Ripcord Adventure Journal 2.3

Volume 2 | Number 3 | 2017 -Second Edition 

RAJ 2.3

Image © John C. Smith 

The modern and dynamic skyline of Doha

A Letter from the Editor 

Welcome to Ripcord Adventure Journal. 

Our seventh issue of Ripcord Adventure Journal and the first for 

2017 brings us on some very intriguing journeys of adventure and 

discovery. 

In our Guest Editorial, Mark Evans recounts the crossing of the 

famed Rub' Al Khali of Arabia by his team as they followed the 

footsteps of the almost forgotten Bertram Thomas who had crossed 

it back in 1931 guided by Sheikh Saleh bin Kalut al Kathiri. I was 

fortunate enough to meet Mark at the Royal Geographical Society 

in London recently and he strikes me as one of the great exemplars 

of modern British exploration, highly competent, daring and with a 

deep love and understanding of the lands and people with whom he 

travels. 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

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This issue is much enhanced by the beautiful photographs taken by 

John C. Smith and Sim Davis, who accompanied Mark Evans on the 

Crossing the Empty Quarter expedition. 

Alex Staniforth, a young British climber clues us in to the feelings 

and mental determination required to climb in the Himalaya. Jacki 

Hill Murphy follows Isabella Bird's Guidebook to find that 

adventures are indeed timeless. In 1889 Isabella Bird ventured in to 

Ladakh region of Kashmir to experience these remote lands and 

cultures. 

Rory Golden, a man of many talents give us a glimpse of the world 

of undersea exploration, the discovery of the Titanic and the life and 

times of the original 'Ripcord' adventurer Ralph White. 

In the first of a regular slot, explorer and photographer Jeremy Curl 

remembers his journey to witness a Donga Fight in the western side 

of the Omo Valley where manhood is tested and tribal feuds settled. 

In our final article in this issue, Jimmy McSparron finds hospitality 

and enjoys the dangers of an unconventional hike to Machu Picchu. 

We aim to be the home of authentic, adventurous travel, which

serves as a starting point for personal reflection, study and new 

journeys. We hope you enjoy reading this free digital Journal and 

encourage you to share it it widely. 

On behalf of the editorial, writing and design team I wish to 

acknowledge our sponsors, the World Explorers Bureau and 

Redpoint Resolutions (particularly Thomas Bochnowski, Ted 

Muhlner, Martha Marin and John Moretti) and offer a special 

thanks to Charlotte Baker-Weinert, without whose generous spirit, 

this publication would never have happened. 

Tim Lavery 

Editor in Chief, Ripcord Adventure Journal 

Ripcord Adventure Journal Copyright © January 2017 by World 

Explorers Bureau & Redpoint Resolutions. All articles and images 

Copyright © 2017 of the respective Authors and photographers. 

First Published January 2017 

Second Edition October 2017 

Cover image of the original Khanjar carried by Sheikh Saleh Bin Kalut 

in 1930 © John C. Smith. 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, 

distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including 

photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, 

without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case 

of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial 

uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, 

general enquiries or sponsorship opportunities, contact the publisher: 

Ripcord Adventure Journal: info@ripcordadventurejournal.com

“I already cherished a secret dream. The 

remote recesses of the earth, Arctic and 

Antarctic, the sources of the Amazon and 

the vast inner spaces of Asia and Africa, 

have one by one yielded their secrets to 

man's curiosity, until by strange chance the 

Rub Al Khali remained almost the last 

considerable terra incognita..” 

Bertram Thomas 

Arabia Felix

RIPCORD 

ADVENTURE 

JOURNAL 

2.3 

Editor 

Tim Lavery 

Featuring 

Mark Evans 

Alex Staniforth 

Jacki Hill-Murphy 

Rory Golden 

Jeremy Curl 

Jimmy McSparron 

Advisory Board 

Shane Dallas 

Paul Devaney 

Sophie Ibbotson 

Terry Sharrer 


James Borrell 

Bill Steele 

Charlotte Baker 

Weinert 

Publishers 

World Explorers 

Bureau & 

Redpoint Resolutions 

WWW.RIPCORDADVENTUREJOURNAL.COM

Contents 

Into the Abode of Death 1 

Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia 

Mark Evans 

Baruntse: A World Apart 19 


And They Went in Long Dresses 31 


Ralph White 37 

A Ripcord Kind of Explorer 

Rory Golden 

Donga Fight 47 

Jeremy Curl 

An Alternative Inca Trail 57 


Contributors and credits 63 

Image opposite © John C. Smith 

A Hilal moon slips down the western sky.

1 

Mark Evans 

Text © Mark Evans 

Image © John C. Smith

Into the Abode of Death 2 

Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia

3 

Into the Abode of Death - Crossing the Empty Quarter of Arabia 

Mark Evans 

On January 27th 2016, after 1,300km and 49 days on foot and by 

camel, Outward Bound Oman Training Manager Mohammed Al 

Zadjali and Executive Director Mark Evans, with Bedouin Amur Al 

Wahaibi arrived at Al Rayyan Fort in Doha, having followed the 

1930 trail of forgotten explorer Bertram Thomas across the Empty 

Quarter of Arabia. Their successful crossing was the first time 

anyone has attempted the journey in 85 years. 

The 1930 achievement of the little-known Thomas, and his Omani 

guide Sheikh Saleh bin Kalut, have been lost in the sands of time, 

overshadowed by Wilfred Thesiger’s beautiful black and white 

images and poetic writing. One of the aims of the recent journey, 

the first time in 85 years anyone had been given permission to 

attempt the same route from Salalah in southern Oman, to Doha, 

the capital of Qatar, was to put Thomas back on a pedestal, and give 

him the recognition his achievements deserved. 



The world of exploration at the time was a vibrant one; Peary and 

Cook had both laid claim to the North Pole, Amundsen and Scott 

had reached the South Pole, and Mallory and Irvine were at the 

cutting edge of efforts to reach the summit of Everest. With the 

poles claimed, attention was focused on the vast interior of Arabia. 

The exploits of TE Lawrence in the Hejaz had attracted the 

attention of the American reporter Lowell Thomas, and the moving 

images he captured of the dashing Lawrence played to over 4 

million people, from Covent Garden in London to Madison Square 

Garden in New York; the world was obsessed with the romance of 

Arabia, and in 1930 the race was on to become the first person to 

cross the Empty Quarter. 

Thomas came from a humble background; his father was a harbour 

pilot, guiding boats through the mud-banks and currents of the 

River Avon, and his mother ran the local post office. Thomas' early 

horizons were limited to the local area, until he signed up for the 

Somerset Light Infantry and the First World War took him to the 

battlefields of Belgium, and then on to Mesopotamia (now Iraq). By 

the time the war ended, Thomas had made Arabia his home, and 

had been seduced by the challenge of the unknown desert at its 

heart. He was appointed assistant political officer, working under

4 

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Mark Evans 

such influential characters as Gertrude Bell, Philby and Arnold 

Wilson, from whom he learnt a great deal. Described as a quiet and 

serious man, Thomas was undeterred by the inhospitable terrain, 

merciless heat and fractious tribes. 

His plans began to take shape during the winters of the late 1920s. 

In 1925, he had been appointed to the Council of Ministers of 

Muscat and Oman as Financial Adviser, a position he held for five 

years, until 1930. His prime role was to sort out the Sultan of 

Oman’s finances, something he proved not to be very good at. 

Looking back, it is clear Thomas arrived in Oman with a burning 

desire to become the first person to cross the vast and unexplored 

Rub Al Khali, or Empty Quarter desert. 

“The virgin Rub Al Khali, the great southern desert! To have 

laboured in Arabia is to have tasted inevitably of her seduction, and 

six years ago I left the administration of Transjordan for the court of 

Muscat and Oman. I already cherished a secret dream. The remote 

recesses of the earth, Arctic and Antarctic, the sources of the Amazon 

and the vast inner spaces of Asia and Africa, have one by one yielded 

their secrets to man’s curiosity, until by a strange chance the Rub Al 

Khali remained almost the last considerable terra incognita …” 

This pre-occupation led to criticism of Thomas from the local 

British political agent, ‘for paying insufficient attention to his duties 

in favour of his travels and exploration, resulting in financial laxity 

and mismanagement’. He chose to work through the stifling heat 

and humidity of the summer, which enabled him to use the cooler 

winter months for exploring. In the winter of 1926 he completed a 

two-week journey on foot and by camel from Muscat to Sharjah (in 

what is now the United Arab Emirates), followed in the winter of 

1928 by a much longer journey along the coast from Bani Bu Ali, to 

Salalah, the main city of Oman’s southernmost province, Dhofar. It 

was on this journey that he developed the relay system of tribal 

teams, and fresh camels that would see him achieve success on the 

biggest challenge of all. 

All of these journeys did little to hide his secret desires, and whilst 

Thomas never publically declared his intent, it was clear that Sultan

5 


Mark Evans 



Taimur, the ruler of Oman, had an inkling of his dreams. 

“Why aren’t you married, Oh Wazir”? I expatiated on the 

difficulties under which a Christian laboured, especially one serving 

in the east, and pointed to the comforting doctrine that for a man it 

was never too late. 

“Ah” said the Sultan, knowing my secretly cherished desire. “Quite 

right. Insha’allah, I will help marry you one of these days to that 

which is near to your heart – the Rub Al Khali, Insha’allah!” 

“A virgin indeed”, quoth Khan Bahadur, his private secretary.

6 




Mark Evans 

Thomas was not going to let anything stop him. On October 4th 

1930, he slipped quietly and secretly out of Muscat to board a 

British oil tanker that would carry him along the coast to Dhofar, 

and the southern city of Salalah. After being carried ashore by 

dhow, he rode along the coast by camel to make his base for 

preparations. Despite a sleepless series of days, Thomas immediately 

started an exploration into the frankincense covered Qara 

mountains, where he remained for two months, undertaking 

scientific and anthropological research before returning to Salalah, 

suffering from dysentery. 

That expedition was a prelude to the main feat; to cross the Empty 

Quarter. One problem was that Thomas knew that if he told anyone

7 


Mark Evans 

of his ultimate intention, he would have been prevented: the official 

position of both the Omani and British authorities was that tribal 

disputes made exploration foolhardy. 

“My plans were conceived in darkness, my journeys only heralded by 

my disappearances, paid for by myself and executed under my own 

auspices. The desert crossing would never have been sanctioned. 

Salalah knew of my presence: it must not know of my plans. Secrecy 

was imperative. To disclose them would be to invite hostility and the 

news would spread abroad, as all news spreads in Arabia, with the 

speed of the telegraph, and unauthorised accretions that would not 

disgrace a London evening newspaper ….” 


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

It was in Salalah that Thomas was to meet Sheikh Salih bin Kalut Al 

Rashidi Al Kathiri, the only Omani who would ultimately 

accompany him on the entire journey from sea to sea across the 

Empty Quarter. As a result of this, bin Kalut has evolved into an 

Omani hero, about whom legends are still told today. Whilst the 

team that made up the first ever crossing was made up almost 

entirely of Omani’s, Sheikh Salih was the only member of the team 

that to complete the entire crossing, with others only willing to go 

to the edge of their own tribal areas. 

Bin Kalut’s skills of organisation, desert navigation and leadership 

of the men were critical to the success of the journey. Even more 

critical were his skills as a diplomat. As the group travelled from one 

tribal area to another, there was always the potential for problems, 

even fighting; the fact that neither of these became serious issues was 

in many ways thanks to his skills of negotiation. 

“I took an immediate liking to Sheikh Salih. He bore the most 

magical name of Bin Kalut – Kalut, the most famous lady in all the 

sands, daughter of a famous warrior, and mother of three warrior 

sons. Salih was a short man, big of bone, with a rather large head, 

bald – unusual for a bedu, even of Salih’s 60 years, and a heavy jowl. 

His brow was big, perhaps from his baldness, and his eyes large, his 

countenance open and frank, his voice slow and measured; he 

inspired confidence..” 

Wilfred Thesiger, the famous desert explorer dubbed Mubarak Bin


Mark Evans 

8

9 


Mark Evans 

London (our friend from London) by his Bedouin colleagues, met 

Bin Kalut in Dhofar in 1945, and described him as ‘..immensely 

powerful. His body was heavy with old age, so that he moved with 

difficulty, and rose to his feet only with a laboured effort, and after 

many grunted invocations of the almighty. He seldom spoke, but I 

noticed when he did, no one argued’. 

Thanks to the skills of Bin Kalut, and the tenacity of Thomas, on 

February 5th 1931, some 58 days on foot and by camel after they 

had left Salalah, they approached the mud brick towers of Doha (the 

capital of Qatar); the journey was over, the race had been won, and 

legendary Arabic hospitality awaited them. 

Thomas’ purpose was never solely to get to the other side of the 

desert. Despite fears of their purpose being misunderstood, he 

carried scientific instruments as well as a still and a cine camera so 

that he could collect and record the flora and fauna he found on his 

journey. He collected 400 natural history specimens, 21 of them new 

to science, and many of which are today stored in the Natural 

History Museum in London. 

News of the success, sent by telegram from Bahrain, caused a global 

sensation, making the front pages of The Times in London, and The 

New York Times. In the years to follow, Thomas lectured far and 

wide, sharing tales of his journey with audiences around the world, 

and he was honoured with some of the highest medals that can be 

bestowed on explorers, including the Founders Medal of the Royal 

Geographical Society, the Cullum Gold Medal of the American 

Geographical Society and the Burton Memorial Medal of the Royal 

Asiatic Society. 

His book, Arabia Felix, was quickly published in 1932, and in the 

foreword, T. E. Lawrence wrote, ‘few men are able to close an 

epoch. We cannot know the first man who walked the inviolate earth 

for newness’ sake, but Thomas is the last; and he did his journey in 

the antique way, by pain of his camel’s legs, single handed, at his 

own time and cost. He might have flown an aeroplane, sat in a car, 

or rolled over in a tank. Instead, he snatched, at the twenty third 

hour, feet’s last victory and set us free – all honour to Thomas’.

10 




Mark Evans 

Other than a black and white photograph taken by Thesiger in 

1945, and a mention in his classic book Arabian Sands, little is 

known of what became of Sheikh Salih after they had reached Doha. 

Like many Omanis at that time, there is no written record of when 

he was born, but it is known that he outlived Thomas, and passed 

away in Dubai, where he had been seeking medical treatment, on 

December 15th, 1953, some twenty two years after his great 

achievement. 

2015 was the 85th year since Thomas and Bin Kalut had left Salalah, 

and coincided with the 45th year of the reign of His Majesty Sultan 

Qaboos as the ruler of Oman; the planets were in alignment to 

attempt to retrace this historic journey. His Highness Sayyid 

Haitham bin Tariq Al Said was appointed Expedition Patron in 

Oman, along with HRH Prince Charles in the UK, and His 

Excellency Sheikh Joaan bin Hamed Al Thani in Qatar. 

Our main challenge was to find the key to unlock the door, and get 

permission to not only enter Saudi Arabia at a remote, unmanned 

location, but also to spend one month walking with camels across 

the sensitive eastern province. An issue of equal concern was to find 

camels tough enough to withstand the demands of walking for 

30-40 km per day, for 50 or so days, with limited food and water. 

Camels, like humans, have gone soft in recent years; rather than 

wandering the sands in search of rain-fed grazing, today they tend 

to lead static lives, with water trucks bringing water to them, and 

locally grown fodder crops being served up each day. 

To give them every opportunity of succeeding, and to protect the 

sensitive pads on the base of their feet, we parked our four camels 

(all female, from the Royal Cavalry) at a Bedouin community on the 

southern edge of the sands, and on December 10th 2015, 85 years to 

the day since Thomas and Bin Kalut started their own journey, my 

two Omani companions Mohammed Al Zadjali, Amur Al Wahaibi 

and I set off on foot from the old souq in Salalah, on the edge of the 

Indian Ocean. As we did so, playing in cinemas throughout Oman, 

and on the Oman Air In-Flight entertainment systems was an 

awareness raising 60 second video clip that used some of Thomas’ 

original footage shot in 1930, digitized in a project funded by the

11 

My favourite part of the day; a setting sun, the first stars emerging, plummeting 

temperatures and a roaring fire means Arabic coffee. 

Image © Sim Davis

12

13 


Mark Evans 

society. 

Our journey did not set out to be a first, or fastest, but was, 

amongst other things, a celebration of slowness that attempted to 

reconnect Omani, Saudi and Qatari people to their rich culture and 

heritage, and to show a side of the Middle East different to that 

which normally dominates the media. With the Empty Quarter now 

being emptier than it has ever been, many of the waterholes used by 

Thomas are long abandoned, and full of sand. With much 

uncertainty regarding water supply, we made the early decision to 

use two 4x4 support vehicles to carry tightly rationed water, that 

would be supplemented by the possible discovery of water in the 

sands; Thomas had used a sextant to record the location of the wells 

he used, accurate enough for his needs, but little help in reality 

when searching for a small well on the ground in what could be an 

area of up to 15km square. 



At the start of the journey, our vehicles carried 50 days’-worth of 

food, carefully labelled, packed and sorted into 25 plastic crates. In 

the first two weeks we barely touched a crumb, overwhelmed by 

more than 1,000 unexpected visitors who sought us out even in the 

most remote of locations in southern Oman each day. A desert 

expedition in Arabia is no place for a vegetarian; ‘You cannot enter 

the land of the Al Kathiri without accepting our hospitality’ 

announced a proud Omani Sheikh, and in an ongoing effort to outdo 

the hospitality of the previous gathering, by the time we had 

reached the border with Saudi Arabia we had consumed twentyseven 

goats, in addition to several camels and sheep. Any hope we 

had of losing weight was initially slim. Amongst the visitors were 

some so old (none knew exactly how old, as nothing was 

documented at the time of their birth) that, despite having limited 

sight, and being unstable on their feet, several produced well 

preserved black and white images of them as young men, standing 

proudly with Thesiger and his camels at a waterhole. 

After trekking through the frankincense clad Qara Mountains, 

where we followed the footprints of Striped Hyenas, and discovered 

4,000-year old pre-Islamic rock art, we were re-united with our 

own camels. Our passage across the border into Saudi Arabia was


Mark Evans 

14

15 


Mark Evans 



uncertain until the eleventh hour; verbal assurance had been given, 

but we had nothing as yet for us to show a dubious, heavily armed 

border guard at one of the most remote of unfenced and unmarked 

borders. One day from arrival, word reached us that we were in, by 

Royal Command of the King himself. The enormous star dunes of 

Dakaka, where it had not rained for seven years made for the most 

beautiful of landscapes, and whilst the night-time temperatures 

dropped to a low of 0.4 degrees, for the most part a northerly wind 

made daytime progress bearable. 

On days when that wind did not blow, temperatures rose and 

camels bellowed, kicked and spat in protest. Our daily routine was a 

simple one; each night we would sleep on the sand, and Amur 

would rise first before dawn to pray, and by 0630 we would have 

The star dunes of Dakaka grow in size as we move off just after dawn.. 

Image © Sim Davis

16 




Mark Evans 

un-hobbled the camels and were on the move, keen to get as many 

km under our belts in the cool morning air as we could. We would 

always walk for the first couple of hours, by which time the camels 

would have settled, ready for us to ride along at a steady speed of 

6kph. Our day would end some 30-40km later an hour before 

sunset, when we would hobble the camels, gather wood for the fire, 

bake bread under the sand and settle down for the nightly star show. 

After a few weeks that saw us following a line of small wells to the 

north west, the large dunes of Dakaka gave way to the flatter sand 

sea of Sanam, and we were able to start what Thomas described as 

‘The Northward Dash’ for Doha, still several hundred Km ahead. 

As we steadily descended to the Arabian Gulf the sands gave way to 

gravel, and eventually to the dreaded subkha, a salt encrusted 

mudflat that after rains can be treacherous territory for the camels. 

Like Thomas, at this point we were beset by several days of heavy 

dew, and thick fog, making navigation a challenge, but hiding the

17 

sun from view until midday. 

On January 27th 2016, some 

49 days after we had left 

Salalah, riding fresh camels 

sent by the Emir of Qatar, we 

arrived at Al Rayyan Fort in 

Doha; the Empty Quarter had 

been crossed. 

As with all expeditions, the 

end of the physical journey 

does not mean the end of the 

project. One of the key aims 

of our journey was to create 

role models to which young 

Omani’s could aspire, and to 

that end Mohammed and 

Amur have been busy 

delivering a series of 30 

lectures to more than 5,000 

young people at schools and 

colleges throughout Oman, 

promoting Outward Bound 

Oman’s aim to develop the 

next generation of leaders for 

the nation. 

More information on the expedition 

can be found in the following 

website: 

www.crossingtheemptyquarter.com


Mark Evans 

18

19 

Baruntse - A World Apart 


Images © Alex Staniforth

20 



The Himalaya. The first image to conjure in your mind may well be 

of Mount Everest. Many, myself included, have been captivated by 

the allure of this iconic objective. On a journey of dedication and 

overcoming adversity, both of my attempts to reach the summit in 

the last two years have been thwarted by the very nature of this 

foreboding kingdom. 

By better fortune, it was my journey to Everest that offered me a 

sliver of what else the world’s highest mountain range had to offer. 

Before I could test myself on the highest of them all, I was hungry 

for a bolder objective to prepare myself. Baruntse, a peak standing 

at 7,129 metres (23,390ft) looked no less formidable than the holy 

grail itself. 

Taking pride of place in the remote Hongu valley, Baruntse stands 

far apart from the hordes on the Everest Base Camp trail. I signed 

up with an expedition team of three British and one Australian. 

With our expedition leader, Francis, all were highly experienced – 

except for me. I had only climbed Mont Blanc, so Baruntse was a 

hefty step up in my mountaineering resume. The Gouter Ridge on 

Mont Blanc had little in common with the extreme high altitude 

environment besides the stale toast and sleepless nights (from the 

sound of snoring in the hut dormitories). 

Our adventure began in chaotic Kathmandu. Shuttled through the 

potholed streets and stirring up clouds of dust in our wake, I was 

surprised at the level of poverty. Stray dogs loitered amongst 

dilapidated buildings and scorched pavements. Many streets were 

dirty and unkempt. Face masks protected people from the smog as 

they hurried along outside run-down shop fronts; battered scooters 

weaving carelessly through the streets at speed. 

Just days later we had moved a world apart. I could open my eyes 

again once the ancient relic of a Soviet Mi-17 helicopter lurched it’s 

overloaded backside onto the infamous mountain airstrip of Lukla 

village; the main gateway into the Khumbu valley. Here we would 

trade the constant din of scooters for pine-scented air, and swap 

dodging erratic taxis for cumbersome herds of Dzo (“zok-ee-oh”) 

carrying supplies along the trails.

21 



Sunrise Hotel was cosy, but a tad more rustic than The Ritz: with 

bare wooden floorboards, tables and a cast-iron stove. The name 

was less misleading with the early glimpses of the surroundings 

outside. We met Thoman, our sirdar (base camp manager), our 

cook, Purna, and two climbing Sherpas, Ongchhu and Phur Temba, 

whilst the porters assembled gear in a babble of camaraderie. It 

saddened me how they were treated like the underdogs despite 

doing the hardest work of all. 

The cobbled high street of Lukla village bustled with life in the 

morning shade. Pungent juniper smoke filled the doorways and 

counterfeit outdoor clothing hung above the mass of tourists. The 

creature comforts of the imitation ‘Starbucks Coffee’ would be the 

closest to home we would get for weeks, and the chocolate cake 

would become a distant, fond memory. 

We left the masses travelling towards the village of Poyan, gradually 

ascending to acclimatise our bodies. Only now could I truly begin 

to appreciate the diversity of such a place: passing through lush 

greenery, alpine meadows and humid forested valleys. Suspension 

bridges swung across dizzying gorges and prayer flags rattled 

overhead. Waterfalls crashed to the ground. Vibrant Mani stones 

and crumbling Stupa shrines littered peaceful trails like Buddhist 

street art. It was deeply satisfying to stop and reflect on why I was 

here. 

Dramatic backdrops and a warming welcome greeted our team as 

we moved ever higher towards an entirely subsistence way of life. 

Curious locals watched on as we passed through their tiny village 

and stopped for tea. Inquisitive children chirped “Namaste!” and 

occasionally followed for a closer look at my iPhone. A period of 

torrential rain soon made the daily trekking a miserable routine, 

trudging through muddy sub-tropical forest for miles, and eating 

gone-off fried meat in huts whilst pulling leeches off our clothes. 

The abject poverty and the beauty of nature still met in the same 

place, and the people were still happy. But the primitive expedition 

life was new to me. This was no package holiday – we just got on 

with it.

22 



Grassy alps of alpine flora were soon replaced by foggy high passes 

and bleak moraine as we pushed up towards the snow line and our 

first high pass, the Surke La. A boulder-strewn river brought us 

deeper into the tranquil Hinku valley. Here we would ‘warm up’ by 

climbing the popular Mera Peak, at 6,476 metres altitude. Her 

imposing north face loomed ahead as a moraine ridge cut through 

the debris fields of the Dig glacier to Khare village. I had no idea 

what this ‘straightforward’ trekking peak had in store, until two 

dishevelled burly Aussie climbers dragged themselves into the 

teahouse dining room, and collapsed onto the benches. 

“What was the worst part?” I asked quietly. 

“All of it”, they muttered – completely broken. Purna interrupted 

the anxious silence with an impressive steamed cake – with cherries 

on top. 

“This Mera Peak summit cake!” Thoman grinned. 

Their charisma, resourcefulness and hospitality was truly humbling. 

Sadly, the cake left less of an impression the morning after, when the 

pong of rotten chicken overpowered the scent of Yak dung burning 

on the stove. I wretched. Purna hadn’t changed the cooking oil from 

the week earlier, and ‘Kentucky Fried’ Cake is something I never 

want to quite experience again in my life! 

Feeling nauseous, for a different reason, we pushed straight to high 

camp, the oppressive heat and exertions sticking the clothes to my 

back. My un-acclimatised body screamed for respite. Ascending 

almost one thousand metres was a significant height jump that 

concerned me. 

Endless zigzagging slopes brought a relentless white expanse 

through my glasses. Growing weaker in each step, I crashed into my 

tent, repulsing the heat, too tired to acknowledge the impressive 

panorama outside. I was fast learning how altitude is like horseracing, 

you have bad days for no real reason – and it can cost you a 

fortune.

23 



My 3:00am wake-up call of garlic noodle soup was projected 

everywhere. The summit push was on. 

My body almost refused to co-operate. Transient orange hues of 

sunrise had never been so sickening. Walking up a broad gentle 

slope became increasingly laboured, un-coordinated at best. I was 

tugged on the rope, unresponsive, and repeatedly falling into the 

white blank beneath my feet. A snowy rise revealed itself ahead 

against the moonlight. It should have been beautiful, but every part 

of my body had surrendered at the thought. Alarm bells were 

ringing for possible HACE (High-Altitude Cerebral Edema) – and 

we were heading down. Fast. 



The fiery glare of the glacier seemed to suck the dwindling life out 

of me for several hours. At the Mera La camp, I slumped dizzily 

against a sack of potatoes before tipping Diamox tablets for altitude 

sickness, rehydration sachets and litres of water, down my throat. 

“If you don’t recover by tomorrow, I’m calling a helicopter. No 

discussion,” was all I registered. 

Remarkably, overnight, I did recover, and summoned some grit as 

we trekked into the Hongu valley. The Hongu had a sense of real 

wilderness. In a world of seven billion people, there was no trace of 

mankind here. Out of the wind, the sense of solitude was 

overwhelming, for a moment I felt like the only person on Earth. 

The abrupt shoulders of Baruntse were soon recognisable in the 

distance. However, Cyclone Phailin had continued to hamper our 

progress, dumping a few feet of soft snow to wade through. Our 

next stop beside the frozen Hongu river brought us to a tiny hut 

with flimsy tarpaulin for a roof, flapping in turbulent winds, and a 

makeshift table in the middle. The owner fiddled with the gas 

cooker as we huddled around for warmth. Wielding a stick, Phur 

Temba giggled and teased a rat scuttling behind the pans on the bare 

rock walls. Dal Bhat, the Nepali staple of lentil soup and rice, still 

tasted like burnt stew. Feeling jaded, I couldn’t have cared less. 

Base camp opened up below into a hidden valley, situated peacefully

24 





beside a turquoise glacial lake at almost 5,450 metres altitude. Our 

mountain home was hemmed in by a dazzling panorama of 

crystalline peaks. Our eyes were spoilt for choice. With the serrated 

ramparts of ice and flutings of snow, the majestic face of Baruntse 

herself looked breathtaking – if not a little monstrous. Only three 

other teams shared this valley of silence, otherwise, we were alone. 

A sense of pioneering spirit hung in the air. This wasn’t the dream; 

but the real thing. 

The Sherpas busied themselves establishing camp as we took in our 

new surroundings. Thoman had quickly earned himself the 

nickname ‘Blackadder’, from being, in my opinion, frankly, useless! 

The mountain tents still hadn’t arrived, the porters were suffering 

from snow-blindness, and Francis was kept busy with various 

logistical problems. Temperatures below minus twenty degrees 

Celsius were forecast on our summit day, and high winds gave only 

two possible windows in which to reach the summit safely. Our 

ultimate objective was now thrown into vague possibility. 

We decided to let the French team break the trail for us. Kerosene 

tainted our breakfast of pasta with fried Spam, smothered in anxiety, 

we pushed above the safety net and left for Camp One. Having 

gazed at this mountain windscreen for days, we were quickly 

swallowed by its enormity, slogging beneath the undulating spines 

of the ridges and the crux of a fragmented cliff. Even down here, my 

body struggled for upward momentum as I hauled up on the Jumar. 

Over my shoulder stood the massif of Makalu, the fifth highest peak 

in the world, flaunting her almost incomprehensible scale. I looked 

away and clung to the hillside like a loose rock. 

By now, my team-mates Phil and Paul had abandoned their 

attempt– leaving just me, Francis, Phur Temba and Ong Chu. 

‘What the hell am I still doing here?’ Momentarily crossed my 

mind. 

I listened carefully to my body, and rocked up to Camp One at 

6,100 metres altitude. Conditions were better than expected. Francis 

and I rested, saying little, but sitting and enjoying the silent

25



26

27 



anticipation. Ginger tea simmered away in the corner. The sun 

retreated, the air bit below zero and the sense of isolation in this 

mountainous empire hit home. Only a wafer-thin synthetic sheet 

separated us from nature. This was the stuff of boyhood dreams – 

adventure like I had never known. 

A few breathless hours over a steep rise had settled us on the wide 

plateau of Camp Two, at 6,400 metres, and in encouragingly good 

order. The summit ridge of Baruntse was beautifully intimidating, 

yet still painfully far away. It cut through the sky like a tooth, and 

blew me away before the wind could. Peeping through the tent 

door, I watched on, as a lone climber descended into camp with 

difficulty; staggering deliriously like I had a week earlier on Mera. 

Confidence, adrenaline, and excitement crept in. I knew situations 

could change rapidly, and sometimes uncertainty was the best 

motivator. 

“Jam jam!” called Ongchhu outside - his version of “let’s go!”. My 

enthusiasm fell short. And there was of course no jam for the 

wallpaper-paste porridge, upsetting the butterflies in my stomach 

even further! Sitting upright against the frosted shell of the tent sent 

a shower of ice down my neck. The head-torch beam sliced through 

turrets of steamy breath. The winds had dropped. At 02:00am, our 

summit push was on. 

The mountain fell silent to the rhythmic crunch of ice, twinkling 

like fairy lights beneath our Millet boots. Only the fixed rope gave 

me direction through the all-absorbing blackness. We began the 

assault up the first ice wall, but I’d left my energy behind in the tent. 

Clinging weakly onto the slope, the empty pain was indescribable. 

Each step upwards felt like stubbing a toe; a searing pain that I 

couldn’t pinpoint. It startled me. The effects of altitude were 

incredibly frightening. 

“I’m trashed,” I cried out. 

“No you’re not. Come on!” Francis encouraged me from the 

darkness above.

28 



The uplifting motivational quotes were just a nuance now. I 

slumped forward to rest my head on the snow, looking down at the 

black abyss disappearing below my feet. Devoid of all mental 

resolve; I was looking straight at failure. After two hours and 

reaching a respectable 6,600 metres, I knew it was time to turn 

around. Again. 

The higher one climbs, the faster they deteriorate – the summit 

actually becomes much more than halfway. Ongchhu was visibly 

jaded, but the pride and superhuman strength of the Sherpa people 

meant he refused to take our water or cereal bars. Back at base 

camp, I was ruined, and shrivelled up like a prune. 

“Whatever you think, you’ve done well. You pushed further than 

anyone else” Francis had told me. 

Wallowing in the tent like a sunburnt recluse, I felt otherwise. 

I was standing weakly outside the tent whilst sunrise erupted 

around the mountain amphitheatre, taking a few moments within 

my own world. This would be my last day here. Baruntse looked 

on, almost belittling me. Clouds rolled across the summit ridge; her 

secrets kept safe from me for now. 

Guarding our way out of this mysterious place was the Amphu 

Labtsa: a fascinating and otherworldly glaciated high pass below 

hanging seracs and stalactites of ice. This vantage point was ours, 

with stunning views to Lhotse Shar and the sweeping gulf of the 

Imja glacier, where an abseil descent and scree slopes led us to the 

village of Chukhung. 

Revived by the richer air, I was deep in thought as the trails took us 

towards Lukla in a final push, following the milky torrents of the 

Dudh Kosi river. The civilisation of Pangboche and Namche Bazaar 

felt alien to begin with. Everything did. I had come away from my 

goal empty-handed. I could only ask – what else do we get from 

these adventures? Looking around the paradise of the high 

mountains gave me some firm answers.

29 



Only when stripped bare can we truly appreciate the comforts that 

we are lucky to have. We fumigated the dining room of the 

Kathmandu hotel as we annihilated the breakfast buffet like a pack 

of hungry wolves. Our taste buds could barely cope. My first 

shower in 26 days was a divine intervention of sorts. By seeing what 

others don’t have, we learn to respect the things that we do, and 

what we’re capable of achieving. 

Most of all, the Himalayas reminds us how insignificant we are 

amidst the vastness of nature. Becoming a liability on a mountain is 

never an option. This experience had been thrilling, stretching, and a 

rude awakening – and experience is what keeps us alive. 

Find out more about Alex here: www.alexstaniforth.com

30 

“It is in the desert that Nature shows us its 

most uncompromising face. The 

magnificent play of shadows, the 

comforting flood of light, and the gold 

glow of the sand are there, of course, but 

only when the sun is low on the horizon. 

During the hours in between, the sunlight 

is hard and unflattering, and it is then that 

the desert reveals its cruel side equally 

beautiful , but disquieting.” 

Arita Baaijens 

Desert Songs 

A woman explorer in Egypt and Sudan

31 

And They Went in Long 

Dresses... 


Images © Jacki Hill-Murphy

32 



And They Went in Long Dress... 


The party fought their way through fierce and deep swirling rapids, 

the bank was still a quarter of a mile off, the chirpas went ahead 

sounding with their long poles to find a suitable passage and in the 

dizzy swirl they seem to make minimal progress, the horses were 

simply treading water. 

When they reached the far bank, they found it abruptly undercut by 

the current and they had to somehow leap onto the bank. Isabella 

Bird’s horse made a desperate effort, but fell and rolled back into the 

icy Shyok River with Isabella under him. There was a mad struggle 

and she found herself suffocating under the drowned horse… 

Isabella Bird was a true explorer, going where no European lady had 

been to before, on this occasion into the Nubra region of Ladakh, in 

the Indian state of Jammu and Kashmir in 1889. When she travelled, 

she went for years at a time, had no idea what she would find, took 

huge gambles with her personal safety and if she had been robbed or 

wounded had no fall-back plan or anyone to go and find her as she 

travelled alone. When she did get back to Scotland - she wrote her 

guidebook so the rest of the world could share her exclusive 

experiences. She was already sixty when she travelled in Ladakh and 

hid the broken ribs she suffered crossing the river because she did 

not want to worry her guides and porters, riding on in a long, wet 

dress. 

How does that compare with my recreation of the same journey 125 

year later? I poured off the early morning plane from Delhi with 

umpteen other tourists, with my visa, travel insurance, cameras, 

waterproofs, guide book, trekking trousers, poles, water bottle and 

sturdy boots intact and a bus took me to my hotel. I hadn’t trekked 

from Srinagar for a month, looking like Queen Victoria, on a frisky 

horse under the protection of a dodgy, turbaned, Afghan soldier 

who waved his sword and wore flowers. Indeed, I couldn’t even 

have come that way on a bus, because advice from the foreign office 

recommended that tourists not travel in the region and my travel 

insurance would have been voided. 

I’m sure my lovely pony man and guide could have been 

descendants of the very men who escorted Isabella up and over the

33 



Digar Pass at 5,500m, the little 4ft10 lady struggling to ride the yak 

she’d hired, but there are no rideable yaks now and I had to walk 

every step of the way following our pack ponies. 

On reaching the Shyok River, on the border with Tibet, I found a 

series of streams in the place of the raging torrents that Isabella had 

to cross because a hydro-electric plant had changed the course of 

nature and the glaciers - what glaciers, they were almost nonexistent. 

I camped on the same lozenge of flat land in the ancient 

village of Digar that she had and experienced there a world little 

changed since her departure. 



Isabella's return route was the Khardong-La, now the highest 

motorable road in the world and I opted for a lesser known track 

back through the mountains which was a golden choice, because it 

was here I was able to become an explorer like Isabella and journey 

through a rarely visited area, not in any guidebook. 

I am fascinated by the early lady explorers - they would have been 

such individuals the way they struck out on their own, their 

uniqueness in the Victorian world made salons twitch with gossip 

and men refuse to acknowledge them. 

There are so many ‘firsts’ to attribute to them: how did Yorkshire 

girl Julia Pardoe come to find herself as the first European woman 

ever be invited to tea in an Ottoman harem in Constantinople in 

1836? It was unheard of to cross that threshold, but somehow, she 

wangled her way in to the palace of Esme Sultana, sister of 

Mahmoud II and was sang to and fed exotic delicacies. As she was a 

keen observer her book ‘Beauties of the Bosphorous’ gives an 

accurate account of her travels to the East with a deep knowledge of 

the peoples and manners. 

What was American Annie Edson Taylor thinking about when, on 

her 63rd birthday in 1901, she became the first person to survive a 

trip over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Was that an adventure or an 

attention-seeking stunt? Mary Slessor, a Scottish missionary to 

Nigeria in the 1890s was probably the first white woman to be 

trusted and accepted by the locals while spreading Christianity,

34 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 



protecting native children and promoting women's rights and 

stopping the tradition of the killing of twins among the Efik, a 

particular ethnic group in Nigeria and Mary French Sheldon left 

London for Africa in 1891 unaccompanied and explored Lake Chala 

assisted by local people. All singularly extraordinary women. 

When Californian, Maud Parrish ran away at sixteen, it didn’t occur 

to her that running away to play the banjo for prospectors in the 

saloons of Alaska may be a bit risky, that was in the 1890s, a few 

years later she ran a gambling club in Peking and then rode a 

wooden spring-less bus across Southeast Asia when she was in her 

70s. She summed up her life of fearless gallivanting as ‘a grand 

party’, writing a book called ‘Nine Pounds of Luggage’, the most 

she ever carried with her on her travels! What a fantastic individual 

she must have been. 

Another early travel writer who wanted to die with memories and 

not dreams was Mary Kingsley, brought up in Cambridge, who 

made up her mind to climb Mount Cameroon when passing by the 

coast of West Africa on a ship in 1895. She was so set on going that 

she decided that nothing would stand in her way: not the imminent 

onset of the rainy season, the lack of equipment or trained porters 

or guides or maps of any kind. 

I was not allowed to complete the journey to the summit in the rain 

and my party and I sat it out in a rat-infested hut for three days 

half-way up the mountain, until our local guide agreed we could 

continue the ascent. Imagine if we’d been wearing wet-through 

corsets and petticoats and were forced to lead our African guides 

and porters ourselves as they were too scared to go up, like Mary 

had to do! 

Stanley found Livingstone in Tanzania in 1871 and we are still 

talking about it, Sir Samuel Baker discovered that the Nile flowed 

through the Albert Nyanza in 1864 and discovered Murchison Falls, 

but do we hear about his wife Florence Baker who had accompanied 

him throughout the dangerous and difficult journeys in Africa? 

It is inexcusable that society at the end of the 19th century

35 



considered exploration the domain of men and that so many great 

female achievements were un-applauded at the time and have 

become largely forgotten. Nothing stopped them though and the 

1890s was a rich decade for independently-minded women 

travelling to unknown lands; it was an era when women were 

discussing liberalism, literature and the world and begin to break 

free from their lives of domestic servitude and authority. Isabella 

Bird was definitely such a lady, she felt cramped by her life in Great 

Britain and wrote that “off the beaten track is the real world” and 

felt physically and mentally healthier and stronger when she 

travelled. 

If adventure and exploration is about losing oneself in wilderness 

and discovering new things, I wonder if I have explored with the 

same fortitude and passion to embrace danger as they did. It is so 

easy to become soft in our newly globalised world where our needs 

are quickly met and help is close at hand. Can I really be an 

explorer? Have we lost any of our sense of what adventure really is? 

I don’t think we have, the adventures are still there, as long as we are 

willing to strike out on our own and not travel to tick a destination 

off a list - we can all be explorers and adventurers. 

When I took my own route back through the Ladakh Mountain 

Range I came to a lady living alone in a remote underground house. 

She tended a field of barley, gathered dried animal dung to use as 

winter fuel and had created a garden of marigolds near a stream to 

meditate in. She beckoned me into her ‘Hobbit’ house for butter tea, 

she saw few people as her husband had died years before and her 

son had gone away. She stared at me - and I stared at her, and at that 

remarkable subterranean dwelling - that was adventure, it was 

timeless. The way she poured that tea showed me that there are still 

ancient ceremonies in the world to witness and I was the 

anonymous ambassadress from England, thrilled to join her.

36 

“It was only after I had crossed the 

Atlantic - alone in a sixteen-foot dinghy at 

the age of twenty-one - that I got to 

understand my deep inner sense of 

adventure and of being challenged - and 

could start to work out what had driven 

me to attempt such a venture. Many times 

people have regarded me as being 'lost at 

sea'. In fact I have always known where I 

am, it's simply been a place most other 

people don't understand.” 

Enda O' Coineen 

The Unsinkable Entrepreneur

37 

Ralph White 

A Ripcord type of Explorer 

Rory Golden

38 

“Explorer, Cinematographer, Diver. Rogue.” 

Ralph White: A Ripcord Kind of Explorer 

Rory Golden 

We now live in a world of instant communication and digital 

imaging. 

It’s not that long ago since it took time to set up a shot, and more 

time to carefully process those images, taken by still or movie 

camera, in the confines of a darkroom, waiting for them to emerge 

from their chemical bath. 

In the pioneering days of deep sea exploration, in the latter half of 

the 20th century, there was a certain person who was at the 

forefront of new imaging systems. This person wouldn’t take no for 

an answer, but rather came up with self-styled ‘sea scams’ to twist 

arms, elaborate on stories, desperately seeking funding for projects. 

He was a major influence on my life, and opened doors to 

adventures that I never expected to be a part of. 

This person was Ralph B. White. 

Ralph was an old school, hands on explorer and adventurer. Born in 

San Bernardino, California, August 1941, he grew up in Hawaii, 

where he learned to dive, attended military academy and went on to 

join the Marine Corps after high school. He signed up to Force 

Recon, one of the United States Marine Corps’ special operations 

capable forces. First serving with a parachute test regiment and later 

on refining his diving skills at the Landing Force Training Unit in 

San Diego, he was deployed to a deep reconnaissance unit in 

Vietnam. 

Honourably discharged in 1967, with the rank of Sergeant, he cofounded 

a parachute school in Lancaster, California and during this 

time Ralph was also a free-fall cameraman for the TV Series 

“RIPCORD.” He logged 2,997 jumps. 

Ralph was the co-inventor of the first helmet mounted camera – the 

original Go Pro. 

Titanic 

Photograph opposite © Emory Kristof

39 


Rory Golden 

For the next 40 years he worked on films, TV documentaries, 

commercials, and deep sea expeditions. He was a contract 

cameraman for National Geographic and TV, Sports and Film 

production companies, with over 400 television and motion picture 

credits to his name. These include: The Deep, Tora-Tora-Tora, 

Exploring Lake Baikal, Virus, Planet Ice, The Great Whales, 

Monterey Canyon, The Breadalbane Adventure, Full fathom Five, 

Loch Ness Monster Hunt, Ghosts of the Abyss. 

His film subjects included whales, sharks, undersea active volcano 

vents and shipwrecks, including Titanic. 



At his home in Los Angeles, a world map was pinpricked with 

places that he had been to, not many areas left uncovered. A 

commanding officer in a reserve photographic company, in LA 

County Police, he was an expert marksman, the collection of guns 

in his home, a scary wonder to behold. 

His many achievements have been acknowledged by his peers. He 

was a Fellow of The Explorers Club, Royal Geographic Society and 

The Academy of Underwater Arts and Sciences, Past President of 

the Adventurers Club and recipient of the Lowell Thomas Award 

bestowed by the Explorers Club of New York. 

Ralph White was the man who filmed the historic moment that 

Titanic was discovered on the seabed. 

He was my friend and mentor. 

Ralph White: - The Titanic Diaries 

On September 1st, 1985 the wreck site of RMS TITANIC was 

located at 41 43 08 N, 49 56 80 W. The successful culmination of a 

joint French /American expedition, the world’s most famous 

shipwreck had been found. 

Ralph was on that expedition. He was one of the original team 

comprised of his life-long buddy Emory Kristof of National 

Geographic and Dr. Robert Ballard, Woods Hole Oceanographic

40 

Ops Room with Ralph White, Robert Ballard & Jean Louis Michel 

Image above © Emory Kristof 

Institute, (WHOI) that came up with the concept to look for the 

ship in 1976, while all three were on a hunt for the Loch Ness 

monster. 

To quote his own words: “One evening over a few wee drams of 

pure Highland dew, we were discussing the lack of currently 

available equipment to make decent images in the depths. There 

were great photographic opportunities and discoveries to be made in 

the sea, and we knew how to do it. Our collective problem was the 

usual lack of money to develop the hardware and finance the 

projects. We referred to our projects as “sea scams” because of all the 

justification it took to get one approved. The bait that we would use 

to get interest was simple. We would go for the big one right from the 

start. We would find the Titanic!” 

After many years of experimentation with camera and lighting 

systems, and joining forces with the French IFREMER Institute, 

and covertly with the US Navy, Operation Titanic finally came 

about in 1985.

41 


Rory Golden 

Dr. Ballard of Woods Hole, and Jean Louis Michel, of IFREMER, 

were the co-leaders of this scientific trip using new deep-water 

technology. The mission was divided into two segments. 

Phase 1, started from St Pierre, near Newfoundland, on July 24th 

1985, was on the French vessel, ‘Le Suroit’, using their new SAR, a 

sonar acoustic detection system. This two-week survey effectively 

ruled out where Titanic was not located, but picked up targets to be 

investigated on the second leg. 



Phase 2 was based on the WHOI research vessel “Knorr”, departing 

from the Azores. On board were two camera sleds, Argo for live 

film and Angus for still images. The cameras and lighting systems 

were the result of Ralph and Emory’s’ years of research, 

experimentation and hard work. These were towed behind at a 

depth of over 3700 metres to record the ocean floor and look for 

photographic evidence of the wreck. 

Ralph died suddenly in February 2008, aged 66. After his death, a 

handwritten journal of the 1985 expedition was discovered in his 

papers. The following are edits from that journal. These words give 

an insight to life on board both vessels, and the character of the man 

who wrote them: 

July 26th. We got up early this morning at 4.30 am, to pick up and 

re-deploy 15 transponders in order to create a 4 lane corridor 4km 

wide by 20km long running from WNW to ESE. There is some 

disagreement as to whether the plot is too far north. I’m feeling 

good, but tired. The food is superb. 

9.30 pm. Emory and I just finished doing pictures, video and film of 

Le Suroit from a Zodiac. I came back a little “singed”. My camera 

battery belt caught fire and fried my left side. 

Dark-Thirty, July 27th. We launched the SAR vehicle at first light 

this morning and it will take the next 2-3 hours to pay out the 

15,000 feet of braided co-axial cable until we reach stabilisation 

point where it’s flying off the bottom. Some idiot closed the airway

42 


Rory Golden 

to our cabin last night and CO2 poisoning is not the way I want to 

go. 

July 28th. Bob just came in. We have the first contact in the canyon 

with a confirmed magnetic anomaly. I’m just sitting here with my 

little radio trying to get some US news. Radio Moscow is talking 

about the decadent West and how Rock Hudson has AIDS because 

of his homosexual contact after Doris Day’s rejection. 

August 2nd. We are getting our shins kicked out here. When you 

look up you see water! I found out last night that two of the 

systems I helped develop a while back are incorporated into 

ARGO’s capabilities. The weather reports say it’s going to get 

worse! A new magnetic target at: 41 43 30N, 50 04 00 W. A large 

one! While we ate dinner, the lounge portholes were under water 

the whole time. They are normally 12 feet above the water! Shit. 

August 4th. Well, it finally happened, the pressure was too much I 

guess. Emory, Bob and I were having morning coffee. The captain 

came by for the mandatory morning greeting and handshake, and 

informed us that we were once more, “Into the breach, dear 

friends”, as a new and bigger storm is about to hit us. Emory ran 

out in his shorts, only to return a few moments later with a very, 

very loud ghetto blaster and clicked on bag pipe music, followed by 

the Queen’s Guards band, French national Anthem, Patton’s speech, 

the Marine Corps hymn, and other assorted goodies which had the 

crew in hysterics. Billy Lange (WHOI) was quoting the Geneva 

Convention, claiming cruel and unusual punishment for the minor 

crime of sleeping-in on a calm Sunday morning. 

August 14th Punta Delgado, the Azores. We got here last night 

and it took 3 jeeps and a cab just to get Emory and me with the 

equipment to our new ship, the Knorr. Emory has spent $10,000 in 

overweight charges shipping our gear around. We will be going for a 

day and a half, and then doing a “Black Bag” job for the Navy. 

August 15th. This is a very comfortable ship, except someone 

started pounding on the bulkhead next to my pillow with a hammer 

early this morning. The weather so far is perfect.

43 


Rory Golden 

Aug 16th I spoke too soon as usual. The sea is breaking over the 

bow this morning. I should have known when Bob said to us: “Let’s 

take advantage of the good weather and shoot the underwater and 

ship to ship stuff early in the game.” What good weather?? I spoke 

to the radio operator and he said that this storm has been 

declassified to a “tropical depression” by some idiot in Miami 

whose radar doesn’t see this far out into the Atlantic. 

Aug 17th. Well Hurricane Claudette gave us her all, but we’re still 

ticking. There were not many of the science types at breakfast this 

morning. Wonder why? The “Black Bag” ops start at 14.00, so it’s 

the easy life for a couple of days. (Author note: Classified part of 

expedition to look for lost USN submarines Thresher and Scorpion) 



Aug 23rd. We’re hot stuff again. We picked up a Russian research 

vessel, which is now tailing us on a parallel course 5 miles off our 

starboard beam. Ah, the international chess game. Last night’s 

movie was “Raise the Titanic” which got a lot of laughs. 

Aug 29th Last night Bob gave me an official Titanic crew uniform. 

It is a neat blue jump suit with the patch and a deep ocean octopus 

on the back. I told every one it stood for Bob having a lot of fingers 

(tentacles) in every pie. It got a laugh out of every one, except Bob. 

September 1st. (author note. Addressed to Astrid, his partner at the 

time) Your birthday, the 1st. Happy Birthday. Your present is at 41 

43 08 N, 49 56 50 W. We found the TITANIC. Congratulations. 

WE DID IT! I’ve been going 15 hours straight. I got off watch at 

00.00hrs. local time, and was awakened at 00.45 and we got a 

confirmation on the number 1 boiler at 01.04.38 hours. Everything 

in the ship went bananas. It’s all there! Bob even hugged me because 

he could not afford the extra expenses of a film crew, but thank God 

Ralph gambled and was there – WE’VE WON. WE DID IT! 

Epilogue 

For Ralph, it was the beginning of a new phase of his extraordinary 

life. As he said: “I had a successful career before Titanic. After that, 

nobody cared about anything else.” He made 35 dives to Titanic

44 




Rory Golden 

over the next 20 years including one as second unit cameraman for 

the 1997 James Cameron film “TITANIC” 

In 1988, he made the first of his many trips to Ireland to speak 

about Titanic at a diving conference, one year after the first salvage 

expedition to the wreck in which he took part. I was one of the 

members of the organising committee. Perhaps it was a common 

respect for the sea, our mutual disregard for officialdom and 

protocol, or just a kindred spirt, but we became close friends. My 

life back then was in the music industry, and I would visit the USA 

regularly. Over the years he would stay with me, and I would stay 

with him in his log cabin perched on a hillside in Los Angeles. The 

living room of his house was a museum of memorabilia of his 

adventures around the world, especially his Titanic expeditions. His 

stories were always fascinating, but I learnt early on to decipher the 

embellishments! 

In 1999 my life changed, and in August 2000, through his 

introductions and recommendation, I became a member of the 

Titanic 2000 salvage expedition team, having the privilege of being 

the first Irish diver to see Titanic through the viewing port of a 

Russian MIR submersible at a depth of 3875m. Ralph was my 

buddy on this, his 30th dive. It was an amazing experience, marked 

especially by our recovery of the main ship’s wheel. We left a 

memorial plaque arranged by Michael Martin of the Titanic Trail in 

Cobh. In August 2005, I made another dive, as part of a BBC 

Northern Ireland documentary, “A Journey to Remember”, with 

Mike McKimm of Belfast. This time we left memorial plaques on 

behalf of Belfast City Council and Harland and Wolff. As I was 

disembarking from our ship in St. John’s, Newfoundland, after our 

trip was over, Ralph was boarding with a Discovery Channel crew 

to make what was to become his last trip to Titanic. There have been 

no manned dives to the wreck site since then. 

On the 30th anniversary of the discovery of Titanic, on 1st 

September 2015, an Explorers Club flag present on the 1985 Titanic 

expedition was put on public display in TITANIC Belfast. The 

Explorers Club flag represents an impressive history of courage and 

accomplishment and has been carried on hundreds of expeditions by

45 


Rory Golden 

Club members since 1918. To carry the Club flag is an honour and a 

privilege. It has flown at both poles, from the highest peaks of the 

greatest mountain ranges, travelled to the depths of the ocean, to the 

lunar surface, and outer space. A flag expedition must further the 

cause of exploration and field science. 

As the 1985 Titanic expedition was shrouded in secrecy, there could 

be no official application for an Explorers Club flag. Being acutely 

aware of the historical significance of the expedition, Ralph decided 

that there had to be one on that classified trip. 

So he had one made, breaking all the rules and protocol, and risked 

being expelled from the Club. 

To quote his great friend Emory Kristof: “It was easier to ask for 

forgiveness, than for permission” 

Ralph proudly displayed the flag on the deck of the Knorr after 

Titanic was discovered. Revealing the flag in New York at the 

annual Explorers Club dinner the following March, the reaction 

was, naturally, mixed. 

Over the years, this flag went on numerous expeditions of a 

sensitive nature without the knowledge of the club. In 2014, it was 

presented to the Explorers Club by his daughter Krista, 

granddaughter Kaia, and fiancée Rosaly Lopes, having lain in 

storage since his death. It was to be retired due to its unique history, 

but a misunderstanding occurred, and it fittingly went to a final 

expedition to the Britannic, Titanic's sister ship, in 2015. 

At my request, and a lot of persistence, permission was granted by 

the Explorers Club Flag Committee for this unique flag to be put 

on display in Titanic Belfast to mark the 30th anniversary of the 

discovery of the ship. This is the first time an Explorers Club flag 

has been to Ireland and marks the second time an Explorers Club 

flag has been displayed as part of an exhibition. In my mind, it was a 

fitting tribute to the memory of a man who thought big, and was 

loyal to his friends. 

Rory Golden scattering Ralph's Ashes 

Image below © Rory Golden

46 


Rory Golden 

The flag was returned to New York, and in March last year was 

formally retired by my friend, and Ralphs’, David Concannon, 

Vice-President of the Flag Committee, at the Explorers Club 

Annual Dinner. The theme at that year’s dinner was appropriately: 

Oceans – Current of Life. It was 30 years after Ralph first produced 

it at this event. It will now be on permanent display at the Club 

headquarters in New York, its clandestine existence over. 

In keeping with his wishes, Ralph’s ashes have continued his legacy, 

and have been scattered all over the world. Two weeks after he died, 

I sneaked into the site in Belfast to the slipway where Titanic was 

launched from in 1911, and scattered some of his ashes into the 

River Lagan. He would have approved of this covert operation. A 

little piece of Ralph White and his spirit is floating around there, 

appropriately in the shadow of the world’s biggest Titanic 

exhibition that now overlooks the water. 

His ashes have travelled to many places in, under, and over the 

planet, but that’s another story.

47

Donga Fight 48 

Jeremy Curl 

Donga Fight, Western Omo © Jeremy Curl

49 

Donga Fight 

Jeremy Curl 

Sharp leaves tore at us as we weaved through the forest. The nearest 

road was an eternity of walking away and we had to hack our way 

through the thick vegetation ourselves. I was in the pit of Africa, the 

fabled Omo River valley on the borderlands of Ethiopia and the 

Sudan: the thronging, savage, tribal heart of Africa that keeps 

beating its own drum while the rest of the continent lurched into 

some form of modernity. I was on the way to see one of the last 

truly unique spectacles of a now homogenised world: a donga fight 

of the Surma tribe. 

I had come to the Omo River to explore the west side of the valley. 

It is one of the last corners of Africa that is almost untouched by the 

outside world, where tribes continue a life unchanged for centuries, 

even millennia. The eastern bank of the lower Omo is often visited 

by tourists in many guises. Some are photographers, others are 

merely curious: voyeurs to a culture so tribal and alien they must 

taste it. It can be accessed by Land Cruiser and there are dirt tracks, 

that bring the tribes T-shirts, spaghetti and disease. Across the river, 

however, over which there is no bridge, lurks a more vivid and 

dangerous world rarely visited by the outside: western Omo. 

I had arrived in the western Surma lands from the lands of the 

Bench people, approaching the Omo River Valley from the north 

west. I had walked the bush from Dima westwards, desperate to get 

deeper and deeper into this tribal land, where roads and cars are 

almost unheard of. I had planned to take a donkey to help with 

carrying stores, but Tsetse flies were common this time of year and 

there were no donkeys to be found. 

The Surma are an aggressive warrior tribe consisting of many clans. 

The women wear lip plates, some reaching eight inches in diameter. 

The men go naked, sometimes with a blanket slung over the 

shoulder and carry a spear or rifle. 

Now, as I followed my Surma scouts deep into the forest, 

excitement grew to see old scores settled, the coming of men. A 

donga fight is a little like boxing, except it is village against village, 

clan against clan, coward against the brave and with eight-foot-long 

sharp sticks.

50 



Donga Fight 

Jeremy Curl 

After a few hours, my small party stopped. The heat was building, 

even though it was only nine in the morning. We were almost there. 

We had had a spot of difficulty with a python on the journey, and 

the Surma tribesmen who were with me had chosen to fill the 

creature with automatic fire from their Kalashnikov rifles. I felt 

sorry for the poor animal, but these Surma were ready for a fight 

and the adrenaline had already kicked in earlier that morning as they 

savoured the prospect of the day’s fray. Thick in the air was the 

chorus of chanting warriors, faint but unyielding. It became louder 

as we approached and the forest opened into a large clearing. 

Gaggles of men clung to the edges of the clearing, some dressed in 

cloths, others were completely bare, all with warpaint made from 

ashes streaked across their bodies. I was pulled aside and the barrel 

of a rifle thrust in my face. It was one of the chiefs of one of the 

major clans and his party. 

“Why was I here? What did I want? How much money did I have?” 

were some of the questions thrown at me as if the words were spits 

of white hot metal. 

The reason that I was there was explained by my guide: I wanted to 

photograph the Surma way of life so that the world might 

understand the Surma, and I was allowed to enter the clearing. 

Swathes of men joined the arena, chanting and dancing to their own 

rhythm, pointing their sticks to the sky or championing their most 

prized fighter. No one noticed I was there. 

Yet. 

“Never leave my side,” my guide, a half Surma man called Samson 

whispered, pulling me close. 

I snapped a few pictures of these fine warriors from a distance. 

There were women in the shadows of the forest watching the 

spectacle and chatting to each other between giggles. For them this 

was like a school disco, the chance to spot a future husband. A 

tribesman who proved himself in combat was sure to find a wife. 

Soon the clearing was full with baying groups of warriors. Horns 

sounded and banners waved. Groups circled the fighters and sticks

51

52 

I stood aside as the hooting and chanting passed me by as they 

took their champion into the forest © Jeremy Curl

53 

Donga Fight 

Jeremy Curl 

thrashed as the melee broke loose. Adolescents who would one day 

take part in their own donga fight held to the fringes of the fighting, 

watching on. I drew nearer and could feel the sweat and blood spray 

and the heat of the action. 

I was noticed. A bullet whizzed past my head. It was not meant to 

harm, but only as an intimidation from a warrior who wanted to 

signal that I was to stay back. I saw a warband coming towards me 

holding their victor up on their shoulders and I stood aside as the 

hooting and chanting passed me by as they took their champion 

into the forest, only to parade him back into the clearing to shrieks 

and horns. It felt as if I was witnessing something unchanged for 

centuries, an African Coliseum. 



Samson led me to the edge of the forest where a nervous youth was 

downing homemade sorghum beer and putting protective bandages 

on his head. 

“This is my nephew,” he said. “He will fight soon.” 

I could see a mixture of fear and pride in his face as he listened to his 

friend who was feeding him tips for a successful battle, for honour, 

for his future bride and for his reputation as a warrior. 

I asked Samson even if I wanted to, would I be allowed to fight. 

“No,” came the reply. “This is for us.” 

I understood that this test of manhood and aggression is what set 

the Surma apart from other tribes in the area. As a consequence, 

they were greatly feared by their neighbours and as such were the 

most powerful tribe on the west side of the Omo River. 

The day grew longer and the shadows shortened and lengthened 

again. Much blood had been spilt and soon old family feuds spilled 

over into gunfire. This is not part of the game, the rules. There is no 

honour in it. But with the dangerous mixture of unresolved clan 

differences, fighting and alcohol, many men had picked up their 

Image opposite: Sticks thrashed as the melee broke loose © Jeremy Curl

54 

Donga Fight 

Jeremy Curl 

second spear, the Kalashnikov. 

It was time to leave. 

The clearing now sounded like a wasps’ nest of zinging bullets and 

the crack of rifle fire. Samson and I ducked towards the way we had 

come. I was glad I had seen this amazing cauldron of African tribal 

colour. Over the coming days, I would meet warriors who had 

fought in the donga fight, their wounds a mark of their honour and 

bravery. For me it was a glimpse into the past, for them a glimpse 

into their future as men.

55

56 

Image: Western Omo © Jeremy Curl

57 

An Alternative Inca 

Trail 

Jimmy McSparron

58 



An Alternative Inca Trail 


The map I had was simple, to say the least, it looked like it had been 

drawn by a child. The verbal directions were a little easier to follow. 

How hard could it be, I was going to walk from Ollantaytambo to 

Machu Picchu. 

I grabbed a drink from a cafe and then asked for directions to the 

railway line. Obviously, not really thinking about it, everyone 

directed me to the railway station. Lots of guards and big fences 

told me that this was probably not the best place to start my 

journey. I walked about 2km outside of town along a dusty road 

and found myself conveniently near the railway lines, this time with 

no fence! 

I began following the line, which was a bit awkward to say the least, 

I kept tripping over the sleepers for starters and the gravel was 

pretty hard going as well. I trudged along for a few hours in some of 

the most breath-taking scenery that Peru had to offer in this region. 

The best thing of all was that there wasn’t a tourist in sight. In fact, 

there was hardly anyone in sight at all apart from the odd farmer or 

water buffalo ambling along in the distance and rice paddies in all 

directions. 

The blissful silence was idyllic, I drifted off into an almost trance 

like state whilst listening to the sound of my walking poles clinking 

on the rails. Just as I’d got a nice rhythm going there was a godawful 

noise. It pierced my very soul it was so loud and I dived off 

the track into a ditch behind some bushes with barely centimetres to 

spare as a train shot past me. My heart was racing like crazy, 

reminding me that what I was doing wasn’t particularly high on the 

health and safety list so I concentrated for the rest of the trip, 

Especially on blind bends! 

The sun was fierce due to the altitude, I regularly had to stop and 

reapply sun cream to keep the already cooked lobster colour of my 

exposed skin to a minimum. I had food with me for the journey but 

when I came across a town I decided to pop into a shop (they 

always have a plastic bag on a gigantic stick so people know where 

they are even when surrounded by forest) and see what they had. I 

stuffed myself with bread, Inca Cola and chatted to the somewhat

59 



surprised locals (I was well off the typical tourist path). We 

exchanged some words in Quechua and English which made 

everyone laugh due to poor pronunciation by both parties (you try 

and pronounce “Imaynalla kashanki?” which equates to “How are 

you?”) After a good laugh I set off again, as it was mid-afternoon 

and I wanted to try and get as far as possible each day. 

As it started to draw towards dusk, I decided to look for somewhere 

to pitch my tent. The only flat ground seemed to be near the train 

track which would have been stupid so I kept on looking. Every 

time I saw somewhere that might have been just passable as a camp 

site, I would go on looking for something better but remember 

where the last place was just in case I had to back track. This 

happened for about an hour or so, until I started to get a little 

worried. 



I called out to a man and a woman that I saw working in a field. The 

man came over looking surprised to see a westerner far from the 

well-trodden tourist trails. He asked what I was doing and where I 

was going. I explained that I needed somewhere to put up my tent 

and asked if he could suggest somewhere. He replied that he’d ask 

his wife if she knew anywhere and went to talk to her. The couple 

came back with a suggestion that surprised me. “Why don't you 

come and stay with us?” I was a little taken aback by this offer but 

as I was tired and wary of the time, I agreed. 

They told me I could sleep outside their house but underneath a 

roof which reached outward from the main building like an opensided 

lean-to. I dumped all my stuff down and they beckoned me 

inside. Dinner was served and consisted of my two least favourite 

foods on the planet, sweetcorn and fish. Not wanting to be rude I 

ate it all, as fast as possible, desperately trying to hide the taste with 

more Inca Cola! Seconds were offered but I couldn’t bring myself 

to do it. After a few hours of entertainment, I decided to hit the hay, 

literally, collapsing onto my roll mat and fell promptly asleep. 

I woke up early in the morning to the sound of people stirring in 

the house and realised to my great surprise that I was covered in 

Guinea Pigs (a South American delicacy) I was obviously somewhat

60 





warmer than the ground! I really do wish I could have freed my 

hands to take a photo but the second I sat up they all ran for cover, 

squeaking. 

I offered some money to my hosts but they wouldn’t accept it, so 

we agreed on me giving them some food instead - tinned peaches, a 

luxury in these parts. I slipped some money under the tin as I stood 

it on the table and said my thanks. 

The second day was a little more exciting, at one point I came 

running out of a tunnel screaming my head off, as a train gained on 

me, with the driver frantically waving for me to get out the way and 

by evening I had arrived at Piscacucho, the start of the famous Inca 

Trail. 

There was a fence, a BIG fence, from the top of the valley, to the 

bottom and up the other side. There were a lot of guards at the train 

station itself. I did a little reconnaissance and thought I saw a 

possible route further up to the right of the town. I caught a child 

watching me, he came up to me and demanded chocolate in 

exchange for showing me where there was a hole in the fence. Peru 

never ceased to amaze me by this point, so I parted with valuable 

resources and accepted the help of “La Resistance”. We walked a fair 

bit up the valley and came across a ravine that ran alongside the 

fence. It was probably 8 meters deep but the kid climbed down into 

it and I followed on after. The other side was extremely steep and he 

told me to take my bag off. He boosted me onto a ledge, handed me 

back my bag and told me to climb up and out where I would find a 

gap in the fence. True to his word, at the top, I was free to continue 

my alternate Inca trail. 

I start to pick up the pace, as it was getting late again. I crossed some 

very precarious wild-west style railway bridges, trying not to look 

down and having to leap between the supports as I crossed over 

them with one eye keeping a watch for oncoming trains and then I 

was once again back in dense jungle. It got dark very quickly and 

my mind started to play tricks on me. Fire flies kept appearing 

across the path ahead of me. In reality this looks exactly like 

someone carrying a torch. For good reason I’d shoot off into the

61 



undergrowth like a rocket and this 

eventually led to me dropping and breaking 

my only source of light. I always carry two 

now! 

I passed a false finish at a hydroelectric dam 

complex which was more heavily guarded 

than the rest of the route so far, but it was 

easy enough to bypass. After several hours 

of walking in almost pitch black, more or 

less feeling my way by keeping one foot on 

the rail, I heard music. I kept on walking for 

a bit longer and the music became steadily 

louder. I was suddenly surrounded by a pack 

of dogs, which was terrifying in the dark! I 

fought them off with my walking poles until 

after some moments their owner came to my 

rescue. He apologised and informed me that 

my ultimate goal, Aguas Calientes was only 

a kilometre down the road. I walked as fast 

as my exhausted legs would carry me, finally 

arriving and collapsing on a large flat rock 

outside the train station I went straight to 

sleep. 

Although it had been a much harder way of 

getting there, with the help of the local 

people, I gained a unique insight into 

another way of life. They didn't seem to 

mind that I was cheating the system by not 

paying guide fees and trail passes. They were 

just happy someone had taken the time to 

pop by. I was happy to have met them. 

Image opposite: Machu Pichu, Journey's End 

© FreeImages.com/antoniocrp

62

63 

Contributors 

Credits: 

All articles and images are the copyright of the their 

respective authors. Ripcord Adventure Journal is grateful 

158 

to all our writers and photographers for permission to 

publish their work in the digital and print editions of the 

Journal.

64 

Editor in Chief: Tim Lavery 

Publisher, educator and scientist, Tim has worked throughout Europe in 

various fields for corporates, NGOs and Educational Institutions over 

the past 25 years. In January 2012 he launched the award winning World 

Explorers Bureau, a speakers agency representing over 160 of the 

world’s most accomplished explorers and adventurers. 

Since 1985, Tim has earned numerous National Awards for his 

contribution to environmental awareness in Ireland including three 

Resource Ireland Awards, several Environment Awareness Awards, 

Local Hero Award and Inspired IT Award. He has authored more than 

20 scientific papers ranging from ecology to new species descriptions 

and edited numerous other publications on a variety of scientific and 

education technology topics. 

Tim is passionate about exploration and the dissemination of the results 

of authentic adventures and expeditions. In 2014 Tim was elected as a 

Fellow of the Royal Entomological Society (of London) followed in 

2015 by becoming the first Irish person to be elected to the College of 

Fellows of the Royal Canadian Geographical Society and in November 

2016 he was made a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society. He 

manages the Worldwide Expedition Professionals and Irish Adventure 

Association groups on LinkedIn and is a Director of the Irish Explorers 

Trust and World Explorers Museums’ Network. 

In 2016 he was invited to join the Board of the World Explorers Society 

and serves as Director of Global Strategies.

65 

Mark Evans 

Mark Evans MBE has lived in Arabia for 22 years and is the 

Executive Director of Outward Bound Oman, Founder of The 

University of the Desert, and Patron of the Andrew Croft Memorial 

Fund. 

He was awarded the MBE in 2012 for his work in using expeditions 

to promote intercultural dialogue. 

Remaining firmly in the footsteps of Bertram Thomas, Mark gave a 

lecture at the prestigious Explorers Club in New York on October 

31st 2016, where Thomas was made an honorary member in 1932 

following his return from the Empty Quarter. 

A UK lecture tour, funded by the Anglo Omani Society is organised 

for the spring of 2017, and includes Bristol, where Thomas grew up, 

and Cambridge, where he studied. The expedition book, "Crossing 

the Empty Quarter. In the Footsteps of Bertram Thomas" may be 

purchased at www.crossingtheemptyquarter.com/book/ 

For more information see: www.markevans.global

66 


Alex Staniforth is a 21-year old endurance adventurer, motivational 

speaker and author from Cheshire. In 2015 his second attempt to 

climb Mount Everest ended in disaster after the Nepal earthquake 

triggered avalanches, tragically killing three of his teammates at base 

camp, whilst he was below Camp 1 in the Khumbu Icefall. In Spring 

2014 his first attempt to reach the summit of Mount Everest, aged 

18, was cut short by another major avalanche. 

His debut book ‘’Icefall’’ tells the full story of these devastating 

events and his journey through adversity to Everest, endorsed by 

Bear Grylls. Alex suffered Epilepsy and more in his childhood that 

has driven him to succeed and inspire others to build resilience, and 

overcome their own ‘Everest in life’. 

He is proud to be the Young Ambassador for the award-winning 

Westgrove Group an integrated facilities and security management 

company based in Warrington. 

For more information see: http://alexstaniforth.com/

67 


Jacki Hill-Murphy is an explorer, speaker and writer who recreates 

the journeys of the first women explorers, these journeys have taken 

her to the Ecuadorian Amazon, the Llanganates Mountains in 

Ecuador, Cameroon, Ladakh and Siberia. 

Her book: “Adventuresses, Recreating Daring Voyages into the 

Unknown’ is available on Amazon. ‘Bad, Mad or an Angel? The 

story of Kate Marsden and Jacki Hill-Murphy’s Journey Across 

Siberia in her Footsteps’ will be published in 2017. 

For more information see: http://jackihill-murphy.co.uk/ 

Image @Morgan Hill-Murphy

68 

Jeremy Curl 

Jeremy is an explorer, photographer and writer. 

In 2008, Jeremy crossed the Sahara with the Touareg tribes that live 

there, photographing their harsh way of life and the bitter 

skirmishes they fight that are currently splintering the Sahara. He 

covered two thousand kilometres on foot and by camel, arriving in 

Timbuktu after crossing the Tanezrouft, the most arid part of the 

Sahara that the Touareg call the “Land of Terror”, becoming the first 

in living memory to do so. 

Jeremy's articles and photographs have been published in a number 

of national and international magazines in both Europe and 

America. In 2009 Jeremy was nominated for a Rolex Award for 

Exploration and Discovery while his photographs have been 

exhibited widely from solo exhibitions to alongside Nelson 

Mandela in 2010. In 2013, Jeremy was presented with an award by 

the crown prince of Dubai, Hamdan bin Mohammed Al Maktoum, 

for excellence and achievement in exploration. 

For more information see: http://www.jeremycurl.com/

69 

Rory Golden 

Rory Golden is an International member of the Explorers Club, MI 

14. He is a Fellow recipient of the Explorers Club Citation of Merit 

awarded to the Bezos Expeditions Apollo F-1 Engine Recovery 

Project 2013. He runs his own Diving, S+R, and marine supplies 

company in Ireland: Flagship Scubadiving Ltd. 

For more information see: www.rorygolden.com or 

company website www.flagshipscuba.com. 

Rory's 

Above: The late Ralph White (on the left) with Rory Golden on 

board the scientific research vessel, Akademik Mstislav Keldysh

70 


Jimmy McSparron has spent most of his adult life in remote corners 

of the world. He has lived with many indigenous groups, getting 

tattoos deep in the jungle with sticks, meeting head hunters and 

cannibals: documenting languages and cultures along the way. He 

has also featured on Nat Geo Wild and the BBC with both screen 

time and as a location manager and fixer for a variety of TV 

programs. 

His recent projects include exploring the part of the amazon basin 

he lives in, paddling completely alone through the jungle and 

recording indigenous tribes. He is a fellow of the Royal Geographic 

Society, the Explorers Club and the Royal Anthropological 

Institute. 

Outside of the Jungle, Jimmy has ridden a horse 600 miles across the 

second highest plain in the world, driven a 3 wheeled tuk tuk 2500 

miles across the whole of Peru and been part of earthquake relief 

teams in Indonesia. 

For more information see: http://www.manusurvival.com/jimmymcsparron

71 

“Solo travel has never appealed to me. 

Half the fun of an expedition is the 

planning of it and, as with old soldiers, the 

shared memories afterwards.” 

Sir Ranulph Fiennes 

Cold 

Extreme Adventures at the Lowest 

temperatures on Earth

Publishers 

72 

Ripcord is the adventure insurance arm of Redpoint 

Resolutions, a travel risk and crisis response company 

specializing in comprehensive global travel solutions. They 

serve government agencies, corporations and organizations 

that require employees to travel or live abroad. The company 

is owned and operated by special operations veterans and 

physicians who practice wilderness medicine and understand 

the challenges of medical and security emergencies in remote 

environments. 

Ripcord’s global intelligence, evacuation services, essential 

benefits and 24/7 operations center has your back no matter 

where your adventures takes you. 

The World Explorers Bureau (WEB) is a speakers agency that 

represents 170+ explorers and extreme adventurers, men and 

women who have lived with cannibals, dived the deepest 

seas, rowed the oceans, cycled the globe, lived underwater, 

climbed the highest mountains, explored unmapped caves, 

walked, skied and cycled to the Poles, walked in space and 

continue to explore the unexplored. 

WEB Speakers inspire audiences around the world with 

captivating tales of their adventures encapsulating themes 

which include pushing boundaries, leadership, teamwork and 

motivation.

73

74 

Supporting 

One world, one life, 

one great adventure... 

JOIN US! 

www.worldadventuresociety.org

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