Everest Memories, Chapter 3: If You Want To Go Far, Go Together

If you thought the Sherpas were amazing, meet my trekking teammates.

They can go so fast that we rarely hike together.  Besides trekking, they have energy left over to shop for beads, email their loved ones, build snowmen, visit cute puppies, and play cards.  They wait for me at lunch.  They cheer for me when I finally arrive in the afternoon.

Kevin is on his first Himalayan trek and he’s totally excited.  He carries a GPS device and measures every step of the way.

Kevin tells me that hunching over while hiking makes it harder to breathe and I should stand up tall.  We share Pringles and popcorn and whatever other treat we can find.  He is one of Po’s best friends.

Kevin says one of the funniest things on the trip.  We are walking and trying to remember the name of our next lunch stop.  Is is Dingboche?  Pangboche?  Kevin says I-Don’t-Know-Boche.  I bend over my poles and howl.

Jill braids my hair and zips my rain shell firmly under my chin.  She is a beautiful mother hen and a tough bird too.  She once broke her leg on a hike in the Sawtooth Mountains and walked home anyway.  She is also a fellow dog lover.

Chad and I walk together and he says to breathe deeply. He shows me the mountain climber step, how to lock my knee and relax my back leg on the uphill stairs.  I wear his big gloves when my hands are frozen.

Katie is the energizer bunny.  She doesn’t just wear the ears.  She can shop for days and she’s darling enough to get cinnamon dusted over everything she orders. She’ll give it to you straight, whether it’s a handful of pills or the facts about infirm people on the trail.  He’s dead, Jillian, she says about the man we pass in a body bag.

Michele is small but mighty in every way that I can’t be. She assures me that I can do anything I want.   No, really, you can, she insists.  If you want to run a marathon, you can.  She’s proud of me.  I can’t believe my ears.  Climb Kala Patthar for the people who can’t walk, she says.

Pat is solid as a rock.  She can hike uphill and have diarrhea at the same time without complaining.  Pat says what is arguably the most important thing to me on the trek.  I grimly recount my weaknesses and she stops me right there. This isn’t a contest.  You don’t have to be something you aren’t.  You just have to be you. 

Rob is our leader, hiking with damn near thirty pounds of camera gear clanging around him.  He knows where we’re going and pretty much the name of every peak we pass.  He’s early for every group rendezvous.  He organizes our trip down to the smallest detail.  Without him, we’d have a tough time getting it together.  He only falls over once, and thank God I am not there to see it.

Po is my husband and my hero.  He agrees to do this trek for a second time just so that I can see Everest.  I’m here to set the record straight:  I was the one begging for this torture and he was incredible enough to say OK.  Not the other way around.  I’m already twisting his arm for a trip to Tibet.  Thanks, baby, for being around every corner with my water bottle.

I am reminded of an old saying:  If you want to go fast, go alone, and if you want to go far, go together.  In the end, we go together all the way to Everest.  And then out for ice cream.  I love you guys.

Thank you to Kevin Friend and Po Huang for the photos in this post!

 

Everest Memories, Chapter 2: Sherpas, Tigers of the Snows

I am in awe of the climbing Sherpas and their fierce strength.  I recognize their famous names and faces from the many Everest books I’ve read.  I can’t wait to meet our guides for the trek, with whom we will spend two weeks together in the most challenging of circumstances.  Despite physically towering over these men, they have my complete attention and respect.  They say jump, I say are you crazy?  I mean, how high?

We meet Nawang in the lobby of the Hotel Vaishali in Kathmandu.  He will be our lead  guide.  He is short and solid and wears a cap.  His joyful smile shows the slight spaces between his teeth.  I guess him to be in his fifties but later learn that he is sixty-three.  He takes our passport-sized pictures and affixes them to our trekking permits.  He staples mine right through the forehead.  He shakes our hands and says he’ll see us at 4:30 a.m.

Phurba and Mingma join us in Lukla at the start of the trek.  They are our other two Sherpa guides.  Mingma is young and swank, his shock of jet-black hair scooped up in an orange scarf.  He has wide cheekbones and speaks gentle, lovely English.  Phurba is smiling immediately, taking our hands into his gnarled ones.  He walks with one shoulder slightly tilted down.  His eyes crinkle in a friendly way and he gestures to bring meaning to his words.  They set a slow, deliberate pace as we being our ascent into the mountains.

We wear the latest gear and the toughest boots.  They wear jeans and well-worn shoes.  They carry faded backpacks.  I am burning to know more about them.  Since we are going downhill, I’m at the front with Mingma.  I ask his age.  Twenty-three.  Has he been to Everest?  Yes.  Where does he live?  Thame.  Has he ever been a porter?  No.  Does he have a girlfriend?  He chuckles nervously and shakes his head.  No, he says softly.  I suddenly feel shy.  Why on earth would I ask that?  Then I ask what I think is my winning question:  What do you think about when you hike?  He glances up at me to see if I’m serious.  Laughs softly.  Mutters but says nothing.  Then says, really nothing.  I feel like a fool.  Since I’m planning to daydream, and also completely unaware that I’ll be lucky to form coherent thoughts in the upcoming days, I sound like a moron.  Mingma graciously gives no indication that he thinks so of me.  I slink to the back of the line.

I discover at our first teahouse stop that our sherpas also take our food orders.  Mingma pens them neatly in a book:  veggie momo, tuna momo, fried potato, fried egg.  He hands us the menu with the same seriousness and politeness three times a day.  Banana on your porridge, ma’am?  Sometimes they even have to help cook.  We see them later, eating bowls of dal bhat in another room.  We constantly invite them to eat with us.  Some of us downright insist.  As the days wear on, we convince them to share our popcorn, Pringles, and momos.   We successfully buy Phurba a beer.  By the end of the trip, Mingma dutifully plucks food right off our plate the minute we invite him.  Nawang too.  Our endless requests have simply worn them down.  They can’t escape us for a minute.

Harsh breathing limits my trail conversation.  But I manage to say things, as if I have a quota of words to hit every day.  I find myself explaining to Nawang what the word “buff” means in English.  On the trail, buff means buffalo or yak meat.  He points to a chunk of yak hanging out of a porter’s basket and says that is buff.  I make a feeble muscle by curling my arm and say “ this is buff, like when you work out at a gym”.  I think this goes right by him.  Who needs a gym when you walk to Everest three times a month?  Nice, he nods.  Nawang later sees a wild swarm of bees.  He eagerly points them out.  We chat about honey and how hard it is to gather.  Nawang says not hard, just put honey over your body, they won’t sting you.  I explain that we have hats with nets and also smoke.  And then, for whatever reason, I bring up the beard of bees.  For the first time on the trek, Nawang stops walking.  He stares at me.  I gesture emphatically under my chin, where the beard would start forming.  I have little knowledge of bee beards, so I’m making this up as I go.  He has no reply except a polite aahhhh.  What else could you say to something so insane?

Mingma turns out to be a fierce gin rummy player. He joins the night owls in our group for card games.  He shoots pool at the Irish Pub with Chad.   Po teaches him to play Dungeon Hunter on the iPad.  Turns out that Buddhists can kill things virtually, especially when things like skeletons and zombies are really already dead.  Mingma huddles with the other guides and teaches them to play too.  Phurba entertains us with long descriptions of yaks.  Some yaks naughty, some nice.  We barely understand but nod enthusiastically along with him.  He puts his elbows at his hips, juts his hands out, thrusts them forcefully forward, and says something that sounds like hons.  He says it over and over.  The gesture looks more suggestive than anything, so we wait for another clue.  Ahh yes, horns!  Yak horns!  Of course.  We laugh with delight.  Now we understand.  The naughty yak can fling us off a cliff with his horns.  Wonderful.

They take us to the Sherpa Museum in Namche and we stare in wonder at the many photos and artifacts that document their history.

They show us a million kindnesses.  Nawang holds my poles when I stop to rest.  He carries my pack on his back for the last ascent to Gorak Shep.  He begs me to eat porridge.  He takes my frozen hands in his own and rubs them when I am sure I have frostbite.  I am so overcome by the agony of the hike that I being to thank him profusely.  I ask if there is anything I can give him to show my gratitude.  He says is OK ma’am.  I tell him that I will remember him for my whole life.  He says thank you.  Phurba leads me over slippery rocks and the dreaded bridges.  He hugs me at the end of my trip.  Mingma answers every question with care.  I read his email to me days after the trek:  

hey mam ,
how are you and hope you enjoying your holiday in kathnandu  .i am here with some of the french guy gonna do trek to basecamp and chola pass  .soit was great going trek with you guys and i promise i wontforget your group forever.  you were really a great group for me.so nothing more to write.hope to see you in us if i earn a lot hahaha just kidding.hope to hear from you.
with lots of love and respect,
yoursincerely
mingma.

One night in Pheriche, we all sit together before dinner.  We are talking about the legendary 1953 ascent of Everest by Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay.  Who was first on the summit?  Our Sherpa friends look silently down at their hands and smile.  We smile too.  In our hearts, we know exactly who was first.  Nawang, Mingma, and Phurba , Tigers of the Snows.  We will remember you forever too.

The Tiger Medal was given to the climbing Sherpas in the early 20th century in honor of their great bravery and fortitude in the mountains.  To learn more about it, read these short articles:

http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2002/05/0507_020507_sherpas.html

http://www.outsideonline.com/adventure-travel/asia/nepal/Tigers-of-the-Snow.html

Everest Memories, Chapter 1. Trailing: Little Bit Up, Little Bit Down

I realize that I will have to go up to reach Everest.  I expect a trail.  A dirt path I could manage all alone.  My fantasy trail has the occasional stone to stumble over, a brief flight of steps before Namche.  I plan to daydream the whole way.  Imagine my surprise, then, when I see what passes for a trail in the Khumbu.  When I discover that I’ll ascend more than 17,000 ft. over the course of the trip.  Each day I torture myself and ask Nawang what the trail will be.  Maybe today he will say all flat.  He says “little bit up, little bit down”.  He lies.  I say so and he laughs.  “OK, so some steep up.”

You see, there is no trail.  Lacking way-finding skills and goat-like stability, I nearly fold.  Walking downhill means running over a series of uneven stones, some smooth, some jagged.

Yak poop makes them slicker than normal.  I start by avoiding the poop, but soon realize the poop is the least of my worries.  Snapping my ankle in half is a way bigger threat.  As is smashing my face on a rock.  Bereft of the courage it takes to break my own leg and end this madness, I’m doomed to finish the trek or wait for nature to take its course.

Vertigo sets in upon sight of the first swinging bridge.  It yawns over a chasm of sheer rock and foaming glacial rapids.  Masses of prayer flags tangled to the bridge bring no sense of peace whatsoever.  They just flap madly and add to the visual confusion.

Bridges from years past are in shambles below, foreshadowing the fate of everything built by man in the Khumbu.  I step on as Michelle jumps up and down in front of me.  My stomach churns violently.  I see an opening in the mesh where my foot could slip through.  I picture the entire bridge flipping over.  Oh God, this cannot be happening.

I feel Phurba slink up next to me and grasp my arm.  I am a person being led to an execution more than a Himalayan trekker.

He marches me to the other side where I bend over and let the blood rush to my head.  I steady my jelly legs.  “Seven more, ma’am”, he grins.  “Good job”.  I will do this seven more times?

Steps. I practice on the Monkey Temple stairs in Kathmandu and figure I’m good to go.  Except the steps in the Khumbu are from hell.

They come in every shape and size.  They are wide and shallow.  They are narrow and crooked.  Some require almost no lift of the leg.  Others are like getting up and down off my dresser several hundred times.  They are covered in water, ice, the aforementioned excrement, moss, dirt, and grass.  They are deathtraps poised above ravines.  I am a bad step away from a grisly end.

I soon discover the good news that I will be sharing these steps with yaks and porters carrying wide loads.  By wide loads I mean freezers and door-sized sheets of wood.  Gallons of kerosene.  Giant bales of hay.  Boxes of rice and beer.

I would never have assumed that a person with something the size of a washing machine on their back could sneak up on me, but I assure you that is what happens.  I look up from my own stupor to encounter someone with an unbelievable burden and I can’t figure out who should pass whom.  I pause and pretend to be annoyed that I have to stop.  On the inside, I am dying to stop.  “Get uphill for yak, ma’am” Nawang reminds me.  I settle it quickly and move on, as I have at least a thousand more steps to negotiate before lunch.

Boulders.  Large, random-shaped rocks that are between me and my goal.  Millions of them.  One looks as good as another to step on, but apparently there is a “path” through them.  Even yaks know the way.  Without Nawang pointing at them, I am lost.  I beg him to lead and I’ll just copy his steps.

He does so, and turns around every few seconds to see if I’m still there.  My poles stab in-between the rocks and stick there.  I continually yank them up.  Nawang has no poles.  He just hops.  By the time I’m on Kala Patthar, I am going rock by rock.  I don’t even look up.

Weather.  I start each day in one set of clothes, which would be the same clothes from the day before and the day before that.  They also serve as my pajamas.  It’s snowy and I’m going downhill.  Fleece on.  Puffy coat on.  No, now just the fleece.  Wait – keep the rain jacket over the fleece.  Gloves out and on.  Then off.  Then on.  Sweat and sun.  Wind and sleet.  Mountain weather at it’s best.

I perform at least ten wardrobe adjustments daily.  Nawang waits for me, holds my pack and my poles.  He has yet to change his clothes.  Rain is pouring off my hood and drenching my thighs. Nawang looks dry.  He walks between the raindrops.  All the stops give him time for more prayers. The trail changes constantly.  What was icy on the way up is a running stream on the way down.  When the sun slips behind the peaks, the air drops by 30 degrees immediately.   I should maybe wear a flannel shirt like Nawang and get moving.  I’m trailing behind.

Summit Day

Nawang says to be ready at 4 a.m.  When our clock beeps at 3:30 I am in shock.  It is about ten degrees below zero and I have to stand up.  I am dizzy and my head pounds.  I scrub my contacts in my palm and decide against more deodorant.  It is too cold to pull up my shirt.  I put on my heaviest coat and everything warm in my pack.  Headlamp on.  Start walking.

I stumble immediately.  Our headlamps bob in the darkness and the erratic light is bewildering.  I breathe rapidly in panic.  My pack chokes me.  My poles clatter on the steep jagged rocks.  I think I will never make it.  Nawang walks behind me chanting his prayers and keeping track on his beads.  I cannot find a chant.  My heart is a cage of restless tigers and it threatens to overwhelm me.  We are alone now.  The rest of the group has moved on.

Slowly the sky becomes dusky blue and aqua.  I turn off my lamp and calm down in the cool light.  I think of my mom’s promise to pray for me.  I think of the word “grace” and what it means.  Amazing grace.  I decide to think of all the words to that song to keep my oxygen-starved mind from caving in.  Through many dangers, toils, and snares I have already come.  Tis grace that brought me safe thus far and grace will lead me home.

I step onto the glacier.  It rumbles majestically below my feet.  Raw, pointed peaks rise all around me.  The very tip of Loboche is orange.  The sun is coming.  The sky is clear. We will push for the top of Kala Patthar.

I stagger into the tea house at Gorek Shep.  Last village before Everest Base Camp.  I smell the porridge I’ve ordered and nearly faint.  I try to swallow food and tea but nothing happens.  I am unsure that I can go on.  I eat fried egg whites and orange Shotblocks.  More sunscreen.  Leave the pack.  Start up the last 1,500 feet of the climb.

Nawang and I go before the group.  We pass a dead body.  A rescue helicopter circles and lands.  Nawang soothes me.  He reminds me that I have come this far and that my mind controls my body.  Try is best, he says.  Mind can make you sick.  Give up is no good.  This is nothing.  Po and I play a game where I climb up to him.  Nawang gently touches my back and points out which rock to step on. The top seems miles away.  Ten steps.  Just a little bit up Nawang says.  Huge boulders.  Crazy breathing.  I turn my head over my right shoulder and look on the face of Everest.  My mouth hangs open.  My lips and gums burn in the blazing sun.  I can’t believe I told Chanel that I would look fabulous.  I feel seconds from death.

Five more steps.  Cheering.  Prayer flags and wild wind.  I sob but no tears come out.  Katie fills my hand with ibuprofen and I hold them in my mouth for our expedition picture.  I am here.  I am looking upon the most amazing sight of my life.  We hang the prayer flags with our dreams written on them.  I remember the loves of my life who are already with the gods.  This is our summit day.  I am here because of this group of people and their help along the way.

This is my summit day.  I am here because as Nawang said, try is best.  And I have tried with my whole heart.  I have walked in grace and it was amazing.

Lukla, Baby

The big day starts at 4:30 a.m.  Meet in the lobby, eat breakfast.  I shakily gobble up some eggs.  We turn over our passports for safe-keeping.  Knees knocking, I crawl into the van that will take us to the airport for our flight to Lukla.  We speed through the dark, crazy streets.

We go to a sparate terminal for those brave enough to fly to the Khumbu.  Bags are everywhere.  Expedition gear, rice, kerosene.  More bags.  Confusion and long lines.  We wait and are unsure will the flights go today due to the haze.  I am issued a ticket stub with Flight 125 listed.  I pass through the Ladies security line and the Gents go through theirs.  We can take bottled water and whatever we want.  No TSA here, people.

More waiting.  I gulp water but my mouth stays dry.

Flight 125!  Flight 125!

This means move now and don’t look back.  We hurry out to another van and zoom around the tarmac.  Dogs are running around everywhere despite the airplanes.  Bags are in heaps next to the planes.  More waiting in the van.  Ten minutes, they say.  I don’t know how much adrenaline can course through a person before something bad happens.

Now we go.  Load up.  Po says sit on the left side of the plane.  The flight attendant in a long maroon skirt gives us cotton balls and a candy that is labeled FUN.  It tastes like the coffee candies my dad gave us as kids.  Again, no TSA.  You can hold your bags on your lap.  The pilot is reading a newspaper.

The planes roars and lines up to go.  We lift off and soar over the terraced fields and the quiet parts of Kathmandu.  Up and up.  I am clenching my bag but oddly I have no more fear of death.  The mountains that have been hidden in haze start to slowly appear.  They are giant.  My eyes are pealed for one sight only.  Suddenly, all the haze fades and I am flying with the gods.  Tears splash down my face.  My lips are parted and I breath shallow.  The pilot is still reading the newspaper but I can’t be bothered now.

I don’t even see the runway coming.  I only feel the bump as we set down and zoom to the end of the short runway.  We cheer together and shuffle off the plane.  Surely I am in heaven.  After a cup of milk tea, we start walking.  Jillian in Boots is in the Khumbu!

Who Is This Girl in Nepal?

The pilot said thirty minute to landing and look out the right side of the plane to see Everest.  No, wait…too many clouds.  We clatter down the runway and I can see nothing but haze, expedition bags, and confusion.  Bags in hand, we head outside.  I man with a sign saying HART greets us.  In all this madness, we somehow have a van.

Weaving crazily through the streets, dodging cows and mopeds, we travel toward our hotel.  My mouth is dry.  I can’t speak.  My clothes are glued to me in the heat.  I’ve been wearing this dress since Boise.  But in a weird way, I have never been more alive.  Honking, screeching, blaring.  Dust, people, agony.  Garbage clogs the river.  Dogs wander between cars.  We squeeze between impossibly narrow alleys in our Toyota van, easily one of the nicest vehicles on the street.

Our hotel room is small and clean.  Windows open above a courtyard with a stagnant pool which is currently closed for repairs.  Laundry flaps on the lines strung between homes.  I inspect my first bathroom and find it clean.  I shower in the cool water.  I hide my money and passport on my body and head out into the dusty streets.  Horns honk and soon it becomes an instinctual warning to hug the side of the street or die.  We choose a curry restaurant.  I order a giant Everest beer with my palek paneer.  A storm blows in.  Lightning blazes.  Dust swirls as I run through the streets.  The whole city crackles.

I sleep like the dead with Everest watching over me.  For twelve hours.  Five in the morning brings quiet cool breeze.  The window has been open all night.  I peer outside, looking for some sign of mountains.  The haze covers them but I know they are there.

I am alive.  Every action requires thinking here, even brushing my teeth.  I dry my hair by leaning over the fan.  I literally hum with excitement.  Who is this girl in Nepal?

I’m Never Leaving Changi

We land in the early morning fog.  I get my first peek at Singapore.  I can only see the nose of our jumbo jet.  And one palm tree.

I stumble into the famous Changi Airport.  I look for the promised orchids and I am not disappointed.  They bloom profusely in every color and shape.  This place can’t be an airport!  Gorgeous carpet and pod-like chairs invite me to stop and rest.

Hermes, Chanel, Prada.  I’m drowning in luxury.  Starbucks latte and spicy noodles with egg for breakfast.  Even the food court is delicious.

The bathrooms ask for your rating on a touchscreen.  I tap the smiley face excellent.  Koi ponds teem with huge orange fish.  Internet is free.  Computers are everywhere.  You can Skype for free.  Kids can make art rubbings with crayons.  Water gurgles from fountains and drowns out the chaos.

I want to stay here until April 15.  I’ll need to get a room.