7

The Mission

There were so many questions.

What did I have that many other climbers didn’t?

How was it that I’d been able to climb three incredibly challenging peaks in super-quick time without a period of physical recovery in-between?

For some reason I’d felt the desire to run to Kathmandu, when there was time to stroll back at a gentle pace, partying all the way. What was I trying to prove?

Maybe it was because I was constantly trying to push myself, although those qualities weren’t exactly unique among the mountaineering community. Meanwhile, I knew of plenty of Special Forces dudes that had climbed Everest, though none that had gone to Lhotse and Makalu, too. But the funny thing was that all of them had been wiped out afterwards, and none of them had possessed the engine to attempt another peak in the immediate aftermath. For some reason, I had the physiology to climb and descend, climb and descend, fixing lines and leading expeditions over and over and over, with very little rest. My reserves felt limitless.

Not only was I climbing aggressively, trailblazing through waist-deep snow so easily that I’d left experienced Sherpas in my wake, but I was also able to make highly pressurised decisions at quick speeds thanks to my military training. Assessing risk and reacting accordingly had become second nature; I understood the fine line between being brave and being stupid; negative situations didn’t upend me, and I attacked everything with positive thought. Those traits had the potential to turn me into a high-altitude machine.

Of course, there were technically better climbers than me out there, and at sea level I might have found myself on an uneven playing field when my relative strengths and weaknesses were placed against those of some other climbers. But not all of them were able to plan and imagine in the same way as me. Above 8,000 metres, I could locate the self-belief required to take me to the peak of any mountain in the world – whatever the conditions.

I’d also been notified that an honour from the Queen, an MBE, was being arranged as a reward for my outstanding work in high-altitude mountaineering – this included my saving the G200E, rescuing Seema on Everest, and breaking those world records on Everest, Lhotse and Makalu. My achievements hadn’t been appreciated by everyone, though. When my records were announced, a number of highly regarded mountaineers were quick to point to the fact I’d used oxygen. But fuck that: my ambitions mainly hinged on pace. I was a trailblazer and I led from the front, fixing my own lines – that was Nims-style.

However, it wasn’t only about doing everything so much quicker than everyone else. On one hand, Nims-style required me to plan and to lead. On the other, I needed to be self-sufficient on the mountains at all times, and through some hard lessons, I’d come to understand my strengths and limitations; so I worked with them in such a way that I was able to avoid trouble for the most part. I’d rescued somebody at high altitude, but I hated the thought of someone having to leave their own mission to help me. I’d have rather died.

As far as I was concerned, there were no set rules when climbing through the Death Zone. Everyone worked differently and I hadn’t complained that some of those same critics had stepped into my footfalls, or used the lines I’d set on their own summit push, hours after my drive to the top, but the snobbery was still annoying, so I worked to make it inspiring. I used it as fuel and in the post-expedition buzz of my climbs through the Himalayas, I decided to up my game. If I could take three of the world’s largest mountains in five days, maybe I had it in me to climb the five tallest peaks in an equally impressive time: Everest, K2, Kanchenjunga, Lhotse and Makalu in, say, eighty days? The idea gnawed at me for weeks until I decided to act upon it.

There would be hurdles, I knew that. Having travelled home, I realised my chances of securing the leave needed to take on such an ambitious project were slim, but I was going to take a shot anyway. When the request was made, I tried to be convincing. I reminded the senior officer of my outstanding record, in and out of combat, and my growing climbing expertise. I used my work with the G200E as leverage. How about the fact I’d advanced the SBS’s name even further with those world records?

My senior officer glanced sceptically at the expedition plan. A negative response was coming, I could tell.

‘Climbing K2, Nims? One in four people die there. On Kanchenjunga it’s one in seven,’ he said. ‘This is such a huge project. And it’s not as if you’re climbing one mountain here. You’re running up mountain after mountain in eleven or twelve weeks. Is this even possible?’

I tried to appeal to his sense of adventure. ‘When I was a Gurkha, I really wanted to join the Special Forces,’ I said. ‘Not for money, or for the name, but because I wanted to operate among the very best. I fixed lines on the G200E when everybody else had given up. Then I held the flag of the SBS high afterwards. Now I want to attempt this.’

The officer shook his head. There was no way he would authorise so much leave, he explained. It was too risky. Also if it became known that a Special Forces operator was climbing K2, which was located on the border of Pakistan and China, it might invite a terrorist attack. ‘It’s just not doable, Nims,’ he said.

I felt deflated, but I wasn’t going to abandon my dream and the toing and froing over my expedition hopes went on for months. On some days, I felt that high command might be relenting. On others, they became increasingly resistant, until eventually, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

‘Well, that’s it then,’ I thought. ‘I’m going to quit.’

I felt liberated. I was thirty-five years old at the time and knew that by resigning from my military commitments, I’d give myself the opportunity to think bigger and more boldly in a challenge of my own making. So rather than climbing the five tallest mountains in eighty days, what was stopping me from topping all fourteen Death Zone mountains in the quickest time imaginable? I struggled to think of too many pitfalls. Only politics or money. Or maybe an avalanche, or a crevasse, if I’m really unlucky.

It was in the Gurkha blood to be fearless at all times, so while there was every chance an avalanche might sweep me away on Annapurna as it had done for dozens of others, I wasn’t going to stress about it too much. Meanwhile, the dangers involved in climbing all fourteen Death Zone peaks were manageable: I’d learned how to work in poor weather and deep snow; I could operate effectively, without fear. Better to die than be a coward, after all. Also, I was comfortable with the idea of going out in my thirties. Hanging on until the age of eighty-something, a time when I’d become unable to look after myself, held very little appeal. I wanted to leave while going out at full tilt.

The political and monetary aspects of the expedition were an entirely different story, though. There would be paperwork and permit requests, particularly from the Chinese and Tibetan authorities, who had closed Shishapangma for the entire climbing season throughout 2019. Then there were the bills. At least £750,000 was required to climb the full portfolio of Death Zone mountains, maybe more, so I’d have to approach a series of sponsors, all the while exploring alternative funding options. But for now the primary mission, in theory, was exciting enough for me to contemplate my departure from the military. If I believed that my goal of climbing all fourteen 8,000-metre peaks in quick succession was achievable, then it was achievable.

Every facet of my training and combat experience had told me so. While serving with the Gurkhas, I’d been constantly forced away from my comfort zones and into moments of extreme pain. Eventually mental strength seemed more important than physical power. Likewise, the British Special Forces, where my training had taught me how to push beyond any psychological limits I’d previously set for myself. The logistics of planning a series of high-altitude expeditions were intimidating, but through my work in the mountains, I’d built up plenty of connections in the climbing community. I possessed the skill and contacts to make it work.

I flipped open my laptop at home one afternoon, hoping to understand how long an expedition of this kind might take. A brief scan online told me that around forty other mountaineers had managed to climb the fourteen 8,000-ers. Of course, there was the current world record holder, Kim Chang-ho, and his time of seven years, ten months and six days during 2013. And Jerzy Kukuczka of Poland wasn’t far behind him with a time of seven years, eleven months and fourteen days, as set in 1987, though he was only the second mountaineer to have scaled all the 8,000-ers after the legendary Italian, Reinhold Messner, broke through the glass ceiling of what was considered possible in 1986.

So, the field was fairly small but impressive and, on average, several years seemed to represent the likeliest timeframe. Judging by the way I’d worked through Everest, Lhotse and Makalu in five days – not to mention Dhaulagiri in a fortnight – it was within my reach to go quicker. The only question was by how much.

I worked on a pragmatic estimate. OK, so there’s no funding. It might take some time to get the money together, but if I can stay on home turf in Nepal for the first expeditions, I’ll be fine. Plus, I have a ton of contacts there.

I listed off the mountains I needed to climb: Annapurna, Dhaulagiri, Kanchenjunga, Everest, Lhotse, Makalu and Manaslu . . .

Pakistan will be a different ball game altogether. The treks between mountain base camps is long and the weather is so unpredictable.

Nanga Parbat, Gasherbrum I and II, K2, Broad Peak . . .

But in Tibet, it might take you longer with the paperwork and permits.

Cho Oyu, and Shishapangma . . .

I’ve only climbed four of these mountains before . . . so how about seven months? That should be enough time to climb all fourteen, give or take a few weeks.

The basic goal of shaving off seven years from the world record was ambitious, but I quickly grew into the idea. The bottom line was to climb as quickly as possible, whatever the weather, Nims-style. But there was more than one incentive behind me. Yes, I wanted to push past any physical and emotional limits I might have previously set for myself, but my home country of Nepal had been experiencing the kickbacks of climate change. Alerting the world to the region’s floods and disappearing glaciers was a priority too, as was shining a spotlight on the plight of those people living and working within the mountain communities.

Most of all, though, I loved the thought of ripping up the rulebook. If I could show kids and adults alike what was humanly achievable, then my far-fetched ambitions might inspire others to think big; to push themselves in ways that were previously considered unimaginable. It also helped that I might give the world a crazy story to remember.

I gave my grand mission a name – Project Possible. Then I prepared a battle plan, steadying myself for the doubters.

* * *

One troubling factor when quitting the SBS was psychological security. That seemed ironic given I’d put my life on the line every time there was a patrol, or a door-kicking operation, but for sixteen years, the British military had been my all. They’d told me where to be and when, and they’d provided me with a house and a daily routine. Yes, the job was dangerous and very high stress, but there were some comforting familiarities to it, even in war, where I had structure, focus and loyalty. Sometimes, while I was planning my exit, I worried whether I’d done enough for Queen and Crown in return.

The other troubling aspect to resigning from the Special Forces was my pension. It was a life-changing chunk of money and to claim it I had to serve for only a few more years. Quitting now meant giving up the lot, which was a worry, and a financial stress I would have to manage down the line.

Putting aside my doubts, on 19 March 2018, having logged onto the Ministry of Defence’s website, I submitted my resignation request. My notice period was a year and at first some mates in the squadron tried to change my mind; high command also promoted me to the position of cold-weather warfare instructor, as a subject matter expert (SME), where it became my role to teach other operators how to climb mountains, survive in harsh conditions at altitude, and ski across challenging terrain. This was a prestigious responsibility. It meant that I was considered the best climber within the squadron.

Promotional blackmail wasn’t enough, however. I was then asked to consider the logistical pitfalls of my move, and it was argued that by resigning I’d be losing out on the type of financial security that would have excited most people in the Real World. Except, I wasn’t most people; I had a different take on the Real World. I’d been raised a poor kid in Nepal. If I really had to, living out of a tent for the rest of my life would have posed no problems at all. The biggest surprise, though, arrived when the SAS learned about my plans to quit and invited me to a meeting at their base. An officer then asked me if I’d ever consider switching regiments.

‘Congratulations on the G200E and MBE, Nims,’ he said, looking over my records. ‘And we know what your strengths are on the mountains. If you were to join the SAS, we’ll make sure you’ll be looked after, of course. We’ll give you better opportunities, which will help you and your family.’

He then offered me some serious bait. I was promised a place on a prestigious, one-year climbing programme in which I’d be able to focus purely on operating at high altitude. Most importantly I’d be provided with a budget for equipment and travel. It was a dream gig, but as far as I was concerned, jumping between the two wings of the Special Forces felt disloyal, like leaving one football team for a local rival. There was no way I wanted to let the SBS lads down in that way.

‘I’m really humbled that you guys have seen something in me,’ I said, eventually. ‘And it’s kind of you to offer me those opportunities . . . but I never joined the Special Forces to be a general, or for money. Going back to financial basics is cool with me and besides, I couldn’t switch teams.’

Their response was short and sharp. ‘You’re loyal, which is to be commended,’ said the SAS commander. ‘But you’re fucking crazy.’

I shrugged my shoulders and thanked him for the meeting, but I was torn. As I drove away from the barracks, it was hard not to wonder if I’d made the wrong decision. If I did take up this offer, I’d be the first operator to serve in both the SAS and the SBS. There would be some serious kudos. As I second-guessed myself over the next few days, Suchi even took to searching online for any job opportunities that might suit her in Hereford. In the end I stuck with my original plan: I wanted to climb the big mountains.

My friends and family seemed equally confused. As far as they were concerned, this was the latest in a long line of what they considered to be baffling career developments. My brothers were soon accusing me of being ungrateful. They were arguing that without the money they had sent to Chitwan for my education, I wouldn’t have learned English. Without English, it’s highly unlikely I’d have made it into the British military. All of this was true, I owed them everything, and Kamal called me in another mood. He couldn’t get his head around my plans.

‘Brother, everybody wants to get into the Special Forces,’ he said. ‘You’re there, but you’re turning your back on it. You were ten years in the war and now you are in the driving seat as a cold-weather warfare instructor. You’ll get a great pension without losing your fingers, toes, and eyes in battle, but after all that graft, you’re going to leave everything behind? What the fuck?’

‘Kamal, this is not about me,’ I said. ‘This is not about you either, or the family. We’re a small part of a bigger worldwide community and I don’t have long to do this – I’m not getting any younger. But if I can make a difference now and show to the world what can be done at high altitude, it’s worth it.’

We didn’t speak again for two months.

My family life also presented a serious financial commitment. In Nepal, some families insisted that it was down to the youngest son to care for his parents if ever they went broke, or became too old to look after themselves. In Mum and Dad’s case, they really needed the money, and Kamal and Ganga had supported them as best they could, but they now had their own families to care for. Since joining the Gurkhas, I’d sent my parents a chunk of wages every month because they were my world, but Mum had recently become very ill.

She was suffering from a heart condition and at one point had to undergo surgery to insert a stent. This was followed by kidney failure and Mum often had to visit hospital for treatment, until eventually she was placed permanently in a Kathmandu facility. (There wasn’t a suitable clinic in Chitwan.) My dad, half-paralysed, was unable to visit her in the city and it had become my ultimate goal to bring them together again, in the same house, but with Project Possible now underway, all that was about to be paused, for a little while at least.

The news, when I announced it, upset them at first. Because we had lived so close to Dhaulagiri, it wasn’t uncommon for us to talk to climbers trekking through our village as they made their way to and from Base Camp. Sometimes the groups passing through on their way up were visibly reduced in numbers during the return journey, and Mum remembered one occasion when she met two climbers in the local tea house. They were crying. When they told her that some of their friends had been killed on the mountain, she’d found the news disturbing.

A number of years later, having heard about the tragic deaths of so many people on Everest during the avalanches of 2014 and 2015, the thought of me mountaineering filled her with dread. She winced whenever I showed her an expedition video on my phone. The images of me climbing across a crevasse ladder in the Khumbu Icefall seemed to set her off. Mum wanted to know what my new plan entailed.

‘So, you know the fourteen biggest mountains in the world, Mum?’

She nodded. ‘Some of them.’

Mum listed a few names. Everest, Dhaulagiri. Oh, and Annapurna. ‘But what has that got to do with you?’

She was fretting. Was her youngest son losing the plot?

‘Oh, Nirmal,’ she said. ‘Is it because we’re very ill and it’s such a burden to look after us? I think you are doing this because you want to kill yourself.’

‘It’s cool, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’m going to do this, I’m going to show the world what I am capable of – what we can all do, if we put our minds to something. And I’m going to come back stronger. I’ll be a different Nims.’

She smiled. ‘You don’t listen to what we tell you anyway, so I know you’re going to do it whatever we say, but our blessings are with you.’

My family’s concerns weren’t the only emotional hurdle, however. Friends laughed whenever I talked about Project Possible; fellow operators took the piss. That was fair enough, the goal was supposed to be tough, unrealistic even, but only because nobody had achieved anything quite like it before. But then, space travel and the four-minute mile had both been considered impossible ahead of their realisation, too. At the turn of the twentieth century, the idea that someone might step foot on the moon was the type of fantasy that kids had only read about in Jules Verne novels. If somebody had informed a young Neil Armstrong, then a test pilot on the verge of greatness, that his dream wasn’t achievable, would he have listened? No way.

Of course, there was a chance I might fail, as there had been during the moon landings. Certainly, the odds I’d be killed along the way were fairly short. In the aftermath of screwing up, people were set to laugh, or to say, ‘I warned him.’ But at least I wouldn’t die wondering, what if?

And if I could pull it off . . . what then?