PERSPECTIVE UKNORTH
People and their profiles: dukes, archbishops, actors, writers, monks, oddbods, the garish, the gregarious - here they are in single file, chosen by chance, by inclination, or by necessity ... and all reflecting, one hopes, the essential, but indefinable, spark that makes one human being interesting to many. Geoffrey Mather
At the summit: Pictured: Myself, on left, with the Sherpas here described.
Thirty years ago, a friend, who, hereafter, shall be known as The Instigator, invited me to climb Great Gable (superbly pictured below by Andrew Leany), which is in the English Lake District. That location is, I believe, a mistake of nature, since God no doubt intended it to be placed in, say, Nicaragua or the Hindu Kush. I can not believe that He intended it to be anywhere near me. Memories of the event are mercifully receding, but I recall that I borrowed The Instigator's boots. There were three of us. The third was a portly lecturer in accountancy who had an advantage in that his head, top and bottom, had a generous covering of white hair.
We arrived at, I think, Edmondson’s farm in good order. This is, near-enough, Sherpa country so far as I am concerned. They milk yaks. There are rain guages around so that weather people can get the forecasts wrong. From the farm, it was a matter of putting one foot in front of the other, rather like Hillary. Hunky-dory, then. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, as we wise ones say.
I then viewed Great Gable closely and we left each other unmoved. The only Great Gable I had known up to that moment was Clark. It quickly became obvious that Hillary’s feet, or boots must have been superior to mine. I was sliding about on shingle, more like Nureyev than a Hillary. I was reminded of Admiral Lord Nelson who, when told that the enemy were using hot shot, said, winking one eye - "Then we must get close enough so that it goes through both sides." Derring-do stuff, and all that.
My limbs began to ache in a most depressing manner, not helped by my friend, The Instigator, who was leaping about like a mountain goat 100 yards ahead of us, ecstatic at the thought of having his life forces diminished. Unlike me, he regarded Great Gable as some form of cherished relative.
As the pain increased, and all forward motion had to be closely observed to make it apparent at all, I took to putting one leg forward and pressing it with the palm of my hand to lever myself on. Then the other leg and other hand. It was slow and it was agonising. Brushing away early tears, I noticed that my lecturer friend adopted the same posture. We proceeded together. I can only imagine what was going on behind the beard, but he was muttering quite a lot as he eyed the elfin Instigator, who was well ahead, and strutting his stuff.
After weeks of this... Well, it seemed like weeks, but it could have been days or even hours or, even, come to think of it, minutes, it was noticeable that we were being passed by middle-aged-to-old ladies carrying handbags. This form of humiliation is total. My eyes were popping out. As we rested, my companion and I shared the few sweets we had to pump energy into our failing systems. It was survival, simple survival, and nothing else mattered. Together, like Moses on his mountain, we had seen Truth.
The Instigator, in his good boots, was practically dancing over the rocks, mocking us from the safety of his huge lungs..
Two thirds of the way up, I wanted to strike camp and let the world know where we were, but we did not have a tent or, indeed, a phone. The altitude was affecting my breathing. My breath was not so much coming in short pants as bikinis. I had clear visions of Captain Oates electing to die for his friends.
I asked my bearded companion to leave me behind and save himself, but he had neither the means nor the will to leave a tortoise behind, let alone me. We inched our way to the summit together. I saw my life whirling before my eyes, and was disappointed to discover that it did not amount to much.
It was at the summit, to our surprise, that we saw not only The Instigator, flaunting his good boots, but all those who had passed us on the ascent: women’s club members by the look of them, and old Wainwright clones, puffing pipes and breathing naturally. I had it in mind earlier to plant the Union Jack for Queen and country. It had not occurred to me that the summit of this misplaced black rock might be a venue for riff raff blessed with the constitutions of goats.
I considered expiring there and then, but something in me - that indomitable spirit of the Englishman, perhaps? - pushed me on.
The descent was, if anything, worse than the ascent. We were unroped. We had no crampons. We were wearing normal town apparel, not that space stuff festooned with promotional adverts. We slithered across the shingle like ducks on ice. By the time we reached a vestige of level land I had taken on all the characteristics of Sir Alec Guinness in Bridge on the River Kwai after he had been stuffed in a hot box.
He walked like a stick figure, looking straight ahead, barely able to proceed, but cutting a dashing and heroic stance to the awe of watchers.
I was exactly like that. Trouble is, he was acting. Mine was terribly real. I imagine the Edmondsons, with their rain guages, have memories yet of this Hillary-like war hero emerging from the heights, five to three at that, surrounded by all the members of women’s institutes from fifty miles around. They headed for their cars, chatting amiably, while he was heading for the pub with his eyes on stalks, possessed of the relentless determination that Montgomery must have felt at Alemein, to get there before closing time..
In the pub, once a form of speech had returned, I heartily thanked The Instigator for dreaming up the idea and lending me his boots.
Well, something like that.
To this day, I have not been back.. And I seldom care to mention it at all.
Geoffrey Mather © 2004
3 March, 2007
