One Life One Chance Read online

  First published in 2018 by Impact Press

  an imprint of Ventura Press

  PO Box 780, Edgecliff NSW 2027 Australia

  www.impactpress.com.au

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  Copyright © Luke Richmond 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any other information storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  One life one chance: a story of adrenaline and adventure in the most unforgiving places on earth / Richmond, Luke.

  ISBN: 978-1-925384-37-6 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-925384-38-3 (ebook)

  Category: Memoir

  Cover and internal design: Brugel Creative

  Cover image: Luke Richmond

  PRAISE FOR

  ONE LIFE ONE CHANCE

  The “dignity of risk” is a human right and the human race’s greatest accomplishments have often been on the back of enormous risk to human life. Luke embraces risk as a necessary means to an end in this inspiring account of his incredible adventures. A true inspiration and a reminder to those who discourage the expression of risk in today’s workplaces, schools and playgrounds that you will never get much back out of life without taking risk.

  KEN WARE, founder of NeuroPhysics Therapy

  An honest and inspiring story about a man living his life to its absolute maximum.

  ‘JAY’, 10-year Australian SAS and Commando veteran

  Luke’s story and life shows us all that with conviction and discipline the world and what it has to offer is on tap just waiting to be experienced. We just need to find the courage and strength to break out of our comfort zone to embrace life and begin living.

  COMMANDO STEVE, host of The Biggest Loser Australia

  Luke is proof of both the incredible strength of the human spirit and the need to push our personal boundaries. He is also intent on living up to what Helen Keller said better than anyone: “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.”

  TIM JARVIS AM, Australian Adventurer of the Year in 2013, Conservationist of the Year in 2016 (Australian Geographic Society)

  Luke’s story brings home three things to me, we have one life…make it count, never be told you can’t do something, and anticipation is worse than participation.

  DEAN STOTT, former British Special Boat Service (SBS) operator

  Luke’s story is an honest one that many will be able to relate to. By laying bare his own dark times and documenting how he personally got back on track, Luke has produced a work that will resonate with anyone experiencing difficulties and who wants to find happiness and vibrancy. A life full of extremes, this is a rollercoaster of a book and well worth chucking in your backpack.

  ED STAFFORD, star of Left for Dead and the first person to walk the full length of the Amazon River

  Luke is an inspiration! His story is a great yarn in overcoming adversity and a true living example of “have a go, ya mug!” Uplifting, harrowing at times and incredible!

  JAMES CASTRISSION, Australian adventurer and author of Crossing the Ditch and Extreme South

  Luke’s life has taken him from partying like Ronnie Wood, training like Schwarzenegger, to exploring like Sir Ranulph Fiennes...and the scariest thing is, to those that know him, the best is yet to come.

  MATHEW BENNETT, ocean rowing world record holder and CEO of Acorn Children’s Homes

  If your life feels like a deep dark hole and it seems that there is no way out, this book is your ladder into the light. It’s inspiring and empowering.

  PAT FARMER AM, multiple endurance running world record holder, National Geographic’s Adventurer of the Year.

  Wow, carpe diem! This is an amazing story of a man from humble beginnings that won’t let anything stand in the way of achieving his dreams. Don’t know how to row, why not paddle the Atlantic? Don’t know how to climb, why not tackle the famed Seven Summits? A great story about a regular guy taking on big challenges.

  MIKE HAMILL, premier high altitude guide and author of Climbing the Seven Summits

  For Mandy and Clive, my gypsy parents who taught me the way of the road

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Luke Richmond is an Aussie adventurer who has conquered the odds during many internationally acclaimed expeditions. Growing up on various cattle stations across the Northern Territory, Luke joined the army at 17 years old, which gave him the discipline and world knowledge he needed, and lit a fire for adventure that he pursues to this day. Luke has climbed the highest mountain on six continents, completed a world record ocean row across the Atlantic, and was the first Australian male to trek 1800 kilometres across the Gobi Desert in Mongolia, dragging a cart that contained all his food and water. Luke’s lifelong passion is to make adventure accessible to everyone, and to inspire others to feel the reward of conquering a physical and mental challenge. His life motto is OLOC which stands for ‘one life one chance’, a belief that has driven him into harder and longer challenges every single year.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1 OUTBACK AUSTRALIA

  CHAPTER 2 ARMY STRONG

  CHAPTER 3 EAST TIMOR

  CHAPTER 4 LONDON AND THE DEMON DAYS

  CHAPTER 5 THAI MEDICINE

  CHAPTER 6 ACONCAGUA, ARGENTINA

  CHAPTER 7 DENALI, ALASKA

  CHAPTER 8 THE CHICKEN-STICK EFFECT

  CHAPTER 9 CARSTENSZ PYRAMID, WEST PAPUA

  CHAPTER 10 MOUNT ELBRUS, RUSSIA

  CHAPTER 11 VINSON MASSIF, ANTARCTICA

  CHAPTER 12 MOUNT KILIMANJARO, TANZANIA

  CHAPTER 13 BUSINESS OR ADVENTURE

  CHAPTER 14 ROW2RIO

  CHAPTER 15 MAGIC BACKPACKS

  AFTERWORD

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  …

  The barrel of his AK-47 assault rifle was pointed straight at my head; the tip was shaking and I wondered whether it was the Russian soldier’s anger that was causing him to tremble or the freezing temperatures brought on by the blizzard raging outside the helicopter. Either way, I thought, this is it. This was the moment my life would get snatched away in the blink of an eye, and it was a silly misunderstanding that would cost me everything. I could see the inside of the barrel inches from my face; I noticed the rifling honed into the steel designed to rotate the bullet and make it more accurate. It was impossible for him to miss this shot, and as I looked at his trigger finger already moving into firing position I had that moment that others have written about, the flashback to times gone past, to family, friends and crazy adventures.

  Dad saved me from drowning when I was a little kid, the brown fresh water of the river took me under its murky depths but I was brought back to the land of the living and given a second chance. I always thought my military service might have taken me; to die bravely while serving the greatest country on earth would have been a better way to go. The drugs couldn’t get me – the addiction left me lying on the cold cobbled streets of London yet I still survived. Or the mountains I had climbed that had taken the lives of more experienced mountaineers than I, right in front of my eyes, but had allowed me to climb down their steep cliffs shaken but alive. I had escaped death many times before but now my luck seemed to have run out.

  The last thing I heard was my climbing partner Valentine yell something in Russian; I could have easily shut my eyes and turned my head away but I chose to stand tall with my eyes wide open, to meet what was coming as I have with everything in life. I thought, please don’t let this be it. How did a country kid from the Australian ou
tback end up inside a crashed helicopter on top of the tallest mountain in Russia, facing the barrel of a gun? I noticed the howling wind outside, before the silence.

  CHAPTER 1

  OUTBACK AUSTRALIA

  …

  The head of a feral pig detaches from its body with one-and-a-quarter turns to the left or right before the vertebrae fracture and separation is achieved. This is of course after the throat is slit and the tough meat and sinew are cut down to the bone around the circumference of its powerful neck. The weight of the head always surprised me and a strong hold of the ear, turned carry handle, is needed to avoid dropping it and possibly damaging the prize. The large, protruding, razor-sharp white tusks of a feral boar are the trophy and once the head reaches our backyard the skin is removed and the jaw is cut off. The jaw is boiled to loosen the teeth and extraction of the full-length undamaged tusks can be achieved. A large portion of the tusk is hidden inside the jawbone and it’s only at the final extraction point we get to see the finished product.

  This was one of many life skills my dad taught me growing up and as primitive as some of them seem to me now, I wouldn’t change a single thing about my childhood, where every day seemed like an adventure and behind every gum tree a lesson was learnt.

  My sister and I were little kids in the back seat of a cream-coloured V8 Holden Kingswood wagon. There was no such thing as air conditioning so the hot, dry air blew through the open window, bringing with it a mixture of Eucalyptus trees, dust and highway exhaust.

  Bruce, our black kelpie dog, and adopted family member, was panting with his tongue fully extended, and drooling over the back seat behind me. The drool would build up in large waterfalls on the vinyl seat forcing me into a sideways seated position to avoid the cascade. Mum and Dad were in the front seats and there was nothing but the bitumen highway and the shimmering red centre of the Australian outback through the windscreen ahead of us.

  Our upbringing, although not normal, was adventurous, and as little kids we knew no other way, nor did we want to. We grew up on the road like gypsies, our parents moving from town to town searching for their little niche in a big open country. Australia is one of the most diverse places on earth. It covers an area the size of Europe and in its northern regions grow some of the thickest rainforest and jungle in the world; a place I would spend many weeks of training in the coming years. Inland from the picturesque coast is a dry, barren landscape stretching for thousands of kilometres, with the Simpson desert and its enormous red sand dunes taking centre stage.

  Australia’s red centre is part of the Northern Territory and is a definite favourite of my dad’s. He loved the wide-open spaces, beautiful landscapes and that unforgettable smell of rain as the monsoon made its way across the red dirt. He said it made him feel free as soon as he left a town behind and made his way into the remote regions. He always referred to this part of the world as ‘God’s country’.

  My parents are Mandy and Clive Richmond. Mum was born in Australia in the southern state of Victoria, to Patricia and Noel Willson. She is one of eight kids who loves her AFL (Australia football) and is good at anything she puts time and effort into. She is funny, loves to sing and dance and always cries whenever I leave on adventures, even to this day. When times are tough, or when I have been in a tricky situation, she has always been there with her resourceful mind, to get me out of trouble.

  Dad was born in the small town of Durham in England to Jean and Harry Richmond, one of three boys and the middle child. When Dad turned five the Richmond clan boarded a boat bound for Australia. The immigration drive was in full swing and the £10 boat ride from England was the best way to relocate for a working class family. Dad only has one memory of the journey to Australia, making paper planes on board with my grandfather, throwing them off the back of the vessel and watching them gracefully glide into the churning sea below.

  My dad is a smart man who comes from intelligent, traditional English stock, knowing no other way than to get a job done right the very first time. He worked with his mind and hands and could solve any structural or mechanical issue you put in front of him by the time he had finished rolling a smoke and had a cup of coffee. He is also a free-thinking rebel and chose to do whatever felt natural to him at the time, never being constrained by what was deemed normal or permissible. I inherited the same traits and it all began in these early years growing up with my free-spirited parents.

  Mum and Dad met in Western Australia, where Dad had become the local motocross champion. They were married young and before the dust could settle from the occasion they were back on the road seeking adventure. Dad was working as a motor mechanic and he had designed a mounting frame that could attach his motorbike to the Holden, so that it could be taken everywhere with them. Mum had become a jack-of-all-trades, a person able to adapt to any scenario, locating a job within a day of arriving in a new town. They were always close to broke but they were happy and that’s all that mattered.

  Searching out some of the most remote cattle stations in the country, they would soon be calling them home. Some of the properties were so large it would take many hours, and sometimes days, of driving just to reach the boundaries. This land was wild, barren in parts but also majestically beautiful. The wildlife was plentiful, kangaroos in such abundance their numbers were too great to estimate. There were large goannas with razor-sharp teeth, birdlife ranging from tiny finches to kookaburras, emus and noisy cockatoos, large fish in any river or dam that could hold year-round water, and plenty of crocodiles to keep you on your toes.

  I loved the bush as a boy, running off with a small calibre rifle under one arm and the fishing pole under the other. I can still hear my mum yelling ‘be home for dinner’ as I disappeared out of sight. I learnt the dangers of the bush and how to look after myself early on in life. Shooting venomous snakes on sight was nothing out of the ordinary. Other dangers such as heat stroke, poisonous spiders, wild cattle, horses, feral pigs and wild flowing rivers all had to be respected. As did infection. With no access to doctors or hospitals, a cut on a foot could turn septic, and the closest medical care was many hours’ drive away down a rough dirt track.

  The memory of a child is a wondrous thing. I could not tell you what year, month or even what day some of my memories come from or what else was happening around me at that time. I couldn’t tell you how many head of cattle a property contained or how many people lived there, but a particular memory from one station has always been with me. The station was called Avon Downs and during our time there a plague of rats swept through the area in biblical proportions. They were the common house rats in unrelenting volume, which could decimate food stores in hours, and were driving the local residents crazy. Everyone hated the rats so no adult batted an eyelid when I went on operation extermination with the neighbours’ little, but feisty, Jack Russell terrier.

  The basic rat-killing expedition started with the location of a burrow. Once found, a garden hose had to be procured and shoved down the burrow as far as you could get it in. Then it was crank the water pressure on full steam and wait. I gave it about two to three minutes for the twisting system of tunnels to fill up with water and force the rats towards the surface. Once they showed their faces it was party time.

  The rats would come flying out of their homes at full speed trying to escape the flood. The little dog instantly reacted, as if he had ingested a pint of adrenaline, quickly snatching them up and tearing them to shreds. I would stand by watching the festivities and when a lone rodent escaped towards me I’d do my best Don Bradman impression with the cricket bat to end their furry little life.

  It seems barbaric now when I tell the story, and I’m sure if you were caught today slaying rodents with bats there is a high likelihood you would end up on the evening news. But back then when I was a boy and witnessing my father butcher a cow for the station’s food, swatting a rat didn’t even register on my radar.

  Another pest in the bush are the wild pigs. Their numbers have swollen to mill
ions and have provided hunters, who shoot them for money all year round, with jobs for decades. They are big, angry, and the males have massive tusks hanging out of the side of their bottom jaw. These tusks can slice like a razor and I have witnessed their effects on horses, dogs and people that have gotten too close to them.

  On special occasions Dad would take me out on ‘bore runs’, which was one of his jobs, driving around the entire property to all of the man-made dams. He would fix all of the broken windmills and pumps that power the water bores and fill the troughs for the cattle. During these bore runs we would get the chance to do lots of shooting at one of the biggest pests the cattle station had, feral cats. The domestic cat had exploded in numbers in the bush, living off the vast array of birdlife Australia has to offer. They grew big and were tough enough to survive the harsh conditions of the desert country. They tended to be in large numbers around the man-made dams; my dad and I took it upon ourselves to clear out these pests for the sake of the birds and other native wildlife.

  We always knew when there was a large cat population at a dam because there would not be a single bird anywhere. Upon inspection of the closest trees we would see the cats lying over the branches, not bothered by our presence. On one such occasion my dad and I eradicated forty-two of these pests at one small dam. I was only ten years old but in the bush you learnt to shoot, drive and take part in the work as soon as you were capable.

  The entire community would take it upon themselves to rid the bush of feral animals, which to me meant two or three times a week going off on hunting trips with my parents after they had finished work for the day. We all loved the outback and hated to see the pests take over and destroy the native birds or the beautiful landscape. Mum was by far the best shot in the family. She could kill a pig from miles away with her steady hands guiding the bullet to its mark, while Dad and I would squint to even see what she was shooting at. Many times she would fire a round, tell me it dropped the target and send me out to fetch it. I wouldn’t believe she had hit anything at all until I had walked the distance and stumbled upon the animal, now motionless. My parents taught me some of the first lessons of shooting, which I would put to good use in the Army many years later.