“Armpitfalls” of exploring

Press, 17 August 1977, Page 17

“Armpitfalls” of exploring

The English manager of a hair-transplant clinic has set off on a solo voyage in a small yacht, following in the tracks of Chichester, Rose, and Knox-Johnston. He said he was doing it, not for the adventure, but to test his own hair transplant in extreme conditions . . . news item.

From “Acne of Achievement” by

Sir Edmund Hillary

It quickly became not merely a matter of working far beyond the pain barrier but a blind struggle to cling to the icy face as the wind — gusting to what Hillary estimated as an incredible and frightening 90 knots — tried to pluck them off. Hillary'. leading, had long ago passed what he thought would be the limit of his endurance and was cutting steps in the near-vertical snowfield in a trance, his arms’ only purpose to hack a ledge big enough to take a foot; his legs’ only aim to lift the feet one step, then

another towards the hidden summit. With numb hand he reversed the axe and plunged its haft deep into the ice, belayed, and stooped, panting agonisingly, to gather his breath for what he hoped would be the final spurt. Slightly recovered, he became pleasantly aware again of the comforting, almost indifferent, confidence he always felt at times like these; knowing that even if he got no further, even if the snow that was now falling ever more thickly became his pall, he had taken Macrame decorative thermal

underpants higher than any other man — and that they had stood the test. He could feel them, intact and snug after an ordeal that would have left a lesser pair in tatters, still firmly strapped to his leaving waist by a Snivertext action belt, the only hernia truss recommended by the Welsh Miners’ Federation that comes in a variety of wet-look synthetics that nine out of ten housewives had been proven to be unable to distinguish from real plastic. Hillary admits freely now that he can’t remem-

ber negotiating the cornice, apart from one searing moment of pain and embarrassment when, his axe raised to hack the final step, he caught through layers of protective clothing a trace of the odour that has ruined so many worth-while relationships and which had been responsible for the notorious bitching and infighting in the AngloLatvian assault on the South-west face the previous year — and so unnecessarily, for a quick slash through nine layers

of clothing with a jackknife laid Hillary’s armpit bare.

A refreshing spurt of Nuits de Nepal released a space-age solution of hand-selected carcinogens and assorted time capsules that Hillary knew would stop body odour where it started —in the mind — and keep even the sweatiest climber fragrant and good to be with for up to 24 hours, even at altitudes where other deodorants would freeze up and leave the wearer helplessly trying to get off the mountain with his arms stuck at right angles to his body.

A quick lunge and he was over the lip, confident that his Outdoor

Man mascara was as neat and as dry as the day he had applied it, and he lay full length and reached to give Tensing a hand on to the summit. The Sherpa lay exhausted in the snow for a moment, then stood tall, careless of the wind, and pulled off his balaclava.

Hillary hardly dared look. This was the crunch. He peeped past his bunched, frostbitten fingers, then exploded into a shout of glee. They’d done it. Tensing’s greasy, unsightly acne had almost disappeared, laving only the minimum of craters, and this had been ach-

ieved under the most gruelling conditions Valdruma, with wonder Gargophene, had ever encountered-

They embraced, exultant and relieved. But Hillary sensed a surprising coldness in his companion. Almost as quickly, he guessed what might be the reason, and struggled quickly from the folds of his balaclava. The dreaded stench, sickly sweet, told him what Tensing’s eyes had already hinted. “Its halitosis. I’m afraid. Ed,” the Sherpa said kindly.

Typically, Hillary made

no fuss, merely nodding in agreement before quickly gathering the gear for the descent. Night was closing in. and he knew only too well the effect of halitosis in a small tent during the sort of blizzard that was building up. They had four hours to make Camp Five, where they had left their last canister of Lustrol, the mouthwash with the colourant in the stripes. Hillary knew that if he returned to meet the press with his breath in that condition, they could kiss the full-page spreads in the glossies goodbye . , .

From “The Frozen Condiment” by

Robert Falcon Scott

December 10: Killed and ate the last of the horses, a most upsetting task as the poor beast had been a good and faithful worker until the last and had been becoming increasingly popular with all as the weeks went by. We’ll miss her, and certainly are not looking for-

ward to pulling the sledges the rest of the wav to the Pole by manpower alone. My melancholy aggravated by a tempestuous stomach, but I realise we must save the rest of the Alka-Belcher for the publicity shots at the Pole if this expedition

is to serve any purpose at all. A great pity: it worked magnificently when we polished off the last of the dogs —the atmosphere in the snowcave remained quite bearable — and it is certainly a product of which we can all be very proud.

December 11: Dreadfully hard today, hard sledging and my pavlova was an abject failure. I find myself constantly worrying about how the Norwegian party under Amundsen is doing. I know it seems churlish to, look upon this great enterprise

this way, but I wish we had taken the Norwegians’ advice and taken a few packets of monosodium glutamate along with us; it really does spice up a neal. December 12: I’m terribly worried about Lieutenant Oates; I haven’t seen

him since just before tea last night, when he said he was popping outside for' a while. His last words were: “Now look here, Scott, if its that flaming Burpee boil-in--bag pemmican for tea again, you can count me out. I’m going outside for

a while.” Oates is a very gallant gentleman, but he really must kick this habit of snacking between meals; no wonder he’s off his food at mealtimes. I’m sure it can’t be Burpee that’s upsetting him — why, the economy pack feeds four hungry explo-

rers. and it never sticks to the pan even when tested under Arctic conditions. Strikes me, Oates ought to realise we’re dashed lucky to get the chance to put it to the test like this, what with the First World War looming up and advertising budgets being slashed

From "‘Dental Floss Circles the World” by

Sir Francis Chichester

Those huge rollers were following in endless ranks like great, heaving mountains, the occasional one threatening to poop Gypsy Moth. But always she lifted her stern neatly to the threatening crests, turning her quarter in what seemed a mocking curtsey, and past each wave would roll with a

hissing like some great runaway express train. I thanked God the boat was well found ard that the fears that had seemed so real in the neurotic rush to have her built and launched in time for the circumnavigation attempt were being so gratifyingly proved unfounded. I was less happy with

the teeth. I had given them as arduous a trial as 1 could before leaving England, trying them out on a variety of foods and textures from muesli to junket: and, apart from one embarrassing moment with a double portion of nasi goreng in a Chinese restaurant — which, in any case, I had dismissed

as being due to my inexperience in operating the new set of dentures and not because of any basic fault in their design and construction — they had stood up well to it, being well balanced and appreciably faster than the previous set. But a few hasty meals before departure were no real

test of how they would stand up to day after day of grimacing determinedly into the icy winds of the Great Southern Ocean. Two days out of Sydney with the wind meter gone crazy, and feeling slightly befuddled after a sleepless night trying to fight my way back into the cabin to rest but being trapped

outside in the cockpit by the 14 layers of woollen clothes I was testing for the International Wool Secretariat, I was on the foredeck fighting to free a jammed slide when she rolled 360 degrees. One minute I was on the heaving deck, a moment of

freezing blackness, and I found myself clutching the cross-trees.

I was so concerned with wrestling back control of the boat that it was only after about 20 minutes, when I gave a grin of relief and chagrin, that I found my mouth was as

empty as the night, my raw gums meeting in a nash of frustration.

It was too late to steer a reciprocal course. There, somewhere behind me in the churning sea floated the dentures whose testing to the limit was the whole purpose of the voyage . . .

By

JOHN COLLINS