Chris Bonington Meet the Author

this has been Outside Source. Thanks

very much for watching.

Chris Bonington's name is synonymous

with British climbing.

The daring, the concentration,

perhaps even the obsession.

Certainly, the adventure.

Now in his 80s, he's called his

memoir Ascent, the story of a

fascination with high, wild places,

and the mountains that have always

called him upwards.

Four ascents of Everest

and a personal story, too,

of a marriage that lasted more

than 50 years.

Welcome.

You're in your 80s now, Chris,

but the urge to climb,

to go to the wild places,

seems as strong as ever.

It's never faded has it?

No, it's every bit as strong, but

the body is not quite so willing.

So, no, now...

When I go climbing -

I love climbing, but

the best of climbing

was when you were just drifting up

climbs, at the height

of your powers, if you like.

And now, you know,

I creak up climbs.

So you've lost that kind of sensual,

athletic kind of joy and pleasure,

and it becomes more the people

with whom you're climbing

and the place you're

in, the surroundings.

And visiting places that you've

known all your life,

peaks where you know almost every

stone, every track,

the Lake District for example.

In this country anyway.

But no, even, I mean,

in the Himalayas I still

love to go

trekking but in the last few years,

actually, my kind of treks

and climbs have been actually

going off, trekking up valleys,

hopefully where not many people

had ever been before.

You're not going

to see any tourists.

Which have a nice little dead easy

peak at the end of them,

which is probably about 5000 metres

high, but it's never been climbed.

And I go climbing.

The thing about going to places

which haven't been conquered,

or at least you think...

Conquered is a horrible word.

It is a horrible word.

I withdraw it.

The gods allow you

to reach the summit.

You did climbs, as you described

in the book, in the Alps,

that hadn't been done before as far

as we know.

And that urge to draw back the veil

is a really powerful one, isn't it?

Well, yes, it's that

exploratory sense, really.

And I think the exploration has

been a stronger thing

in me as the physical

pleasure of climbing.

All the expeditions I've been

to in the Himalayas,

all the peaks I've climbed,

have been first ascents.

The other only one that

wasn't a first ascent

was when I finally got up Everest,

when I joined a Norwegian

expedition in 1985.

And I actually got to the top

by the South Cwm route.

It was great.

It was wonderful.

But it's not quite the same as

actually having made a first ascent.

No, you describe many of those

first ascents in the Alps

where you were really

doing things that...

As a boy you would just dream of.

That was the thrill.

I think it's a combination of that,

but I think what I have done always

is when I started climbing,

I didn't have a burning ambition

to climb Mount Everest.

I was just absolutely filled

with the joy of discovering rock

climbing, hitchhiking up

to Snowdonia, hitchhiking

up to the Highlands,

and my mum gave me £2 a week.

And you could live on £2

a week in those days.

Stayed in youth hostels

and didn't drink anything.

And finding odd

people to climb with.

The fantastic adventures

you had in those days.

The near misses as well.

But that was all part of it.

Then you slowly developed,

you went to the Alps,

you went to the Himalayas,

you discovered that you could lead

expeditions and were actually

interested in the whole business

of logistics and leadership.

So it's kind of an evolution, a

development, as you go through life.

The story of your life,

as far as climbing is concerned,

the camaraderie comes

out very strongly.

But there is of course

another side to that,

which is that if you are climb

of the kind you've been,

you are bound to lose

friends rather regularly.

People who don't make it.

All too often.

And I mean, if you think of it,

all my big expeditions,

Annapurna South face, and we lost

Ian Clough right at the end

of the expedition.

A fantastic friend.

We'd done the north wall

of the Eiger together.

And then in 1975 Nick Burke,

another great mate.

Then in 1978 on K2, Nick Escort,

one of my dearest friends.

Then of course Pete

Boardman and Joe Tasker.

So, yes, that toll of

loss of life is sad,

but in a way it's something that

I think you've got to accept

if you're an extreme climber.

And it still is...

It's like going to war, in a way.

Once again, you accept that people

are going to die around you.

You regret them, but you carry on.

It's the same where your love

of climbing is so great - I never

thought of giving up climbing.

You remember very clearly, don't

you, your first sight of Everest?

It must be quite a moment.

It was a strange thing -

I mean, we'd just made

the first ascent of Nuptse,

the third peak of Everest,

which had been a desperate climb.

An amazing trip in a way.

We all got on incredibly

badly together.

With one or two exceptions.

And somehow we actually

pulled it off.

I'll never forget,

as you climbed up this gully,

on the south side of Nuptse,

which is the retaining wall

of the Western Cwm of Everest.

So suddenly as you come up

this gully, suddenly,

you pop your head over the top

and you pop your head over the top

and you're looking straight

across the Western Cwm.

And there is the south-west face

of Everest, black, veined in ice.

It looks totally unattainable.

But I wasn't that interested in it.

Because in those days,

we were going to go back

overland to Europe.

And I'd arranged to meet up

with Dom Willens to attempt

the north wall of the Eiger.

Now at that time my horizons

were not Himalayan, even though I'd

done two of the peaks.

My horizons was climbing

in the Alps, and that

what fuelled my ambition.

And the north wall of the Eiger,

anybody who looks at it

and is going off for a day of gentle

skiing will think, how one earth

could anybody go up that?

You were telling me earlier,

you've climbed the Old Man of Hoy

on the edge of the Orkney Islands.

When you were 80.

Goodness me.

Climbing the Old Man

of Hoy when I was 80,

but we made the first attempt

of course back in 1966.

With Tom Patey.

Very famous television...

And Rusty Bailey.

Magnificent.

The greatest television

extravaganza of all time.

The biggest outdoor

broadcast ever as well.

Then it was Leo Holding,

one of our brilliant young climbers,

he was the youngest person ever

to have climbed the old man

of hallway and he's a good friend.

It was his idea.

He said, Chris, let's

go and do it together.

I climbed it when I was 11,

I'm quite sure you're

going to be the oldest at 80.

Which I was.

And so we got together

and we did it.

How did it feel at 80?

It was tough, and I mean,

tough for quite a few reasons.

I mean, I just lost Wendy, my wife,

to motor neurone disease.

So I was very unfit because I'd

spent a year caring for her.

And I was heartbroken.

And I think Leo was pushing

me as much as a kind

of catharsis basically.

And it was.

So we got out and we did it.

I'd pulled my back shortly

before that anyway.

And the moment we started climbing

I realised this was not a good idea,

but there was no way

I was going to give up, so I climbed

through the pain and got to the top.

And I was pleased, you know,

I had a good tight rope all the way.

But I properly climbed it.

And it was a brilliant feeling,

actually getting to the top

with a good friend.

It gave a release that I needed.

Chris Bonington, author of Ascent,

thank you very much.

Thank you.