Trekkers vs. Travellers

When it comes to physical toughness, mental resilience and the overall ability to weather discomfort, I concluded eventually that there were really only two types of traveller in the Himalaya.  The first category - the one I fell into – consisted of people who had booked a package trek of a predetermined number of days and with a fixed itinerary.  Such travellers were literally “processed” through the various stages of the journey by an able mountain guide and could, when things got tough, seek perspective from the latter or consolation from the fact that the journey would only be of a foreseeable duration.  You could recognize this tribe because, for the most part, its members wore exactly the same type of clothing – cheap gear they had hastily procured in some outdoor store in Kathmandu the day before flying to Lukla.  Their clothes were generally one size too big and, when it came to colour, poorly coordinated.  This class of traveller, only a little higher than the class of hiker, is barely worthy of the term, “trekker”. Light weights that they were, they generally looked bewildered, out of place and out of their depth.

No, the term “trekker” belonged to the second class of traveller – a rarified breed who comes to Nepal with an indeterminate notion to explore such and such a region after which they will move on and explore this or that region.  They are to trekking what the Navy Seals are to modern warfare - cool, sophisticated, completely unflappable if not a little stinky.  Such aces would never countenance the use of guides much less porters and though few use tents at this time of the year, most carry them just in case.  For these hardy souls the purity of the experience is at stake and they will stop at nothing to avoid short-changing themselves the requisite dessert of hardship and misery. 

The real trekker eschews itineraries.  When you ask one where he has trekked to he will mention names of places you have never heard.  Ask him where he is going and the answer will be equally obscure.  As he moves through the land he might make friends and join forces with a kindred spirit who is planning to summit some minor peak or other.  That notch beneath the belt, he might return to a bigger town to take a shower, to refresh himself with 8 litres of beer and to do a spot of laundry.  Or he might undertake a detour into another remote part of the mountains. 

One such person was Miles Malan, a South African based in London who I met at Everest Base Camp.  I was glad to meet him as I needed some adult company though I was under no illusion that I would be trekking with him for more than an afternoon.  Toting an imposing red rucksack, he had a week earlier summited the 6500m Mera Peak with a 4 times Everest veteran – a Sherpa from the Solu Khumbu named Pemba.  After this, seeking an alternative route to Everest Base Camp, Miles had trekked up to Chukhung and then west through the mountains to the Khumbu Glacier where he’d heard there was a route to Lobuche through the moonscape of rotten ice, crevasses and geological bedlam.  Unable to locate the path, Miles embarked on the crossing regardless – a traverse that took him most of the day and which nearly destroyed him both physically and mentally.  He arrived in Lobuche after dark, his forearms shredded, chest heaving in the thin air but still well enough to know he’d escaped with his life.  Miles wasn’t the only real trekker I met – but I admired his tenacity and his ability to ignore (and possibly even to celebrate) the myriad little discomforts that are so much a part of life in the mountains. 

Trekker Miles Malan pissing against the wind

So trekking in the Himalaya is not without its challenges with some adapting to these better than others.  On balance, I would describe the overall experience as strenuous to very strenuous. But, providing you can inure yourself to the small niggles, (and strategically manage the big ones like altitude) – you can eventually settle down and enjoy the finer aspects of the experience.

Life on the trail

"In mountaineering perhaps more than most other activities, it is a golden rule to press on and on no account be dismayed by unfavourable impressions - to rub your nose, as it were, against the obstacle"

John Hunt, The Ascent of Everest

Maybe I’m getting old.  Maybe I’m getting soft.  There was a time when I could have easily metabolized the multitude of discomforts and vexations that accompany a trek of this nature.  Yet far from home I found I was easily spooked by even the smallest of them.  Has modern domesticity become so bloated with contentments that even the faintest shade adversity has the power to darken the moment?  Yet the fact remains - there is much that is foreign and even hostile about the Himalayan trekking experience.  Let me reflect for a while on these things.

First there is the cold – a chill with which those who live at sea level are completely unaccustomed.  Indeed, when it hits you are driven into a complete panic.  Take for example our first night in Phakding, a picturesque hamlet situated deep in the forests and terraced farmlands of the Dudh Khosi Valley.  The town lives in the almost permanent shadow of the great Tamserku peak and, nestled so close to the river, shivers permanently in a dank and slippery chill.  No sooner had the sun dipped below the valley rim, than the cold stole up from the river like a bandit, restraining me in the strait jacket of almost every warm item of clothing I had with me.  The temperature in my room dropped to 4 degrees.  An icy breeze shrieked through the Junipers and whistled into our living quarters through a bad join in the plywood paneling.

I dozed off only to awake just after midnight in the grip of a mild panic attack.  Clad in all my warm gear, I was overheating and could barely move my legs so tangled had they become in the lower reaches of my sleeping bag.  I tried to calm myself down by regulating my breathing but the heat persisted and I could not escape the sensation that somehow the treacly blackness was trying to strangle me.  Regaining my composure was a matter of extricating myself completely from the bag, ripping frantically at layer after layer of clothing until I was down to my underpants – and then returning to my bed. 

Yet sleep remained elusive – not just in Phadking but also in the towns that followed.  Was it that there was just too much stuff on my mind?  Was it sensory overload?  Or was it just a function of a lousy bed and the thinner air?  I suspect it was a conspiracy of all four variables.  Simply put, the higher we went, the worse the sleep.  It did not help that outside temperatures dropped to well below minus 10 Celsius – so cold in fact that a water bottle placed beside the bed would freeze over. 

Next there were the living conditions themselves.  The poky bedrooms of Himalayan trekking lodges and teahouses are primitive affairs that generally bear the humid funk of damp mattresses and stale urine, a signature smell that seems to pervade regardless of how well the place is maintained.  So spartan and gloomy are the bedrooms that unless you are incapacitated by diahorrea or mountain sickness, much of your downtime is spent in the lodge’s central eating area – usually a dimly lit hall with benches and tables lining the periphery.  These common areas are generally quite comfortable and can be fairly absorbing, the walls often bearing the autographs and pictures of famous adventurers who have passed through before.  Though not adventurers, our lodge in Namche Bazaar had once hosted Jimmy Carter and the Dalai Lama.  Amidst all that distinguished history, one felt caught up in the bloodstream of a creature far greater than oneself.

Another discomfort was, of course, the thin air which is easy to downplay until you consider that most of your horizontal walking (not to mention your actual climbing) is done at altitudes higher than Mt Blanc, Europe’s highest peak.  At lower altitudes, lodge dining rooms are usually a hub of cheerful banter as folk from all walks of life cast aside language and cultural barriers to congregate around hot food and the common quest for adventure and discovery.  In the lodges and bars of Namche Bazaar, Everest bound travellers can, in between mouthfuls of popcorn and beer, be seen chattering excitedly about the road ahead.  Here in a place called The Liquid Bar, we watched a movie about the 1996 Everest Disaster while chugging copious amounts of masala tea.  The Liquid Bar was a cozy place so despite the movie’s rather harrowing storyline, our spirits remained undampened.  The last time I heard such merriment however was at Tengboche where, at 3600m, the air still contained enough oxygen to buoy the spirits.  It was Thanksgiving in the USA and our American friend bought a round of beers to toast his new companions.  It was all very congenial indeed.

But things took on a very different complexion a night later at Dingboche where, at 4200m, there seemed to be a palpable dividing line separating buoyant excitement from bewildering exhaustion.  The race to multiply red blood cells – (so crucial to the process of acclimatisation) had begun.  However, as with all races, there would be winners and there would be losers.  About an hour outside Dingboche, the American succumbed to the rarefied conditions and continued to decline alarmingly until his evacuation the following day.  It began with diahorrea and ended up with a splitting headache and vomiting that not even the drug Diamox could fully control.  That night he lay like a mummy in his sleeping bag, unable to move and only capable of the most simple conversation. 

For those with milder symptoms such as headaches and shortness of breath, conversation waned markedly, the dining room suddenly as hushed as a public library.  While porters and guides sat around the communal stove talking in subdued tones, dazed and disorientated trekkers stumbled through the doorway, slumping onto the benches where they sat in a stupor, heads bowed, until the evening meal was served.  A Malaysian trekking party consisting of 8 people arrived 4 hours after us having endured a torrid day on the trail.  One of their number had been jostled down a slope by a yak and now lay in bed resting a sprained ankle.  The rest of them sat for most of the evening in almost total silence, thawing only slightly after supper.

While the American lay swaddled in his sleeping bag upstairs, our guide regaled us with stories of some of the more serious AMS cases he’d encountered.  In 2013, after arriving in the settlement of Lobuche with a team of American trekkers, one of his clients began exhibiting the symptoms of cerebral edema.  After instructing the man to take a dose of Diamox, Madan escorted him to his room encouraging a short nap and promising that he would be back in a few hours time to check up on his client.  Two hours later the man’s symptoms were dire, being unable to see the guide or recognize his voice.  Since a nighttime helicopter evacuation was out of the question, Madan and a porter decided to carry the man down to the hospital in Pheriche.  This didn’t mean a whole lot to us until we walked that very path a few days later on our own descent from base camp.  Our hike from Lobuche down two steep passes and an ancient moraine took a full 4 hours – and we didn’t have a fat American on our backs.  Exhausted, caked in sweat, grime and vomit, the trio arrived at Pheriche just after midnight where the man was stabilized before being evacuated at first light.  He was admitted to a Kathmandu hospital two hours later where he remained in an induced coma for 5 days.

Altitude is indeed a serious adversary not just because it can inflict horrible illness on people but because it has the potential to wreak havoc on one’s emotional disposition too.  And when it does the latter, it often affects relationships. 

You often see couples hiking in the Himalayas.  In the beginning they strike you as cheerful souls, united in their commitment to a great walk in the mountains. Days later however, the faces tell a very different story.  The fairer partner will often look haunted – sometimes even shell-shocked while the man, aware of the suffering his decision to bring her along has caused, looks sheepishly guilty.  “Of course it will grow us as a couple” he might have said when selling the trek to her three months before.  The following proves just how dangerous this logic can be.

For some days we’d been walking in the general orbit of an American couple and their support staff.  I didn’t warm to them, particularly to the man who, when we first met them on the Larja Bridge, answered my friendly greeting with little more than a grunt.  At first I thought he was just scared of heights but it’s probable he was just an ass.

Late in the afternoon after reaching Base Camp, I took a short stroll to the periphery of Gorak Shep’s great chalky basin.  In the rarefied air, even the slightest sound travelled down the rocky couloirs with piercing clarity.  To my left, I could hear laughter from the summit of Kalapattar, about 400 metres higher than where I stood.  The cause of the laughter turned out to be the unusual conduct of an Aussie trekker who, in response to a dare, had removed all his clothing (except for his boots and socks).  So cold was it that at first no one could make any firm pronouncement as to his gender.  Suffice it to say however, that when the news reached the Sherpa community at Gorak Shep there was an outcry.  As with all mountains so close to Everest, Kalappatar is holy ground and it was feared that the Aussie’s antics might have offended one or other of the deities that dwell up there.  He’s lucky to have gotten away with it but that’s another story.

Gorak Shep from Kalapattar

As I stood savouring another exquisite Himalayan dusk, an eruption of invective surged from the direction of the glacier.  I made my way towards it and then abruptly discerned the source.  About three hours earlier that day we’d met the American couple on our return from base camp.  They seemed more cheerful than usual with the woman giving us all high fives in congratulation for making it.  Now in gloaming about 200 metres away, she was sitting sullenly on a rock and refusing to move, all the while berating her porter and guide for a multitude of perceived indiscretions.  About 50 metres away sat her partner, head in his hands, now and again coughing up phlegm and spitting loudly.  He’d clearly given up on her.  I stood and observed the impasse for a while but eventually, as the real cold descended, decided it was none of my business anyway.  The next time I even thought of them was when I saw the man at the Sagamartha Park entrance near Monzo on our last day of the trek. 

“Where’s the lady” I asked the guide with a knowing wink. 

He smiled as though he knew I’d witnessed the meltdown at Gorak Shep. 

“She’s in Kathmandu” 

Registering my surprise, he informed me that the woman had requested an emergency evacuation the first thing the next morning – leaving her surly partner to walk home alone.  I saw the man a few days later in Thamel – still alone.  Clearly his lady friend hadn’t just flown back to Kathmandu but had made every effort to return stateside as well.  The relationship, I was sure, had irretrievably unraveled and while it would be simplistic to blame it all on the altitude and physical hardship, it suffices to say that there are certain holiday experiences that need to be declared out of bounds to couples.

As a final note on hardships, would any commentary be complete without even the smallest of excursions on the state of the toilet facilities?  In the interests of brevity, toilets in this region are always cramped contraptions…cramped, dark, smelly and almost invariably several degrees colder than the one’s sleeping quarters.  Since most of them required flushing by hand, a slippery patina of ice surrounded toilets at higher altitudes such that on more than a few occasions I almost took a nasty spill.  In towns like Lobuche and Gorak Shep, the bowls themselves had often frozen over and great padlocks were placed on the doors to prevent people using them.  A hastily scribbled sign affixed to the door encouraged people to make use the long drop outside.

The upward Journey at a glance

The distance from Lukla to Everest Base camp is about 60km and at sea level could be comfortably covered in a day or two. Our itinerary however would allow for 8 days including two full rest days. 

After our first night in Phakding we continued northeast up the Dudh Khosi valley to Jorsalle.  Here, at the confluence of the Duhdh and Bhote rivers, the valley narrowed and we crossed a towering gorge by means of a steel rope bridge strung 200m above the river.  For the last few hours of that second day we ascended 600m through a fragrant Blue Pine and Juniper forest to Namche Bazaar, trading hub of the Solu Khumbu.  The terraced town of Namche nestles amidst such mountainous splendor that, when the time comes to continue the trek, one is reluctant to lay aside its relative comforts.  As the nerve center of the trekking and mountaineering industry, it is the last outpost of civilization and offers a feast of comforts and distractions – not least of which are its pubs and bakeries that serve first-rate food.  Namche is a beehive of stone staircases and secret back alleys that contain a treasure trove of souvenir stores, outfitting depots and bookshops.  We spent two nights in a place called the Yak Hotel, an establishment that would turn out to be sheer luxury compared with what was to follow.  The acclimatisation walk included, amongst other things, a visit to the newly opened Tenzing Norgay Memorial as well as the Everest View Hotel that overlooks the Khumjung valley. 

Nighfall over Namche Bazaar, trading hub of the Solu Khumbu

Tenzing Norgay Memorial - behind are Everest (left) Lhotse (centre) and Ama Dablam

Our rest day behind us, we continued northeast and, following a lunch break at the confluence town of Phunki Tenga, crossed the river again to begin a soul destroying 400m climb to the monastery settlement of Tengboche.  The Monastery here is more than 500 years old and entrance is permitted both to its courtyard and its ornate sanctuary.  Here we removed our shoes and sat quietly in the chilly, dimly lit interior as the monks, clad in maroon gowns, performed their priestly duties before a brightly decorated altar. 

The Monastery Town of Thyangboche

On the Fifth day we descended through a primeval Rhododendron forest into the icy depths of the Imja khola valley crossing the river on a makeshift bridge – a substitute for a much bigger one destroyed in a recent avalanche.  With the crossing came another climb, this time to Pangboche and then Dingboche (4410m) a town located at the foot of Ama Dablam (6856m) in the east and a stone’s throw (or so it seemed) from the towering south eastern walls of Lhotse (8516m) and Nuptse (7861m).  Dingboche is a forlorn place – devoid of any meaningful vegetation, its people scraping a modest living out of the rock-strewn moonscape mostly by farming root vegetables and breeding yaks.  I did not relish spending two nights there but took full advantage of a rest day hike that took us to a scenic viewpoint at 4900m.  Apart from the thrilling panoramas, I was heartened that I’d coped well with the altitude and any lingering doubts about the road ahead were dispensed with.

Looking down to Dingboche

On the seventh day the trail turned sharply to the northwest and continued up the Lobuche Khola valley, home to some of the trek’s most spectacular scenery.  In the south towered three +6200m mountains the slopes of which plunged dramatically into the yawning expanse of the valley’s floodplain.  After the welcome undulations of high alpine meadows we groaned at the prospect of another climb – this time a 300m ascent up the Thukla Pass atop which sat an eerie memorial to those who have died on Everest.  Now at nearly 5000m we journeyed along a surreal highway of dust, rock and glacial waste flanked by frozen streams and the forbidding barrier of the world’s highest mountains that ripped a jagged skyline in the cobalt sea of the stratosphere.  We spent the night at Lobuche where it was so cold we were grateful for the double-glazing on the windows. 

The Lobuche Khola Valley

En route to Lobuche

A stone’s throw from the settlement was the lip of the great Khumbu glacier.  I rustled up a team of trekkers after lunch and we made the short climb to the rim where we gazed north in hushed silence to the infamous icefall that tumbles off the southern slopes of Everest.  The Icefall is by far the most dreaded and deadliest obstacle in the quest for the summit having claimed countless lives over the past 8 decades.  Its most recent paroxysm took place at the height of the 2014 climbing season when, on April 18, 16 people (most Sherpa ice specialists) were pulverised by a massive serac which detached itself from the western shoulder of the mountain and landed on the exit to the Western Cwm.  National Geographic described the tragedy as the “darkest day in the history of the world’s highest mountain” and there’s little doubt that nearly a year later its shockwaves continue to ripple through both the social and economic structures of the Solu Khumbu region. 

We were subdued and rendered almost speechless by the sheer sweep, scale and drama of the Khumbu where the inexorable action of water, rock and ice had visited such violence on the landscape it looked as though the creator, upon considering his handiwork, had seen to a few last minute adjustments with a perfunctory sweep of his hand.  I was reminded of the opening lines of a Wilfred Owen poem:

 “It seemed that out of battle I escaped

Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped

Through granites which titanic wars had groined”

Alpenglow on Nuptse

On the eighth day we began the final leg – the climb from Lobuche to Gorak Shep, last outpost before Everest.   Gorak Shep (literally “place of the Ravens”) is a God-forsaken place, situated between the western flank of the Khumbu Glacier and the brooding summits of Kalappattar and Mt Pumori.  The strangest feature of the place is a vast dust bowl the size of about 4 rugby fields that, I suspect, was a shallow lake a few hundred years ago.  Today it is a featureless chalky expanse punctuated by small clusters of yaks and two frozen ponds.  In 2009 it was the focal point of a strange sporting record - a team of English cricketers trekked to Everest and played a full one-day game there in aid of charity (though where they found the strength to do so I do not know).  Water is in short supply up here and so desert-like the conditions that the yaks trample holes through the ice to get a drink.  When I noticed a group of young Sherpas from our lodge filling their jerricans from the same source, I concluded that this was Goraks Shep’s only water source and, questioning its purity, temporarily abandoned my usual habit of drinking purified tap water in favour of buying bottled water at USD3.50 a litre.

Chris Harris with a bat that 4 Aussie cricket fans left at Base Camp to remember Phil Hughes, killed by a rogue bouncer in a match two weeks previous

After checking into our lodge and drinking a cup of tea, we completed the last few kilometres through the glacier to base camp, a round trip of three very tiring hours.

Objective Achieved!

Everest Trek - the Flight to Lukla

For the trekker flying from Kathmandu to Lukla - starting point for treks into the Everest region - the experience is not unlike a military operation.  The deciding factor in its success is the weather and when that fickle window opens, it’s a mad rush to get as many planes into the air and boots on the ground as possible.  Between the aircraft taxiing to a halt on the apron at Lukla and its takeoff no more than six minutes later, the plane disgorges 18 passengers and their gear; bundles of mail, bags of rice and other oddments – and then re-loads with an outgoing consignment of passengers and their gear.  A minute after that plane is airborne, the next one is inbound.  When the weather is good (“good” meaning at least 5000m of visibility), Lukla Airport receives and dispatches over 60 flights – most of them before lunchtime (which is roughly when conditions begin to deteriorate).  When it’s not, I’m told the resulting bottleneck can last for days.  Everyone obsesses about the weather when it comes to flights in and out of Lukla: at the start of one’s trek because one can’t wait to start the trip of a lifetime, at the end because one can’t wait to get back to civilisation. 

Lukla Apron - pic courtesy of Himalayanworkshops.com

The journey to Lukla begins at 5am amidst the darkened, moldering tenements of Kathmandu’s Thamel District.  The city sleeps late so the streets are eerie and deserted - only the occasional stray is witness to the nervous huddle of travellers waiting on the pavement for their taxi.  The experience progresses to the heavily congested domestic terminal of Tribuvhan airport and, weather permitting, concludes an hour or so later on the gloomy, windswept apron of, (according to the History Channel), “the most extreme airport in the world”.  It is a transformative experience:  the senses, still reeling from the chaos and filth of Kathmandu, are now besieged by the sheer immensity of the Himalayan massif not to mention the landing itself which, even in professional circles, is regarded as audacious.  Then of course there’s the clamour of porters jostling like an army of impatient fishermen hoping to hook a client.  There’s the crisp, thin air and the rolling green hills of the lower Khumbu valley, which, anywhere else, would easily qualify as mountains.  Here they are just hills.

Tenzing-Hillary Airport, gateway to Everest and the staging area of high adventure.  But also of great tragedy.  Built in the late 60s and only tarred in 2000, the place has seen its fair share of accidents.  Seven of the 10 recorded on Wikipedia took place between 2005 and 2009, the worst of which led to the deaths of two Yeti Airlines crewmembers and an entire party of German trekkers.  Only the pilot survived.   They are remembered on a chorten beside the path to Phakding just beyond the town gate.

So it was with relief that we exited the Tara Airlines De Havilland Twin Otter and stepped out onto the apron – relief and extreme exhilaration because the landing eclipsed even my wildest memories of roller coasters I’ve ridden.  As I paused, I noticed an outgoing group of trekkers being buffered in the propwash.  Unkempt and with the faces of one or two of them bearing a vaguely haunted look, the moment reminded me of that opening scene in Platoon in which the new recruits disembark on the runway at Saigon – all clean and innocent in their drab combat gear - only to encounter a detachment of hollow-eyed, battle-hardened grunts.  “What horrors lie in store?” they wonder.

But there was little time to think too much about it – no sooner had we stepped up onto the high street, we were ushered into a cozy lodge where a hot cup of tea awaited us.  Half an hour later, after a few final adjustments to our gear, we hit the trail – destination Phakding – a small village 2.5 hours walk hence and a descent of about 300 metres into the Dudh Khosi Valley.  We would spend our first night there.