Epilogue

At the Peak

The enormity of what I’d accomplished didn’t hit me for days. The following morning, hung over, I travelled back across the border in Nepal, where a hero’s welcome was waiting for myself and the team – the Special Forces of high-altitude mountaineering. The word had spread about my record-breaking achievements.

Not only had I managed to climb the world’s fourteen highest peaks, shattering the world record by over seven years, but I’d also posted the fastest time for climbing from the summit of Everest to Lhotse and then Makalu. The Pakistan peaks had been nailed in twenty-three days, and I’d climbed the five highest mountains of Everest, K2, Kanchenjunga, Lhotse and Makalu in seventy days, having announced my ambition to do it in eighty. Additionally, I’d climbed the most 8,000 metres peaks in a single season (spring), by topping Annapurna, Dhaulagiri, Kanchenjunga, Everest, Lhotse and Makalu in thirty one days. The mission was an overwhelming success. It had blown minds.

I called up Mum again. A party was being arranged in Kathmandu and despite her condition, the doctors assured me that she was well enough to travel, so I suggested she join me for a celebratory helicopter ride. At first, she wasn’t so sure. I told her how important she was to me, and how the mission had been the biggest achievement of my life.

‘I want you to be a part of it,’ I said.

‘Yes, I want to come,’ she said, eventually.

When we arrived at the Kathmandu Tribhuvan Airport, the scene was incredible. A marching band was playing, dozens of photographers and journalists had arrived and a huge crowd had circled the airport. I couldn’t quite get my head around it. At that point, I think Mum had considered my climbing as a crazy hobby, a risky project that filled me with joy. Not for one minute did she think that my work was being followed by the wider world, not on a big scale anyway, but having seen the crowds and the fanfare surrounding my successes, the penny dropped.

As the rotary blades on the chopper slowed above us, a white Range Rover pulled around with the flags of Great Britain and Nepal fixed to the bonnet. The British ambassador to Nepal, Richard Morris, stepped out and once we’d shaken hands, he thanked me for my efforts.

‘We’re so proud of you,’ he said. ‘What you’ve achieved is unbelievable.’

When we were eventually driven through the city to a reception, the crowds followed us everywhere.

But there was still plenty of work to be done.

In the months after the fourteen mountains had been completed, I did everything in my power to bring Mum and Dad together. A loan was secured with a bank in Nepal and I borrowed money from my family. Elsewhere, Elite Himalayan Adventures ran a number of successful expeditions. Following in the wake of my success at 8,000 metres, these guiding services were in high demand, as were my motivational speaking performances, and with the financial returns I found a nice house in Kathmandu that would work for both my parents.

Excited about them moving in, we completed the paperwork at the start of 2020 and worked towards moving Dad out of the old house in Chitwan and into the new family home. On 25 February, Suchi and I flew to Nepal to bring them together, but when we landed, the phone rang. We were too late. Mum had passed away a couple of hours earlier and my heart broke – everything I’d achieved was inspired by her spirit.

Through the hurt of the Hindu mourning ceremony I was able to reflect and grow, and having emerged thirteen days later, I looked towards the positives, turning grief into a powerful energy. Because of the love and support of my family, I’d been able to push myself to the absolute limit, proving to the world that it was possible to surpass any expectations previously set by humankind.

Meanwhile, a lot of people had taken the piss out of my ambitions at the very beginning, but once my mission was executed, I learned that a lot of elite mountaineers were tackling several 8,000-ers a year rather than only one or two. The boundaries for what was considered achievable had expanded and I took a lot of pride from that.

It was great to know that the rep of the Nepalese Sherpa guide had also been amplified. The lads I’d climbed with were being placed on a pedestal. They had come to be regarded as some of the world’s best climbers, and rightly so: we worked as a relatively small expedition unit, in teams of three, four or five, but we moved with the power of ten bulls and the heart of one hundred men. They deserved all the spoils awaiting them and as a tribute to the hard work, I gave our new line over Shishapangma a name: The Project Possible Route.

Most of all I realised that smashing the fourteen peaks was a launch pad. I needed more . . . but what?

The mountains are there to be scaled; I have only to pick which ones to take on and the style in which I want to do them. There are challenges to be conquered based on speed, style and physical effort – there are no limits to the test I might set myself. The chances I might be killed while trying to attempt those missions are certainly higher than anything I’ve risked before, but that is the whole point: I have to push my limits to the max. Sitting tight, waiting it out and living in the past, has never been my thing.

I want to be at the world’s highest point again, knowing it might slip out from underneath me at any moment.

Because that is the only way to live – and to die.