9

Respect Is Earned

There were many reasons not to attempt Annapurna as the first expedition on the schedule. For starters, the world’s tenth-highest mountain had gathered a fearsome rep as being the deadliest. By the start of 2019, around 60 climbers had died there in total and it carried possibly the scariest survival rate in high-altitude mountaineering, killing 38 per cent of mountaineers brave enough to attempt it. Much of the danger was a result of Annapurna’s instability; it was a glacial warzone, prone to avalanches that spewed snow, rock, and shattered ice walls onto anyone unfortunate enough to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unseen crevasses also crisscrossed the mountain and many people had fallen unknowingly to their deaths after a slip into a hidden crack in the terrain.

Meanwhile, the weather in that part of the Himalayas was temperamental, it changed in a heartbeat, and the conditions could be so extreme that around forty-three people were killed in a snowstorm during 2014, including twenty-one trekkers. It has long been known that when the bad storms rolled in at Annapurna, a fairly inaccessible peak suddenly became impenetrable.

While there was every opportunity to start on one of the less intimidating climbs in the region, Annapurna presented me with the opportunity to assess my expedition team. To climb any 8,000-er an experienced mountaineer required a support crew, and because we’d have to fix a lot of lines ourselves throughout the fourteen peaks, I wanted to work with the right number of climbing buddies per mountain. For example, if I was leading the fixing team to the very top, and we were the only expedition on the mountain, I’d need several guys. However, on some mountains where I was familiar with the terrain and the ropes had been fixed all the way to the top, I’d need only one climbing buddy, such as on Everest.

Discovering exactly how effective my crew could be was critical – and I had to find out quickly. While everyone in the group I’d gathered together throughout 2018 was a seasoned guide with a number of 8,000-metre peaks to their name, executing fourteen climbs in quick succession was a challenge for the ages. My experience in war had taught me that a person’s true character always emerged when presented with a life-or-death event, and that reveal often took place in a gun battle. A newly passed-out Gurkha or Royal Marine Commando might have breezed through training, but there was no way to assess their true battle readiness until the bullets and bombs were flying around for real.

In mountaineering terms, Annapurna was a gunfight. We were setting the fixed lines, the work was bound to be heavy going, and potential death awaited us at every stage – it was almost the perfect test scenario for all of us. For the team setting the route, there was no easy path to the top; for the person leading that fixing team, the pressure to execute was huge.

I needed to know which individuals I could trust to keep their head in dangerous flashpoints; I also wanted to discover any weak links or flaws within the group, if there were any at all. Some guides that had joined me were already friends or associates from the mountain, such as Mingma David, Lakpa Dendi Sherpa and Halung Dorchi Sherpa.

Mingma was Dorje Khatri’s nephew and I’d first met him in Kathmandu in 2014, shortly after the Khumbu Icefall tragedy of the same year. Through friends I’d heard he was an impressive climber who had scaled Everest, Lhotse, Makalu and K2. He was slight, around fifty-four kilos wet through, but Mingma was built from taut muscle. Whenever I’d bumped into him during expeditions, he always struck me as one of the strongest guides I’d ever seen. And everybody had heard the stories of Mingma’s high-altitude rescue missions – he had saved people on Dhaulagiri, Makalu, and Everest.

I knew that Mingma would want to join me, following on from an encounter I’d had with him during my first successful ascent of Everest in 2016. I’d been working my way to the top with Pasang. Meanwhile Mingma was supporting the Everest Air team I’d met at Lukla Airport, and he had spotted us as we worked our way steadily to Camp 4. High winds had blasted everybody on Everest that day, and as Pasang and I dug a temporary snow shelter for protection, I noticed Mingma and another Sherpa pitching a tent nearby. Waving, they called us over.

‘Nimsdai, what are you doing here?’ said Mingma. ‘We heard you were sick with HAPE?’

In Nepali, the word dai translates to ‘brother’.

‘Yeah, I was in a bad way, but I’ve got my shit together,’ I said, laughing. ‘I just needed to take some time off. I’m going for it now.’

I looked at the faces staring back at me in the fading light. Mingma seemed to be weighing up whether I was bold, or holding a death wish.

Eventually, he spoke up. ‘You know, Nims, our job is to help a climber to the top. We can follow anyone on any mountain.’

He pointed to Pasang. ‘Your Sherpa is not experienced, so . . .’

So?

‘I’ll follow you, Nimsdai. I’ll help you.’

I felt torn. My scrape with HAPE meant I’d already blown the goal of making it to the top alone; I needed Pasang to summit Everest. But it was also important that I didn’t become a burden to any other expeditions on the mountain, and I was so bothered by the thought of my lungs failing again that the stress of being rescued at high altitude made me feel a little uneasy. Still, Mingma’s kind support was something to consider. Feeling humbled, I made myself comfy in their tent, waiting until the winds had died down enough for climbing to resume again. Mingma was a reputable figure; the mountaineering equivalent to an elite operator. And he wanted to team up with me?

The gesture had blown me away. While I eventually passed up their assistance and climbed Everest with Pasang, I knew Mingma was exactly the type of individual I would love to work with in the future – he was strong and fearless.

But he was also well connected and wanted to bring Gesman Tamang into the Project Possible family, a strong, but relatively inexperienced climber, in terms of Death Zone peaks at least. Like Mingma he’d been to the peaks of Everest, Lhotse and Makalu, only not as frequently; he was also trained in avalanche rescue and high-altitude mountain rescue.

‘He’s a good guy, a bull,’ promised Mingma, when he first mentioned Gesman. ‘He’s done the right courses. You can trust him.’

While hardly being the most watertight of CVs, Mingma’s word was as good as any. But physical strength wasn’t the only asset possessed by both Mingma and Gesman – they were positive spirits too, and I’d decided that everyone called in to the mission needed to carry an optimistic mindset. I wanted individuals that climbed for passion, not money or glory. (Though they would be getting paid pretty well for the work.) Most importantly, they had to feel a pride for the Nepalese guiding community.

Project Possible was my way of thrusting Sherpa culture into the limelight, because for too long their heroic work had been overlooked within the climbing industry. As far as I was concerned, they had been the driving force behind a lot of successful expeditions above 8,000 metres, and propelling every against-all-odds expedition was a support network of Sherpas that performed all the heavy lifting. Who do you think set the fixed ropes on Everest? And who carried the heavy equipment and supplies over huge distances while their paying clients moved relatively freely?

They executed other, more specialised, roles too. On Everest, for example, a unit of Sherpas called ‘Ice Doctors’ placed ladders and guide ropes over the hundreds of crevasses that scarred the Khumbu Icefall. Typically, the guys were all paid, but the fees they charged were very low when set against the overall cost of an expedition. Without their work, most ascents would fail; relatively inexperienced climbers would die. The Sherpa guide had been making the impossible possible for years, though for the most part, their work was rarely celebrated.

That attitude – the politics of the mountain – annoyed the hell out of me. When I’d first started climbing the 8,000-ers, I watched, impressed, as excellent climbers scaled the Death Zone peaks, and their achievements were always glorified by climbing websites and magazines. Then I looked for the names of the guys supporting that particular climber – the true heroes. After all, they were carrying more weight, they were fixing more lines; they were working so much harder than everybody else, but nobody ever mentioned them by name.

The disparity in respect pissed me off, and while it was a paid job, the work required of a Sherpa was incredibly dangerous. With Project Possible I wanted to highlight the skills of Nepal’s climbers, but for that to work I needed my team to have the same philosophies as me. I didn’t want sheep, or dedicated followers. I wanted a group of thinkers.

There was a hierarchy, though. From the outset, I made it clear that it would be my job to run the team, to make decisions under pressure and to use all the skills I’d learned on the mountain, in the military elite, and while operating as a cold-weather warfare specialist. Some of those skills and processes would be transferred into Project Possible. In the Special Forces, each team was made up of expert warriors. My aim had been to build a climbing group with an identical dynamic. Sure, I was team leader, but the others guys would be operating as specialist climbers; each of them possessed expert skills and were capable of looking after themselves in moments of high drama.

With a superior level of unity, I wanted us to trailblaze through the deepest snow and into the hardest weather towards the fourteen summits. I wanted us to become elite – to be regarded as the Special Forces of high-altitude mountaineering. And from there, I wanted that respect to shine favourably upon the entire Sherpa community.

In many ways, I was running a high-altitude equivalent of the UK Special Forces Selection on Annapurna. Project Possible’s operators had to be strong, capable and emotionally positive – the lads that were joining me had all proven they had potential to deliver, but our first climb would encompass all the most testing parts of Selection rolled into one.

I was also looking for different things in different people and I intended to split the expedition into two groups. The core team would feature Mingma, Gesman, Geljen Sherpa and Lakpa Dendi Sherpa. Meanwhile a secondary group comprising Sonam Sherpa, Halung Dorchi Sherpa, Ramesh Gurung, and Mingma’s brother, Kasang Sherpa would be on hand to provide back-up if necessary. Another colleague, Dawa Sherpa, was in place to double-check all my expedition plans as we went along.

I was happy with the set-up; the team was full of characters. Geljen Sherpa was initially tasked with fixing the lines as part of our team on Annapurna, but had offered to stay on for the duration of Project Possible. I liked the dude; his spirit brimmed with enthusiasm. Geljen danced; he smiled. Nothing seemed to dent or upset him, and as we readied ourselves at Annapurna’s base camp, and planned our infrastructure for Dhaulagiri, I noticed a shared mentality was building between us. The team worked hard and played hard and nobody moaned if the effort looked like becoming too rough, as it so often did on the mountains.

Whenever I tweaked our plan for Annapurna, the others said, ‘Let’s do this!’ Every idea was tested and nothing was dismissed out of hand, as if everybody had forgotten how to say no. Plenty of that had to do with our team spirit, but a number of the lads had heard about my previous efforts on Everest, Lhotse and Makalu. I’d earned their respect and they were in the process of earning mine. This was exactly the psychology we needed if Phase One was to be executed.

On the support team, Sonam Sherpa had been installed to look after the logistical side of every summit push, as well as caring for our clients during ‘paid-for’ expeditions, where expert climbers were guided to the peak, as they would be on Annapurna, and also on Nanga Parbat in July and Manaslu in September. While on the mountain, Sonam would also help us to fix lines and maintain eyes on the whole expedition from the rear, taking our radio calls from higher up while ensuring the expedition was running smoothly at Base Camp and beyond.

If an unexpected weather pattern was pushing in, Sonam acted as our early warning system. If a mission turned ugly, he’d be required to organise any necessary assistance, such as a helicopter rescue. Alongside him on the support team, Lakpa Dendi Sherpa was a climber who had previously helped me to fix the lines on the G200E in 2017. Together, we’d hauled twenty-four kilometres of rope to the top of Everest on summit day. By the looks of things, the dude could lift a mountain on his own.

While the two units were both strong and experienced, managing their skills would be key. Though the guys in place had all climbed several 8,000-ers, some mountains such as Gasherbrum I and II, K2 and Broad Peak were going to be new experiences for all of us – I had topped only four of the 8,000-ers myself at that time. But by climbing them successfully, each individual in the Project Possible crew would expand their experience and reputation; they would become a more sought-after guide for any expedition parties looking to climb the Death Zone peaks in the future.

Heading such a determined group would require all the leadership skills I’d gathered during my time with the military, though I’d also received an education in how not to lead, following my experiences with the G200E. There was no way I intended on letting people down at the very last minute. Keeping morale high was going to be key, especially when survival became a major issue.

The work was set to be a balancing act, but I intended on building our operational structure from the heart. When we were climbing unfamiliar mountains, such as Kanchenjunga, the likes of Mingma and Gesman would lack experience, as would I, which had the potential to unsettle everybody’s confidence. But at the same time, our work ethic – a desire and ambition; our camaraderie – would drive Project Possible to the top and back. I also understood that to lead with passion, I had to climb more powerfully than the guys around me, but not by too much.

On previous expeditions, I’d worked with strength, trailblazing steadily until the other climbers in the group had been dots in my slipstream. That style of effort had two negative knock-on effects: (1) I often had to wait for an hour or two in the freezing cold while the others caught up with me. (2) My spurts were demoralising to everyone else. Imagine running a marathon with a serious athlete. It’s pretty discouraging to watch them sprinting off into the distance. But if that same athlete stays in touch, pushing their colleagues to run a little quicker than they’d previously been used to, their presence can be inspirational. It drags everybody along at a speed they previously hadn’t considered possible.

I made it my plan to adopt that same attitude. I would speed up when I thought it might benefit the team, but I would back off when assistance was needed. As a result, we’d hopefully always summit as a group.

If, by the end of 2019, everybody felt proud enough to say they were an integral part of a successful Project Possible mission, then my work would have been done.

* * *

When I eventually arrived at Annapurna’s base camp on 28 March 2019, the doubters were everywhere, and as I readied myself from the small outpost at the foot of the world’s most dangerous mountain, there seemed to be a dismissive attitude in almost everybody I spoke to. An expedition of hardcore climbers and seasoned guides had shown up; some of them knew about Project Possible and my plans to conquer the fourteen summits in less than seven months. Those that hadn’t heard were given the gossip; they then scanned my posts on social media and laughed. It wasn’t hard to imagine what they were thinking. OK, Mr Big Climber. You’ve been up and down some pretty impressive mountains, but do you know what it really means to climb all the 8,000-metre peaks?

I shut out the negative noise and told myself it was nothing more than a distraction.

The climbing community might have misjudged my determination to pull off the impossible in a big way, but at the same time, I understood the surreal mood. Kim Chang-ho had taken nearly eight years to achieve the same feat, so to put my mission into sea level terms, it was as if I’d announced my aim to break Eliud Kipchoge’s 2018 marathon world record of two hours, one minute and thirty-nine seconds. But rather than knocking a second or two off an already incredible time, I’d promised to smash all 26.2 miles in around ten minutes.

To a lot of climbers, Project Possible probably sounded like an insane flight of fantasy. A few people had accused me of overreaching; they wondered why I was shouting about my plans from the rooftops when I could have approached the mission with stealth, without drawing any attention from the outside world.FN12 Thankfully, there were supporters cheering me on too, and every now and then I’d read an encouraging message on Instagram, or chat to someone who’d been enthused by the idea.

I’d need every scrap of their positivity.

A day or so before we began our first rope-fixing climb, the team performed a Puja. This was a Nepalese ceremony, conducted with a lama – a spiritual leader – during which the group offered prayers to the mountain gods. Juniper was scorched; rice was thrown and a mast of prayer flags was raised. The hope was that those same gods might grant us a safe passage to the peak, sparing us from the wrath of an avalanche or crevasse fall.

While I wasn’t dedicated to one God, I believed in the power of prayer. I also liked to connect with nature alone and once the Puja was completed, I took myself away from the group to stare up at Annapurna’s summit. The sky was a bright blue; thick cloud drifted around the higher edges, but I was locked into a one-to-one conversation with the wall of rock and ice ahead. In a way, I wanted to ask the mountain for permission.

OK, can I? Or can I not?

Having watched and waited, I sensed hope.

If anything was troubling me at that point, it was the lack of physical preparation I’d undertaken. Because of my departure from the military and the seemingly endless meetings and fund-raising efforts throughout the past year, I’d been unable to expose my body to the types of pressure I’d once worked through in service, although I was still pretty fit. In and out of combat, I was always incentivised to exercise hard as an elite operator and there had been plenty of opportunities for me to gain strength every day, either in battle or through training. But having moved into a civilian setting, where my priorities had shifted to the logistical planning of Project Possible, plus the occasional guiding expedition, I wasn’t as sharp as I’d been during previous climbs.

I took any opportunities to ready myself for Project Possible whenever they presented themselves. On the way to Annapurna’s base camp, I lifted rocks in strength and conditioning-style training sessions in the village of Dana. I topped that off with a twenty-kilometre run. While this was hardly ideal preparation, and the first session I’d had time to complete in nearly four months, I knew that once we’d started the line-fixing process, I’d become even stronger.

I needed to be. The route we were taking was a monster: a line over Annapurna’s north face, an intimidating climb that was first scaled by the French climber, Maurice Herzog in 1950. But once we’d made the decision to commit to the expedition on April 2, as the line-fixing team, I pressed ahead with confidence accompanied by Mingma and Geljen, plus a few other Sherpa guides from other expedition parties; eager to execute the first stage in our mission, which was to set the ropes up to Camps 1 and 2.

The way up was unforgiving. Initially, the path led us through a snow-covered field of rocks that a climber could negotiate without too much bother, but beyond that, the route became sketchy. The landscape was cracked by deep crevasses – some of them were visible, others had been hidden below a carpet of thick snow, and one wrong step would see a climber fall to their death; so it was important that all of us were roped up. If somebody slipped through the snow, the weight of the remaining mountaineers, bracing as a group, would hopefully arrest their fall.

Before long, we were high above Base Camp, but the weather conditions had worsened. As we anchored ropes and fixed lines, a heavy wind seemed to whip around us in a fury. The snow was soon packed into waist-deep drifts and the work became a grind, but as point man, it was my job to drag the other team members along, lifting my legs high and planting my boots firmly, with focus, so that the others could fall in behind, all the while listening out for the tell-tale rumblings of an incoming avalanche. Not that I’d have been able to correct course with any forewarning. With every step, I gave myself a reminder: I was strong; there was no doubt I’d eventually reach the summit, but avalanches were an uncontrollable act of God that nobody could truly prepare for.

I felt the crunch of snow under my boots and the icy burn of oxygen in my lungs and climbed, slowly, but steadily.