How I broke my promise never to return to Everest

AFTER the deaths of two close friends and fellow climbers on our expedition to scale the north-east ridge of Everest in 1982, I promised Wendy I would never go back there.

This required me to break a commitment to a Norwegian businessman called Arne Naess, who had booked a trip to lead the first Norwegian expedition there for 1985.

But as 1983 wore on, my enthusiasm returned. This was a chance to reach the highest point on Earth being handed on a platter: Sherpas, oxygen, the easiest route. How could I resist?

Wendy was, inevitably, upset but in her heart she wasn’t surprised. I think she understood that I had unfinished business. Two years later I was at the top, the world on all sides dropping away. Friends have often remarked that climbing Everest changed me; that I was more at ease with myself afterwards, more fulfilled. I’ve sometimes wondered about that. After all, I hadn’t broken any records. I was only the seventh Briton to reach the top. That day on Everest wasn’t merely about reaching the top: it was for me the focal point of a climbing life, a gathering of so many ambitions, dreams and memories that climaxed in that upwelling of joy and sorrow I experienced at the summit.