- James Hilton, Lost Horizon
I don’t know
exactly how it happened, but the idea of hiking to Mount Everest Base Camp got
stuck in my head somewhere along the line and got lodged in there so deep I
couldn’t get it out, like a stubborn pop-corn kernel in between your
teeth. The difference was that I had nothing like floss, nothing to get it out, besides of course going. And so I did.
Arriving in Nepal’s capital city of Kathmandu, I was
once again thrust into an unfamiliar place where cab drivers regularly missed
oncoming traffic and walking pedestrians by the width of a hair. In some cases - one that I witnessed at least
– a vehicle hit a pedestrian outright; as when I saw a motorbike sideswipe a
little 8 year old boy near the famed tourist area of Thamel, where I would stay
while in Kathmandu. By their reactions -
the driver’s and the boy’s - they had both gone through that drill many times
before; no hard feelings and no crying.
Life went on and both went their separate ways, one limping a bit while
rubbing his shoulder, the other driving slightly slower than before.
Overhead
power lines draped like jungle vines above the streets, in some places piling
up into coils on the sidewalk, in other places tangled into what looked like
gigantic bird’s nests. There was dirt
and debris everywhere. Stray dogs ran
into and out of traffic at their leisure, and at night barked persistently at
rival packs. Every now and then you’d
see a cow in the median between two major roads. This was Kathmandu at a glance.
I
left Kathmandu for Phaplu at 4:30 the next morning with Pancha, my recently
introduced guide for the 20 day hike to Mount Everest Base Camp. He was in his early 50’s, spoke broken
English, but looked healthy enough. He’d
had 20 years of experience hiking in the Himalaya’s so I assumed I was in good
hands - a year of experience for each day of the hike, I figured. The jeep we drove in was built
for the roads we drove on; much like safari vehicles are built for driving
through the dense brush of Africa, and armored humvees through warzones. It was a raised 4 wheel drive conglomeration
of rubber, metal, dust and dirt. The
windshield was smashed right in front of the driver’s seat. I asked what it was from and Pancha said “No
big deal, probably falling rock.” If the
streets of Kathmandu hadn’t confirmed it, it had been confirmed now - I was in
the Himalaya’s.
Phaplu is a small village that sits southeast of the
Khumbu Valley but is connected to it by a series of trails through remote mountain
villages. Many years ago - in the 1950’s
- this was the only way to access the Khumbu Valley and Mount Everest from
Nepal, but now you can fly into Lukla via the Tenzing-Hillary Airport which is
considered the most dangerous airport in the world – and for good reason. Many fatal crashes have occurred there and
the pressure to get more and more people into the valley, combined with the
sudden changes in weather and the short - almost cartoonishly short - runway create
for a concoction of factors that scared me away from flying into it. That, and hiking up from the lower elevations
of Phaplu would give me more time to
acclimate to the higher elevations and get my “trail legs” for when I connected
with the main Everest Base Camp (EBC) trail.
So on we drove to Phaplu. What I was told would take 9 hours ended up
taking 14 hours. A small portion of the
roads were paved, but most were dirt roads, and many more were not roads at
all, but rather dry river beds or flood plains.
We made 3 stops along the way for jeep repairs and many more for general
maintenance. At one point I was worried
the axel might snap like a Laotian bus I had taken did one time. At last though, we made it to Phaplu in one
piece.
After 3 endless days of travel
by plane and jeep, I was finally ready to begin hiking. We woke up before sunrise and took some time
stretching and drinking coffee in the teahouse.
The day promised to be clear with a bit of haze from dry dust and pollen
that seems to drift endlessly in the air during the pre-monsoon season. The first part of the day we walked over
gentle dirt roads and flat paths that connected one village to the next. The rhododendron’s were in
bloom and painted the hills with hot pinks and bright reds while the magnolia
trees painted them with light purples and whites. Together with the bamboo patches and
occasional evergreens, under distant snow capped peaks, it was as if we had
found the fabled Shangri-La. We stopped
in a village called Ringmu for lunch and then started climbing the 750 feet up
to Trakshindu Pass where we made another stop at the monastery there. I’d bought brand new Vasque hiking boots for
the trip, and along with wearing “darn tough” socks my feet felt good for
the terrain and the mileage we’d covered.
I felt no hot spots on my feet and my legs weren’t stiff at all; apparently,
for once, I’d bought the right equipment for the job. At the monastery, Pancha and I entered
quietly after taking off our boots and meeting with a young monk. The air was cooler inside and dark because
there were no windows. The young monk
showed us into the prayer room and then into the master’s chamber passing by
murals of colorful artwork on the walls.
There was no sound at all. Every
time I spoke I found myself whispering, and even then it felt like I was
yelling. The young monk and Pancha took
turns trying to enlighten me as to the ways of Buddhism. I learned a lot. For instance, apparently I have 100 Gods in
my body, who knew? 42 of them are angry
Gods and 58 of them are good Gods. The
angry Gods live above my heart and the good Gods live below my heart. I asked them politely if it wasn’t the other
way around and they assured me it wasn’t.
I suppose that explains a lot.
From the monastery at
Traskshindu we descended 2,000 feet through magnolia forests along cliff-sides
to the village of Nunthala where we’d rest for the night after some tea and
Tibetan bread. My spirits were high and
my body felt good. I guess two months of
training was paying off. The only thing
that hurt - maybe odd to some - was my left shoulder which had always plagued
me on backpacking trips in the past.
Something about my posture doesn’t agree with heavy backpacks. After awhile I accept the pain and embrace it
but it always bothers me the first night.
The next morning we descended
even further all the way down to and across the Dudh Kosi River, and entered
the Khumbu Valley. The Dudh Kosi River
drains the Khumbu Valley and most of the high alpine glaciers above, including
many around Mount Everest. We’d remain -
more or less - in the valley for the next two weeks, ascending to where it
truly opens up for magnificent views above Namche Bazar in a few days. Until then we’d hike in the forested lower
valley below treeline. It was day 5 and
we were now on a steep and steady ascent up through the village of Jubhing and
further still to the village of Kharikola, where we took an hour for lunch and
to rest up. After, we walked lengthwise
through the village and up to Bupsa where we’d spend the night in a ridge top
dwelling looking down on mules and sherpas packing up supplies for an
international Everest expedition we’d been leapfrogging throughout the
day. Of course, the climbers were not
with them yet, because they had the money to get to Everest Base Camp without
carrying their own things or doing their own work. This I came to realize is a way of life in
the Everest region: money dictates who labors two weeks over muddy trails with
heavy packs for no glory versus who gets all the glory for being carried to the
summit.
After Bupsa, on day 6, we
ascended further still to Kari La Pass where now we had our first glimpses at
the high peaks, and high they were! It
took a few minutes to comprehend how high they rose. We enjoyed them for a half hour or so and
then descended for the first time in a couple of days over the muckiest trails
yet. They weren’t only mucky with mud and
leaf litter but with mule dung. I tucked
my pants into my socks and accepted my fate. After an hour or two of walking in wet mule
droppings you tend to forget what you’re walking in anyways. Every step I took I sunk in up to my ankles. Eventually,
the trail dried up and we made it to the tiny village of Surkey, which was set
at the bottom of a steep valley that had clearly seen landslides from the 2015
earthquake. I took my boots off to let
them dry, but the smell they’d soaked in all day was now a part of my life. As I was waiting just outside the teahouse,
reading a book to pass the time, a pack of mules made their way by. One by one, heads down, they trod forward
oblivious to me, focusing only on their next step and the mule directly in
front of them. I suppose over the years
they’ve stopped caring much about their surroundings. They’re pushed forward by a seemingly irate
mule driving villager and don’t seem to mind.
If they stop, they understand they’ll either be screamed at or whacked
with a bamboo stick, so they don’t. Such
is the life of a Nepalese pack animal. I
don’t make the rules. Which is why this
particular event was somewhat alarming.
For some odd reason, maybe because I was bored of waiting for my boots
to dry or had reached a lull in the book I was reading, I began counting the
mules in the train. I guess I was
curious how many there were. In the end
I counted 60, and 59 of them behaved just as they were told, as usual. It was the one that didn’t behave that way
that alarmed me, and only because I was counting. He was the 13th mule. As he walked by me, he paused, straightened
up, and turned his head, directly acknowledging me with eye contact. It sent shivers down my spine. A couple of seconds passed and he was whacked
by a stick and kept moving along like all the others. That night I slept anxiously worrying about
landslides, praying not to hear a rumble, counting the minutes every time I woke
up to when I’d climb out of the unstable valley the next day.
When dawn came on day 7 Pancha
and I packed our things as fast as possible and climbed out of the valley, safe
at last. I guess the 13th
mule was full of it. A few hours later
we linked up with the main EBC trail.
After a week of hiking through hillside villages we were now hiking with
other westerners who’d flown into Lukla airstrip. I could tell they were raw. Many of them were suffering already from the
elevation and difficult terrain. It would take time for them to adjust. Just then Pancha received bad news. Apparently, there had been an accident and 7 people
had been killed on the road from Kathmandu to Phaplu the previous day. They’d been in a jeep too, on the same road
we were on just 7 days ago. Maybe the 13th
mule wasn’t full of it after all. Just
after we reached Phakding, where we’d stay the night, it began to hail, passionately. It had done the same just after arriving in
Surkey the night before. I was beginning
to think we were being looked out for, but by who or what I didn’t know; all I knew is that I was happy we'd stopped at the monastery.
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