8

The Highest Stakes

From the minute my one year’s notice was accepted by the Ministry of Defence, I set two plans in motion. The first was to organise my operational detail for Project Possible. I pulled together a team of Nepalese climbers that I knew would be up to the task of supporting me over the fourteen peaks, and for the best part of a year. I figured out which mountains to climb and when, based upon the weather reports of the past five climbing seasons.

Having assessed the topographic conditions of each mountain, I decided to split Project Possible into three phases. The first was to take place in Nepal and it was my plan to crash through Annapurna, Dhaulagiri, Kanchenjunga, Everest, Lhotse and Makalu through April and May. This would be followed by the Pakistani mountains of Nanga Parbat, Gasherbrum I and II, K2 and Broad Peak in July. Finally, it was my aim to return to Nepal for Manaslu in the autumn, before heading to Tibet to top Cho Oyu and Shishapangma. Every mountain required some legal work in order to obtain the necessary climbing permits, but China and Tibet were set to be particularly tricky, because Shishapangma was apparently closed through 2019. I decided to worry about that particular battle when it arrived.

Prepping for missions was my bag, it had been a part of my military life for so long, but the second part of the organisation process was less transferrable from my career skills: I needed to gather together an operational fund, a daunting task because high-altitude mountain climbing had long been an expensive sport. The cost of climbing Everest alone in 2019 could range between $40,000 and $150,000 and those early financial estimations for completing Project Possible had been intimidating – there was no way I’d be able to drum up a cash reserve of that kind without help.

I’d learned that to fund projects of this nature I would have to rely on a series of sponsorship deals, in which companies financed my trip in return for exposure and branding opportunities whenever I topped one of the fourteen peaks. Some extra cash would arrive from guiding tours,FN11 and I aimed to take experienced mountaineers to the peaks of one mountain from each phase, in this case Annapurna, Nanga Parbat and Manaslu.

The work was relentless. While I planned the fourteen expeditions throughout 2018, a friend worked on securing the financing. Between my military commitments, I knackered myself out with meetings, planning sessions and train journeys when I could, running on fumes for seven days a week. Psychologically, the logistical effort felt as gruelling as my time on Selection. But like those early mornings on the Brecon Beacons, I approached every day with a positive thought: I can do this. I will navigate just about every problem the mission might throw at me. I’ve already climbed the world’s tallest peak. The only thing standing in my way right now is funding. Get out there and smash it.

In the same way that joining the Gurkhas, passing Selection and climbing Everest had represented personal Gods, ambitions to lift myself up for, so raising money became a new and powerful idol. I gave Him everything.

My next detail was to help in the cash-building process and with a business partner – an anonymous accomplice – we contacted a series of contacts for investment. I knew that to present Project Possible as an attractive proposition, it was important to make some bold statement about the mission, something that would generate headlines and get people talking.

Emboldened by my world-record-breaking success, I announced my intention to establish even more benchmarks. The first one, obviously, was the speed at which I intended to climb the fourteen 8,000-ers, and of course I reckoned it was doable to smash my own personal best on Everest, Lhotse and Makalu. (And with it the fastest time from the summit of Everest to the summit of Lhotse.) But I also revealed that I intended to break the world’s quickest time for climbing the Pakistan 8,000-ers, as well as the speed taken to climb the top five highest mountains in the world: Kanchenjunga, Everest, Lhotse, Makalu and K2.

My ambitions didn’t seem to gather too much attention – maybe people thought I was joking – and after several months spent on a conveyor belt of meetings and phone calls, I was dealt a crushing blow.

‘Nims, we’ve raised barely any money,’ said my associate, sadly. ‘And it’s not looking good.’

He was right, there was nothing in the bank and Phase One already felt like a non-starter. I was in trouble. Or so I thought. I immediately switched up my tactics and decided to front the money-raising drive myself as the daily routine became even more intense. Most mornings I got up at 4 a.m., working on my social media outreach for a few hours before racing to the 7 a.m. train into London from the south coast. Usually I’d take around four or five meetings a day, soaking up the false promises and flat-out rejections. On the rare occasions my work was done before midnight, I’d open up my computer to write a series of follow-up emails, before rounding off the day with another session on Instagram, or Facebook.

I was barely tech savvy at that time. Simply preparing a couple of Project Possible-related posts, while adding the relevant links and hashtags, sometimes took me all of two hours. The work felt like a grind, and at times I voiced my frustration online:

 

Another day of battle in reference to the fund-raising campaign for Project Possible: 14/7. The journey of fund-raising has been extremely hard for me, and also it’s not my expertise. Whoever I approach, they say, ‘Nims, why not next year? If we do it next year, we will have enough time to raise the funds.’ My answer has always been the same: by saying we will do it next year, we are going for the easier option.

 

Next to nothing in the way of cash arrived for a couple of months. By the turn of 2019, with my clock ticking, I couldn’t seem to convince any potential sponsors of my abilities, and meetings often ended with a thanks-but-no-thanks dismissal. What I intended to do, they argued, wasn’t humanly possible and a few people even laughed off my plans. I was in a rough spot. Having departed from the military, my income was slashed, but despite the belt-tightening at home, Suchi remained supportive. She never applied any emotional pressure, even though all my efforts were going into a project that wasn’t bringing any money into the household – in the short term at least. I was grateful for the room to breathe.

The implications of my changing role within the financial organisation of Project Possible were problematic, but manageable. The work drained me and it became very hard to switch off from what quickly became a never-ending to-do list. Mentally I felt a little frazzled, but rather than talking to Suchi about the strain I was under, it seemed easier to make out that everything was running smoothly. Passing on any stressed energy to her was the last thing I wanted to do, so I’d creep out of bed at one or two in the morning to work on another email or letter while she slept.

I found it impossible to slow down, because I was carrying so much desire for the mission. Meanwhile, the thought of quitting never entered my mind, as I didn’t want to transfer any negative vibes subconsciously to potential investors or sponsors.

To instil faith in others, it was important that I maintained faith in myself. But at times it would prove bloody hard work.

* * *

Every attempt at drumming up substantial finances for Project Possible fell short and I was fast approaching a crossroads where I could either quit the mission, or I could press ahead. Hope arrived shortly afterwards. Through an SBS friend, I was introduced to an interested business partner. He understood my passion and immediately promised to bring £20,000 to the planning kitty; I later spoke at a corporate event and earned another ten grand. It was barely a drop in the ocean, considering I needed to pull together around three quarters of a million quid, but the money represented some progress.

From there, Elite Himalayan Adventures invited private clients to join me on the Annapurna climb during Project Possible and I constructed a GoFundMe page, boosting my followers and donations with daily updates on Instagram and a word-of-mouth buzz. Ant Middleton, another friend from the military, even pitched in a donation of £25,000. He had previously been a keen supporter of the Gurkha Regiment and we’d served together in the same elite squadron.

But it still wasn’t enough. To ensure Phase One’s inception, I’d need to make a drastic and painful sacrifice: I had to remortgage the house and it was my only way out, seeing that all my personal savings had gone into the mission. While my retired friends from the military had bought two or three houses with their income and savings, and were doing pretty nicely with it too, I’d invested everything else into climbing. It was an expenditure that was bound to pay off in the long run, but in the short term it had proved an expensive trade to develop.

In any event, remortgaging was risky, but I knew that if I were to execute Project Possible, the commercial kickbacks in the afterglow of success would help to repay any loans I might take. I could expect to charge premium guiding fees, and there was a chance I might join the lucrative after-dinner speaker’s circuit, like one or two of my buddies from the Special Forces. The consequences of failure were massive, though. If I was unable to climb all fourteen peaks in the time I’d promised, people would write me off as a loudmouth and any expected career boosts in the fallout might take longer to kick in.

While I’d previously joked with friends that, if push came to shove, I’d be able to live in a tent for the rest of my life . . . I didn’t really want to. A more sobering reality had also struck me. If I couldn’t return from my mission in one piece, the entire financial burden of my failure would land on Suchi and the family. I needed her blessing to take this risky next step.

I’d every faith that she had my back. Suchi had always understood the physical and emotional sacrifice I’d made to protect my country at the highest military level. She also knew that Project Possible was a mission for the now, because my recent engagement in combat meant I was physically fit and strong enough to finish the job. Waiting until the following year, or even five years down the line, reduced my chances of survival and success. Psychologically I was also in a very good place following my work in war. I’d seen some horrible things during service, acts of brutality and violence that I sometimes wished I could unsee, but I was mentally steady and for the most part, the horror of conflict had seemingly bounced off me.

I suppose it helped that my retirement from the SBS had been a decision of my own making, and that I had a project to throw myself into. Many lads were forced to leave, either through injury or because they weren’t capable of doing a job that required razor-sharp focus any more. A number of operators exited the squadron because they’d been emotionally broken. For those people, finding a new life – one with commitment, unity and excitement – could be a challenge every bit as testing as war. I was lucky. I’d quit the job because I had a new passion and the idea of climbing fourteen peaks gave me something to work for every day. Later, I was able to build a strong camaraderie with the people I’d chosen to join me for the ride.

I also understood the healing power of nature. It felt good to be outside, climbing at altitude across an environment that didn’t care about race, religion, colour or gender. Only humans showed bias, the mountains were impartial. There was no judgement. Whenever friends had opened up to me about the serious emotional problems they might have been having, I’d taken them climbing. The mountains were just about the best therapy a person could experience. Life felt so much simpler when you were connected to nature by a climbing rope and a set of crampons.

So I sucked up my pride and asked Suchi.

‘I’ve given everything to this dream,’ I said. ‘Without this project I wouldn’t be the same person. If the worst comes to the worst and I don’t complete the fourteen mountains, we can still make a living from the climbing company afterwards. We can survive anything. I believe that if we lose all that we’ve gained in life so far, and we have to start again, we’ll be OK.’

After everything I’d put her through, such as my time fighting in a dangerous job abroad for several years, or my retiring from work early and turning down a huge pension in order to climb mountains, this was a bold ask. But I was all out of options. Using our home as collateral on a massive loan was my only forward step.

She looked at me sternly. ‘OK, Nims,’ she said. ‘But you better be right.’

It was reassuring to know that Suchi still believed in me, and that she had faith in Project Possible. She then told me that there was zero doubt in her mind that I’d succeed in the mission once it was up and running, but she was a little nervous about the financial hit we’d be taking as a consequence. I’d long known that there was a power in her that not a lot of people carried, not only as a wife, but as a woman too, and I was grateful for all of it. She was prepared to risk everything we had for my dream.

In a weird way, the sacrifice wasn’t so unsettling for me. I’d spent my military career living at my emotional limits, so the thought of losing our home was another form of mental distress, one that I could manage effectively. My default setting was that if the worst were to happen, I’d find a way to make a living. I wasn’t scared to struggle amid uncertainty, but for Suchi it was a very different scenario, and she’d been prepared to gamble all the same.

The relief was huge.

* * *

There was a moment or two where I nearly crumbled during the fund-raising drive.

In February, only a month away from the beginning of Project Possible, and following another chaotic week of endless, fruitless meetings, train journeys and phone calls, I drove home along the M3 to Poole one afternoon. My mind was a blur of numbers, bills and contracts. The £65,000 equity on the house had been withdrawn, though I’d held back enough cash to pay the domestic bills while I climbed and guided throughout 2019. The rest of it was being ploughed into Project Possible and slowly we were making progress, booking flights, securing permits, and gathering together all the equipment and supplies I needed to start the mission.

But still I stressed. I’d been exhausted by the lack of support outside of my immediate bubble. Why would nobody back me? Meanwhile, the weight of Nepalese tradition hung from me like a Bergen loaded with bricks. What would happen to my parents if I couldn’t finish? For a brief moment, as the brake lights and indicators flickered on the road ahead, I became overwhelmed. My eyes brimmed with tears.

Fucking hell, Nims, why are you doing this to yourself? To everybody you love?

Pulling into a lay-by to compose my thoughts, I recalled the full potential of what might happen if I was to achieve the unthinkable.

Point one: Project Possible wasn’t just about me. That had always been my truth. Yes, the pressure was all on my shoulders and the ambition and hard work, not to mention any spoils at the end, would be undeniably mine. But I needed to remember my objectives. I was showing humankind what was achievable if an individual put their mind and body to reaching a seemingly insurmountable target – and that was a big deal. Re-establishing the Nepalese climbing community as being the best in the world, as it had been during large chunks of the twentieth century, was important, too. Then there were statements to be made about climate change. Finally, I was a bloody Special Forces soldier. Emphasising the image of the SBS as an elite troop, in and out of combat, was another driving force.

Point two: Project Possible was never just about me.

I dried my eyes.

Let’s get this fucking done.

As I’d learned in war, every obstacle or enemy was another challenge to be figured out and overcome. I’d needed to adapt and survive in my new environment, as I had while working through Selection, fighting in warzones, and climbing the world’s biggest mountain. Rebooted, I pressed ahead for the next few weeks, sucking up the rejections from a string of potential backers, while attempting to convince those individuals that couldn’t understand the potential of what I was hoping to achieve.

There were more refusals. Why should we throw money at a plan that’s set to fail? Others worried that they might be pushing me towards a nasty end. If we fund the impossible and Nims dies, will we be partially to blame? It was demoralising, but it made me more determined. I’d prove them all wrong through action rather than presentations, once the mission kicked off.

Luckily, not everyone I spoke to was so pessimistic. I heard that the UK’s Nepalese community and a group of retired Gurkhas had organised a Project Possible fund-raising drive. Pensioners and veterans were donating cash sums of £5, £10 and £20, and the gesture was incredibly humbling. As the countdown to my first climb approached, I’d amassed around £115,000 in total from various income streams. The figure was barely enough to cover Phase One of the project, but I expected more interest to arrive with every climb that followed. As sponsors, media and the mountaineering community watched my progress, I figured the sceptics would soon be shocked into action and their money was sure to roll in afterwards.

Relying on self-belief and momentum, I readied myself for the most ambitious operation of my life.