I climbed to Qomolongma Base Camp without Bear Grylls help!

Confession. I didn't throw away my boots. I promised to donate them after my last trip to Morocco. Twelve years of trekking and it shows. Leaving footprints in many lands. One final frontier is needed before their retirement- Qomolongma (Everest) North Base Camp, Tibet. You would think I would be the female version of Bear Grylls, the adventurer. Actually, I’m just a goddess fired by enthusiasm. So I retrieved my boots from my car.

Colourful prayer flags align the inspiring campsite of Rongphu. Blue, white, red, green and yellow, representing the sky, air, fire, water, and earth, flirt in the windy skies. The rocky barren Tibetan plateau stretches for miles; the stench of rubbish and yak dung permeates the region. A stream clatters through the campsite. Nomadic Tibetans welcome me. Tent guesthouse owners barter. The post office tent sits prominently at the end of the campsite. The world’s highest post office has not been open for weeks.

Sunlight careens its way through the tasseled yak hide tapestry entrance of the tent. The warm aroma of pancakes follows the light as Tashi, our host, flips on his outdoor wood fired stove. Sun-damaged skin, frosted nose and rosy cheeks beam, swaddled in his pastel yak wool shawl. Tashi delivers my breakfast.“Tashdele,” he says. “Thoo jaychay,” replying in broken Tibetan.

Draped in blankets, the tent is 4 degrees. I give the river bath a miss. Shivering and shrouded in three layers of wool and cotton, I am ready to stride to Base Camp.


Weaving through a maze of the tents, I reach a dusty track to start my journey. Juniper perfumes the crisp air. My toes seep through the hobnailed boots. Following the main artery along the pebbled path, vegetation absent, caressed by skeletal air, I clamber in convoy through the dazzling geography. Azure sky’s and sun encircles the Himalayas. Everest’s artless affection softly sketches a penciled silhouette in the background.

Breathless. Serenity of the mind. Blinded by dust. Fingers frosted. Anaesthetised limbs. I reach into my pocket to grab a crumpled packet of protein nuts and sip some water. Tibetan nomads pass by, rosy cheeked women with long black plaits, men cloaked in yak leather, clutching their prayer wheels and rosary beads, bearing sacks on their backs as they swiftly power ahead on their pilgrimages.

Two hours of intense hiking, anaerobic, worse for wear, I arrive. My boots are on the verge of extinction. Flashing my passport I enter through customs to the best flight lounge in the world with expansive views of burnished snowcapped peaks. Dragging myself up, I take final steps to the roof of the world. Adoring crowds marvel Qomolongma. Attenuated tents beneath me, my eyes admire the continuing path to Everest. I take a deep breath and celebrate my victory, surrounded by hundreds of vibrant prayers flags. This goddess has succeeded, without my hero Bear Grylls, but with enthusiasm.

Five days later a boot maker in the streets of Katmandu repairs my boots. Retirement. No way. Next stop…Laos!!