Ripcord Adventure Journal #7

RAJ 2.3

Volume 2 | Number 3 | 2017 -Second Edition

Image Š John C. Smith The modern and dynamic skyline of Doha

A Letter from the Editor Welcome to Ripcord Adventure Journal.

Our seventh issue of Ripcord Adventure Journal and the first for 2017 brings us on some very intriguing journeys of adventure and discovery.

In our Guest Editorial, Mark Evans recounts the crossing of the famed Rub' Al Khali of Arabia by his team as they followed the footsteps of the almost forgotten Bertram Thomas who had crossed it back in 1931 guided by Sheikh Saleh bin Kalut al Kathiri. I was fortunate enough to meet Mark at the Royal Geographical Society in London recently and he strikes me as one of the great exemplars of modern British exploration, highly competent, daring and with a deep love and understanding of the lands and people with whom he travels.

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This issue is much enhanced by the beautiful photographs taken by John C. Smith and Sim Davis, who accompanied Mark Evans on the Crossing the Empty Quarter expedition.

Alex Staniforth, a young British climber clues us in to the feelings and mental determination required to climb in the Himalaya. Jacki Hill Murphy follows Isabella Bird's Guidebook to find that adventures are indeed timeless. In 1889 Isabella Bird ventured in to Ladakh region of Kashmir to experience these remote lands and cultures.

Rory Golden, a man of many talents give us a glimpse of the world of undersea exploration, the discovery of the Titanic and the life and times of the original 'Ripcord' adventurer Ralph White.

In the first of a regular slot, explorer and photographer Jeremy Curl remembers his journey to witness a Donga Fight in the western side of the Omo Valley where manhood is tested and tribal feuds settled.

In our final article in this issue, Jimmy McSparron finds hospitality and enjoys the dangers of an unconventional hike to Machu Picchu.

We aim to be the home of authentic, adventurous travel, which

serves as a starting point for personal reflection, study and new journeys. We hope you enjoy reading this free digital Journal and encourage you to share it it widely.

On behalf of the editorial, writing and design team I wish to acknowledge our sponsors, the World Explorers Bureau and Redpoint Resolutions (particularly Thomas Bochnowski, Ted Muhlner, Martha Marin and John Moretti) and offer a special thanks to Charlotte Baker-Weinert, without whose generous spirit, this publication would never have happened.

Tim Lavery Editor in Chief, Ripcord Adventure Journal

Ripcord Adventure Journal Copyright © January 2017 by World Explorers Bureau & Redpoint Resolutions. All articles and images Copyright © 2017 of the respective Authors and photographers.

First Published January 2017 Second Edition October 2017 Cover image of the original Khanjar carried by Sheikh Saleh Bin Kalut in 1930 © John C. Smith.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, general enquiries or sponsorship opportunities, contact the publisher: Ripcord Adventure Journal: info@ripcordadventurejournal.com

“I already cherished a secret dream. The remote recesses of the earth, Arctic and Antarctic, the sources of the Amazon and the vast inner spaces of Asia and Africa, have one by one yielded their secrets to man's curiosity, until by strange chance the Rub Al Khali remained almost the last considerable terra incognita..�

Bertram Thomas Arabia Felix

RIPCORD ADVENTURE JOURNAL 2.3

Editor Tim Lavery

Featuring

Mark Evans Alex Staniforth Jacki Hill-Murphy Rory Golden Jeremy Curl Jimmy McSparron

Advisory Board

Shane Dallas Paul Devaney Sophie Ibbotson Terry Sharrer Jimmy McSparron James Borrell Bill Steele Charlotte Baker Weinert

Publishers World Explorers Bureau & Redpoint Resolutions

WWW.RIPCORDADVENTUREJOURNAL.COM

Contents Into the Abode of Death Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia Mark Evans

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Baruntse: A World Apart Alex Staniforth

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And They Went in Long Dresses Jacki Hill-Murphy

31

Ralph White A Ripcord Kind of Explorer Rory Golden

37

Donga Fight Jeremy Curl

47

An Alternative Inca Trail Jimmy McSparron

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Contributors and credits

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Image opposite Š John C. Smith A Hilal moon slips down the western sky.

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Mark Evans

Text © Mark Evans Image © John C. Smith

Into the Abode of Death 2

Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia

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Into the Abode of Death - Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia Mark Evans

On January 27th 2016, after 1,300km and 49 days on foot and by camel, Outward Bound Oman Training Manager Mohammed Al Zadjali and Executive Director Mark Evans, with Bedouin Amur Al Wahaibi arrived at Al Rayyan Fort in Doha, having followed the 1930 trail of forgotten explorer Bertram Thomas across the Empty Quarter of Arabia. Their successful crossing was the first time anyone has attempted the journey in 85 years.

The 1930 achievement of the little-known Thomas, and his Omani guide Sheikh Saleh bin Kalut, have been lost in the sands of time, overshadowed by Wilfred Thesiger’s beautiful black and white images and poetic writing. One of the aims of the recent journey, the first time in 85 years anyone had been given permission to attempt the same route from Salalah in southern Oman, to Doha, the capital of Qatar, was to put Thomas back on a pedestal, and give him the recognition his achievements deserved.

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The world of exploration at the time was a vibrant one; Peary and Cook had both laid claim to the North Pole, Amundsen and Scott had reached the South Pole, and Mallory and Irvine were at the cutting edge of efforts to reach the summit of Everest. With the poles claimed, attention was focused on the vast interior of Arabia.

The exploits of TE Lawrence in the Hejaz had attracted the attention of the American reporter Lowell Thomas, and the moving images he captured of the dashing Lawrence played to over 4 million people, from Covent Garden in London to Madison Square Garden in New York; the world was obsessed with the romance of Arabia, and in 1930 the race was on to become the first person to cross the Empty Quarter.

Thomas came from a humble background; his father was a harbour pilot, guiding boats through the mud-banks and currents of the River Avon, and his mother ran the local post office. Thomas' early horizons were limited to the local area, until he signed up for the Somerset Light Infantry and the First World War took him to the battlefields of Belgium, and then on to Mesopotamia (now Iraq). By the time the war ended, Thomas had made Arabia his home, and had been seduced by the challenge of the unknown desert at its heart. He was appointed assistant political officer, working under

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Into the Abode of Death - Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia Mark Evans

such influential characters as Gertrude Bell, Philby and Arnold Wilson, from whom he learnt a great deal. Described as a quiet and serious man, Thomas was undeterred by the inhospitable terrain, merciless heat and fractious tribes.

His plans began to take shape during the winters of the late 1920s.

In 1925, he had been appointed to the Council of Ministers of Muscat and Oman as Financial Adviser, a position he held for five years, until 1930. His prime role was to sort out the Sultan of Oman’s finances, something he proved not to be very good at.

Looking back, it is clear Thomas arrived in Oman with a burning desire to become the first person to cross the vast and unexplored Rub Al Khali, or Empty Quarter desert.

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“The virgin Rub Al Khali, the great southern desert! To have laboured in Arabia is to have tasted inevitably of her seduction, and six years ago I left the administration of Transjordan for the court of Muscat and Oman. I already cherished a secret dream. The remote recesses of the earth, Arctic and Antarctic, the sources of the Amazon and the vast inner spaces of Asia and Africa, have one by one yielded their secrets to man’s curiosity, until by a strange chance the Rub Al Khali remained almost the last considerable terra incognita …”

This pre-occupation led to criticism of Thomas from the local British political agent, ‘for paying insufficient attention to his duties in favour of his travels and exploration, resulting in financial laxity and mismanagement’. He chose to work through the stifling heat and humidity of the summer, which enabled him to use the cooler winter months for exploring. In the winter of 1926 he completed a two-week journey on foot and by camel from Muscat to Sharjah (in what is now the United Arab Emirates), followed in the winter of 1928 by a much longer journey along the coast from Bani Bu Ali, to Salalah, the main city of Oman’s southernmost province, Dhofar. It was on this journey that he developed the relay system of tribal teams, and fresh camels that would see him achieve success on the biggest challenge of all.

All of these journeys did little to hide his secret desires, and whilst Thomas never publically declared his intent, it was clear that Sultan

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Into the Abode of Death - Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia Mark Evans

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Taimur, the ruler of Oman, had an inkling of his dreams.

“Why aren’t you married, Oh Wazir”? I expatiated on the difficulties under which a Christian laboured, especially one serving in the east, and pointed to the comforting doctrine that for a man it was never too late.

“Ah” said the Sultan, knowing my secretly cherished desire. “Quite right. Insha’allah, I will help marry you one of these days to that which is near to your heart – the Rub Al Khali, Insha’allah!”

“A virgin indeed”, quoth Khan Bahadur, his private secretary.

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Into the Abode of Death - Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia Mark Evans

Thomas was not going to let anything stop him. On October 4th 1930, he slipped quietly and secretly out of Muscat to board a British oil tanker that would carry him along the coast to Dhofar, and the southern city of Salalah. After being carried ashore by dhow, he rode along the coast by camel to make his base for preparations. Despite a sleepless series of days, Thomas immediately started an exploration into the frankincense covered Qara mountains, where he remained for two months, undertaking scientific and anthropological research before returning to Salalah, suffering from dysentery.

That expedition was a prelude to the main feat; to cross the Empty Quarter. One problem was that Thomas knew that if he told anyone

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Into the Abode of Death - Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia Mark Evans

of his ultimate intention, he would have been prevented: the official position of both the Omani and British authorities was that tribal disputes made exploration foolhardy.

“My plans were conceived in darkness, my journeys only heralded by my disappearances, paid for by myself and executed under my own auspices. The desert crossing would never have been sanctioned.

Salalah knew of my presence: it must not know of my plans. Secrecy was imperative. To disclose them would be to invite hostility and the news would spread abroad, as all news spreads in Arabia, with the speed of the telegraph, and unauthorised accretions that would not disgrace a London evening newspaper ….”

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It was in Salalah that Thomas was to meet Sheikh Salih bin Kalut Al Rashidi Al Kathiri, the only Omani who would ultimately accompany him on the entire journey from sea to sea across the Empty Quarter. As a result of this, bin Kalut has evolved into an Omani hero, about whom legends are still told today. Whilst the team that made up the first ever crossing was made up almost entirely of Omani’s, Sheikh Salih was the only member of the team that to complete the entire crossing, with others only willing to go to the edge of their own tribal areas.

Bin Kalut’s skills of organisation, desert navigation and leadership of the men were critical to the success of the journey. Even more critical were his skills as a diplomat. As the group travelled from one tribal area to another, there was always the potential for problems, even fighting; the fact that neither of these became serious issues was in many ways thanks to his skills of negotiation.

“I took an immediate liking to Sheikh Salih. He bore the most magical name of Bin Kalut – Kalut, the most famous lady in all the sands, daughter of a famous warrior, and mother of three warrior sons. Salih was a short man, big of bone, with a rather large head, bald – unusual for a bedu, even of Salih’s 60 years, and a heavy jowl.

His brow was big, perhaps from his baldness, and his eyes large, his countenance open and frank, his voice slow and measured; he inspired confidence..”

Wilfred Thesiger, the famous desert explorer dubbed Mubarak Bin

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Into the Abode of Death - Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia Mark Evans

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Into the Abode of Death - Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia Mark Evans

London (our friend from London) by his Bedouin colleagues, met Bin Kalut in Dhofar in 1945, and described him as ‘..immensely powerful. His body was heavy with old age, so that he moved with difficulty, and rose to his feet only with a laboured effort, and after many grunted invocations of the almighty. He seldom spoke, but I noticed when he did, no one argued’.

Thanks to the skills of Bin Kalut, and the tenacity of Thomas, on February 5th 1931, some 58 days on foot and by camel after they had left Salalah, they approached the mud brick towers of Doha (the capital of Qatar); the journey was over, the race had been won, and legendary Arabic hospitality awaited them.

Thomas’ purpose was never solely to get to the other side of the desert. Despite fears of their purpose being misunderstood, he carried scientific instruments as well as a still and a cine camera so that he could collect and record the flora and fauna he found on his journey. He collected 400 natural history specimens, 21 of them new to science, and many of which are today stored in the Natural History Museum in London.

News of the success, sent by telegram from Bahrain, caused a global sensation, making the front pages of The Times in London, and The New York Times. In the years to follow, Thomas lectured far and wide, sharing tales of his journey with audiences around the world, and he was honoured with some of the highest medals that can be bestowed on explorers, including the Founders Medal of the Royal Geographical Society, the Cullum Gold Medal of the American Geographical Society and the Burton Memorial Medal of the Royal Asiatic Society.

His book, Arabia Felix, was quickly published in 1932, and in the foreword, T. E. Lawrence wrote, ‘few men are able to close an epoch. We cannot know the first man who walked the inviolate earth for newness’ sake, but Thomas is the last; and he did his journey in the antique way, by pain of his camel’s legs, single handed, at his own time and cost. He might have flown an aeroplane, sat in a car, or rolled over in a tank. Instead, he snatched, at the twenty third hour, feet’s last victory and set us free – all honour to Thomas’.

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Into the Abode of Death - Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia Mark Evans

Other than a black and white photograph taken by Thesiger in 1945, and a mention in his classic book Arabian Sands, little is known of what became of Sheikh Salih after they had reached Doha.

Like many Omanis at that time, there is no written record of when he was born, but it is known that he outlived Thomas, and passed away in Dubai, where he had been seeking medical treatment, on December 15th, 1953, some twenty two years after his great achievement.

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2015 was the 85th year since Thomas and Bin Kalut had left Salalah, and coincided with the 45th year of the reign of His Majesty Sultan Qaboos as the ruler of Oman; the planets were in alignment to attempt to retrace this historic journey. His Highness Sayyid Haitham bin Tariq Al Said was appointed Expedition Patron in Oman, along with HRH Prince Charles in the UK, and His Excellency Sheikh Joaan bin Hamed Al Thani in Qatar.

Our main challenge was to find the key to unlock the door, and get permission to not only enter Saudi Arabia at a remote, unmanned location, but also to spend one month walking with camels across the sensitive eastern province. An issue of equal concern was to find camels tough enough to withstand the demands of walking for 30-40 km per day, for 50 or so days, with limited food and water.

Camels, like humans, have gone soft in recent years; rather than wandering the sands in search of rain-fed grazing, today they tend to lead static lives, with water trucks bringing water to them, and locally grown fodder crops being served up each day.

To give them every opportunity of succeeding, and to protect the sensitive pads on the base of their feet, we parked our four camels (all female, from the Royal Cavalry) at a Bedouin community on the southern edge of the sands, and on December 10th 2015, 85 years to the day since Thomas and Bin Kalut started their own journey, my two Omani companions Mohammed Al Zadjali, Amur Al Wahaibi and I set off on foot from the old souq in Salalah, on the edge of the Indian Ocean. As we did so, playing in cinemas throughout Oman, and on the Oman Air In-Flight entertainment systems was an awareness raising 60 second video clip that used some of Thomas’ original footage shot in 1930, digitized in a project funded by the

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My favourite part of the day; a setting sun, the first stars emerging, plummeting temperatures and a roaring fire means Arabic coffee.

Image Š Sim Davis

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Into the Abode of Death - Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia Mark Evans

society.

Our journey did not set out to be a first, or fastest, but was, amongst other things, a celebration of slowness that attempted to reconnect Omani, Saudi and Qatari people to their rich culture and heritage, and to show a side of the Middle East different to that which normally dominates the media. With the Empty Quarter now being emptier than it has ever been, many of the waterholes used by Thomas are long abandoned, and full of sand. With much uncertainty regarding water supply, we made the early decision to use two 4x4 support vehicles to carry tightly rationed water, that would be supplemented by the possible discovery of water in the sands; Thomas had used a sextant to record the location of the wells he used, accurate enough for his needs, but little help in reality when searching for a small well on the ground in what could be an area of up to 15km square.

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At the start of the journey, our vehicles carried 50 days’-worth of food, carefully labelled, packed and sorted into 25 plastic crates. In the first two weeks we barely touched a crumb, overwhelmed by more than 1,000 unexpected visitors who sought us out even in the most remote of locations in southern Oman each day. A desert expedition in Arabia is no place for a vegetarian; ‘You cannot enter the land of the Al Kathiri without accepting our hospitality’ announced a proud Omani Sheikh, and in an ongoing effort to outdo the hospitality of the previous gathering, by the time we had reached the border with Saudi Arabia we had consumed twentyseven goats, in addition to several camels and sheep. Any hope we had of losing weight was initially slim. Amongst the visitors were some so old (none knew exactly how old, as nothing was documented at the time of their birth) that, despite having limited sight, and being unstable on their feet, several produced well preserved black and white images of them as young men, standing proudly with Thesiger and his camels at a waterhole.

After trekking through the frankincense clad Qara Mountains, where we followed the footprints of Striped Hyenas, and discovered 4,000-year old pre-Islamic rock art, we were re-united with our own camels. Our passage across the border into Saudi Arabia was

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Into the Abode of Death - Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia Mark Evans

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Into the Abode of Death - Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia Mark Evans AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

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uncertain until the eleventh hour; verbal assurance had been given, but we had nothing as yet for us to show a dubious, heavily armed border guard at one of the most remote of unfenced and unmarked borders. One day from arrival, word reached us that we were in, by Royal Command of the King himself. The enormous star dunes of Dakaka, where it had not rained for seven years made for the most beautiful of landscapes, and whilst the night-time temperatures dropped to a low of 0.4 degrees, for the most part a northerly wind made daytime progress bearable.

On days when that wind did not blow, temperatures rose and camels bellowed, kicked and spat in protest. Our daily routine was a simple one; each night we would sleep on the sand, and Amur would rise first before dawn to pray, and by 0630 we would have The star dunes of Dakaka grow in size as we move off just after dawn..

Image Š Sim Davis

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Into the Abode of Death - Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia Mark Evans AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

un-hobbled the camels and were on the move, keen to get as many km under our belts in the cool morning air as we could. We would always walk for the first couple of hours, by which time the camels would have settled, ready for us to ride along at a steady speed of 6kph. Our day would end some 30-40km later an hour before sunset, when we would hobble the camels, gather wood for the fire, bake bread under the sand and settle down for the nightly star show.

After a few weeks that saw us following a line of small wells to the north west, the large dunes of Dakaka gave way to the flatter sand sea of Sanam, and we were able to start what Thomas described as ‘The Northward Dash’ for Doha, still several hundred Km ahead.

As we steadily descended to the Arabian Gulf the sands gave way to gravel, and eventually to the dreaded subkha, a salt encrusted mudflat that after rains can be treacherous territory for the camels.

Like Thomas, at this point we were beset by several days of heavy dew, and thick fog, making navigation a challenge, but hiding the

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sun from view until midday.

On January 27th 2016, some 49 days after we had left Salalah, riding fresh camels sent by the Emir of Qatar, we arrived at Al Rayyan Fort in Doha; the Empty Quarter had been crossed.

As with all expeditions, the end of the physical journey does not mean the end of the project. One of the key aims of our journey was to create role models to which young Omani’s could aspire, and to that end Mohammed and Amur have been busy delivering a series of 30 lectures to more than 5,000 young people at schools and colleges throughout Oman, promoting Outward Bound Oman’s aim to develop the next generation of leaders for the nation.

More information on the expedition can be found in the following website: www.crossingtheemptyquarter.com

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Into the Abode of Death - Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia Mark Evans

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Baruntse - A World Apart

Alex Staniforth Images Š Alex Staniforth

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Baruntse - A World Apart Alex Staniforth

The Himalaya. The first image to conjure in your mind may well be of Mount Everest. Many, myself included, have been captivated by the allure of this iconic objective. On a journey of dedication and overcoming adversity, both of my attempts to reach the summit in the last two years have been thwarted by the very nature of this foreboding kingdom.

By better fortune, it was my journey to Everest that offered me a sliver of what else the world’s highest mountain range had to offer.

Before I could test myself on the highest of them all, I was hungry for a bolder objective to prepare myself. Baruntse, a peak standing at 7,129 metres (23,390ft) looked no less formidable than the holy grail itself.

Taking pride of place in the remote Hongu valley, Baruntse stands far apart from the hordes on the Everest Base Camp trail. I signed up with an expedition team of three British and one Australian.

With our expedition leader, Francis, all were highly experienced – except for me. I had only climbed Mont Blanc, so Baruntse was a hefty step up in my mountaineering resume. The Gouter Ridge on Mont Blanc had little in common with the extreme high altitude environment besides the stale toast and sleepless nights (from the sound of snoring in the hut dormitories).

Our adventure began in chaotic Kathmandu. Shuttled through the potholed streets and stirring up clouds of dust in our wake, I was surprised at the level of poverty. Stray dogs loitered amongst dilapidated buildings and scorched pavements. Many streets were dirty and unkempt. Face masks protected people from the smog as they hurried along outside run-down shop fronts; battered scooters weaving carelessly through the streets at speed.

Just days later we had moved a world apart. I could open my eyes again once the ancient relic of a Soviet Mi-17 helicopter lurched it’s overloaded backside onto the infamous mountain airstrip of Lukla village; the main gateway into the Khumbu valley. Here we would trade the constant din of scooters for pine-scented air, and swap dodging erratic taxis for cumbersome herds of Dzo (“zok-ee-oh”) carrying supplies along the trails.

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Baruntse - A World Apart Alex Staniforth

Sunrise Hotel was cosy, but a tad more rustic than The Ritz: with bare wooden floorboards, tables and a cast-iron stove. The name was less misleading with the early glimpses of the surroundings outside. We met Thoman, our sirdar (base camp manager), our cook, Purna, and two climbing Sherpas, Ongchhu and Phur Temba, whilst the porters assembled gear in a babble of camaraderie. It saddened me how they were treated like the underdogs despite doing the hardest work of all.

The cobbled high street of Lukla village bustled with life in the morning shade. Pungent juniper smoke filled the doorways and counterfeit outdoor clothing hung above the mass of tourists. The creature comforts of the imitation ‘Starbucks Coffee’ would be the closest to home we would get for weeks, and the chocolate cake would become a distant, fond memory.

We left the masses travelling towards the village of Poyan, gradually ascending to acclimatise our bodies. Only now could I truly begin to appreciate the diversity of such a place: passing through lush greenery, alpine meadows and humid forested valleys. Suspension bridges swung across dizzying gorges and prayer flags rattled overhead. Waterfalls crashed to the ground. Vibrant Mani stones and crumbling Stupa shrines littered peaceful trails like Buddhist street art. It was deeply satisfying to stop and reflect on why I was here.

Dramatic backdrops and a warming welcome greeted our team as we moved ever higher towards an entirely subsistence way of life.

Curious locals watched on as we passed through their tiny village and stopped for tea. Inquisitive children chirped “Namaste!” and occasionally followed for a closer look at my iPhone. A period of torrential rain soon made the daily trekking a miserable routine, trudging through muddy sub-tropical forest for miles, and eating gone-off fried meat in huts whilst pulling leeches off our clothes.

The abject poverty and the beauty of nature still met in the same place, and the people were still happy. But the primitive expedition life was new to me. This was no package holiday – we just got on with it.

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Baruntse - A World Apart Alex Staniforth

Grassy alps of alpine flora were soon replaced by foggy high passes and bleak moraine as we pushed up towards the snow line and our first high pass, the Surke La. A boulder-strewn river brought us deeper into the tranquil Hinku valley. Here we would ‘warm up’ by climbing the popular Mera Peak, at 6,476 metres altitude. Her imposing north face loomed ahead as a moraine ridge cut through the debris fields of the Dig glacier to Khare village. I had no idea what this ‘straightforward’ trekking peak had in store, until two dishevelled burly Aussie climbers dragged themselves into the teahouse dining room, and collapsed onto the benches.

“What was the worst part?” I asked quietly.

“All of it”, they muttered – completely broken. Purna interrupted the anxious silence with an impressive steamed cake – with cherries on top.

“This Mera Peak summit cake!” Thoman grinned.

Their charisma, resourcefulness and hospitality was truly humbling.

Sadly, the cake left less of an impression the morning after, when the pong of rotten chicken overpowered the scent of Yak dung burning on the stove. I wretched. Purna hadn’t changed the cooking oil from the week earlier, and ‘Kentucky Fried’ Cake is something I never want to quite experience again in my life!

Feeling nauseous, for a different reason, we pushed straight to high camp, the oppressive heat and exertions sticking the clothes to my back. My un-acclimatised body screamed for respite. Ascending almost one thousand metres was a significant height jump that concerned me.

Endless zigzagging slopes brought a relentless white expanse through my glasses. Growing weaker in each step, I crashed into my tent, repulsing the heat, too tired to acknowledge the impressive panorama outside. I was fast learning how altitude is like horseracing, you have bad days for no real reason – and it can cost you a fortune.

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Baruntse - A World Apart Alex Staniforth

My 3:00am wake-up call of garlic noodle soup was projected everywhere. The summit push was on.

My body almost refused to co-operate. Transient orange hues of sunrise had never been so sickening. Walking up a broad gentle slope became increasingly laboured, un-coordinated at best. I was tugged on the rope, unresponsive, and repeatedly falling into the white blank beneath my feet. A snowy rise revealed itself ahead against the moonlight. It should have been beautiful, but every part of my body had surrendered at the thought. Alarm bells were ringing for possible HACE (High-Altitude Cerebral Edema) – and we were heading down. Fast.

The fiery glare of the glacier seemed to suck the dwindling life out of me for several hours. At the Mera La camp, I slumped dizzily against a sack of potatoes before tipping Diamox tablets for altitude sickness, rehydration sachets and litres of water, down my throat.

“If you don’t recover by tomorrow, I’m calling a helicopter. No discussion,” was all I registered.

Remarkably, overnight, I did recover, and summoned some grit as we trekked into the Hongu valley. The Hongu had a sense of real wilderness. In a world of seven billion people, there was no trace of mankind here. Out of the wind, the sense of solitude was overwhelming, for a moment I felt like the only person on Earth.

The abrupt shoulders of Baruntse were soon recognisable in the distance. However, Cyclone Phailin had continued to hamper our progress, dumping a few feet of soft snow to wade through. Our next stop beside the frozen Hongu river brought us to a tiny hut with flimsy tarpaulin for a roof, flapping in turbulent winds, and a makeshift table in the middle. The owner fiddled with the gas cooker as we huddled around for warmth. Wielding a stick, Phur Temba giggled and teased a rat scuttling behind the pans on the bare rock walls. Dal Bhat, the Nepali staple of lentil soup and rice, still tasted like burnt stew. Feeling jaded, I couldn’t have cared less.

Base camp opened up below into a hidden valley, situated peacefully

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Baruntse - A World Apart Alex Staniforth

beside a turquoise glacial lake at almost 5,450 metres altitude. Our mountain home was hemmed in by a dazzling panorama of crystalline peaks. Our eyes were spoilt for choice. With the serrated ramparts of ice and flutings of snow, the majestic face of Baruntse herself looked breathtaking – if not a little monstrous. Only three other teams shared this valley of silence, otherwise, we were alone.

A sense of pioneering spirit hung in the air. This wasn’t the dream; but the real thing.

The Sherpas busied themselves establishing camp as we took in our new surroundings. Thoman had quickly earned himself the nickname ‘Blackadder’, from being, in my opinion, frankly, useless!

The mountain tents still hadn’t arrived, the porters were suffering from snow-blindness, and Francis was kept busy with various logistical problems. Temperatures below minus twenty degrees Celsius were forecast on our summit day, and high winds gave only two possible windows in which to reach the summit safely. Our ultimate objective was now thrown into vague possibility.

We decided to let the French team break the trail for us. Kerosene tainted our breakfast of pasta with fried Spam, smothered in anxiety, we pushed above the safety net and left for Camp One. Having gazed at this mountain windscreen for days, we were quickly swallowed by its enormity, slogging beneath the undulating spines of the ridges and the crux of a fragmented cliff. Even down here, my body struggled for upward momentum as I hauled up on the Jumar.

Over my shoulder stood the massif of Makalu, the fifth highest peak in the world, flaunting her almost incomprehensible scale. I looked away and clung to the hillside like a loose rock.

By now, my team-mates Phil and Paul had abandoned their attempt– leaving just me, Francis, Phur Temba and Ong Chu.

‘What the hell am I still doing here?’ Momentarily crossed my mind.

I listened carefully to my body, and rocked up to Camp One at 6,100 metres altitude. Conditions were better than expected. Francis and I rested, saying little, but sitting and enjoying the silent

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Baruntse - A World Apart Alex Staniforth

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Baruntse - A World Apart Alex Staniforth

anticipation. Ginger tea simmered away in the corner. The sun retreated, the air bit below zero and the sense of isolation in this mountainous empire hit home. Only a wafer-thin synthetic sheet separated us from nature. This was the stuff of boyhood dreams – adventure like I had never known.

A few breathless hours over a steep rise had settled us on the wide plateau of Camp Two, at 6,400 metres, and in encouragingly good order. The summit ridge of Baruntse was beautifully intimidating, yet still painfully far away. It cut through the sky like a tooth, and blew me away before the wind could. Peeping through the tent door, I watched on, as a lone climber descended into camp with difficulty; staggering deliriously like I had a week earlier on Mera.

Confidence, adrenaline, and excitement crept in. I knew situations could change rapidly, and sometimes uncertainty was the best motivator.

“Jam jam!” called Ongchhu outside - his version of “let’s go!”. My enthusiasm fell short. And there was of course no jam for the wallpaper-paste porridge, upsetting the butterflies in my stomach even further! Sitting upright against the frosted shell of the tent sent a shower of ice down my neck. The head-torch beam sliced through turrets of steamy breath. The winds had dropped. At 02:00am, our summit push was on.

The mountain fell silent to the rhythmic crunch of ice, twinkling like fairy lights beneath our Millet boots. Only the fixed rope gave me direction through the all-absorbing blackness. We began the assault up the first ice wall, but I’d left my energy behind in the tent.

Clinging weakly onto the slope, the empty pain was indescribable.

Each step upwards felt like stubbing a toe; a searing pain that I couldn’t pinpoint. It startled me. The effects of altitude were incredibly frightening.

“I’m trashed,” I cried out.

“No you’re not. Come on!” Francis encouraged me from the darkness above.

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Baruntse - A World Apart Alex Staniforth

The uplifting motivational quotes were just a nuance now. I slumped forward to rest my head on the snow, looking down at the black abyss disappearing below my feet. Devoid of all mental resolve; I was looking straight at failure. After two hours and reaching a respectable 6,600 metres, I knew it was time to turn around. Again.

The higher one climbs, the faster they deteriorate – the summit actually becomes much more than halfway. Ongchhu was visibly jaded, but the pride and superhuman strength of the Sherpa people meant he refused to take our water or cereal bars. Back at base camp, I was ruined, and shrivelled up like a prune.

“Whatever you think, you’ve done well. You pushed further than anyone else” Francis had told me.

Wallowing in the tent like a sunburnt recluse, I felt otherwise.

I was standing weakly outside the tent whilst sunrise erupted around the mountain amphitheatre, taking a few moments within my own world. This would be my last day here. Baruntse looked on, almost belittling me. Clouds rolled across the summit ridge; her secrets kept safe from me for now.

Guarding our way out of this mysterious place was the Amphu Labtsa: a fascinating and otherworldly glaciated high pass below hanging seracs and stalactites of ice. This vantage point was ours, with stunning views to Lhotse Shar and the sweeping gulf of the Imja glacier, where an abseil descent and scree slopes led us to the village of Chukhung.

Revived by the richer air, I was deep in thought as the trails took us towards Lukla in a final push, following the milky torrents of the Dudh Kosi river. The civilisation of Pangboche and Namche Bazaar felt alien to begin with. Everything did. I had come away from my goal empty-handed. I could only ask – what else do we get from these adventures? Looking around the paradise of the high mountains gave me some firm answers.

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Baruntse - A World Apart Alex Staniforth

Only when stripped bare can we truly appreciate the comforts that we are lucky to have. We fumigated the dining room of the Kathmandu hotel as we annihilated the breakfast buffet like a pack of hungry wolves. Our taste buds could barely cope. My first shower in 26 days was a divine intervention of sorts. By seeing what others don’t have, we learn to respect the things that we do, and what we’re capable of achieving.

Most of all, the Himalayas reminds us how insignificant we are amidst the vastness of nature. Becoming a liability on a mountain is never an option. This experience had been thrilling, stretching, and a rude awakening – and experience is what keeps us alive.

Find out more about Alex here: www.alexstaniforth.com

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“It is in the desert that Nature shows us its most uncompromising face.

The magnificent play of shadows, the comforting flood of light, and the gold glow of the sand are there, of course, but only when the sun is low on the horizon.

During the hours in between, the sunlight is hard and unflattering, and it is then that the desert reveals its cruel side equally beautiful , but disquieting.�

Arita Baaijens Desert Songs A woman explorer in Egypt and Sudan

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And They Went in Long Dresses...

Jacki Hill-Murphy Images © Jacki Hill-Murphy

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And They Went in Long Dress...

Jacki Hill-Murphy

The party fought their way through fierce and deep swirling rapids, the bank was still a quarter of a mile off, the chirpas went ahead sounding with their long poles to find a suitable passage and in the dizzy swirl they seem to make minimal progress, the horses were simply treading water.

When they reached the far bank, they found it abruptly undercut by the current and they had to somehow leap onto the bank. Isabella Bird’s horse made a desperate effort, but fell and rolled back into the icy Shyok River with Isabella under him. There was a mad struggle and she found herself suffocating under the drowned horse…

Isabella Bird was a true explorer, going where no European lady had been to before, on this occasion into the Nubra region of Ladakh, in the Indian state of Jammu and Kashmir in 1889. When she travelled, she went for years at a time, had no idea what she would find, took huge gambles with her personal safety and if she had been robbed or wounded had no fall-back plan or anyone to go and find her as she travelled alone. When she did get back to Scotland - she wrote her guidebook so the rest of the world could share her exclusive experiences. She was already sixty when she travelled in Ladakh and hid the broken ribs she suffered crossing the river because she did not want to worry her guides and porters, riding on in a long, wet dress.

How does that compare with my recreation of the same journey 125 year later? I poured off the early morning plane from Delhi with umpteen other tourists, with my visa, travel insurance, cameras, waterproofs, guide book, trekking trousers, poles, water bottle and sturdy boots intact and a bus took me to my hotel. I hadn’t trekked from Srinagar for a month, looking like Queen Victoria, on a frisky horse under the protection of a dodgy, turbaned, Afghan soldier who waved his sword and wore flowers. Indeed, I couldn’t even have come that way on a bus, because advice from the foreign office recommended that tourists not travel in the region and my travel insurance would have been voided.

I’m sure my lovely pony man and guide could have been descendants of the very men who escorted Isabella up and over the

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And They Went in Long Dress...

Jacki Hill-Murphy

Digar Pass at 5,500m, the little 4ft10 lady struggling to ride the yak she’d hired, but there are no rideable yaks now and I had to walk every step of the way following our pack ponies.

On reaching the Shyok River, on the border with Tibet, I found a series of streams in the place of the raging torrents that Isabella had to cross because a hydro-electric plant had changed the course of nature and the glaciers - what glaciers, they were almost nonexistent. I camped on the same lozenge of flat land in the ancient village of Digar that she had and experienced there a world little changed since her departure.

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Isabella's return route was the Khardong-La, now the highest motorable road in the world and I opted for a lesser known track back through the mountains which was a golden choice, because it was here I was able to become an explorer like Isabella and journey through a rarely visited area, not in any guidebook.

I am fascinated by the early lady explorers - they would have been such individuals the way they struck out on their own, their uniqueness in the Victorian world made salons twitch with gossip and men refuse to acknowledge them.

There are so many ‘firsts’ to attribute to them: how did Yorkshire girl Julia Pardoe come to find herself as the first European woman ever be invited to tea in an Ottoman harem in Constantinople in 1836? It was unheard of to cross that threshold, but somehow, she wangled her way in to the palace of Esme Sultana, sister of Mahmoud II and was sang to and fed exotic delicacies. As she was a keen observer her book ‘Beauties of the Bosphorous’ gives an accurate account of her travels to the East with a deep knowledge of the peoples and manners.

What was American Annie Edson Taylor thinking about when, on her 63rd birthday in 1901, she became the first person to survive a trip over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Was that an adventure or an attention-seeking stunt? Mary Slessor, a Scottish missionary to Nigeria in the 1890s was probably the first white woman to be trusted and accepted by the locals while spreading Christianity,

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And They Went in Long Dress...

Jacki Hill-Murphy

protecting native children and promoting women's rights and stopping the tradition of the killing of twins among the Efik, a particular ethnic group in Nigeria and Mary French Sheldon left London for Africa in 1891 unaccompanied and explored Lake Chala assisted by local people. All singularly extraordinary women.

When Californian, Maud Parrish ran away at sixteen, it didn’t occur to her that running away to play the banjo for prospectors in the saloons of Alaska may be a bit risky, that was in the 1890s, a few years later she ran a gambling club in Peking and then rode a wooden spring-less bus across Southeast Asia when she was in her 70s. She summed up her life of fearless gallivanting as ‘a grand party’, writing a book called ‘Nine Pounds of Luggage’, the most she ever carried with her on her travels! What a fantastic individual she must have been.

Another early travel writer who wanted to die with memories and not dreams was Mary Kingsley, brought up in Cambridge, who made up her mind to climb Mount Cameroon when passing by the coast of West Africa on a ship in 1895. She was so set on going that she decided that nothing would stand in her way: not the imminent onset of the rainy season, the lack of equipment or trained porters or guides or maps of any kind.

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I was not allowed to complete the journey to the summit in the rain and my party and I sat it out in a rat-infested hut for three days half-way up the mountain, until our local guide agreed we could continue the ascent. Imagine if we’d been wearing wet-through corsets and petticoats and were forced to lead our African guides and porters ourselves as they were too scared to go up, like Mary had to do!

Stanley found Livingstone in Tanzania in 1871 and we are still talking about it, Sir Samuel Baker discovered that the Nile flowed through the Albert Nyanza in 1864 and discovered Murchison Falls, but do we hear about his wife Florence Baker who had accompanied him throughout the dangerous and difficult journeys in Africa?

It is inexcusable that society at the end of the 19th century

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And They Went in Long Dress...

Jacki Hill-Murphy

considered exploration the domain of men and that so many great female achievements were un-applauded at the time and have become largely forgotten. Nothing stopped them though and the 1890s was a rich decade for independently-minded women travelling to unknown lands; it was an era when women were discussing liberalism, literature and the world and begin to break free from their lives of domestic servitude and authority. Isabella Bird was definitely such a lady, she felt cramped by her life in Great Britain and wrote that “off the beaten track is the real world” and felt physically and mentally healthier and stronger when she travelled.

If adventure and exploration is about losing oneself in wilderness and discovering new things, I wonder if I have explored with the same fortitude and passion to embrace danger as they did. It is so easy to become soft in our newly globalised world where our needs are quickly met and help is close at hand. Can I really be an explorer? Have we lost any of our sense of what adventure really is?

I don’t think we have, the adventures are still there, as long as we are willing to strike out on our own and not travel to tick a destination off a list - we can all be explorers and adventurers.

When I took my own route back through the Ladakh Mountain Range I came to a lady living alone in a remote underground house.

She tended a field of barley, gathered dried animal dung to use as winter fuel and had created a garden of marigolds near a stream to meditate in. She beckoned me into her ‘Hobbit’ house for butter tea, she saw few people as her husband had died years before and her son had gone away. She stared at me - and I stared at her, and at that remarkable subterranean dwelling - that was adventure, it was timeless. The way she poured that tea showed me that there are still ancient ceremonies in the world to witness and I was the anonymous ambassadress from England, thrilled to join her.

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“It was only after I had crossed the Atlantic - alone in a sixteen-foot dinghy at the age of twenty-one - that I got to understand my deep inner sense of adventure and of being challenged - and could start to work out what had driven me to attempt such a venture. Many times people have regarded me as being 'lost at sea'. In fact I have always known where I am, it's simply been a place most other people don't understand.�

Enda O' Coineen The Unsinkable Entrepreneur

Ralph White 37

A Ripcord type of Explorer

Rory Golden

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Ralph White: A Ripcord Kind of Explorer Rory Golden

“Explorer, Cinematographer, Diver. Rogue.”

We now live in a world of instant communication and digital imaging.

It’s not that long ago since it took time to set up a shot, and more time to carefully process those images, taken by still or movie camera, in the confines of a darkroom, waiting for them to emerge from their chemical bath.

In the pioneering days of deep sea exploration, in the latter half of the 20th century, there was a certain person who was at the forefront of new imaging systems. This person wouldn’t take no for an answer, but rather came up with self-styled ‘sea scams’ to twist arms, elaborate on stories, desperately seeking funding for projects.

He was a major influence on my life, and opened doors to adventures that I never expected to be a part of.

This person was Ralph B. White.

Ralph was an old school, hands on explorer and adventurer. Born in San Bernardino, California, August 1941, he grew up in Hawaii, where he learned to dive, attended military academy and went on to join the Marine Corps after high school. He signed up to Force Recon, one of the United States Marine Corps’ special operations capable forces. First serving with a parachute test regiment and later on refining his diving skills at the Landing Force Training Unit in San Diego, he was deployed to a deep reconnaissance unit in Vietnam.

Honourably discharged in 1967, with the rank of Sergeant, he cofounded a parachute school in Lancaster, California and during this time Ralph was also a free-fall cameraman for the TV Series “RIPCORD.” He logged 2,997 jumps.

Ralph was the co-inventor of the first helmet mounted camera – the original Go Pro. Titanic Photograph opposite © Emory Kristof

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Ralph White: A Ripcord Kind of Explorer Rory Golden

For the next 40 years he worked on films, TV documentaries, commercials, and deep sea expeditions. He was a contract cameraman for National Geographic and TV, Sports and Film production companies, with over 400 television and motion picture credits to his name. These include: The Deep, Tora-Tora-Tora, Exploring Lake Baikal, Virus, Planet Ice, The Great Whales, Monterey Canyon, The Breadalbane Adventure, Full fathom Five, Loch Ness Monster Hunt, Ghosts of the Abyss.

His film subjects included whales, sharks, undersea active volcano vents and shipwrecks, including Titanic.

At his home in Los Angeles, a world map was pinpricked with places that he had been to, not many areas left uncovered. A commanding officer in a reserve photographic company, in LA County Police, he was an expert marksman, the collection of guns in his home, a scary wonder to behold.

His many achievements have been acknowledged by his peers. He was a Fellow of The Explorers Club, Royal Geographic Society and The Academy of Underwater Arts and Sciences, Past President of the Adventurers Club and recipient of the Lowell Thomas Award bestowed by the Explorers Club of New York.

Ralph White was the man who filmed the historic moment that Titanic was discovered on the seabed.

He was my friend and mentor.

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Ralph White: - The Titanic Diaries

On September 1st, 1985 the wreck site of RMS TITANIC was located at 41 43 08 N, 49 56 80 W. The successful culmination of a joint French /American expedition, the world’s most famous shipwreck had been found.

Ralph was on that expedition. He was one of the original team comprised of his life-long buddy Emory Kristof of National Geographic and Dr. Robert Ballard, Woods Hole Oceanographic

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Ops Room with Ralph White, Robert Ballard & Jean Louis Michel Image above © Emory Kristof

Institute, (WHOI) that came up with the concept to look for the ship in 1976, while all three were on a hunt for the Loch Ness monster.

To quote his own words: “One evening over a few wee drams of pure Highland dew, we were discussing the lack of currently available equipment to make decent images in the depths. There were great photographic opportunities and discoveries to be made in the sea, and we knew how to do it. Our collective problem was the usual lack of money to develop the hardware and finance the projects. We referred to our projects as “sea scams” because of all the justification it took to get one approved. The bait that we would use to get interest was simple. We would go for the big one right from the start. We would find the Titanic!”

After many years of experimentation with camera and lighting systems, and joining forces with the French IFREMER Institute, and covertly with the US Navy, Operation Titanic finally came about in 1985.

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Ralph White: A Ripcord Kind of Explorer Rory Golden

Dr. Ballard of Woods Hole, and Jean Louis Michel, of IFREMER, were the co-leaders of this scientific trip using new deep-water technology. The mission was divided into two segments.

Phase 1, started from St Pierre, near Newfoundland, on July 24th 1985, was on the French vessel, ‘Le Suroit’, using their new SAR, a sonar acoustic detection system. This two-week survey effectively ruled out where Titanic was not located, but picked up targets to be investigated on the second leg.

Phase 2 was based on the WHOI research vessel “Knorr”, departing from the Azores. On board were two camera sleds, Argo for live film and Angus for still images. The cameras and lighting systems were the result of Ralph and Emory’s’ years of research, experimentation and hard work. These were towed behind at a depth of over 3700 metres to record the ocean floor and look for photographic evidence of the wreck.

Ralph died suddenly in February 2008, aged 66. After his death, a handwritten journal of the 1985 expedition was discovered in his papers. The following are edits from that journal. These words give an insight to life on board both vessels, and the character of the man who wrote them:

July 26th. We got up early this morning at 4.30 am, to pick up and re-deploy 15 transponders in order to create a 4 lane corridor 4km wide by 20km long running from WNW to ESE. There is some disagreement as to whether the plot is too far north. I’m feeling good, but tired. The food is superb.

9.30 pm. Emory and I just finished doing pictures, video and film of Le Suroit from a Zodiac. I came back a little “singed”. My camera battery belt caught fire and fried my left side.

Dark-Thirty, July 27th. We launched the SAR vehicle at first light this morning and it will take the next 2-3 hours to pay out the 15,000 feet of braided co-axial cable until we reach stabilisation point where it’s flying off the bottom. Some idiot closed the airway

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Ralph White: A Ripcord Kind of Explorer Rory Golden

to our cabin last night and CO2 poisoning is not the way I want to go.

July 28th. Bob just came in. We have the first contact in the canyon with a confirmed magnetic anomaly. I’m just sitting here with my little radio trying to get some US news. Radio Moscow is talking about the decadent West and how Rock Hudson has AIDS because of his homosexual contact after Doris Day’s rejection.

August 2nd. We are getting our shins kicked out here. When you look up you see water! I found out last night that two of the systems I helped develop a while back are incorporated into ARGO’s capabilities. The weather reports say it’s going to get worse! A new magnetic target at: 41 43 30N, 50 04 00 W. A large one! While we ate dinner, the lounge portholes were under water the whole time. They are normally 12 feet above the water! Shit.

August 4th. Well, it finally happened, the pressure was too much I guess. Emory, Bob and I were having morning coffee. The captain came by for the mandatory morning greeting and handshake, and informed us that we were once more, “Into the breach, dear friends”, as a new and bigger storm is about to hit us. Emory ran out in his shorts, only to return a few moments later with a very, very loud ghetto blaster and clicked on bag pipe music, followed by the Queen’s Guards band, French national Anthem, Patton’s speech, the Marine Corps hymn, and other assorted goodies which had the crew in hysterics. Billy Lange (WHOI) was quoting the Geneva Convention, claiming cruel and unusual punishment for the minor crime of sleeping-in on a calm Sunday morning.

August 14th Punta Delgado, the Azores. We got here last night and it took 3 jeeps and a cab just to get Emory and me with the equipment to our new ship, the Knorr. Emory has spent $10,000 in overweight charges shipping our gear around. We will be going for a day and a half, and then doing a “Black Bag” job for the Navy.

August 15th. This is a very comfortable ship, except someone started pounding on the bulkhead next to my pillow with a hammer early this morning. The weather so far is perfect.

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Ralph White: A Ripcord Kind of Explorer Rory Golden

Aug 16th I spoke too soon as usual. The sea is breaking over the bow this morning. I should have known when Bob said to us: “Let’s take advantage of the good weather and shoot the underwater and ship to ship stuff early in the game.” What good weather?? I spoke to the radio operator and he said that this storm has been declassified to a “tropical depression” by some idiot in Miami whose radar doesn’t see this far out into the Atlantic.

Aug 17th. Well Hurricane Claudette gave us her all, but we’re still ticking. There were not many of the science types at breakfast this morning. Wonder why? The “Black Bag” ops start at 14.00, so it’s the easy life for a couple of days. (Author note: Classified part of expedition to look for lost USN submarines Thresher and Scorpion)

Aug 23rd. We’re hot stuff again. We picked up a Russian research vessel, which is now tailing us on a parallel course 5 miles off our starboard beam. Ah, the international chess game. Last night’s movie was “Raise the Titanic” which got a lot of laughs.

Aug 29th Last night Bob gave me an official Titanic crew uniform.

It is a neat blue jump suit with the patch and a deep ocean octopus on the back. I told every one it stood for Bob having a lot of fingers (tentacles) in every pie. It got a laugh out of every one, except Bob.

September 1st. (author note. Addressed to Astrid, his partner at the time) Your birthday, the 1st. Happy Birthday. Your present is at 41 43 08 N, 49 56 50 W. We found the TITANIC. Congratulations.

WE DID IT! I’ve been going 15 hours straight. I got off watch at 00.00hrs. local time, and was awakened at 00.45 and we got a confirmation on the number 1 boiler at 01.04.38 hours. Everything in the ship went bananas. It’s all there! Bob even hugged me because he could not afford the extra expenses of a film crew, but thank God Ralph gambled and was there – WE’VE WON. WE DID IT!

Epilogue

For Ralph, it was the beginning of a new phase of his extraordinary life. As he said: “I had a successful career before Titanic. After that, nobody cared about anything else.” He made 35 dives to Titanic

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Ralph White: A Ripcord Kind of Explorer Rory Golden

over the next 20 years including one as second unit cameraman for the 1997 James Cameron film “TITANIC”

In 1988, he made the first of his many trips to Ireland to speak about Titanic at a diving conference, one year after the first salvage expedition to the wreck in which he took part. I was one of the members of the organising committee. Perhaps it was a common respect for the sea, our mutual disregard for officialdom and protocol, or just a kindred spirt, but we became close friends. My life back then was in the music industry, and I would visit the USA regularly. Over the years he would stay with me, and I would stay with him in his log cabin perched on a hillside in Los Angeles. The living room of his house was a museum of memorabilia of his adventures around the world, especially his Titanic expeditions. His stories were always fascinating, but I learnt early on to decipher the embellishments!

In 1999 my life changed, and in August 2000, through his introductions and recommendation, I became a member of the Titanic 2000 salvage expedition team, having the privilege of being the first Irish diver to see Titanic through the viewing port of a Russian MIR submersible at a depth of 3875m. Ralph was my buddy on this, his 30th dive. It was an amazing experience, marked especially by our recovery of the main ship’s wheel. We left a memorial plaque arranged by Michael Martin of the Titanic Trail in Cobh. In August 2005, I made another dive, as part of a BBC Northern Ireland documentary, “A Journey to Remember”, with Mike McKimm of Belfast. This time we left memorial plaques on behalf of Belfast City Council and Harland and Wolff. As I was disembarking from our ship in St. John’s, Newfoundland, after our trip was over, Ralph was boarding with a Discovery Channel crew to make what was to become his last trip to Titanic. There have been no manned dives to the wreck site since then.

On the 30th anniversary of the discovery of Titanic, on 1st September 2015, an Explorers Club flag present on the 1985 Titanic expedition was put on public display in TITANIC Belfast. The Explorers Club flag represents an impressive history of courage and accomplishment and has been carried on hundreds of expeditions by

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Ralph White: A Ripcord Kind of Explorer Rory Golden

Club members since 1918. To carry the Club flag is an honour and a privilege. It has flown at both poles, from the highest peaks of the greatest mountain ranges, travelled to the depths of the ocean, to the lunar surface, and outer space. A flag expedition must further the cause of exploration and field science.

As the 1985 Titanic expedition was shrouded in secrecy, there could be no official application for an Explorers Club flag. Being acutely aware of the historical significance of the expedition, Ralph decided that there had to be one on that classified trip.

So he had one made, breaking all the rules and protocol, and risked being expelled from the Club.

To quote his great friend Emory Kristof: “It was easier to ask for forgiveness, than for permission” Ralph proudly displayed the flag on the deck of the Knorr after Titanic was discovered. Revealing the flag in New York at the annual Explorers Club dinner the following March, the reaction was, naturally, mixed.

Over the years, this flag went on numerous expeditions of a sensitive nature without the knowledge of the club. In 2014, it was presented to the Explorers Club by his daughter Krista, granddaughter Kaia, and fiancée Rosaly Lopes, having lain in storage since his death. It was to be retired due to its unique history, but a misunderstanding occurred, and it fittingly went to a final expedition to the Britannic, Titanic's sister ship, in 2015.

At my request, and a lot of persistence, permission was granted by the Explorers Club Flag Committee for this unique flag to be put on display in Titanic Belfast to mark the 30th anniversary of the discovery of the ship. This is the first time an Explorers Club flag has been to Ireland and marks the second time an Explorers Club flag has been displayed as part of an exhibition. In my mind, it was a fitting tribute to the memory of a man who thought big, and was loyal to his friends.

Rory Golden scattering Ralph's Ashes Image below © Rory Golden

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Ralph White: A Ripcord Kind of Explorer Rory Golden

The flag was returned to New York, and in March last year was formally retired by my friend, and Ralphs’, David Concannon, Vice-President of the Flag Committee, at the Explorers Club Annual Dinner. The theme at that year’s dinner was appropriately: Oceans – Current of Life. It was 30 years after Ralph first produced it at this event. It will now be on permanent display at the Club headquarters in New York, its clandestine existence over.

In keeping with his wishes, Ralph’s ashes have continued his legacy, and have been scattered all over the world. Two weeks after he died, I sneaked into the site in Belfast to the slipway where Titanic was launched from in 1911, and scattered some of his ashes into the River Lagan. He would have approved of this covert operation. A little piece of Ralph White and his spirit is floating around there, appropriately in the shadow of the world’s biggest Titanic exhibition that now overlooks the water.

His ashes have travelled to many places in, under, and over the planet, but that’s another story.

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Donga Fight 48

Jeremy Curl

Donga Fight, Western Omo © Jeremy Curl

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Donga Fight Jeremy Curl

Sharp leaves tore at us as we weaved through the forest. The nearest road was an eternity of walking away and we had to hack our way through the thick vegetation ourselves. I was in the pit of Africa, the fabled Omo River valley on the borderlands of Ethiopia and the Sudan: the thronging, savage, tribal heart of Africa that keeps beating its own drum while the rest of the continent lurched into some form of modernity. I was on the way to see one of the last truly unique spectacles of a now homogenised world: a donga fight of the Surma tribe.

I had come to the Omo River to explore the west side of the valley.

It is one of the last corners of Africa that is almost untouched by the outside world, where tribes continue a life unchanged for centuries, even millennia. The eastern bank of the lower Omo is often visited by tourists in many guises. Some are photographers, others are merely curious: voyeurs to a culture so tribal and alien they must taste it. It can be accessed by Land Cruiser and there are dirt tracks, that bring the tribes T-shirts, spaghetti and disease. Across the river, however, over which there is no bridge, lurks a more vivid and dangerous world rarely visited by the outside: western Omo. I had arrived in the western Surma lands from the lands of the Bench people, approaching the Omo River Valley from the north west. I had walked the bush from Dima westwards, desperate to get deeper and deeper into this tribal land, where roads and cars are almost unheard of. I had planned to take a donkey to help with carrying stores, but Tsetse flies were common this time of year and there were no donkeys to be found.

The Surma are an aggressive warrior tribe consisting of many clans.

The women wear lip plates, some reaching eight inches in diameter.

The men go naked, sometimes with a blanket slung over the shoulder and carry a spear or rifle.

Now, as I followed my Surma scouts deep into the forest, excitement grew to see old scores settled, the coming of men. A donga fight is a little like boxing, except it is village against village, clan against clan, coward against the brave and with eight-foot-long sharp sticks.

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Donga Fight Jeremy Curl

After a few hours, my small party stopped. The heat was building, even though it was only nine in the morning. We were almost there.

We had had a spot of difficulty with a python on the journey, and the Surma tribesmen who were with me had chosen to fill the creature with automatic fire from their Kalashnikov rifles. I felt sorry for the poor animal, but these Surma were ready for a fight and the adrenaline had already kicked in earlier that morning as they savoured the prospect of the day’s fray. Thick in the air was the chorus of chanting warriors, faint but unyielding. It became louder as we approached and the forest opened into a large clearing.

Gaggles of men clung to the edges of the clearing, some dressed in cloths, others were completely bare, all with warpaint made from ashes streaked across their bodies. I was pulled aside and the barrel of a rifle thrust in my face. It was one of the chiefs of one of the major clans and his party.

“Why was I here? What did I want? How much money did I have?” were some of the questions thrown at me as if the words were spits of white hot metal.

The reason that I was there was explained by my guide: I wanted to photograph the Surma way of life so that the world might understand the Surma, and I was allowed to enter the clearing.

Swathes of men joined the arena, chanting and dancing to their own rhythm, pointing their sticks to the sky or championing their most prized fighter. No one noticed I was there.

Yet.

“Never leave my side,” my guide, a half Surma man called Samson whispered, pulling me close.

I snapped a few pictures of these fine warriors from a distance.

There were women in the shadows of the forest watching the spectacle and chatting to each other between giggles. For them this was like a school disco, the chance to spot a future husband. A tribesman who proved himself in combat was sure to find a wife.

Soon the clearing was full with baying groups of warriors. Horns sounded and banners waved. Groups circled the fighters and sticks

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I stood aside as the hooting and chanting passed me by as they 52 took their champion into the forest Š Jeremy Curl

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Donga Fight Jeremy Curl

thrashed as the melee broke loose. Adolescents who would one day take part in their own donga fight held to the fringes of the fighting, watching on. I drew nearer and could feel the sweat and blood spray and the heat of the action.

I was noticed. A bullet whizzed past my head. It was not meant to harm, but only as an intimidation from a warrior who wanted to signal that I was to stay back. I saw a warband coming towards me holding their victor up on their shoulders and I stood aside as the hooting and chanting passed me by as they took their champion into the forest, only to parade him back into the clearing to shrieks and horns. It felt as if I was witnessing something unchanged for centuries, an African Coliseum.

Samson led me to the edge of the forest where a nervous youth was downing homemade sorghum beer and putting protective bandages on his head.

“This is my nephew,” he said. “He will fight soon.”

I could see a mixture of fear and pride in his face as he listened to his friend who was feeding him tips for a successful battle, for honour, for his future bride and for his reputation as a warrior.

I asked Samson even if I wanted to, would I be allowed to fight.

“No,” came the reply. “This is for us.”

I understood that this test of manhood and aggression is what set the Surma apart from other tribes in the area. As a consequence, they were greatly feared by their neighbours and as such were the most powerful tribe on the west side of the Omo River.

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The day grew longer and the shadows shortened and lengthened again. Much blood had been spilt and soon old family feuds spilled over into gunfire. This is not part of the game, the rules. There is no honour in it. But with the dangerous mixture of unresolved clan differences, fighting and alcohol, many men had picked up their Image opposite: Sticks thrashed as the melee broke loose © Jeremy Curl

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Donga Fight Jeremy Curl

second spear, the Kalashnikov.

It was time to leave.

The clearing now sounded like a wasps’ nest of zinging bullets and the crack of rifle fire. Samson and I ducked towards the way we had come. I was glad I had seen this amazing cauldron of African tribal colour. Over the coming days, I would meet warriors who had fought in the donga fight, their wounds a mark of their honour and bravery. For me it was a glimpse into the past, for them a glimpse into their future as men.

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Image: Western Omo © Jeremy Curl

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An Alternative Inca Trail

Jimmy McSparron

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An Alternative Inca Trail Jimmy McSparron The map I had was simple, to say the least, it looked like it had been drawn by a child. The verbal directions were a little easier to follow.

How hard could it be, I was going to walk from Ollantaytambo to Machu Picchu.

I grabbed a drink from a cafe and then asked for directions to the railway line. Obviously, not really thinking about it, everyone directed me to the railway station. Lots of guards and big fences told me that this was probably not the best place to start my journey. I walked about 2km outside of town along a dusty road and found myself conveniently near the railway lines, this time with no fence!

I began following the line, which was a bit awkward to say the least, I kept tripping over the sleepers for starters and the gravel was pretty hard going as well. I trudged along for a few hours in some of the most breath-taking scenery that Peru had to offer in this region.

The best thing of all was that there wasn’t a tourist in sight. In fact, there was hardly anyone in sight at all apart from the odd farmer or water buffalo ambling along in the distance and rice paddies in all directions.

The blissful silence was idyllic, I drifted off into an almost trance like state whilst listening to the sound of my walking poles clinking on the rails. Just as I’d got a nice rhythm going there was a godawful noise. It pierced my very soul it was so loud and I dived off the track into a ditch behind some bushes with barely centimetres to spare as a train shot past me. My heart was racing like crazy, reminding me that what I was doing wasn’t particularly high on the health and safety list so I concentrated for the rest of the trip, Especially on blind bends!

The sun was fierce due to the altitude, I regularly had to stop and reapply sun cream to keep the already cooked lobster colour of my exposed skin to a minimum. I had food with me for the journey but when I came across a town I decided to pop into a shop (they always have a plastic bag on a gigantic stick so people know where they are even when surrounded by forest) and see what they had. I stuffed myself with bread, Inca Cola and chatted to the somewhat

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An Alternative Inca Trail Jimmy McSparron

surprised locals (I was well off the typical tourist path). We exchanged some words in Quechua and English which made everyone laugh due to poor pronunciation by both parties (you try and pronounce “Imaynalla kashanki?” which equates to “How are you?”) After a good laugh I set off again, as it was mid-afternoon and I wanted to try and get as far as possible each day.

As it started to draw towards dusk, I decided to look for somewhere to pitch my tent. The only flat ground seemed to be near the train track which would have been stupid so I kept on looking. Every time I saw somewhere that might have been just passable as a camp site, I would go on looking for something better but remember where the last place was just in case I had to back track. This happened for about an hour or so, until I started to get a little worried.

I called out to a man and a woman that I saw working in a field. The man came over looking surprised to see a westerner far from the well-trodden tourist trails. He asked what I was doing and where I was going. I explained that I needed somewhere to put up my tent and asked if he could suggest somewhere. He replied that he’d ask his wife if she knew anywhere and went to talk to her. The couple came back with a suggestion that surprised me. “Why don't you come and stay with us?” I was a little taken aback by this offer but as I was tired and wary of the time, I agreed.

They told me I could sleep outside their house but underneath a roof which reached outward from the main building like an opensided lean-to. I dumped all my stuff down and they beckoned me inside. Dinner was served and consisted of my two least favourite foods on the planet, sweetcorn and fish. Not wanting to be rude I ate it all, as fast as possible, desperately trying to hide the taste with more Inca Cola! Seconds were offered but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. After a few hours of entertainment, I decided to hit the hay, literally, collapsing onto my roll mat and fell promptly asleep.

I woke up early in the morning to the sound of people stirring in the house and realised to my great surprise that I was covered in Guinea Pigs (a South American delicacy) I was obviously somewhat

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An Alternative Inca Trail Jimmy McSparron

warmer than the ground! I really do wish I could have freed my hands to take a photo but the second I sat up they all ran for cover, squeaking.

I offered some money to my hosts but they wouldn’t accept it, so we agreed on me giving them some food instead - tinned peaches, a luxury in these parts. I slipped some money under the tin as I stood it on the table and said my thanks.

The second day was a little more exciting, at one point I came running out of a tunnel screaming my head off, as a train gained on me, with the driver frantically waving for me to get out the way and by evening I had arrived at Piscacucho, the start of the famous Inca Trail.

There was a fence, a BIG fence, from the top of the valley, to the bottom and up the other side. There were a lot of guards at the train station itself. I did a little reconnaissance and thought I saw a possible route further up to the right of the town. I caught a child watching me, he came up to me and demanded chocolate in exchange for showing me where there was a hole in the fence. Peru never ceased to amaze me by this point, so I parted with valuable resources and accepted the help of “La Resistance”. We walked a fair bit up the valley and came across a ravine that ran alongside the fence. It was probably 8 meters deep but the kid climbed down into it and I followed on after. The other side was extremely steep and he told me to take my bag off. He boosted me onto a ledge, handed me back my bag and told me to climb up and out where I would find a gap in the fence. True to his word, at the top, I was free to continue my alternate Inca trail.

I start to pick up the pace, as it was getting late again. I crossed some very precarious wild-west style railway bridges, trying not to look down and having to leap between the supports as I crossed over them with one eye keeping a watch for oncoming trains and then I was once again back in dense jungle. It got dark very quickly and my mind started to play tricks on me. Fire flies kept appearing across the path ahead of me. In reality this looks exactly like someone carrying a torch. For good reason I’d shoot off into the

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An Alternative Inca Trail Jimmy McSparron

undergrowth like a rocket and this eventually led to me dropping and breaking my only source of light. I always carry two now!

I passed a false finish at a hydroelectric dam complex which was more heavily guarded than the rest of the route so far, but it was easy enough to bypass. After several hours of walking in almost pitch black, more or less feeling my way by keeping one foot on the rail, I heard music. I kept on walking for a bit longer and the music became steadily louder. I was suddenly surrounded by a pack of dogs, which was terrifying in the dark! I fought them off with my walking poles until after some moments their owner came to my rescue. He apologised and informed me that my ultimate goal, Aguas Calientes was only a kilometre down the road. I walked as fast as my exhausted legs would carry me, finally arriving and collapsing on a large flat rock outside the train station I went straight to sleep.

Although it had been a much harder way of getting there, with the help of the local people, I gained a unique insight into another way of life. They didn't seem to mind that I was cheating the system by not paying guide fees and trail passes. They were just happy someone had taken the time to pop by. I was happy to have met them.

Image opposite: Machu Pichu, Journey's End

Š FreeImages.com/antoniocrp

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Contributors

Credits: All articles and images are the copyright of the their respective authors. Ripcord Adventure Journal is grateful 158 to all our writers and photographers for permission to publish their work in the digital and print editions of the Journal.

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Editor in Chief: Tim Lavery Publisher, educator and scientist, Tim has worked throughout Europe in various fields for corporates, NGOs and Educational Institutions over the past 25 years. In January 2012 he launched the award winning World Explorers Bureau, a speakers agency representing over 160 of the world’s most accomplished explorers and adventurers.

Since 1985, Tim has earned numerous National Awards for his contribution to environmental awareness in Ireland including three Resource Ireland Awards, several Environment Awareness Awards, Local Hero Award and Inspired IT Award. He has authored more than 20 scientific papers ranging from ecology to new species descriptions and edited numerous other publications on a variety of scientific and education technology topics.

Tim is passionate about exploration and the dissemination of the results of authentic adventures and expeditions. In 2014 Tim was elected as a Fellow of the Royal Entomological Society (of London) followed in 2015 by becoming the first Irish person to be elected to the College of Fellows of the Royal Canadian Geographical Society and in November 2016 he was made a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society. He manages the Worldwide Expedition Professionals and Irish Adventure Association groups on LinkedIn and is a Director of the Irish Explorers Trust and World Explorers Museums’ Network.

In 2016 he was invited to join the Board of the World Explorers Society and serves as Director of Global Strategies.

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Mark Evans Mark Evans MBE has lived in Arabia for 22 years and is the Executive Director of Outward Bound Oman, Founder of The University of the Desert, and Patron of the Andrew Croft Memorial Fund.

He was awarded the MBE in 2012 for his work in using expeditions to promote intercultural dialogue.

Remaining firmly in the footsteps of Bertram Thomas, Mark gave a lecture at the prestigious Explorers Club in New York on October 31st 2016, where Thomas was made an honorary member in 1932 following his return from the Empty Quarter.

A UK lecture tour, funded by the Anglo Omani Society is organised for the spring of 2017, and includes Bristol, where Thomas grew up, and Cambridge, where he studied. The expedition book, "Crossing the Empty Quarter. In the Footsteps of Bertram Thomas" may be purchased at www.crossingtheemptyquarter.com/book/ For more information see: www.markevans.global

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Alex Staniforth Alex Staniforth is a 21-year old endurance adventurer, motivational speaker and author from Cheshire. In 2015 his second attempt to climb Mount Everest ended in disaster after the Nepal earthquake triggered avalanches, tragically killing three of his teammates at base camp, whilst he was below Camp 1 in the Khumbu Icefall. In Spring 2014 his first attempt to reach the summit of Mount Everest, aged 18, was cut short by another major avalanche.

His debut book ‘’Icefall’’ tells the full story of these devastating events and his journey through adversity to Everest, endorsed by Bear Grylls. Alex suffered Epilepsy and more in his childhood that has driven him to succeed and inspire others to build resilience, and overcome their own ‘Everest in life’.

He is proud to be the Young Ambassador for the award-winning Westgrove Group an integrated facilities and security management company based in Warrington.

For more information see: http://alexstaniforth.com/

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Jacki Hill-Murphy Jacki Hill-Murphy is an explorer, speaker and writer who recreates the journeys of the first women explorers, these journeys have taken her to the Ecuadorian Amazon, the Llanganates Mountains in Ecuador, Cameroon, Ladakh and Siberia.

Her book: “Adventuresses, Recreating Daring Voyages into the Unknown’ is available on Amazon. ‘Bad, Mad or an Angel? The story of Kate Marsden and Jacki Hill-Murphy’s Journey Across Siberia in her Footsteps’ will be published in 2017.

For more information see: http://jackihill-murphy.co.uk/

Image @Morgan Hill-Murphy

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Jeremy Curl Jeremy is an explorer, photographer and writer.

In 2008, Jeremy crossed the Sahara with the Touareg tribes that live there, photographing their harsh way of life and the bitter skirmishes they fight that are currently splintering the Sahara. He covered two thousand kilometres on foot and by camel, arriving in Timbuktu after crossing the Tanezrouft, the most arid part of the Sahara that the Touareg call the “Land of Terror�, becoming the first in living memory to do so.

Jeremy's articles and photographs have been published in a number of national and international magazines in both Europe and America. In 2009 Jeremy was nominated for a Rolex Award for Exploration and Discovery while his photographs have been exhibited widely from solo exhibitions to alongside Nelson Mandela in 2010. In 2013, Jeremy was presented with an award by the crown prince of Dubai, Hamdan bin Mohammed Al Maktoum, for excellence and achievement in exploration.

For more information see: http://www.jeremycurl.com/

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Rory Golden Rory Golden is an International member of the Explorers Club, MI 14. He is a Fellow recipient of the Explorers Club Citation of Merit awarded to the Bezos Expeditions Apollo F-1 Engine Recovery Project 2013. He runs his own Diving, S+R, and marine supplies company in Ireland: Flagship Scubadiving Ltd. For more information see: www.rorygolden.com or Rory's company website www.flagshipscuba.com.

Above: The late Ralph White (on the left) with Rory Golden on board the scientific research vessel, Akademik Mstislav Keldysh

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Jimmy McSparron Jimmy McSparron has spent most of his adult life in remote corners of the world. He has lived with many indigenous groups, getting tattoos deep in the jungle with sticks, meeting head hunters and cannibals: documenting languages and cultures along the way. He has also featured on Nat Geo Wild and the BBC with both screen time and as a location manager and fixer for a variety of TV programs.

His recent projects include exploring the part of the amazon basin he lives in, paddling completely alone through the jungle and recording indigenous tribes. He is a fellow of the Royal Geographic Society, the Explorers Club and the Royal Anthropological Institute.

Outside of the Jungle, Jimmy has ridden a horse 600 miles across the second highest plain in the world, driven a 3 wheeled tuk tuk 2500 miles across the whole of Peru and been part of earthquake relief teams in Indonesia.

For more information see: http://www.manusurvival.com/jimmymcsparron

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“Solo travel has never appealed to me.

Half the fun of an expedition is the planning of it and, as with old soldiers, the shared memories afterwards.�

Sir Ranulph Fiennes Cold Extreme Adventures at the Lowest temperatures on Earth

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Publishers Ripcord is the adventure insurance arm of Redpoint Resolutions, a travel risk and crisis response company specializing in comprehensive global travel solutions. They serve government agencies, corporations and organizations that require employees to travel or live abroad. The company is owned and operated by special operations veterans and physicians who practice wilderness medicine and understand the challenges of medical and security emergencies in remote environments.

Ripcord’s global intelligence, evacuation services, essential benefits and 24/7 operations center has your back no matter where your adventures takes you.

The World Explorers Bureau (WEB) is a speakers agency that represents 170+ explorers and extreme adventurers, men and women who have lived with cannibals, dived the deepest seas, rowed the oceans, cycled the globe, lived underwater, climbed the highest mountains, explored unmapped caves, walked, skied and cycled to the Poles, walked in space and continue to explore the unexplored.

WEB Speakers inspire audiences around the world with captivating tales of their adventures encapsulating themes which include pushing boundaries, leadership, teamwork and motivation.

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