For many climbers, getting to the summit of Everest is as big as it gets. But for one man, that just wasn’t high enough. Richard Meredith-Hardy spills the beans on just what it takes to microlight over the top of the world.
I’d secretly harboured an ambition to fly over Everest for many years, and though I thought it technically possible, as the world’s worst fundraiser it had always remained way beyond my reach. The principal problems included launching and landing the glider at great height, oxygen breathing systems, the extreme cold, a powerful enough microlight, the weather, and of course cash - this wasn’t going to come cheap.
So it was to remain a dream until an old friend, Angelo d’Arrigo got in contact four years ago. He’d got interested in flying with birds of prey, to “learn how to fly better”, and had a project underway to fly a hang glider along a migratory route, towed when necessary by a microlight. Well, I’d done a bit of aerotowing in the past, and soon found myself tugging Angelo around a series of airports, dusty fields, public roads and beaches in Tunisia and Sicily. The project was a great success, and no sooner had I returned home that Angelo was on the phone. He had a more ambitious project; he wanted to fly over Everest and needed a tow. And even better - his sponsors liked the sound of it. It was the chance I’d been waiting for - the chance to microlight over the top of the world.
From the outset it was clear that this was going to be a very technical mission. The summit may be only 8850m, compared to the world altitude record of 9720m, but this wasn’t going to be in ideal home conditions, this was in remote and extreme terrain with a reputation for fierce and changeable weather. And just to make things interesting, it would be twice the height a microlight had ever attempted to tow a hang glider before.
We got to work and our first experiment at high altitude aerotowing came in April 2002 . Angelo was released at 5602m, we could have squeezed out a bit more if he’d stuck at it, but that was the probable limit of my machine. Several things went wrong on the flight, so if we learnt anything it was that if we were to survive an Everest attempt, we’d need a lot of specialist equipment with every detail carefully examined and exhaustively tested. Bodge ups just wouldn’t do.
We turned to a different craft, a well-proven and strong Pegasus Quantum. Without going into detail, it’s an old but very well proven design flown by the majority of student microlight pilots in UK for more than a decade, and looked up to the job. The first trial over the Italian Alps went magnificently, so it was time for the next test, Fiat’s research facility in Turin. By dimming the lights of the city for three days they can get their environmental wind tunnel just below –40˚c and, briefly, maintain it with a wind of 100 Km/h. You get a wind chill of -68˚c, and frostbite is possible in under two minutes. Perfect - just the sort of conditions we expected over Everest. Togged up in down suits, it looked like we were on track and it was time to look into the oxygen situation.
Whilst some exceptional people climb Everest without supplemental oxygen, the vast majority need it. Climbers of course don’t want to carry more weight than absolutely essential, and usually use a simple type of oxygen system delivering something up to four litres a minute. But this is only possible due to acclimatisation beforehand, and we didn’t have this advantage, at an estimate taking less than two hours to reach 9144m. To maintain anything approaching a decent saturated blood oxygen level we needed a ‘military style’ system which feeds you pure oxygen, and above 8500m literally forces it through the lung membranes. This is achieved by using a tight fitting mask, and consuming relatively vast quantities of oxygen - up to 14 litres a minute.
We headed to the hyperbaric chamber at the AMI (Aeronautica Militare Italiana - Italian Air Force) test centre near Rome to give an adapted military system a work out. In the chamber they took us up to the equivalent of 13,106m, about as high as you can go without a space suit. It was OK up to about Everest height but beyond that it becomes rather uncomfortable as the natural gases in one’s bowel expand - before escaping quite explosively. Luckily, the tight masks help with the smell! We were also introduced to the idea of ‘time of useful consciousness’, TUC in military speak. If your oxygen fails at 5486m, the average TUC is 30 minutes. At 7620m it is 5 minutes, and at our target altitude, less than a minute. This really hit home how vital a reliable system really was.
The second test was a couple of days later at the AMI flight-training base. The climb rate was excellent and we reached 7000m. It was a chilly -40˚c but I was quite toasty, my heated inner suit working beautifully. We were aiming for 9100m but Angelo experienced such extreme ice build up on his mask, that with safety in mind, he had to release. There was only time for one more test before heading to Nepal, a few small niggles remained, but in general I was convinced we had the right kit.
Landing in Kathmandu in early April, the “things to do list” was looking daunting. It included customs, permissions, oxygen, and fuel. The latter was the most difficult - local fuel is extremely unreliable and Avgas, proper aeroplane petrol, is simply not available. We’d ordered it from India but there was no telling when it would come. So finally, on the 26th, but with still no fuel we loaded a giant Russian helicopter with the microlight, three gliders, oxygen, tools, spares, food, camping equipment and luggage for 15 people for a month. The loaders topped it up to the ceiling with extra bags of rice, drums of kerosene and of all things, cement, until it was crammed full. When they were finished there was standing room only for one – me. We mounted up, the thing belched flames and we were off on the 45-minute flight. It vibrated like a wild horse but the crew thought this was normal.
Lukla, at 3050m was our base camp, about 38 km from Everest and the normal approach for trekkers. The airstrip is famous for its marginal weather, hairy approach, very steep slope and, with a rock face at one end, an impossible go-around. No problem for a helicopter but tales of screaming plane passengers abound. Nobody spends long in Lukla, it’s just a staging post, but eventually, after a dragging two-week wait, our avgas finally arrived. We were lucky, it seemed that the jetstream was still overhead and no expeditions had yet summited. We hadn’t missed anything, and still had three weeks before the monsoon.
We flew up to our advance base camp of Syangboche, and began the wait. Weather info indicated that you might expect two to four short periods of opportunity in May when the winds at summit level fall to 55 Km/h or less - the same sort of weather that climbers are looking for to avoid being frozen or blown off the mountain. Our forecasts indicated that the jetstream might briefly move north in a few days time around 16th May, so there was one window. But high winds at altitude weren’t the only obstacle. We’d already seen in Lukla how quickly cloud could build in the valley, and it was proving ten times worse up at Syangboche. The valley could turn from being perfectly clear to completely full of cloud in just 30 minutes. This wasn’t wind, it was too rapid, it was down to miniscule changes in air pressure causing the water vapour in the humid pre-monsoon air to condense.
So localised, this presented a real problem. It was totally unforecastable, and we could easily take off on a 2-½ hour Everest flight only to find that there was nowhere to return to – in this appallingly hostile terrain the nearest possible diversionary landing places were all way out of range. Unlike the climbers, who at base camp were above the worst of the valley weather, we now had two separate weather systems to contend with. The prospects didn’t look good.
When Everest was summited for the first time that season on the 15th May, we were in a fog. The high altitude forecast had looked good for the next day and we were up well before dawn for our first opportunity to launch fully loaded. Day broke to reveal marginal valley weather but we decided to go for it, and were airborne just after six. Our climb rate was awful, and to make things worse it was very turbulent. I desperately hunted around for an area of lift, but there was nothing - it was one big mess. I could see Angelo bouncing around behind me in my mirror, until I hit a huge area of sink, and saw him whiz out of view. Sometimes you can save such a situation by accelerating to prevent slack developing in the line - but not this time. The rope came tight with a sickening jerk and the weak link “safety fuse” snapped. Angelo was off. Worried about this unexpected third meteorological phenomenon, we returned rather miserable to Syangboche.
Many climbers summited on the 16th and many more up till the 19th, but the valley was still in cloud. On the 20th there was a terrific thunderstorm in the night. We later heard that several climbers died on that day, an un-needed reminder of what a terribly dangerous place it is. Morale fell further when the first successful climbing expeditions started turning up at Syangboche on the 22nd to be helicoptered out with their tons of stuff in the all too brief clear periods. Koreans, Greeks, Canadians and Americans. They all came and went.
Finally it looked like our time. The morning of the 24th. Clear, no cloud, this looked good. With the machine rigged, I struggled into my down clothes and heated suit, squeezed in and prepared to start. After a few nervous minutes with some nearly drained batteries, the engine sprang to life with a choke and started running happily - a big relief. Angelo was behind me, ready. It was nearly seven and I looked ahead, cloud was already swirling over the end of the strip - were we too late after all? We waited, heart in mouth. It didn’t seem to be the persistent stuff we were used to, just a temporary wisp.
Revving the engine to full power, and we were off. Circling round to the right over Namche we seemed to be climbing well, and settled in a steady climb to get some safety height in before heading towards Everest. At 4800m we left Syangboche, cruised directly over the famous Tengboche monastery and past Ama Dablam. The strip that Hillary built in the 50’s at Mingbo close to Ama Dablam base camp looked useable in an emergency too. It was time to approach our target.
My first view up the Western Cwm was incredibly dramatic, probably the most striking sight of the whole flight. It’s difficult to describe the sheer vastness of the South West face of Everest, this is one very, very big rock. We circled to gain height in front of this awesome spectacle, and headed off towards Lhotse, the fourth highest mountain in the World. Occasionally there was some mild turbulence but generally it was blissfully calm. A sharp left turn caused poor old Angelo to bounce around at bit, but I checked the mirror - he was still there.
All the time we had that massive South West Face of Everest in front of us. The colours were striking; grey rock with streaks of white snow, the summit pyramid, a surprisingly bright yellow colour, glowed in the early morning light. Up we circled, higher than Lhotse. Visibility was perhaps 150 miles; Makalu, the fifth highest mountain in the World was clearly visible off to the East with Kangchenjunga, the third highest, in the distance beyond. The vastness of the Tibetan plateau to the North was speckled with low puffy clouds far below. There was still no serious turbulence, but I suddenly felt an unmistakable jerk - the towline had broken.
Since the microlight leapt forward I could immediately tell it was my end, but whether it was the weak link which had failed, or something else, I had no way of knowing. In any case Angelo was now cut free with 65 metres of rope. I couldn’t see anything in the mirror, and circled round for a look, but Angelo, in a white glider against the vast white background of the Lhotse face was nowhere to be seen. He’d vanished into thin air.
Without the weight of the tow, I’d shot upwards and all of a sudden, there it was - the summit of Everest lying front of me. I flew by at 8:15, an hour and a quarter since takeoff. There were half a dozen people standing on top and four or five more very close, all taking a step a minute on their long last exhausting steps up the hill. I flew past two or three times too busy taking photos to really take in where I was - over the top of the world. It was a truly magnificent sight, but I had to keep reminding myself that this may be beautiful, but it was a really dangerous place to be. Taking great care to not be swept into the lee of the mountain on the Chinese side, I waved at the climbers, they waved back, no doubt wondering what the hell I was doing up there.
I later found out that in addition to Australians, Japanese, Americans, Italians and of course Sherpas, astonishingly there were at least seven British climbers high on the mountain that day who saw me. Vic Saunders and Oliver Burr were on the summit when I flew over. Jo and Rob Gambi were on their way up the NE ridge, very close to the summit. Paul Deegan was also on his way up to the summit but on the SE ridge whilst Barry Roberts had just summited and was on his way down the NE ridge and Ian Wiper was a bit further down on the second step.
After a few minutes I turned for home. I could just about see a bit of green through the clouds where Syangboche was supposed to be - it still seemed reasonably clear of cloud and a very long way down. I headed directly for it. Once past the Lhotse - Nuptse Ridge I throttled back, a serious mistake. The inlet manifold temperature plummeted instantly from +10°c to the ambient -25°c and my engine coughed and nearly died. I shoved it back to full throttle but the carburettors had probably iced solid, any throttle position would only give relatively low revs. I left it going at full, and acute reminder that getting to the top of Everest is only half the journey; more climbers have died on the way down than on the way up.
Still, I had plenty of height and at least my engine was still running, albeit uncontrollably. I conserved my height and sailed several thousand feet above the summit of Ama Dablam to arrive over Syangboche with over 2000m to spare. The cloud was increasing by the minute over the airstrip, sometimes I couldn’t see it at all. With no time to waste I tipped the machine on its wing and entered a steep spiral - I needed to get down fast. It was a reasonable circuit, a lousy approach, the engine stopped, and I landed far too quickly. But no matter - I came to a halt without damage.
After the immediate elation of actually having made it back intact, my first concern was for Angelo - where on earth had he gone? As time went by with no sign, it became increasingly clear that he’d had to make an emergency landing somewhere, and having forgotten to take his sat phone, we were in the dark. We contacted Kathmandu to try to arrange a search helicopter but nothing was available for hours. I thought the most likely place he would have landed was Mingbo - in the middle of nowhere and of uncertain condition, last used in 1961.
After an increasingly tense couple of hours the lady who ran the nearby Lodge burst out shouting something. She had a radio link to the Police station down in Namche, and they had links up the valley. Angelo had been located, a bit bruised from a fast and rough landing but otherwise safe and well. He’d landed near the Italian Pyramid at Lobuche, a long way up the valley from us, not a million miles from Everest Base Camp. It was to be four days before a helicopter could rescue him, by this stage he was suffering quite badly from AMS but soon recovered with a drop in altitude.
We’d done it - and lived.
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