Wordsmith
The Man with the World’ s Best Job
www. kevreynolds. co. uk
Kev Reynolds meets Mr Fixit on the slopes of the Himalaya
If you’ re planning to organise a Himalayan expedition you’ d be advised to get yourself a Mr Fixit, someone who knows his way around the mind-numbing bureaucracy of the East; someone who can hire a reliable crew of Sherpas, cook and porters, find fuel when there’ s no fuel to be had, and arrange a flight when all flights are booked; someone who knows who to know, where to go and what to do when things go wrong. And believe me, the one guarantee you can bet on in the Himalaya, is that something will go wrong. That’ s when your Mr Fixit proves his worth.
I found mine by sheer fluke. In the summer of 1994 I was making a crossing of the Ötztal Alps with my wife when we arrived one afternoon at the Braunschweiger Hut, perched on a rocky island on the edge of glaciers. Pushing open the boot room door the first person we saw was a Sherpa. I blinked twice, then gave him a Namaste.‘ Where are you from?’ I asked.‘ Kathmandu,’ he replied.‘ No – where’ s your village?’‘ In Solu district,’ he said.‘ Where in Solu district?’‘ Some place called Junbesi.’‘ Junbesi! Do you know Ang Chokpa?’ The Sherpa’ s eyes popped-‘ How do you know Ang Chokpa?’ So I told him:‘ I stayed in his lodge last October!’ And with that Kirken Sherpa and I began a friendship that has lasted more than twenty years, during which time we’ ve made numerous expeditions together, and I’ ve come to recognise him as the ultimate Mr Fixit. Find yourself in a tight spot in a dodgy location, and there’ s no-one better to be with; no-one better than he to find a solution to a problem; no-one more able to get you out of a hole, to turn disaster into triumph – as I know to my benefit.
He once chartered a plane to fly eight of us to a remote meadow where we were met by our twenty-five man crew who had taken two weeks to get there: two days and nights on a broken down bus, then on foot for twelve days – after which we made our way into the real back-of-beyond on the northern side of the Himalayan divide. After ten days our doctor went sick and had to return to Kathmandu. No chance of a rescue helicopter where we were, but within an hour Kirken had organised his evacuation with porters and Sherpa escorts. All ended well.
Another time we were heading for Kanchenjunga during the Maoist insurgency. Knowing our long bus journey to the trailhead was likely to be blocked by armed rebel gangs, he hired a tough Maoist supporter as our driver. As a result no road block held us up for more than ten minutes.
At the end of the expedition we’ d arranged for a plane to collect us from the Suketar airstrip – then just a sloping meadow above the Tamur River. Clouds were down on the allotted day and without being able to see the meadow, the pilot turned back. We hoped he’ d return next day, but that night the heavens opened and the airstrip was waterlogged. No plane could possibly land on that, but we were due to fly home in 24 hours and tension was rising. Somehow Kirken got hold of a satellite phone and called a young helicopter pilot who owed him a favour. We made it out just in time …
Kirken’ s brother-in-law joined us once for a trek to Everest. Tsewan was the strongest, fittest, most
16 Outdoor focus | summer 2018 able of all the crew, and he and Kirken made a perfect team, but one afternoon he collapsed with a heart attack. Fortunately we were able to get him to the first aid post at Pheriche where he was given oxygen while we called for a rescue helicopter. Meanwhile Kirken summoned friends and family in Kathmandu to arrange his hospital treatment until he could get back to take charge. He saved Tsewan’ s life.
One year Kirken and I made an exploration of Nepal’ s Farthest West with five of his crew to act as porters. It was not a commercial venture, for he and I shared costs throughout. As the only map available at the time missed out a whole valley system and at least one 6000 metre mountain, we decided to do without. As a result we were lost for days at a time. I mean, well and truly lost. And it was liberating!
We also ran out of food, but came to a poor grubby village a thousand miles from anywhere( so it seemed), where the locals were hospitable and generous in providing us with a feast of potatoes and boiled eggs. Surrounding us as we ate, they also gave Kirken a fever and me TB. Not that we knew it at the time, in fact my TB was not diagnosed for many years. But that’ s another story …
Days blurred into one as our journey continued. I became weaker, coughing and spluttering from dawn till dusk, but tended with care by my Sherpa friend and the lads who shouldered the heavy loads, we made it at last to our destination where, once again, my Mr Fixit managed to conjure up a flight to get us home.
Years later, my lungs shot, I thought my Himalayan days were over, but an email arrived from Kathmandu.‘ Mugu to be open,’ it read.‘ Porters are hard to find there, but mules carry loads. Where mules can go, so can a horse. I’ ll get you one. When shall we go?’
Ah! Kirken the tempter, he knows me too well! Mugu was virtually the last of the untrod places and I could hardly resist. So gathering a few friends, my wife and I set off once more for Kathmandu where we were hung about with garlands of marigolds before heading for the lost land of Mugu. There, an unsuspecting horse was waiting to take me over a series of 4000 metre passes on my Himalayan farewell. Only my Mr Fixit would have thought of that.
Kirken Sherpa