First Skyhorse Publishing edition 2015
Copyright © 2014 by David Hempleman-Adams
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Print ISBN: 978-1-63220-707-4
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63220-811-8
Printed in the United States of America
‘All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.’
– T. E. Lawrence
To the ladies of my life, Claire, Alicia, Camilla and Amelia.
Always loved and never forgotten from the four corners of the world.
Acknowledgements
I have to thank many people who have helped with making this book possible.
Andreas Campomar, who has given encouragement and direction, along with Florence Partridge, Dominic Wakeford, Charlotte Macdonald and everyone else at Constable Little Brown. My great thanks also to David Marshall, my literary agent, who took my ramblings and put them in some semblance of order and has become an expert on all things polar, mountaineering and aviation, and I gained a new friend.
Louise Johncox, who conducted some initial research and made transcripts.
To the people who wash-up behind my work to allow me to go off and do these mad adventures; in particular Nicky and Sue.
The people who have backed me in one way or another, without whose help there wouldn’t be any expeditions.
Paul Strasburger, Nigel Hunton, David Newman, Bill Haynes, John Pontin, Frederik Paulsen, Larry and Lynne Tracey, Ashok Rabheru, Malcolm Walker, Bob Holt, Peter Cruddas, Stanley Fink, Peter McPhillips, Colin Fuller, Richard Matthewman, Normon Stoller, Lord Kirkham, Sir Tom Farmer, William Brake, Peter Buckley, Alan Thompson and Mike Edge.
And to all my friends and colleagues who have sweated, shivered, pulled, pushed and lost sleep on so many trips; too many to name. You know who you are. Thank you.
Preface
I’m edging my way slowly down the rock face. I can barely see with the powdered snow blowing in my eyes, and I’m continually being pelted with small bits of ice and rock falling from above. My climbing partner Steve Vincent is somewhere above me, but I can hardly see or hear him in the dark and the screaming wind. Every now and then I sense something much larger come hurtling past from the cliff above, and I know if one of those catches either of us that will be curtains, Christ help us. Suddenly there’s a shout, and the next moment Steve pendulums across the face of the rock, the spikes on his crampons throwing sparks from the surface, having lost a hand or foot hold. I know his full falling weight is on the rope fastened to one piton, and if that goes he will take me with him. I hold my breath, and after what seems an age he manages to stop swinging, grasp a crack and hug himself to the bare mountainside. We’re still alive, for now.
It was 1976 and we were on our third trip to the Alps. We were still really no more than boys, but we could hitchhike out there in a couple of days and spend a whole summer climbing. We were bloody fit though, and having so little money we couldn’t afford cable cars so had to lug all our gear wherever we went. We’d been in the Zermatt Valley for a couple of months, doing some pretty good routes, but we’d decided we wanted to try the north face of the Weisshorn.
We weren’t stupid, and obviously checked the weather forecast before we left Zermatt, but a lot can change in twenty-four hours. We’d walked up to the top hut with all our kit, ate, slept, then got up at 1:00 a.m. and trooped off along the normal path until we found the turning for a different and rarer one we’d agreed we wanted to try. Of course, in the dark we could not see any clouds that might be forming. When dawn broke we were high up, but you wouldn’t have known it as a fierce electric storm came from nowhere and enveloped the mountain. With the strength of the wind and the snow being driven into our faces we knew in minutes that we must abandon any hope of reaching the summit, and our lives depended on getting down as quickly as possible. We could hear the thunder and see the lightning, which seemed incredibly close and all around us, and all our gear was buzzing from the electricity in the air.
Chunks of rock and ice were falling on us as we retreated, and pretty soon we had used up most of the kit we were carrying trying to abseil down off the mountain. Like Steve, I slipped on a couple of occasions, only to feel my fall saved by the supporting rope. We gradually inched our way down throughout the day, and by about 4:00 a.m. the next morning we finally managed to find our way off the main mountain and onto the snowy path that led back to our hut, situated on a ledge some distance away. But we were utterly done for, exhausted—we could barely stand—cold and totally dehydrated having not eaten or drunk anything in more than 27 hours. The weather was still horrendous.
Steve said he’d had enough, told me just to cut the rope that still joined us together and make my own way back if I could. ‘Let me be and leave me here,’ he said. For some reason I wasn’t having that and began to pull on the rope, which only made him shout out that he’d fucking kill me if he could catch me, which was perhaps what I intended him to try. ‘You cut the rope,’ I retorted, but flicked it around to make it dance so he couldn’t reach it, which only made him angrier. We staggered on another 50 yards, and suddenly saw the silhouette of our hut appear through the snowstorm. At that we both broke down in tears and hugged each other, perhaps the only time I have ever cried at the release from sheer terror as opposed to the emotional elation of achievement. Young and fit as we were, I don’t think we would have survived another hour without shelter, and I still believe that day on the Weisshorn is the closest I have ever come to dying on a mountain. At that very time the same storm was claiming the life of my friend Dave Allcock on a neighbouring peak.
ROCK
I was born David Kim Hempleman, in Swindon, in October 1956. A rather sickly baby, I was only 2lbs at birth and am told I almost died, being given a tracheotomy in my cot and the last rites by the Catholic priest. My parents married young and I was brought up in a council house initially, until my grandfather helped us out, and I was sent to the local comprehensive school. One of my early childhood memories is of a near-miss drowning accident when I fell into a river, and I vividly recall that I kept sinking, going down and down, which terrified me. I’ve always been convinced that my fear of water stems from this time, and I only really learned to swim properly when I was sixteen. I am actually still not a terribly strong swimmer and my three daughters, who are all far better than me, often tease me about it.
When I was nine my parents split-up and subsequently divorced, a horribly messy business and something which in the mid-60s was still very rare and retained an element of taboo. This left me with a very stark choice for a youn
g boy to be forced into making: should I choose to live with my father or mother? I’m frankly not now really sure how I made the decision, but partly because my father was often away on business I plumped for the latter, handing the same choice to my five-year-old brother Mark into the bargain.
* * *
We moved to a small village outside Bath and my mother soon remarried, assuming her new husband’s name of Adams which of course also passed to me. It must have been around this time that people started calling me by my second Christian name, Kim, rather than my first which I shared with my father, something that a lot of my closest friends from my schooldays still do. I don’t think it was a very happy time for me, and for the first year or so I deeply resented my new stepfather, for his supplanting presence rather than that I blamed him at all for my parents’ divorce. This didn’t last, and over time I came to respect him deeply for the way he had looked after us all, without this in any way altering my affection for my father. When I became an adult I came to the conclusion that my name should reflect both, and adopted Hempleman-Adams. This has had the unintended consequence, over the years, that many people assume I come from a rather more privileged or even aristocratic background than is actually the case, which I certainly don’t.
It felt to me as if we lived in the middle of nowhere, and by the age of eleven I had already formed a deep love of the surrounding countryside where we lived and the outdoors. It was a mile’s walk just to where I would catch the bus for school, and during the holidays I was allowed to work on the local farm earning extra pocket money. Not only gathering vegetables in the fields, illegal as it would no doubt be now I also drove tractors and combine harvesters. Working in all seasons, shirtsleeves during the summer or pulling sheep from snowdrifts in the raw cold of winter, wrapped up in every sweater that I owned. In the course of just a few years I had been transformed from a boy born in a railway town to a country lad, and even then I knew I would never want to live or work in the smog of a big city.
I went to Writhlington Comprehensive School just outside Bath, and it was there that my actual love affair with adventure was first kindled. There was a PE teacher called Mansel James (naturally nicknamed Jesse by us all). He was in his late thirties and he spoke with a deep Welsh accent. If for any reason you were unable actually to play sport he would still make sure you rolled the cricket pitch or whitened the batting pads, never letting you off scot-free. He was universally feared, but for some reason seemed to take an early shine to me and would sit down to chat in a way that he did with no one else. Perhaps it had something to do with my being the only kid in the school with divorced parents, which despite my mother’s best attempts to hide the fact everyone naturally knew about. Anyway, it was through his guidance and encouragement that I first became involved in the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award scheme, which the school eagerly offered to its pupils.
I was thirteen when I started, and a group of us were bussed out to camp in a big, old army tent in the Brecon Beacons of Wales. I’d never been on a mountain before—it was even my first time away from home by myself—and I’d never seen skies so clear, stars so apparently near and bright. I loved the untarnished beauty of the rugged terrain and I think I felt an immediate affinity with the wilderness and one’s own sense of solitude when set against it. Although at the time I didn’t feel that affected by my parents’ divorce, I think it was probably the sense of inner tranquillity I experienced in the mountains, the stark contrast with home, that drew me so strongly. On that trip I tried my first bit of rock climbing, and loved it instantly. When the week came to an end I didn’t want to go home.
By the time I was sixteen I’d been through the three levels of the Award scheme, bronze, silver and gold, which involved acquiring basic skills such as first aid, physical fitness, a hobby (I chose badminton, for some reason) and progressively tougher field expeditions, the part I enjoyed most. The first level of these saw me back in the Brecon Beacons, setting out with four companions to reach a checkpoint 30 miles away using maps and compasses. Jesse was waiting for us at the other end, but as the day wore on it became increasingly obvious that we weren’t going to make the 6.00 p.m. deadline. I was determined not to fail and I must have been the strongest as well as the cockiest of our group, as I said I would go on ahead and find Jesse, and tell him the others were just a short way behind coming over the hill. I reached him in time and assumed I’d get a pat on the head for being the only one to do so, but was rapidly disabused of this idea with a clip round the ear and a strict dressing down for leaving the rest of the group behind. Either you get there as a team, he told me, or you don’t get there at all. This was my first serious lesson about teamwork and it is one I have never forgotten to this day. I was a very impressionable young man and Jesse’s words stuck with me, ‘always bring back your dead.’
By this time I’d also been on my first school skiing trip, an activity I seemed to pick up pretty well, and had hitched my way to north Wales with a few mates in the Easter holidays, scrambling up Snowdon and some other mountains. In a short space of time mountaineering was becoming my life, and I very soon realized that I was at my happiest half-way up a mountain, something that has never changed. I also felt compelled to prove myself against increasingly stiffer climbing challenges, to show that I was as good as, if not better than, everyone else.
I lived and breathed mountaineering, devouring everything I could read on the subject. I remember going to a lecture in Bristol in 1972 delivered by members of Chris Bonington’s team, who had just returned from Everest having narrowly failed to reach the summit by the difficult South-West Face. Bonington was the only really professional mountaineer around in Britain at the time, his expeditions being run in an entirely different way to those of the 1920s and 1950s that were sponsored by the Royal Geographical Society, Alpine Club and the armed services. He certainly paved the way for the financial rewards that some mountaineers can obtain today. These were my heroes! Dougal Haston reminded me of my uncle Peter, my father’s brother, and Doug Scott, with his John Lennon-style National Health glasses, his bandanna and his long hair wasn’t very different to the poster of Che Guevara which, like most teenagers at the time, adorned my bedroom wall. I wanted to ask them loads of questions, but when the opportunity arose I just froze and simply thanked them for signing my poster.
One thing I remembered from the lecture, and indeed must already have known, was how the expedition used a huge number of porters to reach Base Camp, which is already higher than anywhere in the Alps. Men, women and (it seemed to me) kids, not to mention yaks and dogs, were all involved. I decided that I would write to Bonington, telling him that I was sixteen and midway through my gold Duke of Edinburgh’s Award, and ask if there was any chance I could be a porter on his next expedition to the mountain, scheduled for the following year, if I paid my own way out there. I’d willingly have left home and school if it got me to Everest. He replied within a week, and although he told me that I was too young he congratulated me on what I was doing and felt sure I should hang on to my dreams. Everyone, he said, should have the equivalent of their own Everest, whatever it might be, and even in turning me down his letter gave me an incredible boost—he didn’t tell me to get lost or simply ignore me. But of course it was Everest in particular that obsessed me. I knew every route on the mountain, the details of every expedition that had been made there and the name of every person who had reached the summit.
I got a place at college in Manchester to read business studies and almost at once was selected for a student exchange programme, heading off via New York City to Camp Ranger near Swan Lake in upper New York State. It hosted kids between the ages of six and seventeen, and was a school of excellence light years ahead of anything Britain could offer at the time. I was a pretty accomplished climber by now, or so I felt, and I had been chosen as the rock climbing specialist. Only seventeen myself, technically I shouldn’t have been there, and was only picked when someone else dropped out and the organizers were able t
o sort out the insurance issues my age caused. An eighteen-year-old, and there to teach sub-aqua diving, was a guy called Steve Vincent. We hit it off almost at once, and over a burger one night we discovered we were actually both from Swindon. We spent more and more time together, driving the kids out to the Catskill mountains to learn hill and rock climbing, and when the eight-week camp was over Steve and I decided to set out for a further five weeks climbing by ourselves, first in New Paltz nearby and then further afield in Wyoming and California.
After that we were climbing partners, and the next Easter we made our first trip to the Alps. I managed to raise the £250 I needed, which seemed a lot at the time, through a rudimentary form of sponsorship. I took one of my mother’s sheets and painted a red lion on it, then found ten pubs with that name in the Bath area and phoned them up, offering to give them a photograph of me holding up the sheet with their name on at the top of Mount Rosa, which at 15,000 feet is the highest in Switzerland. Each one obviously thought they were the only Red Lion referred to.
Steve and I soon found we had a deep rapport on a mountain, which meant we could understand each other even without speaking. Perhaps I had the better technical knowledge, but I think that Steve was undoubtedly the bolder climber. By the time we were twenty-two we’d climbed the Matterhorn, Mont Blanc and the Eiger, amongst many, many others. I discovered in the Alps that I had found my vocation in life, and how many people can honestly say the same thing, at that or any other age? Their sheer size, grandeur and beauty convinced me that a whole host of wonderful challenges lay ahead, and I owed it to myself to grasp this opportunity with both hands.
By 1980 I was studying in Bristol, doing an MBA at what would become Bristol Polytechnic. The academic work was hard, but it still left plenty of time for Steve and me to spend months in the Alps, to which we’d made numerous trips. I’d also been out to the Himalayas once by myself, without Steve as he’d broken his leg in an accident earning some extra cash as a dispatch rider. We’d decided we wanted a different level of challenge for that summer, and as we both loved America had set our eyes on Mount McKinley in Alaska, at 20,320 feet the highest mountain on the North American continent. I had no idea at the time, of course, that McKinley would turn out to be the first of my seven such summits.
No Such Thing as Failure Page 1
