The Next Horizon Read online

  We stumbled and hacked out a route to the base of the glacier which guarded the eastern flanks of the Towers. From this angle the Central Tower seemed invincible, a magnificent monolith, presenting a sheer face of about 3,000 feet – a face that today might be possible, but which in 1962, with the gear we had available, was out of the question. We dumped our loads and plodded back towards base camp. On the way we discussed tactics. We were still two days’ carry from the foot of the Tower and were obviously going to have to ferry a large quantity of gear to its foot, but we were keen to take advantage of the good weather and start climbing as soon as possible. We therefore agreed that Don and Barrie should go out in front, establishing our second camp on the glacier immediately below the Tower and then push up to the Tower itself, while two of us ferried gear from Camp I to the glacier and the other two stayed at base camp. That night in my diary I wrote:

  Obviously I should like to have gone on the recce party, but I feel that Don could be better qualified in a way. He has a good eye for a route and anyway I want to try to hold myself back a bit. I want to be out in front, I love finding the route and making it, but at this stage it is more important to establish our camps and get up all the equipment we shall be needing.

  We agreed that Ian Clough and I should toss for moving up to the first camp to do the carry up to the glacier; I lost the toss and therefore was to stay behind at base camp with Vic Bray, to ferry loads up to Camp I. In the next few days I was afire to be out in front, dreamt of what Don and Barrie might be doing on the Tower itself, even imagining that they might have climbed it, with me still back at base – and yet it was a pleasant, easy rhythm, each day plodding up the ‘grind’ – the long slope leading into the Ascencio Valley – and each day finding it a little easier. Vic was a good companion; he was older than the rest of us, being in his thirties. He was not a brilliant climber, but had spent some years with the Royal Air Force in Mountain Rescue, and was a good steady goer. A confirmed bachelor, he was self-contained and yet most considerate of other people, always ready to lend a hand even if it was thoroughly inconvenient to himself at the time. During this period Wendy was still staying with the Neilsons and I only saw her for one short visit. She was bursting with vitality, and yet her greatest love of all was frustrated. As a child she had been devoted to horses, spending her entire time in the local stables. Here in Patagonia horses were still the principal means of transport, but she hadn’t been able to ride, and in fact never did.

  The weather stayed fine for a further three days, just enough to enable Don and Barrie to reach the ‘Notch’, the steep col between the two Towers. ‘It’ll go all right,’ Don told us. ‘There’s a crack line practically all the way up, with only one gap on a slab at about quarter height.’

  They were keen to go down for a rest, and at last it was to be my turn to go out in front with Ian Clough. Wendy had now moved from the Neilsons, and the two girls were staying in the Estancia Paine, the agreement being that they should look after the house for the Radic brothers and do the cooking. The rest of the team were opposed to their staying at Base Camp, and they had only come out on the understanding that they were to stay at one of the estancias.

  Young Martin, the Pages’ three-year-old child, was the principal problem. He was a pleasant enough child, but none of us, at this stage, had any children and as a result we were completely intolerant of his natural need for attention and his spirit of inquiry. Even Wendy now admits that she had no concept of the trials that Elaine must have gone through, trying to keep Martin from under the feet of a crowd of resentful climbers, and at the same time amused and out of mischief. My own loyalty was constantly split between Wendy and my enjoyment of having her with me, and my need to feel part of the expedition. Looking back, it all seems incredibly petty, but at the time it was very real, in the little, slightly neurotic, world of the expedition. Most expeditions find a scapegoat and in our case it now became three-year-old Martin – in some ways this was fortunate, since he remained happily unaware of our feelings, though undoubtedly they must have affected Elaine. She is a down-to-earth, practical person, who one felt would be more at home running a suburban house to a nine-to-five routine than trying to cope with the involved politics of a climbing expedition and the problems of looking after a three-year-old in the middle of the wilds.

  But the focus of our small world remained the Tower. On the 4th December, Don and Barrie had reached the col between the Central and North Towers and Don had deemed the climb feasible. They had returned to the glacier and the following day, since the weather had deteriorated, had returned to our camp in the Ascencio Valley. Meanwhile, Ian and I moved up for our turn to go out in front. The way to the west of the Towers led through dense scrub forest and then up through a chaos of boulders on to the lateral moraine of the glacier. At the head of the glacier towered the huge walls of the Fortress and Shield, two magnificent peaks that were still unclimbed. On our left was a long scree and boulder slope, leading up to the foot of the Central and Northern Towers, that stood like Norman keeps on the top of a giant earth mound. That afternoon Ian and I carried tentage and supplies up to the site of a camp a few hundred feet below the foot of the Tower, and left the gear on some platforms built by a former expedition to the North Tower.

  The following morning we set out to make our first attempt on the Central Tower. Up to this point the weather had been unbelievably mild, with plenty of sunshine and practically no wind. But now, as we picked our way over broken scree slopes, a few snowflakes scudded down and the wind began to stab at our faces. Broken ledges led across the foot of the North Tower and then a gully blocked with great rocks swept up between the smooth, sheer walls of the two Towers towards the col.

  Its crest was like a wind tunnel that seemed to concentrate all the fury of the gale blowing across the Patagonian ice cap. Below, we had some protection, but now we were battered by its full fury. Even so, I could not help looking, enthralled, around me. Immediately in front, through a split in the rock that might have been the castellated wall of a crusader’s castle, I could see down to the jumbled rocks of the East Paine Glacier, across to the shapeless mound of the Paine Chico, and beyond to the pampas, its lakes set like jewels of copper sulphate, blue, slate grey, brilliant green, on an undulating mantle of rough, grey-green tweed, that stretched to the far horizon.

  On either side, the walls of the Tower reared above, brown and yellow granite, solid, unyielding to the pounding gales; and behind us, the driving hammering wind that raced past the massive, square-cut walls of the Fortress and over the smooth white shawl of the ice cap.

  For an instant I felt a heady exhilaration to be here in the arms of the elements, far from other people, from the rest of the expedition; but as soon as we started to sort out gear for the climb, my pleasure was doused by the numbing cold and driving wind. A pedestal of rock about a hundred feet high leaned against the Tower – a clean-cut crack up its centre invited us – but to reach it we had to climb a short step immediately above the col. I set out, belayed by Ian, but immediately wind tugged at my body, hands were numb, and resolve drained out of me. Having climbed the initial step, I hammered a peg into the crack behind it and abseiled off – at least we had climbed the first twelve feet of the Central Tower.

  We turned tail and fled back to our campsite, chased by the wind. There seemed no point in staying there, eating food we had so wearisomely carried up, and so we collapsed the tent and plodded back to the floor of the glacier, but even as we went down I began to wonder if I had made the right decision. That night in my diary I wrote:

  If tomorrow is good we shall have wasted half a day in coming back up again, and a lot of energy. Having taken a decision, I have the terrible habit of reviewing it and re-reviewing it – often deciding that I had taken the wrong decision after all. As in this decision, there are so often equally important factors on both sides. The thing I must realise, and then practise, is that a positive decision, once taken and then pursued, is more right t
han dithering from one thing to another.

  As it turned out, our decision was right, for the next morning it was blowing and raining even harder than it had been the previous day, and so we returned to Base Camp.

  Our attempt to climb the Central Tower of Paine now slowly degenerated into a struggle with the weather, in which the Tower itself took a second place. A temporary improvement in the weather tempted Ian Clough and me back up to our highest camp on the 13th December. We pitched a Blacks’ mountain tent, built a dry stone wall round it, and prepared to sit out the storm, still convinced that somehow we must remain in easy reach of the foot of the Tower so that we could seize the first available opportunity to snatch a few hours’ climbing if the wind dropped, rather than waste the good weather in plodding up to the camp site. That night the wind just strummed across the tent, and we both slept long and deep. The following morning snow scudded down and the wind seemed to be rising, but I determined to sit it out. Ian was a fine companion for this type of long wait; quiet, easy-going, and always ready to do more than his share of the day-to-day drudgery of cooking and washing up. On the boat trip out I had been irritated by his almost naive enthusiasm for everything new, but now, cooped up in a tent about 2,000 feet above the rest of the team, I felt his real worth.

  During the day, the weather steadily deteriorated. It was rather like having one’s tent pitched across the tracks in a railway tunnel. The air would be quite still, and then, in the distance, would come the roar of the wind, tearing through the Towers above us and down the slope until it hit the tent with a solid force, bellying out the thin cotton, stretching the seams until it seemed impossible that it could resist the remorseless force. And then, with equal suddenness, the wind would vanish and we were left, lying limp and helpless in our sleeping bags. That night we got very little sleep, and it seemed impossible that the tent could stand up to this kind of punishment for very much longer. The following morning, relieved at having survived the night, we packed up, collapsed the tent and fled down to the glacier.

  But as we walked down, the wind dropped, blue sky appeared, the sun peered out from behind a cloud. Had I made a mistake? Should we go back? Could I suggest it to Ian? But he, mind made up, was heading down. I followed in agony from indecision. The others were obviously surprised to see us. The wind had barely reached the glacier. Don immediately made his decision.

  ‘Barrie and I might as well go up,’ he commented, and they started to pack their rucksacks. We were now very low on rations and fuel, so Ian and I, with heavy hearts, agreed to go down and get some more supplies. But that night I wrote in my diary:

  I felt a great wave of lost opportunity as I watched them prepare to go up. If only we had waited there a bit longer, if only we had had more determination. What are my motives on an expedition? There is an awful lot of desire for personal glory. I want to be out in front. I want to be taking the lead. Is it an inferiority complex that makes me need the assurance of my success? I wish I could control it – cut it out. To have a major part in climbing the Central Tower, and then to reach the top in the first party, means a tremendous amount to me. I know it shouldn’t, but it does.

  I was longing to be back on the mountain, and yet, as we came down the last slopes of the hillside above the estancia we bumped, by chance, into Wendy and suddenly all the doubts vanished in my pleasure at being with her once again; until later that night, when a sky studded with stars in black velvet reminded me again of the mountain – how I longed to be at grips with it, feeling the brown granite, hammering in pitons, immersing myself in all the rich simplicity of climbing. Even in Wendy’s arms, gorged with love-making, the driving urge to climb was greater – an urge caused partly from my love of the actual process of climbing, partly from my competitive drive to be out in front.

  But we had something more tangible to worry about, for John Streetley, the seventh member of our expedition, had arrived at Base Camp that day, and armed with the scantiest information about our whereabouts, had set out to find us. Ian and I should have met him on our way down, but somehow we had missed him – easy enough in the dense scrub of the Ascencio Valley.

  ‘He might well have gone up the wrong valley,’ I commented. ‘He can’t come to any harm, anyway: he knows how to look after himself.’

  The next morning we set out for the mountain, laden with stores for the rest of the team, confident that we should find John at our camp on the glacier. The weather had turned bad once again and so all my own secret worries about having gone down had been proved pointless. The wind was now reaching down even to the glacier, chasing over the boulders, blowing clouds of dust that penetrated every chink of clothing. Don and Barrie had been forced back down the mountain, their tent blown over in the middle of the night. They had even had to collapse the tents on the glacier, and I could see them at work under a huge boulder, trying to dig out a cave.

  As I scrambled up to the boulder I hoped desperately that John Streetley would be there. I suddenly felt guilty about taking it for granted that he had found the others, but yes, there he was, just behind Don. I formed some kind of attempt at a humorous question about his wanderings, but as I groped, saw that I had been mistaken – it was Vic Bray.

  ‘Where’s John? Has he arrived?’ I asked.

  I was greeted with blank looks. A great wave of guilt overwhelmed me. He had now been out for two nights, with a third coming on, and I had only wandered back up to see the others. I could visualise him lying in the boulder field with his foot trapped by a fallen rock.

  ‘Why, when did he arrive?’ asked Don.

  ‘Afternoon before last. He just asked the girls where we were, and pushed on up.’

  ‘He could be bloody anywhere,’ commented Don. ‘He’s probably just wandering around, looking for us. Anyway, I suppose we should have a look for him. He might be in the other valley.’

  We divided into two parties and searched either side of the valley on the way down to Camp I. We had succeeded in selling the story of the expedition to the Daily Express, and I was the official correspondent. I took this very seriously, as it was my first assignment with a proper newspaper. The Daily Express had bought the story of my ascent with Ian of the North Wall of the Eiger, but they had used one of their own writers and had sensationalised the entire business. I had hoped to be able to redress this in the reports I sent back telling our story on the Central Tower of Paine, but now, faced with the possibility of a disaster, I dreaded my obligation to have to report it.

  Full of doubt and worry I worked my way down, across the boulders of the glacier, and then through the dense scrub of the lower part of the valley. Don was just in front of me, and as we approached the dump of supplies which made up Camp I, he let out a shout. As I arrived, I saw that the tarpaulin covering the dump had been made into a bivvy shelter, and there was John’s head, impish and grinning, sticking out from under it! Suddenly, in our relief, we were all shouting and joking. He had wandered up into the wrong valley, had bivouacked up there and had then returned to the dump, and next day was planning to walk round to the western valley, where we were ensconced.

  That night we stayed at Camp I, crowded under the tarpaulin, and the next morning discussed what we should do.

  ‘I reckon we’re due for a rest at Base Camp,’ said Don. ‘But I think we should try to keep a pair up on the glacier to take advantage of the weather if it does improve.’

  ‘Well, I’m keen to have a go at the Tower,’ said John. ‘I don’t mind going up.’

  Everyone else remained silent.

  ‘How about you or Ian?’ suggested Don. ‘You’ve just been festering at Base Camp.’

  Impulsively I agreed, and almost immediately regretted it – split between my desire to climb and hunger for the flesh-pots of Base Camp and Wendy. The mountains were once again clad in cloud, and even here, in the woods, the wind was hunting in the trees. With regret I watched the others heading down the valley, and started with John back through the dripping woods to the glacier.
We could barely stand upright in the wind. There was no question of pitching a tent and we spent the rest of the day digging away at the cave under the boulder in an attempt to make a weathertight shelter for the night.

  As so often, once committed, the very wildness of conditions became attractive. There was a satisfaction in hauling and pulling rocks to make walls for our shelter – it was back to the fun of building shelters as a child, and, as it turned out, our shelter was not very much more effective than the rickety lairs I had built many years ago. The fine, swirling glacier dust covered everything in a grey film; but no matter: we were in the mountains, twelve miles from the nearest human being.

  John was a good companion. Small and stocky like Whillans, he had a similar personality in many ways – a quick dry wit, forceful, immensely strong, more relaxed than Whillans – easier to get on with, perhaps through success or a more comfortable upbringing. His family originated in Trinidad and he had had a traditional education at public school and Cambridge. At university he had starred as an athlete and sportsman, getting blues for boxing and running. He took to climbing casually, showing a natural genius for it, making a few brilliant ascents, and then returned to the Americas where he built up a successful business. At a time when Joe Brown and Don Whillans held sway over British climbing, he was the only person to put up a new route of comparable difficulty to theirs – on Clogwyn Du’r Arddu, finest and most well known of all the Welsh cliffs.

  He had a self-sufficiency and lightning wit that made it difficult to feel you ever really got to know him, but as a companion, on that basis, he made pleasant and easy company.

  That night we cooked a magnificent meal, lightly garnished with glacier dust, and settled down for the night. I began to dream I was lying in a waterfall and then, slowly, reality merged with my dream-world, and I woke in the pitch dark to hear the sound of running water, to feel cold rivulets running down inside my sleeping bag. I fumbled for the torch; couldn’t find it; woke Streetley to share my discomfort – he had a lighter. Eventually we got a candle going, and saw that the cave on which we had worked so hard the previous day was neatly channelling water down its sloping roof and over all the flat spots on the floor. We spent the rest of the night curled into niches which were out of range of the prying streams.