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There can be few institutions as curious as Medical Expeditions. A charitable organisation run by enthusiasts with a passion for combining science with adventure. In 1994 its members climbed Everest, Pumori, Lobuje East, Island Peak, Pokalde and returned with a wealth of scientific data. The membership worked hard to make it all happen and used their own cash to fund the research programme.

The twin charitable objectives of Medical Expeditions are:

1. Research into the mechanisms of all aspects of altitude related illness.
2. Increasing, by education, awareness of altitude related illness.

In the six years since the charity was founded it has pursued its objectives with zeal. Medical Expeditions has run five courses for doctors at Plas y Brenin in North Wales as well as two for members of the public. These courses, organised by Andrew Pollard, have acquired an excellent reputation both amongst the international panel of speakers and amongst those that come to learn. Much of the work arising from the 1994 Everest Expedition has now been published and presented in journals and at meetings throughout the world. Kangchenjunga 1998 is expected to yield a further crop of papers spanning the spectrum of altitude related illness and physiology.

Despite the many academic and educational successes the most important aspect of Medical Expeditions is the unique human formula. Bringing together adventurers and academics from all backgrounds and giving them the opportunity, in their spare time, to work towards common and exciting goals. The excitement of participating in a major expedition is a powerful attraction and the prospect of doing some good science along the way has proved irresistible to many. Many friendships have been formed and have flourished and this is the greatest success of Medical Expeditions.

I am very happy that the enthusiasm that flowed after Everest '94 is flowing just as freely after Kangchenjunga '98. Plans are already afoot for future projects and I am sure that the next decade will prove a very interesting time for both the charitable works of Medical Expeditions and for its members.

This Report gives the details of its second major venture, Kangchenjunga '98. Once again teams of trekkers, climbers and researchers ventured into a remote corner of the Nepalese Himalayas to study the debilitating effects of altitude on health.

I hope you enjoy reading the many varied personal accounts and I hope that some of the technical detail will be of use to those planning future, similar ventures. Many individuals have contributed to this report and inevitably there is some repetition but each account brings a new perspective. I have, therefore, left many of the contributions unchanged.

Medical Expeditions is a medical research charity dedicated to exploring all aspects of altitude related illness. Its first venture was the highly successful British Mountain Everest Medical Expedition in 1994

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After the successes of Everest the inevitable question was posed, "Where next?" It seemed certain that there would be a large following from Everest all the time we were being bombarded by new enquiries. Everyone seemed to be brimming with enthusiasm for both the research and the adventure. All we had to do was select the objectives then sit down and make it all happen.

The desire to continue the science meant that we had to find significant altitude and we were all smitten on Nepal. That, at least, narrowed down the target. We were keen, if possible, to combine base camp research activities with an attempt on a major peak as well as some more attainable satellite mountains. The other stipulation was that base camp should be a comfortable experience rather than the austere delights of the Khumbu. The 1994 trip had been to the heart of tourist Nepal and the organisers were keen to get away from the main trade routes and explore pastures new. The Annapurna region was thus discounted.

Having read Boardman's epic book 'Sacred Summits' back in the early 80's I had harboured a desire to go to Kangchenjunga. Apart from this fearsome account of climbing the world's third highest mountain I knew little about the region other than that it lay in the remote eastern corner of Nepal. I mentioned it as a possible objective at one of our open meetings in Langdale and all of a sudden that was it. We were off to Kangchenjunga.

Sally went off to the Alpine Club where she spent ages combing databases, obscure reports and historical publications. She came back wide eyed with enthusiasm with the wonders of Taplejung, Jannu, Ramtang and the Mirgin La. We now had a list of likely climbing objectives but were dismayed to find none of the satellite peaks were listed as Expedition Peaks by His Majesty's Government of Nepal. The good thing was that the North base camp sounded ideal - remote, high, spectacular and, above all, grassy! The fact that we would have to get several tonnes of assorted high tech and delicate equipment to a remote outpost in Nepal did not exercise our minds at this stage.

Having selected the target area we then had to design an expedition framework to suit. Ideally we needed to have a comfortable, central base camp with teams venturing onto surrounding peaks. If possible a strong climbing team would attempt a major assault on Kangchenjunga itself.

It seemed to me that the profile of the Medical Expeditions venture could only be boosted by association with a serious attempt on an 8,000 metre peak. However, the prospect of mounting a serious bid as well as attempting to achieve all the other research objectives did not appeal. I had always been disappointed that I had not been able to offer Chris Comerie a place on our Everest permit in '94 and I began to develop the idea of asking Chris to run his own parallel expedition on Kangchenjunga. The directors of Medical Expeditions quickly saw the attraction of having a logistically separate, but closely allied, 8,000 metre team and readily agreed to fund Chris' Kangchenjunga permit believing, correctly, that the outlay would be recouped by boosting our own profile and recruitment. I was, therefore, delighted to be able to ring up Chris and offer to fund his permit should he wish to mount his own expedition. Chris, I think, at first was a little dubious of our motives and was at pains to point out that he would be in total command of his team. Having been reassured on this we rapidly reached agreement and thus not one, but two, expeditions were born. The association proved most successful for both parties.

I then entered into a lengthy correspondence with HMG Nepal in attempt to get a permit for Ramtang Peak that had, until then, been out of bounds. Permission was finally secured in 1997 and in March 1998 it was granted a special status whereby no Royalty and no Liaison Officer were required. This proved a huge bonus to us and gave the climbers in our midst an excellent objective to get their teeth into. We also received permission for attempts on Dhromo and Tengkongma.

In the early days we contemplated an accompanying "family trek" but as the months went by the various families withdrew with the notable exception of Jo Argyle Robinson, Ian Cameron and their four children aged from 5 to 14 years. They engaged a separate agent and trekked under their own steam to Pangpema. Those of who were worried that they would not keep up were humbled by the whirlwind that surrounded them on the trail. Chris (aged 14) and Sholto (aged 11) repeatedly stormed past regular Medex members and climbed several of the spurs north of the Pangpema and Lhonak to around 6,000 metres.

Pangpema, with its wonderful pure water and grassy meadow, was the ideal nerve centre for the Expedition. With teams on Kangchenjunga, Ramtang and Tengkongma the researchers could beaver away in comfort secure in the knowledge that each trekking group would arrive and be inspired by the spectacular panorama. Boardman had described the approach march as the finest in Nepal and our hugely experienced sirdar described Pangpema as the most comfortable base camp on any big mountain. They were both correct. Pangpema was magnificent and perfect for our purpose.

As the Expedition plans grew Andrew Pollard ploughed his huge energies into the research programme. A research committee was formed, adverts placed and projects vetted. Emails whizzed around the world with bewildering frequency as new and enthusiastic researchers were signed up. Expedition organisers struggled in Andy's wake as he recruited in Europe, the USA and New Zealand.

Frequent meetings ensued over the following 2 years and by the early summer of '98 we began to relax as we tied the last few logistical knots. We were financially secure having been deluged with enthusiastic trekking recruits. We had secured outside funding to assist the research. Chris Comerie had recruited his team and, in mid August, he said his farewells and left for Kathmandu. With growing excitement we followed him a month later to begin the adventure. By then the expedition was already two years old.

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The Kangchenjunga region of Nepal is a remote and fascinating area, much less visited than the popular Khumbu and Annapurna regions. Official Ministry of Tourism records confirm that only 516 trekking permits are issued for this region annually. In the north it borders Tibet whilst in the east it abuts the kingdom of Sikkim, now part of India.

Up until 1988 the area was closed to trekkers. It has almost 100 peaks over 6,000 metres, a significant number of which have no recorded ascent. Indeed, due to the closure of the region, many of the peaks that have been climbed were last climbed in the 1940’s or earlier. Reliable information on lesser-known peaks is hard to come by - adding to the sense of exploration to be experienced in visiting the area.

The first recorded ascent of Tengkongma was during a Swiss expedition in 1949. The expedition report in the Himalayan Journal of that year reads as follows:

"At last we had achieved a Himalayan ascent which was not killing, and which gave us every chance to enjoy to the full the unsurpassable view. Everest, Makalu and Lhotse first drew our gaze, but many other peaks, less in stature but no less beautiful, enthralled and intrigued us."

This peak had captured our attention, partly due to its location between the massif of Kangbachen, Yalung Kang and Wedge Peak, and partly due to the description of the first and only recorded ascent in Frank Smythe’s book, The Kangchenjunga Adventure. Following a failed attempt on Kangchenjunga itself, Smythe and Schneider, members of Professor Dyhrenfurth’s German expedition to the area in 1931, turned their attention to Ramtang.

The history of Kangchenjunga since its first ascent in 1955 is one of surprisingly few ascents. For almost 20 years there were no expeditions - and to date to our knowledge there has only been one further British ascent, that of Tasker, Boardman and Scott in 1979 via the north ridge. In 1989 the traverse of the four main summits was finally achieved by the Soviets, following the 1955 route up the south-west face. It was a phenomenal achievement by an incredibly fit team. During the past 15 years there have been a number of ascents but the main summit is one of the few remaining 8,000 metre and the first female ascent was made in spring 1998 by British climber Ginette Harrison.

The Alpine Journal 1996 describes Kangchenjunga (with K2) as "the most challenging of the 8,000 metre peaks" and continues "Nor does it have any easy routes. All of its faces are objectively dangerous and its ridges long and hard. Challenges remain, but they will not easily be won. Kangchenjunga is a mountaineers’ mountain, and it will remain so."

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Medical Expeditions is a charitable organisation whose remit is to conduct research into altitude related illness and to educate mountaineers and trekkers to recognise and avoid such illness.

The current Directors of Medical Expeditions took over their responsibility in May 1995. They are Jim Milledge, Sally Glynn and Annabel Nickol. Plans were soon developed to organise a major research expedition to the Kangchenjunga. All 3 directors contributed a very great deal of their time and energy before, during, and after K98. Jim and Annabel assumed research responsibility, and Sally took on much of the administrative responsibility and, of course, became a highly effective treasurer.

I was appointed Expedition Leader shortly after and assumed the responsibility for recruitment and planning. Andrew Pollard agreed to take on the responsibility for developing the research package and David Collier became Research Leader.

The above team worked very closely over the ensuing years with very regular correspondence. Most of this was conducted by email. Early on it was decided to broaden our research base and encourage new blood and accordingly we advertised for active researchers to apply to join the research team. A research committee was formed which included Jim Milledge, Andrew Pollard, David Collier and Annabel Nickol. They worked closely with other prominent members of the previous B.M.E.M.E. Research team notably Peter Barry.

Chris Smith and Denzil Broadhurst worked with Annabel Nickol and David Collier to ensure that the data collection weekends went as smoothly as possible. These London based weekends were, alone, no mean logistical feat.

Peter Smith was eventually persuaded to take on the major logistical role of Base Camp Manager. In reality his work and responsibility began many months before arrival at Base Camp, as his key UK function was to organise freight and communications. Denzil Broadhurst played a very important role as a technical adviser mainly with regard to the planning the power requirements and supply at Base Camp.

Once in the field Gerald Dubowitz became the general fixer and facilitator and managed to display a dazzling array of technological skills. Gerald took on responsibility for returning freight to the UK at the end of the Expedition.

Jacqui Lawson assumed responsibility for accumulating a vast amount of pharmaceuticals free of charge. Paul Richards, Mukul Agarwal and Ken Stewart became the Expedition Doctors.

Malcolm Dyson devised the menu for the Ramtang climbing team, purchased it and packed it for freighting.

Meriel Gillespie performed a very important role at Base Camp where she managed the flow of subjects through the various research projects. She also enforced the collection of fees related to the satellite phone.

Most of the research projects had one individual who was identified as the lead figure for that project. In most cases this was the first named author.

In March 1998 we had a fairly certain idea of expedition numbers and were able to carve the total membership into manageable groups. These groups averaged ten members. In each group there was a nominated spokesman, research data collector and doctor. Groups had no formal leader, as we believed that a democratic model was to be preferred.

No formal mountaineering guides or leaders were appointed, as members, particularly those venturing onto mountains, were repeatedly advised that they must be self-sufficient. Some members of the Ramtang team struggled with this informal approach, but the success on Ramtang eventually vindicated this management structure.

These groups were encouraged to meet as frequently as possible in the UK, and to function as autonomously as possible when in the field. Each group was provided with its own sherpa crew consisting of sirdar, cook, cook boys and porters. All sirdars were ultimately answerable to Dorje the Base Camp Sirdar who was directly answerable to Peter Smith.

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In this section members were asked to recount in a few words an experience that meant a lot to them.

"Overbooked on an Airbus by fifty-eight passengers! I don't believe it. I demand to see the Airport Manager." My behaviour at Karachi was boring, predictably white sahib, but, naturally, wholly justified.

Moustached, bespectacled Authority arrived. "With so many of us, can't you put on an extra flight to Kathmandu?" I asked.

"We are having no spare aircraft," he answered. End of discussion.

Thus, after travelling from Heathrow, and expecting a simple transfer for the next stage of the Medex Kangchenjunga 1998 Expedition, I found myself in a strict Muslim Karachi hotel with fifty-odd strangers and one Expedition colleague for a night. We shared some expensive, non-alcoholic beer, tried some rice and pickles, and a few of us flirted, foolishly, it turned out, with some half-heated vegetables They were basking in a sauce, laced, not only with fenugreek and chillies, but also, as suggested by symptoms several hours later, a blend of E. Coli toxins. For me this was a novel way of acquiring diarrhoea in Asia. I had thought I’d tried most options over the years.

Attractive though Karachi may be, Kathmandu, literally, (City of) temples of wood, provided a very welcome sight as clouds parted in the Valley next morning to greet the descending aircraft. Kathmandu now strives to clothe its old and sacred features with a veneer of the new:- western cars, French wines, phones, PCs and the Internet. It has grown enormously, like an out-of-control adolescent, but instead of acne, it offers toxic traffic fumes. I hardly recognised the Capital that I had lived in eighteen years ago. Thamel, the main tourist area, now boasts hotels that have three and four-star status. In its narrow streets, rickshaw-wallahs insisted on my custom, and shopkeepers beseeched me to buy brass oil-lamps, postcards, Kashmiri carpets, incense sticks and paper lampshades. I succumbed to two of the latter, green-blue, for my daughter's bedroom, and a couple of brass bowls. "Special cheap price for you," they said, "because you speak Nepali." Oh, polyglots! What avenues to international bargains are open to you!

Early next morning, I consumed what seemed a singular breakfast at the Marshyangdi Hotel, but is probably available everywhere in the City now: egg, cooked to order, a variety of breads, juice, cereals and coffee. Then, replete, and with a sense of growing anticipation, together with colleagues, my rucksack and expedition blue barrel, I flew by Avro to Biratnagar, in the Tarai. It is the second largest metropolis in Nepal and a town that gives the impression of expanding randomly. Biratnagar boasts two climates, warm in winter, and sweat-gland-challengingly-hot and humid in summer. When I worked there in the late seventies, I would sit under a cold shower, fully clothed, then, dripping water like a well-soused sponge, go downstairs to the office and sit under a fan for an hour or so, trying to be coolly creative.

A bus had been chartered to take us on the six-hour journey from the Airport to the village of Basantapur in the foothills. In the eighties, a British engineering firm had constructed the challenging forty-kilometre road to Dhankuta, the District Centre. It required two winding climbs, each of about a thousand metres, separated by the Tamur, a River that we were to meet again some four walking days later. The Tata-engined bus coped well with the steep, metalled road to Dhankuta, but, like its passengers, it was less happy for the next two hours on the rough, post-monsoon pot-holed track to Basantapur. As night descended, we reached our objective. The village, situated at two thousand odd metres, once consisted of a dozen houses and half a dozen shops. It has now expanded to meet the demands of the new road.

We were quickly escorted, some hundred feet up the hill to the campsite, by our Sherpas, and provided with "daal-bhaat", the Nepali staple diet of lentils and rice. Most of us then spent a fairly undisturbed night to be woken the next morning at six o’clock with,"Tea, sahib/ memsahib?" and a fairly gentle tug at the tent zip. This, followed by a washbowl of hot water fifteen minutes later, was to be our réveille for the next four weeks.

After a breakfast of porridge and eggs, we placed our unsuspecting feet in well-waxed boots, pulled on a couple of layers of Lowe Alpine, looked up at the oak and rhododendron forest, and stepped, not too apprehensively, on to the trail.

Kangchenjunga! We’re on our way.

A week into our trek I was concerned that in the heat and the damp - yes it was still monsoon, despite our Expedition Leader’s optimistic prophecies - my fellow trekkers’ good nature was beginning to fail. How to ensure this did not happen? I know, throw myself of a log bridge, that should do it!

The trick was to pick a bridge over a relatively small drop, about 6 foot should do it, and if there was fast flowing water all the better. (Less chance of picking up some nasty water borne bug). It took some finding, but there it was - a beautiful waterfall that should photograph well, but also had the advantage of being easily accessible to the rescue party.

Now the tricky bit, make it look like an accident. This was going to require skill of the very highest calibre. Why? Well I had to avoid the huge boulder and the branch resting on it, but not by much otherwise I would slip over the next level of the waterfall. This was definitely one to be avoided since there was an unspeakably big drop there. I had also heard that white water rafting was much better in a raft and not on a backpack.

Okay, saunter into the middle of the bridge, look cool, NOW...

I am told it was majestic, although I have to confess I don’t actually remember any of it myself. I landed on my backpack and sadly bore more than a passing resemblance to an upturned turtle, since I was wedged between the boulder and the branch. On the plus side, like a true professional when I’d sussed out that I was still alive, I remembered to keep my boots out of the water and joy of joys I’d remembered to wear clean underwear that day. (Mother had always warned me about that one!)

The flaw in my plan? My timing. It was not quite spot-on, although I missed the boulder I did manage to check out the branch with my head. With hindsight this was not a bright idea. I now had a permanent memento of my dunking, a nifty scalp wound, which the medics kindly informed me would require more than the Band-Aid I was hoping for.

In honour of my efforts the waterfall now bears the name "Jacqui Falls", a name bestowed upon it by Nigel, a thoughtful and witty fellow group member.

Fortunately it was too dark in the jungle to suture me there, so after a quick change of clothes I was kitted out with a rather fetching bandage and encouraged to walk on to our lunch stop at the next village. Now I love to make an entrance, and it has to be said that if you want an entire Nepalese village to turn out and stare at you, a head bandage is the accessory.

In the village of Fun Fun - yes my timing was bad, but not that bad. I, or should I say we, really were going to have "fun" in Fun Fun. In front of an audience of bemused locals I was treated.

My sutures were inserted by Richard, our bona fide dermatologist. A grand job he did too, all achieved whilst teasing his eminently qualified attendants. Yes the bonding process was coming along nicely, but how to include the other group members? Well they were creative people and so found themselves a much more important role. That of official record keepers. The whole process was videoed and photographed on the entire group’s cameras. What better way to bring us together?

So my cunning plan worked. Our group forgot the misery of the jungle and monsoon. They were united in their mutual care and concern for my welfare. What a great team.

As for me, my selfless actions had been amply rewarded. I had a waterfall in Nepal named after me, and 3 beautiful sutures. A most profitable day’s work.

Now some uncharitable people may say that I just slipped off the bridge, but that couldn’t possibly be true- could it?

****

On such a large expedition there were bound to be crises but I little expected to be involved in so many. Our worst day struck on 17 October. We had not been sorry to leave the rather stifling atmosphere of Base Camp that day. Gill, Rick, Alan and I planned to climb Tengkongma, a "small" peak of about 6,200 metres. It hasn't been climbed often - and never legally till this year.

A couple of days earlier we had gone for a recce and mistakenly headed up the wrong gully towards Drohmo. We thought we now knew the route so we were a little surprised when the porters again turned up from the valley sooner then we expected. Much yelling and gesticulating achieved nothing but confusion. Alan got increasingly upset and kept asking why they had gone up the wrong route. After about the twentieth time of asking I snapped and said that if I knew the answer I would certainly have told him by now. Dawa shot on and caught them up and then signalled a compromise route to us that involved a horrendously steep climb alongside a scree slope. I was soon too busy trying to breathe to worry about the route and in any case I had supreme confidence in Dawa. This is the third time I have trekked with him and he has never let me down. I climbed Island Peak with him in 1994 and I knew he was itching to get his crampons on again. I found the going very tough. Because we were late getting to base camp after evacuating Malc with typhoid, we were not as well acclimatised as we had hoped and any uphill walking left me breathless after a few steps. As I struggled to keep up with Gill and Rick I noticed Alan striding on ahead. We had fantastic views across the valley to Kangchenjunga, Ramtang, Wedge Peak, Nepal peak and Jannu. Eventually we reached a traverse and then cut into the valley leading up to Tengkongma where, to our initial dismay, we spotted our porters heading down the valley. However they had been to the high camp and set up tents at the foot of the glacier. After stopping for a snack we set off down a steep scree descent. This brought a change of fortune for me and I sped on ahead with Dawa leaving Alan far behind. I was not unduly concerned. Many people have difficulty on steep descents and Alan had said he had been seriously scared on a scree slope a few days earlier so I was not surprised that he was slow. The route led down to a river and then ascended through a big boulder field and alongside a waterfall to the tents. By 2.45 pm I had reached the camp and was delighted to see Dorje, our cook-boy brewing tea on a stove sheltered under a large rock. It was nearly half an hour before Rick arrived carrying Alan's pack. Another 15 minutes later Gill arrived supporting Alan who was exhausted complaining of a severe headache and cold. We got him straight to his tent, gave him some hot soup and some painkillers for his headache and hoped he would soon feel better.

The glacier ended at an ice wall a few yards from the tents and looked very inviting so the others wasted no time in kitting up to practise some climbing and plan the route for the next day. As the only doctor in the group, I stayed back to keep an eye on Alan. We were at about 5500 metres. He had spent a week at 5000 metres and been for two separate day walks to 5400 without trouble but now he clearly had at least moderate AMS and severe exhaustion and cold. I contemplated descent but the prospect was daunting to say the least. The route we came up was not an option because of the ascent involved. Going straight down the gully would be a difficult scramble down a big boulder field with a long way to go before we lost any significant altitude. Most of the journey would be in the dark. I radioed base camp and was at least able to discuss the case with experts in high altitude medicine. In retrospect of course it is easy - we should have headed straight down. But the prospect was horrendous and he didn't initially have signs of serious illness. But his headache got worse and he started vomiting. Examining someone in a small one-man tent in the cold is not easy but he was clearly deteriorating and said he felt desperately ill. He was beginning to get a bit confused. I forced him up to see if he could walk and was shocked by his ataxia. There was no doubt he had cerebral oedema. Nightmare or no nightmare we had to go down and it was now 5 pm.

We abandoned camp with alacrity leaving Dorje to sort things out there. I gave Alan some Diamox and dexamethasone which he promptly vomited. He needed two people to support him taking nearly all his weight. The nimble Dawa took one side nearly all the way and we took turns on the other. There was a thick mist and no moon so we were soon walking by torchlight. We would manage barely 20 yards before he would need a rest. Even sitting down he still needed support and tended to drift off to sleep. On several occasions his breathing became very slow and shallow and he appeared to be slipping into coma. We shouted at him to keep breathing and not to fall asleep. I gave him some more dexamethasone, which he kept down. We followed the gully down, scrambling over large boulders walking three abreast, and it took a lot of concentration to avoid stumbling. Never have I blessed my trekking pole so much.

Also invaluable was our radio. As soon as we set off we were able to ask for a rescue team to meet us and we stayed in radio contact all the time. Paul, Ian and Gerald were on their way to us with a team of Sherpas. Once they started up the Tengkongma gully we spoke to them every few minutes but we were all on new terrain and there was no way for either party to identify our position or even know if we were on the same route. Because we were losing altitude so slowly Alan's increasing exhaustion outweighed any benefit from the increasing oxygen pressure. We frequently had to force him on when he asked for a rest. When we did stop it was worse for us as we had to keep shaking him and shouting at him to keep him awake. Gill was brilliant at keeping up a "conversation" with him. Whenever we stopped we listened out for the others. We whistled, we yodelled, and shone torches into the mist, but to no avail. As the rests grew longer and more frequent I got more scared. On several occasions I thought we were losing him.

Finally a glow in the distance heralded our rescuers. One of their Sherpas had spotted us and came running to us. Frustratingly he had got disorientated and for a while couldn't find the rest of the team but suddenly we were surrounded be people. It was now 9.30 pm. After an injection of dexamethasone and a few minutes on oxygen, Alan was soon looking a lot better. Progress down the hill was barely faster though, partly because it was getting much steeper and turned into scree. But at least he could have oxygen at each of the stops. I was able to stop supporting Alan now which was as well as I was getting seriously exhausted myself. Gerald kindly took my pack. I was glad to be able to hand over clinical responsibility to Paul and concentrate on getting myself down. At one point I lost my footing and did a spectacular somersault. At first I couldn't believe I hadn't broken anything but apart from a badly bruised knee all was well. Even Dawa took a nasty fall cutting his hand badly.

Finally, at 11.40 pm we reached the valley. The rescue team had kindly put up some tents there to save the long slog back to base camp and Paul stayed to keep an eye on Alan overnight. By morning Alan was considerably better with symptoms of a hangover but he managed to slowly walk back to base camp with Paul. After a few days there with a continuing headache, he descended to Ghunsa — an altitude loss of 1700 metres, waited there for the rest of his group and they trekked out together.

I next met Alan at Taplejung on the last day of the trek. Mercifully he could remember little of that eventful evening except that he had promised to buy me a beer - which he promptly did.

****

We sat in the garden of the Marshyangdi, subconsciously soaking up the air of calm and civilisation as we breakfasted. Simon and Sally were in delegating mood, handing out the tasks that needed to be packed into the short 48 hours we had in town. Solar panels, helicopter baggage checking and weighing, flight arrangements, visits to agents and suppliers.....and buying the Ramtang climbing kit.

I am the world’s great department store lover. Shopping is a necessary evil, but John Lewis -’never knowingly undersold’- and Marks and Sparks -that quality- make most of it bearable. Nepal isn’t like that. Simon turned to me. "...and can you buy the climbing gear. I’ll give you a list". No!

Michel was sharing a room with me. "Shall I come with you?" At least it would be someone to help carry the gear back. The list was daunting in its length.

What followed was an education. We walked through the streets of Thamel, trying a few shops, but nowhere was right. Finally we lighted on the place. I sat back and watched the expert in action. Snow stakes, ice screws, stoves, fuel, tat for marker wands, axes, tents, sleeping mats, sacks and so on and so on. Michel was calmly and competently in his element. As we sat, equipment was brought to us for approval, staff were sent out to fetch what was not immediately available, and Michel negotiated. Then he was on the phone to Tandy, chatting amiably about previous trips, and Tandy was talking to the shopkeeper ensuring a good deal. Prices were compared with other stores, calculations were made, and suddenly it was done! So easy, under budget, and nothing so onerous as carrying it ourselves. Everything would be delivered to the hotel that evening.

The money was produced for the expectant store owner. But no. "And two of those bags please". A goodwill gesture. Not particularly needed, and not on my list, but Gallic pride and mercantile honour was at stake. Dominance was established. As we left, I found myself humming the Marseillaise.

We were camped at Tseram, not Yalung as we’d expected. Our aim was to visit the south side of Kangchenjunga. Yet no one was sure if we could get from here to base camp and back in a day. The whole group was up early, but enthusiasm waned fast and indecision crept in – should we go – should we rest – will it cloud over – will it stay clear for long enough to get a view?

Eventually four of us almost half-heartedly decided to take a stroll … at least up to the first rise. By the time we were half way up the sky began to cloud and it seemed as if we’d be heading back to camp very soon. Then as we continued to climb, the sky began to clear and amazing views of the huge pyramid of Rathong unfolded. Our spirits rose and our enthusiasm to continue grew as the scenery became increasingly spectacular and we became aware of just how fast we were travelling.

After a while we reached the two-house settlement and tall fluttering prayer flag of Ramche. We stopped to eat our packed lunches, gazing up at the mountains that surrounded us. Yet still Kangchenjunga was out of sight, around the next corner – how much further did we have to go to get a glimpse? Could we make it?

We had to try! The sky was still crystal clear so we headed on around the corner alongside the moraine of the, as yet unseen, Yalung Glacier. We stopped to watch as a big flock of blue sheep grazed on the hillside above us. Then as we continued to rise new mountains appeared to the side, and gradually a wall of ice appeared ahead. Kangchenjunga was coming into view - tantalisingly slowly. The path lead us onto the moraine and the huge grey glacier appeared below. Ahead stood a chorten bedecked with prayer flags, tridents and offerings and beyond the massive south face of Kangchenjunga.

The view was stunning and the silence absolute, broken only by the distant clatter of rocks sliding on the moraine. We sat and stared awe-struck – trying to take in the immense scenery. We were in a place more spectacular than our wildest dreams. How lucky we’d been.

As we watched the moon rose over the magnificent ice fluted Kabru.

The path continued still further so we continued until Jannu came into view. We stopped again and stared again. The route ahead to the base camp looked horrible, a jumble of moraines and screes. It was time for us to quit. We could ask for no more.

We returned to Ramche and rested in the house, where we enjoyed a mug of hot yak milk, before wearily wandering back. As we made the final descent the clouds rolled up the valley and we returned to Tseram in an eerie grey light.

Magic!

****

And then there were two. Having spent 4 days at BC and below, gorging on yak stew and suffering the gastrointestinal consequences; swapping stories with the great guru Scotty; greeting each day’s influx of new, wide-eyed researchers and sharing their needles; and attempting to stir the team into maintaining some form of upward momentum on the mountain via the airwaves, myself and Chris C found ourselves plodding slowly over the glacier from C2 to the foot of the NW Face.

Up at 3.30am, got going at 5.30, foot of the ropes by 7. Reasonable sacks for a change, although we both felt less strong than we’d have liked. Nothing to do about it but get going. Above the summit, the huge lenticular clouds had vanished, and the 7 hour grunt to the top of the 1100m of fixed ropes was spent in a dream–like state, during which I alternated between visions of a sunny Christchurch, fresh salads, good food and warm sea; and a heroic descent from the summit in good weather and the end of a successful expedition. To be honest, neither could come quickly enough, and my only concern was that whatever happened there would still be 2 of us in 2 separate pieces descending these same ropes in a few days’ time.

Early on the ropes the inevitable barrage of debris from above inflicted another insult when a lump of ice caught my face, as I foolishly glanced up to see how far we had left to punish ourselves. When the snow became spotted with blood I looked up again to see what had happened and received lump number two across the nose. A learning experience, albeit it took twice as long as it should have to sink in. Halfway up the face, at the initial bivvy site, we came across Gordon and Ian A, descending from their carry to C3. It was a week since Chris and I had first arrived at the N Col and dumped 2 loads there at the site of C3, and we were keen to get back up there again.

2 o’clock at the N Col, and time enough to rest and eat. The tent was in an awesome site, dug well into the windward side of a huge cornice that overhung Sikkim, and lashed securely to a boulder 30m down on the Nepalese side of the face. From the front porch we had a superb, unrestricted view across the 80miles or so to Makalu and the Everest horseshoe. I must say that the Terra Nova tent was superb- the wind was perpetual, only varying in its intensity, from gale to hurricane force. The tent fabric sounded at times like it was seconds from being shredded and hurled into Sikkim, but it stayed intact throughout. Very impressive.

You don’t wake at these altitudes, you sort of become aware you’re not asleep. So next morning, we both became aware that the wind was horrendous outside, but that we were going to have to move anyway. In the desperate slowness that is simply doing up there we got ourselves organised, and decided that we’d carry rope and food up to the Castle, possibly fix the Castle, and return to C3. My diary entry for that night simply says, in a sort of spidery heiroglyphical scrawl, ‘Exhausting day, pushing up to C4. Absolutely atrocious weather; wind and spindrift, appalling snow underfoot.’ Clearly not a day conducive to weighty tomes on the meaning of life. But I remember the day as being a slow plod up through dreadful snow, and those of you who watched from BC may have wondered why people so slow and unfit were anywhere near a mountain.

The snow was about thigh deep, but covered in a thick wind-crust just not strong enough to bear our weight. After various experiments, we discovered that the easiest form of travel was to put your knee on the crust, and push down at the same time as thumping around it with your fist, until it gave way. Then you could wallow another few feet forward and begin the process all over again. Luckily it wasn’t all like this though- occasionally the snow would become dangerous wind-slab on top of this crust, usually where we had to contour around an obstacle and hang over the NW Face, and here there would be large inspiring slabs breaking off behind and around us as we inched forward, trying hard to breathe at the same time, while the wind tore whatever breath we could muster instantly away from our faces.

By 7400m we’d had enough of getting knocked over by the wind, stumbling through appalling snow and seeing the slopes above through a haze of spindrift that extended about 2km horizontally. Reckoning that we were only 100m below the final technical pitch that led to the Terrace, and realising that my enthusiasm had long since been blown into the stratosphere, Chris wisely decided to stop and dig into a likely looking drift on the ridge. In a moment of delirium at having stopped going up after 6 weeks, I opted for first shot, during which I thrashed around gamely as Chris froze his balls off sat at the mercy of the wind. But if you want a house built well, get a builder to do it, so I quickly relinquished my duties to Binder, in anticipation of a 4 star residence within 15 minutes. In fact, within 15 minutes he had contrived to throw the only building implement we possessed 1500m down to C2, and the rest, as they say, requires a decent pub and a few beers to be told to maximum effect. Camp 4 was shaping up to be every bit as ‘interesting’ as the rest of the expedition.

Simon, Simon, tea's ready, tea's ready. It's six o'clock and I struggle with the tent zips, opening up to the smiling face of Mangshire and two metallic mugs of steaming black tea. He always remembers, one with sugar, one without. We lie back in the tent, letting the tea cool and listening to the sounds of the awakening camp. Simon, Simon, wash water, wash water. The pink fluid fills the bowls and its time to drink the tea. Simon, Simon, breakfast ready, breakfast ready. The porters await patiently but eagerly for our packed barrels as we struggle from the tent. Another day on trek has just begun.

Kangchenjunga; The decision. October 19^th 1998 altitude 7400 (24,250ft)

An opaque pale blue hue of light filters through the ice where we have inadvertently carved our refuge close to the outer slope. Outside the storm rages relentlessly as the Jet Stream races in from the west with enormous life threatening force. The wind is screaming over the Terrace causing a huge tail of ice crystals and snow to extend horizontally out over Sikkim. Wind, an invisible force, is revealed by the millions of frozen particles of water. Below the normally invisible horizontal line extending out from the cliff top is a chaotic confusion of air with nowhere to go, trapped between the rocks, lower slopes and the force above.

The atmosphere is deceptively calm in our cramped snow hole dug into the slopes of the north ridge below the buttress known as the Castle. Just above us lies the deceptively close looking summit pyramid. Two pitches would take us to the perimeter rim of the Great Terrace, and they look easy, my god we would cruise that buttress after all we had already been through over the past few weeks on the NW Face below. And then it’s a walk, just a few hours to the foot of the easy angled summit slopes, a high altitude stroll on the very edge of heaven. Mark and me have enthused for weeks, months, and even over the past couple of years about this walk. We could make it, I know we could, despite all the work and difficulties with the resultant loss of muscle tissue, we were still going well and highly motivated, it’s still possible if only this damned weather would give us a chance. Inside lurks a realisation, not a fear, that this walk on the edge of heaven could in these conditions give us an irreversible journey to that place!

Life has been very hard for many weeks, our one and only chance for the summit is slipping through our fingers like dry sand, jeopardised by the rapidly deteriorating weather.

During the night our claustrophobic home has been partly filled with spindrift, blown in through our entrance plug constructed from rucksacks boots and axes. We’ve been half buried in our fitful sleep and most of our equipment and food is lost under a blanket of white powder. Simple tasks and life functions become monumental chores of difficulty requiring extreme mental application just to move, to get things going, to make it happen. We light the stove and fill a pan with snow from the roof of our home. It takes an age for the crystals to produce a pan of hot water. The flame burns the little oxygen that exists and leaves us gasping. I reach up and pull a rucksack from the entrance plug in an attempt to replenish the depleted supply. Tea is hopeless and disgusting, a brew of hot sweet water is far more palatable. We drink. Mark immediately throws his share back into the pan, not wanting to make a mess on the floor of our abode. Most considerate of him in these circumstances. I suspect the same consideration was absent years ago when a student after a session in Glasgow!

It takes almost three hours to finally sort ourselves out. One hour to melt sufficient snow for a brew, one hour to don our protective clothing and boots, and just about another hour to think about it and actually make the moves. I drag myself up the forty-five-degree entrance tunnel out onto the ridge. Immediately I’m flattened by the fury of the gale force wind, blinded and grit blasted by a million particles of ice in wind chill temperatures well down below minus fifty degrees. The situation is becoming serious, it could become desperate! and yet I’m more concerned, and even positively mortified by the thought of failure. How after all this time and effort could we be so unlucky? It’s so cruel!

Over the next few hours we lay in wait for an abatement in Kangchenjunga’s fury. We lay in silence. We’re unable to look at each other. Our eyes are filled with tears and avert to the white blank walls. The warm salty water trickles down my face and comes to a rest as ice in my frozen beard. We’re afraid of the inevitable truth that exists behind the masks, which are our faces. Avoiding the utterance of the words we dare not say.

A decision has to be made.

****

If we’re lucky enough, at least once in our lifetime we experience an event that destroys our preconceptions and redirects our life. Early in 1997 balance sheets and cash flow forecasts were causing brain atrophication when suddenly it happened to me. Pictured in the middle of the company staff magazine was a relaxed looking company accountant standing against the silhouette of Mount Everest. Next to the picture was an article inviting people to join "Kangchenjunga ‘98". I’d always had an interest in the active outdoor life but this article was shocking for a number of reasons. Staff magazines never have anything worth reading, do they? Surely, accountants have the last semblance of anything interesting removed on qualification. And, how does she manage to get seven weeks off work? Again!

Having resolved to float the idea at home that night I pondered what the reaction might be. Bearing in mind my wife’s idea of an activity holiday was having to move from the poolside sun-bed to the bar to get her own Pina Colada, there was unlikely to be much empathy about. In fact, her reaction was surprisingly favourable.

The subsequent months contained many more surprises. That one person could spend so much money on kit. That the women in the office can be so graphic about what they would do if they were in a tent with the "hunky" expedition leader pictured in the brochure. And, just how supportive friends and family can be. These months also contained a number of significant challenges. How to prepare the children for seven weeks without one of their parents. How to prevent kit expenditure exceeding the proportions of Russia’s national debt. How to ensure a fitness level sufficient to withstand the pace to be set by a Teutonic masochist. And, how to manage last minute panics about barrel weight.

The day finally came with just a couple of choices remaining. The decision to part from the children at home rather than suffer the trauma at the airport was definitely a good one. The decision to leave the chocolate out of the barrel was not so wise. Having given ourselves eight hours to complete a three-hour journey we set off for Heathrow determined to enjoy our last day together for what would be almost two months. Two miles into the trip we realised we didn’t know which terminal to aim for and we had left all the useful phone numbers behind. It would be too risky to waste ten minutes by going back so we ploughed on. Not for the last time, parents and the mobile phone came to the rescue. On arrival at Heathrow panic levels began to rise again. Why were there no other blue barrels to be seen? Were we at the wrong terminal after all? Or was it because we had arrived five hours before check in time? That time spent drinking tea in the cafe was reminiscent of those days as an undergraduate when you endure long, passionate good-byes with the latest love of your life at the railway station before returning for exam term at college. There was the same trepidation about what lay ahead but without the groping.

The hours were passing, blue barrels were still as inconspicuous as the pre-flight safety drill on Pakistani Airways and the pulse rate was up to 125 at sea level. Finally the tension was relieved when a yellow barrel appeared, closely followed by a dishevelled looking Irishman carrying colouring crayons. An avalanche of barrels ensued, perhaps caused by the animal magnetism of the Irishman, perhaps due to the magnetism of the lorry-load of confectionery he was carrying, or perhaps because by then it really was check-in time. The next few minutes proved that the concern over barrel weight had been misplaced. Others, with over 15 kilos of alcohol, tobacco and assorted electrical goods, in addition to the less essential items a trekker carries, were preparing to board with an alacrity that would do justice to a car boot trader exiting through the green channel.

All of a sudden she was on her way. My wife was in the air with seven weeks of stomach cramps and toilet tents in front of her with only a bunch of errant medics for company. I was on the M4 with a 200-mile drive in front of me and only three kilos of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk for company.

I can’t say the seven weeks were easy. Living with one’s parents again never is. The first news we heard was reassuring however. The prospect of spending seven weeks in a tent with Jacqui had driven her tent-mate to pledge the rest of her life to some unsuspecting, but very fortunate, taxi driver at Heathrow. We all missed "Mum" terribly, but as the weeks passed we settled into a routine and some things even returned to normal. The children quickly trained someone else to shout at them and, even from 7000 miles away, I could tell I was in Jacqui’s bad books for something or other.

So what sort of person would come back? As I’d been wrong so many times about Jacqui’s reactions over the last few months there seemed little point speculating. The person who emerged at Manchester airport was a couple of pounds lighter, in need of a bath and the attentions of a good hairdresser but, on the outside, the same gorgeous creature I married all those years ago. On the inside though, things were different. Along with a piece of her scalp, part of Jacqui’s spirit was still in the mountains. I think it always will be and I hope the experiences and friendships she made will stay with her forever. The lady who swore she would never spend one night in a tent and whose idea of roughing-it was having to switch off the central heating in July now has a passion for the outdoor life. It’s the same enthusiasm that persuaded the UK drug industry to part with tablets, potions, medicines, dressings and other assorted ‘rubbish’ in the name of charity during the weeks before the expedition and which almost drove her to an oxygen induced nervous breakdown. It’s also this same enthusiasm she puts into hitting her credit card limit and which she puts into her family life.

Part one of the plan, which hatched early in 1997, has worked out pretty well. The next part is to ensure that Mum, Dad and the children continue to benefit from the redirected enthusiasm so that none of our bits atrophy for a few more years at least.

****

The plan was tight. We'd made it into base camp on the 15^th but were going to have to leave by the 22^nd to safely achieve our exit plan via the Mirgin La, south base camp and southern valleys. Chris and I were not going to get a chance to start climbing Ramtang until the 20^th, which meant not getting back to base camp until at least the 23^rd, but we had to try for it. The rest of the group would leave on the 22^nd.

Leaving after lunch we were at camp 1 just after dark. The following day was 7 hours across the glacier and miles of loose moraine to camp 2, and after 3 hours the next morning we were on the East summit of Ramtang in spectacular conditions. A rapid descent down the fixed ropes meant we were back to camp 2 for lunchtime, where we packed up most of the camp and carried it down to camp1. A 20kg load at 5,800m is heavy going, even downhill.

An early start got us to base camp for 10.00 the next morning, and after 4 hours with the researchers for final tests we were leaving with rucksacks and a tent. Our barrels left by porter at 12 noon, with a note to tell the rest of the group - we were assured that the porters would get to them in Ghunsa by the evening.

The last hour to a camp in Kambachen was in the dark, though we had been accompanied for the final section by two of our group's sherpas. We ate that evening in one of the lodges, amidst loud arguments between our sherpas, some of the locals and 2 porters. The porters who were carrying our barrels had not gone to Ghunsa, but were here eating their meal in the lodge, much to the disgust of the locals. They eventually came over to us shame-faced and promised to leave at 4am the next morning, and ensure our note got to the group before they had a chance to leave - though later our sherpas said they would look after the barrels.

Waking at 5am, and with a handful of nuts and raisins for breakfast, Chris and I were packed and leaving at 5.30. The sherpas passed us shortly before we arrived in Ghunsa (some 4am start!), where we had a proper breakfast at 8.30. We were back with the group - and the prospect of a full day's trekking over the Mirgin La ahead of us.

After a high camp on the passes we descended to Tseram for two nights, with the opportunity to head up to see the south base camp. Sprinting past a trekking group we completed the 1½-day trekking journey past Ramje to the viewpoint in just over 3 hours. The view was astounding and we just sat and stared for an hour before heading back to the camp, refreshed by a mug of hot Yak milk on the way.

Another long day followed with half the team, including the Sirdar and the cook, taking the wrong path and ending up with no equipment, well after dark, in a small tea-house almost in Yamphudin. The rest of us had continued on the correct path down to Omje Khola, with Chris again finishing the day in the dark.

Half a day trekking the next morning took us to Yamphudin where we met up with the others. They were already sunbathing and drinking beer. It was finally time to stop, have a rest, relax – a dip in the river and chance for a wash. Nine days of hectic climbing and trekking, during which Chris and I had covered distances equivalent to about 13 normal days, but we'd done and seen everything we'd hoped for! The rest of the walk out should be straightforward - though Ronnie had other ideas (but that's another story…..).

****

It was all Mukul's fault, I swear it. Oh yes, we were waffled all right, altitude-related illness, infectious disease, land-slips, avalanche, high degree of self-reliance, etc. Why, oh why didn't someone warn us of the one thing that was to have the greatest effect on us?

CHOCOLATE. Not the hot drinkable one that was readily available, but the one that comes in various size slabs that are divided into irritable little squares which makes it difficult to break up in the mouth unless you have teeth like a J.C.B. shovel.

The 20th October was to be the day like no other. It was a beautiful afternoon, we were all in good spirits with a sense of humour that would see us through anything Kangchenjunga might have in store.

We alighted on Mukul as he wended his way down the trail from his base camp. A pleasant time passed while Mukul talked about his experiences and the wondrous sights we were to see during the next couple of days to Pangpema. Nepalese Custard Creams (YUK not YAK) were exchanged for Mukul's bourbons. A wide grin broke across his beaming face as he passed the little block of mint flavoured Semtex over. "Enjoy it, Bye, see you in Kathmandu". I'm sure he knew what emotional damage he would cause!

As we set off over the huge land-slips at 10m intervals I remember thinking pray God if one of those boulders comes down it doesn't take out the Semtex carrier. The rot had set in! Roger was the next to crack. "What flavour was it John"? Over the next couple of hours various members of our twelve strong party confessed a weakness for the dark coloured delight. Bill Hammerton kept breaking out into his Barbers Shop rendition of That Old Black Magic.

Over Dahl bhat and dried spuds (damn Walter Raleigh) we debated when we should devour the attractive little package. "NOW' screamed Margaret in her best bedside manner. "After I've done my max breath-hold" whispered Joy. "You, nor anyone else will have a breath to hold if I don't get a fix NOW', shouted Alfie showing his true leadership qualities. Fiona was pitiful, sobbing without shame. "I'll cross any bridge if only.................". "Chocolate and anything else for that matter is best washed down with Tongba" said Emma dashing into the night for her nocturnal gargle. "Lee, Chris, wait for me"! Sandra stomped her feet in a real paddy. "I'll kill if I don't get just a taste NOW".

One piece for every group member out of the little slab which had now been divided into sixteen little brown diamonds. "That leaves four over," said Dave our Oxford based mathematician. "Bugger Me," said Stuart. "Not likely" said I frowning on the yachtsman's incorrect terminology. "No John, I mean Bugger Me the card game to decide the fate of the four remaining pieces". All agreed, after a good old Yorkshire shuffle the cards were dealt. They sucked and rolled the exquisite little gems around their mouths, pausing occasionally to examine how much it was decreasing until the first game was decided.

Fiona won the first and second game. Murder was also on the cards if she won a third! Group doctor Geraldine took the only sensible decision. How she sedated eleven of us we will never know but the self satisfied smile on her face when we regained consciousness said it all.

****

On this years trip there was a problem – a problem that will remain on my conscience. I should have known better. But however bad I feel about it, it’s too late!

I expected to spend the trip with our Sirdar from 1994, but this was not to be. Yet I had no worries when we set out from Kathmandu. We were with one of Nepal’s well known trekking companies – I didn’t need to ask any questions about environmental policies – I never gave it a thought. I should have done – because by the time we were on our way - it was too late.

It was not long before I began to worry.

We had a massive crew at the start, a Sirdar and 2 assistants, a cook and 4 assistants, a porter guide, 16 Sherpas and innumerable local porters. Yet only the ‘tourists’, the Sirdar and the kitchen staff ate food cooked on Kerosene, everyone else was responsible for their own food and cooked on wood fires – granted they used dead wood – but the supplies can not be never ending. No facilities had been provided in Kathmandu for the majority of the staff to use Kerosene. Now we were in the mountains - it was too late.

Then one morning I noticed that the latrine had not been properly covered and the spare toilet paper was simply thrown to one side. I tidied the site before we left. (Had we left the other latrines uncovered? Too late to find out.) It became apparent as the days went by that this was not a ‘one off’ error, but the routine. I spoke to the assistant Sirdar and things improved for a couple of days, then it was back to the old routine. The problem was never resolved, though I know most latrines were covered before we left, because I did it. But for those I didn’t do – it’s too late.

Then there was the rubbish we were producing. I had to be quite alert to spot the empty cans being hidden under rocks or discarded along the trail, but that’s what I realised our Sirdar was doing. The majority of our waste must have gone this way. I tried to stop what I saw and made a point of clearing campsites, but I guess in the end a lot went unnoticed - until it was too late.

As we headed back to Ghunsa, over the Mirgin La and on to Suketar we had no local porters. What this really meant was that we were carrying minimal food, relying on local meat and vegetables for our daily needs. Many local people were reluctant to sell and I began to wonder how much of their family rations we were eating into. Would they go hungry in the winter months after we’d gone? By the time I’d noticed, it was too late.

Once back in Kathmandu I was able to voice my concerns on our evaluation form, but sadly …

… for this trip – it was too late.

****

There’s a famous resort called Pangpema

That’s noted for fresh air & fun

Some researchers and trekkers and climbers

Went there to relax in the sun

The walk-in was quite an adventure

But we had our bold sirdar Dick

There were snakes, wonky bridges and land-slips

And John got a leech on his p….

Group seven had some serious problems

They had typhoid & HACE as well

Alan had mental confusion

But he’s a Yorkshireman so how could they tell??

Our motto’s "To Rest is to Conquer"

But sadly Bill does not agree

He thinks 6:30’s a lie-in

So we put Temazepam in his tea

We arrived at Base Camp in good spirits

T’researchers they welcomed us with glee

And Richard gave us all a bottle

Just too small for 12 hours worth of pee

Kate & Sarah were kind & were gentle

Truth to tell chocolate was their main charm

I’m beginning to think we were mental

To allow them to do us such harm

Lee’s test was a different matter

With his timer & whip he was stern!

There was no depth that he would not sink to

To get us to go for the burn

We were poked, prodded, bled dry & Milledge'd

‘Til we didn’t know our blow from our suck

"Keep going, keep going" was our mantra

But by then we could not give a f…

The dome was the local attraction

The natives a curious bunch

You could phone Daventree or Darjeeling

But only after Gerald finished his lunch

Some, seeking for further amusement

Climbed up a mountain or two

The rest of us were totally knackered

After a trip to the loo

Michel was another attraction

We hear, in his gear, quite a toff

But "ze jungle, Ze leeches & Ze porridge"

Were de trop, so he buggered off

We lost Stu & Em & Fiona

They left us without backward glance

How frail the ties are of friendship

Compared with the bond of romance

Mirgin La was our final objective

Some said ‘twas a bold, reckless bid

Ann frowned, Don looked grim, Ken tut-tutted

But Simon said go so we did

And now we’re all safe in Kathmandu

We’ve all had a bit of a thrill

And soon we’ll be back home in Blighty

Saving up for to climb our next hill!

The NW FACE , 18^th Sept to 9^th Oct

Early on the 17^th Chris C and I arrived at C2 to spend our first night there at around 5900m. Apart from the fact that we spent that first night convinced that every avalanche and rockfall had our name on it, we slept little because the next day we were to start on our strange object of desire, the NW Face. That afternoon, after the customary ‘acclimatisation period’ (ie, mid-afternoon snooze), we set off through fog to mark the way to the face. A bit ridiculous really, when we couldn’t see beyond the next crevasse, but it seemed better than sharpening crampons or sorting bags of food or other such manly things.

The next morning we stumbled with ridiculous sacks of over 20kg through deep snow, around crevasses and over avalanche debris, floundering from one flag to the next as the fog swirled through the darkness. The flags were all very good and useful and exciting, but unfortunately they ran out where we’d deemed the ‘dangers’ to end the day before. If only. In the fog we took a punt, and headed with great mountaineering judgement to the opposite end of the glacier to the front, reckoning that was where we would find the NW Face; ie, at the back. Sure enough, after what seemed years stumbling through even bigger avalanche fans, with frequent stops to vomit, nurse headaches and nausea, and just to whinge, through the gloom rose a darkness which we recognised as being the back of the Ben. Since we knew we weren’t near Fort William, we figured this must be it.

Using any excuse to rest and whinge some more, we sat down as dawn rose to wait for a ‘clearing’ in the weather to see where the hell we should start going up. After another vomit or two, and a couple of shits, our view came, and we elected to plod up to a line to the left of Scott’s original line, which looked more sporting than his dull gully. About 10 years later we arrived at the top of the mother of all snow cones, and I elected to take the short ‘shrund pitch of approximately 3m. That dealt with, it seemed only fair that Binder should get the first real pitch of the face. As we sorted ourselves out and geared up, it started to snow like buggery. Good Scottish conditions, what more could we ask for.

After 2 moves on our intended line it became obvious that Scott had a rather cannier knack of lines than we did. Chris performed the first girdle traverse of the NW Face as he led across to a stance uncannily near the original line. Struggling with 200m of 10mm static rope, 2 litres of frozen water, 2 muesli bars, spare rack and extraneous climbing matter, a situation I would come to know well over the next few weeks, I followed. My pitch was pretty horrible- semi frozen shale arranged into a sort of near vertical pile and loosely covered in fresh snow- and then it seemed we were buggered and it was time to descend.

The next day was far happier. We got up around 3am, and felt much better as we plodded up moonlit slopes to the foot of the route. This time we carried less, and perhaps as a consequence vomited less and moved faster. At the bottom of the snow cone we wondered what the distant peaks were glowing red in the sunrise, and as we plugged up the cone we realised, with mounting awe, that they were in fact Makalu, the Everest horseshoe and Cho Oyu, 80 miles away.

So the pattern was set, and over the next few weeks we would get up at some unearthly hour, struggle for a couple of hours to prepare a warm brew and open a muesli bar, put as much kit as we could on inside the tent (by the end we became masters at this, able to even rope up together, don rucksacks, crampons and helmets, and cover the first 30minutes of ground while still ensconced in tent/sleeping bag/both), before heading drearily for our daily game of Russian Roulette under the seracs of Gimmegela en route to the face.

The slog across and up to the ropes was draining; the jug up the ropes tedious and draining. The climbing was pretty straightforward, with just enough difficulty to maintain interest. At about one third height was a large buttress, which was our initial goal. Once there, we took a day to rearrange and move all the fixed ropes, as some had been chopped by various errant rocks, and we elected to follow Scott’s line which seemed a lot safer from rockfall now that a vicious thaw was in progress. However, it proved less safe from avalanches, being a gully line which drained the whole of the upper face. Some days, during and after snowstorms, the route appeared under a waterfall of spindrift, which cascaded down it in spectacular fashion.

The various landmarks passed slowly: the buttress at one third height where we were able to excavate 2 tiny bivvy ledges for use later on; a difficult traverse section straight after on dubious ice and under deep snow; up better and better ice towards the top ‘Chamonix’ buttress, with a hideous wallow of a pitch for Chris C; around the buttress and onto the best pitch of the route- squeaky ice at 22,500ft; and then it got real gnarly. Luckily, I had my secret weapon- Chris. He had a horrendous run-out pitch for 70m up yucky steep snow, eventually tying his trailed static to the end of his run-out dynamic rope and continuing un-belayed while I descended 100m to radio for some paramedics. After tweaking with the ropes below and picking up yet another load- all good displacement activity- I jugged up to find him hanging on rock hard ice by a couple of dodgy pegs, pretty well spent.

The sight of the most driven of the team members exhausted didn’t instill gladness in the heart of the least driven, but after a difficult brew using the hanging-belay-hand-held stove technique, I retained my composure and elected to send him on the next pitch, a heinous and exposed traverse across steep, bottomless snow. He had, after all, already gained good experience of this medium on the last pitch, so it was a sensible bit of man management I thought. A huge, noisy ‘crack’ half way across the pitch, during which Chris descended a few inches, but more disturbingly so did I and the belay 20m away, led us to review the situation. Going up and then down, and lacing the whole thing with our total rack seemed eminently preferable, but it was still over 2 hours and many scary moments later when Chris arrived at a reasonable belay. It was almost dark and I was frozen, but that’s the price you pay for being a wimp and ducking out of the hard work. I dropped back to the belay and was finally followed by a very tired Binder.

I think this was the famous ‘shooting star’ night, for those of you privileged to have heard those moments of delirium over the airwaves late in the evening. Sat cooking some slop on our bivvy ledges, with what seemed the inevitability of the N Col the next day, we were tired but very, very happy. It was a gorgeous night, and the next day could only get better.

But first it was going to get a lot worse. The grunt up the ropes when we finally emerged from our fitful sleeps was exhausting and took forever. Yesterday’s final traverse pitch was desperate even with a fixed rope (superb effort CC), and it took us to the infamous ‘Bettembourg’s Chimney’. What was even worse was that there was no way I could avoid this pitch, having already proved myself to be merely baggage for the past few days- although I did make a valiant effort to squirm out of it. So, without further ado (it was already 11am) I began to half swim, half grovel, and totally inelegantly thrash my way upwards. There was a sort of rock bulge that I could vaguely bridge up, but the exposure was incredible. I’m pretty used to looking between my legs and seeing nothing, but this was all rather more stressful. By the time I’d run out about 25m I had exhausted my supply of adrenaline, and it was time to retreat to the nearest (and only) rock around, excavate a belay, and pass the remaining metres onto the master.

Chris looked as unimpressed as I’ve ever seen him when he realised what a slimy stunt I’d pulled. Ahead lay 80-degree snow flutings which were at least 4 feet deep, and devoid of anything solid for probably 100m. A bastard trick if ever there was one. I cowered headfirst in my 4ft hole, at the back of which nestled a poorly tapped in peg and two cams of a friend, and sheltered from the rapidly deteriorating weather and the increasing chilliness from my partner. It was the crux of the climb, both in climbing terms and in psychological terms. The climbing was very dangerous; the 2 runners very poor; the belay marginally better, and a fall potentially catastrophic. We were perched near the top (how near?) of this massive face, at around 6900m, above a string of increasingly tenuous anchors, the wind was reaching gale force and spindrift was entering every orifice. I hadn’t felt my feet for hours, and my hands were getting likewise. It was the single most miserable belay that I’ve ever experienced in a career of many, many miserable belays. And it went on for hours. It was the nearest I came the whole time to giving up, despite knowing that if we didn’t crack the face that day, it may as well be all over.

I had reached my lowest ebb about an hour before; hung on for a while, and finally shouted to Chris, still only 20m above, that we should give up. ‘No way; because I’m going to fucking climb this pitch.’ And he was off, simple as that. He said later that he realised it was ‘do or die’, and, not wanting to die, he did. He shot up, across, around over the horizon and was gone. I followed at full speed in a blur of spindrift, going well simply because my entire blood volume was circulating only half way along all my appendages, and it was, quite simply, the most scary and dangerous pitch since the last ice route I fell off (the day before I left for Nepal…). The final pitches were a romp (ha!) up easy angled slopes, running it out until we were on the Col, loads thankfully dumped and cameras out. It was a very happy event- we were physically and emotionally drained; it was a summit in itself.

We felt the tremendous support of the whole of BC and beyond, and it was a great boost to us in our shattered state; at once bizarre and yet fantastic to hear Pete Smith’s dulcet tones on the radio- we were so far away and yet felt close. Sikkim was obliterated by a plume of spindrift, and it was all suitably gnarly up there but we didn’t care. At last we had met an objective and a time-scale we had set- a great achievement on this expedition, and for the time being we could do no more. We began our descent, arriving at the foot of the ropes at 8 o’clock in the darkness totally spent; to C2 and thence to hand the baton over to the rest of the team for a few days.

We had spent 22 days climbing the 1000m NW Face, including interruptions by bad weather, and become only the second British team to reach the N Col in the process. Chris and I had lead, carried and fixed 21 of the 24 pitches over that period, spending 11 days on the face, and lost 18kg between us. Chris’s pitch above the chimney had been the defining lead. The whole climb rested on this pitch, and Binder had pulled it out of the hat once more. Like his two pitches the day before; like him single handedly fixing the icefall; like him finding a route across the glacier while we were all ‘resting’ at BC; and like us getting to the mountain in the first place.

By Henriette van Ruiten

It all started after reading "The High Altitude Medicine Handbook", I got fascinated by high altitude medicine and after reading this book I read many more. I decided I still wanted to learn more about it. At my university they couldn‘t help, now I have the bad luck of living in a country where parts of it are even below sea level so this was understandable. I decided to write an email to one of the authors who had put his email address on the last page of the book. This was Andy Pollard, we wrote many emails and I got even more enthusiastic. Andy put me in contact with Sally, who told me about the forthcoming expedition. I couldn‘t believe it, going on an expedition was something I have always dreamed of and now it became very close. She said, come to the Ambleside weekend so you can meet everybody. That‘s what I did, I was very scared in the beginning, I didn‘t know anybody and Ambleside was far away but it turned out to be a fantastic weekend. Everybody was extremely kind and it was even possible for me to join the research, it was even better than I could expect and I decided to join the expedition. I was full of happiness going on an expedition to the Himalayas.

Coming back in Holland my life changed very fast. Many people became interested in the expedition, newspapers and magazines wrote about me and I even had an interview with the national newspaper. It was amazing going into a bar in Amsterdam and see my picture and story in the newspaper. But for a Dutch person, especially a woman, going on an expedition is exceptional. I used the publicity to find the sponsors for the trip. This went quite well and in the meantime I could think of a research subject, this was easily found in the cold finger experiment. Unfortunately this experiment was not appreciated by the subjects as it was very painful!

Departure time came very close now and sometimes I was a bit scared of the adventure that was in front of me, not to speak about my parents who were terrified. It was two days before leaving I made an agreement with a newspaper that I was going to send every week an email with my experiences. Then the expedition came like a hurricane and two months long it took me with it.

It was only back home that I realised what had happened to me. The whole trip, the research, the mountains and especially the people have changed me forever. I have seen things and met people who I will never forget, also I am sure I have made friends for a lifetime. Back home it was incredible, many people had read my articles and were very interested in my story. They asked me for interviews, photographs, radio programs, slide shows etc. and that only because of the combination of Dutch, woman and Himalayas! At the moment I am in the middle of working on the results of the research, sometimes I go to a conference to talk about the expedition and my research. During these conferences I meet famous scientists on high altitude medicine and can discuss with them about fascinating subjects. It is difficult to believe that it is only one year ago that I was dreaming of going on an expedition, doing research and could not even imagine of going to a conference!

For me the expedition is like a rollercoaster that never seems to stop!

By Sholto Campbell Age 11.

It was day thirteen on our amazing trip to base camp, we were just coming out of a village with a extremely long suspension bridge when one of my brothers said he needed to go to the toilet. We walked on until the village was nearly out of sight, then we gave him the toilet roll and matches and told him to go behind a big boulder to go to the toilet.

It was quiet for ten more minutes, and then I saw there was a lot of smoke coming from the boulder. As a joke I said "Oh it look’s like Cameron having a bonfire". I carried on talking to my Mum about what sort of wild life was around, when I heard Cameron shouting "my shorts are on fire!" I immediately ran to Cameron.

I looked down to where his shorts were, they were on fire! It was lucky there was a stick nearby in the rice fields, I got a stick and beat the shorts until the fire went out. I expect it was a frightening experience for Cameron with fire up his legs.

It was lucky that Cameron did not have his legs burnt, otherwise he would have had to have some serious burns on his leg.

But the story still carries on, after we had got the fire out. We got him to the path almost crying, but we still needed to clean him up after the accident he had with the fire. We took him down to the river, to try and clean him up, the water was almost still behind the boulders. But the river certainly wasn’t still, and the leeches definitely weren’t still either, no, no by far, they had an opportunity, and they weren’t going to miss it. We did not notice he had leeches on him until we were up on the path, then we started to notice. They were really tucking into him, but we picked them off very quickly, and this was when Cameron really started to have a fit, but we soon calmed him down.! We carried on, with Cameron vowing that every leech he sees he will kill it.

This story was far from being made up, it was a story that I will never forget on the journey to the first base camp I had ever been to.

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By Nigel Hart

As a medical elective it was certainly unorthodox – seven weeks in the Nepalese Himalayas participating in medical research. When the idea was first muted we weren’t sure whether the faculty would buy the idea for our final year elective – most people usually did their elective in a foreign hospital. To our surprise they liked the idea. We then noted that written finals were due to finish on the 25^th September whereas the expedition was due to leave on the 20^th September. We were positively bowled over when they offered to have finals finishing by the 18^th to accommodate us. We omitted to share this fact with many of our colleagues!

So there we were at Pangpema, 5000 m, probably having the best elective of anyone in our whole year. One morning Roger and I stood together as we watched one of the highly impressive Russian-made MI 17 helicopters land and take-off again in front of the incredible backdrop of Wedge Peak. Awed by this incredible sight, Roger, thinking of the electives of our colleagues, turned to me and said, "Just think, we could be standing on a ward round right now looking at a rash". We exchanged a ‘high-five’ in mutual appreciation for having chosen the elective of a lifetime.

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By Nigel Hart

"I don’t know why I bother bringing a guitar" said Chris Comerie ruefully, "I’m never around base camp long enough to get the use out of it".

…..It had been my intention to purchase a guitar in Kathmandu before setting off on the trek to base camp but using all time available to search for a replacement camera that I had broken on arrival, I never really got around to looking for one. I was thus thrilled when I arrived at base camp to find that Chris had bought a guitar, a ‘Givson’ no less! It had been some time since I last played the guitar and even longer since I had used one to lead a sing-along. I was to find out however that similar to the ‘riding a bike’ situation, I had indeed not forgotten how to play. Gathering together on my second evening at base camp in the ‘pleasure-dome’ (the popular name for our communications tent), suitably clad against the cold in down jackets, I was quickly infected by the enthusiasm of those gathered for a sing-along. Soon a stream of song-titles were being offered up as suitable material. In contrast to my memory of how to play the guitar, my recollection of song words was not so good. "What about ‘American pie’ " offered someone? "Do you know the words?" I replied….."Or what about ‘The boxer’" suggested another? "Do you know the words?" I again replied. It stuck! From that time to the end of the expedition the phrase became immortalised and was always said with an accent that would not have been out of place in ‘The quiet man’ – a Hollywood film set in the west coast of Ireland.

I was later to discover however, that ‘knowing the words’ was not an imperative for a successful sing-along, a fact witnessed most especially by those who gathered on the night Chris and Mark returned to base camp from Kangchenjunga. We sang and danced and laughed in