Rajan Simkhada has a knack for delivering bad news in the most cheerful way imaginable. The Kathmandu tour operator is briefing us about our 16-day trek to Everest base camp and his main message is that we should lower our expectations.
“This is Nepal. Two hours late in Nepal is on time,” he says with a huge smile.
Rajan found fame in his country as a standup comic, and he clearly loves an audience. Our accommodation will be very basic, he stresses, beaming all the while. Flights to and from our starting point, Lukla (“the world’s scariest airport”), are very often cancelled when the clouds roll in. Now Rajan tells us we may need to pay extra to charter a helicopter.
“But don’t worry about that today. Tomorrow is tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow is the day after tomorrow.” Truly these are words to trek by.
Eight months ago my sister Michaela and I did our first trek in the Annapurna region with Rajan’s company, Earthbound Expeditions. This time we’ve talked my boyfriend Tony into joining us. For three months we’ve been charging up every hill and set of stairs we can find around Bondi beach and doing spin classes to build cardio fitness.
Fast forward to our second day on the trail, and a stark lesson in how training at sea level counts for sod-all in the Himalayas. Forty-five of us – three groups of 15 – flew into Lukla (2,860m above sea level) without a hitch, though a few of us could still feel our hearts racing hours after touching down on the tiny uphill airstrip. We slept at the lower altitude of Phakding, and now we’ve embarked on the toughest ascent of the trip, 800m up to the main town in the Khumbu region, Namche Bazaar (3,440m).
After crossing a fast-flowing river on a suspension bridge festooned with prayer flags, we switchback up a pine-covered hill, giving way to porters, a company of soldiers, mule trains and teams of dzo (yak/cattle crosses). The rule is to stay on the hill side of the path when meeting these beasts of burden, or risk getting shoved off a cliff.
The scenery is, quite simply, epic. We pause often to gaze back down the ravine, or up at griffon vultures gliding through the clouds.
The key to adapting to the thinning air is to go slowly, rest often, and drink lots of water. Our guide, Shree Ram Adhikari, is leading from the rear. He tells us to take our time and take plenty of photos.
It’s right when the track begins to level out that the altitude starts to wallop us. Just taking a couple of steps leaves us short of breath – and me gasping. I’m glad I’ve experienced this before and adapted quickly, or I’d be terrified. As it is, I can’t stop smiling. It’s all so strange and extreme.
“Altitude can kill,” says a sign on the outskirts of Namche, a U-shaped town with steep slopes on three sides. Team C’s view from the Hotel Hill-Ten (see what they did there?) is a sweet reward after one of the toughest days many of us have ever experienced.
We get our first glimpse of Everest early the next day, from a hill above the town. From this angle other peaks appear taller but Everest is unmistakable. The jet stream blasting the summit with hurricane force sends a trail of ice into the morning sky.
Another night in Namche doesn’t signify rest – the “b” might be silent, but in the Himalayas there’s always a “climb” involved in acclimatisation. Hotel Everest View, the world’s highest hotel, at 3,880m, provides us with steaming hot chocolates, then it’s down to nearby Khumjung for a lunch of vegie mo-mo dumplings and rosti at the Valleyview Lodge. The wood-panelled dining room is decorated with folk art and photos of our host summiting Everest. At Khumjung’s monastery a famed “yeti skull” fails to impress: imagine a Donald Trump combover in cowhide.
Back at the Hill-Ten, Shree shows us a documentary about Edmund Hillary. The film starts with the Everest expedition but the focus is on the humanitarian work in Nepal to which he devoted the rest of his life. On the trail the next day we pass a stupa honouring Hillary’s summit partner, Tenzing Norgay. We’re on the way to Tengboche (3,867m), where Tenzing was sent to be a monk (it didn’t work out; he ran away after being hit on the head by a lama).
There’s another big climb in store: 600m through a rhododendron forest. Shree tells me to walk how he walks. Soon I’m rocking from side to side in an energy-conserving, meditative transference of weight that means I don’t have to stop every few steps to catch my breath. All the better to appreciate the landscape; the rocky path, the drifting mist, the blazing pink blooms. I feel as though I’m in an ancient silk painting – except accompanied by a guide wearing a Grover beanie.
That night at Tengboche a handful of people are queasy, an early symptom of altitude sickness. The next morning one trekker becomes so ill he has to be helicoptered out. Shree warns us that we all should expect mild headaches and nausea soon, “or the mountains will be angry”.
There’s certainly plenty of peaks about to antagonise. They keep popping out of the tops of clouds to remind us who’s boss. Dominating the sky just here is Ama Dablam, a twin-peaked beauty named for a matriarch’s jewel box. And in leaving the treeline behind as we close in on Dingboche (4,530m), the scenery resembles the north of Scotland, only with yaks in place of highland cattle.
On this day the climb is steady. “One foot in front of the other,” say several trekkers coming the other way. We’re glad of the encouragement, with the next few days proving tough. Many of us have upset stomachs, and everyone’s appetites are falling away. Each night we huddle around a stinky stove burning yak poo laced with kerosene.
And each day it gets harder to move; every step requires determined effort. In the rear are two fitness instructors and a 12-year-old boy. Who knew that altitude would be such a great leveller? By now we’re all doing the “Shree shuffle”. There’s no equivalent in everyday life for how slowly we’re moving. One day it takes us three hours to cover five mostly level kilometres. “Taxi!,” we yell at passing rescue helicopters.
Early on day seven we sway our way up the Dughla pass. The moment I reach the top I know this will be my highlight of the trip. Mighty peaks surround us, as do stone memorials to climbers who have died on Everest. On one are the lines:
Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow.
The less said about our stop at Lobuche (4,940m, 45 sick trekkers, two toilets), the better. Yet we wake exhilarated. On this day we’ll try for the pile of rocks and prayer flags that marks the entrance to base camp (5,364m). But as we head up the sandy valley beside the twisted turquoise ice of the Khumbu glacier, my passing headaches suddenly switch into something more snarly.
At Gorak Shep — quickly dubbed “Gorak Shithole” — it’s decided Tony and I should lie low, while the rest of the team push on. They’ve been gone about two hours when a blizzard blows up out of the blue. I’m frightened but helpless. My headache is staggering, I’m vomiting, have a fever and am struggling to communicate.
It’s clear that I’ve gone downhill rapidly. Now I need to get downhill literally – and urgently. Shree calls a “taxi”. Fifteen minutes later we’re at the helipad. I’m only aware of snow and hands – hands that comfort me, that make sure I’m wrapped up warmly. And then we’re in the air, and the sights of eight days’ hard trekking whiz by in 15 minutes. In Kathmandu I spend two days in hospital being treated for high-altitude cerebral oedema and acute gastroenteritis.
In the week that follows, unwinding in Kathmandu as we await the return of our fellow trekkers (they have to hire helicopters after a two-day, temper-fraying delay in Lukla), we get to know Rajan better. We’re inspired by his passion to be the change he wants to see in his country and by the work that he, Shree and their fellow guides are doing to build schools, libraries and a hospital.
Soon we’ll be heading back to real life but I’m not going to think about that today. After all, tomorrow is tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow is the day after tomorrow.
