Jon in turn suggested Nick Kekus, with whom he’d climbed on Annapurna III. Nick, like Jon, was known for being young and very bold. He’d made the usual transitions from hill-walking to scrambling to rock-climbing to snow and ice; progressed to the Alps, Kenya, Peru, then the challenge of altitude and sustained big mountains: Kalanka, Shiveling, Annapurna III. He’d just come back from another success on Ganesh II in Nepal and with his appetite for climbing undiminished said ‘Yes, I’ll come.’ Tall, lean, forceful and temperamental, he was the antithesis of calm Bob Barton. He took on the responsibility of organizing food for some dozen people for three months – a massive piece of planning, involving endless letters and phone calls cajoling products from manufacturers and suppliers.
‘Meanwhile in Aberdeen a red beard is munching marzipan …’ Sandy suggested to his friend Andy Nisbet that he get in touch with Mal about Everest. Mal confessed he felt somewhat put on the spot: Andy was a good friend whom he trusted, had a good expedition temperament, was a brilliant technical ice climber – but he had problems at altitude. He’d been with Mal on the West Ridge of Nuptse in 1981, and had beome seriously ill at 6,000 metres. Okay, so they’d rushed the acclimatization a bit, but the fact remained he’d got ill and the others hadn’t. One is seldom given a second chance.
Mal talked it over with Andy, who admitted the problem but believed that given more time to acclimatize he’d be okay. Convinced of his sincerity and commitment, Mal decided to gamble on Andy.
Andy is an Aberdonian with wild red hair and a long pointed beard that some say make him look like a demented garden gnome. He’s ill at ease in company, sits on his hands, fiddles and fidgets, finds it hard to look at people directly; he hides his inner nature and feelings almost completely. If he’s interested in anything other than climbing, not many people know about it. He also has the sweetest tooth in Christendom, living mostly on fudge and whole blocks of marzipan. So he was nominated to work with Nick on food, with particular responsibility for planning hill-food and sweet goodies. He based his projection of our needs on his average daily consumption … When we finally left Tibet we left behind enough chocolate to ruin an entire generation of Tibetan teeth, and my last sight of the ruined Rongbuk monastery was of a beaming old nun munching a Twix bar.
The Permit. Mal and I had arranged to go out for a formal Mustagh celebration meal with his wife Liz, my girlfriend Kathleen Jamie and Adrian Clifford, who had been our doctor on that trip. Just before we set out for the restaurant Mal answered the phone. He walked back in, trying to keep a straight face. He held out his hand. ‘The Nords have given us their permit – we’re on the way.’ We shook on it and went to celebrate one trip by toasting the next.
Of course it wasn’t as simple as that. The Chinese still had to agree to the transfer. The Norwegians wrote to Peking cancelling their permit and recommending us, while we wrote at the same time applying for the route. A long and nerve-wracking wait ensued. By this time we were heavily committed to the trip, without actually having secured the permit – an inadvisable way to proceed but we hadn’t time to play it any other way.
Unfortunately Adrian was unable to come with us again as a support climber and doctor, having just started his obstetrics at Kirkaldy hospital. So we had to look again for a medic who was an experienced climber, had been to altitude, understood the ways of climbers and every aspect of mountain medicine – and was free to go.
Around this time Mal was interviewed in a climbing magazine and mentioned we were still looking for lead climbers and a climbing doctor for the trip. He was promptly smothered by an avalanche of letters:
‘I am a 17 year old student … I’ve always been interested in climbing and go to the Fells most weekends. I’m sure I can carry a 50lb rucksack at 26,000 feet …’
‘I have done some rock climbing and will be in Kathmandu next spring so I can join you on the way in …’ (Overlooking the fact we would be in Tibet, not Nepal.)
‘I have recently retired and have plenty of spare time on my hands …’ The search went on.
The money. Raising £80,000 for a non-profit-making venture was always going to be difficult. Our public profile was so low only the tip of Mal’s nose showed. And we needed the money fast. Only the magic word ‘Everest’, coupled with ‘Unclimbed’ gave us a chance. We drew up and Mal printed at his own expense a small brochure about the Expedition as though it actually existed, and we prepared to make a list of all the possible companies and individuals worth approaching, with an accent on the Scottish ones. It was going to be a big, time-consuming, expensive job. Then Liz Duff had an inspiration: one of their old climbing friends was now working for Saatchi & Saatchi as a strategic planner …
In his London office, Terry Dailey picks up the phone with his customary adrenalin rush. ‘Mal here, Terry. How’s things?’ Terry feels guilty because he’d intended to call Mal to congratulate him on the Mustagh Tower ascent, but had never quite got round to it. ‘Can we meet sometime today?’ Mal continues. ‘I’ve a proposition you might be interested in.’
Terry checks his diary, shuffles some appointments and makes space for lunchtime, sensing something is up. They meet, shake hands and go through the usual pleasantries, Terry dying to ask what it’s all about but knowing Mal enjoys winding people up and will be direct enough when the time comes. Finally he grins at Terry and says simply ‘Everest, North side.’
It is as though Mal has casually lobbed a grenade into Terry’s world. When the dust clears, his heart and mind are racing. China … Tibet … Everest! The fantasies he’d been nursing in his imagination for years, never expecting them to come to anything. And now … He tries to attend to what Mal is saying. ‘Powerful team … Jon Tinker … Sandy … oxygen for the Pinnacles, Bonington …’
Account executive realism re-asserts itself: ‘Okay, that’s the carrot – what do you want from me?’
‘Fund raising. Help us find £80,000 and you come with us as Business Manager and a support climber.’
The possible approaches open up in Terry’s mind: who to talk to, covering letters, the ‘star’ points to put in front of sponsors, a punchy selling brochure … He dimly hears Mal continue ‘… part funding from a book contract … Andy’s agent …’ That’s good, we’ve got to be able to offer publicity. Try for a newspaper deal. TV is the important one. ‘How long do we have?’
‘Six weeks at the most.’
Strategy, credibility, deadlines and brinkmanship are Terry’s meat and drink and daily bread. They give him the same adrenalin as climbing, the hit that makes him feel alive. He walks back to the office in a blur of excitement, and for once finds it difficult to discipline his mind to his next appointment. A rock and ice climber of reasonable standard in Britain and the Alps, keen but definitely a weekend and holiday climber, now to be offered Everest! … He’ll have to find the right moment to talk it over with his wife Annie. How will she react? And she’d always wanted to go to Tibet …
Only a couple of miles away, Chris Watts was going through a very similar experience. Manager of the climbing section of Alpine Sports, where Jon sometimes worked, he’d been an early suggestion for the team. Chris knew very well that he’d been asked not just because of his climbing abilities and experience but also because he was in a perfect position to plan, organize and buy gear for the entire expedition at the best possible rates. He didn’t resent that, just acknowledged it in his level-headed way; to get on a trip like this, everyone would be expected to do something in return. It was worth it. The problem was going to be his wife Sonja. She would be, to put it mildly, pissed off. She was a very talented rock climber who had been largely responsible for Chris taking up climbing after he’d given up competitive cycling and was