All language subtitles for BBC.Endeavour.Everest①By.Canoe.720p.HDTV.x264_track3_[eng]

Kathmandu - starting point for
expeditions to climb Everest -

is a 7,500-mile drive from Britain.

Mick Hopkinson negotiated the narrow
streets with an irreplaceable cargo.

11 handmade racing kayaks,
and the only ones in Nepal.

This was a unique expedition.

Six Olympic-class canoeists
with some outstanding

firsts in white-water canoeing
to their credit,

including a 220-mile descent
of the Blue Nile

and the first shoot of the Colorado
river through the Grand Canyon.

They came to Kathmandu not to climb
the highest mountain in the world,

but to descend the highest river
in the world, the Dudh Kosi.

The British Everest Canoe Expedition

had taken over 18 months
to organise.

It was led by Mike Jones, a
25-year-old doctor from Birmingham.

Rob Hastings, the most stylish
canoeist in the team, is a teacher.

22-year-old Dave Manby,
the youngest of the seven bachelors.

Roger Huyton is a Yorkshireman
from Bradford.

As is Mick Hopkinson,

at 28, the oldest
and strongest of the party.

John Liddle, despite being
a chartered accountant,

received the most love letters.

But choosing John Gosling,
a Post Office catering manager,

to cook the food was pure genius.

Climbing expeditions are commonplace
in Kathmandu

and even the most modern clothes,

tents and equipment
are taken for granted.

Why have these helmets got
holes in them?

To let the water out of course.

Who takes boats up a mountain?

There's snow up there
and these paddles won't be much use.

From Kathmandu, the trail leads
due east, crossing range after

range of foothills to meet
the Dudh Kosi after 80 miles.

The source of the river
is on the Khumbu Glacier

above the Everest base camp,
at an altitude of over 18,000 feet.

The highest river in the world.

It runs past the historic
Thyangboche Monastery,

Namche Bazaar -
the Sherpas' home village -

and at Jubing has fallen over
13,000 feet in its first 50 miles.

50 miles later, it meets
the Sun Kosi and becomes wide

and peaceful as it flows down
to the Bay of Bengal,

a thousand miles away.

So the walk began.

It's 130 miles to the source
of the river but everyone was aware

as the path winds up ridges
and down valleys,

that there was over 45,000 feet
of uphill grind in front of them.

The porters
vary in age from 14 to 40,

and carry loads weighing
up to 60lbs.

For this,
they're paid about a pound a day.

The Porters' Union rated the canoe
the same as a crevasse ladder,

long and awkward,
so an extra 25p a day was charged.

It seemed a bargain.

The day's walking started
for everyone at 6.00 am.

By 9.00 it was already warming
up, and by 2.00 it was raining.

One of the biggest risks
for a canoeing expedition

is to find no water in the river.

Mike Jones' team weren't going to
walk for 17 days

just to find a dry river bed.

So they chose to do it in September,
at the height of the monsoon.

As the rain fell,
even the most pessimistic member

accepted that there'd be more
than enough water for all of them.

Empty, the canoes weighed 30lbs,

but full of rain water
they were unmovable.

There was a limit
to what the porters would carry,

even for that extra 25p a day.

Walking, camping and living with
60 porters has certain benefits.

They carry your equipment
and they cook your food.

At first this seemed a luxury, but
as dysentery struck down one member

after another,
the advantage seemed dubious.

Good weather cheers everyone up and
soon the scenery became more Alpine.

THE MEN SING

Tantalising views of mountains were
seen on the fine days.

But they were still in the jungle

and the blood-sucking
leaches fed well.

BIRDS SQUAWK

As the day's walk came to an end,
the tired legs became more hesitant

and the load seemed more cumbersome.

Everyone looked
for the campfire smoke.

For the porters, this meant
delicious roast chickens, rice,

dhal and chapattis.

For the Saabs,
the best British dried food,

delicately flavoured
with fibreglass bonding resin

that seemed to have pervaded
everything.

After a week, the expedition
pleaded with the porters

and ate their food
for the rest of the trip.

Eight days out from Kathmandu,
they reached the Hillary Bridge

and saw the Dudh Kosi
for the first time.

Sherpas have a healthy
dislike of water

and a real fear of crossing
the bridges, which are left

unrepaired until they fall down,
usually with someone on them.

As if from the crocodile-infested
lower reaches of the river,

the iridescent canoes seemed
reptilian,

even to the inoffensive
local lizard.

At the top of each ridge,
the mountains came into view,

but these were only of minor
interest to the canoeists.

While mountaineers would
look up for routes,

the canoeists look down,

scrutinising every foot
of the river.

Is there too much water?

Will we be able to do it?

Four days later, they reach Namche
Bazaar, the Sherpas' home village.

The expedition porters were Tamangs
from the lower Sun Kosi Valley.

Sherpas - the aristocrats
of the Himalayas -

prefer to carry for climbing
expeditions, with tents,

rope and high-altitude
clothing as their perks.

But the Tamangs did their job,
puzzled only by what they would do

with a canoe if they were given one
as a perk at the end of the trip.

By now the team were getting
acclimatised

as they spent more time over
10,000 feet.

They even began to take
for granted ten-year-old girls

acting as pack animals,
carrying 50lbs of wood.

Thyangboche Monastery
is as sacred to climbers

as to the monks themselves.

Huddled beneath
the highest peaks of the Himalayas

with its Buddhist monuments,

it occupies a unique position
in the long history of Everest.

Early expeditions spent days there
acclimatising

as the Sherpas made the prayer
wheels spin for a safe return.

SHERPAS SING PRAYER

For the first time,
the expedition saw Everest -

remote and insignificant.

That night there was
an air of anti-climax,

but at dawn mountains came into view
that were uniquely Himalayan -

cold, dominating and dangerous.

As the expedition got under way,

higher, even more spectacular peaks
crowded the skyline.

But slowly, Everest grew in scale
until there was no mistaking it.

Squat, huge - sitting firmly
above the expedition's objective -

the Khumbu Glacier.

Once on the glacier, the canoes were
easier to handle, but a swift

gust of wind could really give
the porter a nasty headache.

Now they were in real climbing
country, and Eric Jones,

one of the two climbers
with the expedition, took charge.

The snows from Everest
avalanche into the Western Cwm

and join the giant Khumbu Glacier.

In summer, this melts and somewhere
on its surface the canoeists

found a lake,
the real source of the Dudh Kosi.

They had established a world's
altitude record for canoeing -

17,500 feet.

The great advantage of canoeing
down a mountain is that once the

head of the river has been reached,
it's all downhill from there on.

They knew there was to be nothing
as easy as this for the rest

of the descent,
but even here there were risks.

At this altitude,
a sudden violent movement provokes

uncontrollable panting,
as the lungs gasp on the thin air.

And a capsize would be very
dangerous.

The fibreglass canoes,
just four metres long,

were specially re-enforced to resist
the hammering from the rocks

in the river and the sheer
hydraulic force of the water.

As it turned out, even strengthened,
they just couldn't take

the battering they were to get.

Canoe design is a compromise
between strength and weight.

If, for example,
these canoes had been made of steel,

they would've been clumsy in a
fast-moving river, and perhaps even

more important, the porters wouldn't
have been able to carry them.

The ice lake gave the team
some experience

of some high-altitude paddling.

Under the south face of Lhotse,
the magnificent satellite

peak of Everest,
the real river began.

Dave Manby led the first part
with Rob Hastings,

who didn't like these shallow
waters at all.

It was very frustrating
for the first three days

because it was so rocky
and it was so steep.

It was very difficult to actually
paddle cos there were

so many rocks of all shapes and sizes
littering the whole river bed.

And because there wasn't
very much water in it,

it was difficult to actually
get your paddle into the water.

Soon the river steepened,
and the narrow gaps

between the boulders forced
the water into high-pressure jets.

Break-out points were further apart

and the concentration
required to avoid rocks intense.

The rapid thrust of the paddle,
a gasp for breath,

a moment's loss of concentration...

and Dave Manby capsizes.

He tries to recover.

Tries again.

Tries a third time, it's his
last chance, he's got to get out.

The boat came up and he'd capsized.
I could see he tried to roll,

the paddle came to the surface

but there just wasn't really
very much space.

His paddle was trapped
between the canoe and a rock,

and the next thing I knew,
he was swimming,

so I immediately jumped
out of my canoe.

There's very little that you can do
when somebody is swimming

because of the strength
of the current.

Virtually the only thing you can do
is position yourself strategically,

where he's most likely to
be swept up,

and jam yourself so you don't get
pulled into the river as well.

And the force of the water
was incredible.

And the last thing you want to do
is to complicate the problem

by swimming yourself.

And fortunately, I just positioned
myself behind this rock

and Dave got swept up onto it
and I just grabbed him.

He clambered out and he avoided
a very unpleasant experience.

You can't survive for very long
swimming down a river.

You lose your breath and the next
thing you know is you just give up.

But if you exhaust yourself
while you're swimming

then you just get short of breath,
you start taking in water,

you go underneath, you hit rocks,
you're continually hitting rocks,

continually going underwater.

Fortunately Dave's injuries were
minor and now the party knew

it was possible to survive
a high-altitude capsize.

But what would've happened if Rob
hadn't been there to catch him

and pull him out?

The canoe was a complete write-off
and Dave gave it as a souvenir

to the porters, solving by chance
the problem of porter perks.

It's now a chicken hutch
at the Thyangboche Monastery.

Everest was still visible
on the clear days

but as they descended,
the river steepened again

and became more serious.

All the time the canoeists
are looking ahead for eddies,

where they can break out
from the high-speed,

lung-bursting dodging
between boulders.

The water was just above freezing

and survival time in it
could be measured in minutes.

Rob Hastings was in good form,
taking a bold line down the river.

By now, his confidence was high,

but there were problems ahead
even he couldn't anticipate.

The force of the water
was quite extraordinary.

I mean, I suddenly realised...
the rigidity in my boat just went,

sort of snapped like
a bow string or something.

The canoe just folded up,
just behind the cockpit,

just behind me, and I could feel it.

The boat was sort of V-shaped and
immediately I realised that it was

quite a potentially
dangerous situation.

I was in mid-stream so I had five
or ten seconds to get to the bank

or I realised the boat would sink
and I would be swimming.

And to swim down a river like that
is the last thing you want to do.

Fortunately, Rob managed to
repair his canoe

while the team explored
the river below.

They were looking for suitable
break-out points above impossible

waterfalls and narrows,
where the bank team could snatch

a passing canoe before it
swept over the fall.

Ahead was the worst sluice
they'd encountered so far.

And there were
only two possible eddies

where Rob and Roger could stop.

Rob misses the first one...

shoots the fall
and makes the second.

Roger Huyton wasn't so lucky.

This was the nightmare
that continuously haunted them -

to be swept out of control
for just one second too long,

and then jammed irretrievably
under a boulder.

After 20 miles, the river
fell into a steep-sided gorge.

Geoff Tabner, one of the climbers,
made a route down so the team

could get a closer look
to confirm that it was navigable.

Already they had broken three canoes
and at that rate the remaining

eight canoes wouldn't see them
through the next 79 miles

to where the Dudh Kosi meets
the placid waters of the Sun Kosi.

Access to the gorge was almost
impossible and the waters rushed

along with undiminished force.

An accident here would be
unthinkable.

It was a remote, savage place,
where chockstones the size

of several houses hung poised,

ready to crash into
the turbulent waters.

Rob Hastings climbed back up,

memorising the route
they were to take down the river.

Left of that boulder,
right to that eddy, avoid that log.

Unconcerned by all this,
Leo Dickinson,

one of the cameramen, was determined
to get into the perfect position

where the jungle
wouldn't screen his view.

Mike Jones had suffered
from the three most common

Himalayan ailments - piles,
dysentery and snow blindness.

They all made boating
an unpleasant experience.

And in fast, exciting water,
they could easily be forgotten.

The gorge ends where the Dudh Kosi
is joined by the Bhote-Kosi

and suddenly the expedition began to
feel the full force of the river.

This was white-water canoeing
at its most difficult.

In the Alps and Britain, the team
had practised on the steepest water,

but the Dudh Kosi,
falling at 270 feet per mile,

was over four times as steep
as anything they'd met before.

One essential qualification
for every member of the team

was to be able to recover
from a capsize by rolling his canoe

on the first try, every time,
and in the fastest water.

There may be no time for a second
attempt, and to lose the boat

and try swimming in these
conditions would be fatal.

Apart from rocks, boils
and whirlpools, the most formidable

obstacle is a stopper wave -
where the water turns over on itself

and can seize a canoe or swimmer and
churn him until smashed or drowned.

The only way to break out
is ploughing through it.

This is impossible
in a full-size life jacket,

which makes them lethal.

The team's jackets were just
to give them some sort of buoyancy,

but not enough to trap them
if they were caught in a stopper.

Rob Hastings was the first to take
a bath in this sort of water.

I capsized on the first fall
and I realised

I would be swept into the second fall
before I had time to roll up,

just cos I hadn't got
my paddle into position,

so I hung on upside down.

And the next thing I knew
was scraping rocks on my helmet.

It was here that training
and practice counted.

Disorientated,

Rob recovered beautifully
to negotiate the next fall.

The Sherpa kids really enjoyed
the whole show.

Dave Manby, now fully recovered
from his earlier swim,

may lack elegance but he makes it
up with bags of nerve.

This was real grade-six water -
the most difficult there is -

where a capsize was a problem but to
lose the canoe would be a disaster.

By now they were confident that
they were masters of the river

and looking at the bottom was just
a prelude to flipping up again.

Canoeing in this sort of water calls
for strength, a finely developed

sense of balance, and judgement
to know when to pause for a rest.

Above all, it requires a cool head
when situations get out of control.

Rob capsized right above a waterfall

with no time to recover
before he's over it.

He rose up, completely lost,

and heading rapidly
for another impossible situation.

Capsizes...

Rolls up again.

It's exactly this sort of sequence
that can lead to disaster

but Rob regains control.

Mike Jones, stopped by the hydraulic
back pressure of the stopper,

had to use all his strength
to break through it.

This was the biggest fall
they'd encountered -

over 15-feet high
with a giant stopper at the bottom.

Once caught in that, there was
little chance of getting out.

Mick Hopkinson psyched
himself up to do it,

and, like a true expert,
made it look easy.

For the success and safety
of the party,

it was essential
to operate as a team.

They would follow each other
through a section,

then pull aside to make sure
everyone was in good shape

before tackling the next bit.

Individual brilliance was important,
but if things went wrong,

good teamwork could
avoid a disaster.

After his virtuoso performance
on the waterfall,

and seven years without falling
out of his canoe,

Mick Hopkinson
was full of confidence.

It was the end of a long day, we'd
been on the go since six o'clock,

canoed for... Probably for four
hours on some really difficult water

and at the end of the day,
I made a mistake.

A lapse of concentration.

Capsized and was swept sideways
onto a large rock.

Water pinned the canoe
against the rock

and I was upside down in the water.

And the water was going so fast,
such was the force of it anyway,

I couldn't get out of the canoe.
I was being held against the rock

by the water,
perhaps for 40, 50 seconds.

I had to sit up,
I had to get out of the boat,

I had to do something,
and I kept trying and trying.

Eventually, I realised
I wasn't going to do it.

And at that point,
the boat actually bent,

came off the rock
and I managed to get a breath.

Mike Jones had seen what had
happened and reacted instantly.

He shot downstream
to get ahead of Mick,

who made a frantic attempt
to grab the end of his canoe.

But these were desperate waters

and Mike had to look after
his own survival.

As the canoes slid over
fall after fall, Mick,

bowled over and over by the water,

was swept out of sight,
down another channel.

Mike Jones, still hindered
by his snow-blindness,

managed to hold his canoe
across the current.

And Mick, completely exhausted,
grabbed the stern.

Shocked, battered and confused, Mick
Hopkinson was pulled onto the bank.

Mike Jones had just performed
a classical and extremely

skilful canoe rescue
on technically difficult waters.

Mick was very lucky to be alive.

And I ended up swimming.

I think swimming's the expression
of it. Actually you just float.

I was so exhausted I couldn't even
try to swim for the bank.

And at that point,

Mike managed to get back
in his canoe and chase after me.

But...I thought that was it,
I though that was the end.

I should imagine drowning's
very much like going to sleep.

I was so physically exhausted
from trying to get out of the canoe,

from floating down the river,

that I stopped caring.

It's as simple as that.

There's no panic. Panic involves
a certain amount of adrenalin,

a certain amount of energy,
and I just didn't have any energy
left at all.

I was just passing out altogether.
That was it.

Helplessness is probably
the worst thing.

I popped out again
and could take a breath

and then back under the water.

All this time, you're being rolled
along the bottom

and getting your head cracked
against rocks and things.

And you think, "This is it."

Well, the water was flowing
very fast,

and all you can hear is
a crashing noise.

I think probably when you get swept
underneath for a long period

of time and you get really
frightened, there's very little
you can do.

It's the man in the water's job
to try and get hold of the canoe.

The actual canoeist can't
do that much.

Mike couldn't have done a great deal
to, say, physically lift me

onto the canoe at all. Because
the water was so difficult,

he had to paddle down it himself.

And once I actually, even though
I'd got hold of the canoe,

I had to let go of it cos we dropped
into a fairly big stopper,

the two of us, and if
I'd held onto his canoe

then he'd have ended up
swimming as well.

So I actually let go once.

But...perhaps Mike's...

As I say, Mike's big problem was
he didn't know exactly where

to go down the rapid himself
cos he couldn't see.

I actually opened my eyes and all I
could see was some brown/blue colour

and I was longing for the surface,
to see the sky, if you like,

and I couldn't.

I was just completely,
absolutely exhausted.

So much so that just getting hold
of the end of his boat

was a major effort and willpower.

And eventually, even when
he pulled me near the bank,

I just stared at the bank,
you can appreciate that.

I don't think a drowning man does
clutch at straws.

I just stared at the river bank

and I didn't have the energy
to lift my arm to get hold of it.

I was eventually pulled out
by some of the porters.

The way I looked at it anyway
was that, having made

a mistake like that,
I'd never make another mistake.

I'd never do the same
stupid thing again.

I'd never have the same
lapse of concentration.

I was that much more experienced
than I was the day before.

By now, most of the canoes
had been damaged

by smashing
against rocks in the river.

Every night, they were patched
and reinforced

but three had already been
written off.

It seemed worth taking a risk
to recover Mick's canoe,

hoping it might be possible
to repair it.

Rob recovered it, and only now
was it possible to see how Mick had

managed to escape
from under the boulder.

His struggling under the water
and the sheer force of the current

had split the boat apart.

As a special treat, Mick was given
the last brand-new boat

being carried by the support party,

with instructions
to look after it this time.

Each night they camped
alongside the river

and the Sherpa cook boys
did their best to make

the fibreglass-flavoured food
taste interesting.

There were no fresh eggs
or chickens to be had.

At dawn, the air was frigid
and the icy water,

crashing past the tent door
seemed very uninviting.

It required a real effort of will
to leave a warm sleeping bag,

put on sodden wet suit trousers,
damp sweaters to sit in a canoe

with only 4mm of fibreglass between
your backside and the cold river.

There was no warm-up period.
One minute they were on the bank,

the next,
hurtling down the river again.

Just to show who was boss,
the whole expedition

and Mick, breaking in his new canoe,
shot the same rapids again.

As Mick put it, "After 18 months
of planning, and ten weeks

"of getting there, you don't give up
because you've fallen in."

By now they'd been canoeing
for ten days, and had descended

over 10,000 feet from the start
on the Khumbu Glacier lake.

Each section of the river
was inspected before a descent
was attempted.

Here, all the water was swept
under a jammed log.

A mistake upstream

and the canoeist would be wedged
in his canoe under the tree trunk.

The team discussed its feasibility,

not wanting a repetition
of Mick's near-fatal swim.

Finally they took the chicken run,

the easier,
quiet water near the bank.

With only a few canoes left
serviceable

and some of those held together
with sticky tape,

they were taking no chances
of failure with success so near.

The river was utterly relentless.

Falls, haystack waves, rocks

and the ever present thunder
of rushing water.

Mick and Mike take
the next section of the river.

Mick sees a huge stopper wave,
but it's too late.

He's swept into it, spun into
a loop and contemptuously spat out.

Mike cunningly avoids it.

At last, the end of the steep
section was in sight.

They'd travelled 50 miles
and descended over 13,000 feet

in the steepest and most
continuously difficult water

anyone on the expedition
had experienced.

There was an air of relief
after conquering

the most difficult section.

And Dave Manby
ducks into a victory roll.

But they were still only
halfway down.

They needed a holt to repair
what canoes they could

and to take stock of the food,
which was rapidly running out.

No-one would let go of his special
handmade paddle,

particularly as they cost £25 each.

Writing off a canoe was one thing,
but to a canoeist, his paddle

represented the driving force
behind the canoe, the steering

mechanism, the brake and the
recovery device on a capsize.

Losing a paddle in the Dudh Kosi
is as serious to a canoeist

as losing an ice axe is to
a climber on the summit of Everest.

The tea quickly warmed them up

and they began to recall
the incidents of the trip.

Mike Jones' rescue of Mick,

Rob's first roll,
hammering his head along the bottom,

John Liddle still enjoying
his stock of love letters,

Dave Manby the first one
to take a big swim,

luckily well caught by Rob Hastings.

John Gosling, still explaining
the taste of fibreglass in the food

and the missing
stock of Dundee cakes.

Roger Huyton, who made
such a contribution high up,

and, with his smile,
keeping everybody's spirits high.

With only two serviceable canoes
left, the expedition still

had 50 miles of the Dudh Kosi
to complete.

The two Mikes volunteered to try
an Alpine decent

through the more placid
lower reaches.

They set out as the rest
of the party started the long trek

to Kathmandu.

There would be no comforting
support party on the bank

to help the canoeists
if they got into trouble.

They carried the minimum
of equipment and food -

a sleeping bag each,
a few bars of chocolate

and the expedition's
last Dundee cake.

Two thoughts filled their minds

as they paddled past mile after mile
of paddy fields -

where would they be able to
get some cooked food,

even if it was only
a few chapattis?

And if the river really was
infested with crocodiles,

as the Sherpas said,
where were they all hiding?

They paddled for 50 miles
round bend after bend,

until each curve merged
into the next as a solid green wall.

It seemed endless.

They had arranged to be met where
the Dudh Kosi meets the Sun Kosi.

It seemed a vague arrangement,

but right on schedule,
the helicopter appeared

and the fear of the five-day walk
out to Kathmandu was eliminated.

Their journey's end
was really in sight.

Elated with success, they paddled
for the last time on the Dudh Kosi.

They'd no food left
and they'd seen no crocodiles.

But the expedition
had successfully completed

the longest canoe descent
in the world.

For each of the team,
it was a triumph.

A burnt face and swollen lips
were the last mementos

of the high-altitude sun.

The weight they had lost
would be regained

once they were eating normal food.

But for them all, this had been
the ultimate in canoeing adventures.