The Journey Home

The annual Tenzing Hillary Marathon follows the trekking trail from Base Camp to Namche Bazaar and is probably the toughest trail run in the world – particularly the 2014 edition the first 20km of which was run in 4 feet of snow.  A friend of mine ran it this year to raise funds for charity and experienced firsthand the hardship that comes with running above 3500m.  The winner – a Sherpa – finished in a staggering 3 hours and 52 minutes.  My friend took 11 hours and 30 minutes having three hours added to her time for overnighting in a village – it was the last of 8 marathons she would do on 7 continents in 2014 (including one on the Great Wall of China, another in Peru and a third in Antarctica) and she would later describe it as the toughest.   Though I was grateful not to be running the route, I was intrigued to see what all the fuss was about.  True, we weren’t going to walk as far as Namche Bazaar but we were hoping to reach Pangboche before nightfall, a hike of about 25km.  

Gorak Shep from Kalapattar

I will not dwell too much on this leg suffice it to say that my spirits, which had been so elated the previous day, now sunk to a gloomy low.  With hindsight, it was probably due to two factors.  The first was that we had climbed to the top of Kalapattar before breakfast, (an ascent of over 350m) which meant we were already running on empty long before the return journey even began. Secondly, I broke my 4L water rule and drank only 1L the entire day - which meant I was probably dehydrated by the end of it.  I managed neither lunch in Pheriche nor dinner at Pangboche where at 3pm, after 5 hours of almost constant walking, I staggered into the lodge, knees aching, head swimming and running a serious temperature. 

The Road to Pheriche

Mercifully, I slept that night for 12 straight hours and woke up feeling suitably restored – though this condition was temporary in light of the next leg; the so-called “descent” to Namche.  This consisted of a 200m descent, a 200m ascent, a descent of 600m followed by another climb of 250m.  It was hot, dusty and ultimately soul destroying with even the promise of a comfortable lodge; a good meal and a hot shower (we hadn’t showered for 7 days) doing little to lift the spirits. 

But the comforts of Namche and the Yak Hotel turned out to be adequate reward for our exertions after all.  That night in the Liquid Bar, we met up with fellow trekkers and the friendly owner laid on free popcorn and yet another movie about mountaineering disasters.  There was much laughter as we all compared notes and pretty much everyone vowed never to try anything like this again.  Marcus, the Australian who’d undressed on top of Kalapattar, was also there though was not really himself having heard reports that the Army had a warrant out for his arrest.  With hindsight, I think this was a rumour the guides had concocted to scare him because in the end, as far as I know, he made it back to Australia without experiencing the comforts of the Nepalese prison system.

The next day as we descended one last time into the Dudh Khosi valley for the final haul up to Lukla, we were reminded once again that there are no easy sections to the Everest Base Camp Trek.  There were quite a few trekkers still coming the other way, all looking fresh, hopeful and excited.  I felt no excitement for them, particularly as it had grown discernibly colder the previous three nights - even at the lower altitudes.  I guess that by then I was just ready to go home.  Not for the first time that trip, I called to mind that opening scene of Platoon.  One trekking party was a team of Peterhouse students celebrating the end of their O Levels.  We stopped and chatted for a while – they were cheerful, rosy-cheeked, respectful young people and were pleased to meet a fellow Zimbabwean – until they found out I’d been educated at St Georges.     

We spent the afternoon in Lukla nervously contemplating the weather as the village became slowly socked in with thick cloud.  Would planes be cleared for landing the following morning?  Or would we be forced to bear the additional expense of a helicopter flight to Kathmandu?  I wandered down the high street and found Lukla’s version of the Hard Rock Café where I relaxed with a book in a deep leather armchair and drank hot chocolate as the melodic strains of ACDC roared over the sound system.  From that surreal vantage point I kept half an eye on the airport's deserted apron as phalanxes of cloud rolled up from the valley.  If nothing changed that night, it was unlikely we'd get out the next day.  After evening drinks in the local Irish Pub, I went to bed.

High Street Lukla

Dawn broke crisp and clear as the last of the clouds scudded over the eastern skyline.  Sipping on a cup of lemon tea I watched with growing elation as the first plane of the day began its approach.  So relieved was I to board that I was overcome with drowsiness and nearly dozed off.  Indeed, the excitement of takeoff and the beautiful views off the starboard wing were largely lost on me such was the consolation at being homeward bound.

Though I didn't know it at the time, the weather window that had blessed us with such excellent trekking conditions was slowly creaking shut.  Two days later; Colin, Chris, Jeff and two Sherpas returned from the summit of Island Peak (6140) to advanced base camp in a blinding snow storm.  By the time they reached Chukhung a day later, the prospect of the three day trek to Lukla was so unpalatable that, after a night in a lodge, they chartered helicopter and flew back to Kathmandu in style.  At roughly the same time, Madan and two Australian clients were struggling their way up to Namche Bazaar in four feet of snow.  Our timing had been perfect.