Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Alex argued I was more acceptable than he for the presentation of our submis-
sion to the Mount Everest Foundation (MEF), since I owned a suit that fitted, had
a phone at home and could not possibly be working as hard as he was.
'Come on John, you have the experience of organising last year's trip.'
I knew Alex was flattering to deceive but his next point was a clincher.
'Besides, as national officer of the BMC, I'm responsible for administering the
BMC grants that come as part of the package once an MEF grant is awarded.'
There clearly was a conflict of interest. However, like Alex, I was incredibly busy
at my day job. I had seen pictures of Changabang in profile, but I didn't have time
to bother with much research. Changabang is one of the most beautiful mountains
in the world, with near vertical walls on the west, north and south sides. Only its
east ridge, line of the first ascent, and south-west ridge offered easier alternatives.
I also knew that a strong Lakes team had tried and failed the year before. That was
the sum total of my knowledge. I decided that the old privateer adage of 'get there
and you have a chance' would suffice. Anyway, our track record alone should get us
a decent grant.
I prepared an application to the MEF and sometime in May found myself in Lon-
don for the screening committee at the Royal Geographical Society opposite Hyde
Park and the Albert Memorial. I had never been before and no one had warned me
I should come well prepared. Entering from Kensington Gore, the building has a
kind of imperial grandeur from an era when exploration meant national glory. Its
location, near to the Albert Hall and the great collections of the Victoria and Albert
Museum, puts it in that part of London that captures the swagger of the British
Empire.
From her perch in Hyde Park, Queen Victoria stared blankly at my back as I
passed through the wrought-iron gates. I received a curt nod from the porter when
I explained my reason for being there. I guessed he saw more grandees pass by
than the average climber had hot dinners in a month. Someone had told me that
the corridors echo with the ghostly tramping feet of a thousand famous expedi-
tions and walking those corridors I found myself suddenly overawed. The portraits
of Victorian heroes hung here and there, their expression one of determination
and distinction, but also something else. Having travelled with a similar set in my
own era, I detected a mixture of lunacy, larceny and lust for the unknown. Sur-
rounded by names like David Livingstone, Sir Francis Younghusband and General
Bruce, who would not be awed, if not overwhelmed?
I tripped going up the stairs; it was almost a sign of respect. I was too intent on
taking in my surroundings. Leaving the bustle of London just fifty yards behind,
for the glories of British exploration, I realised too late my quest was unfocused
