NEPAL: Trek to Everest
NEPAL | Thursday, 5 February 2009 | Views [133]
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Day 31: The bear
goes for another look
I say goodbye to Nader and wish the girls a Merry
Christmas then we venture out onto Kathmandu’s grimy streets to find a taxi that’ll
take us to the domestic airport for a fair price. Like most of the cars in
Nepal, our cramped taxi had long ago abandoned any pretence of road worthiness.
Cracks around the doors negate the need to wind down the windows. This is
fortunate for when we stop at a street light an old beggar knocks incessantly on
the glass until the light turns green. We grab our bags and run into the
airport fearful of missing our plane but we needn’t have worried for it’s been
delayed indefinitely due to bad weather. Looking out to the runway I can dimly
make out the shape of a plane lost in Kathmandu’s early morning fog that sits
like a thick blanket over the runway. There will be no flying until the fog has
cleared. Apparently this is an almost every day event. So we kill the time with
UNO and can even go back to the hotel to collect some forgotten items before
our plane finally leaves around noon. The
small twin otter sways in the high altitude breezes, more vulnerable to the
winds then the bigger passenger carriers. It is the smallest plane I’ve flown
in and we fly close enough to the ground to see clearly the flowing rocky
rivers and winding yak tracks. The half hour plane trip affords breathtaking
views of the isolated Nepalese landscape stretching out to a haze of cloud on
the horizon - a wispy wall of white, and above the cloud, impossibly high,
white-capped peaks against a blue screen, framing the edge of the world. A lady
sitting across from Ryan vomits into a brown paper bag and Ryan the acrophobic
squirms uncomfortably, caught between vomit and a fearful view.
Lukla airport, built by Sir Edmund Hilary and an army of
stomping Sherpas, is considered one of the world's most dangerous landings.
Hidden amongst a maze of mountains, perched atop a small plateau 2840 metres
above sea level, the runway is 20m wide, 527m long, has a staggering 12% incline
and lies between a rock wall and a 700 metre drop to the valley floor. As the
plane circles to line itself up we all get a good enough look at this sliver of
bitumen to ensure everyone is praying for a safe landing. We brake even before
we’ve touched the ground, and laboriously pull up just in time to make the
sharp right hand turn at the end of the runway into the small parking space.
Our hike to Everest has begun later than expected and so
we only walk for two and a half hours before it gets dark. Shortly after dark
we arrive at the hamlet of Phakding; a collection of half a dozen homes crowded
onto a shelf above the river. Phakding at 2610 metres is lower than Lukla but
it will be all uphill from here. The quaint little guesthouse we book into is
surprisingly cheap. Gerry confesses later that it was already so cheap he felt
guilty bartering with the elderly lady owner but it just isn’t in his nature to
pay full price for anything. We pay 50 Nepalese Rupees per room, or 25 per
person, this is well under 50 cents each and is by far the lowest price any of
us, even Gerry, have ever paid for accommodation. However it is from selling
food and drink that the guesthouses make their money, and so offering cheap
accommodation attracts the necessary clientele. The food will become more
expensive the higher we go but it is surprisingly good. After eating we go
straight to bed; tomorrow will be a big day.
Day 32: On the
rocks and straight up
All morning we follow the icy, boulder-choked river that
flows with glacial run-off from the melting peaks that loom above us.
Eventually we cross a wobbly footbridge suspended high over the river and the
path abandons its banks and begins a long zigzag up the steep canyon wall
through stands of pine. The path climbs upward unrelentingly. The higher we
climb the thinner the air becomes, the more frequent our rest stops and slower
our progress. Ryan, being slightly overweight and having recently quit smoking is
the least fit of the group, and he soon lags behind the others. I fall back
with him to keep him company and because I’m a little concerned that he might
have trouble. The best Ryan can manage is a 5 minute struggle interspersed with
10 minute air sucking rests. In this way we very slowly climb the 800 metre
rise in altitude to Namche Bazaar. At this speed and already being acclimatised
to this altitude the climb is particularly easy for me and I happily chatter
away while Ryan conserves his breath for breathing. Darkness falls before we
reach Namche and so we climb by moonlight. Ryan, who by now has decided that
this is way harder than he ever imagined and will be going no further than the
next village, is immensely relieved when we round a corner and see the lights
of Namche in the distance. I go on ahead to try to find the others but when I
get there I realise that it’ll take me too long to search every guesthouse and so
I sit down at the end of the path to wait for Ryan but Ryan never arrives.
Eventually I start to worry so I follow the path back down to where I left him
and climb all the way back up again without finding him. I start searching the
dark village for the guesthouse where the others are staying, straining to hear
their voices in the quiet night. Before long I hear Gerry’s distinctive laugh
and enter the guesthouse to find Ryan and the others sitting snugly around a
potbelly stove with steaming mugs of cocoa in their hands. There had been a
split in the path and Ryan it turns out, had entered the village from another
way. Slumped exhausted in our seats
Ryan, Mark and Mick, new to these altitudes, all agree that today’s hike was
the hardest thing they’ve ever done in their lives.
Day 33: Christmas
at 3400 metres
Namche Bazaar is the hub of the Himalaya in the shape of
a huge tilting satellite dish, mid-way up a precipitous mountainside where a
few hundred houses huddle dramatically up the rocky slope linked by narrow cobbled
paths and catwalks. Half a dozen snow capped pinnacles encircle the blue sphere
of sky above. It’s a setting that could only be imagined by J.R.Tolkien. Today
is a rest day for acclimatization and to help us acclimatize we undertake a 2
hour hike up to a small monastery run by female monks. It’s a gradual incline
with beautiful scenery and we all enjoy the walk. Ryan’s confidence grows
enough for him to decide he’ll keep going; to the next village at least. While
stopping for a rest we strike up an impromptu game of bocce with some local
kids, strategically choosing rocks from the dirt path. Up ahead the tiny
monastery sits in complete isolation, dwarfed by the awesome mountains and deep
valley. Here these dedicated monks live in content simplicity, the location
their constant reminder of the power of God. We are taken inside to sit with
them and share their stale cookies while they pray. After giving a small
donation we leave the smiling monks and return to Namche Bazaar for Christmas
shopping.
As today is Christmas day, for a bit of Christmas cheer
we’ve all decided to do Secret Santas. I draw Mark from the hat and find a pair
of warm yak wool bed socks and a 350 ml bottle of Mt Everest Whiskey. I buy a
bottle for me too, figuring it would be an appropriate celebratory drink upon
reaching Base Camp. A small store
advertises international phone calls for 100 Rupees per minute. I call my
family to wish them a Merry Christmas from the highest place they’ve ever
received a phone call. I’m almost as high as Mt Fuji, Japan’s tallest mountain,
and it is only my third day. In the afternoons at Namche, thick fog rises
ethereally from the valley below and swallows up the village like an army of
silently marching wraiths. I watch this eerie procession until the fog swallows
me too. Our Christmas dinner is a not so traditional meal of sizzling yak meat.
But it is a real treat and will be our last meat meal as we’ve been warned
against eating meat further up where the lower population densities mean it may
have been stored for some time without refrigeration. After dinner the
Christmas gifts are handed out. For me a new beanie (I’d lost mine the day
before) and a bag of mixed nuts (for hiking).
Our rest day has given me the opportunity to get to know
my travelling companions a little better. Ryan is blonde with thinning hair and
a light complexion. He’s quietly spoken with a distinguished English accent
that makes him sound a little gay and generated discussions concerning his
preference; the girls were convinced he was. Eventually somebody asked him and
he said he wasn’t though he admitted that because people always thought he was,
he’d started to think he might be so as a test he once kissed a man. It
confirmed to him that he wasn’t gay. Although his story confirmed to me that
gayness is a sliding scale. For him, this trek was an opportunity to get into
shape.
Mark is also
an Englishman but with a dark complexion. He’s tall and slender with a neatly
trimmed 3 day growth. He lives in New York now. He moved there to pursue a
career in modeling at which he has become quite successful and quite well-off. At
present there is a large billboard poster of him half naked on the streets of
New York City advertising a well known brand of underwear. Mark would speak
with convincing authority on every subject, daring anybody to disagree. If,
however, someone did prove him wrong he would grin sheepishly, his perfect
straight white teeth reminiscent of the Cheshire cat. Mark was not a backpacker
like the rest of us, rather a wealthy vacationer looking for adventure, but
comfortable adventure and with all the best brand name gear. His backpack was
crammed with such an extensive array of the finest mountaineering items that he
would be appropriately equipped to go right to the top of Everest.
Unfortunately for him the majority of this gear was unnecessary and only served
to weigh him down. His backpack was by far the heaviest of the group and on a
trek such as this, as Mark soon realized, the old adage ‘travel light’ is good
advice. Before long he was discarding whatever he could, leaving things in
guesthouses to retrieve on the way down. He gave me two cans of tuna which I
struggled to fit into the small day bag that I myself was travelling with. He
continued to carry the large, heavy pair of snow shoes. Considering that we’re
hiking the Himalaya’s in winter they could possibly be an extremely useful item,
if it was to snow (but it wasn’t to snow). However with top of the line cold
weather gear and a blizzard rated sleeping bag he is certainly the warmest among
us. At first I didn’t like Mark, we had little in common and he represented
many things that I find objectionable. Eventually I would come to see another
side to him; a funny, unpretentious side, hidden underneath his catwalk
clothes, and by the end of the trip I would be surprised to find that I
genuinely liked him.
Mick, on the other hand, was immediately likable. Stocky
and hairy with a quick wit and a fiery temper he was the quintessential
Irishman. He loved to be the centre of attention and was always making jokes,
doing a fantastic Robert De Niro impersonation or performing magic tricks. By
his own admission he was a big drinker, one night when staggering home from the pub with a small flask of whisky in his back
pocket he’d slipped and fell heavily. When he felt something wet running down
his leg he implored "Please God, let it be blood!" After
learning I’d been living in Japan he made a comment about the difficulty the
Japanese have pronouncing some English letters. “tey never develop ta ability
ta say letters like ta R and ta L and ta V right?” Yeah,” I agreed, “kinda like
the Irish can’t say TH”. He laughed “I left myself open ta dat one.” So I told
him an Irish joke... ‘Billy and Paddy
were walking in the woods when they came across a sign saying, "Tree
Fellers wanted". One of them said, "Ye know, it's a shame Mick ain’t
here. We coulda gotten the job." Once he remarked with his illogical Irish
humour “You tree are a right pair if ever I saw one!” Later he would
reveal a secret he’d been harbouring. He was going home to be a father. Nine
months earlier he’d accidentally got a girl pregnant on a one night stand even
though she was on the pill and he was wearing protection. He didn’t learn of
this until she’d had the child and called him to give him the news, just before
this trip. He hadn’t believed her until he’d seen the child, “Spitting image of
me”, he said. “She’s going to be an ugly girl then” I lamented teasingly.
Together we
have the whole joke: three Englishman, an Irishman, and an Australian walk into
the mountains…
Day 34: 3860
metres
Temperatures that drop well below zero at night force us
to wrap ourselves tightly in layers of clothing and zip up sleeping bags tight
around our necks. Even still, the nights are uncomfortably cold and it’s
difficult to sleep. But the Everest region lies at 28° north latitude, just
beyond the tropics, so when the sun rises high enough to clear the mountain
peaks and penetrate into the valleys where we slog forever upward, the
temperature becomes surprisingly warm and I would shed layer after layer until
I was carrying everything I’d intended to be wearing. We don’t usually walk together;
rather each man picks his own pace up the mountain. It’s hard work, requiring
frequent rests and minimal talking. There’s also an ego factor undercurrent,
inevitable when a group of men face a challenge. I’m often at the end of the
line, marvelling at the immense beauty around me and regularly stopping to get
out my video camera to film picturesque terraced hillsides for farming,
pocketed with handmade stone huts blending perfectly into the surrounding
environment; colourful prayer flags strung across high passes flapping wildly
in the high altitude winds; religious mani-stones inscribed with Sanskrit
symbols placed along the middle of the path to form long walls at which it is
customary to pass on the left; Buddhist stupas perched proudly on rock
outcroppings; far ahead and high above my travelling companions, impressively
framed by the imposing landscape while they determinedly ascend a narrow trail which
skirts the side of a mountain wall that plunges down into a valley filled by a
half frozen yet fast flowing glacial river of crystal clear water.
Sometimes I like to push myself. I’ve never felt more at
peace than I do in this powerful countryside and I enjoy the simple,
single-minded trial to body and mind. The half day ascent into Tengboche, up a
Rhododendron forest trail, is the steepest of the trip; an uncompromising, high
altitude assault. I set a pace that I can maintain, and dig deep. Before long I
pass Ryan slumped back on a rock, his belly heaving, hands locked around his
hiking sticks. Shortly after, Mick leans heavily against his own sticks.
Further up, Mark curses his heavy backpack; and further still, driven by a
desire to win, is Gerry. It takes about an hour, from the time I see Gerry to
the time I’m out of sight again. It is, perhaps, the slowest overtake in
history. As I edge past he puffs “I’m just... going at a pace... that I can...
maintain”. “Yeah...” I puff back, “Me too”. I pass a Sherpa next, leaning back
against tightly tied wooden planks, carried by a rope across his forehead. I
shudder at the thought of trying to carry such weight up this incline. Even on
firm ground at low attitudes I would balk at the prospect of lifting his load. “120kg”
he tells me, when I ask its weight. Suddenly my 15kg backpack feels much
lighter. He is one of many such Sherpas I see straining under back breaking
loads of wood or stone for buildings and food for the homes and lodges. The
ancestors of these devout Buddhist Mountain people migrated over the Himalayan
range from Tibet and made their home in the rugged, inhospitable Khumbu Valley,
devoid of roads and cars or wheeled vehicles of any kind. The high, cold,
steep-walled valleys make farming difficult so the economy revolved around
trading and yak herding until Everest became a tourist attraction capable of
supporting a tourist-based ecomomy and the Sherpas who live at these high
altitudes and spend their lives climbing up and down the mountains became well
respected as load bearers, camp helpers and expedition guides. In response to
the growing number of tourists each year, new lodges and teahouses are
springing up all over the Khumbu region and this is a double edged sword for
the Sherpas. On the one hand they are provided with means to an income, but for
this crushing physical toil they are paid very little and of course the more
they carry the more they can make. On top of this young Sherpas, just children,
will take on the strenuous job. Occasionally, I find a sign that implores ‘Stop
child labour’. Even still, I see many young teens straining under loads that I
myself would struggle to lift.
I was beginning to feel like I would never reach the top
of this unsympathetic, torturous climb when I crested a hill and saw before me
Tengboche Monastery, the largest and most important Buddhist monastery in the
Khumbu, flanked by high mountain walls on either side and with the most
incredible view, straight down the valley, to the foreboding peaks of Lhotse
and Everest, aglow in the late afternoon sunlight. As always, the horizontal
plume of condensation that I’d grown accustomed to associating to Everest,
streams from its summit, betraying the otherwise invisible high altitude winds.
Day 35: 4410
metres
Today is another day of hiking up the path less
travelled, and the path is now far above the tree line. The sun creeps higher in
the sky and I remove articles of clothing until I’m down to just a singlet. I have
to tie my jacket around my waist as there’s no room in my small bag. I never
imagined the days would be so warm up here. I put on my headphones and let the music
blend into the magical land around me. I feel cleansed by this pristine,
powerful environment; completely at peace.
Along the path we come to another high bridge. Crossing these swinging
bridges and looking down through their slats into the icy white-water below is
a pleasure for me; I love the feeling of heights. For Ryan however, it is a
painful ordeal and he would study the map every night, counting the number of
bridges that must be crossed the following day. Upon arriving at a bridge he will
wait until everyone else has crossed and then he’ll go over singularly, looking
only straight ahead and with a mask of complete concentration on his face, focused
on nothing but the other side. On this particular bridge I linger to take some
video footage and Ryan, deciding he can’t wait, begins his determined, eyes
forward crossing. I can’t help laughing when I spot his blank stare in the
viewfinder. He doesn’t even see the camera.
The following bridge crossing presents a once in a
lifetime shot for my video camera and I wish I could have be in two places at
once to get it from different angles. The bridge is high above me. Mick is
almost across and Mark is just starting out. Suddenly a yak, coming from the
other direction, walks onto the footbridge, warily squeezing past first Mick
and then Mark to get to the other side. We laugh wholeheartedly at the highwire
high jinks. Later at dinner in Dingboche village, Mick, in his stand-up comedic
style, describes the moment the yak passed and a look was shared between them. ‘What
are you doing up here?’ said Micks astonished expression. The yak’s big brown
eyes, open wide in surprise, wordlessly asked Mick the same question. We could all identify with his humorous description,
familiar as we were with the yaks’ expressive eyes that roll sideways in their
heads, suspiciously keeping you in sight as you pass. The rule of passing a yak, up here in the
mountains, is ‘stay high’. This advice is intended to prevent an unlucky
traveller from accidentally being knocked down a cliff. It would seem the rule
has been given new meaning.
The others eat peckishly - a lack of appetite is a
symptom of altitude sickness - but as I was well acclimatized by now, and doing
massive amounts of physical exertion each day multiplied by the extra work my
body must do at high altitudes, I was constantly famished and ate like a horse,
frequently finishing the others meals. Most nights we sit in the warm dining
room, begging the guesthouse family to put more yak manure into the pot belly
stove whenever the fire grows too low, while we play cards, drink hot chocolate
or ginger tea and make jokes. We mostly play ‘up and down the river’, a game I
introduced. If we get bored with that we play UNO or Shithead. Tonight though,
we go to bed early and spend an hour lying in bed playing Trivia Pursuit, calling
out questions between walls and giving points for correct answers.
Day 36: 4920
metres
The sky today, like every other day before it, is
crystal blue and cloudless and the skyline bristles with white capped peaks. The
path isn’t steep; it follows the high bank of a shallow stream and allows us to
walk easily together for the first time. Our game of Trivia Pursuit continues
throughout the morning until Gerry and Mick argue about the rules and Mick,
accusing Gerry of being stingy, declares angrily “If I gave you a bandaid you’d
cut yourself.” In the distance I spot what I mistakenly think is a glacier
wedged in a narrow valley. Being unfamiliar with mountain terrain I think that a
glacier is a frozen body of water but it is actually frozen snow from mountain
tops that moves slowly downhill. It looks close, kind of; and even though I’ve
long since learnt how deceptive distance and size is in this great land, my
inquisitiveness overcomes my better judgment and I start off at a trot down the
sloping bank toward the stream below. At a downhill pace it doesn’t take long
to reach the stream but when I look back up the slope the others have already
shrunk to midget size. With them as a frame of reference I am better able to
judge the distance to the frozen lake; like a telephoto lens in reverse, it
pulls away, and the harder I try to reach it, the faster it retreats. The small
stream, modest in size from above, turns into a fast-flowing, treacherous
torrent and I scramble across the half frozen waters with some difficulty. The
petite pebbles that had previously lined the banks of the stream have become an
obstacle course to manoeuvre. Eventually I breach the ridge that trapped last
summer’s melting snow which subsequently refroze and now sits like an ice rink
between jagged, rocky peaks. I don’t stay long, the return is all uphill. Like
a man possessed I tackle the hills, choosing the shortest and consequently, the
steepest route. Up and over and down the other side - is an extremely simple
sentence to write, but it encapsulates an hour long struggle. It’s not until
later, when I’m able to study the map that I realize going left would have
revealed a concealed bridge and a much easier path back to the others. And
going right was a shortcut to our next village that would have bypassed the
upcoming ordeal. But I go straight and
eventually I find the four further up and on the other side of the stream,
filling their bottles from the icy waters sourced from Everest itself. The
appropriateness of the bottles we use is not lost on us; ‘Mt Everest Mineral
Water’ states the label. “It really is now” we joke.
The map shows two routes to Lobuche, our next village.
One is to skirt the bottom of the Khumbu glacier that originates from Everest’s
face and flows downhill for about 15 kilometres between the high mountain range.
The other is to hike along the forward edge of the glacier until we are
parallel with the village then cut across it. Like me, the others mistakenly
believe a glacier to be a smooth, scenic frozen body of water, and the idea of
crossing one appeals to us. We choose the latter route on the basis that it
will be more interesting; in this regard, we are not wrong. The powerful force
of the slowly but steadily moving glacial mass pushes up a steep wall of dirt
on either side meaning that we are unable to see the glacier while we walk
along its flank. At a point where we think we’ve gone far enough there is a
crooked goat track up the glacier’s wall. We had expected a more prominent
track so are unsure if this is the right one. The climb up looks difficult so
Gerry volunteers to scout it out first. After an exhausting climb he reaches
the top of the wall and looks out beyond. “What do you see?” we call out. “Well...”
He laughs unreassuringly. “I see lots of rocks that stretch right to the
mountains on the other side... and no village”. A slight panic begins to set
in. Are we lost? The question gets bounded around and accusations are loosed. Night
is falling and spending a night outside would be uncomfortable at best.
“Lobuche might be on the other side,” Gerry ventures, “It’s impossible to be
sure from here.” But where on the other side? Are we directly across from it? Have
we gone too far, or not far enough? We have no time and no choice but to cross
so we follow Gerry’s route up the crumbling wall. At the top we too see the
view that caused Gerry’s nervous laugh. An enormous expanse of rocks and rubble
lie before us like Earth’s largest quarry. “Where’s the glacier?” we ask
confused. Ryan consults the map and after identifying certain peaks proposes
that we may have gone too far and the village of Lobuche is further back. The
adventure of crossing this wasteland gives me a rush of adrenaline and I
volunteer to veer left and cross diagonally so I can advise the others to
redirect their course if I see the town. Alternatively Gerry pushes forward,
hoping to find Loboche somewhere over the other side. Mick, Ryan and Mark struggle
laboriously over the loose hilly substrate, exhausted and exasperated. I
haven’t gone far when I come along a large exposed block of deep blue ice,
sticking out from the rubble. Looking at the ice I suddenly realize that we are
indeed on the glacier; this rocky trench is merely a thin layer over a heaving
river of ice. I hear the others call out as they realize the same thing. I clamber to the top of a particularly high
mound hoping to see the village on the other side but I see only debris in the
darkness. Meanwhile, Gerry has reached
the other side and he calls out “I see lights! It’s this way.” I scramble
quickly toward him and although I have veered considerably left and then back
again, I reach the far side before the others have reached half way. Gerry
points down toward the handful of lights in the distance. Lobuche is a grim
place, huddled along the edge of the Khumbu glacier at 4910 metres. The others
continue to veer left and Gerry repeats angrily for them to head in his
direction but they dismiss him and continue on. Realizing they don’t believe
him I corroborate and grudgingly they move toward us; but in the dark and with
little left in the tank they move agonizingly slowly so I go back down to them
and shouldering Ryan’s pack I show the way. All three of them complain of
piercing headaches hitting them like a jack hammer. We arrive in Loboche well
after dark and slump into the first guesthouse we find, every ounce of our energy
spent. We have hiked non-stop for nine and a half hours over extreme terrain
and at high altitudes.
Day 37: A day of
rest
The guesthouse is a wretched, dingy old place made of flimsy
fibro that feels like it’ll collapse at any moment causing one to go crashing
straight through the floor. As we’ll stay a day in Lobuche for acclimatization,
after breakfast we change to a slightly better guesthouse and spend the rest of
the morning doing some much needed washing. This consists of buying a pail of
hot water in which to scrub the clothes then sitting them atop a corrugated
iron roof to dry. The strong winds blow dust over them while they dry until
they are almost as dirty as before they were washed. It’s a sure sign of remoteness when you have
to buy hot water and pay to have batteries charged. This is easily the farthest
away I have ever been from a civilization linked by roads. The five of us have
been travelling in close proximity and trying conditions for more than a week.
Tempers are starting to flair, we are becoming irritable and over-sensitive; and
small disagreements become serious disputes. Rather than paying for the hot
water, Gerry the miserly backpacker uses Mick’s gas bottle to heat his water
for free, but Mick hears the sound of burning gas coming from his room. Mick’s
already annoyed with Gerry and now his fiery Irish nature unleashes
ferociously. A rift in the group is created.
I spend the afternoon hiking alone in the heaving, rock
strewn glacier. Sometimes I come across a steep wall of exposed ice and I push
large rocks off the lip and watch them go crashing down onto the frozen floor. It’s
hard work scrambling up and down the slippery stones while struggling to draw
breath and I’m worn out when I return to the guesthouse. I take my first
altitude sickness tablet tonight; I have only one left from my trip over the
Himalaya’s to Nepal. Sleep last night, had been difficult. I woke constantly,
gasping for air, feeling like I was asphyxiating. When I did sleep my dreams
where filled with twisted, demented images. I’d read about this condition
earlier in an article on altitude sickness. It’s known as Cheyne-Stokes Respirations. Above 3,000 metres most people experience periodic
breathing that begins with a few shallow breaths, increases to deep sighing
respirations then falls off rapidly even ceasing entirely for a few seconds.
During the period when breathing stops the person may wake with a sudden
feeling of suffocation. The percentage of oxygen in the atmosphere at sea level is about 21%. As
altitude increases (and pressure decreases), the percentage remains the same
but the number of oxygen molecules per breath is reduced. At 3,000 metres there
are roughly 40% fewer oxygen molecules per breath. At
this altitude there’s about half.
Day 38: 5180
metres
It’s only 5 kilometres from Lobuche to Gorak Shep, the
highest settlement in the Himalayas. Still, it takes us nearly 5 hours to get
there with frequent stops to catch breath. Only Gerry walks alone, he goes on
ahead and waits impatiently at Gorak Shep. We plan to go right through to Base
Camp today, only stopping at Gorak Shep to book tonight’s accommodation. When
we get there Gerry grumbles about how long we made him wait, and then he points
to a guesthouse he’s already booked before quickly heading off toward Base Camp.
Mick takes offence and rants about Gerry’s selfish attitude “We should be
finishing this together. But Gerry only thinks about himself” a vein throbs in
his forehead. “And what right does he have to tell us where to stay? Come on,
let’s find our own accommodation.” I
know Gerry is conscious of the time; and so am I. We still have a lot of hiking
to do and not a lot of daylight to do it in. I desperately want to break off
from the group and speed off to catch up with Gerry but now I feel obliged to
wait for the slower members.
After following the up and down glacier wall for another
2 hours the tip of Mt Everest finally creeps out from its hiding place behind
Nuptse. Continuing past Nuptse reveals a spectacular view of the Khumbu Ice Fall
that spews forth avalanches from Everest’s mouth and pours down the valley
slope in a chaotic jumble of boulders and ice, pushing masses of dirt to either
side in its powerful wake. This frightening zone is Base Camp. Base Camp is not
a single point but anywhere you can pitch a tent on the widespread rock-strewn
base of the mountain. The outskirts of this battleground is enough for my
companions, weary from the hike and aware of the lengthening shadows they turn
back for Gorak Shep; but it’s not close to close enough for me. I drop down
onto the glacier itself. Every now and then the trail crosses a bare patch of
glacial ice that glistens like a polished onyx. The sounds of creaking ice and
rocks sliding down ice chasms echo in the still air, breaking the silence of
the valley. As the glacier is constantly moving, everything is changing, new
crevasses open while old crevasses close and glacial lakes fill up. For this
reason there’s no fixed trail and no map can show the area accurately. Though
well aware of the danger I can’t resist climbing down into the core of one such
lake and stand against its perfectly sculpted wall. Like a wave frozen in time
it curls high above me. A groan from the ice floor sends me quickly scampering
back to firmer footing. At the top of
the valley stands fantastic, frozen pinnacles of ice glowing a radioactive
turquoise, the largest nearly 30 metres high, known as Phantom Alley. They rear
up like giant sharks teeth out of the surrounding rubble for as far down the
glacial road as the eye can see. By now I know that I won’t get back to Gorak
Shep before dark, but I can walk by starlight. Getting back to the solid path
however, is a different issue entirely. To be caught on this glacier in the
dark, trying to navigate around unpredictable openings in the ground, could
easily spell disaster. I push on for as far as I dare in the dimming light, but
not as far as I want. The Khumbu Icefall, at 5,400 metres, confronts
mountaineers at the very start of their climb. It is regarded as one of the
most dangerous stages to Everest’s summit. An icefall is created when a glacier begins
to move downhill on a steep slope. Icefalls are literally hanging glaciers,
falling slowly over geological time by the force of gravity. It is estimated that the Icefall advances three to four feet down
the mountain every day, opening large crevasses with little warning and sending
huge blocks of ice tumbling down the slope. Many climbers have died trying to
navigate the route from Base Camp to Camp 1, such as a climber who was crushed
by a 12-story block of solid ice.
I would love to spend time exploring the area at the
bottom of the Icefall but I have no time to spare. I pause just long enough to
take a photo of myself with my Australian flag, in the tradition of all great
adventurers, and then hastily return the way I came, mindful of the setting
sun. With trepidation I watch the last sliver of sun sink behind distant
summits. Though the sun is gone there’s still enough light to see by. That too
however, is dimming fast. I’m about half way across the glacier when the faint track
I’d been following disappears in the shadows. I know I’ve taken a wrong turn
when I find myself negotiating the unstable rim of a steep drop to a frozen
pool. Pushing down a rising panic I abandon my efforts to stay on the path;
instead I pick my way straight across the treacherous terrain, racing against
the night.
With great relief I get off the glacier just as the last
of the twilight fades away and from here I walk the well defined footpath by starlight.
Not far from the village is a large puddle of frozen water that we’d enjoyed
walking over on the way to base camp. It’s exciting crossing it alone and in
the dark; that is until the ice expresses its disproval with a loud cracking
sound. I race on tiptoe to the other side. Back at the guesthouse the others
have grown concerned. Though Gerry is staying in a different guesthouse, he’s
come to ours for dinner. “They wanted to go back and look for you but I told
them you can look after yourself” Gerry explains. I nodded in approval. We’d
been travelling together for long enough for Gerry to be able to say that. Although
tonight is New Year’s Eve, none of us will be seeing in the New Year. For the
first time since I was a teenager I will go to bed before 12am on December the
31st. As planned from the beginning, tomorrow morning we will wake
at 3.30 to climb to the top of Kala Patthar, a deceptively small hill behind
Gorak Shep, to watch the first light of 2008 shine on the highest place on
Earth. Before going to bed I make a sarcastically
joke, “I wonder if there’ll have fireworks to see in the New Year.” “Yeah sure,”
says Mick, “tey’ll light some yak shit, trow it in te air n beat it wit a
stick”.
Day 39: New Years
Day on top of the world
Knowing that the others will climb a little slower than
me, I wake half an hour later than they do. Not far from the bottom I encounter
Gerry sleepily climbing in the darkness. Gerry is confident of his superiority
in most things and throughout the trek has always considered himself the
strongest hiker. After exchanging a few words I leave him behind and about half
way up catch up to Mark and Ryan. They’ve settled into a rhythm of step
counting, resting between each set. In this way they make good upward progress.
I learn that Mick wimped out; too cold, too hard and too early – these are the
reasons but his justification was that he’d done Base Camp and that was the
primary reason for the trip. But Mick was wrong; Base Camp was nothing but an
ego trip, something we can brag about to our friends. Kala Patthar, and sunrise
over Everest on January the 1st was always our objective, and he
should have been here with us. This is the grand finale of a terrific and
taxing trip and we should have been together for it. Mere metres from the top I
optimistically suggest to the others that we wait for Gerry and summit Kala
Patthar together, this could signify our unity and reunite the group. Gerry
reaches us and without a word walks past and onward to the rocky pinnacle; his
belief that he’s beaten us energizes his last steps.
The summit of Kala Patthar sits at 5640 metres and is in
all likelihood the highest point I will ever reach in my life. We’ve arrived before
the handful of other climbers whom slowly make their way up the hill. Unfortunately
we’ve arrived too early and must endure the unbearable cold while we wait for
sunrise. Gerry and I have already experienced the discomfit of an early morning
sunrise and know what to expect. Gerry has wisely brought with him his sleeping
bag and a balaclava. Though undoubtedly warmer it makes him look like some kind
of bizarre, giant mountain worm wrapped in a red silk cocoon. Even in his
expensive mountain gear, Mark shivers with cold. In an effort to warm himself
he shoves his feet inside his bag and throws in a couple of heat packs for good
measure. Ryan pulls his Russian Ushanka hard down over his ears. Together we
look a sight, but less so than the young Japanese man that’s joined us. Unable
to bear the extreme cold he’s wrapped himself in a silver survival blanket and
hidden amongst the rocks. Temperature estimates range from -30°C to -40°C;
whatever it is, it’s fucking freezing cold. Gerry has a little ritual that he
likes to do at iconic landmarks. He calls it ‘secrets at’. Although ‘secrets at
Base Camp’ seems a bit gay to me we all humour him and each share a secret in
turn. Ryan’s secret is sex with a particularly unattractive fat girl; Mark too,
tells a story of sex. In Mark’s story he was walking a beautiful girl home from
the bar. He really liked this girl and really wanted to sleep with her, he also
really needed to pee. Desperately he holds on for the long walk, not wanting to
disgust her and ruin his chances. When they arrive at her house he excuses
himself and goes quickly to the bathroom. He needs to go so badly that in his
haste he struggles with his fly and as he whips out his penis it sprays pee all
over the toilet, all over the floor and all over his pants. After cleaning up
and washing his pants he goes back to the lounge room where the girl waits
keenly. Discreetly he turns off the light and they start making out on the
couch. Slowly the girls hand creeps toward his damp crotch and he tenderly
intercepts it. Again it moves en route for his crotch. Mark realizes that immediate
action is required and so somewhat prematurely he stands and strips right down
to nothing thereby narrowly avoiding an embarrassing situation. It’s Gerry however,
who reveals his secret first and he can barely wait to tell it. Gerry tells of
how he deviously kept a discount he’d negotiated with the guesthouse owner that
should have been split amongst us. This story demonstrates Gerry’s personality
perfectly; it’s not just that he selfishly took advantage, but that he couldn’t
wait to tell us, and thought his trick to be very clever. As for mine, well...,
it’s a secret.
Gerry, Mark and Ryan hurry down Kala Patthar, eager to
start the return journey. Halfway down I find the Japanese man from earlier
sitting with another guy and smoking a joint. He offers me a toke; I take two,
wish him a Happy New Year and hurry off to catch up to the others. A few
minutes later I find my frame of mind has altered somewhat and I become more
aware of my surroundings, of the incredible awesomeness of this place. I begin
to question the wisdom of rushing away without first appreciating it. I realize
now that Everest has become a box to tick off and now ticked I’m off. Here I
am, standing in front of the biggest natural wonder of this world, a once in a
lifetime view, and I’ve not bestowed the respect it deserves. So I stop, and I
stare. I look intensely at the pyramidal top of Everest. I try to comprehend the
magnitude of the mountain, so difficult without the common frames of reference
we have around us every day that we use to judge size. I focus intensely on the
summit and try to superimpose myself upon it and gradually I begin to
comprehend its massive scale and yet, its humble beauty. Since viewing Mt
Everest for the first time I’ve been frequently surprised by how it often
appears lower than the surrounding peaks. It’s a trick of the land and of
perspective that creates this illusion, but now I see it also as Mt Everest’s
modest nature. It doesn’t stretch out with a pointed finger arrogantly announcing
itself as number 1. Rather it sits regally, unassumingly, surrounded by its
royal regiment of 8000 plus metre peaks. Now I look around me at the
surrounding countryside. I perceive the ancient geological weathering processes
that formed this great land over millions of years. I see how scale is
irrelevant and the processes that shaped this land are exactly the same as
those shaping the sandpit in the backyard.
Mick is livid. Mark and Gerry have split from the group.
They are racing ahead with plans to be back down the mountain in two days. This
is extremely fast considering that it took us a week to get up here. Mick sees
this as further betrayal but to me his feelings of injustice seem a little
overemotional. He fumes about how he only came on this trip because Gerry asked
him and how dare Gerry leave him behind. He fumes about Gerry’s selfish and
insensitive attitude. But I know what it
is that really makes him angry; Gerry is winning. Before we leave I fill my bottle
from the pristine melting glacier water, a much better alternative than buying
water. The price of a bottle of water in Kathmandu is 15 Rupees, here at Gorak
Shep, it’s 250 Rupees. Down where the glacier terminates stone monuments stand
in a sombre circle, overlooking the valley floor. These are memorials to climbers who have died
on Everest, most of them Sherpa. I read one particularly stirring plaque on a
headstone.
LATE BABU CHIRI SHERPA
Babu Chiri Sherpa was born on June 22, 1965.
At the very young age of 13 he started his career as a climber. By the age of
35 he had summit Everest 10 times (twice in two weeks), spent an unprecedented
21 hours on the summit without the aid of auxiliary oxygen and became the
fastest climber of the world’s highest peak by climbing it in 16 hours, 56
minutes, thus creating three unique world records on Everest.
On Sunday the 29th of April 2001,
while on his way to summit Everest for the 11th time, he fell into a
200 ft deep crevasse; thus the extraordinary climber left this world.
Here we split from the path we’d taken up, following
instead the valley floor and the glacier’s sparkling stream that meanders past
the quaint stone houses of Pheriche. We
push on, trying to get as far as possible before nightfall. I’m impressed by
Ryan’s downhill speed; though the slowest going up, he keeps a strong pace all
the way down. Just on dark we arrive at a rarely visited village called
Pangboche. It’s just a tiny little place that sits at 3930 metres, a few small
houses on either side of the track, wisps of smoke curl from the chimneys. We’ve
dropped 1810 metres of altitude in 7 hours with our high speed descent, and
covered about 25 kilometres.
We’re the only guests in the guesthouse, we sit close to
the yak dung generated warmth of the pot belly stove with the whole extended
family. The atmosphere is warm and friendly. An Indian music video that
seemingly has no end plays on a small TV against the wall. On and on the Bollywood-style
song goes. A lady screeches in a piercing voice at a man, and the man, who
seems to be the milkman, whines back at her. The overdone acting, shrill
singing and excessive length would be comical if it wasn’t so painful and it
starts to send us all a little mad. I translate for the benefit of Ryan and
Mick, a silly story about how the milkman has watered down the milk and the
customer is really upset about it, but my story turns out to be right.
Apparently this is a big problem in India. Even still, it’s difficult to
comprehend how crying over spilt milk could go on for so long.
Day 40: Not even
a Sherpa...
After an early breakfast and a fond farewell we shoulder
our packs and hit the road again. Soon the alternate route rejoins the original
path and we are speeding back the way we came. Like a rapid flashback at the
end of a movie, dreamlike memories flash past my eyes. I stop frequently to
catch the scenery in my viewfinder and then I gas it a little to catch up. At
the bottom of the steep rise into Namche Bazaar I tell Mick and Ryan I’ll go ahead
so I can call the airport and change our flight date. I’m almost at the top
when I see two French guys and their Sherpa guide sitting on a rock and sharing
a joint. Two tokes and a ‘cheers mate’ later I continue my blistering pace to
the top. Rounding a bend I arrive at a
breathtaking overlook; 1000 metres below me, slicing a deep crease through the
valley, the running river gives false sound to the frozen waterfall hanging
above it. 3000 metres above me, is the huge backlit spike of Ama Dablam, and
2000 metres higher still, almost hidden in the background behind a seemingly
bigger Nuptse, is my last view of Everest’s Nepalese face. Again I question the
point of rushing away from such a magnificent vista so I abandon my rushed
return to sit with my back against a large rock and my legs dangling over the
precipitous drop and take it all in. Twenty minutes later Mick passes me and
another five Ryan comes puffing along, slowed by another uphill struggle. I
join him for the rest of the walk into Namche Bazaar and to the guesthouse we’d
first stayed in. Gerry and Mark had said intended to stay here last night. We
figured we were only a few hours behind them which meant that despite their
best efforts we would still arrive for the same plane. While waiting for our
lunch orders we asked the owner what time Gerry and Mark left in the
morning. “No, not this morning, last
night!” he replied emphatically. “They ate dinner here then kept going down
after dark. They said they were going to go all the way to Lukla. From Gorak
Shep to Lukla in one day! I’ve never heard of anybody doing that. Not even a
Sherpa!” he cried then shook his head in disbelief as he walked away. We are
all completely taken by surprise. Mick’s face drops. He’d been driven by the
thought of sticking it to Gerry but now his hopes have been dashed. I feel a
pang of jealousy and a touch of annoyance at Mick and Ryan for holding me back,
though I know it was my own choice to do so. Ryan is starting to develop a
painful rash and he suggests we stay here tonight. After learning how far
behind we are Mick can’t bear the thought of losing any more time. I too want
to continue, so Ryan agrees to go on until nightfall.
We’ve dropped a further 1100 metres of altitude in 71/2
hours and another 25 kilometres when we finally reach the humble village
of Monjo a little after dark. Ryan refuses to go any further. He has no reason
to push himself; he isn’t driven by Mick’s desire for retribution or my
slightly sadistic pleasure in pain. I expect Mick to concede but instead he
says “Well I’m going to keep going.” Then he turns to me and asks, “Are staying
with Ryan or coming with me?” I’m stunned by his hypocrisy. He’s spent the last
two days bitching about Gerry’s abandonment and without an ounce of remorse he
does exactly the same thing to Ryan. I’d also like to keep going but my reasons
differ from Mick’s. I’m motivated by the personal challenge rather than
revenge. I’m jealous of Gerry rather than affronted by him. I would love to
have challenged myself like he has done; to have felt the thrill of
accomplishing a difficult task. But it wouldn’t be right to leave Ryan behind
so I reply “I’m going to stay here too”. “Look, what if we get up before
sunrise and start walking in the dark?” Ryan suggests. “We can get to the airport
before the plane leaves.” Mick nods reluctantly, “OK, let’s stay here.” Once in
the guesthouse I go through my daily towel bath ritual. This is something I’ve
done every day during the hike. After arriving at the guesthouse the first
thing I do is go in to the toilets (there are no baths or showers) and break
the layer of ice over the drum of water that sits next to each squat toilet.
The water is scooped out with a bucket and used to flush the toilets but it is
clean and clear water from the mountains. After stripping naked, I dip my hand-towel
into the water and wipe myself down. It’s bloody cold, but afterward I feel
refreshed and invigorated. Not long now and I’ll be able to have a real shower,
I think longingly.
Day 41: Back to the
beginning
It’s still dark when we leave the guesthouse for the
final leg of our trek. It’s beautiful watching the landscape change as the
light gradually grows stronger. My knees are now throbbing with every downhill
step and I decide I definitely prefer going up. As they say, be careful what
you wish for. The last few kilometres into Lukla airport are straight up and at
this stage of the trip it is a demoralizing climb but I push on ahead to
organise our seats. It would be disappointing to miss the plane now, after our
supreme effort. I needn’t have worried though; the plane was delayed again, due
to fog in Kathmandu.
When you take off from Lukla airport, the plane backs up
to the very edge of the runway at which point it begins revving its engines
furiously to ensure it has enough speed before it reaches the other end. Behind
it, restaurants and hotels are obscured in a billow of dust. Then it lets the
clutch go and screams downhill to where the runway drops off to the valley
below. If you don't get enough speed, the plane will fall over the edge, until
it gains sufficient lift. Just eight days from now, Sir Edmund Hillary, the first
man to summit Everest will die, and this airport will be renamed
Tenzing-Hillary airport in honour of him and his faithful Sherpa who reached
the summit of Everest with him. Less than a year later, two Australians will be among 18 people killed
when a small Twin Otter crash-lands and bursts into flames on the sloping
airstrip of Lukla. It will try to land in foggy weather.
When we arrive at Kathmandu’s guesthouse Mark and Gerry smile
and say with surprise “We didn’t expect you guys for another couple of days.” Then
they tell us their own story. Upon arriving at Namche Bazaar they’d stopped for
dinner where they told an amazed audience how’d they’d come all the way from
Gorak Shep that morning. “And what’s more” they added full of bravado, “we are
going to continue all the way to Lukla tonight.” However, with a full belly and
a warm comfortable seat to rest their weary legs, they started to regret there
boastfulness. But it was too late to renege now for the dining room was abuzz
with their story. So they shrugged off
their weariness and headed out into the dark. The night for them, was a long
one. All through the night they marched; their energy drained, their legs strained
and their willpower waned the farther they walked. The last uphill climb that
we’d struggled unhappily with this morning had almost broken them; their confident
strides that had brought them this far now a feeble hobble until finally they
crested the rise and entered the one alley town of Lukla, just a little before
first light.
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