No Such Thing as Failure

by David Hempleman-Adams

  The Carstensz Pyramid is the only one of the seven summits without snow or ice coverage, and there are big differences in the skills and techniques required for ice and rock climbing. With the former you are out on your own, relying just on your crampons and ice axes, and it is potentially more dangerous. In theory at least rock climbing is safer, but you are totally reliant upon your partner. One person puts in protection and anchors the rope while the other leads, climbing up the rock face as they feed out the rope behind them and putting in a running belay for protection as they go. If the lead climber slips and falls they should only be able to do so twice the distance to their last protection, if everything holds of course, the rope ultimately tethered by his second below. At a given point the first lead climber puts in further protection, belays themselves to the rock, and their second removes the nuts and friends, venturing up after them removing the protection along the route, always supported, and so on, usually leapfrogging one another and taking turns to lead. The dangers for the lead climber are always greater, since they can fall further, and the protection they place must be able to catch a falling body, the pull of which upon a rope can so easily pluck that protection from the rock face.

  In Jakarta we were met by our guide, Djojo Sumardo, an experienced climber who had reached the top of the Pyramid on three occasions, so at least one of us knew what we were doing. From there we took various flights on increasingly smaller planes, eventually to a beautiful island called Biak near Bali, our destination there to be the Balium Valley—an area only revealed to the rest of the world, apparently, in the 1950s. We landed in a small Cessna 152 aircraft, normally used by missionaries, at a small airstrip in the heart of the valley with mud huts dotted all around it. On landing we were immediately surrounded by the local tribespeople, the women naked except for grass skirts that showed whether they were married or not, and the men entirely naked except for long penis gourds.

  I had never been to such a place in my life before and being no sort of anthropologist I didn’t really know what to expect, but it was an entirely new experience to find somewhere so completely unspoiled and non-commercialized. Since we were the first outsiders to arrive in their part of the world that year the people were every bit as curious about us as we were about them and we found them incredibly friendly, although of course we could not communicate except through Djojo’s translations. Perhaps most refreshing of all it seemed a very egalitarian society, with nothing remotely subservient about the people in any way. They simply lived their lives in the immediate present, with no sense of envy for the things that we might have and they did not. For Paul it was maybe even more of a culture shock than for anyone else, and he had already become increasingly uncomfortable as our trip progressed and he saw the mosquito bites on his arms, and encountered the increasingly tribal food and accommodation.

  We then faced a week-long 100-mile trek through jungle inhabited by the most amazing wildlife, from bats and snakes to monkeys and sloths, with the locals acting as our porters. The vegetation was very dense in places, but they made short work of it with their machetes. At 4.00 p.m. each day someone would whistle and they would all suddenly stop, seemingly without any prior arrangement, and spread out into the jungle to return within fifteen minutes, having collected wood and creepers which they used, along with a tarpaulin we had given them, to construct a shelter. This was large enough to shelter the fifteen of them, whilst we remained in our tents to sleep but joined them for dinner, which always consisted of a vegetable called ‘uebe’ which tasted like a yam. If we were really lucky they would chuck in a bat or rat they might have captured during the day’s trek. Paul and I were very conscious of not wanting to upset them, but we did draw the line at this part of the menu so we stuck mostly to our own food that we had brought with us.

  There was much laughter around the campfire at night, especially if something funny had happened during the day, and their sense of humour tended towards the slapstick, never more so than when I slipped and landed on my backside. They were also always singing, like boy scouts of an evening, and I’ll always remember their wonderful a cappella songs. They were truly lovely people, and if there is one mountain in the world I believe I would return to just for that I think it is there. I was worried however about our lack of urgency and slow progress, as my mind kept going back to a heavily-pregnant Claire waiting for me at home. The ice was really broken when I showed them a photograph of my family, and through Djojo’s interpretation they all told us how many children they had. When I explained how soon Claire would be giving birth and that I needed to reach the mountain and return as quickly as possible, this seemed to do the trick. There was a brief discussion between them, camp was immediately struck, and thereafter the tempo of our trek increased and we reached the Carstensz Pyramid within the allotted time.

  When we arrived at what would be our 12,000 foot base camp the temperature had dropped from a pleasant 16°C in the jungle to not far above freezing. This didn’t seem to bother the semi-naked porters and nor did the conditions underfoot, as they skipped over the slippery rocks carrying their heavy loads in places climbers would normally be roped together. From here Paul, Djojo and myself would be on our own whilst our porters found a cave where they would make their home until our return. At 2.00 a.m. on the morning of 2 May 1995 we found ourselves staring 4,000 feet up a massive and seemingly almost vertical rock face.

  We roped ourselves together and started the climb. Paul excelled himself, insisting we could reach the summit and return to base within the day when I was beginning to voice my own doubts, although he continued to swear at me for getting him into this situation. Over the next few hours we spent much of our time abseiling up and down a series of ridges like yo-yos, some of these abseils very exposed with drops up to 2,000 feet. The altitude was beginning to get to me, but Djojo was hopping up and down the mountainside like a kangaroo.

  Part way up I was amazed to see a huge smile and white shining teeth looking down at me. Our efforts had been made slightly ridiculous by one of our porters having run around the back of the mountain and up the other side in his flip-flops to meet us part way, although he clearly had not the remotest interest in joining us and carrying on to the top. By the final ridge before the summit I was so exhausted I removed my pack and left it behind. It took every last ounce of strength in my body to haul myself over that last obstacle, and then a further ten minutes to recover before I could pull my pack up after me, allowing Paul roped on behind me to follow up the mountainside.

  From there it was not too hard and within half an hour we had reached the summit. Here a small wooden plaque confirmed the Carstensz Pyramid as the continent’s highest mountain, and we stared down through the alpine conditions around us and to the jungle below. Here was the end of this particular part of my journey. I was the third British climber to complete the Seven Summits, and in doing so I had reached parts of the world and met peoples I had never dreamed in my wildest imagination I might do, when growing up as a boy in rural Wiltshire. The mountains were my first love, and I had time to return home to my second two weeks before Claire ended up giving birth to our daughter Amelia.

  ICE

  I keep walking, but in my heart of hearts I am despondent and know I’m not going to make it. Things have got a little easier over the last few days, the pressure ridges more infrequent and the mounds of rubble slightly less immense. I’ve even had the odd day when I managed to cover 10 miles of ground, and you’d think I’d be elated compared to the first few of my journey when I was managing barely even a single mile. But when I planned the trip I knew I had to make those 10 miles or more each and every day over the forty or so I hoped it would take to reach the Pole in record time. Now I’ve been out here on the ice for thirty-two days, am less than a quarter of the way there, and have used up well over half my food. Worse than that, far more of my strength and will-power have been eroded. In the constant cold my mind has been broken every bit as much as my body.

  In thi
s twenty-four hour sunlight you lose all sense of time, but I guess it must be mid-afternoon or so. I’d always thought that I’d look forward to the end of a day, crawling inside my tent and getting some food inside me, but I really think I’ve stopped looking forward to anything now. I can’t chalk off being one day closer to the Pole, because I don’t honestly believe I’m going to get there. I just don’t see how I possibly can, the numbers don’t add up. It all seems utterly pointless now, and I suppose I keep catching myself thinking not so much whether but when I should give up. I’ve made a mess of things. I’d like to think I still have my pride, but I’m not sure I can even say that now.

  Here’s another sodding ridge. This one must be about 15 feet high, a wall of breeze block-sized chunks of ice. When I saw my first one, nearly five weeks ago, I thought it was rather beautiful, like some gigantic modern art installation. Now it’s just part of an endless obstacle course constantly in my way. I start to zig-zag my way up it, trying to find some purchase and balance on my skis, and pause for breath. My sledge isn’t that heavy now, since I’ve eaten so much of my food, and I thought that would make everything so much easier, but then I’m a lot weaker too which seems to outweigh that. The top at last and I can see clear ground ahead, so at least I have some of that to cross, but this ridge is damn steep down the other side and I’m going to have to be careful negotiating my way down or . . . Christ, it’s moving, collapsing, blocks tumbling down and I’m going with it.

  I’m at the bottom and this hurts like hell. My layers of clothing must provide some padding, but I can almost feel the shape of the block of ice where I landed on my side imprinted on my body. Try and take deep breaths, I’m winded, and I know I must also be in shock. I’m doubled up in agony and my ribs are screaming at me. Just give yourself some time, hope the pain eases, then try and get my tent up, but how am I going to manage that in this pain! This really is the end, but just of this journey or every-thing? I don’t know. I have to try and get inside my tent then give myself time to think, once my mind starts working again. I guess I’m lucky one of those falling blocks didn’t dash my brains out. Yet if I manage to radio base, will they be able to come and pick me up? I’m scared, but do I also feel something else? Am I relieved, that this finally gives me a way out, an excuse to go home?

  * * *

  You can never, ever, prepare yourself in advance for the reality of the North Pole. There is nowhere else on earth like it, and however much you try to plan and learn in advance, whoever you talk to who has been there, it is only the actual experience of facing it that can give you a real sense of what it is truly like as a challenge. It isn’t in fact a place, in a sense, it is an ocean, but unlike the featurelessness of other oceans the Arctic is constantly changing. There are no maps, there can’t be, because the terrain alters from day to day, hour to hour, as the ice moves and huge floating plates crash into each other throwing up piles of debris, and the pressure ridges act as sails pushing the whole ice sheet southwards. At least the South Pole is a continent, and although the ice and snow can be remade there too a map can tell you where you are, it is stable and still. Heading to the North Pole the ocean currents can carry you backwards almost as fast as you can walk, leaving you going nowhere, or sweep you miles away overnight whilst you sleep in your tent.

  And it is cold. Of course, that goes without saying, but nothing can prepare you for the temperatures, day in day out, week after week, often –75°C with the wind-chill where every mile an hour of wind makes the temperature seem a bitter degree colder. The South Pole can be colder still, in the depth of winter and at its centre, but no one would try to go there then, they simply would not survive. Because the ground beneath your feet is solid you can attempt to reach the pole at the height of what passes for the Antarctic summer, in December and January, but you can’t do the same when setting out for the North Pole. This you must do in early March, to arrive by late April, before the ocean currents leave you with impassable open water.

  I’d always felt that when my hero Reinhold Messner reached the top of Everest by the very difficult north-west route solo and without oxygen, as he absolutely proved he had done in 1980, that was for me the ultimate climb. You just couldn’t better that in any way. I didn’t think about doing it myself, but after Steve Vincent and I returned from climbing Kilimanjaro in August 1981 I was beginning to ponder different challenges, although perhaps also avoiding the other pressing issue of starting to consider a proper career. Although I had not yet climbed Everest, or even really thought I might, I wasn’t sure there was much more for me to do in mountaineering, but no one had done lightweight trips to the poles.

  Up to then most expeditions had used snowmobiles or dog teams to get to the North Pole, the limiting factor with both being the huge cost of dropping fuel or dog food. Wally Herbert, who sadly rather had his thunder stolen by reaching the Pole the same day Neil Armstrong landed on the moon, used dogs and had supplies dropped by Hercules aircraft. Ranulph Fiennes had his own Twin Otter. I felt if you could keep it small and simple, that would be beautiful. And there seemed to be no real correlation between the size of an expedition and support involved and its actual success. If I could become the first person to walk solo to the North Pole, that might replicate Messner’s achievement.

  I told Steve about my idea, and he agreed at once to come out and be my main back-up at base camp. My thoughts were still in very embryonic form, and we’d gone out to New York together to set up a company selling outdoor clothing. We both loved the place, and I had ample time to carry out extensive research on the Arctic and the North Pole at the New York Public Library. After six months however, whilst we were walking down Fifth Avenue one day, Steve broke the news that he had decided to return home and marry his girlfriend Cathy, adding that he hoped I would be his best man and he still intended to come with me to the Arctic. I was also missing Claire desperately by this time, so we wound up the business and headed back to England. On the plane home I contemplated my future. With little money and no job I had no clear idea what my path in life would be, yet even then as now I knew I didn’t want to be some kind of professional adventurer, but I realized that going to the North Pole was a new obsession for me.

  Back home I moved into a flat in Bristol where Claire was studying law. She was only eighteen at the time, and looking back her parents were amazingly trusting in allowing her to move in with some bloke whose only plans in life were to do with such a foolhardy trek. I obviously had to seek help, so I managed to meet Ranulph who had been to both poles, although neither solo nor unsupported, and he was incredibly generous in his advice on things like food, radios and other equipment. I also contacted Wally Herbert, who in my view knew more about the Arctic than anyone else in Britain. Less propitiously, I sought official recognition for my trip from the Royal Geographical Society, but the gentlemen of their committee I met seemed incapable of asking me more than whether I would be wearing a string vest or could change a valve on a radio, which no one in such a position had needed to attempt in more than twenty years. Their support was not forthcoming, and it was privately made clear to me that my lack of a military or public school background was considered a stumbling block. Things have since changed, I’m glad to say, and the institution has completely opened its doors to me.

  I obviously had to get sponsorship in terms of cash and equipment, so a vast amount of my time was spent bashing out nearly 3,000 letters on an old manual typewriter. Most received no response at all, maybe a curt or polite no, but just enough did offer help and very soon things like sleeping bags or radios from Plessey started to arrive at our tiny flat, and once that was bursting at the seams at the offices of my father’s company in Swindon, where they were stored in a warehouse. My total budget was £40,000, which in polar terms is nothing, but about half of that came from the photocopier company Gestetner and most of the rest from local businesses that had supported me on my previous mountaineering trips.

  My starting point would be Cape Columbia
at the northern tip of Ellesmere Island, the fastest point from land to the Pole being the line along which there is least drift of the ice south, and my aim was to beat the existing record for the distance of forty-two days. All my research had told me to expect three distinct phases to my 476-mile journey. The first 200 miles, the toughest, would be a constantly changing terrain of ice rubble and pressure ridges, which can be up to 25 feet high. The moving ocean beneath the ice can force up massive fountains of freezing water, or produce icequakes. My belief was that just walking and pulling my sledge I would simply be able to go in a straight line over the top of any obstacles. Setting out at the beginning of March at the start of the Arctic spring, time would be of the essence over this first stage. I would have to reach the 85th Parallel before the month was out, as by the end of April the area between there and the 88th Parallel becomes impassable, since by then the Baltic and Siberian giral currents have broken up the ice leaving open water between the floes. This would be the most dangerous section, since if I fell through the ice I would either drown at once or freeze to death with no hope of rescue. The final section from the 88th Parallel should, in theory, be the easiest, a ski dash over firm ice to the Pole before radioing in and being picked-up by a plane. Oh, and there would be polar bears, who can scent a human lunch 5 miles away.