Nepal (Part 1a)

March/May 2000

Travelling by local bus from Darjeeling, India, we reached the Nepalese border. As we walked across the bridge from India into Nepal, locals peddling passed us yelled “Namaste” and “Welcome to Nepal”. It was immediately apparent that we were entering a different sort of country. It took five minutes to get a 2-month visa for $60. There was no one offering to change money and no touts. I was told to go to the bank and do it there.

To reach Kathmandu, we had an overnight bus ride from the border town of Kakarbhitta. The 13-hour journey was along a rough road but the driver hardly used his horn. I got chatting to a Nepalese Sherpa boy working in Dubai. He was back for his holiday. At every rest stop, he insisted on paying for everything (meals, tea), because “you are a guest in my country”. What a welcome.

“Birthplace of the Buddha, home of the Gurkas, roof of the world, land of legend and beauty” (Footprint), we had been looking forward to Nepal. It is only 800km long and 200km wide, 21 million people and contains an amazing range of cultural and physical environments. There is the vast sweep of the Himalayas (‘Abode of the snow’) and the highest point on earth yet also almost sea level subtropical expanses of open countryside and jungles.

Kathmandu is the capital city. Nestled in the heart of the Kathmandu Valley, the area contains 1.8m people. Famous for its high altitude pollution, it did not strike us as traffic clogged but the place was full of western tourists of all ages. We hadn’t seen these many, anywhere on our travels. But it was easy to see why. The city combined an air of laid back friendliness and provided us with everything we needed. It was a real culture shock to find western bakeries (selling everything half price after 10pm including pizza!), second hand bookshops (a luxury to us), small supermarkets selling western items, restaurants, Internet cafes, and beautiful souvenirs. There were also many cheap and decent hotels ($3 each a night for an en suite room, with very hot showers and satellite TV). It felt like a real home after India. Somewhere we could hole up and have a rest.

We explored the ancient heart of Durbar Square which is an astonishing area of religious and regal architecture and monuments. It is the spiritual and cultural heart of Kathmandu and is UNESCO protected (though much was rebuilt after a 1934 earthquake). Many of the temples look very Chinese with their pagodas. Surrounded by markets and bombarded by all the touts selling carpets, tiger balm, chess boards, musical instruments, and assorted crap, we did feel a little like walking dollar signs, but it was light-hearted selling. The words “No thank you” worked every time. Bicycle rickshaws rang their bells loudly as they peddled past in the crowded alleyways.

On our second day, it was a ‘Holi Day’. This was a special religious festival where every youngster threw water and paint dust (red, yellow, green) at every passer by. The district of Thamel where the tourists stayed was the prime area. I laughed from our balcony as westerners passed by absolutely drenched and resembling walking rainbows. Then, kids attacked me from rooftops opposite. It was all good fun.

Braving the ominous attacks, we caught a bus to Bhaktapur, about an hour east of Kathmandu. Smallest of the valley’s three cities at 1400m, it exudes a sense of the past. We wandered around the network of cobbled lanes through the squares of spectacular Newari temple architecture. The five-storied Nyatapola Mandir was the tallest pagoda in Nepal. The houses were 2 or 3 story wooden/brick houses with protruding upper floors and roofs with very decorative wooden window frames. We were attacked with water bombs from the rooftops and had our faces daubed with an array of colours. The kids laughed and liked the fact that we were willing to participate. Despite the poverty of the country, there is a remarkable cheerfulness and the people are very friendly and hospitable. We found this from the start and it continued throughout our stay.

I was impatient to go trekking and we decided to tackle the strenuous Everest Base Camp trek first. On the way to the bus station, 9am on a Monday morning, there was protest over Education outside the Royal Palace. As we walked past, it turned into a riot. The police decided to try and contain the hundreds of people and I lost Jo. No problem I thought, she knows from where the bus to Juri is leaving.

She didn’t or rather conveniently forgot. As I stared at the public announcement billboards which said things like “Speak the truth, perform your dharma, do not fall from self studies” and “Mother and motherhood are greater than heaven”, and watched the local army cavalry practice their drills, Jo did not appear. There was a bus leaving for Juri and I jumped on at the last minute, hoping to see Jo en route. She never materialised. Later I found out that she had gone to the wrong bus stop. Doh!

The bus ride to Juri – the start of the long 13-day walk into Everest Base Camp has a reputation for being terrible. But I found the 10-hour bus ride (accompanied by a goat and chickens in the aisle), to be a spectacular scenic journey looking down on terraced valleys, turquoise rivers and local villages. Some of the road was admittedly non-existent and I bounced around on my bruised coccyx for much of the journey. But Indian roads had trained my behind and patience.

When I arrived at Juri in darkness after signing in at a police checkpoint, I discovered that I had been on the last bus to Juri that day. Jo would still be in Kathmandu. No problem. I could call the hotel and find out if she had checked back in. Big problem. I was told “The man who operates the telephones has gone for his supper. You cannot call until tomorrow”. Excuse me? “But the phone system doesn’t shut down because of that”. “It does here sir”. So I had to wait until 7am the next morning (after he’d had his breakfast) to contact Kathmandu. It was the first example of how cut off you could be in Nepal.

I reached Jo and told her to get on a bus to Juri. Juri is at the end of the line. After this one horse town, there is no more road. Sherpa people, porters and mules carry everything up into the hills. It had the appearance of a Wild West frontier town – wooden houses and market supplies. Its own little world, but a vital contact with the Himalayan foothills.

With my spare day, I decided to go walking. I looked at the map. I could walk the first day of the trail up to visit a cheese factory and back. With no pack, it would be good practice and not that hard. I think I can safely say that I over extended myself. The first problem was the terrain. I started at 1890m, rose up to 2370m, then dropped back down to 1750m (i.e. lower than I had started) and then had to climb back up to 2705m. It was a day climbing and descending.

The walk to the factory in glorious sunshine took me five hours (and it was closed!). For the people setting off on the Juri-Everest trek, whom I passed en route, this was a full 8 hours day walk and I still had to return to Juri. There was another problem. As I reached the Deorali Pass at 2705m after a long steep climb up, the rubber sole of my left walking boot came away completely leaving me only the cardboard sole to walk back on for 5 hours. The return journey also meant repeating the drops and climbs in reverse. I also learnt that when muscle cramps paralysed my body with two hours to go that I was not drinking enough water or replacing the salt from dehydration. I hadn’t felt this bad since (aged 21) attempting to jog down and up the 7 mile Blue Angel Trail in the Grand Canyon in ferocious humidity after a heavy evening of beers, foregoing water stops and food.

Darkness fell and I was forced to descend the final hour of forest trails in the dark, sliding down the dusty paths and constantly falling over . I crawled into my lodge and died. Jo had arrived. After 10 1/2 of continual walking, I was shattered and couldn’t even produce a piece of bloody cheese. I had obviously underestimated the Himalayas.

In my condition, I thought I would need a rest, but surprisingly, by mid morning the next day, I was fit enough to put on my 40lb pack and start the trek for real. With no boots, I used my sneakers for the first week and wore the toes out of both of them. Rather than bore you with a day to day saga of the 13-day epic, I will summarise the journey in 3 parts. The first 7 days took us from Juri to Namache Bazaar. There are no distances recorded for the trek. Supposedly, it is 300km from Juri up to Everest and back to Lukla. I have no idea what we walked. Distance was measured by the time to cover terrain, ascents and descents.

The dusty narrow trails heading east cut across the valleys so we were continually going up and down for the first few days. The first thing that struck me as we headed back to the Deorali Pass were the armies of Sherpa porters of both sexes and all ages. They carried their loads in bamboo baskets held by a strap around their foreheads. The loads were formidable. Some were carrying 5 x 5-gallon containers of kerosene. (A 14-year-old had three of these in his basket). Another had 10 cases of beer. Often, they were only wearing flip-flops, canvas shoes or even barefoot. To cope with the loads, they had a peculiar “shuffle” to get up the hills. They would whistle and rest every 10 minutes and sit on t-shaped walking sticks with their loads still on their backs. They were the toughest people I had ever seen. They carried everything in – folding tables, doors, and foodstuffs.

During the week, I tried carrying some of the loads. I could cope with 25kg. 35kg was ok, but I would find it hard going up the hills. I then tried 45kg and could hardly balance the thing. An 18-year-old porter was carrying 3 trekkers luggage in a tall pile. For this, he was getting paid £2 a day. The porters started moving at sunrise, usually having slept in wooden shelters or under large boulders. About 10am they all stopped for breakfast, making a fire and cooking “Sherpa stew” (rice, noodles, porridge substance). They walked all day and often past sunset. We saw strange things hanging off the baskets – toothbrushes, torches and transistor radios. In good moods, you would hear them all singing as they walked. It was an amazing culture to watch, and made us feel very modest with our ‘light’ backpacks.

There were some mule trains being used in these areas, but at £110 per mule, only the rich Sherpas or local monasteries could afford them. As they passed your lodge at sunrise, their clanging bells were a wonderful alarm clock.

You can hire guides and porters, but the trails are so well used, it was impossible to get lost. Just follow the porters or other trekkers. It also gave us more sense of an achievement to lug our own gear everyday. We appreciated the sights more because of the efforts involved. It also built up our fitness for the later climbs.

The scenery was of rhododendron bushes, pine forests and snow capped mountains in the distance. Large rivers rushed below us in the valley bottoms. We would cross the rivers on long suspension or wooden bridges. At the end of day one, as we climbed the Deorali Pass, it poured with rain and we stayed in a lodge at the tiny hamlet of Deorali where a Canadian couple and English couple had holed up.

On the trail, you stay in lodges. These are wooden affairs – like Swiss Chalets that get less western as you disappear from civilisation. They cost virtually nothing to stay in (50p for a double room was the usual rate – you slept in your sleeping bag on a bed), but you have to eat all your food there. They increase with price as you get further in, because of the costs of having it carried in. We usually spent about £5 each for bed, dinner and breakfast. The menus were pretty standard. Soups, noodle dishes, dal baht, omelettes, fried potatoes. Costs mounted if you bought chocolate bars (£1 for a Mars – 30p in Kathmandu), beer (£2 – 65p in K) and things like apple pies. Jo had a filtered water bottle but I drank the local water from the streams all the way without any problems, so we avoided paying £1 per bottle of mineral water. You could get large thermos flasks of hot milky tea, lemon which were excellent to re-hydrate you. The first few lodges had electricity (luxury) so you could stay up, but usually we were in bed before 8pm (especially with no lights – it was dark by 7pm). A few even had western toilets. The first few had hot/cold showers. But the further you went in, the more primitive the conditions.

This part of the trail was not very commercialised. We were passing through small Sherpa hamlets, but there were plenty of new lodges being built – by hand. Every stone block was being chipped away with hammers and chisels. The lodges would often publicise themselves. One sign read “Much more than you expect, the dazzling ornamental scenery of multi green rhododendron herbal mountains with snow capped peak earth crust existed since million ages will be viewed from only our Himalayan lodge and restaurant approximately one and a half hours. From introduced board, with managed solar tube lights, accommodation, hot and cold shower, ancient Sherpa dish with combined eastern and western delicacies; rest… we expect your eccentric judgement. Thanks”. Another said “one of the eccentric hospitality you will find here”

Most people do not have the time to walk into from Juri, so there were only a handful of trekkers. We would meet each other throughout the day or at the lodges since we were all following the same itinerary. By the third day, the Canadian and English couples, Bill Richie (the Scotsman responsible for cloning “Dolly the sheep”), his partner and ourselves became a strung out group during the day, meeting up in the evenings at a lodge to exchange stories. There were also a couple of organised groups camping out each night (brave people). I don’t think we counted more than 50 trekkers all week. You are completely cut off from the outside world, so your companions become your source of information. It was nice to sit around charcoal fire or kerosene boilers (yak dung later on) and chat without TV, radio, and newspapers. It was very communal.

Another aspect of Nepalese/Tibetan life were the constant Mani walls carved with the Tibetan Buddhist inscription ‘om mani padme hum’ (hail to the jewel in the locust), and Chortens – a receptacle for offerings. Each of the elements of a chorten had a symbolic meaning. The square base symbolised the solid earth. On the base was hemispherical dome symbolising water. On top of the dome was a rectangular tower – the four sides were painted with a pair of eyes, the all seeing eyes of Buddha. Above the tower was a conical/pyramidal spire (symbolising fire) with 13 step-like segments, symbolising the 13 steps leading to Buddhahood. Fluttering multicoloured prayer flags would also surround them. Against the backdrop of the mountains, they made for fantastic photo opportunities.

On day three we climbed from 1500m to the 3530m Lamjura Bhanjyang pass – highest point between Juri and Namache Bazaar. Then dropped to the very scenic village of Junbesi (2675m) – which looked like a Swiss alpine village overrun by Buddhists. It was always a surprise to see groups of Buddhist monks in their scarlet robes walking along the trail. Everyone on the trail, almost without exception, would always bid a “Namaste” (good day) as we passed them.

The next day, we got our first glimpse of Everest. At 2980m, the hamlet of Kurktang offered us a wonderful view of a Himalayan mountain vista with snow capped mountains. Everest looked the smallest because it was furthest away. Above us, Lamergeier birds of prey soared on thermals with their 3m wingspans. We were able to buy a kilo of yak cheese. This rich cheese had become a firm favourite for snacks en route. Shame I had to carry the stuff.

By now we were into a routine. Get up early. Porridge, tea and puffy Tibetan bread for breakfast. Off by 7am. Walk all day. Find a lodge. Eat, sometimes wash, and sleep. We tended to walk much quicker than anyone else did on the trail (you soon sorted out the men from the boys on this trek). By starting early, the mornings provided us with the best views (clouds descended over the mountaintops by noon and the wind got up blowing dust storms on the trail) and the bird life was more active.

After a steep climb, we arrived in Bupsa (2300m) at 1pm (short day!), just as a snow blizzard started. We were forced to hole up in a lodge all afternoon, as other trekkers arrived freezing in the winds. Screaming Nepalese children ran around and drove us mad. There were signs saying “don’t washing in hear”, “wel come to spesial cold drink placese hear” and “daining room”.

Nepal has a very high birth rate. 2/3% and every home has a snot-nosed baby or small child yelling/crying. If you like dripping noses, you’ll love Nepal. It was always a head-turner to watch mothers sitting on their doorsteps picking lice/nits out of their children’s /mothers/ daughters hair. The Sherpa women grew their hair long, and often had an earring through both their nostrils. The kids were always filthy (because of the dirt floors in their homes and dusty trails) but everyone attempted to stay clean by washing in the streams/rivers or by the sole water supply in the village (which I used for drinking water like them). There was no privacy; they just got on with it. And the water was freezing!

On March 28th, it was Jo’s 40th birthday. Not that she got a card or a present. We were too remote for anything. The best I could offer her was the first yak steaks available that night. We followed the Dudh Kosi canyon with the river 1000m far below. We looked over the narrow airstrip of Lukla, where the majority of people fly in to start their trekking. The small planes came through the hills and made a death-defying landing on a pebble airstrip with an 11% gradient.

Once past Lukla, there were two major differences. First the appearance of yaks – wonderful shaggy beasts of burden that created lumbering roadblocks on the trail. Technically called ‘dzopkyos’ (male crossbreeds of yaks and cows), the Sherpas use them from this altitude to transport trekking gear and supplies all the way to Base Camp. Secondly, the trail became much more crowded with fresh looking, clean clothed organised groups of trekkers who had flown into Lukla and looked at our unwashed, dusty bodies like we were poor relatives. By now, we were pretty fit and had left behind all our previous companions who had slowed down after 6 days of knee grinding climbs and descents.

As we approached Ghat in the fading light, half a dozen Buddhist monks stood outside a monastery and played long horns in a dull monotone out across the valley. They were dressed in scarlet tunics and yellow Mohican head-dresses. Small fires had been lit everywhere and smoke filled our lungs. Rather than stay at the lodge where a sign on the outside toilet said, “After your doing toilet you must have to close the door” (eh?), we pushed on to Phakdung. The lodges had become very western again. Some even had hot showers (on dirt floors). We felt as if we had left the real Nepal and entered the westernised section of the trail catering for the older, softer segment of trekkers.

The next morning, in brilliant sunshine, we forced our way through crowds of organised groups and yaks blocking the suspension bridges, loaded up with trekking luggage, their bells clanging under their necks. Eventually we reached the entrance to the Sagarmatha (Everest) National Park (£6.50 entrance – great value) and signs that said “Altitude Sickness kills. Go slow”. Cut off from everything, rumours go up and down the trail. We had been told that three Germans had died from altitude sickness. This turned out to be a 53-year-old who had had a heart attack. Another German woman died later in the week (unknown cause). A 67 English man on an organised trek from Juri, whom we had met most days, also had a mild heart attack at Namache Bazaar. However, he had carried his own pack and refused to drink enough water, despite protestations from the Sherpa guides/organiser (recommendation of 4 litres a day minimum).

After we crossed a 120m suspension bridge high above the gorge, we started the final climb to Namache Bazaar. This climb took us from a “safe” altitude to one in which altitude sickness is a real danger. Large horse flies took bites everytime we stopped. We passed Lukla arrivals looking decidedly dodgy and out of breath as they climbed. I ascended rapidly (somehow I never did suffer from altitude – though it has nothing to do with fitness – it affects anyone) while Jo pottered up. En route, we caught another glimpse of Everest which still looked a long way in the distance.

We arrived in Namche Bazaar (3440m) to find another culture shock. As the administration centre for the Khumbu region, it had bakeries, bookshops, dozens of souvenir shops, trekking gear, even the Internet. I was able to buy a new pair of walking boots and eat pizza. We seemed to know half the population of trekkers from the week from Juri. Congratulations all around and disdain at the Lukla fly ins who had only just started.

Namache is built on a steep hill and surrounded by a spectacular vista of snowy mountains. The post office was in a barn with cows (“Pot Office”). Whatever was posted had to be carried down to Lukla by the porters. There was a dental clinic advertising its services at almost 12,000ft. One lodge advertised the highest solar powered hot spa pool in the world. We found a lovely small lodge with an outside hot 4 minute shower (75p) and toilet (we had already got used to a hole in the ground in a shed – after you went, you sprinkled leaves over it). In the shower shed was a plastic bag for hanging clothes behind, labelled with the word "hankers". The kitchen was filled with brass pots. The mother clicked her beads and chanted Tibetan prayers while the daughter cooked us whatever we wanted. Yak carcasses hung off the walls so yak steaks became a favourite (incidentally, Hindus/Buddhists cannot kill animals so to get yak steaks, they conveniently march them down below Lukla where they die naturally from the falling altitude and then haul the bodies back up).

The Sherpa Museum was a small collection of brass and copper pots, pans and strainers, and old worn wooden tubs and tubular churns (for making Tibetan tea with yak milk and salt). Throw in bamboo frame packs, a wooden water carrier, several smelly sheepskin jackets, yak-skin trunks and some wooden saddles with large iron stirrups. There is also an old wooden weaving loom, part of whose label read: "These machines are now despairing"!

It had taken us 7 days to reach Namache without a rest. And we still had 6 days to go. You are supposed to spend two nights at the Bazaar to acclimatise, but since we had already climbed from Juri and had climbed to 3600m on the Indian border a fortnight before, we took our chances and moved on. Stocked up with rented down jackets (which turned out to be a waste of time), new fleece inner sleeping bags (very necessary in the cold nights), new boots and panties, we left what we didn’t need at the lodge and headed north. My pack (full of Yak cheese and chocolate bars) had increased to 50lbs (just because I enjoyed the pain of lugging a heavier pack at higher altitudes).

Following the contours of the valley, surrounded by the towering mountains topped with snow, we then descended to a river and climbed back up the steepest part of the trail to Tengboche (3870m). This section really put people off and many people we had trekked with, gave up at Tengboche. To add to the fun, there was a yak jam on the steep slopes – one convoy going up, another coming down on a narrow trail. I managed to squeeze past and took control of the lead yaks heading up, while Sherpas attempted to round up the beasts who decided that following the trail was pointless when there was plenty of vegetation to eat. I got the convoy moving and the rest followed. I quite fancied the idea of looking after yaks for a temporary occupation. One strange sight with these yaks was that you saw them all carrying the luggage, followed by numerous Sherpas carrying the hay for the yaks. Why didn’t they use one yak to carry the feed?

At Tengboche, there is a famous monastery and we stopped in to watch a Buddhist ceremony. Lots of chanting, drums, rituals etc. There are views of Everest and some of the higher mountains in the range. You are supposed to have an extra day’s acclimatisation here, but despite Jo’s dizziness from altitude, we pushed on down into the next valley (the secret is to climb high and sleep lower than the height you climbed). The lodge at Devuche had the last inside toilet we would see for days and electricity. It also had signs like “Treakers kitchen”, “Hot sawer aviable to bath”, “privet room” and “please do not make dirt here”.

By now we were on own. We never saw any of the Juri crowd again. At the lodge, we did meet an 8 man English/American expedition to climb Everest paying $40,000 a piece. Cheap at the going rates. They would take 9 weeks to do it and were “taking it slow” on the way up.

After watching their yak convoy getting its breakfast outside the lodge, we left on a crisp frosty sunny morning and headed for Dingboche. We were fighting fit and following the side of the valley was a breeze. We climbed up to the attractive village of Pangboche (Buddhist blessings for attempts on Everest were £10). It only took 3 hours to reach the small village of Dingboche (4410m) where we really did have to take a mandatory acclimatisation day. It’s a strange feeling after the constant days of walking, to sit around, read, eat etc knowing that you are just passing time. We sat around the yak dung boiler reading in the evening. The fuel is abundant. The owner just walked outside to the yaks in the yard and scooped up the hardened dung. Candles/torches were the only light available from now on. Not fun to go to the outside toilet in the dark in the middle of the night.

For our acclimatisation day, we walked up a valley to Chhukung (4730m). There were few people there and we had the valley to ourselves. The majestic Island Peak (6189m) stood out from the wall of ice which surrounded us. We climbed up a steep hill from there and made 5000m for the first time. That afternoon, I attended the medical lecture at Pheriche by the Himalayan Trust in the next valley for advice on altitude sickness. I was surprised to hear that over half the people who reached this point were suffering from altitude sickness. Of the remainder, another half would suffer it by Lobuje on the next climb. I was convinced we were in good shape for the rest of the trail.

The following day, we headed for Lobuje by following a ridge above the valley and climbing onto the terminal moraine of the Khumbu Valley. There was a steep endless climb past Dughla (4620m) – quite a few people looking ill here. I passed stone memorials to Rob Hall and Scott Fisher (the organisers who died in the 1996 disasters). At this point, there were many memorials to people who had died from accidents and avalanches.

Lobuje (4930m), a collection of half a dozen lodges (used only during the trekking season) has a bad reputation for lack of sanitary provisions, food poisoning, and altitude sickness. We had been warned that the place was full of ill people and the word was “Since there are no toilets, people shit anywhere on the snow so it just stays there indefinitely”. But it was not as bad as we thought. The snow had melted. The outside toilets were operational as far as a hole in the ground can be. The lodges were grubby and cramped but we got dorm beds (2 lines of bunk beds holding 10 each). The glare of the snow was brilliant white. While we sat outside in the sun and wind recovering, I wore sunglasses and my Tilley Hat for the first time. Only the hardened trekkers would reach this far.

Ironically, a new lodge (‘8000 lodge’) had been built next to the Italian weather station just up the trail. For $15 a night, they offered a thick mattress, central heating and complimentary hot shower. The food menu was vastly inflated. We stuck to our 30p dorm bed and hung tough (we later learnt that the showers were cold and there was no heating). The wind roared outside all night. One of the problems with altitude (apart from the strange dreams) is an incessant need to pee during the night. Jo ended up struggling out of her sleeping bag in the dark dorm 11 times at Lobuje and by sunrise, she was not a happy bunny. She also had not had a shower in days. She had got further than anyone else we’d met had.

Another beautiful sunny day surrounded by mountains. We headed up the glacial moraine for Gorak Shep. The altitude and rough night caught up with Jo. A migraine started. She was in a foul mood, and said “Sod it, I’ve had enough”. She turned back, destination unknown. I’m afraid I was too close and too damn determined to turn back. It was an opportunity of lifetime and selfishly I pushed on. I could take anything the region threw at me – altitude, crap toilets, no washing facilities, boring food, local water, cracked skin (so dry up here, nothing healed and the skin around my fingernails just tore apart), cracked lips, bruises from falling over with weight of the pack on top of me, yak horns up my arse when I didn’t get out of the way, scratches from the thorn bushes and rough terrain, dust in my throat, the constant dry cough we had acquired since Tengboche, runny noses, and coughing your lungs out for an hour every morning of catarrh (just like the Sherpas – at first I was shocked at their gobbing constantly, until you need to do it yourself – you just don’t care). Whatever it took, I was going on.

I reached Gorek Shep (5160m) in 75 minutes – under half the normal time. There were no major climbs. I wasn’t even breathless from the altitude. There were only two lodges. I dumped my gear in one and took the essentials.

I followed numerous yak parties taking gear up to Base Camp along the bleak grey glacial moraine. Sherpas carried steel ladders (to be used on the Khumbu icefall for expeditions). I could hear the ice cracking around me and on the mountains. It was a dusty, undulating trail. Slippery in parts. The huge glacier dominated the landscape. Only when I had crossed it did I spy Everest Base Camp at 5360m. Supposedly, the trek from Gorek Shep to Base camp and back, is a daytrip. I was there in 2 hours.

There were a handful of expeditions who were busily establishing themselves. It was the start of the season. 30 expeditions are expected in April/May, which could cause terrible bottlenecks if the weather turns bad. I walked past the tent compounds, pitched on the stony ground and headed for the large orange bubble tent near the top. Above it flew the Nepalese flag. Nearby was the stone altar where climbers get a traditional blessing before ascending. By complete coincidence stumbled across Babu Chiri Sherpa who was getting blessed before his new world record attempt to climb Everest from Base camp in 16 hours (current record 18 ˝ ). A small juniper brush fire had been lit, enveloping the altar in smoke. A shaven Buddhist monk dressed in scarlet robes, sat cross-legged and read, coughing, from a Tibetan holy book. As the only European present, I was given a hot mug of tea and invited to participate.

Huge baskets of chocolates and Nepalese sweets, a luxury at this altitude, were handed out and alcohol was flipped into my mouth with a spoon. At intervals, the entourage of support staff and well wishers threw rice into the air as the monk continued to read. Huge black ravens swooped from the colourful fluttering prayer flags to dive-bomb us for the rice. Behind the altar, I could see a few climbers on the massive icefall practising their first climbs.

After the photo calls, I talked to Babu who had climbed Everest 9 times and held the record for spending 21 hours on the summit without oxygen. He was very modest. It was a real highlight for me to reach Base Camp after 13 days of walking (Noone from the Juri trek in ever made it) and see Everest history in the making. Again, it was an example of Nepalese hospitality that I was invited to join. It had made my attempt worth the entire struggle. There was a satellite phone available (for $5 a minute) at Base Camp. I called my parents (6am their time) to say hello. (“Where son? Its bloody 6am here, thanks for waking me up”).

Pumped up, I returned in 90 minutes, getting stranded on moraine by cutting across the wrong trail as porters waved their arms and shouted a way through for me. In the afternoon, I accompanied two people to the top of Kala Pattar (5545m), a never-ending climb to the top of a peak for a view over the valley and at Everest. Surrounded in prayer flags, the views were clouded by low cloud in the setting sun. But no matter, I had done it anyway.

The lodge at Gorak Shep was cosy, warm and fuelled by yak dung. I set off early the next morning to find Jo. I had expected her to check into the posh lodge at Lobuje and hang on, but I met people on their way up who had seen her yesterday heading down. An Aussie told me “she was headed for Namche Bazaar at a fierce pace mate! You’re in the doghouse!” So I decided to go for it. It had taken 6 days (inc the acclimatisation day) to reach Base Camp from Namache Bazaar. I would try and return in a day.

What followed was an enjoyable downhill trek of 5 hours down to Pheriche, followed by the torturous uphill to Tengboche, then down the steep decline and up again. At one point, I was completely knocked off the trail by a yak and had to hang onto a boulder to stop me plummeting down the valley side. It was startling to pass all that scenery in one day, watching the poor sods putting themselves through the uphill trek. At Pangboche, I saw Himalayan tahr, the native deer with a long red-chestnut flowing coat, camouflaged amongst the brown scrub juniper, high on the hillsides. The wind picked up in the afternoon and trail became a dust storm. I persevered and arrived back in less than 10 hours of continual walking. The hot shower was most welcome. Jo had arrived earlier that day, having broken her trek midway at Devuche overnight.

It was strange to be back in civilisation again. The bakery, pizza, affordable chocolate, electricity, hot showers, laundry. While Jo spent the day mooching around, I went exploring and hatched my next plan. I climbed above the hills of Namache Bazaar. First I visited the infamous Everest Hotel. This was built for rich Japanese tourists flying in by helicopter. The only problem was that the tourists all suffered from immediate altitude sickness which curtailed business. They offer pressurised rooms and oxygen. It costs $165 full board a day. But there were only outside toilets! I moved on to the beautiful village of Khunde. The fields were full of groups of people planting potatoes. There were no tractors here so one group of people would hoe the ground, dig holes and other people would toss in the potatoes. Every 15 minutes they would change roles. It was very dusty work. One Sherpa girl knew some basic English. “I love you” she repeated. After promising to take her away from potatoes for the rest of her life I walked down to Khumjang.

This town boasts the highest bakery in the world (3790m) and the remains of a ‘Yeti”. I wandered into the school to find Canadian volunteers from the Himalayan Trust trying to set up email on the school computer. They told me that Sir Edmund Hilary who had founded the school in 1961 was flying in tomorrow on a visit. A-ha! Not only will I have met the fastest Everest climber but also the first!

The following day, we set off on another 6-day trek back into the wilderness. We had scrapped the down jackets (at Base Camp I had worn T-shirt and shorts – despite the wind) and our packs were lighter. We walked up into Khumjang and waited for Hilary’s arrival.

As we waited for the buzz of the helicopter, the schoolchildren in their blue uniforms stood in formation. The news had reached other trekkers who stood around the dusty playground together with most of the village. Two policemen supported Hilary. He needed them because dozens of people came forward and draped white silk scarves around his neck in a Nepalese traditional welcome, amid a frenzy of camera activity from tourists and press. Once his face was completely covered with silk someone removed them, and then another wave of scarves started. In the background, Buddhist monks blew a slow doleful droning monotone with long horns as Hillary was helped to his seat.

The schoolchildren then launched into a welcome dance and headed for Hilary with more offerings of scarves and flowers. Once again, his head was swamped but he took it all in good humour. He was obviously much loved by the whole village. Before the presentation speeches, I managed to have a quick word. I’m not sure if he had heard of Babu Chiri Sherpa but when I told him about the attempt he said gracefully “Well, all I can do is wish him the best of luck”.

We set off before the presentation speeches and had a hard afternoon of walking down a valley to 3500m and then a tough climb through juniper and conifer forests up to the snowline, pass freezing icy waterfalls to Dole at 4200m. The guidebooks tell you to spend 5 days reaching Gokyo (with acclimatisation), but we would do it in two. We had already been up to that height the week before. At Dole we stayed at the Yeti Inn. No Yetis, but plenty of yak dung.

It was a beautiful walk the following day along a windy ridge and up through a valley to the glacial moraine of the Ngozumpa Glacier and a line of small lakes. The small hamlet of Gokyo (4750m) stood by a frozen lake. It was a vast white platform of ice surrounded by a wave of towering icy mountains. A stunning sight that blinded our eyes.

Rising early with the sun, we climbed the steep mountain of Gokyo Ri to the summit at 5350m. The air was getting thin up here, but the panorama of mountains in a 360-degree vista was the most memorable sight I will have of the Himalayas. (I was so impressed I sent most of you postcards of the view). Many of the highest mountains in the world were visible in the bright sunshine – Everest, Lhotse, Makalu, Cholatse and Tawachee (all 8000m plus). Below, the glacier provided a blanket of ice and moraine as a baseline. The summit was full of colourful prayer flags spread in lines over the rocks. Well worth the effort.

We returned back down the trail and crossed the glacial moraine and holed up at a tiny lodge at Tauna (4690m).Yaks stood outside, providing the dung for the fire. It was at the bottom of the valley leading to the awesome Cho La Pass which would provide us with our most strenuous climb. Few people make this crossing because of the difficulty and the fact that it is snow bound until summer. But I had met some people who had done it. Do it early they said, before the snow melts during the day. Leaving at 7am the next morning, it was a pleasant enough climb following a small river up to a ridge. In true Jack fashion, we had no map. I figured we would see the route when we got there. I was wrong. To our left, there was a huge glacier, which looked the obvious route. The only other choice was straight up a sheer rock face covered in snow. We were ahead of another group who dithered around unsure themselves. So we walked up to the glacier and thought, I think we need some ropes to get over this. Meanwhile, the other group had started ascending the rockface. Best to be safe we thought. Let’s follow the crowd.

To reach the rock face, and keep our current height, we attempted to skirt around the mountain face over terrible scree. This wiped out our energy. I ended up trying to carry Jo’s backpack as well as mine and really pulled the chest muscles on my left side. For a week after, my left lung felt like it was exploding everytime I coughed (which was a lot with the dry cough scenario). We had already been walking 5 hours and it was noon. The snow had started to melt. To reach the pass, once we found the non existent trail, we had to climb up a few hundred metres of “ice steps”. By the time we reached the pass at 5420m – we were at the highest altitude so far and breathless. The wind blew over the ice and froze us.

There was a trail over the snow/ice where others had crossed. But the snow had melted and every step you took, you plunged knee/thigh deep into it. On two separate occasions I was waist deep with both my legs trapped. I had to dig myself by hand. Our boots filled with snow, our clothes got soaked and we started to freeze. It was like doing Douglas Bader artificial leg impressions for over a kilometre and it was exhausting. Definitely the worst hour of the whole trek.

On the other side, freezing to death, there was a freezing wind to add to the fun and very steep descent down into a valley. We pushed on and found a small wooden lodge at Dzongla (4830m). It had taken 8 hours and we would have settled for anything. What we settled for was an outside toilet 100ft from the lodge with no door. It was just a hole in the ice. We managed to dry out our clothes over the yak dung fire while a snowstorm started and kept up all night.

The next morning, there was an inch of snow over everything including the yaks. Brilliant sunshine as we partook of breakfast on the ‘patio’. Jo was exhausted. The original idea was to cross the pass, then head for Lobuje and give Jo a second chance at Base Camp. But it was obvious as we walked to Lobuje around the valley side that she was in trouble. I called off the ascent and cut our losses. We returned back down the familiar Everest Trek which we were now walking along for a third time and kept walking until we reached Devuche – the first lodge with an inside toilet (my concession to Jo). The following day, we tackled the terrible descent and climbs past Tengboche and returned to the civilisation of Namache Bazaar 6 days after leaving. We booked ourselves out on a plane in two days time.

This meant that we had to drag our weary bodies down a final 6-hour undulating descent to Lukla. A return down the scenic river valley, yaks blocking the suspension bridges, final views of Everest. As new waves of trekkers came past us on their way up, I felt like one of Napoleon’s returning army. Bloodied in war, weary, dirty and cynical at their innocence. They looked bemused at our sunburn faces, bloody scratches, dusty grubby clothes and glazed eyes. We had been walking for 20 days and they didn’t have a clue what was in store – the primitive conditions, the endless hills, the breathlessness of altitude, the complete feeling of isolation, the same old menus, the lack of home comforts. I already knew their fate. Most of them wouldn’t get past Tengboche. Many of the Juri crowd we knew had turned back there.

Lukla (2800m) was an ugly little Nepalese town. Grubby kids. Grubby wooden shacks. But the Himalayan Lodge behind the runway offered 5 watt bulb lights (its ironic that when you finally get electricity you have to light candles to see around your room), good food and western toilets (Excuse me? Could you show me how to use one of these please. Where is the bin of leaves?). The airstrip at Lukla is something else. Only 450m long, with a stone surface, it lies at an 11% angle heading down. Which means when you take off, you are headed downhill off the edge of a cliff with a mountain in front of you. The incoming flights have it even worse. They veer in from the valley and hit the seemingly non-existent runway with a bump with a mountain face at the other end right in their face.

We stood around the next morning waiting for a flight. It was a little like being a dog on a Second World War British airfield. You sat and listened for the hum of a plane or helicopter coming in. There were various companies but there was no schedule. They just turned up on demand – eventually. And when they did, they blew up a storm of dust that covered everything. Small 16 seater planes flew in with no passengers – just cargoes of rice and beer. 16 tourists would scramble aboard and off it would go. One helicopter landed with only 3 bags of rice.

While we waited, another potential hero arrived. Temba Tsheri Sherpa is only fourteen and still at school. In May he will attempt to become the youngest climber of Everest, beating the record currently held by a seventeen-year-old. As he sat for photo calls, I chatted to him and learnt that his only climbing experience had been Island Peak (6189m) and Kala Pattar (5545m), which I had climbed the previous week. Five others would accompany him in his endeavour. “I am not sure how the altitude will affect me, but I have faith in my team” he explained with a smile. He was later led off in front of a line of yaks carrying the expedition’s gear for the long walk up to Base Camp. I had now met the first and potentially the fastest and youngest conquerors of Everest.

We were flying Gorkha Airways – on the second flight. This eventually materialised at 11.30am. It was full of rice bags, which had to be emptied, and the crew had to have their lunch. The thick cloud had descended over the mountains. Afternoon flights were usually non-existent “because the clouds have rocks in them”. I weighed myself at the check-in (i.e.: shed). I had lost a measly 2kg after all that walking. We climbed aboard, and rumbled roughly over the stones and suddenly we were hanging over a valley. Flying through the clouds we had no views. 35 minutes later we touched down in Kathmandu airport. It felt great to be back.