Aftershock: One Man's Quest and the Quake on Everest Read online

  “Dad’s going on a great trip soon,” I said. I was very eager to be positive about the whole thing. “I’m going to try to climb Everest.”

  I thought I saw a tear well up in Lizzie’s eye. I moved on quickly.

  “Which means I’m going to be away for a while. You won’t see me – you’ll be staying with your mum. I’m going to text you and email you lots, and we’ll talk on the phone. I’ll come back with lots of great stories for you. It’s a great honour to be invited on the expedition, that they think I am worthy of being in their team. It’s a well-equipped expedition, and we will be very careful.”

  Naturally, they had a few questions. We discussed Everest and Nepal for a bit. I explained that professionals were running the trip, and that they would help me stay safe.

  I promised to bring them back some presents from Nepal – this excited them.

  And that was pretty much that. Everest wasn’t mentioned again that evening.

  As we sat on the sofa, with Hoodwinked playing in the background, I thought about how much I was going to miss them.

  Two months.

  This would be, by far, the longest I had spent away from my two girls.

  One question kept coming back to trouble me: why was I doing this?

  Why was I – a father of two – risking my life to climb a mountain? I couldn’t quite reach an answer that made sense to me, but still the urge to go was overwhelming.

  I tried to put these thoughts out of my mind, to focus on the present, on my last few hours with the girls before my adventure began. After the film, I tucked them up in bed; we had a cuddle and I kissed them goodnight.

  They were excited about what I was going to do. I thought I noticed an extra gleam of pride in their eyes as I told them I loved them and wished them goodnight.

  The following day, Lizzie rushed off to school, full of excitement. She told all her school friends, ‘Dad’s going to climb Everest’. Although she didn’t want me to go, I think she was actually quite proud of me.

  The day after, I went to watch her play netball at school. As the match finished, a gaggle of her friends rushed up.

  “Lizzie says you’re going to climb Everest – you’re not, are you?” one of them said, in that way that only children can.

  “I’m going to attempt to climb Everest,” I said.

  The whole thing amazed the kids; the idea that one of the dads they knew was going to attempt to climb Everest astounded them.

  I knew my daughters were proud of me, and this, along with love, is all a father ever really wants.

  * * * * *

  My girlfriend Vicky took time off work to give me a lift to the airport. This was particularly nice because it delayed the inevitable; the moment I left Vicky I was going to be on my own for two months…a lonely two months.

  She gave me some Easter chocolates and an apple strudel to eat on the plane. The chocolates I saved until Kathmandu.

  We lugged the heavy bags on to the trolley from the boot of the car – two massive kit bags, full to the brim with climbing equipment, survival gear, everything I would need to stay alive.

  My final bag, my rucksack, was smaller, containing my non-climbing equipment and electrical items such as my laptop, phone and solar charger.

  I had set up a blog for the trip, in order to keep my friends and family updated on my adventures – as well as for something to do in my down time.

  I had heard that internet connections at Everest Base Camp are not good, so updating a live blog was out of the question. I had arranged to send a daily email with a short update and a couple of photos to Freecom, a company that had agreed to support me. They would then update the text and photos on the live blog.

  The blog was also intended to keep those sponsoring my trip for charity informed of my progress and connected to my story.

  A few years ago, I was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphoma. Shortly afterwards, my father was diagnosed with the same condition. Although we both ultimately recovered, it was a long and difficult journey. I feel heavily indebted to the staff at University College London Hospital (UCLH) for the remarkable support they gave us during that tough time.

  So, as a token of my immense gratitude, I wanted to support the UCLH Leukaemia and Lymphoma Cancer Unit, their charity arm. I hoped the sponsorship donations might enable them to purchase a piece of equipment that would aid in the earlier detection of cancer, and potentially save lives.

  I slung the smaller backpack on my back, kissed Vicky goodbye and thanked her again for all she had done to help me in the run-up to my departure.

  As I pushed my trolley into the airport, I felt I was taking my first real steps on the road towards the top of the world.

  Some while later, my plane took off. Seven hours to Doha. A three-hour stopover and then five more hours to Kathmandu...

  There was no turning back.

  Joining the expedition

  Twelve long hours and many films later, the plane began its final descent into Tribhuvan Airport.

  After disembarking, I collected my luggage and made my way through to arrivals. I’m not sure what I was expecting – some sort of welcome party, someone to meet me…something.

  There was nobody there.

  It is quite a complicated process, landing in Nepal. You have to queue for a $100 visa as soon as you arrive, with a wait of nearly an hour.

  But no matter, I was in Nepal. I was excited, apprehensive, nervous, all at the same time.

  The airport had a similar feel to the one I had landed at in Bangkok, many years before. It was an old brick building with no plaster. The whole airport had an ambience of the 1970s, with an odd, lingering sweaty smell in the air. My excitement washed all of that away – this was Kathmandu; Everest was on the doorstep.

  I took a taxi to the Hyatt Regency. This was our Kathmandu expedition base for the next couple of days. Here our equipment would be checked, we would meet our fellow climbers and get organised.

  I spent the 15-minute taxi ride staring out of the window, taking in the sights and sounds of this new, alien place.

  The city was a mêlée of cars and mopeds; the sound of their horns filled the streets. The traffic regulations of Britain seemed a very long way away, with vehicles fighting each other for space on the narrow roads.

  There seemed to be no real system in place, but everything felt so chaotically vibrant and alive – it was a spectacle to behold. A motorbike sped past, overburdened with huge sacks strapped to the back. I could hardly see the driver. With impressive skill, he shimmied through the traffic, barely ever slowing, tooting his horn whenever a car or pedestrian got in his way. I noticed that all the motorbikes had three bull bars bolted onto the front, to protect the drivers from all the no-doubt frequent collisions.

  The façade of the five-star Hyatt was spectacular, combining Western and Nepalese architecture to stunning effect. Two small pagodas flanked the entrance to the building.

  The contrast between the bustling streets of Kathmandu and the serene stillness of the Hyatt Regency grounds was staggering. It was like stepping into a beautifully calm oasis, surrounded on all sides by the hustle and bustle of Kathmandu city.

  I made my way into the lobby, passing through a large set of wooden doors covered in small golden domes.

  The lobby was a large, open space, with a dipped central area dominated by 12 large stone sculptures, each depicting a famous Nepalese landmark. There was the Boudhanath, the large stupa on the outskirts of the city, and the architectural wonder that is Swayambhunath, full of holy monkeys. Although beautiful in their own rights, these were not what I had come to see.

  I had come to see the most beautiful landmark of them all; one that no man had a hand in creating.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but some of the historic buildings I was looking at were very close to the end of their li
ves. By the time I returned here, six weeks later, they would be reduced to rubble and ash.

  I was greeted at reception and escorted to my room.

  Again, I was hit by that odd sensation – what now?

  I rang the expedition leader’s room number, to let him know that I had arrived.

  “Hello?” A female voice answered the call.

  “Hi,” I said, “it’s Jules Mountain here. I just thought I should let you know that I’ve arrived at the hotel.”

  There was a pause. Had I called the right number? What if I wasn’t on the list? What if I’d come all this way only to hear them apologise and say that they didn’t have any paperwork for me and that I’d have to go home.

  “Jules…yes, Jules, hi,” the voice said. I was more relieved than I ought to have been.

  She explained she was the expedition leader’s partner, and that he was not currently in.

  “Relax,” she said. “Take it easy. We’re going to check everything during the next two days and make sure everyone has all the vital equipment they need for the expedition.” She told me there was an expedition briefing that evening, and that we were due to meet in the bar at six o’clock. She would introduce me to everybody then, and we would be given important information about our summit attempt.

  I thanked her and hung up. It was becoming more and more real by the minute.

  I sent a text to Vicky and the girls, to let them know I had arrived safely, before showering and changing.

  At six o’clock, I made my way down to the bar. I knew no one on the expedition and had no idea what to expect. I confess, I was slightly nervous; were these people all going to be seasoned, professional hardened climbers with far more experience than myself? Would I pass muster, would they think me a worthy expedition member?

  I walked into the Rox Bar, forgetting my nerves when confronted by the beautiful square bar with its gleaming array of spotless glasses.

  “You must be one of us,” said a voice in a thick, Texan accent.

  I turned and was confronted by a very large, scary, polished-headed guy wearing a white t-shirt and khaki shorts. His thick arms and legs were covered in intricate Aztec tattoos, brightly coloured in red and black, the bold shapes contrasting with his pale skin.

  The barrel-chested man grinned at me like an old friend and stuck out a hand. I shook it.

  “David,” he said. “But everyone calls me Lincoln.”

  “Lincoln, hi. I’m Jules.”

  His grin somehow got bigger, stretching up to the bald dome of his head. His eyes creased and almost disappeared. He guided me into the conference room.

  “Come and meet everyone.”

  I was introduced, one by one, to the expedition team. There were climbers from a range of nationalities and professions, including Taka and Hachiro from Japan, a doctor and a bar owner, respectively; Lincoln, a property mogul, and Louise, a heart surgeon, both from the US, and Paul from New Zealand, an ex-fighter pilot who now runs a taxi business.

  I was beginning to wonder whether I was going to be the only British person on the expedition when I was introduced to John – in everyday life, an actuary. We shook hands, nodding at each other with a kind of British understanding.

  John would later become my room-mate when we had to share lodges and tents – we would create our own little patches of Britain on the cold slopes of the Himalayas.

  I was also introduced to Donald, from the US, who was attempting to summit six 8,000-metre peaks in a year. With him were his wife, Hilary, was also trekking with us to Base Camp to support him, Elia, his photographer, and Donat and Iwan, two professional Polish climbers who had been hired to help Donald reach his goal.

  The Polish climbers were scary; they had shaved heads, and were lean and wiry, without an ounce of fat between them. They looked as if they could climb Everest in their sleep.

  Donald explained that he was undertaking his crazy pursuit in order to raise money for his charity – Mission 14 – which worked to put a halt to human trafficking. I was impressed with his ambition and his dedication to his cause.

  The expedition doctor, Angelica, was from the Netherlands, and the chef, Bill, was another Brit. There were also four guides, three of whom were Kiwis, the other Japanese, who were hired by the expedition to offer professional support and to organise the summit attempt as a whole. There would be 20 Sherpas joining us at Everest Base Camp.

  There was an excited buzz in the room; a group of people with a common purpose coming together for the first time. These were the people I was going to live with for the next two months. These were the people with whom I was going to reach the top of the world.

  Just to live with people you don’t know, in close quarters, for two months is hard enough…but to add Everest into the equation? Jeepers... Had I made a terrible mistake?

  I offered around the chocolates Vicky had given me at the airport – that seemed a millions years ago already – as a small token of friendship with the team.

  Anyone embarking on an endeavour like this will inevitably be very driven, determined, goal-oriented, successful in their daily lives and looking for a new challenge.

  Success is pretty much a prerequisite, because of the sheer cost of such an expedition. So, we had a group of ‘A-type’ personalities, all congregating in the same space, with the same goal. This in itself can cause problems – too many chiefs!

  Our team guides went through what we were going to do for the next few days. We would be heading up the Khumbu Valley, stopping at lodges en route. They seemed very knowledgeable and experienced.

  “Also,” one of them said, as the lecture was drawing to a close, “each of you needs to take a bottle of this with you.”

  He held up a bottle of hand disinfectant.

  “One of the biggest reasons people fail to reach the summit of Everest isn’t the weather or the tough climb – it’s their stomachs.”

  He paused for effect.

  “The Nepalese are fairly immune to anything the mountain throws at them; you guys won’t be. You need to disinfect your hands before every meal, as well as after using the…facilities.”

  I didn’t much like the idea of getting the trots at 6,000m – ‘Buddha’s Revenge’.

  We were also advised to take two toilet rolls from the back of the room. Once we started up the Khumbu Valley, none would be provided. In fact, we were to consider ourselves lucky if there was actually anything resembling a toilet.

  Just as soon as it had begun, the meeting was over. Again, I was struck with that feeling: ‘what now?’

  Nobody seemed to be coordinating anything for dinner… I resigned myself to the fact that I was on my own again. I went to reception and asked where would be the best place to get a drink.

  “Thamel,” the receptionist replied without hesitating, “go to Thamel. That’s the best place for bars.”

  I jumped in a taxi and headed for Thamel. Sure, I’d come for Everest, but I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to see this amazing city.

  The 20-minute taxi journey was a real eye-opener – but for all the wrong reasons.

  The roads were pitted with potholes, which my driver made no attempt to avoid. I was thrown up, down, over in the back of the taxi, while I gripped the seat in front for dear life.

  He also made no attempt to slow as cars, taxi, motorbikes, pedestrians – even animals – crossed in front of him. He wove, zigzagged, swerved down the road, all the time accelerating.

  I looked over and – quite disconcertingly – he wore no expression. He looked at the road blankly as he masterfully negotiated the myriad potential catastrophes.

  I gripped harder.

  The taxi was absolutely knackered – all the cars were. The paint was chipping away, the seats were worn… I suspected the brakes had seen better days. The door panels were completely gone.

 
Still, the taxi belted through the winding roads. He made a sharp turn and dashed down a side street, narrowly avoiding pedestrians – who seemed unfazed by the whole thing.

  Every so often, he hit a pothole at full throttle. There was an almighty, spine-jolting crunch, and then we were off again.

  It was a wonder I didn’t get whiplash.

  Without warning, the taxi slammed to a halt, skidding slightly and sending up a small dust cloud.

  Calmly, the driver stopped the meter and looked expectantly at me – the closest thing to a facial expression I’d seen since getting in.

  I paid him and quickly jumped out of the car, closing the door behind me. A small amount of glass fell out of the wing mirror. The car screeched off down the road, bumping and lurching through potholes all the way.

  I’d been in more than my fair share of road accidents – I felt almost certain I had been heading for another just then.

  I stood by the side of the road, watching the taxi swerve to avoid a cyclist before disappearing from view around a corner.

  Above my head, the wires from the telegraph poles crisscrossed the road like spider’s webs; they were intricate, sprawling masses of spaghetti. How any of them were maintained, and how anyone received power from them was beyond my comprehension.

  The sun was beginning to set, and the twisting, winding streets of the Thamel district were coming to life.

  On each side of the narrow road, three-storey buildings stood in a jumbled mess, seeming to lean on each other and out over the road drunkenly. The area had a very Nepalese charm, and was alive with voices, laughter and merriment.

  A man approached, asking if I was looking for somewhere to enjoy a drink.

  He took me to a bar, pointed me to the entrance. I walked in and the bar was full of half-naked women. I stopped and turned around to face the guy.

  “This isn’t what I wanted,” I said.

  “Nice girls, pretty girls,” he replied with a grin.

  “No, no, this is not what I want. I just want a beer.”

  I left, despite his protestations, and walked through the meandering streets until I stumbled across a bar with a rooftop terrace that looked and felt respectable.