Blisters and Base Camp. Kind of.

In the late 1990’s we had often heard murmurings about the trekking in Nepal. The Annapurna trek, we came to realise, sniffed of climbing Everest but was way cheaper and a cheat’s way of saying you were there when you really weren’t. You could start many a distinguished conversation in the future with “When I was in the Himalayas…” and people would assume you had climbed Everest. With little correction forthcoming from yourself.

We figured we wanted a piece of that.

Being thrifty backpackers we had managed to convince Prakash, the man with the golden permits, to compact a seven day trek into three days. That’s right, three days. The kilometre count was momentous and no casual stroll for these backpackers; this was straight uphill by steps sliced into the mountain. Basically, it was like climbing a ladder all day.

Little preparation (read: none) had served us badly, I was climbing in Doc Martens for god’s sake. Although I am sure I had some mean street cred next to the Sherpa’s, I had blisters the size of silicone implants on each heel.

Day two, the snow fell. Glorious, fluffy, white snow that covered the hills like soft cream on a pavlova. I’m positive it would have been picture perfect, had I detached my eyeballs from the next step to actually look up at the mountain. Staggering into the hut accommodation that night, we discovered the pipes had frozen, therefore no hot showers to ease the ruptured implants. By the end of the trek, a meeting of a mite and my forehead had procreated a pustule rash all over my body.

However our trek had nothing on the silent pride of the Sherpa’s, who carried incredibly heavy objects to their communities on the mountain. Witnessing that incredible physical and mental strength totally influenced my life. As I struggled for breath, they breathed life into the still mountain. They created an environment where their children could go beyond basic survival and happily live in possibly one of the remotest places on earth.