DOUG: We stumbled around Castle Camp like sailors returning to land after months at sea. It felt so strange to be walking on the horizontal - not that we walked far. We flopped down by our tents, which Nick had erected, took off our boots and sweaty socks and stretched out on our foam mats. The stove was spluttering away as Nick produced brew after brew to rehydrate our emaciated bodies. Delicious moments, these, of returning strength and clear head after so much effort and concentration. I lay there dozing in and out of sleep, as tired as I had ever been. It had been a hard climb. Dosing myself with antibiotics, I hoped my hacking cough would quickly clear before we went through the dust of the plateau. Whilst dozing I became aware that I was visualizing my thoughts; I could see scenes from my past, scenes I did not expect. One stood out vividly – I was approaching a Tibetan Gompa and through the huge doorway I could see a prayer wheel about 20 feet high and 10 feet across. As I went towards it, with others, it burst apart to reveal a bright light shining from within. I walked up into the prayer wheel to be greeted by Tibetan monks in their maroon yak-hair cloaks. They were smiling benignly, with beatific welcoming expressions on their faces. The vision ended as Alex passed me another mug of tea. I asked him if he ever felt different after such efforts as these?
‘Bloody tired,’ he said.
We slept for about 10 hours. Next morning we were off down the valley, clearing Castle Camp and Advance Base before we staggered into Base Camp. The high winds blew streamers of snow off the peaks in the Langtang. The mountains were so sharp and clearly defined everything was clear and I was at peace with them and myself.
For a time at least we three were content, but what next? Where had our ascent of Shishapangma taken us? For Alex towards Annapurna. For me K2, a traverse of Lhotse and Lhotse Shar and Cho Oyu next year with other vague plans to climb other mountains during the coming years. I knew that unless my climbing led to a greater and more lasting peace of mind, no amount of climbing one peak after another was going to bring me anything but ephemeral satisfaction.
Last night Nick had talked of having another go at the peak he referred to as ‘The Ice Tooth’. I wondered if he was all there, grasping at straws just before the arrival of our transport home. He was still fretting for the unobtainable but I no longer worried but still felt sad for him that he had not had the chance to know these mountains and to see beyond them as we had.
On 31 May Nick and the yak-boy, Nyima, went back to collect the rest of the equipment from Advance Base as we sorted our gear into loads at Base Camp. We burnt all our rubbish and put aside quantities of flour, rice and cooking equipment as a gift to our yak-men. On 1 June we sauntered off downhill, back on to the green as clouds were swirling on top of the Langtang and over Shishapangma and Pungpa Ri. We reached Smaug’s Lair in the evening, as the sun cleared to reveal a perfect sunset. All was peace and contentment until we met Pemba and discovered that he had misappropriated a lot of the food we had left with him and most of the food we had bought in Peking for Wu.
On 2 June we arrived at Nyalam after a splendid walk down the valley, stopping to admire the primula and splashes of colour from other flowers unknown to us. A China Youth Day Festival was in progress outside the village and chang was flowing freely. A better atmosphere pervaded the town. With some surprise we learned that Pemba had ordered a minibus. After discussions with The Leader, we agreed that this was nothing to do with us and Pemba would have to explain later why it was here. We knew why it was here – Pemba had loads to carry that were earmarked for his friends in Zegar and Shigatse. Pemba seemed infected with all that is bad in the West, a man in a hurry, avaricious, materialistic, power hungry, forever pulling rank, demanding respect without deserving it, but he had forsaken traditional Tibetan values.
Having said goodbye to The Leader, who had done all he could to assist us, on 3 June we wound our way up the Po Chu Valley, back on to the plateau - now only four of us and Wu lying out on the sponges. Then we drove straight past Zegar and arrived at Shigatse at nine o’clock that evening. Out of the shadows, behind one of the barrack-like buildings of the hotel complex, the two familiar figures of Charlie Clarke and Adrian Gordon approached us. We thought they were still on Everest. They told us the awful news that Joe Tasker and Peter Boardman had disappeared high up on the North-East Ridge of Everest. Roger’s reaction was shared by us all.
ROGER: We had rolled into Shigatse triumphant, the mountain was climbed, Pemba was banished with the unordered minibus and we were successfully maintaining our reputation as the worst foreign expedition ever to reach Tibet. Here, also, I could tell my story. But there was another story to listen to. Joe and Pete were dead. In the courtyard of the hotel I met the remains of the British Everest Expedition, 1983. Charlie Clarke and Adrian Gordon told the news and my joy vaporized. I had never climbed with Joe and Peter and from our mountain had looked towards theirs with a feeling of rivalry, and some envy. But there was always the feeling that they were ‘one of us’, the small band of Himalayan pushers.
There was nothing left to do but for the survivors to get drunk together.
Once again I felt the mixed emotions produced by death in the hills. Firstly, the glamour – look, what I do is important, fatally important – and then the emptiness – what on earth do we run these risks for? The glamour showed the most that night as the group of travellers and trekkers partied together, but the emptiness was felt in the long ride the next day.
‘Why, what for, why them and why not us?’ No answers were to be had from the desolate Tibetan plains.
DOUG: It was a very subdued group who drove on through Gyangtse to Lhasa. En route we were given various notes left by Elaine and Paul. What a contrasting retreat from the mountain these two had had. Paul, who had gone through the System, enjoyed a completely trouble-free journey to Peking and back home. Elaine, on the other hand, trying to spend as much time in Tibet as possible, had met nothing but problems with the authorities. We had crossed the bridge where Elaine had fallen into the river and seen the 10-foot pool where she had almost drowned. At Zegar she had been bitten by a dog and after her return to England she was haunted by the thought of possible rabies. But hers is another story, and one she may well tell in a book of her own.
After a day and a night’s discussion in Lhasa we flew off to Cheng Dhu and then Peking, where we tied up the expedition satisfactorily with the Chinese Mountaineering Association.
Our last evening in Peking began with a visit to the British Embassy grounds to drink the Queen’s health, on her official birthday, with the Ambassador and about three hundred other dignitaries. For a couple of hours we strolled around the gardens of the official residence, drinking from a seemingly endless supply of cold bottled beer which was welcome on a warm day, but doubly so as negotiations had been finally brought to a satisfactory conclusion. At last we could relax from the constant tension we had been under since entering Nyalam. This, I knew, was a time for caution, having seen before even old hands collapse into the bushes at such functions as this Embassy gathering. I warned the lads to pace themselves, for we were due at a dinner in our honour with the Chinese Mountaineering Association.
Our taxi took us along to the Suhcai San Guan Restaurant, which specialized in vegetarian food. Already seated round the table were the now-familiar figures of Wu Ming, Dr Li, Shi Zhanchun, Chang Chun-Yen, Chen San, Hsu Ching and Wang Fu-Chou, with whom we immediately got into conversation. Wang Fu-Chou was one of the three climbers reported as having been to the top of Everest by the North Ridge in 1960. Hsu Ching, the leader of the first expedition to climb our mountain, was Master of Ceremonies, pouring wine and Maotai in small glasses one after the other throughout the meal. It was excellent, quite the best vegetarian food any of us had ever had. We wolfed down ribbons of bean curd that resembled beef, Chinese pickles, seaweeds, bamboo shoots, soya bean concoctions and several varieties of dried mushrooms, some indigenous and some not, and capped every course with a magic Maotai potion in narrow thick-glass tumblers, which loosened our tongues. General bonhomie prevailed as we toasted one another to the end. A pile of certificates was produced, confirming the fact that we had ascended Shishapangma; one by one, on somewhat shaky legs and with some amusement, we arose from our seats to be thus certified. We thanked the CMA for their hospitality and walked out to our taxi, pairing off with our Chinese friends. Wu Ming told me I should apply for other peaks.
‘Do you really want us back, Wu Ming. Haven’t we caused you enough trouble?’
‘You are good boys, come again!’ He seemed to mean it.
None of us was ready for bed so we decided to go to the ‘Disco for Foreign Guests’ advertised in our hotel lobby. No one can recall where this event took place, for we arrived by bus, having given our taxi driver the night off. There was an imposing building dominating a large square in front. We walked up palatial steps to find only four or five other foreigners inside, although highly amplified music was booming out across the strobe-lit dance floor. Out of habit we gravitated towards the bar and collapsed, legless, at one of the tables.
Roger and Alex, with energy to spare, went cavorting across the floor, dancing with each other for lack of more suitable partners, whilst Wu, Nick and I sat that one out. Alex came across and pulled me off my seat and we whirled around, Alex off the floor in my arms until I let him go as I swung round and he slid along the polished wood on his backside. I don’t know why I just let him go like that – maybe I thought it would be amusing – or possibly I felt some aversion to his pretty face next to mine – I don’t know – but I dropped him. Alex’s mood changed from hilarity to anger; the next moment we were locked in combat, tearing at each other’s cotton T-shirts and rolling around the floor, much to the consternation of the others. Quickly they tried to part us and we stood glaring at each other, Alex screaming, ‘You’re just an old fart – you’re past it’, and me thinking, ‘Is this where I put the nut in?’ But I didn’t butt him with my head – the only appendage which was free to move – I couldn’t do that to him; but I warned him that he had better watch out, for when Nottingham lads get roused they can hurt.
By now we had been edged out to the door by Nick and Roger, both two inches taller than me and about six inches taller than little Alex. There on the steps, his taunts ringing in my ears, I lunged out at him. He broke free from Nick and came up yelling, ‘I’ve been trained to kill,’ and I was thinking, ‘Those Jesuits have a lot to answer for’ when wham – right between the eyes came Alex’s fist and down went my glasses, which usually keep me out of such tricky situations, now broken into little pieces on the concrete.
‘Let me get at the little bugger,’ I yelled, though I could hardly see where he was - or anyone else except Roger, who had his giant arm round my neck, pulling me towards the taxi.
Alex yelled, ‘You’re finished, you miserable old sod.’
I yelled back, ‘Well, you’ve finally shown your colours – how’d you keep it bottled up all this time?’
We took separate taxis back to the hotel, me blubbering to dear old Roger about the need to soften these trips with the presence of women. I said a lot of other things to Roger too. ‘There have been times on this trip when I’ve hated you, Roger. Your off-hand remarks all seemed unjustified as you will not really get involved with the hard work of organizing and negotiating. But Roger, just stay as you are, you’re a great bloke, just don’t change one bit.’
Suddenly, I saw how different we all are, yet how much we all need one another. Back at the hotel Roger and I sat talking, when in came Alex and Nick. They had gone walking round the block to cool off and, for once, Nick found himself in the position of Alex’s confidant. Alex wasn’t sure what would happen when he got back to the hotel, but told Nick he was ready for anything. Nick came across to my room to see how I was. I felt drained and thoroughly miserable at the turn of events. Then Alex came across, sobbing away, declaring, ‘I never wanted this to happen, never meant any of those things I said. I love you, I love your family, you’ve just got me up an 8,000-metre peak. I’m sorry.’
At the same time I was muttering that I hadn’t wanted it to happen either - where did it all come from? But wondering if he really meant it, then deciding that he did.
It was time for bed but I had one last call to make. I went across to see Wu. He was sitting on his bed, reading.
‘Well, Wu, I hope we didn’t embarrass you. I hope you won’t get into trouble for all this. We like and respect one another really, you know. If anything, we’re too much alike.’
‘In China we do not show our emotions … ’ and then he stopped and thought it out, concluding in his sing song voice ‘I think your way is better.’
Somewhat hung over, we went down for a final Chinese breakfast, during which we said our goodbyes to Jo Sanders and her amiable group of trekkers who were staying in the hotel. We left in the taxi, as usual half an hour behind schedule, this time for the final debriefing at the CMA Hotel.
‘By the way, Alex,’ I said, ‘what’s this about your being trained to kill?’
‘Well, I’ve been doing karate lessons,’ he said.
‘Oh, that’s OK then – still, you were lucky I didn’t land you one.’
We walked into the office, Alex and I, chatting about points to be raised and caught the merest suggestion of inquisitiveness in the eyes of our Chinese friends. Perhaps they were expecting us to jump on each other again. If so, they were too polite to show it – too inscrutable to let on that they knew. I signed various bits of paper which amounted to the CMA’s owing us £1,200, which was sent on a month later. All’s well that ends well, as this meeting did, with further exhortations to sign up for another Chinese campaign. We said we would when we could afford it, and especially if they were to open up other ranges and peaks in Tibet to foreigners, not to mention Namcha Barwa. Wu Ming told us they had plans to open it up, but first, he said,
‘We Chinese are planning to go there after reconnaissance that is taking place right now.’
‘You ought to have an Anglo-Chinese Expedition.’
‘Not possible,’ he said. ‘Namcha Barwa very attractive, yes?’ he added. ‘Americans especially interested, offering big bribes, very funny.’
‘Did you take them?’
‘No – here first come, first served.’
We believed them. They are honest, these CMA officials, straight down the line within their terms of reference, and they took them to the limit to help us out. We left wondering whether we would ever make it back again.
We headed off downtown, to purchase presents in the large stores; apart from books, thick cotton track suits, Chinese teas, fans and chopsticks there was not a great deal of choice. Somehow we got behind schedule again and arrived very late for the afternoon flight to Islamabad. First, we had to be searched and various Tibetan trinkets we had bought at Shigatse were taken away from us with no chance of ever seeing them again. This seemed a bit mean, as they had hardly any value and had involved us in hours of bargaining down to prices comparable with those in Nepal. But at least the Tibetans had been paid for them.
Then we moved into the sphere of Pakistan International Airlines, to find a very strict regime in control, allowing no excess baggage to go through free, despite letters from PIA in Britain suggesting that this would be a good idea. Finally, with the plane revving up on the tarmac and only five minutes to go before take-off we said ‘Take it or leave it’ and slapped down half the amount requested – about £300 – and tore off down the marble corridors to the waiting aircraft.
For Alex and me our return signalled the start of a mammoth writing session. Alex also had to plan and prepare for Annapurna South Face in the autumn with John Porter and René Ghilini. Three days before he set off he came up to Cumbria with Terry Mooney to hand in his writings, which had taken him a solid two months, working away in his little cabin below Kinder Scout. He said he would make a few alterations, add a bit more after Annapurna and generally kick it into shape with Terry’s help. Most of his brief visit was taken up with talking about our plans for 1983; not only had I booked K2 for the spring, but also Lhotse South Face for the autumn and the South Face of Cho Oyu for the winter. Alex, Georges Bettembourg and myself would be going out together in the autumn and winter, with our families and Alex’s girlfriend, Sarah.
Back in Nottingham, we had already met to discuss some of the finer points that Alex was bringing up in the book, about the internal relationships on the expedition. We projected ourselves back on to the plateau and on to the flanks of Shishapangma in an effort to recall as accurately as we could our feelings and thoughts at the time. In searching for the truth we renewed our respect for each other. When my wife, Jan, came into the room to remind Alex he had an appointment in London, she asked us what we had been doing, for, as she said, we were glowing. We had got very close to each other – the ultimate endorsement of what we do together. We planned to go over the book on Alex’s return from Annapurna and bring the others into the discussions. Perhaps we could end up with an expedition book the likes of which had not been done before.
On 17 October 1982 Alex and René Ghilini were retreating from the South Face of Annapurna, after a fine attempt, when a solitary stone hurtled down and struck Alex, killing him and knocking him down 800 feet.
In November Terry Mooney and Alex’s mother organized a memorial service, which was attended by many of Alex’s relatives and friends; there was a lot of love between us all that day in Hayfield. His life and death had brought us all much closer together. Once again, I was reminded of Thornton Wilder’s Bridge Of San Luis Rey, as I was after the deaths of Mick Burke, Dougal Haston, Nick Estcourt, Joe Tasker, Peter Boardman …
But soon we shall die and all memory of those five will have left the earth, and we ourselves shall be loved for a while and forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.