Keeper Of The Mountains

by Bernadette McDonald

  Zawada’s mission looked hopeless almost from the start. Winds roared in from the north at up to 160 kilometres per hour and temperatures averaged –25°C in the Western Cwm. The peaks grew dark as the winds stripped them of snow. The short winter days were even darker. Elizabeth heard horrific tales of hardship: throats inflamed from the cold, dry air; clear, rock-hard ice; and camps destroyed by incessant, hurricane-force winds. To make matters worse, the team received word from the government that they would need to vacate the mountain by February 15. They negotiated a two-day extension, and with this new deadline and the desire to write a new chapter in mountaineering history spurring them on, Leszek Cichy and Krzysztof Wielicki reached the summit at 2:25 p.m. on February 17.

  Two days later they were off the mountain and heading back to Kathmandu, where they reported in to Elizabeth. As she listened to their story, she shuddered to imagine what they had endured. Some of the Poles stayed on in Nepal and by March, again under the leadership of Zawada, a team reinforced with several new members headed back to Everest for a successful ascent of a new route via the South Pillar. On May 19, Andrzej Czok and Jerzy Kukuczka reached the summit. The Poles were dominating. Some were calling it the Golden Age of Polish mountaineering in Nepal and Elizabeth was inclined to agree.

  Nearby on Makalu, an American team led by John Roskelley was attempting a route on the West Pillar. Roskelley described this expedition as one in which they were going to try and rise to the level of the mountain rather than pull the mountain down to theirs. That meant no bottled oxygen, a small team of four climbers and no Sherpas above base camp. It was Roskelley’s tenth trip to Asia in seven years and his third time as leader of an expedition, so he was clearly qualified to make the call.

  Despite leading a team of highly experienced climbers who were as tenacious as he was, in the end it was up to Roskelley to actually tag the summit. In an impressive solo effort, with frighteningly technical and exposed climbing, he reached the summit in late afternoon on May 15. His descent was wracked with indecision about whether to bivouac or continue. His progress was sometimes interrupted by involuntary lapses into a restless sleep. On his return to Kathmandu, he told Elizabeth an amusing story about how, as he emerged from one of these stupor-like states, he thought he heard voices. He called down to his teammate, Chris Kopczynski, who yelled back, “John, is that you?” Even in his hypoxic state, John couldn’t help laughing as he thought, “Who the hell else could it be?”

  Then, on August 20, 1980, Messner created another first: Mount Everest solo, partially by the Great Couloir on the Tibetan side, without supplemental oxygen. He did the climb in just three days after a six-week acclimatization period. He carried a 15-kilogram pack that included a small tent. For the final summit sprint, he took only his camera and ice ax. Many would refer to this ascent as the ultimate alpine-style climb: elegant, pure and bold.

  Messner was back in October, going from the 5395-metre base camp to 7399 metres in two mornings’ climbing on a solo attempt of the South Face of Lhotse. On the third morning, he climbed to 7803 metres, where bad weather defeated him, forcing him back down to base camp.

  In Elizabeth’s opinion, Messner was the climber who stood out the most in the 1980s. She remembered their first meeting in 1972, when he made his ascent of Manaslu. He remembers it too, having immediately sensed she was serious about chronicling the history of mountaineering. She admired Messner’s philosophy of “fair means,” which meant no supplemental oxygen; limited fixed rope, if any; and few camps, Sherpas or support team members. Messner and Peter Habeler had shattered preconceived ideas of what was possible with their ascent of Everest in 1978 without bottled oxygen.

  But it was during the ’80s that Messner excelled: he made his historic solo ascent of Everest; he proved you could climb two 8000ers in one season and that you could traverse two 8000ers if they were close enough. Elizabeth regards him as a pioneer because he showed the mountaineering world new ways of doing things – ways that were thought to be impossible.

  Elizabeth is fond of Messner. Many don’t share her opinion, but she thinks they simply envy his skills and successes. The two of them enjoyed long conversations about his expeditions and about others’ as well. As he began to trust her with his plans and dreams, he found she was an invaluable source of consistently accurate information. Perhaps more important than just sharing information, she encouraged him. “When I came with crazy ideas to Kathmandu, she was listening – she never said it was impossible.”

  As his career blossomed and peaked, Messner became more interested in what others were doing in the Himalaya – the next wave. They spent hours discussing the young, up-and-coming climbers. He says she had a good understanding of what was new and exciting in climbing, and that she had a good sense of who the outstanding new climbers would be. “We never disagreed on this point – never,” he says.

  They shared many enjoyable evenings together, exchanging ideas and stories. “I have to be thankful to her for her ideas,” Messner says; “in some cases it helped me decide my projects.” This is high praise coming from the man who is often described as the greatest Himalayan climber of all time. In addition to ideas, he obtained valuable information from her – details about who was planning to do what, where and when – and this helped determine the order in which Messner launched his own plans. He describes their meetings as “giving and getting, giving and getting,” and their relationship was one of equals.

  When Elizabeth recollects her relationship with Messner, she admits a feeling of satisfaction in having inadvertently influenced his climbing plans. At one point, she had read in a newspaper that Naomi Uemura was planning a solo attempt of Everest. She mentioned it to Messner, noting, “This is going to be a very interesting climb, isn’t it.” He didn’t say anything at the time, but told her later that he had been thinking of doing just that. And with this bit of information, he decided to advance the timing of his solo attempt.

  One of Elizabeth’s favourite stories about Messner had nothing to do with climbing. She was watching him fill out the biography form she used for each and every climber. On the form, she asked each expedition member for basic data such as name, address, birth date, nationality and marital status. Marital status had four possible categories: single, married, living with girlfriend or divorced. On this particular day, Messner ticked all four boxes! She asked him why, and he responded, “I was married in Italy and divorced in Germany, but Italy doesn’t recognize divorce, so in one country I am married and in the other country I am divorced. I am also living with a girlfriend.” Elizabeth acquiesced, saying, “Okay, I understand all that, fair enough. But single?” Messner responded, “I feel single.”

  A less gregarious yet equally accomplished alpinist during this time was the Polish climber Jerzy Kukuczka. The second person to climb all 14 of the 8000-metre peaks, Kukuczka did several of them in winter and even more by new and difficult routes. Elizabeth remembered Kukuczka as a tenacious and patient climber, recalling his Manaslu expedition where he sat in base camp for over three weeks waiting for the weather to improve. And when it did, he got his summit. She knew that most climbers would have lost patience long before and gone home. She considered him a real mountaineer and blamed his eventual death on the South Face of Lhotse to an inferior grade of rope.

  Elizabeth’s close friendship with Messner and other famous climbers sparked discussion about the true nature of her “relationship” with the climbers on whom she reported. American filmmaker David Breashears suggests that, for the majority of climbers, her reporting style was somewhat critical. He thinks it would have been difficult, but perhaps more useful, if she had developed a more constructive, or even congratulatory, style. Breashears also felt she could be somewhat “hung up” on high-profile climbers and big achievements like Messner’s while losing sight of some of the smaller, subtler accomplishments. He admits she displayed good instincts and judgment for exceptional mountaineering achievements, but added that that was so long as
the achievements took place on a really big peak. He was convinced that the depth and scope of her reporting was linked to her personal interest in the climber – that her reports were not just pure historical data, but a way of connecting to the personalities she felt closest to – personalities like Messner.

  Dr. Charles Houston didn’t agree. He described Elizabeth’s reporting as unbiased and scrupulously accurate. He did, however, remember the sharp tongue and pointed criticism in her conversations. “She didn’t hesitate to say that so and so was a fool, so and so ran a terrible expedition and so and so made terrible mistakes.”

  Elizabeth agrees she was interested in meeting climbers and learning about the human dimension of why people climb mountains and how mountains affect them. Over the years, she says, she became close to a few climbers and watched them change. She singles out Messner with his “articulate passion and ecstasy for the mountains,” as well as the great leadership qualities of Chris Bonington. But on the topic of biased reporting she says, “I guess I’m human, but I try not to be influenced by the personalities. I would hope the answer is no. I try not to.” She believes that her most detailed seasonal mountaineering reports reflected the most interesting climbs. She is amazed that the climbing community would even bother to have this discussion, and is genuinely surprised by their interest. “I’m astonished that all these people would even think of this stuff. They must have something better to do than this.”

  Elizabeth seems unaware of just how enigmatic she has been. People enjoy speculating about those who keep so much beneath the surface. One person who found Elizabeth mysterious was American author Broughton Coburn, who was working in Nepal on the Namche micro-hydroelectric project. The Himalayan Trust was involved with their shipping logistics, so he coordinated them with Elizabeth. Coburn found her to be difficult to work with and thought there might be a couple of reasons for her non-cooperation. First, he didn’t think she related to or was interested in men who weren’t climbers. He recalled seeing her with Reinhold Messner and a few Austrian climbers at a Kathmandu restaurant and was astonished to see her lively and smiling and almost flirtatious. He was seated a few tables away and couldn’t take his eyes off her. He had never seen her like this! Although Coburn climbed, he wasn’t in Nepal in that capacity and never presented himself to her as a climber.

  Second, he was working for UNESCO and as a consultant to Sagarmatha National Park, and he thought that Elizabeth had her loyalties so firmly placed in Himalayan Trust projects that she regarded other agencies as somewhat suspect. Other people involved with aid agencies also observed that the Himalayan Trust group had subtly appointed themselves as the “colonists of Sagarmatha National Park” – expressing a kind of noblesse oblige toward that area. They sometimes gave the appearance of having staked their claim in the area of helping Sherpas, and everyone else was an intruder. These observers hastened to add that the work done by the trust was admirable and valuable, but a perception persisted that the trust was the self-appointed “royal envoy” to the area and Elizabeth Hawley, as the Trust’s Kathmandu manager, was the self-appointed “queen of good work.”

  However, Elizabeth’s and Coburn’s inability to get along may have been simply due to a difference in style. As Coburn recalled, he was trying to coordinate flights into Lukla and Elizabeth was extremely particular about how it should be done. He described his style as “winging it.” It apparently drove her crazy that he didn’t know the precise weights of things. After decades of working closely with her in Nepal, he admitted he never became close to Elizabeth. She remained an enigma to him.

  Canadian parks specialist Frances Klatzel brought her skills to Sagarmatha National Park in the 1980s and developed a close working relationship with Elizabeth, too. Frances first arrived in Nepal in 1980. While trekking in the Khumbu area, she jokingly volunteered her assistance to help the newly emerging park. They took her up on it and thus began a long and fruitful relationship. For years she worked in the Khumbu and had her mail delivered to the Himalayan Trust’s mailbox in Kathmandu. The Himalayan Trust employed a mail runner who would make the trip from Kunde, back and forth to Kathmandu, with short rests in between. It was the only way to get mail in the area at the time. Frances moved back to Canada from 1989 to 1995, but Elizabeth kept the little pigeonhole mailbox for her. “I guess she was expecting me back,” Frances laughed.

  And back she came. After some years, Frances began giving Elizabeth a bottle of red wine for Christmas, a gesture that seemed to surprise Elizabeth. But the annual gift created a connection in Elizabeth’s mind between Frances and wine. Years later, they were at a party thrown by Ang Rita of the Himalayan Trust for Sir Edmund Hillary, and Ang Rita’s wife, holding a glass of red wine, approached Elizabeth and Frances. Elizabeth acted surprised and wondered aloud where she had found red wine, commenting that only diplomats and foreigners could source red wine. She then looked at Frances, “Did you bring it?” Frances laughed and explained that red wine had been available in the supermarkets for several years now. Since Elizabeth never bought her own food, she had no idea red wine was openly available in the supermarkets of Kathmandu. To Frances, it was a sign of Elizabeth’s self-imposed isolation from real life in Kathmandu.

  After 20 years of knowing each other, there were very few situations that Frances could describe as “personal” moments with Elizabeth Hawley: “She was cut-and-dried with me.” But she did remember one incident that might just qualify as approval. After working with Sagarmatha National Park for a number of years, Frances became an expert on the Sherpas, learning the language and gaining a deep understanding of the culture. She was also leading treks to various parts of the country. After hearing that Frances was about to lead a trek to the Annapurna region – far away from the land of the Sherpas – Elizabeth ranted, “Why on earth are they sending you there? You’re one of the world’s leading experts on Sherpas. Why don’t they just keep sending you to the Khumbu?” Frances wasn’t absolutely certain, but she thought Elizabeth’s comment might qualify as a compliment.

  It had been a while since Elizabeth had been on an adventure of her own, and so in 1980, shortly after China opened its doors to tourism, she decided to visit it, the long slow way: by train. Barbara Adams joined her. They travelled by train from London all the way to Hong Kong, stopping in East Berlin, Poland and Russia. From Moscow, they took the Trans-Siberian Railway to Novosibirsk, and from there took another rail line south into Mongolia and on into China, ending up in Hong Kong. It was an adventure worthy of Paul Theroux or Eric Newby.

  But all was not as it could be. By the time they arrived in Moscow, tensions had flared between the two friends and Barbara insisted on a single room. She hadn’t paid for a single room, but, as Elizabeth recalled, Barbara was sufficiently persistent that the tour guide took pity on the situation and invited Elizabeth to share her room. The tour guide was reprimanded by her supervisors for that decision, but at least she kept the peace between Barbara and Elizabeth.

  They continued east and boarded a twice-weekly train to Ulan Bator. It was a slow but determined train, which chugged and steamed its way across the never-ending Mongolian hills and plains. The most vivid memory Elizabeth had of this trip was the vast sameness of the Siberian landscape. “I like birch trees, but this was something else!” she commented about the limitless stunted forests. Elizabeth loved surface travel; the train was full of colourful characters, most carrying passenger-crushing loads of consumer goods from Russia, for which they must have traded Mongolian wool. From their faces and dress, they appeared Tibetan. The stations thronged with people arriving from the countryside, many with horse-drawn carts. Elizabeth and Barbara enjoyed the best the train could offer: a two-person compartment. This too became a source of irritation when “Princess Barbara,” as Elizabeth was wont to call her, insisted on taking the preferred lower berth. But there was more: Elizabeth often felt she was babysitting Barbara, picking up after her, finding her lost this, her forgotten that. It was not a style of
travel that the fiercely independent Elizabeth enjoyed. She concluded that she preferred travelling alone.

  The problem with the train was that it had no dining car and, worse yet, had neglected to stock any food or drink for the long, grinding journey. Finally, perhaps due to the protests of passengers, or maybe because the staff themselves were hungry, the train ground to a halt at what looked like an oasis in the desert. In fact, it was a momo tent set up in the middle of nowhere and was almost the last human habitation the train passed until they reached Ulan Bator.

  Barbara and Elizabeth appeared to be the only tourists in the typically Stalinist-style hotel in Ulan Bator, and except for the faces of the staff, they could have been anywhere in the world. This was a letdown for both of them, having read tales of horse races on the steppes, exotic yurts in the wild, fermented mare’s milk and colourful costumes. Instead, they were installed in a comfortable but plain square block of a cement room, with only one magazine to read.

  Elizabeth admired the richly adorned monasteries filled with golden brocade and statues scattered around the country, much as in Tibet. In Communist Mongolia, however, the monasteries were treated as museums of past history and were kept locked, except for the occasional tourist group. She remembered one unusual experience while visiting the most important monastery in Ulan Bator. Their professional but unfriendly guide unlocked the monastery and they entered. Before he had time to lock the door, an old, bent couple in traditional Mongolian dress followed them in.

  As Barbara and Elizabeth listened to their guide’s explanation of what they were seeing (similar to what one sees in the Buddhist monasteries of Kathmandu), the elderly couple made their religious rounds, touching their heads to the feet of the golden Buddhas and chanting prayers. The guide was noticeably irritated by the appearance and genuflections of these relics from an earlier, feudal era, and he lashed out at them, ordering them to leave. Nervous and afraid, they interrupted their devotions, gathered their belongings and scrambled out the door. When Elizabeth and Barbara tried to intervene on their behalf, the guide suggested they should mind their own business. She remembered the expressions on their wrinkled, careworn faces – from fear to fervour, then back again to fear.