Mount Everest1985

"Most successful?” Did Chris Bonington really mean happy – or was he thinking lucky or successful? I think he meant all the nuances of the word.

By most measures, the expedition was exceptionally successful. All those who really wanted to, did, in fact, make it to the summit, without even minor incidents.

Lucky? Indeed. But not just dumb luck. Maybe the luck was about how the team was put together, good equipment that worked well, the weather behaving a little better than expected.

Happy? Can you be happy while climbing into the heavens to the summit of Mount Everest with virtually zero oxygen in the air, freezing cold, while spending nights claustrophobically trapped in a tiny sleeping bag between three others in a flimsy tent and at risk of being blown off the mountain in the erratic jet winds that regularly sweep over the mountain? No, not even mountain climbers are that masochistic. But if in a period of two months or so, you can say that three or four days were extremely demanding, but that the rest of the days might be among the best and most joyful you ever experienced, then maybe the trek qualifies as, ‘happy.'

How can that be?

The main reason: It was Arne Næss Jr.'s expedition.

As a young man, Arne was one of the best climbers in Norway. His teacher was his legendary uncle, professor of philosophy and climber, Arne Næss Sr.

At the age of 20, young Arne disappeared from Norway to learn shipping from his second uncle, Erling Næss. The mountain man in him was locked away in a sealed room, hidden deeply in his heart and brain.

There was only one way it could go. After 20 years, he was rich and dissatisfied. The trapped climber within him cast off the chains, rushed out into the open air and shouted, “I want to go to the mountains!”

So, what does a forty-year-old who thought he had buried the climber in him, who knows that, at most, he has ten years to make up for what he lost and who was used to achieving whatever he set his mind to do? This isn't a dream of Norwegian peaks, like Gaustatoppen or Galdhøpiggen. He wants to climb as high as possible, on the world's tallest mountain. It was not his ambition to just go along on some random trip to the mountains. He wanted to finance and lead the first Norwegian expedition to Mount Everest.

He realized that he had to learn to crawl before he could climb. So, in 1979 he organized and led an expedition to an unclimbed mountain in Nepal, Numbur, about 7,000 meters.

I was invited along and quickly found a kindred spirit in Arne. We were both fun loving, competitive, performance minded and result-oriented. The outdoors was important to us, but it was the challenge, the unfolding and the mastery that was the main thing when we were on an expedition.

Numbur was a climbing setback. We didn't get above 6,000 meters. Internal discord and bickering drained energy from the team. There was no strength and buoyancy left to do what we had come to do; climb the mountain.

For Arne, it was a major defeat. This was supposed to be training and preparation for the big dream: Mount Everest. Was he really capable of leading an expedition to the world's highest mountain?

Maybe what happened was for the best. Arne learned that the composition of the climbing team was crucial, not only for reaching the top, but also for the opportunity for community, togetherness and joy. The lessons learned from Numbur made Everest in 1985 probably the best prepared and led climbing expedition in the history of the Himalayas.

Arne's core question was this: "Who should I take with me on the first Norwegian attempt to climb Mount Everest? The best, the toughest climbers in Norway? Those who know no fear or timidity in the face of thin air, freezing cold and howling storms, who are willing to give everything, perhaps even their lives, for the expedition to be a success?"

"No,” said Arne. “I want people with me who are good enough to reach the top on a good day, who have enough sense to refrain when it is life-threatening, who are willing to cooperate and complement each other and who don't maneuver or hold back to save energy for their own bid for the summit, and who I can forge into an unbeatable team.”

I'm not sure he thought all that in advance, but that's what he ended up doing. For the rest of us, Arne became our leader. Not a leader or a person we cowed down to, we were all too independent for that, but a person we looked up to and had unlimited trust in, a person we were happy to follow, and for whom we were willing to invest a lot.

The way he assembled the Everest team was not in any textbook. He invited twenty of the best climbers in Norway to a stew and beer evening. Some of them belonged among the young lions, others were semi-former greats. After explaining what he did and didn't want for the expedition, he asked everyone to write down the names of climbers they would like to join on an expedition to Everest. According to Arne, eight men all picked each other, including himself. Thus, the selection was as follows: Hans Christian Doseth, Håvard Nesheim, Bjørn Myrer Lund, Stein P. Aasheim, Ola Einang, Odd Eliassen, Ralph Høibakk, Chris Bonington.

What did Næss think about bringing perhaps the world's foremost Himalayan veteran and expedition leader as an ordinary team member? What would it be like for Arne to lead a group of climbers who all had more high mountain experience than himself? Could Chris handle being an advisor without the power to make decisions? Could he swallow subordinating himself to a less experienced, Norwegian businessman set on realizing old boyhood dreams?

For many years, Arne had run his own shipping business with good results. He was used to taking responsibility and leading other people, and to making important decisions with major consequences under pressure. But that was only about money, not life or death. Few of us believed in the theory that someone who has proven to be good at leading can lead anything.

That skepticism turned out to be wrong. Arne grabbed the reins from day one and never let go. Important decisions were made in the meeting tent. Everyone who had something to say was allowed to speak. Arne was quick to strip away unimportant elements and to put weight on those that were essential to decisions. We all felt increasing comfort and confidence in Arne as leader. In practice, he was something as unusual as owner, chairman and managing director at the same time.

Management is like a lot of things: it looks easy when done right, but is so hard when you're in the middle of it. It's one thing to make good decisions that bring security and respect. To grow beyond that and become a good leader, requires traits that Arne displayed: humanity, consideration and warmth, and the willingness to take the ultimate responsibility in demanding situations.

His leadership during the expedition recalls what a Chinese sage, Lao Tse, said on the subject: "The wicked leader is he who the people despise. The good leader is he who the people revere. The great leader is he who the people say, ‘We did it ourselves.”

Arne applied for a permit to climb Everest in 1980. The answer was that there was a queue for access for the preferred route via the south. Nepal, at that time, allowed only one expedition for each route per season, that is to say before or after the monsoons. If that's what he wanted, he'd have to wait until 1985. But other routes were open: the West Ridge or North Wall via Lho La and the Southwest Wall before the monsoon and the usual route after the monsoon. Or how about a new route? The huge Kangshung flank awaited the bold?

Arne must have been tempted to accept something that would have meant a quicker start. He was 42-years-old and would be 47 in 1985. Age is more than a number when it comes to the world's highest mountain. However, he did not give in to temptation; his goals and strategy were clear. He didn't want to do anything that might harm his chances of achieving his three-part dream:

1. Lead a successful Norwegian expedition to Mount Everest.
2. Get the first Norwegian climber to the top, without accidents.
3. Get to the top himself after the first two goals were achieved.

It meant very simply the south-east side from Nepal, before the monsoon and with oxygen. No overstretching by risk takers wanting to try something new, preferably without an oxygen tank and mask.

We arrived as a flock at Base Camp in mid-March 1985. Spring is the most beautiful season – in Nepal as well. Mother Nature had just woken up from her winter hibernation. Forests of flowering rhododendrons clothed the valleys in all the colors of the rainbow.

Everest's neighbors on the right stood watching us as we passed the checkpoints along the way. She hid behind the Nuptse Ridge and did not show herself until she came into view on the Khumbu Glacier. Then she lifted herself up like a blushing bride with the Khumbu Icefall as a veil along the church floor.

We used a slow march to acclimatize ourselves and to get to know our new friends, the Sherpas. To ensure that we got the best of the best, Arne had made agreements two years in advance with the cream of the mountain sherpas. By that, I mean those with experience from several expeditions. Many of them had been to the top of Everest, some of them several times. He also made sure that they had the personal qualities that he wanted in the composition of the climbing team.

His strong desire was that the Sherpas would not be regarded as hired hands, but as our new friends. We had to make them feel like they were part of a big family – with a shared desire to achieve a common dream. The fact that he realized this ambition is one of Arne's best achievements as a leader.

Pertemba, Pema Dorje, Tsowang, Ang Rita, Sundare and the others became attached to us with warm bonds of friendship. They became extra strong because they were intertwined while we walked hand in hand together towards a demanding goal. We all moved towards our own outer limits and were mutually dependent on each other to survive. The friendship will last as long as we live. Most of us have been back to Nepal to visit them, and they have taken the long journey to Norway to see us again.

From the time we arrived at Base Camp until we could make the first attempt to reach the summit, about one month passed. Four camps were to be established and supplied. The highest at almost 8,000 meters, between Everest and her body-guard, Lhotse 8,516 meters.

The division of labor between the Sherpas and us was that we went up and secured the route with fixed ropes, while the Sherpas hauled equipment.

This was the classic way of climbing the highest mountains until the middle of the 20th century: a small army of porters who, over the course of a few weeks, transported tons of food and equipment to Base Camp. Subsequently, a smaller group of selected helpers remained, who over a few weeks supported the construction of high-altitude camps. In the end, it was the strongest of the visiting climbers who crowned the expedition by summiting.

There were critical voices in Norway who saw that system as outdated in 1985. Everest was first climbed in that way by a British expedition in 1953. After that, others had already reached the summit without oxygen. Some had already completed ascents of 8,000-meter peaks in so-called capsule style; small groups climbing straight to the summit from Base Camp, without higher camps or supply depots. If needed, they improvised overnight stays along the way.

The criticism is understandable, perhaps even justified. The way Arne had chosen was seen by many young climbers as archaic, unappealing and lacking sportsmanship. In the same way that we now think that the endless queues of paying amateurs who scramble up Everest's naked body demean both her and the mountain sport.

Life in Base Camp and on the mountain quickly became routine. Somewhat randomly, we grouped ourselves into small teams that worked together to find the route and to secure it for later transport. My partners were Haavard and Ola. Not because we had the same sense of humor or because we were the same age. Haavard was, at 28, the youngest, Ola was in his mid-30s, while I, at 47, was the oldest of the Norwegians. But we complemented each other, and there weren't too many gaps in our pace or progress.

The dining tent became the daily meeting point. We discussed routes and progress, which Arne then summed up and came to a decision. We played cards, read books and told good and bad jokes. It turned out that Arne and Chris were unbeatable at poker.

Haavard got carried away, and lost almost a doctor's annual salary before a debt settlement scheme was put in place.

We had a daily resupply of provisions. One day a box of oranges was brought in. At that time, there were so many people in Base Camp that there were only enough oranges for one each. The alternative was to reserve the oranges for the visiting climbers. The reasoning was that the Norwegian climbers needed to produce more red blood cells to adapt to the altitude, a process aided by Vitamin C. The Sherpas, who live at an altitude of 3-4,000 meters all the time, had a decisive advantage over us from the lowlands. Some argued that they didn't need oranges for increased blood cell production. Arne thought the reasoning was good and agreed with favoring the climbers.

Chris was at work at the Icefall when the decision was made. When he heard about it, he said it was a bad idea: “You have told the Sherpas that we are all the same. We live in the same type of tent, we have the same type of equipment and we eat the same type of food. With this, you will tell them that some are more alike than others. This can be taken to mean that what you said is just talk. The willingness to put in the effort and support that we might need when the going gets really tough is much more important than a few more oranges for each of us."

Arne responded the way most leaders react to criticism of a decision that has already been made, with a clumsy attempt at a rematch. He repeated the original argument and disappeared into his tent. The rest of us remained seated, a bit thoughtful and brooding. Had we helped lead Arne into something that was not in the best interests of the expedition?

After fifteen minutes, Arne returned: “You're right, Chris, it was a bad decision. We have some amazing Sherpa friends. They must know that they are full members of our family. Of course we will share with them."

None of us saw this as a defeat for Arne, or that it was an attempt by Chris to take over leadership of the expedition. On the contrary, it reinforced the view of Arne as a good, strong and confident leader who did not allow pride to prevent him from listening to new and better arguments.

The expedition was not only well-equipped, it was also well organized. Arne had hired his friend, the Swede Christian Larsson, as Base Camp Manager. In good Swedish style, he maintained, "order and orderliness," about who was where, as well as who was going where and when. As a result, we never ran out of supplies or essential equipment in any of the camps.

One of the biggest hurdles if you want to climb Everest is the Icefall. This 600 meter high threshold took us a week to map out and secure. It is a steep, chaotic ice maze that blocks the way to a secret access valley, the Western Cwm. Chris knew the Icefall from previous visits, and was decisive in finding a safe route.

Stepping into the Western Cwm is like stepping into a cathedral. It is shockingly beautiful. It almost feels like you should remove your headgear in reverence. This narrow valley is surrounded on three sides by huge ice and rock walls. Directly opposite, with an altar and pulpit, stands the north wall of Lhotse. The east wall at Nuptse closes to the right. On the left side, Everest's Southwest Face rises towards the sky. For the first time, we saw all the way to the summit itself, 2,800 meters above us.

Ola, Haavard and I opened and secured the way to Camp 3 at 7,300 meters. It is located on a protected snow balcony on the Lhotse Face. Then Bjørn, Odd and Stein took over and made their way over the Yellow Band and out to South Col and Camp 4, the highest camp at 8,000 meters.

After a few days of transport, we were ready for the first attempt to reach the summit. We were only in mid-April. No other expedition had been so quick to prepare for a summit attempt. Usually, it is the middle or end of May.

Who would enjoy the honor of becoming the first Norwegian on Everest? Arne had said that he would make that decision alone. The question was not suitable for plenary discussion, he thought. Self-interest might overshadow what was best for the expedition.

At the same time, he had said that he was not going to pick himself. On the contrary, his turn would come, at best, after the rest of us had the opportunity. He had also said that we had enough time and equipment so that all those who wanted to try could have a shot. By doing so, he avoided having to maneuver to get into position.

Arne decided that Haavard, Ola and I would make the first attempt. Ang Rita and Pema Dorje were to be our Sherpa partners. Arne did not want anyone saying that the Sherpas had dragged the Norwegians to the top with them.
Therefore he wanted each man to carry with him what he needed of oxygen, clothing, food and drink from the top camp.

There were no supplies above that.

Two days after us, Bjørn, Odd and Chris were to start with three Sherpas. Arne and Stein P. were in the starting box a few days after that. Everyone wanted a chance.

The southern ridge between Everest and Lhotse is in a way both appealing and repulsive. It is saddle-shaped with beautifully bending curves up towards the mountains and down towards the lowlands. But the terrain also tells a different story. Here it is bare, with only a smattering of densely packed snow between the rocks. Why isn't there more snow here, as there is higher up and farther down? Answer: South Col is a wind tunnel. When the air is pushed up from the Western Cwm or from the Kangshung Glacier on the other side, it can gain hurricane force as it sweeps over the saddle and blows away anything that is loose or lifts its head.

It's not easy to calm your mind at first at 8,000 meters. There is no question of much rest either. We had agreed that we would start at one in the morning.

It didn't work out that way. The Norwegians were ready, but strangely enough the Sherpas were not. It was nearly four- thirty before we set off.

The backpack was heavy, close to 20 kilograms. In addition to food, clothing and beverages, it had two steel oxygen tanks weighing 7.5 kilograms each. I felt small and vulnerable. Haavard and Ola apparently had no problem. I tried to pretend I was just as okay.

The first couple hundred meters are on blue ice. Not steep, but hard as steel. In pitch darkness, it's crucial to stamp your crampons hard so you don't end your journey flying down to the South Col rocks.

Above, the southeast flank rises steeper. Here it is either snow or rock. It invites more classic scrambling, something we are used to from Norwegian mountains. We hadn't set up fixed ropes above the top camp. Each man was left to look after his own safety.

After a few hours, we reached the so-called Balcony on the south-east ridge, just over 8,500 meters. The sun had risen, but until now had been hidden behind the mountain. In the shade, it was close to minus 30°C. Here we stood in the warming sun and looked out over the Himalayan summit fairytale. The world was calm and friendly. All other peaks were lower than us, Lhotse 8,500, Makalu 8,400, Cho You 8,200. The southeast ridge up to South Col was snow-covered and looked inviting. We could also see the sheer face of the final hurdle to the summit itself: the Hillary Step. For the first time I dared to believe we were going to make it to the top.

We switched to the unused oxygen cylinder. A full tank lasts for eight hours with two liters of oxygen per minute. We had been stingy with the use so far. The other, which was half full, was left for the return trip.

Ang Rita led on. He did without oxygen the whole time, as a matter of principle. He was a nuclear power plant of strength. We wondered if he was munching on enriched uranium rather than the barley porridge the rest of us ate for breakfast. I walked behind him and found that it was going a little slowly. Impatient, I turned up my oxygen supply a bit and passed him. I didn't look back until I stood on the South Col. I could no longer see the others behind me. Instead, I stared at the razor-sharp southern edge and at the Hillary Step. Behind it, but out of sight, was the peak. Only a hundred meters above me. I could reach out and greet her. I was no longer in doubt. An avalanche of joy and anticipation went through me: we were going to the top!

It was a short way down to the gap between the South Col and Everest. I stood there wondering; should I just continue, or should I wait for Haavard and Ola? The selfish part of me had no doubt: "You waded alone in the loose snow up to South Col. Now you can become the first Norwegian to the top of Everest. Go!" Another part of me heard Arne say: "We are a family. We are together on this. Arm-in-arm, not each of us.” I had no doubt about what he would have done.

That made all the difference. It had been windless on the balcony. Now it was a bit windy, maybe a breeze. I found a ledge on the lee side, took off my oxygen mask and sat down in the snow. Lhotse was visible behind the South Col. The daydreamer in me awoke. I toyed with the idea of climbing the fourth highest peak in the world straight after being on Everest.

Abruptly, I woke up from the daydream with snow falling on my head. About half-an-hour had passed. I couldn't see Haavard and Ola. Could something have happened?

I went back up to the South Col. They stood 50 meters further down with Ang Rita and Pema Dorje.

"What's going on?" I asked. “The Sherpas say the wind is picking up. In a short time it will be life-threatening," they replied. I stared at Pema Dorje. He nodded and pointed up towards the top edge. There, the wind was already chasing the snowdrift over the abyss to the east. But it didn't look impossible. We had been out in the cold before. Could it be that the Sherpas didn't care anymore, that they wanted to go down to the tents? They had both been to the top on previous expeditions, Ang Rita twice in fact.

I was in no mood to negotiate or turn around. Together with Haavard and Ola, I went back up to the South Col. Ang Rita and Pema Dorje stood still. At the South Col, the wind was stronger. It was difficult to stand upright. In the gusts, we had to get down on our knees and hold on with an ice axe.

Right then and there, I didn't understand what was happening. It was impossible to grasp. An hour earlier, it had been sunny with a gentle breeze. Now there was a dense snowpack, with storm force gusts. An hour ago, I was absolutely sure I would make it to the top.

Now Everest and the weather gods wanted to close the door on us. Should we try to plow through it? Would it be nuts to turn back so close to the top? Was I a fool for waiting?

Reason and dejection won. We turned back. I was left walking alone. Inside me, a battle was raging. Fury and self-reproach took turns gaining the upper hand. Damn Everest and the weather gods! Damn that we started too late! Damn my own fear and cowardice! I'm never coming back here!

Along the way, something happened that untied the knots inside me. I passed the body of a woman who had died on Everest six years earlier. We hadn't seen her in the dark on the way up. She sat halfway frozen into the ice. The hood of her down jacket had blown open. Her long, black hair fluttered in the wind. Her eyes and mouth were half open. It almost looked like she was just sitting and resting for a bit before moving on.

My head and chest calmed down. I had not become the first Norwegian on Everest. But I survived. And I felt that I wanted to try again, if possible.

Two days later, Bjørn, Odd and Chris started from the top camp. We followed them with binoculars from Camp 2 at 6,400 meters. They looked like six little tin soldiers who took turns doing the last meters on the ridge. Arne got in touch with Bjørn on the walkie talkie. "Are you at the top?" "I'm not entirely sure, but it's downhill on all sides," the device crackled. "Wonderful," cried Arne, "I love you!"

Later, we heard that Chris was so tired on the South Col that he wanted to turn back. Odd, who is the world's most considerate person, thought that the others had to follow him back. "No way!" Bjørn screamed, "It's only 12 o'clock, the weather is perfect. Have a drink and a morsel of food and we'll move on." When it comes to willpower, Bjørn is like the Henrik Ibsen character Brand, whose, "iron strength of will is either a curse or a blessing.” Bjørn's iron will was a blessing that day and rubbed off. All six made it to the top.

Arne, Stein P. and the three of us from the first attempt sat in Camp 2 and basked in the fact that the expedition had now achieved its main goal: the first Norwegian had reached the top of the world's tallest mountain. Arne didn't dare let his excitement get the out of hand, "for God's sake, be careful, Bjørn. Make sure you get all the way down."

I was proud and happy on behalf of Arne and the six at the top. At the same time, I was envious. Along the way, I had tried to delude myself into thinking that the most important things were the expedition itself, being with good friends and spending time in the beautiful mountains, rather than it being about reaching the top.

Wrong! It wasn't enough to have been to the South Col and knowing that I had the strength to finish. I felt an urge to have my own moment on the summit.

"Can Haavard, Ola and I try again together with you and Stein?,” I asked Arne. He was in no doubt. "We have enough equipment and food. Come with us." They were to wait in Camp 2 until the top team was safely down, before starting the last attempt. That would give me a couple of days to visit my wife who was ill in Pheriche at 4,300 meters, a long day's hike from Base Camp.

When I returned to Base Camp, I learned that Arne and Stein had already started their summit attempt. They were on their way to Camp 3. I was stunned. It would be impossible to catch up with them. And there would be no more opportunities. I understood Arne. On Everest, it is the weather that decides. You cannot tell the sun, the wind and the clouds to wait until Ralph returns from Pheriche.

I was furious. Not at Arne, but at fate, at the weather and most of all at Everest. I berated her, accused her of being erratic and unreliable. After I vented, something strange happened. It was as if Everest was saying, “take it easy, Ralph. You'll have another chance.”

Maybe it was a little naive, but I trusted her. Haavard and I got to work packing the extra equipment we needed to be able to join Arne and Stein. Ola said no thanks to another attempt.

Everest managed to persuade the weather gods to force Arne and Stein to head down from Camp 3. That meant we'd be together at Camp 2 for a final attempt.

A few days later we all started from the South Col. We had Ang Rita and Pema Dorje from the first attempt with us, as well as Tsowang and Sundare.

Once again, it was as if I was being put to the test. First, a crampon came loose on the blue ice above the South Col. It was extremely difficult to put it back on, standing on one leg in the pitch dark of night. Then I got diarrhea and faced the impossible choice between soiling my pants or taking off some clothes.

After emptying myself and wiping my backside with ice-cold snow, I was severely chilled. Some of my fingers and toes were chalk white and numb. Pressing on would be to invite frostbite and amputation. I remembered Arne Sr.'s lesson: "The summit is not worth a joint of a finger."

"You press on," I said to Arne, "I'll stay here and try to warm up. If I get warm, I'll catch up. Otherwise, I'll go back to Camp 4." The others disappeared upward towards the South Col.

After what seemed like an eternity without improvement, my fingers finally started to tingle. The tingling was replaced by intense frost pain. A painful but good sign.

Everest gave up her resistance. I had passed the tests. On the top plateau, she gave me a welcome gift: a stone stuck in my crampons. It was the first and last time that happened. I pulled it loose, said my thanks, and put it in my pocket.

Three meters from the top, Sundare stopped. He went ahead of me and broke ground. Then he turned, smiled and generously beckoned me to go first. It felt wrong. I looked at Pema Dorje behind me. He held out his arm to me. Together, all three walked arm-in-arm in the last meters. It felt like a warm example of what Arne had wanted and worked for: we had become a family.

Arne, Stein and the others followed. I was eager to start the descent. We were only halfway done. Most accidents happen on the descent. But Stein had something up his sleeve. He pulled a package out of his pack. He pulled out a kite. It was unbelievable: He wanted to set a world kite flying record.

I stared at him as he raised the kite and waited for the wind. But now Everest was teasing us. It was completely still. Not even a hint of wind. I felt my restlessness pass. We had enough time. Stein had reminded me that our trek was really just a game for big boys. His kite never flew, but I felt my inner kite take off. It still soars from time to time.

We got back to Camp 4 early. We could easily make it down to Camp 3. It could mean the difference between life and death. The South Col is a dangerous wind tunnel. Camp 3 in the Lhotse face is well protected. But Stein was exhausted. He had to be helped and didn't have the strength to go any further. In addition, Tsowang was snow-blind and in great pain. Someone had to stay in Camp 4 and look after them. But who?

"Haavard and Ralph, you go down to Camp 3," said Arne, "Ang Rita and I will stay here with Stein and Tsowang. If all goes well, we'll catch up tomorrow. Otherwise, you can launch a rescue mission.”

That was clearly the captain speaking. He would not take to the lifeboats and leave others to struggle with a damaged ship. Arne had not asked for this situation, but the incident confirmed and reinforced the sense of him being an
extraordinary skipper and leader.

The rest is history. What looked like an endless journey of triumph took off: consecutive celebratory dinners, a large reception at Fornebu airport at home in Norway, a mega media event, a TV movie, a slideshow in the University of Oslo auditorium, an audience with the King, book launch, Arne was named Commander of the Order of St. Olav by the king. Finally, like a lucky frog, he was kissed by the princess: his future wife Diana Ross.

It helped that Chris Bonington, quite possibly the world's most famous climber, had been there and, helped by Odd and Bjørn, realized a lifelong dream. He also opened the English-speaking world's eye to our effort, calling it "the happiest expedition ever.”

Was it justified? In sporting terms, no. It was more like a step backwards. But when it came to meeting Arne's goals, it was a formidable success. It almost seems that it was something Norway needed at the time. For a few years, we had to endure being beaten by our big rivals, the Swedes, on the Nordic skiing trail. They had to wait until 1991 to get the first Swede on top of Everest.