Keeper Of The Mountains (20 page)

Elizabeth's close friendship with Messner and other famous climbers sparked discussion about the true nature of her “relation­ship” with the climbers on whom she reported. American filmmaker David Breashears suggests that, for the majority of climbers, her reporting style was somewhat critical. He thinks it would have been difficult,
but perhaps more useful, if she had developed a more constructive, or even congratulatory, style. Breashears also felt she could be somewhat “hung up” on high-profile climbers and big achievements like Messner's while losing sight of some of the smaller, subtler accomplishments. He admits she displayed good instincts and judgment for exceptional mountaineering achievements, but added that that was so long as the achievements took place on a really big peak. He was convinced that the depth and scope of her reporting was linked to her personal interest in the climber – that her reports were not just pure historical data, but a way of connecting to the personalities she felt closest to – personalities like Messner.

Dr. Charles Houston didn't agree. He described Elizabeth's reporting as unbiased and scrupulously accurate. He did, however, remember the sharp tongue and pointed criticism in her conversations. “She didn't hesitate to say that so and so was a fool, so and so ran a terrible expedition and so and so made terrible mistakes.”

Elizabeth agrees she was interested in meeting climbers and learning about the human dimension of why people climb mountains and how mountains affect them. Over the years, she says, she became close to a few climbers and watched them change. She singles out Messner with his “articulate passion and ecstasy for the mountains,” as well as the great leadership qualities of Chris Bonington. But on the topic of biased reporting she says, “I guess I'm human, but I try not to be influenced by the personalities. I would hope the answer is no. I try not to.” She believes that her most detailed seasonal mountaineering reports reflected the most interesting climbs. She is amazed that the climbing community would even bother to have this discussion, and is genuinely surprised by their interest. “I'm astonished that all these people would even think of this stuff. They must have something better to do than this.”

Elizabeth seems unaware of just how enigmatic she has been. People enjoy speculating about those who keep so much beneath the surface. One person who found Elizabeth mysterious was American author Broughton Coburn, who was working in Nepal on the Namche micro-hydroelectric project. The Himalayan Trust was involved with their shipping logistics, so he coordinated them with Elizabeth. Coburn found her to be difficult to work with and thought there might be a couple of reasons for her non-cooperation. First, he didn't
think she related to or was interested in men who weren't climbers. He recalled seeing her with Reinhold Messner and a few Austrian climbers at a Kathmandu restaurant and was astonished to see her lively and smiling and almost flirtatious. He was seated a few tables away and couldn't take his eyes off her. He had never seen her like this! Although Coburn climbed, he wasn't in Nepal in that capacity and never presented himself to her as a climber.

Second, he was working for
UNESCO
and as a consultant to Sagarmatha National Park, and he thought that Elizabeth had her loyalties so firmly placed in Himalayan Trust projects that she regarded other agencies as somewhat suspect. Other people involved with aid agencies also observed that the Himalayan Trust group had subtly appointed themselves as the “colonists of Sagarmatha National Park” – expressing a kind of noblesse oblige toward that area. They sometimes gave the appearance of having staked their claim in the area of helping Sherpas, and everyone else was an intruder. These observers hastened to add that the work done by the trust was admirable and valuable, but a perception persisted that the trust was the self-appointed “royal envoy” to the area and Elizabeth Hawley, as the Trust's Kathmandu manager, was the self-appointed “queen of good work.”

However, Elizabeth's and Coburn's inability to get along may have been simply due to a difference in style. As Coburn recalled, he was trying to coordinate flights into Lukla and Elizabeth was extremely particular about how it should be done. He described his style as “winging it.” It apparently drove her crazy that he didn't know the precise weights of things. After decades of working closely with her in Nepal, he admitted he never became close to Elizabeth. She remained an enigma to him.

Canadian parks specialist Frances Klatzel brought her skills to Sagarmatha National Park in the 1980s and developed a close working relationship with Elizabeth, too. Frances first arrived in Nepal in 1980. While trekking in the Khumbu area, she jokingly volunteered her assistance to help the newly emerging park. They took her up on it and thus began a long and fruitful relationship. For years she worked in the Khumbu and had her mail delivered to the Himalayan Trust's mailbox in Kathmandu. The Himalayan Trust employed a mail runner who would make the trip from Kunde, back and forth
to Kathmandu, with short rests in between. It was the only way to get mail in the area at the time. Frances moved back to Canada from 1989 to 1995, but Elizabeth kept the little pigeonhole mailbox for her. “I guess she was expecting me back,” Frances laughed.

And back she came. After some years, Frances began giving Elizabeth a bottle of red wine for Christmas, a gesture that seemed to surprise Elizabeth. But the annual gift created a connection in Elizabeth's mind between Frances and wine. Years later, they were at a party thrown by Ang Rita of the Himalayan Trust for Sir Edmund Hillary, and Ang Rita's wife, holding a glass of red wine, approached Elizabeth and Frances. Elizabeth acted surprised and wondered aloud where she had found red wine, commenting that only diplomats and foreigners could source red wine. She then looked at Frances, “Did you bring it?” Frances laughed and explained that red wine had been available in the supermarkets for several years now. Since Elizabeth never bought her own food, she had no idea red wine was openly available in the supermarkets of Kathmandu. To Frances, it was a sign of Elizabeth's self-imposed isolation from real life in Kathmandu.

After 20 years of knowing each other, there were very few situations that Frances could describe as “personal” moments with Elizabeth Hawley: “She was cut-and-dried with me.” But she did remember one incident that might
just
qualify as approval. After working with Sagarmatha National Park for a number of years, Frances became an expert on the Sherpas, learning the language and gaining a deep understanding of the culture. She was also leading treks to various parts of the country. After hearing that Frances was about to lead a trek to the Annapurna region – far away from the land of the Sherpas – Elizabeth ranted, “Why on earth are they sending you there? You're one of the world's leading experts on Sherpas. Why don't they just keep sending you to the Khumbu?” Frances wasn't absolutely certain, but she thought Elizabeth's comment might qualify as a compliment.

It had been a while since Elizabeth had been on an adventure of her own, and so in 1980, shortly after China opened its doors to tourism, she decided to visit it, the long slow way: by train. Barbara Adams joined her. They travelled by train from London all the way to Hong Kong, stopping in East Berlin, Poland and Russia. From Moscow,
they took the Trans-Siberian Railway to Novosibirsk, and from there took another rail line south into Mongolia and on into China, ending up in Hong Kong. It was an adventure worthy of Paul Theroux or Eric Newby.

But all was not as it could be. By the time they arrived in Moscow, tensions had flared between the two friends and Barbara insisted on a single room. She hadn't paid for a single room, but, as Elizabeth recalled, Barbara was sufficiently persistent that the tour guide took pity on the situation and invited Elizabeth to share her room. The tour guide was reprimanded by her supervisors for that decision, but at least she kept the peace between Barbara and Elizabeth.

They continued east and boarded a twice-weekly train to Ulan Bator. It was a slow but determined train, which chugged and steamed its way across the never-ending Mongolian hills and plains. The most vivid memory Elizabeth had of this trip was the vast sameness of the Siberian landscape. “I like birch trees, but this was something else!” she commented about the limitless stunted forests. Elizabeth loved surface travel; the train was full of colourful characters, most carrying passenger-crushing loads of consumer goods from Russia, for which they must have traded Mongolian wool. From their faces and dress, they appeared Tibetan. The stations thronged with people arriving from the countryside, many with horse-drawn carts. Elizabeth and Barbara enjoyed the best the train could offer: a two-person compartment. This too became a source of irritation when “Princess Barbara,” as Elizabeth was wont to call her, insisted on taking the preferred lower berth. But there was more: Elizabeth often felt she was babysitting Barbara, picking up after her, finding her lost this, her forgotten that. It was not a style of travel that the fiercely independent Elizabeth enjoyed. She concluded that she preferred travelling alone.

The problem with the train was that it had no dining car and, worse yet, had neglected to stock any food or drink for the long, grinding journey. Finally, perhaps due to the protests of passengers, or maybe because the staff themselves were hungry, the train ground to a halt at what looked like an oasis in the desert. In fact, it was a
momo
tent set up in the middle of nowhere and was almost the last human habitation the train passed until they reached Ulan Bator.

Barbara and Elizabeth appeared to be the only tourists in the typically Stalinist-style hotel in Ulan Bator, and except for the faces of the
staff, they could have been anywhere in the world. This was a letdown for both of them, having read tales of horse races on the steppes, exotic yurts in the wild, fermented mare's milk and colourful costumes. Instead, they were installed in a comfortable but plain square block of a cement room, with only one magazine to read.

Elizabeth admired the richly adorned monasteries filled with golden brocade and statues scattered around the country, much as in Tibet. In Communist Mongolia, however, the monasteries were treated as museums of past history and were kept locked, except for the occasional tourist group. She remembered one unusual experience while visiting the most important monastery in Ulan Bator. Their professional but unfriendly guide unlocked the monastery and they entered. Before he had time to lock the door, an old, bent couple in traditional Mongolian dress followed them in.

As Barbara and Elizabeth listened to their guide's explanation of what they were seeing (similar to what one sees in the Buddhist monasteries of Kathmandu), the elderly couple made their religious rounds, touching their heads to the feet of the golden Buddhas and chanting prayers. The guide was noticeably irritated by the appearance and genuflections of these relics from an earlier, feudal era, and he lashed out at them, ordering them to leave. Nervous and afraid, they interrupted their devotions, gathered their belongings and scrambled out the door. When Elizabeth and Barbara tried to intervene on their behalf, the guide suggested they should mind their own business. She remembered the expressions on their wrinkled, careworn faces – from fear to fervour, then back again to fear.

Shortly after returning home, Elizabeth visited with Mother Theresa, who had started a mission in Nepal to care for the destitute. Speaking to an impromptu gathering at the Indian embassy, the honoured guest asked everyone to “storm heaven” with prayers, that she might be given a house in which to do her work in Nepal. Elizabeth was impressed by her firm voice and fluent English.

Another international visitor to Kathmandu was Britain's Prince Charles. While in the city, Prince Charles attended a press conference and noticed Elizabeth speaking with a couple of Nepalese reporters. He was surprised to see a white woman in this context, so he came over and introduced himself. When she introduced him to the two
Nepalese reporters he asked them if they enjoyed freedom of speech in Nepal. They assured him they did. Elizabeth pounced on them: “Manindra, you know you were shut down twice last week!” Prince Charles was amused by her retort and was charming to Elizabeth. She sensed he possessed an ability to connect with all kinds of people and appeared to be truly enjoying himself.

Jimmy Roberts of Mountain Travel organized a special trek for the prince, and Lisa van Greisen and Pertemba trekked the entire route ahead of time to ensure it would provide good locations for sketching – Prince Charles's passion. The prince completed the trek and proclaimed it ideal. Mountain Travel subsequently named it the “Royal Trek” and packaged it as such.

The fall 1981 mountaineering season saw 45 expeditions in Nepal. Elizabeth could remember when 17 was considered outrageous and wondered how she would deal with so many climbers. Despite the numbers, she continued to find the work interesting, the people fascinating and the climbing “family” one that she felt comfortable with. One of the highlights of the year was a climb of Manaslu, which had remained a less popular objective while other peaks attracted numerous expeditions. H.W. Tilman's comment, when he saw it in the 1950s, was that it was “impossible without wings.” Maybe so, but a four-person French team led by Pierre Béghin came to see what they could do with the West Face in the fall of 1981. One of the highest faces in the Himalaya, rising 3962 metres above the moraines to 7498 metres, it was complex and was routinely scoured by avalanches. To make it even more challenging, a sérac barrier at the top blocked escape from the entire face. Throughout the trip, the team endured demoralizing and dangerous avalanches, but it was during the night of September 27 that all hell broke loose. A violent storm struck Nepal, flooding valleys, destroying villages and homes, eventually killing 1500 people. The team retreated from the mountain and waited for conditions to calm down. When the weather cleared and cooled at the end of the month they got their chance, and on October 7 they succeeded.