Journey's End

In my hometown of Ballito there is a pedestrian staircase that climbs from the village bowl (the town’s lowest point) to Townsend Park, a suburb nearly 150 metres higher up.  It intersects 2 streets and consists of 3 separate flights numbering nearly 350 stairs.  The stairway was a prominent feature of my pre-trek training program and I christened them the “Potemkin Steps” after the famous staircase in Odessa, (though they bear no resemblance).  In the weeks before my departure, I built up to doing about 7 sets three times a week.

But my Potemkin Steps were no contest for the staircase we were about to encounter.  “I think the Circuit has reserved its best sting till last” I said as we studied the map over breakfast in Ghorepani.  On the map, somewhere between Banthanti and Tikhedhunga, were the words “3800 stone steps”.  The descent to our next hotel would be 1500 metres, much of which would take place on those steps.

One cannot help but marvel at the generations of blood, sweat, tears and ingenuity that have gone into constructing and maintaining the staircase to Tikhedhunga.  The undertaking to quarry, size and place stones – to survey routes through the treacherous topography – to maintain this seemingly endless walkway in the face of uncompromising Monsoon rain – must surely rank as one of Nepal’s wonders, understated though it is.

Perhaps even more amazing were the porters ferrying head loads of merchandise from Nyapul to Ghorepani.  During his 5-month journey through the Himalaya as part of a BBC documentary, Michael Palin was similarly impressed, referring to such loads as “Sisyphean” meaning “endless and unavailing”.  I cannot think of a better word myself.  I once saw a porter trying to resume his journey after a break, his basket filled to the brim with apples, pomegranates as well as a set of cooking pans.  As he got to his feet, the basket listed to one side taking the poor man with it.  As he fell awkwardly, we jumped quickly to his aid.  Getting him to his feet, correctly balanced and on his way called for the strength of two men.  My heart went out to these wraith-like fellows, very few of who have the appropriate footwear for the terrain, (most wearing sandals or flip-flops).  And while the government has passed regulations on how much tourist porters may carry (no more than 30 kg), the carriers of general merchandise seem exempt from the restrictions.  They are relatively cheerful nonetheless, congregating for breaks in places where the hillsides offer a ledge on which to rest their loads.  These places are immediately recognized by the litter of chewing tobacco and snuff packets, the contents of which are no doubt consumed to deaden the aches, pains and drudgery which come with the occupation.  I was particularly taken with the chicken porters, hardy souls lugging cages containing 30 or more live birds and who complete the seemingly endless climb from Birethanti to Ghorepani in a single day.

Our own porters continued to amaze me.  Though their burdens had lightened considerably since Colin and Sandra’s departure, each was carrying a load in excess of 20 Kg.  By the time we stopped for lunch in Banthanti, they had already secured rooms for us in Tikhedhunga.  When I finally crossed the bridge of the Bhurungdi River and entered the town’s high street, my legs had a mind of their own and my knees were like jelly.  I found the three porters comfortably reclining in the afternoon sun on the pavement outside the lodge, cracking jokes and smiling contentedly.  When I asked them how they’d done, Ram and Rissam laughed as though I’d broached some sort of inside joke.  Physically the two had coped just fine.  The challenge, instead, had been a mental one.  For some days, Ram and Rissam’s desperate lot was simply to stay three steps ahead of Kisna who had not showered for nearly 15 days.  “He doesn’t like water,” concluded Rissam with a giggle.  It was pretty amusing and at last I had an explanation for the curious fug that had recently attached itself to my bag.

From Left: Kisna, Ram, Raj and Rissam

*

The walk to Birethanti, our final night’s stopover, was a joy.  Mostly on the flat, it followed a beautiful river that meandered through quaint villages and verdant farmland.  The water, just warm enough for swimming, was sweet relief from the humidity. I got in twice - once en route and once in a small gorge above the village.  But besides this bucolic serenity, I felt sad.  The town of Syange where we had embarked on this incredible adventure felt light years behind us.  The trepidation I had felt in those dark pre-dawn hours before our first day’s trekking now felt misplaced.  None of my fears had materialized – yet the Circuit had given unstintingly of itself.

Crystal clear mountain streams - ruined by carelessly discarded Sunsilk sachets (see foreground)

Before supper I examined my boots.  They’d done a yeoman service but I noticed that the sole of one had come loose.  Using two tubes of super glue, I carried out a quick repair job even though I didn’t envisage wearing them again.  My bag had only just made it too.  When Prem gave it to me 15 days before it was black.  Now, caked with chalky dust and sediment, it had turned a dull grey.  Though still in good working order, it was badly scuffed and the logos had all but worn off.  Prem’s guarantee of a new one had not been misplaced.

Walking Machines

That night, a retinue of Spanish trekkers and their Nepali support team held a boisterous fiesta in the dining room to celebrate the end of their trek and the successful ascent of Thorung Peak.  Not only had they negotiated the pass, they had climbed fixed ropes to the summit (6200 metres).  I was impressed:  the team’s average age was significantly higher than our own and one woman over the age of 60 had made it to the top.  There was much to celebrate and the tables were pushed to one side to make space for dancing.  I sat up late reading, amused by the increasingly drunken cries of “Ole” and laughter as each culture taught the other its native dance.

Suddenly there was an earsplitting clap of thunder.  Strobes of lightning rent the night sky asunder giving fleeting glimpses of Fishtail Peak, the last real mountain we would see.  I nudged the curtains aside and for a while admired the spectacle.  But the storm ended as quickly as it had begun, the hissing of the rain quickly supplanted by the din of two mighty rivers roaring into the confluence just below the village.

Though the Circuit was over, I could not have asked for a better finale.

Sad Goodbyes

Yak Kharka Village, 4050m – Day 7

I shoveled the last few spoonfuls of porridge into my mouth and took a sip of water to wash down a cocktail of multi-vitamins and half the daily dose of the mountain sickness drug Diamox.

“It’s time we made a start,” I said to Martin, looking at clock on the wall behind me.  “We can’t wait for the others”

“You can start but move slowly,” said Raj the guide.  “I will wait for the others and we’ll catch up with you in Ledar - but wait for us there” 

We shouldered our packs, made a few adjustments to our trekking poles and gazed up the street towards the trail, still heavily shrouded in mist and the shadows of the surrounding peaks.

Though this was supposed to be one of the high points of our journey I felt despondent and a bit anxious.

For one thing, it was considerably colder this morning than it had been in Manang, the town one day’s walk behind us in which we’d spent two nights and enjoyed a full rest day.  For another, though there’d been enough water for a shower, none of it was hot enough to bathe in and it would likely be days before we smelled decent again.  

Moreover, neither Martin nor I had slept well, each complaining that the other had snored.  A mouse had found it’s way into my bag and had spent the night gorging itself on a packet of Future Life cereal.  

I felt a bit lonely too I suppose.  Late the previous afternoon, Sander – a Dutch traveller with whom I’d gotten pretty friendly during the last 5 days - had raced through Yak Kharka with his talkative guide Tilak saying he needed to make more ground before nightfall.  The last time we’d chatted was over tea earlier that morning on the roof of a spectacular mountain facing tea shop in Ledar.  Sander was now headed for the higher reaches of the trail at either Thorung Pedi or Thorung High Camp.  I thought he was silly but, with hindsight, it was a slight feeling of sadness in seeing him go.  I waved a friendly goodbye nonetheless.  It would be the last time we’d see him on the Circuit.

As Martin and I headed out of Yak Kharka (Nepalese for “the Yak Meadow”) – I looked down at a stone-walled field where the previous day, a Brazilian named Andre and I had gone to get a photograph of a magnificent jet black Yak bull.  Andre had come to Nepal hoping to walk to Everest Base Camp but, after the Lukla bound plane went down the previous Friday killing all 19 people aboard, authorities had closed the flight paths into the Everest region indefinitely and he was forced to change his plans.  At the last moment, the Brazilian fell in with a trio of Israeli youngsters who had just completed their military service and were looking to stretch their legs beyond the borders of their troubled homeland.  

The Yak in situ promised to be the perfect shot – a mountain backdrop complete with iconic Himalayan beast of burden in the foreground.  All went smoothly until Andre decided that the best way to get a head-on view of the beast was to pelt it with stones.  Oh Andre got his picture all right…but things rapidly deteriorated from there.  Reflecting on the event later, Andre would say that anything was better than wasting time with his Israeli companions who he said only wanted to sleep, play cards and smoke the hookah.

To cheer myself up, I plugged in my earphones and listened to Matt Redman’s “10 000 Reasons” from start to finish.  The words seemed all the more significant out here in this exposed environment.  For a while I walked in a contemplative bubble, focusing only on the lyrics and on the hypnotic rise and fall of Martin’s boots.  

But the cold and shadows persisted, a reminder of the heights to which we had already come and the 1500 meters we still had to ascend if we were to successfully cross the Thorung La.  

Not for the first time I felt a rising tide of guilt.  Our initial itinerary had us flying into Jomsom (2700m) and taking a leisurely (and tamer) trek downhill, turning off at Birethanti to visit Annapurna Base Camp.  Several weeks before leaving however, I’d heard from various sources that this side of the circuit had been heavily compromised by a new road and besides, was not nearly as scenically impressive as the northern sector.  I’d thus pushed most heavily (and successfully) for a switch of itineraries that would skim the cream off the circuit - the leg from Besi Sahar to Jomsom followed by a bus trip to Birethanti where we would turn off and spend the last 6 days climbing to Annapurna Base Camp. 

I’d naively overlooked the fact that the northern sector is the far tougher and more isolated sector.  I’d minimized the effects of the altitude and physical demands of crossing the Thorung La (at 5400 m, nearly as high as Kilimanjaro).  I’d made light of the fact that Martin was not only too old to get special insurance cover for this journey (he is 74) but that he’d had knee surgery just 3 months before coming.  (In fact martin only made his final decision to come 9 days before we travelled).  In reality, though a veteran of 7 Kilimanjaro ascents and a trek to Everest Base Camp 4 years ago, this was always going to be a tough outing for him – a week earlier I’d watched him limp uncomfortably onto the plane in Durban and wondered how he’d ever get through the next 21 days in one piece.  

Then there was the fact that few members of our team had ever climbed under their own steam to 3000 metres and that few had done any serious strength training for the walk.  

Lastly, there was Sandra who had been battling with flu symptoms and a pounding headache for nearly 3 days.  In the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, a British doctor in Manang had given her the all clear to move up the trail provided she did so slowly.  

The guilt had first surfaced 3 days earlier in Pisang but had intensified as we climbed higher.  Now as we moved deeper into the shadows of the great Thorung and Chulu Peaks, it threatened to overwhelm.

As I packed away the iPod, a familiar pins and needles sensation returned to my toes and fingers, a condition the locals refer to as the Djhum Djhums.   They were a side effect of the Diamox pill I’d taken an hour or so earlier.  While a completely harmless sensation, it was intense enough to be un-nerving.  

I’d read in Lonely Planet that reports of high altitude sickness on the Thorung La were “greatly exaggerated” and that the majority of people successfully avoided it (or at least experience only mild symptoms).  While this may be so, the fact remained that Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) was affecting people all around us.  In the past few days we had passed a number of patients being rushed to lower altitudes on horseback, clinging for dear life to either mane or saddle while a tribesman ran alongside, $120 the richer for his exertions.  Daily helicopter sorties hinted at more serious cases.  A talk by a world expert on AMS named “Dr Tom” at the Ramshackle Himalayan Rescue Institute in Manang had highlighted the risks, clarified the symptoms and scared most people witless.

As a team we were nothing if not careful - surely we’d be fine?