The Mother's Necklace Read online

  That’s because I’ve decided that, with the Ama expedition taking up all of November I can take three months to prepare. With the Government gig ending and no great desire to hunt new clients who I’d have to put on hold for a month anyway, I’m training up a storm. Chase leads me up Barney and I go back a few times myself to get vertical miles under the boots. “Epic Steve”, one of the local climbing identities, gives me a three-hour session on climbing fixed ropes at Brisbane’s Kangaroo Point cliffs, and I spend the odd day thereafter using mechanical ascenders to “jumar” up a rope in the sun in front of bemused runners and tourists, wearing a T-shirt, shorts, 8000m boots and massive fleece gloves.

  Luckily I already have most of the gear I needed, accumulated through a couple of decades of climbing and outdoor activity. However, an almost 7000m mountain demands some specialised equipment. Luckily Chase has done a deal with K2 Base Camp, our local climbing shop, and I get a deep discount. I end up with new boots (expensive, but so are toes and I figure they’re worth at least $100 each), expedition down parka and the absolute warmest sleeping bag you can get. The gear you take to Ama turns out to be not too different to what you’d need on Everest. Put it this way, if and when I get to an 8000m peak I won’t need to go shopping again. I take a bit of extra food – some SOS electrolyte powder, chewy energy lollies and some Cliff Bars. I don’t know it yet but one of those Cliff Bars will probably be the difference between life and, if not death, then a really bad time.

  I also organise all the other things you need for a trip like this. 30-day visa from the consulate. Travel insurance. Separate rescue insurance, as normal travel insurance won’t cover high-altitude mountaineering. The rescue insurance is interesting. I go for the middle level of insurance, which provides for helicopter rescue. I certainly don’t need the top level of insurance, which basically includes having ex-members of Seal Team Six swoop in to rescue you from local warlords.

  I keep my ambitions fairly quiet. My training buddies know, because I’ve scrawled a countdown in days with chalk on the wall of the gym. I’ve told a few other people as well, and eventually fess up via Facebook a week or so out, when I know that I’m definitely going. My friend Andrew Lock, who I met almost 20 years ago when he was about four mountains down in his now-realised ambition to climb all 14 8000m peaks, sends me some sage advice: “Check your knots and ‘biners and don’t forget to look around and enjoy the view”.

  My wife Judy is enormously supportive during all of this. She knows it’s a lifetime dream and (while realising it’s pretty damned selfish of me) graciously gives her encouragement for me to leave her on her own with two small children for a month. I’m still not sure how she puts up with my bursts of adventure, be it climbing, running adventure races or doing other slightly dangerous things that inevitably leave her alone with the kids. Her support is really evident when she gets diagnosed with cancer a month before I leave. I’ve got travel insurance, so I immediately set about cancelling.

  “Don’t,” she urges. “You need to go. You’ll just sit around for a month resenting the fact you’re not there.”

  She’s right, sort of. She needs surgery, not chemo, thankfully, and it’s scheduled for December, just after I get back, and there’s nothing that can be done in the meantime. I would sit around moping with nothing to do but try to give her moral support through what is a terrifying time for her. Bless her though, she all but pushes me out the door. I try to compartmentalise the home stuff and concentrate on keeping myself alive once I get to Nepal. Selfish as my trip is, it’d be even more selfish not to come back.

  She does make me do my will before I go.

  Ready for packing.

  November 6 - Kathmandu

  Tribuvhan Airport at Kathmandu is its usual shambles. When I finally get outside, dodging the enterprising youngsters offering to take your luggage the 50m to your transport for US$10, I’m met by one of Tim Mosedale’s local support staff. This is the 15th expedition Tim has run to Ama Dablam and he has the logistics down to a fine art. I’ve had a typically ordinary flight from Brisbane – leaving at midnight local time after catching my daughter Eloise’s school dance recital. She’s awesome as always, and I relish the time spent with her – my favourite daughter, as I tell her (my other child, my son Patrick, doesn’t mind). But my mind was already in Kathmandu, the smells, the dust, the noise.

  And the noise is insane. It’s been a few years since I’ve been in any Asian country and you do forget the massive assault to the senses. I wind the window down on the way to our hotel, trying to soak it all in. I’m trying to pick out landmarks from last time, but that was almost a decade ago and a lot has changed. I dump my bags in a twin room at the Hotel Manaslu and walk into Thamel, the main tourist suburb of KTM. The Hotel Manaslu is in Lazimpat, the next suburb over from Thamel. It’s next door to the hotel I stayed in last time and I remember the way.

  It’s a riot of sound and colour as always. I find a massage place I’ve read about of, where blind Nepalis are employed as masseurs. I book one in the next day to try to remove the soreness of travel. Thamel is a melange of shops all, it seems, selling one of about four things – knock off North Face gear, maps and books of mountains, Ghurka kukri knives and Nepalese artwork. It’s a real tourist trap, there’s almost nothing here for locals. And every shop, it seems, is playing the same electro version of the “Om Mani Padmi Hum” chant. Every. Single. Shop.

  I’m the first client from our expedition to arrive, but when I get back to the hotel, several of the others are also there. Jon Gupta, our English guide, introduces himself. I don’t recognise him at first – we’ve corresponded a bit over Facebook, but in all the pictures there he’s halfway up a mountain. Here, he’s clean-shaven and in a t-shirt. Jon has a spectacular reputation, especially on Ama Dablam, where he holds the second-fastest time from base-camp to summit and back – an eye-watering 14 hours. Jon is leading our team – Tim Mosedale, who runs the whole show, is leading a second team mirroring our itinerary but a week behind. It’s a good way to do it, spreading out the number of climbers in camp at any one time.

  Jon introduces me to some of the other clients - Richard, an imposing bald guy from San Diego and his petite and engaging wife Leigh. Richard’s a bit like me in that he’s taken time off his job (he’s a medical sales executive) to train full time. Leigh, it turns out, is only coming as far as Base Camp, then she’s going to head off for a week or so of tea house trekking up to Everest Base Camp. Then there’s an older Brit, a former Royal Marine, back for his second time on Ama. Last year he got hit by the altitude and couldn’t get to Camp 2. He’s a quietly spoken, lovely bloke.

  Dave the Yorkshireman is the last. I connected with Dave via Facebook before I left. He’s an experienced mountaineer who’s summited Denali in Alaska. It turns out he shared a tent on Everest last year with my Kwangde tentmate George, who went from novice to crack Himalayan mountaineer in about a decade. Poor old George (and Dave) had two very unsuccessful years on Everest, with an avalanche in the icefall in 2014, and then last year’s earthquake putting an end to their expeditions. Dave went back again this year on Tim’s expedition in May with his son Chris. Chris got up beside Tim, but Dave copped a hiding from altitude sickness, suffering a pulmonary embolism in his leg and getting evaced off by helicopter – with a corpse beside him. I’m not sure why he’s back in the big mountains so soon, but he loves them and has a score to settle with himself and high altitude. Dave’s about 10 years older than me, but he’s superfit – I’ve seen his bike rides posted via Strava and he’s no slouch.

  I buy the first round of Ghurka beers and we settle in for a couple of rounds. I’m already intimidated. These guys have serious climbing experience.

  November 7 - Kathmandu

  I’m up at 5am. Tim has booked me a joyflight around the Everest region. I didn’t want to do the temple tour he has booked for the rest of the crew. I’ve done it before and the last time I was in Nepal I really regretted not doing the flight. I’m
at the airport for a 7am takeoff, which in true KTM fashion becomes about 7.45. The flight is glorious. Views of Cho Oyu, Everest, Lhotse, and dwarfed by them all, Ama Dablam.

  Ama is 6850m high, but the big 8000ers are in some cases almost 2km higher. The attraction of Ama is that it’s on its own in the Khumbu Valley, and it’s a beautiful lonesome spire from ground level. In the plane though, it’s hard to get this sort of perspective. I take a heap of pics and video of the slopes of Ama, knowing Jon will want to see the snow cover.

  Ama Dablam from on high. It’s the small peak in front of the Everest/Lhotse massif. Our route is up the ridge in the centre of the photo. Camp One is near the junction of rock and snow as the ridge bends to the right.

  I’m sitting beside Jen, a stunning occupational therapist from Florida and her friend Val, who are here on a yoga retreat. There’s a fun connection – mainly them throwing shit at me for wearing a Denver Broncos T-shirt (they’re Dolphins fans). The banter stops as the plane bucks a few times in air pockets, me ending up with briefly terrified fingernails in my thigh. The flight ends with champagne at 8am over the Himalaya. I can’t think of a better way to start the expedition.

  I get a rude morning awakening when I return to the hotel and properly meet Steve, the other Australian on the expedition. Steve arrived in our room at about midnight last night and there were a few grunted hellos. When I walk in this morning, he’s in his underpants, doing pushups. He’s an absolute fitness machine. As I introduce myself properly and we start to discuss the trip, Steve moves onto dips and leg raises on the bed. Still in his undies.

  “Seriously,” I say, “You can start tapering any time now.”

  As it turns out, Steve has a reason for his fitness. Two years ago, almost to the day, he was dumped in the surf off Perth’s Cottesloe Beach and broke his neck. I find out later that one of my mates was actually the patrol captain in the rescue. Steve set himself a goal of returning to fitness by climbing, proving wrong all the people (many of them doctors) who said he’d struggle to walk again. He’s one of the most inspiring people I’ve ever met, which does nothing for my mounting sense that I’m out of my depth here. Steve and I actually have fairly similar climbing resumes – Mt Aspiring and some 6000m peaks. But he’s so frighteningly fit and strong that his relative lack of experience compared to the rest of the team doesn’t matter as much.

  I’m back in time for the temple tour, as it turns out, so I grab a quick breakfast and jump on the bus with the rest of the expedition. It’s a good opportunity to get to know everyone as we wander through the various Hindu temples and Bhuddist stupas, snapping pictures of monkeys. I get yelled at by a couple of painted yogis, the Hindi priests, for taking photos of them without paying. The Hindu temples are part place of worship, part crematorium. There’s usually one or two funerals going on with bodies being burned out in the open beside the river.

  The other guys on the team also came in last night. Pete, an imposingly tall Belfast lad, has an impressive climbing resume with ascents in the Alps and Scotland. Dan, a dentist from Wales, has similar experience, while Adam, Dan’s close friend, is a Welsh firefighter now living in NZ, where he’s studied in the alpine nursery that bred Hillary, Rob Hall and Lydia Bradey. Laurent is from the not-quite-alpine nursery of the Netherlands, but is an ultramarathoner (easier there, I think) and an accomplished mountaineer in Europe with mountain rescue experience. Fuck, I think. I’m well out of my depth here. There’s a concept called “imposter syndrome”, where you feel like you will eventually be found out as unqualified. I’m feeling that right now. Despite my lingering feeling of inadequacy, the group are all terrific blokes and it’s clear the trip is going to be fun, regardless of the result.

  The “result” is something Jon has started to make sure we’re clear on. Tim did the same in pre-expedition emails. The “result” is to have a good time and enjoy ourselves, and to get home safe. Making the summit is just a bonus. However none of us are listening to Jon, or if we are, we’re ignoring his sage advice. We all want the summit. And you have to. Once you stop thinking about it, once you stop the continual visualisation of what will happen, then you have already given up. Mountaineering, more than any other sport, is about making decisions. The turn around decision is a big one, and I’ve made it before on mountains, but the trick is to make it at the right time. Preferably on the pointy bit with no more hill in front of you.

  We spend the afternoon shopping in Thamel – I grab a big knock-off North Face trekking bag, some down pants and a nice pair of (genuine) stretchy North Face trekking pants. It’s always a bit of a last-minute rush in Thamel, buying those few things you need. Waterproof trekking bags are a must, and this one will hold all my mountaineering gear, to be carried in by our yak team. The bags are about $20 in Thamel compared to about $250 back home. There’s no way they last very long, but they’ll certainly last an expedition. I also get a terrific massage from a blind Nepalese guy who eases out a lot of the soreness from my Achilles. Heaven.

  I skip dinner with the team that night to catch up with Lachlan Gardiner, a Brisbane photographer who’s a friend of a friend and who’s just got into Kathmandu today after summiting Ama about a week before. I grab as much intel from him as I can on conditions and tips. He says there’s at least three ice cliffs that need to be negotiated, and summit day was a brutally cold10 hours for him from Camp 2. Take at least two litres of water, he says. It’s a study in contrasts – Lachlan is laid back and clearly pretty exhausted. One of his team is also clearly exhausted but still on a summit high and can’t stop talking. The night ends – or rather the morning begins – with us drinking red wine with Jen, the stunning yoga girl from this morning’s flight, and her friends in the courtyard of her hotel. There is something magical about being in this strange yet familiar country, having a terrific night with terrific people. It’s probably not the best idea, though, drinking with people who are on their last night in Nepal when I’m on my second.

  The team in front of Ama Dablam. (From left) Top: Pete, Richard, Laurent, Dave, Matt, Dan and Leigh. Kneeling: Adam and the Marine. Steve was off exploring…

  November 8 – Kathmandu, Lukla, Monjo

  I don’t get much sleep. I wake up Steve as I stumble into the hotel room in the wee hours and before I know it we’re up, with a mad last-minute pack. I’m in serious shit state as we sit on the airport tarmac, waiting for our plane to be fixed. Its door won’t close properly, but I have a hood far over my head, trying to ignore both my hangover and the chaos, and grab a couple of minutes of snatched sleep. Bad idea drinking last night. Really bad idea, especially with the smell of avgas everywhere.

  We eventually get a new plane, then we don’t and we’re back in our old one with a new door.

  Lukla has a well-deserved reputation as the most terrifying airport in the world. The landing strip is canted up a hill at about 30 degrees, which means landings are pretty much a controlled crash, and takeoffs a roll and a prayer. Our controlled crash goes well, which is a relief considering the numerous memorials dotted around the airport to the ones that didn’t. We lug our limited luggage to a local tea house, as our big luggage has gone on ahead. Tim runs a great system where our mountain bag – with all our climbing hardware, big sleeping bags and really warm clothes, goes ahead on yaks to base camp. Our overnight bags are portered for us from teahouse to teahouse where we access our lighter sleeping bag and overnight kit. We carry a small daypack with a jacket, water and snacks, enough to get from breakfast to morning tea at the next village.

  I end up fairly rugged up for the start of our trek, which is not what I like doing. The former infantryman in me likes to start a hike as you finish – with minimal layering of clothes. I hate stopping and having to take off jackets as your body naturally heats from exertion. Not much chance of this here as it’s brisk Tasmanian weather out of Lukla, maybe low teens or high single figures Celsius. The weather is good for the hangover though. Steve, of course, is in shorts which will be a recurring the
me.

  Rugged up on the walk from Lukla.

  Ama Dablam is just off the main Everest Base Camp trek, so for the next few days we’ll be sharing the trail with legions of trekkers. I’ve walked part of this trail once before, but in the opposite direction. Last time I was here we came over the mountains to our left, on the original “Hillary trek” from a roadhead and then down into the Duhd Khosi valley. That was literally goat paths for weeks. This is more like Nepal’s trekking superhighway. About 75 per cent of Nepal’s most popular treks all come along here, and there’s clearly a lot of work that’s gone into keeping the trail clean and serviceable. Trouble is, for the first kilometre or so, clean and serviceable means “under a somewhat leisurely construction”. The two-metre-wide trail is made up of giant 20cm cobblestones with no top cover to smooth them out. It’s a jerking sort of walk for a while and we can’t find the sort of rhythm you want with a pack on your back.

  There’s also a lot of new developments going up, at a similarly leisurely pace, of course. We wind our way past them, crossing the river several times across swing bridges. We get into the village of Monjo in the late afternoon. Most trips stop before that at Phakding, but Tim has a better schedule. By going another couple of hours to Monjo, we have a quieter night and more importantly, beat the hordes of trekkers up to Namche Bazaar the next day. It’s November, so trekking season is waning, but there’s still enough people on the trail to make it a bit annoying getting stuck behind a slower group. It does add an extra hour or so onto the first day’s walk. A couple of the lads crack a beer in Monjo. I. Really. Can’t…