A few days earlier I’d been standing on the summit of Mount Elbrus, Europe’s highest peak, finishing another peak on my Seven Summits Solo project. The climb was behind me, and the long journey home had begun—Moscow to London, and hopefully on to New York.

What follows is the original chapter from my book, written as it happened: a story of leaving Russia, chasing flights, and unexpectedly ending up on the Concorde, streaking through a sky I’d certainly never seen on any of the Seven Summits, with a sunset bathed in deep purple. Perhaps understandable, as Concorde flew at a height more than twice that of those I’d experienced on Everest.

From: To Everest via Antarctica

CHAPTER 22

STREAKING THROUGH DEEP PURPLE

Moscow receded on a rainy autumn day, the country fading like a dream, the beginning and end of the story marked by the flight in and the flight out of Russia.

We’d met the people, we’d talked of life and love and war. We’d discovered more similarities than differences and we’d made friends we’d remember forever.

London was warm and welcoming and we suddenly realised that Russia, no matter how friendly, had always been a bit uncertain, as if something we had no control over might happen and we would wake up in Siberia instead of on the beach.

As much as I loved London, talks were scheduled in New York and whether I wished it or not, I had to get back to the City.

Flights to New York were full but I went to the airport anyway, wanting to be home in America, with all its familiar solidity. I stood by for three flights at Heathrow, but luck wasn’t with me. I resigned myself to another night in London.

The British Airways ticket agent was in the process of booking me into a hotel for a lonely night, when someone with more stripes on their shoulder arrived from behind the counter and peered over her glasses at me.

‘Why did you miss your earlier flight?’ she queried in that British accent which made it sound like I had missed an appointment with the Queen.

‘In 1988 I led an Everest expedition with one of your compatriots, Stephen Venables, who became the first British person to summit Everest without oxygen. He’s just returned from India with two broken legs and I had only one chance to see him. I decided to stay an extra night and take my chances today.’

‘And where are you going now?’ she asked.

‘New York,’ I said.

She leaned forward over the ticket agent and said, ‘How’s that flight look?’

‘One seat,’ he replied.

She peered over her glasses at me for one last look. ‘I guess you like adventure. We’ve one more flight today and it leaves in ten minutes. You’ll have to run,’ and she handed me my boarding pass.

I ran.

Overweight briefcase and camera cases cleared a swath as I swept through the hallways of Heathrow, into one end of the lounge and out the other.

‘Mr Anderson, so pleased to welcome you on board, just watch your head.’

I stooped through the small door and turned to make my way down the aisle. My first thought was, ‘This plane is too small, I’ll never make it to New York on this.’

Then I second-guessed even being on the flight. Maybe it was the flight back to Moscow?

Then I got a real look down the endlessly long aisle, the grey leather seats, the stainless steel gleaming amongst the dark colours, the whispered tones of passengers clad only in natural fabrics and gold watches and suddenly realised I could only be on the Concorde.

I’d entered the hallowed club that flew 20,000 feet higher and over twice as fast as every other passenger jet.

I walked the length of the centre aisle to the last row and the last seat. The seats, two abreast on each side, were little larger than a standard seat, but with double the leg room. And something about all that grey leather and stainless steel, with the attendants in tuxes carrying silver trays, made the atmosphere much more akin to a private jet than a commercial airliner.

The seat was next to a small oval window, more of a porthole really, with three layers of glass. The plane was full, 100 people ensconced in a long thin aluminium tube 203 feet long.

We were pushed away from the gate and the jets fired up, a solid rumble completely different from a normal jet. The wings were huge, flat, big enough to build a house on. The flaps stretched like vast butterflies off the tail end, flexing their muscles as we purred out to the runway.

The pilot came on, speaking in hushed, reserved tones, providing novice supersonic fans with the details while quietly paying homage to that élite group of Concorde frequent flyers who travel London-New York and back for the day.

‘The Concorde weighs 181 tons and we’ll be taking off with full thrust using our afterburners. This will take us from standing to 100 miles per hour in 1.9 seconds. After 82 seconds we’ll power back to reduce noise and cruise up to 28,000 feet. I’ll update you just before we go supersonic.’

The Concorde rolled to the end of the runway, the perfectly stressed metal, surprisingly riding like a brick-solid sports car. It sounded like we were already flying, the engines an all-encompassing roar, coursing up and down the scale as they warmed for take-off.

Mach 1, Mach 2, and Into the Stars

We turned the final corner and lined up as the cabin grew quiet with anticipation, even the regulars expectant. Unlike a big jet, which seems to set off down the runway with a lot of noise, loping slowly up to speed, the Concorde went straight from a solid roar of power to the physical realisation you are flat against the back of your seat.

The rush of exhilaration was like the first big hill on a rollercoaster that you go screaming down, arms in the air, as a child.

The man next to me, a greying, long-haired entrepreneur who’d ‘popped over for the day for a business lunch’ unsheathed his computer and just before he fell to work said, ‘I reckon you get your money’s worth just on the take-offs.’ That was the only thing he said for the remainder of the three-hour flight.

We settled back for a quiet ride out over the Irish coast, staying just below Mach 1 (660 miles per hour) to avoid sonic-booming the countryside into oblivion.

In the back of the seat was a soft, dark grey leather folio, containing embossed Concorde stationery, silver pen and leather notepad (which I seem to have managed to keep in my drawer for 30 years).

The flight attendant arrived: dark, petite, slightly mysterious, very elegant. The champagne was from 1981, the crystal glass twinkling in the tiny cabin lights.

Everything in the Concorde was carefully sculpted, compact, from the seats, to the lights to the contoured seat-belts.

At the front of the cabin a subdued digital readout glowed lightly green, indicating speed and altitude.

A few minutes after take-off the Captain came on again.

‘We’ll be going to Mach 1 at 28,000 feet. However, you won’t feel a thing. We’ll then continue up to our cruising elevation of 57,000 feet at Mach 2 and proceed across the Atlantic to New York. Flying time will be just under three and a half hours.’

As the lights of Ireland faded below, any fishing boat below heard the first sonic boom as the plane passed the speed of sound, then a second boom reflected off the lower part of the nose cone.

The nose tipped up and we headed for the stars.

Champagne and caviar arrived, taking me back to Russia.

I wandered forward to see the rest of the plane, all one aisle of it. As much as it was a touch of hallowed ground for me and nothing seemed to exist above a hushed tone, it was just too unique to not explore like a tourist.

The door to the pilots’ cabin was open and I edged forward. A uniform-clad officer motioned me in and said, ‘I can’t talk as we are a bit busy now, but just have a look if you wish.’

The cockpit was swept back like a jet fighter, the nose extending miles in front, an arrow pointing at the black sky.

The world curved off into an endless horizon as we headed towards the outer atmosphere. The stars were bright white and had lost their earthly flicker. Behind them, the sky had gone to midnight black, an intensity of space hovering at the tip of the nose cone.

Back inside the cockpit the walls and ceiling were lined with instruments, tiny switches and digital readouts in precise rows, glowing quietly in the darkness.

I retreated to the comfort of my main course, roast duck in orange sauce, a wine bottled before I was born.

Passengers were a mix of British and American with a few other nationalities thrown in. They were predominantly businessmen and a few couples, the power of money and time self-evident in the cut of the fine fabric, the gold and diamonds peeking out from their collars and wrists.

Out the porthole, the sun was coming up for the second time that day, but in the west. Flying twice the speed of sound, we were catching the sun. It rose purple-orange, like a morning on Everest, then moved into a deep purple more attached to the heavens above than the earth so far below.

The clouds caught the western sunrise, laid out like flat fluffy waves, rolling across the earth. Above, space streaked with orange began to show through as we caught up with the sunset. Then the sun, a floating ball of flame, emerged through the black haze of New York.

The silver of the harbour and the sea reflected heavenward, like glistening branches laid on a black earth.

Jet engines powered off to resting pace as we returned to earth. The wings held up the thin plane body, settling us gently towards landing like a flying carpet.

New York floated on the edge of the Atlantic, the crisp outline of the skyline hovering over Manhattan Island.

The Concorde spiralled down in one long high-speed loop, my only regret the flight was too short and Russia was now so far away.