binesh was very much a part of our family life and by 2019, eleven years later, he was charged with caring for my parents while the kids were away working.

As I’d moved through the Himalayas in May, Binesh sat by my mother’s hospital bed in Kathmandu and read her newspaper stories on my expeditions and world records. He showed her video clips from Facebook and explained how I’d rescued Dr Chin; Binesh even told Mum about the tragedy on Kanchenjunga.

Once my meeting with the Department for Tourism was done, I visited her in hospital as much as I could, holding her hand while I retold my stories. After a while, she looked at me and smiled. ‘It sounds like my son is unstoppable,’ she said.

Mum knew how important Project Possible was to me, and she’d come to accept my passion, even though some of the risks I’d been taking clearly worried her. Mum also knew that I was going to do everything in my power to get her and Dad into an apartment together, once my work was done. But seeing her in a hospital bed, attached to wires and bleeping machines, was very upsetting. Tears streaked her cheeks as we spoke. Mum was everything to me; she’d made me the man I was, and I hated the thought of leaving her behind. There was a moment of doubt.

With Mum’s poor health, was Project Possible still justifiable?

If I couldn’t finish this, what would happen to Suchi and me?

And what would become of my reputation if I didn’t deliver on my ambitions?

Mum seemed to sense I was worried. ‘Nims, you’ve started this mission now,’ she said. ‘So complete it. Our blessings are with you.’

I squeezed her hand and promised to return home safely again as soon as I could. And then I remembered.

Quitting was not in the blood.

* * *

As I moved into Phase Two of Project Possible at the end of June 2019, which would take me to Nanga Parbat, Gasherbrum I and II, K2 and Broad Peak, the conversation surrounding my goals had shifted within the extreme mountaineering community, but only slightly. Yes, a number of people were making encouraging noises about the speed at which I’d climbed all six mountains in the first chunk of the mission, but there were plenty of others casting shade upon me, too.

The most common complaint was that Nepal was my home turf; people argued I’d probably understood the local culture and terrain better than climbers from another country and it had given me an advantage. That was fair enough, I suppose, though it conveniently overlooked the fact I’d been climbing for only seven years. Other figures even claimed that Project Possible was only successful because I’d travelled between some base camps by helicopter, whereas in Pakistan, the infrastructure for that type of mobility wasn’t available.

‘Yeah, stand by, guys’, I thought, feeling a little annoyed. ‘You don’t even know . . .’

On the other hand, I understood that Pakistan presented a different challenge entirely. It was certainly a more unpredictable region in which to climb. The weather was known for being vicious on K2; across Gasherbrum I and II, huge storms could blow in out of nowhere, bringing whiteout conditions to an otherwise sunny day. The logistical support at base camps across the Karakoram mountain range, such as communications and accommodation, was also less sophisticated than in Nepal, so I would have to trek between base camps rather than taking a helicopter.

Overall, though, my biggest stress when climbing in Pakistan was the threat of my team being wiped out in a terrorist hit on Nanga Parbat. My experience with the people of Pakistan had always been fantastic, they were lovely, but an attack from Taliban forces was considered a very real concern during the months building up to Project Possible.

The backstory to this issue began on 22 June 2013, when sixteen Taliban fighters, dressed in paramilitary uniform and wielding AK-47s and knives, moved into Base Camp, dragging twelve climbers from their tents and tying them up with rope. Everyone’s passports were confiscated; photos were taken of each captured climber, and their smart phones and laptops were smashed with rocks. Eventually, the group was led to a field outside the camp and executed. Only one man escaped, a Chinese mountaineer called Zhang Jingchuan, who was lucky enough to free himself from his binds as the shooting began.

With rounds ricocheting around him as he fled, Zhang escaped into the dark barefoot. The poor bloke was dressed in only his thermal underwear, but he hid behind a rock, turning hypothermic, until he felt safe enough to crawl back to his tent, rummaging around for a satellite phone and some warm clothes. Around him, eleven people, friends and colleagues, had been massacred. Knowing the terrorists might still be nearby, he moved fast, calling the authorities for help. Later that morning, a military helicopter was hovering above Base Camp and Zhang was rescued.

I heard about the story while scrapping with the Special Forces and the atrocity had made our fight seem all the more relevant. But when Project Possible rolled around several years later, the very real threat of a Taliban attack during the mission felt unnerving, especially as I’d be operating on their turf in Pakistan. For starters, any fighters could arrive quite quickly, because it took only a day to trek to the Diamer District of the Gilgit-Baltistan region (where Nanga Parbat could be found) from the nearest towns, whereas the Karakoram range, which was where the likes of K2 and Gasherbrum I and II were located, was ten days away and there were a number of military checkpoints to pass through. I would also be unarmed and unable to defend myself if life got noisy as we waited in Base Camp.

This was not only about me; I also had several other dudes in the team to consider and none of them possessed any military experience. The other concern was the profile that I’d generated while organising Project Possible. I’d talked openly about my ambitions in order to push for funding, and my social media presence had grown as a result. All of which made me a high-level target for any terrorists looking to make a name for themselves. Knowing that my background in the military was hardly a secret, anyone with an axe to grind about my involvement in the War on Terror would find me exposed and vulnerable on Nanga Parbat. I would have to work carefully.

There was some good news on the funding drive at least. While planning my climbs in Pakistan, I’d become painfully aware of what was still needed to get the mission completed on schedule. Everything I’d earned so far had gone into Phase One and I needed a huge cash injection. But there was a lifeline.

A number of my mates in the Special Forces had worked alongside Bremont, a British watch company. Following an introduction through a mutual friend, they had previously offered to give me fourteen watch faces as I prepared to leave London for the Himalayas and Phase One. The idea was to take every one to the summits during Project Possible and they would be turned into a unique watch. All the watches would then be auctioned off, with most of the money feeding back into my expedition costs. Then came the upswing. By the time I’d completed Phase One, Bremont wanted to increase their involvement.

‘We want to sponsor and promote Project Possible and advance you £200,000, interest free,’ they announced.

I was delighted. There was no other funding offer on the table at that time and without financial support, the completion of the project looked unlikely. But with the backing of Bremont, who would also provide publicity for the mission – now to be called Bremont Project Possible – a large chunk of my expeditions in Pakistan could be paid for. With some more guiding expeditions and another injection of cash from my GoFundMe page, drawing together the required numbers for the second phase was within my reach. But there was a major catch.

‘We’d love to be named as your sponsors before you climb Nanga Parbat,’ said Bremont.

I paused. Their input was invaluable and announcing Bremont’s involvement was something I was delighted to do, but only after I’d safely climbed Nanga Parbat. I needed to stay off radar from the Taliban until then.

‘Look, because of my military background, I can’t take a single risk,’ I explained. ‘It only takes one bad dude to say, “OK, this guy’s going, here’s $200 to brass him up.” Someone will take that offer up in a heartbeat.’

Bremont understood. The last thing anybody wanted was for Project Possible to end in a bloodbath. As it was, Nanga Parbat had its own plans for finishing me off.