There are two kinds of climbers; those who climb because their heart sings when they’re in the mountains, and all the rest.
Alex Lowe
WHEN I RETURNED to Kathmandu after the Annapurna climb, I was emotionally tired. Exhausted, actually. I found it difficult to celebrate with my friends in the usual bars and had no interest in socialising with the eclectic mix of climbers and international characters that Kathmandu attracts. I wasn’t quite sure why, but I felt distanced from others. I wanted to be on my own.
Although that feeling diminished a little over time, Annapurna had been such an intense experience that it made my ‘normal’ life back at home seem wasteful and self-indulgent. This wasn’t exactly a new emotion. As I’d spent more and more time in the Himalaya, I’d felt ever more strongly that that was where I was most comfortable. But while adopting this simple, albeit dangerous, life was attractive, I knew that it wasn’t ‘real’. It simply wasn’t possible for me to climb all the time, if only because I had to work to fund each expedition. So a return to normality was unavoidable.
For the first time in many years, though, returning home was a bit of a culture shock. I found it difficult to engage with my girlfriend Julie, despite her strong support throughout my expeditions. I found work in the public service far less interesting than I had previously. More than anything, I had no time whatsoever for the mundane concerns of people whose lives revolved around gossip and office politics. In truth, I’d never really afforded those people much attention, but now I gave them very short shrift. I just couldn’t be bothered with their pettiness and irrelevance.
I knew that my experience on Annapurna had had an effect on me—if not in changing my values, then at least in clarifying them. It had reinforced for me what a valuable gift life is, and that it should be lived absolutely to the full. A number of times over the years, I’d found myself in lonely base camps for weeks on end, even months, wondering if I was wasting my life, my money and my opportunities in order to chase a foolish dream which, in the end, meant nothing, and would bring me nothing more than personal satisfaction, if I survived. There was no pot of gold at the end of this particular rainbow. I’d never been very adept at selling myself or my story at home. Even after all these years and successes, I was predominately self-funded, although my ever-growing keynote-speaking business did at least support the habit.
It was ironic, really. I had quite a profile in international mountaineering circles, but at home I was barely known. This made it difficult for me to attract sponsorship. My peers around the world were heavily sponsored and able to live as professional climbers, whereas I had to work a normal job to fund my climbing passion. This was partly my fault for not promoting myself and partly because I came from the flattest country on Earth. Mountaineering has never rated too highly in Australia compared to cricket, or our other national sports.
I wondered if perhaps I’d run my course in the mountains. Was I burnt out? I’d been luckier than all those who’d paid the ultimate price while chasing the Himalayan grand slam, but was climbing these big peaks really worth such risk? By this time, I’d been climbing on the 8000ers for sixteen years, and had spent more than three years of my life actually clinging to the sides of these hills. Three years! Surely I could find better ways to spend my time. Surely life was worth more than a few brief moments on the top of some big chunks of rock and ice. Was it time to hang up my ice axe?
I’d taken the job in the public service to consolidate my finances and to create a new career opportunity—if I actually wanted to have one. But to pursue that career, I would have to devote myself to it and spend less time in the mountains. It was decision time: mountains or money?
I’d never considered giving up. I wasn’t quite sure I was actually considering it now, but I was definitely asking myself whether I should consider it. That was about as far as I’d ever taken the question before, even in those lonely base camps. I’d never forced myself to answer, because on each of those expeditions my self-doubt had evaporated the moment I was back on the mountain. The dark thoughts stayed at Base Camp, and as soon as I’d started climbing again, I was exuberant and fulfilled. I was re-energised and refocused.
While I tried to assess the value of my project—indeed, of my whole lifestyle—back in Australia I relived in my mind many of the expeditions. As soon as I started reflecting on my high-altitude experiences, my pulse beat more strongly, my breathing quickened and I felt a surge of happiness. I wasn’t stressed by the memories; I was excited by them.
The more I questioned myself about the point of these climbs, the more worthwhile they appeared—and the less relevant ‘normality’ seemed. My frustration was not that the mountains were impeding my life, I realised; it was that my ‘normal’ life was impeding my mountain experiences! I came to clearly understand what I’d always suspected. While the summit of any mountain was the sweetest prize, for me it was not the main game. Indeed the summit could almost be an anti-climax. The thrill was in the fight to get there. The camaraderie of shared adversity, the exuberance of overcoming seemingly impossible challenges, the thrill of life after escaping death’s clutching fingers—these were the real rewards. And only the high mountains could provide the intensity of that experience.
To hell with my career, I decided. I didn’t just want to climb; I needed to.
*
Maurice Herzog, the leader of the French expedition that had made the first ascent of Annapurna in 1950, said afterwards that Annapurna was a treasure on which he should live the rest of his days. It was a treasure for me also, but I knew I could not live out the rest of my days on that experience alone. Or even on all the experiences I’d had to that point. I had moved beyond being an amateur enthusiast. I was addicted. To the beauty, the thrill and the savagery, even to the pain. I wanted more.
I didn’t want to die—indeed, I was more focused on managing risk than ever—but that just added to the game. For an objective to be worthwhile, it had to have risk. Without it, I might as well have quit climbing and become one of those I pitied in the office. There was no question that I wanted to finish my 8000er project; it had been hanging around my neck for long enough. But over and above everything else, I just wanted to get back to high altitude. I threw myself into planning the next climb.
With twelve 8000ers under my belt, only Makalu and Shishapangma remained. Shishapangma I knew well, but Makalu, the fifth-highest mountain in the world, had quite a tough reputation. It was also the mountain that had seen the demise of my friend David Hume in 1995.
Before I could get too far into planning, I needed to repair my relationship with Julie. For several years she’d wanted to join me on an expedition. I’d always resisted, firstly because I didn’t want the distraction from my goal of summitting the mountain, and secondly because I felt that it would be an awful thing for my partner to have to walk out from a base camp on her own if I was killed on the climb. I decided to compromise on my principles, though, and agreed to take Julie to Shishapangma for the 2007 post-monsoon season. I didn’t really anticipate summitting with her but thought that she might enjoy the expedition experience. I still hoped to summit but expected it would be on my own.
The trip did not start well. In Nyalam, Tibet, we shared a hotel with several other climbers who were also heading to Shishapangma. One of them had developed a nasty hacking cough a couple of days earlier. When Julie and I returned from an acclimatisation walk, we learned that he’d literally coughed himself to death, having ruptured an internal organ. I could not think of a more depressing and lonely death than dying like that in a squalid hotel room on your own without even having seen the mountain that had brought you to your end.
At Shishapangma the weather was woeful and we didn’t get too far up the mountain. Constant heavy snow prevented any real climbing. Julie and I spent more time in our base-camp tent than on the mountain, but it was a fun, although very expensive way to relax and spend some time together. The most exciting part of the expedition came when Julie insisted on trying to rescue a Tibetan mastiff that had somehow become trapped in an ice gully on the glacier.
After hearing its yelps and going to investigate, we saw the poor mutt running back and forth, having no way to climb out. With a savage mauling on the cards from the panicked pooch, not to mention the very real threat of rabies, I was happy to let our Tibetan yak herders take care of it, given that it belonged to them. Julie, however, insisted that I lower her into the gully so she could tie a rope around the monster and I could haul it to the surface—What could go wrong? ‘Lower me down, lower me down!’ I lowered.
Naturally, as soon as Julie was at the bottom, the dog, which was one and a half times her size, started snarling and gnashing its teeth as it advanced towards her. With new instructions issued instantly—‘Pull me out, pull me out!’—I then had to heave and haul her up the ice slope before the mastiff made a meal of her. It was duly rescued by our Tibetan yak herders.
We also provided a bit of assistance to a climber who had descended from the mountain confused and slurring his words—clear signs of cerebral oedema. I administered dexamethasone and within a few hours he was back to normal. Our own climb, however, ended with me going no higher than Camp 1. Shishapangma 4, Andrew 0.
*
While the trip with Julie had been good for our relationship, it hadn’t been a serious attempt on the mountain. By the beginning of 2008 I was ready to hit the hills again with a vengeance. After the stress of Annapurna the year before, I wanted to go on an expedition with a small and skilled team of friends, rather than a large and unwieldy group. More than anything, I wanted to enjoy the climb. I invited Neil Ward and Hector Ponce de Leon to join me, and both accepted.
Although Shishapangma remained an elusive summit for me, it was still the lowest of the 8000ers and I felt that it could be climbed as preparation for a higher, tougher mountain. We therefore decided to climb Shisha in April 2008, before travelling to Nepal for a quick, well-acclimatised ascent of Makalu in May. It would be a similar approach to my Shishapangma-Annapurna expedition of the previous year.
Before meeting the guys in Kathmandu, I set out on my usual two-week acclimatisation and fitness trek. I planned to push myself over long distances and as many high passes for as many hours a day as possible. I wanted my body to hurt and to respond to the altitude. Julie joined me for the acclimatisation trek. She was fit and motivated, and her passion for adventure travel and the Himalaya hadn’t been diminished by our unsuccessful expedition the previous year. Trekking was a much less intense way to spend some time together, although the relationship nearly came to an end on one particularly hard day.
We had trekked from the remote and beautiful village of Gokyo, over a high snow-covered pass known as the Cho La. Most parties making the crossing stop at a little outpost a couple of kilometres below the pass. Julie knew that I wanted to walk hard and agreed to keep going to the next village, Lobuche, which was several hours further on. That meant a long day, perhaps 20 kilometres, most of it at 4000 to 5000 metres in altitude. I knew that we should stop, because I could see that Julie was tired, but I really wanted to push myself.
About an hour before we reached Lobuche, poor Jules hit the wall. She’d used every last ounce of her energy and just sagged to the ground. It was my fault, and I knew it. Luckily, I had a small chocolate bar. The sugar revived her and she was able to continue, although I paid the price by having to carry both of our heavy rucksacks for the final kilometres. Oh well, it was good training!
In Kathmandu a week later, I met Hector and Neil while Julie flew home to Australia. We organised our equipment and bought food and fuel for the two mountains. However, the world of international politics was about to conspire against us. It was 2008, the year of the Beijing Olympics, and the Chinese authorities wanted the Olympic torch to be carried to the summit of Mount Everest. Not only did they refuse permission to foreign expeditions to Everest, in order to allow their own expedition to proceed uninhibited, they closed all the mountains in Tibet, including Shishapangma. I suppose they didn’t want any pesky foreigners waving ‘Free Tibet’ flags around on Tibetan mountaintops.
Rather than actually declining applications for Tibet permits that season, the Chinese Mountaineering Association simply ‘delayed’ the issue of permits. After a week in Kathmandu, during which we were repeatedly told ‘maybe tomorrow’, we decided to stop wasting our time and get some acclimatisation. We went trekking for a week in the Langtang Valley, close to the Kathmandu Valley.
This is a beautiful trek and provides quite a range of environments. A jarring 12-hour jeep ride over deeply potholed and rutted dirt roads was followed by a steep and steamy walk uphill through thick forest, heavy with humidity. We were soon drenched in perspiration. Monkeys screeched overhead, and the impenetrable foliage above us blocked any relief from the cooler air above.
The next morning, after a dawn start, we pushed ourselves hard to climb out of the valley before the heat caught us again. The vegetation thinned and soon we were walking on alpine trails, the jagged peaks of the Langtang Himal looming ahead, with crisp, cool skies above and stunning mountain vistas all around.
At the head of the valley we reached the village of Langtang, a collection of twenty or more teahouses. We selected one without other trekkers and were soon ordering food and hot drinks. Teahouses had evolved considerably since tourism came to Nepal. Originally, they were just rudimentary rural houses from which porters and other locals could purchase a simple cup of tea and dhal baht, and sleep near the fire, as they traversed the country by its myriad trails. With trekkers came money, and soon teahouses in the more popular valleys were being purpose-built with small rooms, bunks, and even tables and chairs. Menus increasingly catered for western tastes, with spaghetti, apple pie and beer replacing the traditional rice, lentils and rakshi (a traditional homemade spirit). Having pushed ourselves hard on the walk in, we were happy to enjoy the comforts on offer.
Over the next few days we trekked up nearby hills to gain a little altitude and test our fitness, returning each evening for a hearty meal and a good night’s sleep. After three nights we descended to the road head and endured the backbreaking drive back to the city. Upon our return, though, the stalling by the Chinese Mountaineering Association continued: it was soon clear that no permits would be forthcoming that season. We decided to proceed directly to Makalu.
*
At 8481 metres, Makalu stands alone and proud on the border of Nepal and Tibet, just 19 kilometres south-east of Mount Everest. A beautiful four-sided pyramid with impossibly sharp and jagged ridges at each corner, it is one of the most striking of the 8000ers.
Despite (or perhaps because of) its proximity to Everest, it received scant attention as other 8000ers were successfully climbed. A reconnaissance expedition that included Edmund Hillary visited the area in 1952, but the first real attempt on the mountain didn’t occur until the pre-monsoon season of 1954. Named the California Himalayan Expedition to Makalu, its members included Willi Unsoeld, who would become a household name among climbers for his first ascent, with Thomas Hornbein, of the very technical West Ridge of Everest in 1963. In 1976 he joined with his daughter, Nanda Devi Unsoeld, and others to climb her namesake mountain, Nanda Devi, in India. Tragically, Nanda Devi Unsoeld perished during that expedition. Willi continued to climb, but he died in an avalanche in 1979 on Mount Rainer in Washington, United States.
Also on Makalu in the spring of 1954 was an expedition led by Hillary, who by then was a household name because of his Everest climb the year before. Hillary’s expedition did not fare so well this time. Two members of the team, Jim McFarlane and Brian Wilkins, fell into a crevasse. They both survived, but McFarlane was severely frostbitten and lost part of his feet and fingers. Hillary broke several ribs during the rescue and became so ill that he had to be evacuated.
A French expedition in the pre-monsoon of 1955 saw the first ascents of the mountain. Lionel Terray, already a revered lion of the mountaineering world, reached the summit on 15 May 1955 with his teammate Jean Couzy. Expedition leader Jean Franco and Guido Magnone, along with Gyaltsen Norbu Sherpa, summitted the next day, followed by four other team members a day later. This was the largest number of climbers from a ‘first ascent’ expedition to go to the summit—a particularly impressive achievement given the technical difficulties, constant wind and altitude.
The trek to Makalu is tough, traversing numerous passes and deep gorges. At some points you can see your day’s destination just over the other side of a valley, and you might reasonably think that it looks close. The trek to get there, though, requires a steep, seemingly endless descent into a gorge, followed by a tortuous climb of a thousand metres or more up the far side. By the time you reach your destination, your leg muscles are quivering with exhaustion. After a full ten hours of hard slog, it is demoralising to see that you’ve only progressed towards Makalu’s Base Camp by a few short kilometres. But you are pretty fit by the time you saunter into that camp a couple of weeks later.
The downside of the trek, though, is that it has a reputation for porter strikes and demands for increased wages. Several expeditions have failed even to reach the mountain. To avoid that issue, we booked a large Russian Mi-17 helicopter to fly us and our equipment from Lukla to Base Camp. However this too, carried risks. A number of these helicopters appeared in Nepal after the breakup of the Soviet Union, but over the years most have been lost through crashes in the treacherous flying conditions of the Himalaya. Indeed, the flight to Makalu Base Camp is one of the most difficult, as the route penetrates a narrow gorge enclosed between the walls of giant mountains. A few years earlier, one of the same helicopters had disappeared there with a full load of Sherpa passengers, never to be found. Still, the flight seemed a better option than the trek, given how much time we’d already lost while trying to get a Shishapangma permit.
We first flew by light plane to Lukla, where we waited for our scheduled helicopter flight. The next morning we were told that our flight had been put back three days because the helicopter was being used by the Nepali government to collect ballot boxes from the recent national election. We used the time to train on the steep mountain tracks that crisscrossed the surrounding hills, which I’d never previously had the time to explore. Three days later, the chopper arrived.
Our flight was to be the second trip of the morning, since another expedition had also booked the helicopter to Base Camp. We filmed the first team take off, then sat back to await the chopper’s return in an hour or so. After two hours and four cups of tea, it had not appeared. Three hours and six cups of tea later, it had still not returned and we went in search of answers. It had crash-landed at Makalu Base Camp. While no one had been injured, the helicopter was inoperable, probably for several months. That left just one operating helicopter big enough to ferry us and our equipment in all of Nepal.
Our trekking agent contacted the owners of that last chopper and was told that we’d be able to access it in another four days. We considered whether to give up on the flight and make the long trek, but the advice I’d received from climbers who’d done that was to avoid the porter problems at all costs. So we took the risk and waited for the helicopter. In the meantime, we hiked in the surrounding hills to keep fit and acclimatised, and drank beer to give ourselves more reason to go hiking to keep fit.
The risk and the beer paid off, and after a full week in Lukla, we were finally able to experience one of the most spectacular flights in the world. Because of the unpredictable winds, the high altitude and the tough flying conditions, the helicopter, which could carry 4 tonnes at sea level, would only take a load of 1600 kilograms in total—passengers and equipment combined. Given the recent and previous accidents, we were happy to comply. The helicopter swooped over Himalayan passes, past massive mountain walls that towered thousands of metres above us, and along seemingly bottomless gorges with thundering mountain rivers pounding down below—probably not the place to run out of gas.
We were deposited onto an open rocky plain at the base of a glacier, immediately below the south ridge of Makalu. Known as Hillary Base Camp, the site is still a day’s trek below the actual Base Camp for our intended route on the north side of the mountain, but it provided a suitable landing place for the helicopter and a safe altitude for us to spend a few days furthering our acclimatisation.
While there, we took the opportunity to examine the chopper that had crashed a week earlier and now sat forlornly on the cold glacier. It had come in too fast, hit hard and broken the undercarriage. Another climber showed me a video of the accident. It appeared that the helicopter was lucky not to have broken in two, such was the speed at which it hit the ground.
After a few days we trekked to our Base Camp, accompanied by a small team of porters. We couldn’t take all our loads with us, so we prioritised them to allow us to start climbing with the bare essentials while the rest of the expedition stores were brought up over the next week.
To save costs, we’d arranged to share camp logistics with a Kazakhstani team. Not finding them at the Hillary Base Camp, we were intrigued to learn that they’d already moved up to the higher Base Camp—they’d been there for over a week. Virtually without food, fuel or equipment, they’d survived on charity from other climbers. Undaunted, they’d already started their climb and established their lower camps on the mountain. I soon came to understand the driving force within the team. Their leader was Denis Urubko, a highly accomplished 8000-metre alpinist who had a bucketload of tough climbs to his credit.
We were also sharing our permit with Portugal’s João Garcia, with whom I’d climbed on Nanga Parbat in 1996 and Kanchenjunga in 2006. João had a Belgian climbing partner, Jean-Luc. Initially we considered climbing together as a team of five, but a clash of personalities early in the expedition obliged us to stay separate.
The climbing, at least at first, was easy and we made quick progress. Hector and Neil were good teammates. Hector was a true comedian—no matter how exhausted, he always had a joke to suit the situation. Neil was uncomplaining and quick to take on chores, like setting up the tent or collecting snow. I found it very motivating to share an expedition with like-minded souls who truly enjoyed just being on the mountain—none of us was there for self-aggrandisement or sponsorship endorsements.
The climbing was fantastic. The route was interesting and varied, with steep snow and ice sections, rock steps and lots of exposure. I was in my element and buzzed with adrenaline as we climbed higher and higher, jumping crevasses and forcing our way through the mountain’s barriers. My entire focus was on the climb, with the dullness of normal life forgotten. Everest stood just a few kilometres away, and we were treated to extraordinary views of its remote Kanshung Face and the Mother Goddess in all her moods.
Our focus was interrupted one night when we cooked up a packet of tom yum Thai soup. High altitude affects your taste-buds, so that nothing is very appetising and most things taste bland. When we’d shopped for the expedition in Kathmandu, we’d thought the tom yum soup might be tangy enough to have some flavour. But as we ate it, I had no idea whether it had any flavour or not because it simply blew our heads off. At minus 20 degrees Celsius, the sweat ran off us. Snow never tasted so good!
The real problem on this expedition, though, was that we were constantly sick from colds and flus. Hector was the worst affected, but Neil and I were also knocked down at different times. No amount of antibiotics seemed to clear them up. Antibiotics don’t work as well at altitude, and they also leave you more susceptible to other infections. Hector lurched from one chest infection to another, never quite getting on top of them. It affected his fitness and, understandably, his morale.
Despite these challenges, we progressed up the mountain until we were ready for a summit push in mid May. While resting at Base Camp, however, Hector and I became sick again. Days ticked by and so did the good weather. Worried that he’d miss his summit chance, Neil set out for the top on his own. I didn’t see any need to rush, though. Julie was sending me weather forecasts by SMS from Australia, and I judged that the best weather would come on 21 May.
*
On 17 May Hector and I started out from Base Camp and climbed directly to Camp 2. We continued up to Camp 3 on 18 May, where we stopped for a day while strong winds pounded the upper slopes of the mountain. Several climbers challenged the winds and went for the top the next day. As Hector and I sheltered in our tent, a number of them, including Neil, returned dejectedly to join us, having been defeated by the wind. Some were frostbitten but, thankfully, not Neil.
Hector and I pushed up to Camp 4 on 20 May. The next day, on a brutally cold morning, we set out for the summit at 3.45 a.m. This was quite a late start, given the long climb ahead of us and the forecast for strong wind around midday, but it was just too cold to leave any earlier. We needed the sun. Even so, I almost instantly lost the feeling in my toes. My high-altitude boots were rated to minus 40 degrees Celsius but seemed to have no effect that morning.
While the slope wasn’t too steep, Hector quickly dropped behind. It was obvious that he’d been severely weakened by the perpetual colds and flus he’d suffered. We kept climbing, but when I stopped around 6.30 a.m. to rewarm my frozen feet, I could see that Hector was finished. At 8100 metres he turned back. This was a great disappointment to him; he really wanted to summit. His departure also meant I was on my own for the rest of the climb, and my safety net and the camaraderie of the climb went with him.
Such was the bitter cold that morning that I came close to turning around myself. The usual toe wriggling did nothing to get the blood flowing. For a full thirty minutes I swung my legs back and forth, trying to force some blood down so that I could regain just the slightest feeling in them. Normally I can feel a bit of movement in the joints of my toes even when the toes have lost all sensation, but on this occasion I couldn’t feel anything at all. I knew I was on the very precipice of frostbite. The summit wasn’t worth a smaller shoe size, I decided, but just when it seemed that I would have to forgo the top and retreat to the warmth of the tent, I felt a slight twinge and knew that my toes would stay attached for a while longer.
The excruciating pain of blood returning to my severely frozen feet was almost crippling, though, and I had to clench my teeth to stop from crying out as I buckled over my ice axe. Wave after painful wave swept over me and I could do nothing except curse. After a few minutes it passed and I could breathe freely again. On with the climb. I started up the steep rock and ice slope, climbing quickly to keep the blood flowing to my feet.
There were two other climbers going for the top that day: a Czech named Radek, whom I soon overtook, and another man who was coming up behind me. He was making very quick progress and was actually catching up. I realised that he was using oxygen, and as he caught me I saw that he had a new type of oxygen mask. It turned out to be Ted Atkins, the British climber for whom I had searched for and eventually sourced an oxygen bottle on Mount Everest in 2004. An engineer, he’d since invented his more efficient mask and regulator system for the oxygen bottles that are used in the Himalaya, and he was testing it out. Clearly, it worked well.
We rested together on a little ledge. To save weight, I left my pack and a water bottle there, then led off and climbed towards the summit ridge. It was fantastic climbing. We scrambled over and around rocky outcrops, linking short snow ramps and tiptoeing up occasional ice patches. The sun shone, the snow sparkled and Everest glittered in the distance. It was great to be alive! This was my environment, climbing hard but smoothly, the whole world dropping below me, my goal just another hour or two’s effort away.
My exuberance was interrupted when, about 10 metres from the ridge, my left boot suddenly felt quite light. I looked down and saw that I’d lost my crampon, which had dropped into the snow about 8 metres down the face. The loss of a crampon can be devastatingly dangerous, particularly on steep rock and ice. Without it, I was at great risk of slipping off the face. Luckily, Ted was below me, and was able to recover the crampon. While I refixed it to my boot as securely as possible, he led through and up to the ridge. I joined him there a few minutes later and we sat together, enjoying the sun’s life-giving warmth. We couldn’t stop too long, though, as we anticipated strong winds around midday.
We started the final traverse along the summit ridge to the top. Ted took off at a great pace, supercharged by his diet of oxygen. It’s incredible the difference it makes. He was stronger, warmer and faster than I was, despite the additional weight of the oxygen bottle.
Radek was well behind us, so Ted and I continued along the ridge. We climbed for ten minutes or so, and then there was a short, steep step up a rocky outcrop. The left side of the ridge was corniced, with a very steep drop down. Ted went up the snow and around the rocky outcrop—a false summit. As I followed, I looked back and photographed Radek on the ridge. It was as if he was walking on a strip of snow suspended in the sky, with fluffy clouds all around and below him. Spectacular!
Once over the false summit, I expected to have to down-climb a little before ascending to the true summit, but it was just a delicate snow traverse with a short rise at the end. Ted was approaching the top, so I photographed him and then traversed over. I arrived about 11.15 a.m., seven and a half hours after setting out. That’s a day’s work in the public service. Where does the time go, I wondered, when you are just putting one foot in front of the other?
On top, I stood for Ted to take a photo, and then I unfurled two small strings of prayer flags that Julie and I had bought in Namche Bazaar during our trek. They had been blessed by a lama during our puja ceremony.
The summit was steep, snowy and small. There were some other prayer flags there, so I tied mine onto them. I pulled out my Thuraya satellite phone and called Julie. It was hard to talk as I was puffing hard, but it was great to speak to her from the top. I also put in a call from the very summit to Kelly Higgins-Devine, an afternoon radio host from ABC Radio in Queensland. I’d promised to make the call if I could, as Kelly had followed my climbs with interest for a number of years. I think she was more excited than I was and she cut into her normal program to do the interview live.
By this time the wind was whipping me and it was time to get down. It took just two hours to descend to Camp 4, where Hector was waiting. Despite his own disappointment and exhaustion, he kindly started up the stove and made me some drinks before we packed up and dropped down to the greater safety of Camp 3. The following day we descended to Base Camp.
Poor Hector was despondent at not having reached the summit. Normally, he was a very strong and fast climber, but he just couldn’t beat the infections on this trip. Neil, too, was disappointed but pragmatic. He had achieved his own altitude record and learned a lot more about climbing at high altitude. We would climb together again.
When we reached Kathmandu, I was a completely different person to the recluse who’d hidden from others after Annapurna the previous year. I was on a massive high. Makalu had been the ideal high-altitude experience: tough conditions, challenging climbing and brutally cold, but achievable, given the motivation. It was one of the most satisfying climbs I’d done. The perfect mountain. I’d felt so alive and happy during the climb that I was almost sorry it was over, despite being 12 kilograms lighter and struggling to climb a flight of stairs for the first couple of weeks back in civilisation.
As well as the summit, I also came away from the mountain with an empty oxygen bottle that was lying on the plateau at Camp 3. It was from the French expedition that had made the first ascent of Makalu in 1955—a real collector’s item.
I knew with absolute certainty that I’d made the right decision to continue with my 8000er project. This was where I wanted to be. This was where I was most fulfilled. Bring on the next one, I thought. Shishapangma, of course, because Makalu had been the thirteenth 8000-metre peak I’d climbed.