As well as visiting Walter and his family, I spent much of my three months in Europe travelling from country to country by myself. It awakened my love of travel, and when I returned to Australia I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. The idea of heading to university didn’t excite me, so I filled the days with some part-time jobs and more skiing trips to Falls Creek. It soon became clear, though, that skiing wasn’t going to pay the bills and I’d have to get a real job. Friends of mine had recently joined Victoria Police and it sounded like a lot of fun. I applied, was accepted and, six months later, moved into the Victoria Police Academy and commenced my training. Just like that, my career was sorted.

  I quickly discovered I enjoyed investigating crime far more than issuing speeding tickets, so I channelled my energy and efforts into becoming a detective. I worked hard and was seconded to a plain-clothes taskforce, which gave me more opportunities to catch crooks than uniform duties provided. In 1990, I passed my detective intake exams and interviews and was accepted for a position at Fitzroy Criminal Investigation Branch (CIB). A few months later I was on my way to detective training school—which I thoroughly enjoyed. I graduated in December 1990 and my tenure at Fitzroy CIB began. I was 23.

  The next ten years were the best of my police career. I was young and green when I started, but by the time I’d been at Fitzroy CIB a few years I had definitely become a man. I was very fortunate to have some hardened and experienced operators take me under their wings. Our patch was Fitzroy, North Fitzroy, Collingwood and Abbotsford, and there was never a dull day—or night. Our neighbours were Richmond, Carlton and the Melbourne CBD, so you get the picture. It was always busy and the workload was heavy, but this was what I’d signed up for and I loved it.

  I desperately missed the mountains and skiing though. The question of whether I could make a career out of skiing began eating away at me. In 1993 I applied for twelve months’ leave without pay from the police, and this was granted. I had decided to leave the force, at least temporarily, to give my skiing dream a proper go.

  I headed to Canada for the northern winter and completed my ski instructor certification. After returning to Australia, I worked as a ski instructor at Mount Hotham. I was skiing every day, and getting heaps of training and personal development opportunities. But income wise, it was a severe reality check. The 1993 season was poor with low snowfall, and there wasn’t much work. I was on the bottom rung of the ski school’s seniority ladder, so I was lucky to scrounge a few hours; I was certainly not making enough to pay the bills or enjoy any sort of financial security.

  Fortunately, I had a solid backup plan. Back to Fitzroy CIB I went, to resume my former life. With more money coming in, I’d head up the mountains to ski every chance I had. All my leave was spent skiing overseas, or at Mount Hotham working as a part-time ski instructor. I’d found a balance and was getting the best of both worlds.

  Years later, I often reflected on how important my double life was in helping me cope with the stress and pressure of my job as a detective. When I went on leave, I really went on leave—usually to North America, where I’d be totally immersed in a world of snow, mountains, wilderness and sport. I’d return to work feeling totally refreshed, recharged and reinvigorated. Many of my colleagues didn’t have an outlet like this—one they could escape to for weeks at a time, far away from the crime, despair and stress that went hand-in-hand with inner-city policing.

  Most of them dealt with the pressure of the job by going to the pub at the end of a shift. Alcohol, cigarettes and camaraderie were universal coping mechanisms for hard-working detectives back in the day—and if everyone was going for a drink, you wouldn’t dare not turn up. I wasn’t a seasoned drinker, and trying to keep up with my (mostly much older) colleagues wasn’t easy. Pub sessions would often spill into the early morning hours, which would take a toll because being at work the following morning was non-negotiable. There were repercussions for taking a sickie after a big night on the turps, so it was far better to turn up and struggle through your shift. If you didn’t attend work the next day, you were letting your mates down, and that wasn’t tolerated.

  Music was my other release from the stress of the job. I remain a very average guitarist, but being in a band that played regular gigs at Mount Hotham—and later in pubs around Melbourne—was great fun. I don’t expect you to have heard of the Mountain Goats, but we had an interesting beginning. What started as a dare had four of Mount Hotham’s finest ski instructors assemble a band, learn their instruments from scratch and play their first gig within twelve months. We were truly crap at the start but we got better, and it wasn’t long before we were actually being paid to perform. I should declare that I did have a rudimentary musical background, having played piano in my teens. But this was my first time playing guitar. It’s amazing how quickly you can progress when you’re learning an instrument because you want to, not because you’re being forced to.

  In pursuing skiing and music, I’d unwittingly engaged highly effective strategies to mitigate the effects of being exposed to constant violence, trauma and critical incidents in my job. I can’t emphasise enough the importance of such outlets to everyone working in high-pressure roles, especially first responders.

  It was around the mid-nineties that I became fascinated by the idea of climbing the world’s highest mountain. I devoured books and films on Mount Everest, telling anyone who would listen that one day I’d do the climb myself.

  I’d become more comfortable accessing back-country terrain outside the ski resorts’ boundaries. I’d completed an avalanche survival course in Colorado and was dabbling with ski mountaineering. I’d also started a ski tour business in Aspen, which was getting traction. But in reality, climbing Everest was a long way off.

  But that’s the funny thing about lofty dreams: if you want them enough, you’ll find a way to achieve them. In 2001, I took myself to Nepal and completed my first high-altitude trek around the Everest Circuit. I was captivated the moment I saw Everest with my own eyes. Its scale and grandeur were next level, and the seed in my mind began to grow. I’d coped well with the altitude; I had no reason to believe that, with the proper training and preparation, I couldn’t go higher.

  In May 2005, I got my chance—joining a small crew that was going to scale the world’s highest mountain.

  ———

  We’d been all but resigned to having to turn around and abandon our summit attempt due to strong winds, but at the final hour we’d been granted a reprieve. The tiniest of opportunities was there if we wanted it enough—if we were still strong enough and if we believed enough.

  We wanted it alright, and we didn’t need to be asked twice. A couple of photos, a quick pep talk and we began ascending into the darkness. It wasn’t long before a line of other head torches was behind us. This was likely to be the final summit opportunity for season 2005, and those like us who had been patient were also on the move.

  I’d dreamed of this moment for most of my adult life: how it would look; how it would feel heading out of Camp 4 on Everest, making my very own attempt at the summit. Now I was here, and it certainly didn’t feel like the glossy brochures made it look. The excitement I thought I’d be experiencing had been replaced with anxiety, nausea and what I was beginning to suspect was a nasty chest infection. Some serious doubt was creeping in too—especially given the slightly worrying weather forecast.

  From Camp 4, the climbing route to the Everest summit heads north-west across the South Col. The South Col is a large saddle of ice and exposed rock that sits between Mount Everest and the fourth-highest mountain in the world, Lhotse. At almost 8000 metres, the South Col is not a particularly pleasant place. With wind speeds routinely above 100 kilometres per hour, its only saving grace is the inability of large snow deposits to accumulate on its surface. Sadly, the high winds have been largely ineffective in removing the proliferation of human faeces snap frozen to most of the rocks that serve as tent platforms.

  After a few hundred metres, we reached the end of the South Col and the route began to steepen. Here climbers are required to make their way up and through several uneven rock bands before reaching a narrow couloir of snow and ice that steepens further and heads directly north. This is where you grind it out, one step after the other, as you climb to a small platform known as the Balcony. At 8400 metres, the Balcony is about halfway between the summit and Camp 4. From here, weather permitting, climbers can witness possibly the most breathtaking mountain views our planet has to offer.

  There’s no quintessential rulebook on how to climb Mount Everest, but it’s generally accepted by experienced Everest guides that to have a good chance of summiting and returning to Camp 4 alive, you want to reach the Balcony before sunrise. Fortunately, we were moving at a good pace, and we achieved that milestone with time to spare. The reward for our punctuality was one I’ll never forget. In fact, there is no natural event I’ve ever witnessed that comes close to topping what I saw from the Balcony that morning.

  As I turned to the east, I could see Makalu—the world’s fifth-highest mountain at 8456 metres—dominating the skyline. Its pyramid-shaped summit was protruding above a circular band of cloud that had surrounded the entire mountain—similar to how the rings surround the planet Saturn. Within the cloud cover, an electrical storm was unleashing its fury. Every second or so, there was a lightning strike flashing out from beneath the clouds. I stared, fixated, for several minutes, and there must have been more than 150 flashes of lightning. There I was, perched high above what appeared to be a well-choreographed lightning show many hundreds of metres below me. If I had to turn around right then, at least I’d been able to witness this.

  The Balcony is also where the climbing route picks up the true south-east ridge of Everest and, as the name suggests, begins to follow this ridge. Unfortunately for our small team, the wind speed was picking up and the south-east ridge was an uncomfortable and exposed place to be.

  Another issue had also presented itself. Not long after setting off from camp, two of our climbing guides—Pema Tshering Sherpa and Pema Pemchhiri Sherpa—began experiencing problems with their oxygen masks. They explained that they’d need to return to Camp 4 to get them fixed, but encouraged us to continue on. Greg (another member of our team) and I were comfortable climbing by ourselves. Our small team had been climbing the mountain under our own steam since arriving more than two months ago. We felt we were the strongest team on the mountain that season, in part because we could move autonomously between the camps.

  I was surprised we’d managed to reach the Balcony and our guides hadn’t yet caught up. Greg and I were concerned because there was still a long way to go—and the guides were both carrying additional oxygen that we would likely need by the time we were nearing the summit. It was rapidly approaching decision time for Greg and me. Without the additional oxygen cylinders, there was no way we’d be able to continue.

  Then, as if on cue, both Pema Tshering Sherpa and Pema Pemchhiri Sherpa (almost magically) appeared—big smiles and high-fives all round. They’d been caught in the line of slower climbers making their way up behind us. But they were back now, and it certainly gave me the confidence boost I needed. We continued climbing towards our next goal—the South Summit.

  The South Summit, at 8749 metres, sits just below the true summit, at 8848 metres, and is connected to it by a narrow, exposed ridge known as the Cornice Traverse. Reaching the South Summit is a major milestone for climbers ascending via the south-east ridge route (the standard route from Nepal). From here, climbers can see the final, daunting section to the true summit, including the Hillary Step.

  About an hour later, the sun began to rise and I discovered I had another issue. I hadn’t noticed it in the dark, or maybe it had just happened, but either way, I’d lost sight in my left eye. This isn’t an uncommon occurrence at high altitude: due to decreased air pressure and lower oxygen, vessels in the eye have the propensity to dilate and haemorrhage. It’s not what you want when on the final stretch to the summit of Mount Everest, though, and it forced me into decision mode. Without sight in my left eye, I could continue. I still felt strong enough and was moving at a good speed. But if I was to lose sight in my right eye, I’d be cooked. It would present a whole new range of problems and I’d be unable to continue in any direction under my own steam.

  I’m not suggesting for one minute that my decision-making process at 8500 metres was rational or based on any real logic, but I certainly wasn’t turning around then. We’d already had the conversation about what the others in our team would do if one of us became incapacitated. As brutal as it sounds, we all accepted that above the Balcony, it was every man for himself. At no stage did I want anyone else in my team risking their own life trying to help me. Easier said than enforced, but given the events at Cho Oyu two years earlier, I felt this conversation had been clear and the expectations were well-understood and valid. Greg and I sat in the snow and briefly went through it again. The agreement was reinforced, and we prepared to continue.

  But just before setting off again, we noticed another curious occurrence: the long line of climbers who had been slowly ascending behind us had turned around. Their head torches were facing away from us now, back in the direction of Camp 4. The words ‘Fuck me’ came to mind. If ever something was going to cause a dip in my confidence on summit day, the fact that every other climber on the mountain had decided to turn around was right up there.

  Add to that, many of those climbers were far more experienced and better qualified than me. They all had serious skin in the game: they all wanted it as badly as we did. Why had they turned around? What did they know that we didn’t?

  The wind was getting stronger and the occasional gust caused me to have to stop, brace myself and use every ounce of strength I had not to be blown over. I was pretty sure the wind was the main reason the conga line had done an about-face—it had become tough just staying upright. Why was there always wind? On Cho Oyu two years earlier there was wind alright, like I’d never experienced. It was hurricane-velocity wind, and I’d never forget it. What about all those calm and almost warm-looking summit days on Everest I’d seen in images online and in books? Where was one of those days when I needed it?

  But I didn’t need one of those perfect days. In my mind, a positive narrative was taking over and it was powerful. It had an angry undertone, so I needed to keep it in check. But it was liberating, and it was giving me strength. I knew I was being tested again.

  ‘This isn’t wind,’ I said to myself.

  ‘This isn’t wind,’ I muttered.

  ‘This isn’t fucking wind,’ I said a little louder.

  High on Everest, my mind was pulling me back to the relentless wind I’d survived two years earlier. I truly believed that Everest, right now, could never dish up wind or misery like I’d experienced on Cho.

  And in a perverse kind of way, the difficult conditions were a blessing. Our small team was the only one here. In an era when commercial expeditions on Everest were becoming increasingly common, having the mountain and the summit all to yourself was unheard of. This was our reward for persevering on a day on which nearly everyone else had decided to turn around. Later we’d learn that wind gusts of 35–40 knots had been recorded high on the mountain. Gusts of 40 knots are way too high for sailing and pretty crap for high-altitude mountaineering.

  We pushed along the knife-edge ridge and arrived at the Hillary Step. Before being destroyed in a 2015 earthquake, the Hillary Step, a twelve-metre vertical rock face, was the final technical obstacle on the way to the summit. Albeit a short climb, it was an incredibly exposed section of terrain with almost 3000-metre vertical drops on both sides.

  I’d never been great with heights, and I’d always wondered how I’d cope when I got to the Hillary Step. I was tired and no doubt somewhat hypoxic (again). But the hypoxia was working in my favour this time, because the exposure and risk of the situation didn’t compute. I clipped straight onto the fixed rope and up I went—I’m sure not quickly or gracefully. It didn’t feel like long before I scrambled over the top and, for the first time, laid eyes (or laid my right eye anyway) on the true summit of Everest.

  I estimated we were still about twenty minutes away, but for the first time in a while, I felt my pace pick up. The mix of adrenaline, excitement and nervous tension meant my ‘laboriously slow’ one-foot-in-front-of-the-other pace was now just ‘slow’.

  Another step, another step, another step. One of our crew was sitting down and filming as Pema Tshering Sherpa and I arrived at the summit. I collapsed to my knees and burst into tears. A kaleidoscope of images flashed through my mind and kept replaying. I was utterly drained and dying of thirst. But in my delirious state I was able to see there was no more up. No. More. Up. There was nowhere further I could go.

  I scanned the horizon and looked across to the other Himalayan giants I knew well: Lhotse, Makalu, Cho Oyu and Nuptse. I was higher than all of them: I was standing on the summit of Mount Everest, the rooftop of the world. I was cold, exhausted, elated and sad. My left eye was blind, my throat hurt and my left knee (another story) was done. My one and only water bottle had frozen and the same went for my Mars bar. My Snakes Alive were stuck to the inside lining of my jacket pocket but they still had a bit of elasticity, so at least I had some lunch.

  We’d each brought along some personal mementos, which we laid out on the summit beside the prayer flags that had been patiently waiting for us. Greg placed some of Paul Carr’s cherished items there, too, including the first athletics ribbon he earned as a young boy. As the wind picked up, I couldn’t help but wonder how long these precious tokens would hold their ground on the summit.