High life
Carry on climbing
Taki
Gstaad The brilliant weather — cool, sunny and crystal clear — has helped lift every- one's depression. Last week, in neighbour- ing Lenk, I managed to lose four tie-breakers in a row, the first two in the singles semi-final, the next two in the dou- bles final. In the singles, I played the 55 and over Swiss champ, a man I had com- peted against in the Davis Cup 31 years ago. We had some ferocious exchanges, but he squeaked through. I have never left Lenk without a cup, and this year was no exception, but it is an awful feeling losing on a tie-break. At the start of the second set, well into the second hour of the match, I said to myself, 'Here it comes.' I meant the heart attack. I had run everything down and was doing the forcing. The sun was beating down, I had had a semi-late night, and it was midday. But the white lady, or whatever Miss Heart Attack is called, gave me a pass. Down 4-2, I came back and almost won it. Still, it would have been a sloppy way to go. All sweaty, wearing ten- nis kit and in front of an audience.
Death, it seems, has been on everyone's minds recently. Two weeks before, the greatest living Englishman, Sir Nigel Dempster — recently knighted for services to Princess Michael of Kent — came to stay. Having just read Into Thin Air, Jon Krakauer's account of last year's Everest disaster, I regaled him with tales of adven- ture and heroism up above. 'We might even get lucky and find some pretty climbers,' I told him. He decided right there and then to try.
It was my first time, too. Both my young son and the mother of my children had been rock climbing as part of the training. I had announced I would conquer the Mat- terhorn in 1998 but had refused to rock climb as I was preparing for my tennis tournaments. One bright morning, Alexan- dra, Nigel, Kobi (the human fly) Reichen and I took a gondola on our way to the Videmanette peak at 7,500 feet. Nigel was in an awfully jolly mood until he saw Kobi take ropes and pitons out of his backpack. `I thought we were going walking,' said the GLE in a trembling voice. 'We are, straight up,' answered the human fly with a smile.
Once the harnesses were produced we knew we were in for the real thing. Nigel said something about the film Casablanca and how Rick had 'come to take the waters', but when informed there were no waters he replied, 'I was misinformed.'
As we began our assault towards the peak — which overhangs at places Dempster suddenly appreciated the sheer terror that was also gripping yours truly. Attired like Sir Edmund Hillary, he never- theless threw up his breakfast of Earl Grey tea and fruit salad and shouted, 'No way, Jose!' stopping dead in his tracks. I was ready to join him but simply could not lose face in front of a woman. Amid shouts from the human fly who was already perched precipitously on an overhang, try- ing to tempt the great scribe upwards with the exhortation, Wein Problem, Kein Prob- lem,' Nigel did a reverse charge of the Light Brigade and crawled inch by inch back to safety.
Although I had been warned not to look down, I did not manage to avoid the `schwindel'. I have always suffered slightly from vertigo, but this was the worse yet. Still, on we climbed with the mother of my children leading the way as if she were a mountain goat, rather than an Austrian princess. The last part was the worst. Until we began the descent, that is. Looking down a mile or two of vertical drop while attached to a thin rope which in turn is attached to a very thin man does not inspire confidence in tomorrow.
By the time we got down I was soaked with cold sweat. The GLE, in the mean- time, had made all sorts of climbing acquaintances and was enjoying a post- prandial bottle of rare Cognac. He compli- mented the princess and the frightened little Greek boy and then proceeded to describe the wild mountain flowers and the Edelweiss he had collected while inching his way back to safety. He made us laugh so much I even forgot about the terror. Matterhorn, you schwindel-inducing old bitch, here I come.
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