The British Baffin Island Expedition
April 1998 Arctic Canada – A spotter plane in an immense white sky throttles back for one last low pass, its pilot keeping a concerned eye on the frozen edge of its wings. The single passenger pressed his nose hard against the window. The tension was palpable. Lower, lower, until the relief of the fjords begins to rise out of the whiteness. “Oh my god….”. muttered the owner of the first ever non-Inuit eyes to behold The Citadel. He clicked his SLR to auto, the endless shutter clicks resembling the death rattle of a high velocity machine gun.
May 1999 – a small group of British Big Wall climbers stare in awe at a huge sheet of blank granite rising a vertical kilometre in front of them partly hidden by the condensing, swirling mist. They stand in the centre of the Stewart Valley, one of the 26 north-eastern fjords that make up Baffin Island’s northern coastline. The extreme nature of the vertical terrain shocks the group of seasoned mountain athletes into silence. Cocooned in a multi-layered mixture of goose down and Gore-Tex to protect them from the -25C temperatures they gaze for the first time at The Citadel, a 1,000m. wall of smooth rock that the 4 knew would take weeks to scale, even if it was possible, which they were already beginning to doubt.
“Oh wow – look at this Shaun!” I pointed dementedly out of the tiny windows of the twin engine Fokker and Shaun just managed to get a glimpse of the unknown mountain wall before the mist enveloped us once more. We had both just seen one of the most beautiful and challenging faces I have ever clapped eyes on, further evidence, if we really needed it, that Baffin Island really is the Big Wall climber’s quintessential dream. I ran up and down the small cabin like a whirling dervish, whilst Shaun sat quietly and committed his impressions to paper. Either way we had both witnessed the equivalent of a Great White shark and we knew it was virgin. I started getting excited!
We were north bound for Baffin Island, Arctic Canada, the largest island in the newly created province of Nunavut. Literally “Our Land”, Nunavut is the biggest cultural and adventure travel story of the decade and I was rapidly leaving behind my weekly nightmare of spreadsheets and deadlines. On April 1st the same year, the map of Canada was redrawn to include this new territory. Think about the bureaucracy of this huge project. Just 30,000 Inuit Eskimos would now start to govern themselves in an area that covers one fifth of all Canada, that’s more land than Germany, France, Switzerland, Italy and Austria put together!
In the past century the Inuit have undergone changes that took the world’s industrialised nations at least 5,000 years to make. From living on the land as nomads eating what they could kill, they now live in permanent settlements with a new language, internet technology and 9 to 5 salaried jobs. In the last 30 years alone they have initiated, negotiated and settled the largest and most comprehensive land claim in Canada, winning compensation of $1,000,000,000 for lands surrendered. And all this by communicating in Inuktitut, a language that was only developed in the 1950’s.
But a conversation in the tiny tin plane on the way to Clyde River, the 700 strong Eskimo settlement where our adventure would begin, told me that the Inuit had already inherited some of the other less savoury aspects of modern culture. The doctor who sat next to me explained that despite the brutal environment and spartan conditions of the Arctic, sexually transmitted diseases and child abuse were the main problems that beset these small Eskimo communities. Mercifully though, drug abuse has not yet arrived, and alcoholism is not apparent, yet! The sale of liquor is banned on Baffin Island.
We were a party of six. Twid, Louise, Shaun and I had originally planned the expedition, and our intention was to climb The Citadel Wall, resembling a giant lamppost whose rusty flakes we would cling to for a month. Andy and Stewart had joined the group late on. They were after a similar but slightly smaller objective in the same area. Living in hanging tents called portaledges we would become arctic bats, eating, sleeping and defecating in a vertical world of rock.
Our wall lay in The Stewart Valley, part of The Gibbs Fjord. One of 26 that make up The Great Eastern Fjords on the island’s rugged North East shoreline, a little like the Skye ridge in Scotland on steroids! An adventurer’s dream, this uninhabited land is full of sweeping valleys and beautiful snowy cwms. In summer, Caribou and muskoxen graze the Tundra, and walrus, seals and bowhead whales feed in the channels between the Arctic islands. We arrived at the end of winter, to meet a desert land of white silk, biting winds and clean air you could taste.
Twid and Louise were a pair, a unit bonded by 10 years of shared expedition experience. Shaun and I hardly knew each other. He is a Chamonix mountain guide, a brilliant climber and a superlative carpenter who has built some of the best bars in the Alps. Whereas I am a frustrated businessman struggling with the usual exhausting cocktail of work, kids and traffic. I had two daughters under 5. Shaun had no children, works alone and needs space. Shaun is an introvert, I am an OTT extrovert. The other two climbers were out on their first extreme climbing expedition together. Andy was recovering from a recent divorce and hoped that Big Wall climbing in the Arctic would be a panacea. Both he and Stewart had spent over £5,000 each for their chance to experience this Arctic wonderland. After 2 weeks they packed it in. The isolation, the cold, and the sheer vastness of this inhospitable land had consumed their energy and drive.
Surviving in this land is like existing in a time capsule. Life appears to stand still, and you feel like you are trapped in a giant bubble, cut off from the rest of the planet. Every day is unique and yet involves the same battle. Tear yourself from your pit, hurriedly pull clothing on and fight. And this was our summer holiday! But my main worry with this expedition was actually nothing to do with the conditions. Rather it was the fear that the few odd remarks that I had dished out to the rest of the team to entice them to come to this Arctic hell would come back to haunt me throughout the 6-week trip. You know, stuff like there was absolutely no threat of Polar Bears, and the fact that although it is quite cold it never ever snows in Baffin, and certainly never for more than three days at a time! Unfortunately, the first of those three days came on our flight to Clyde River, and I don’t remember it letting up much for the duration of the entire expedition. As for Polar Bears, well I wasn’t 100% accurate on that score either.
Reality hit us as we were kicked out of the tiny portacabin airport at 21.00 hrs. It was 17C below and we were minus half our bags. Stranded in Pond Inlet because of storms over Clyde River, we huddled outside the plastic shack not consoled by the fact that this was the first time in nine years that the plane had failed to land in Clyde. We were learning that Baffin does not like to be typical.
I have to admit that I was a little surprised that First Air, or indeed any airline could actually do this sort of thing. As we were slightly over our baggage allowance (by 50Kg per person) we were asked to specify which bags we would like to accompany us. As it was, we reached Pond with little more than the clothes we were dressed in. Fortunately, I managed to evade the enticing grovelling’s of the Hotel manager and his $250 a night single beds, for the School gym. Rougher admittedly, but it had those essentials initials attached to it – FOC. At least it was heated, and the night passed relatively happily with the odd bout of indoor hockey and visits to the 24hr. tuck shop.
Three days later, having gathered our kit and food and packed, repacked and parted with huge amounts of money, and then even more dosh for extras, and finally a Government surplus tax on everything, we were more than ready to depart. Our time for climbing was short but more seriously we had 36 kilos of digestive biscuits to devour in less than a month!
From Clyde River we drove on skidoos for 2 days across the ice accompanied by four Inuit, Jushua, Ikakrian, Johanassie and Sausage, because we could not pronounce the fourth man’s name! We were greeted by huge wide-open spaces with only the occasional landlocked iceberg to break the incredible searing brightness of sun on ice. Surreal skyscrapers, Titanic’s, and Edwardian mansions all appeared and disappeared as we shot by at 60kph.
Four hours out on the trail one of the machines broke down and immediately we saw for ourselves what skilled and naturally hardened people the Inuit really are. It must have been at least -15C. with a keen wind running. Ikakrian, one of the more gnarly looking of the crew, proceeded to strip down his engine, working with bare hands on the frozen sea ice. Fully kitted out in the latest North Pole fashion labels we all watched at this man’s simple disinterest in the freezing conditions.
As Ikakrian beavered away under his machine Jushua, head honcho for Quillikut Guides our outfitters for the trip, told me a story about an Inuit whose skidoo had broken down in the middle of an Arctic storm last winter Three of the running wheels that allow the mini caterpillar tracks to rotate had disintegrated and without them the machine was scrap metal. The man remembered that a machine similar to his had been abandoned 4 years ago; He trekked a distance of 30 kilometres cross country through the storm and found the wreck. He recovered the necessary parts, returned to his vehicle, repaired it and got back alive – just!
The engine repaired, we stopped to camp after a further 10 hours of being battered about on the skidoos. I felt like I had just over-nighted in a deep freeze, and it took me a long time just to feel my head let alone something as small as my toes. We quickly pitched our tents, brewed and crashed out – warmth, bliss! We slept safe from bears, comforted by the Inuit presence. After only a few hours we were woken by shouts – bear prints a mere 50 metres away. “Skinny male tracks 2 days old” Jushua tells us confidently. Twid and Louise take pictures when our guides shout “Bear”! Ha Ha very good! But there it is, nosing around less than half a klick away.
I shout to one of the team and we are off in hot pursuit. Johanassie rides straight at it and we are gaining fast – I’m psyched. Now we are running parallel and it is loping at a steady 25 kph towards the flow edge. Stupidly I rip off my inner gloves and start to work the video bare handed. I get visuals through the viewfinder as 250Kg of white flowing shagpile comes into focus and I’m off tripping through the arctic vastness – it’s action Attenborough live on 2 and we’re documenting the real thing. Sony will be pleased. Except the skidoo suddenly lurches, bucks and stops unexpectedly. The bear stops too, and lifts its snout to the wind, just like you see on TV, except I can’t switch channels.
I felt like crying, especially as I was now getting hot aches in my fingers as the adrenaline wore off. A grown male can stand 5 meters on its back legs and run at 40mph. They hunt Killer Whales for kicks and can swipe a bull’s head off with a single blow. I knew that even my trusty Gore-Tex wouldn’t stand up to that sort of abuse.
As Johanassie tried to pull the cord the carnivore started to creep towards us, and I began pointing wildly like the needle on a Geiger counter when you’re standing on top on an atomic bomb. Life at the office suddenly felt an awful lot more appealing, and I even started to think that changing dirty nappies wasn’t so bad. I nervously eyed the bear and the gun lying on the running boards. Johanassie pulled the single cord life line a second time, but the motor moaned like a dying soldier and fell silent once more. I checked the distance and tried to calculate how long it would take the predator to cover the distance running at 40kmh. The white bear crouched and went into a sort of slow almost lazy amble, its head kept really low to the ground, as its huge paws stretched to full distance padded the snow. Heel to toe, heel to toe. I remember thinking that the huge animal seemed to appear amazingly lithe and agile like a house cat despite its massive size, its deep fur coat rippling as it moved. Then suddenly it hit me. OMG, it’s stalking us! The bear lifted its head and you could see it was smelling its prey. Just when I thought it was hamburger time a reassuring grumble from the engine housing told me that Johanassie had worked his usual miracle. We had motion. The bear loped off ……Man had triumphed once more! We gunned our way back to the team, the Sony camcorder, today’s version of an animal trophy, held high.
Our arrival in the Stewart Valley was magical. Imagine a wall of rock both sides of the valley, one kilometre tall and 10 kilometres long. Then remember that we are only the second expedition ever to have entered this holy domain. We thanked our Inuit drivers warmly offering a traditional good bye cup of tea but they had a long way to travel before Clyde River and were anxious to leave. After emptying their komatiks of all our worldly possessions and supplies and promising to pick us up in 6 weeks’ time. They wished us good luck and bade farewell with a convincing “It will get warmer each day” – It didn’t!
We immediately divided up the work tasks, Twid and Louise volunteered to go and do the first wall recce to check conditions and potential new routes on the massive buttresses above us. It was Shaun and my job to sort out our gear and establish Base Camp. We dove into the tons of gear and immersed ourselves in a heap of rope, climbing hardware and food.
While we shifter gear Twid and Louise went off up the snow slopes above BC to check out the nearest fortress and that was nearly their downfall; our base was shared with Stewart and Andy, who had brought a big gun with armour-piercing bullets. All Twid and Louise heard from high up on a dodgy snow slope was a huge bang. It was Stewart trying out his canon. The gunshot reverberated around the peak, triggering avalanches off every wall, as Twid and Louise waited to perform their Silver Surfer impressions with grim acceptance of their fate. Luck was on their side. Their particular piece of hill stayed put. Stewart kept smiling, completely oblivious to it all, his ear plugs firmly in place!
Meanwhile down at BC things were definitely not going much better for me either. Less than an hour into unpacking I was already reduced to the cold sweat of sickening fear. “Hey Shaun, have you seen my climbing harness?” I was already feeling embarrassed, my head swirling with concocted stories about how my tiny children had managed to climb inside my 100litre haul bag and pilfer essential items under my very nose!
“Why on earth would I? “His expression already starting to turn to annoyance. Oh boy this is NOT going to be a fun trip I mumbled pathetically to myself.
“Err, ok, it’s just that I can’t find it”.
“Well your fucked then, aren’t you”? He was right. Hanging on a Big Wall for days on end in sub-zero temperatures wrapped in just a make shift cradle of assorted slings and tapes would not really cut it. Shit! What a fool. How could I. Why had my exped equipment lists let me down so badly. Maybe my daughter Beth could have got inside my giant travel sac? I felt lonely, afraid and basically mortified. The Marketing Director of the biggest outdoor equipment company in the UK, sponsored to the Hilti (climbing drill) with fancy cold weather gear, clothing and equipment and yet I had forgotten arguable the most important tool in a Big Wall climber’s arsenal. The very item you use to secure yourself to the piece of rock you are trying desperately NOT to fall off! Shit!
Got to say that I don’t often feel proud about my life or my actions, but I was proud on this occasion. It took me less than a night of wretched sleep to decide my next course of action. The next day after a big team discussion I decided to phone Bev, Jushua’s wife, and get her to buy me another and ship it out. Yes, it would be expensive but hell I am out here. I am not going to give up a second time on a big Baffin wall prize. I was back in Gore’s truly fighting mode. Yessss!
After a few days of trying I eventually got Bev on our ship to shore remote wireless. I told her exactly what I needed and that it was urgent and that whatever the cost I would pay it. Albeit reluctantly I thought to myself. Less than a week later two Inuit turned up at BC! They handed me a smallish parcel and an envelope. I feverously tore open the parcel and yesss! It was exactly right. It fitted perfectly. Life was once more golden and good.
So, what’s the damage Jerry” Twid enthusiastically demanded. Oh yes that envelope. I read the text hurriedly searching for the number. Oh!!! Ah!!! Yes, so that is how much. Twid took the letter and read for himself. Then he started laughing.
“Nice one Jerry. Must be a Guinness record that! Got to be the most expensive harness in the world mate!” He chimed in his typical Liverpudlian accent.
US$1,010.00 – gulp! But you know the most upsetting thing about the whole incident? The shop never even gave me a 10% discount!
And to the climb. Big wall climbing is all about pain, and fear. Fun? Well it is if you really like that sort of thing. So, what is it all about? Well imagine an obstacle course like a Tough Mudder challenge full of bodyweight and core strength exercises like crawling up free-hanging ropes, or spider web walls or negotiating an endless series of free hanging bars. But all of these obstacles are loose and precarious. There has been no Health and Safety team checking everything before you to ensure it all works and won’t fall down! Then imagine doing all of the above in freezing snow, sleet and rain. Then turn this whole assault course on its head so it is now vertical. Then dial the temperature down to a steady -20C. Then imagine doing all of the above wearing at least 5 layers of insulated and waterproof clothing, big cumbersome plastic boots, plus helmet and a harness of course! And finally come to terms with the fact that once you start this obstacle race you won’t be able to stop or get off or go home for at least 2 weeks! You are totally committed, and no-one can help you, hear you or see you. You are literally forging a new route through totally unchartered terrain. And your only company, other than the other three miserable wall rats alongside you, is the occasional polar bear who ambles up to the base to take a sniff and look up at his or her potential dinner. Oh, and add insult to injury this Tough Mudder did not just set you back a measly hundred quid. It cost you personally a minimum of £2,000 and in my case quite a bit more!
The plus points of course are endless for a mountaineer. This climb involved pretty much every discipline of climbing I had ever learnt, and it was a fascinating journey of adventure, using all the known climbing techniques at the time, a massive array of equipment and terrain that changed shape almost every rope length – about 45m. Gullies, blank walls, ice runnels, snow ledges, slabs, cracks, chimneys, ice smears, rock steps – all came and went as we successfully found solutions to our wall of puzzles. A bit like doing a marathon running race except you are actually navigating as you run, negotiating through forests, over crags, traversing mountain sides and crawling through the debris of besieged cities.
One example was a famous pitch (rope length) that Shaun bravely led called The Sword of Damocles. It was 40m. long and comprised an open book corner that had a crack in its spine. In order to make upward progress Shaun had to insert a metal device called a cam into this crack and then pull up. He placed a cam roughly every metre. These cams ranged in size from just the width of two of your fingers to both your fists placed side by side. All good. Except that literally hanging above him at the top of the corner were three or four large shards of rock hanging like spears. Each dagger probably weighed no more than 20kg but falling the vertical length of a drawbar lorry would be enough to make a big hole in Shaun’s head and probably mine as well come to think of it as I was hanging suspended directly below him. It was my job on this occasion, to belay him. That means I was there to arrest his fall if he tumbled. And the issue was that it was an expanding crack. Which means the actual rock architecture was unstable and as he progressed upwards the crack widened, and he needed larger and larger cams. The fear of course being…. well I am sure you get it. It was mentally challenging far more than it was physically. Shaun was wearing a sling with all the necessary protection devices such as cams, and karabiner snap links around his shoulder that weighed in excess of 10Kg. Each time he placed a cam he had to effectively do a one armer to move up. But the real issue was that the closer he got to the “Swords” the more the likely hood that he might dislodge one of these hanging grenades.
This was a full on aid or artificial pitch where instead of using just the strength of your hands and the precision of your feet, you use metal devices including pitons (nails) to bang into cracks and half inch long pieces of copper that you mash into tiny seams so that they stick, you hope. As you climb up you clip into each piece of protection, reach up, place another and so on. The only trouble is that these pieces can rip out and suddenly you can find yourself free falling into space.
Despite the sub-zero temperatures I was sweating like Johnny Vegas in a sauna as I watched Shaun draw level with the granitic daggers. He nonchantly swung right and rigged up a belay, anchoring himself to the wall out of harms way.
“Safe Jerry”, he yelled. “Safe” I muttered inwardly. What the hell is safe in this arctic Game of Thrones? Well actually I didn’t use that analogy at the time as this was only 1999, but the sentiment was the same – we were alone in a land of ice dragons and rock trolls. The trick was to keep writing our version of the script, not theirs!
We split into 2 teams of 2. Twid and Louise would lead out the rope one day, and then Shaun and I would carry on from their high point the next. The whole thing takes weeks and then once you top out on the mountain you can go home. Simple really, except everything is always iced up, the snow gets in everywhere and then melts, you mustn’t drop anything because it might be useful, like stoves and sleeping bags, and we were trying to make a video for Karrimor and Sony. Surviving in this land is like existing in a time capsule. Life appears to stand still, and you feel like you are trapped in a giant bubble, cut off from the rest of the planet. Every day is unique and yet involves the same battle. Tear yourself from your pit, hurriedly pull clothing on and fight. And this was our summer holiday!
I had a few highlights on the climb. The first time we lived in the portaledge, for instance, I realised what a talented all-rounder Shaun was. Before I start bear in mind that a Portaledge is a single point hanging tent, the flat base of which measures just 2 meters long by 1.3m. wide. After a 24-hour day which involved dragging all our provisions up to the intended camp we then had to erect the hanging tents, soaked to the skin, freezing cold and severely dehydrated. Shaun had never put a ledge up before, but his DIY skills immediately took over. He had the complex arrangement of poles and fabric sorted out within minutes and as soon as he was inside, Shaun immediately started to organise his little world like he had been born to it. This was despite the fact that one’s actual operating space is slightly smaller than a household bath, and we were both totally shattered.
First, he took off his wet shell jacket and trousers and stored these at the end of his mat. Then he got inside his sleeping bag, which was already stored in a bivvy sack, and then lay the shell under the bivvy bag to dry. He powdered and dried his feet, put on dry socks and placed the wet ones on his stomach under his thermal top. A spare fleece was added for warmth and then from nowhere he produced tortillas, Dairy lea cheese and a few sweets. After brewing up, a complete trial in itself, Shaun then settled down to listen to a few minutes of New Orleans jazz courtesy of a tiny short-wave radio, and an aerial that was secured to our fixed lines via a little clip. A few chapters of The War of Don Emmanuel’s Nether Parts and he was snoring his head off, as he cruised the Chamonix clubs in search of leggy Swedes.
Actually, that is not technically correct. Shaun actually did have a very lovely Swedish GF who he was very devoted to. I only found this out during a rather awful arctic storm that shut us down. We were forced to hang in our Gore-Tex cocoons suspended above a huge misty void for four days! During a lull in the tempest and the constant battering of our fragile fabric ship, I remember thinking all went quiet on our own North Eastern Front. It could have been anytime, day or night, because in the arctic summer there is no night. But I was wide awake and the rest of the team asleep. Shaun and I in our ledge, Twid and Louise literally hanging next door! I gazed at the endless sea of assorted items that our “hanging home” had become. And suddenly, there amongst the Big Wall detritus of pee bottles, inner boots, water bottles, decomposing drying undergarments etc etc I saw a little brightly coloured package. What on earth is that?? It floated around on a sea of Gore-Tex and captivated me, enticing me, almost talking to me: “Pick me up. Open me up. See what I am. Feast on my secrets”.
I simply could not help myself. I was in a world within a world and the mystery was utterly compelling. I tore into the little package and ravished its secrets. Just at the same time sadly that Shaun had woken up.
“Give me that back. That’s mine” the alpine ace growled menacingly. But it was too late. I already knew its secrets and as I tossed the little package across to him, I stuck the dagger in right up to the hilt:
“Oh, Shaun give me a big hug.” I didn’t know it right then but that really was the final straw. It was Shaun’s Birthday that day and his GF had said to open the present when he was alone and could spend a quiet time alone with her gift and his thoughts for the woman he loved. It was The Little Book of big hugs and was all about a bear family who seemed to have nothing better to do than caress each other. But I, I had invaded Shaun’s very private space and all the pent-up fear, stress and life on a ledge in close proximity to a rather smelly, endlessly positive, extrovert just rushed out of him in a fit of anger and frustration. The ensuing fight woke up Twid and Louse and resulted in the loss of a number of essential kitchen utensils as we managed to upright the unfortunate ledge and bash each other into oblivion. After maybe 30 minutes we lay back exhausted. Shaun or maybe it was me started laughing, as we realised the absurdity of our situation. But it was a necessary evolution. We had passed those classic stages of forming and now storming. We were now about to start to perform. But it wouldn’t all be a smooth voyage to the top.
Another time we were sitting in our portaledge, 500m. above the deck, having just come back from spending a whole day to make only 30 meters of vertical progress. Shaun and I were seriously cold, wet and tired. It was a race between hypothermia and a brew, when Shaun pipes up and says “I hate this bloody game. I can’t think of anything worse”. I smiled and said I can – small children! Despite the fact that our living room was no bigger than a small one-man tent, the constant danger from large lumps of rock and ice, leader falls, and burning the tent down with the hanging primus, I really loved just being out there in a totally extreme situation. At 03.00 in the morning I could unzip the fly and see the sun starting to light up the landmass that stretched out in front of us: Terminal moraines, hanging glaciers, snow bowls, jagged peaks, desert like mesas and buttes, frozen lakes and huge scree rising up to vertical oceans of granite. All virgin, all ours. Anyway, it was Chicken Supreme tonight! Oh, sorry Shaun, I forget you’re a veggie!
I was always taught in the Royal Marines to maintain your sense of humour. When you have lost that you really have lost everything. But my endless optimism and ability to laugh at pretty much anything life threw at me was probably tested more on this expedition than any other. I had a series of issues that I had to deal with throughout our six-week adventure, quite in addition to just the physicality of survival on an Arctic Big Wall. The first was an emotion that I have had pretty much throughout my life, but it really came to the fore in Stewart Valley. I have never felt like I fit in to any particular tribe or group in life and I have been involved in most of the classics. I never felt “at home” in the Officers Mess in the Royal Marines. My fellow officers wanted to dress up, party, wash their cars, or just drink their way through their weekends, whilst I was out running around the mountains and cliffs of the cairngorms. I went to university after my Royal Marines Commission and so had no way of relating to people 4 years younger than me and who were still learning to live away from home whilst I left the security of my family home 5 years before I ever got to university. In business I far preferred to go climbing with my staff than enjoy expensive corporate hospitality events or networking dinner parties with fellow directors. I was never a typical dirt-bag climber, nor a high flying pinstriped executive nor a military leader. I was just me, friend to all but close to none.
This isolation really hit home in Baffin as Twid, Louise and Shaun were all united by the bond of guide hood. All three were fully qualified mountain guides and they acted, climbed and conversed in a way that although I did my very best to fit in with, and they equally were incredibly supportive and keen to make us as united a team of four as possible, we never were. We worked as a team but in reality, I never felt that close to unity as I felt on my climb with Terry More for instance when we climbed Nevado Cayesh. I think we succeeded in Baffin because of pure strength, drive and ability. There is nothing wrong in this except that it made me emotional weak as I became incredibly lonely about a third of the way into the trip. I remember standing on a tiny pinnacle of rock jutting out from the wall and looking down at the tiny skidoo tracks created by our departing Inuit guides. I sobbed deeply, the salty tears freezing over my reddening eyes. I resolved to myself that I would climb this wall. I would stand on its summit and I would be on those same tracks in just over a month’s time. I gritted my teeth. I clenched my teeth and I bashed my helmet so hard I drew blood. I would see my family again and nothing would stop me. Nothing!
Where you get motivation from like that, I have no idea except that in my case it was really a simple case of having put myself in this situation I had to find a solution. For me there was really no choice. I loved the remoteness and the extremity of our situation and knew that I was really excited to be there, but I don’t know why. Am I trying to prove something to myself, or am I just fatally attracted to extreme adventure like a moth to a burning light? Was my dad right – did I climb because I could not compete academically at school or anywhere else come to think of it. Or do I climb just because I love the movement, the myriad assortment of awesome equipment, and the physicality of fighting the elements and the masochistic pleasure of suffering. Expeditions like these reveal truly amazing scenery that not even astronauts get to witness, and then there is all the logistical preparation and administration necessary for a big trip that challenges your business skills as well as your patience and determination – your resilience to the repeated use of the word NO when asking for sponsorship. But whatever the drive was, imagined, artificial or actual, I was on this wall now and I wasn’t getting of it until we summitted!
My insecurity was doubly exposed on this exped because I was also at a x-roads in my business life. I knew my reign as head of Marketing at Cotswold was drawing to an end. Tony Ingham and Charles Barwell, the two original owners of Cotswold had sold the business to Hans Falkenburg, ex. Property director for Harrods, and Hans was running the business as only he could understand and proceed. Within the space of two yeas he had turned Tony and Charles’ £Million profit into a £900,000 loss. Hans eventually succeed and was the key reason why Cotswold Outdoor is now the number one outdoor retail force in the UK. But this was a man who was first and only a businessman. He was so highly insured that he was not even allowed to attempt to rock climb. He was not a grass-route outdoor person. He was a retail property expert and that was what he did best. He tried to understand the commercial value of having well-paid highly motivated outdoor athletes for shop staff and marketing campaigns that focused on the real outdoors for real outdoor folk. But he couldn’t. He wanted to go mass market. He wanted to grow the company and was content to sacrifice our specialist reputation. I could see this. I could see that I must leave and look for a new plan a new goal, a new direction. But I could not then see what that direction was. I was lost in my own world of searching within a vertical world of discovery and yet I had to force myself to continually focus on the immediacy of my surroundings or risk “an early bath” as Eddie Stewart used to say!
Probably the most enthralling episode was actually topping out. After 18 days of mostly custardy weather we summitted at 21.00 in a weather window of sun, blue sky and no wind. We popped our heads out of the Velux window and all peered out. I removed my Karrimor fleece and shell for the first time and we all marvelled at the new valleys, mountains and glaciers we could now see. I had discovered my feet again realised I could run, walk, skip, fall over and even drop things. It just didn’t matter anymore. The feeling of standing on a seemingly insurmountable summit after days and days of pain and hardship, never knowing whether you would succeed or fail, is pretty indescribable. I felt an incredible sense of privilege. We had worked our butts off but as ever it was the mountain that had allowed us to stand on its summit. It could have spat us off on so many occasions, yet it had not given up its secrets easily. It was a fairish fight. In more than 1100m. of ascent we had placed less than 20 hand drilled expansion bolts. We had each lost at least 6% of our body mass and we had all manner of sores, cuts, and burns. I have never taken any recreational drugs, but I can only imagine that an LSD trip would probably feel close to the sensations I experienced at the summit. I was wrecked and exhausted but as I drank in the warmth of the distant sun, I felt so incredibly alive and so fully self-actualised. I realise it is a privilege to feel like that. But I always think anyone can if they really want to. But they have to find their dream, and then try and attain it. Knowing what you want and then really wanting it enough are probably the hardest parts of the journey. Once you know your passion following it is then a simple step of saying “yes I commit”. The rest is down to destiny and hard graft, and a bit of luck along the way. But mostly, I think, hard graft. But then what do I know. There are no answers, only actions and events that rarely lead to a clear conclusion.
We spent 2 hours on top, soaking up the heat and the beautiful arctic wilderness that surrounded us. And then, just as we started the long descent it all closed in on us again. We pulled the window shut and descended into the gloom. It didn’t matter, we were going home. We had won our “Get out of jail free” card and life was very, very good.
We left Base camp around 2am on Saturday morning 12th June, shot back across the ice in perfect conditions and managed to turn a 2-day trip into a 6 hour one. We never asked them to, but it seemed our drivers wanted to get us back in time for the 10.00 flight from Clyde River. I counted it out because I knew just how fast we would have to move based on my previous experiences in 1995 when I first visited the North Eastern fjords. Also, I knew we would be very lucky to get flights, as we hadn’t pre booked. But we were definitely motoring, and I started to get excited about the prospect of flying out that day as we cleared the entrance to Sam Ford fjord at 06.00. The conditions were perfect, and I stood up for virtually the entire distance balanced on the sledge and looking out across the wide-open arctic expanse that would miraculously turn to seawater in less than 2 months. We got into Jushua’s around 08.30 and rather drunkenly I trundled up to his house to see if they were up yet.
Bev emerged and after lots of hugs got on the blower and started the process of trying to reserve some seats. With 20 minutes to go the news came through that there was only 2 places spare – dilemma! Who should go? We were all still shell shocked. We had been catapulted back into civilization, and now had to deal with being split up. Somehow it came out that I would go, and the rest were staying. Shaun had presents to buy and was not in a huge hurry and Twid and Louise naturally wanted to be together. In a total blur, with tears in my eyes, I boarded the town truck which, amongst other things doubled as a taxi, and I trundled away. I was still dressed in all my skidoo clothing.
The flight to Iqaluit passed quickly. It was only one and a half hours and virtually all of that time was spent chowing endless supplies of sandwiches. I poured out my story to the hostess who couldn’t believe I had lived on digestives for a month. A loaf and a litre of coke later we touched down. I checked in my bags for Montreal, bought my daughter Beth an Eskimo doll and still in my skidoo kit boarded the plane. Things were cooking, literally. It was only 13.00. We touched down at 19.30 in Montreal. I managed to get on the evening flight for the UK, and with only an hour to spare cadged a hose pipe shower off a bewildered garage attendant. Smelling as sweet as a rose I boarded the plane an hour and a half later and headed home. It was the end of another dream. A huge slice of life that was simply amazing, but equally had left more questions than answers. I felt like a crack addict powerless to control his addiction. I was still only just at the end of a big “trip”. But amazingly I was still hungry for more. As we flew out of US airspace, I pulled out a map of Baffin’s NE Coastline and started to trace our initial flight in to Clyde River from the south. Unwittingly I realised I was already looking for another white shark.