IN THIS age of self-inquiry, and of inquiry into the lives of others, it is common to look for motives. In my own case it is perhaps true that childhood glimpses of the Canadian Rockies formed a lasting impression—a first link in a chain of events leading from one mountain range to another. I like to think it was so, for Canada was my birthplace, and though I had no option but to leave it at an early age, I still retain a nostalgia which distance and time cannot remove, no matter how much allegiance is owed to another country.

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It is impossible for me to look with the same nostalgia towards England, for I was never really happy there. How could I have been? As a family we had only left Canada in the forlorn hope of gaining relief for a completely paralysed father, and in England our savings were whittled away to nothing, so that we lost altogether our previous carefree prosperity. Also, the narrowness of the British mentality and way of life at that time depressed me. Perhaps, as a result of my early days in Canada, I felt cramped in England.

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Of my father I only recall a dark, broad-shouldered man, for he remained bed-ridden throughout the whole of seven painful years: painful for himself and for my mother, who nursed him, and painful for the children—all boys—who could not escape the harsh, grinding responsibilities and sacrifices which each had to bear at a time when schooling and games should have been their only concerns.

Standing out clearly, like a snow-capped mountain summit framed by dark storm-clouds, is the memory of my mother's valiant struggle and her determination never to forsake her children or to relinquish the pride which she had inherited from good British stock. She became worn down in the end, but not before her victory had been won, for she had by then set her sons firmly on the highroad of life, through school and to work. Although I did not see her during the last years of her life, I remember as yesterday her hair, which had changed from the deepest black to grey, and then to snowy white, but which in her last days gained a glorious golden sheen. Life had withheld much from her, but in the end it set this crown of gold on her head, as though in recognition of her selflessness.

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Against this background I grew up with an ambition and determination without which I would have been a good deal happier. I thought a lot and developed the far-away look of a dreamer, for it was always the distant heights which fascinated me and drew me to them in spirit. I was not sure what could be accomplished by means of tenacity and little else, but the target was set high and each rebuff only saw me all the more determined to see at least one major dream through to its fulfilment.

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Livingstone, Speke, Burton—these were my heroes, and though settled in England I already belonged at heart to Africa. Indeed my whole world was Africa, but it was not the true Africa. In it there were only wide savannahs and deserts, wild life, forests, lakes and rivers, and of course mountains. There was no place in this Africa of mine for large cities, and though I had heard of Johannesburg I half believed the story that lions still roamed its streets. Or, at any rate, I would not admit into my dreamland a Johannesburg made up of mine dumps and sky scrapers, milk bars and American cars.

What intrigued me most about Africa was the Belgian Congo, and Ruwenzori, which sounded all the more fascinating and familiar as "The Mountains of the Moon:' Snow at the equator! It was a rich thought, and not a dream. I would get there some day. I would. I did.

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The story of my impecunious youth is of no concern to others, and to myself the memory of it is best forgotten. Only the briefest of facts, which have in some way a bearing upon my story of Everest, need be told.

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At one stage, having served a five-year apprenticeship as an electrical engineer, and then having branched out as an assistant mains engineer, the time came for me to broaden my horizon. And so, each Friday, the Electrical Times would be scanned, with an eye always for a suitable post in Africa. There was no more than a slender chance of this, but eventually the time came when I was to pack my bags and head for the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan. This was far from the ideal, but at least it was Africa. I had dreamt of mountains, but had to be content with a barren desert. Instead of bracing snow-laden winds I had to endure the oppressive, sand-bearing haboob. In the Sudan, I seemed farther away than ever from the real magnet which had attracted me to Africa, and I resigned myself unwillingly to the stifling heat and the monotony, and whiled away my spare time by becoming the owner of a jemel beta el khalla ("camel of the desert —as opposed to a town-bred camel), whom I called Cuthbert, and who provided me with many adventures.

Two years had to elapse before my first leave became due, and then five full months had to be taken outside the Sudan but I could not go overseas because of the war. Without hesitation, I decided on the Belgian Congo, though means of transport beyond the southern borders of the Sudan were few and far between, and I was warned of serious consequences if I should overstay my leave. One of my objectives was, of course, the Ruwenzori massif, and a secondary desire was to reach Lake Kivu, the last of the large Central African lakes to be discovered by the white races.

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A nine-days voyage by Nile steamer took me to Juba, after which I travelled by whatever means were available, usually contriving to gain a place, though not always a seat, on lorries going to and from the gold mines of the Congo. Most of the lorries carried dry fish for Africans employed on the mines, so that travel was never free from the strong smell of salted fish.

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The lack of transport of my own made travelling very difficult, and the chance to do any actual climbing seemed to recede as I approached the mountains. In fact I skirted the long Ruwenzori range first to the west and then to the east, without ever seeing beyond the foothills. The snow peaks, wreathed in cloud and mist, were never visible. I had all but given up hope, and had left the Congo for Uganda, when an unexpected chance turned up, and by means of a series of journeys in fish lorries driven by Indians, I returned to the Congo where, at the foot of the snow-capped Mountains of the Moon, I found an enter-prising Belgian in the early stages of building a hotel. The mountains at this point rise abruptly from the plains with no true foothills as on the eastern, or Uganda, side.

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The Anglo-American explorer, H. M. Stanley, was the first to record these mountains, which lie between Lake Edward and Lake George to the south, and Lake Albert to the north. As far back as the time of Ptolemy, they were known as The Mountains of the Moon, though it is open to question whether these mountains, or the Virunga volcanoes, are the ones which suggested this name to the Arabic imagination. Stanley called them Ruwenzori—Mountains of Rain. The valleys are very deeply cut, especially on the Congo side, and small lakes are numerous. The vegetation is stimulated to fantastic growth by a combination of equatorial heat and a rainfall that is exceptional even for a mountain area. The Duke of Abruzzi, in 1906, was the first to scale the main peaks, the highest of which he named "Margherite" after the Queen of Italy. No gorillas live on Ruwenzori, in spite of the stories of some writers. Their nearest habitat is the forest to the west of Lake Edward.

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There was neither time nor equipment to enable me to do anything spectacular in the way of real climbing on Ruwenzori, but two results of my short stay on the mountain range were to have an important and far-reaching effect upon my future mountaineering activities, and indeed upon my whole life. Firstly, it was here that I proved the feasibility of going with none but simple Africans, in perfect harmony, thus setting a mode of procedure that was to hold good on all future occasions. We travelled lightly and therefore quickly and cheaply.

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Secondly, it was while in camp on Ruwenzori, just below the snow line, that I first came to think about Everest. I was sitting alone, gazing far to the south, when my thoughts strayed to the Virunga or Mufumbiro mountains which lie in that direction, and some of which I had glimpsed while in the neighbourhood of Lake Kivu before my climb on Ruwenzori.

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They are eight in number, and the idea suddenly came to me that I would like to be the first to climb all eight of them. Transport would be a problem, but companionship would not. I would go with none but the black men who lived in the vicinity. The idea grew into some-thing vital and worthwhile. It would give me a purpose for going to the mountains, a purpose for which I had been searching within myself. It would give me a chance to know some African people intimately and the wild beasts which live side by side with them. It would give me, also, a chance to get to grips with myself and the problems with which I battled. There was already something about the Virunga mountains which excited my imagination. Ruwenzori had done so, and now it was the turn of the Virungas. My mind was made up. There was no one to dissuade me.

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Then, without any apparent effort of thought, the original conception broadened into a tremendous ambition—that of going alone to Everest. If I were successful on the eight Virunga mountains —but only if entirely successful—I would go to Everest in the same simple way.