We start in the middle. Not a big moment in reflection, but a moment so full of joy it almost eclipsed the day. Or it would have if the day hadn’t included reaching Everest Base Camp. Half sitting, half laying on a hard wooden bench with a blessing of a thinly worn through cushion; a steaming hot towel laid over my face. I can feel my breathe roll across my skin, trapped and leaving moisture as it escapes. The point is I can start to feel. The point is, there is a hot towel laying over my face. The point is sitting down. All of these things individually shouldn’t mean much, but right now, they mean the world. A smile creeps in with the feeling returning, hidden in the space between my eye lids and the slowly rising and falling material, it burns beautifully. My legs won’t move, they can’t. But I revel in the relief that they don’t have to. It’s so unbelievably satisfying to know that we are finished for the day. We don’t have to convince our knees to push through another step. We don’t have to shuffle round a tree root or heave our bags off the ground. We get to wipe the sweat and dirt off with a boiling hot towel and feel as clean as we have in two weeks. It’s beautiful. Once the body relaxes and the pain starts to dull, other reliefs kick in. We are alive. We have made it one step closer and no one is sick. We might just make it after all. After spending another day convincing myself that I don’t need to make it and this is more than enough for me to feel happy, the warmth and the hot drinks along with knowing food is on the way slowly starts the cycle again. We are going to make it.
The beginning of this whole ridiculousness was in Vietnam, we were backside sore and all having second thoughts about how long our motorbike journey actually was, so we decided to go get drunk and play pool. Like everywhere you stop for any length of time on a journey like this, your mind seems to be constantly on the next step. I remember us trying to plan the last month of our journey. Originally we had fallen in love with the idea of china (we had friends we could go and visit for a real 'authentic' experience) and an epic rail journey through Mongolia and out of Russia. Now – this may have been the beers, but we decided that it wasn't worth spending our remaining budget on the gear we would surely need to face the harsh winter in the desserts of Mongolia, and besides as seasoned expedition-ists, we were more than aware that sub zero in layers of cotton T-shirts simply wouldn't do. So it was at this point, somewhere between the fourth and fifth round; while recognising Neil's outward display of genuine condolence at his new found enemy's misguided attempt at potting a shot, while glowing inwardly with self satisfaction as he gently pointed out the mistake on the angle. It was at this point, that we decided to climb to Everest Base Camp. Neil rejoined the talk just in time to get swept up in the 'maybe we can actually do it' fever and from there, all it took was a nudge from a drunken eighteen year old who couldn't help but express her awe at the word Everest, and we had our flights to Nepal booked. It wouldn't be right to say this was a dream of ours for a long time, or that we had worked hard to prepare for it. It turns out that sometimes these challenges aren't the goal, they just set the bench mark.
The first thing we would need if we were going to climb a mountain-apparently was, wait for it, gear. We needed to keep ourselves alive. The morning after our big decision, our natural researcher began to guide us back down to earth along the stepping stones of facts cemented together with cold hard truth. We would need lots and lots and lots of equipment. Also it turns out you can't just stroll up the biggest mountain in the world. You need to buy a pass, you need a guide, you need a certain level of fitness and not to mention a place to sleep, eat and safe water for twenty days. Simple. Some would even say slightly more than it would take to simply grab a train home... The best thing I think I will ever google was phrased: "how do I buy fake gear in Vietnam." At one point during this day I actually poured a bottle of water onto a jacket in a shop... this seems slightly other worldly now. It took bravery to stare down the barrel of a loaded Vietnamese salesman's face. We were ecstatic with our fake North Face jackets. Well tested and for a price that we could afford... Now we just needed everything else.
Nepal was a different kettle of fish entirely. The country was in the midst of a severe fuel shortage due to strained relations with India and we felt it almost immediately. Coming from the heavily travelled Vietnam the main 'tourist area' of Kathmandu felt pretty empty. Restaurants weren't selling many hot dishes and the ones that were felt very very westernised. It was a culture shock and to be really honest we loved every second of it. We found a tiny little shop selling one hot dish, the delicious momo, and accidently celebrated a festival of light which felt like a kind of hypnotic colour fuelled holiday within a holiday. We set about researching the most trustworthy sellers or 're-sellers' of the gear we would need.It felt like a bit of an overwhelming few days, we were too far in to pull out and at a couple of different points I think we all felt a little bit scared of what we had taken on.There just seemed like too much we didn't know and obviously it was at this point that we got a note from our hotel. Our boots were being held by the government at the airport until we went to pay twice what they were worth in tax. This should have been breaking point. Frustrated tears were shed and many arguments through translators were had over the phone. It was quite a simple wall however. We have your stuff. You need it. Come and pay for it. For want of a better word: Fuck. The whole god damn thing came down to boots we had already sent home once and we had spent the last bit of our money on the gear we needed and couldn't afford to buy new boots. The one thing we had categorically decided we could not replace with cheap replicas. We set out to find a bus stop... the ellipsis cannot possibly convey the amazement we felt when we arrived at the step on our instructions which was simply 'get a bus'. It had led us to a road with at least forty buses along a huge stretch of road and the only distinction between them was the indefinable difference in notes which the young boys sang in while hanging off the back of each beaten up little mini van. This was incredible. Enter Romit, a cool as all hell brown version of a rolling stone with a denim jacket and shades matched in coolness only by his perfectly slicked hair. A selfie, an addition to facebook and about fifteen conversations with people hanging out of bus windows later and we were not only squeezed onto a 'bus' but everyone was smiling at the two whiter than white people like we were old acquaintances that had been found peeing in a cupboard. The highlight of this particular journey for me was a street undergoing heavy and yet casually slow road works; the distance between the two buses as they passed could be measured by the volume of the four men all simultaneously involved in guiding the two beasts so that they almost managed to temporarily take up the same space. The small girl chatting away to us in English at the back of the bus seemed to find our interest quite interesting.
Customs Office
Now, there are a lot of stereo-types when it comes to Asian bureaucracy and lots of holiday makers like to head home having slipped a guy a ten euro note; more to buy the feeling of 'know how' than to actually change their current predicament in any way. This however was on a whole other level. We were given a 'broker', an unofficial 1980's gang member who would try their best, for a fee of course, to help us find our way around our problem. At first they conferred and winked confidently with one another as they highlighted the official with the right weaknesses; we were told they would simply pay a smaller fee to the right person and it would all be cleared up the next day. They were denied. We were handed off to another clearly more experienced handler who tried a different avenue, however even though we couldn't understand the conversation it was pretty obvious people weren't happy with them and by association, us. We were told simply: no. We would have to pay £200 to get the box of boots, now worth roughly nothing, and that was that. This had taken a good two and a half hours of backwards and forwards, surreptitious conversations all while we followed around like lost sheep every now and again throwing a pleading murmur or sad look over a shoulder. Enough was enough, we had spotted the room where the decision makers spent their time drinking tea and debating the particular cases brought to them by greasy palms and slick hair cuts. 'We need you to cry'. I stormed into the room and unleashed a life times frustration at what these people represented. Perfectly normal human beings who through arbitrary chance have found themselves with some modicum of power over the inane. Along with every desire to use it to it's full extent. In England, these Gods of the mediocrely important hide behind walls of e-mails or peons with whom you cannot possibly be angry because you 'know it isn't their fault'. So there was something beautiful about the raw face to face nature of this place. I was stood in front of the people who I needed to convince and this is something that I can do. At the height of my tirade the real power kicked in, on cue a single tear rolled down the tired cheek of a weary, scared exhausted traveller who just happened to catch the eye of the hard old man steeling himself to once again reject my most passionate protests. He cracked. With a frustrated: "Ok, shut up enough for me to fix it and go sit outside!" We got our boots back. For free. We just had to wait three more hours, eat free food, and admire a lovely lady who spent her days keeping a team of men under control with a seemingly impossible blend of Miss Honey and Miss Trunchbull. I can't lie. This was one of the best days I had in Nepal. There is a satisfaction that our world has secretly robbed us of, the need to deal with a real person who has the power to change the situation and try yourself against that decision. It's beautiful. The bus ride back past miles and miles of queues for petrol was a victory lap.
Now, there are a lot of stereo-types when it comes to Asian bureaucracy and lots of holiday makers like to head home having slipped a guy a ten euro note; more to buy the feeling of 'know how' than to actually change their current predicament in any way. This however was on a whole other level. We were given a 'broker', an unofficial 1980's gang member who would try their best, for a fee of course, to help us find our way around our problem. At first they conferred and winked confidently with one another as they highlighted the official with the right weaknesses; we were told they would simply pay a smaller fee to the right person and it would all be cleared up the next day. They were denied. We were handed off to another clearly more experienced handler who tried a different avenue, however even though we couldn't understand the conversation it was pretty obvious people weren't happy with them and by association, us. We were told simply: no. We would have to pay £200 to get the box of boots, now worth roughly nothing, and that was that. This had taken a good two and a half hours of backwards and forwards, surreptitious conversations all while we followed around like lost sheep every now and again throwing a pleading murmur or sad look over a shoulder. Enough was enough, we had spotted the room where the decision makers spent their time drinking tea and debating the particular cases brought to them by greasy palms and slick hair cuts. 'We need you to cry'. I stormed into the room and unleashed a life times frustration at what these people represented. Perfectly normal human beings who through arbitrary chance have found themselves with some modicum of power over the inane. Along with every desire to use it to it's full extent. In England, these Gods of the mediocrely important hide behind walls of e-mails or peons with whom you cannot possibly be angry because you 'know it isn't their fault'. So there was something beautiful about the raw face to face nature of this place. I was stood in front of the people who I needed to convince and this is something that I can do. At the height of my tirade the real power kicked in, on cue a single tear rolled down the tired cheek of a weary, scared exhausted traveller who just happened to catch the eye of the hard old man steeling himself to once again reject my most passionate protests. He cracked. With a frustrated: "Ok, shut up enough for me to fix it and go sit outside!" We got our boots back. For free. We just had to wait three more hours, eat free food, and admire a lovely lady who spent her days keeping a team of men under control with a seemingly impossible blend of Miss Honey and Miss Trunchbull. I can't lie. This was one of the best days I had in Nepal. There is a satisfaction that our world has secretly robbed us of, the need to deal with a real person who has the power to change the situation and try yourself against that decision. It's beautiful. The bus ride back past miles and miles of queues for petrol was a victory lap.
The truth is, that this six hour immersion into real Nepali life had actually spurred us on. It had actually picked us up and gave us a second wind to get everything in place to begin. There was just one small thing between us and the mountain, a thirty minute flight up to Lukla, the famous starting point of our hike. Now if you have Never heard of Lukla, and you know you will likely never go to Everest, then I suggest you go and YouTube some videos. Trust me you won't have to look too hard. If you are planning on one day going, then don't. It is a small plane, fine I can handle that. It made me nervous but in some ways added to the sense of adventure, catching a Jumbo jet half way up a mountain would have taken something away form the experience, this is how I got over these particular set of nerves. Fast forward fifteen minutes of jaw dropping life changing, unforgettable views of Kathmandu followed by rolling, seemingly endless ranges of the Himalayas. The only evidence I have of this time is now unfortunately photographic as they were instantly eviscerated from my mind by what followed. The man next to me grabs my leg as I lean on his shoulder, in broken English he tries to convey that this is normal, just before a huge wave of turbulence hits the small plane and even his deep brown skin manages to do it's best impression of paling. I looked up after we seemed to drop a good few feet to see trees through the window. I turned to say goodbye to Lisa to see trees through the other window. I can honestly say I was convinced it was all over, even the hardened locals that made up the flight had fallen silent and most had their heads down – or worse were grinning hysterically making themselves comfortable in the space between fear and insanity. We passed through the gap between two peaks that made this flight famous. We landed and I felt my newly found fear of flying nestle itself comfortably into the space between my rationality and logic and make itself comfortable. I kissed the pilot. I was overly excited, until a woman who had apparently flown this route 13 times now leaned across and told us that on a flight a while ago the plane had actually been upside down temporarily. Perspective simply did not hold it's usual power. I would be quite willing to walk the six additional days to hike myself back to Kathmandu.
With my senses heightened by terror, landing in Lukla was sensory overload. Thirty or forty locals crowded round us as we tried to collect our bags, all wanting to guide us or porter our stuff for a fraction of the prices charged in the capital. We were armed with the knowledge that this was immoral and therefore we were confident enough to stride through... until we realised we had no way of knowing which one was our actual guy. After again relying on the kindness of strangers, we met up with Akash. A fluent English speaking guide who was definitely not the non-English porter we had asked for. His opening gambit was simply, 'look at me, I know you ordered a porter but I am small, I cannot carry.' This was all going swimmingly. So we split the additional gear we had brought, and shouldered the extra weight. We set off and within a few seconds, we were overtaken by the sheer magic of the place. Growing up in England it is hard to picture actual mountains, never mind put a scale with the biggest range in the world. It's hard to get your head around. This was highlighted in bold by the obvious ferocity of the place. Looking back down on the comically small landing strip which simply dropped off into an abyss, it was clear to see that life here was not easy. The village was grasping the side of the mountain and simply put, was not safe. The edge of the mountain was the edge of the world and that was a fact of life. There was nothing to make sure you did not go there. It just is what it is. We loved it. The first days walk was easy, mostly down hill following a beautiful valley and getting a taste for the ridiculous walking bridges that the Nepalese people seemed to have resounding faith in. The first time you hear a yak bell, it is love at first sound. They are beautiful beasts with shaggy, brightly coloured hair, which chime and low as they walk along. Not quite like a normal animal, but like a simple slow constant momentum that just doesn't really care about other forces of nature. It moves within it's own rules. Whether it is upwards on an incline that resembles a near cousin to vertical, or straight through a crowd of adoring tourists that made the mistake of standing on the lower side of the path. There is no morality, there is just movement. The first rule of the mountain: don't fuck with the yaks.
If that's the first, the second rule of the mountain has to be: AMS will kill you. No matter how strong, fit, cocky or pushed for time. It will kill you. It must have been our third day when we heard the news that two of the porters had pushed it too hard a bit further up the mountain. The anger in the voice of the guide was not an expected outrage at this loss of life. Nor was it even a politicaly motivated rage that these people shouldn't be forced to hike up into these dangerous places for the pleasure of tourists. This anger was directed at the owner of a near by Tea-house, who had called a helicopter for the men. "He should have known they were going to die. What a waste of a helicopter. Who is going to pay for it!." It was a culture shock in the truest sense. This was a knock for us, Neil had been so ill he had to stop twice already. We had kind of just pushed him a long, we couldn't have been more wrong. These people didn't die a long time ago while scaling to the peak of the highest mountain in the world as if it was a concept rather than a reality. These people were two days walk on the same path as us, and simply stopped being. They weren't the 'stupid tourists' who tried to climb Mt Cook in flip flops and t-shirts, so kinda deserved it. These were porters, who had been climbing this same route for years. Welcome back perspective my old friend, come join reality and truth right here next to good old fear.
Two days ago, it hadn’t been this hard. I had a rolling momentum that felt as though I could have jogged all the way to the peak. Waking up in the freezing cold, a huge plate of fried Tibetan bread and honey; then setting out from Namche. We had a “rest day” the day before which we used to climb for a four hour round trip to get acclimatised. Perfect. We were doing everything we should with AMS, we were being sensible. The shock of a few days earlier had begun to wain. It didn’t get really good however, until we started side saddling the peak we were on via a path glued to the side of the mountain. It roped its way around the edge, seemingly sown in place by temples and prayer rocks which sat at each corner furthest from the mountain. They gave a sense of achievement and each one rewarded us with the incredible view into the valley around the next bend. It was the largest one of these which we rested on and caught a glimpse of a wild mountain goat using his early start to watch the sun chase the shadows down the valley; out on an impossible to reach peak simply taking in the moment. I followed his eye line and stood still myself for a while. The valley we had walked up and climbed out of the days before stretched out in front of us. The line of light painting as it went and finally culminating in a silent moment of full reveal. Unbelievable heights and valleys snaking out all the way back to Kathmandu. It was too sheer to be real, too harsh, too green and golden. It should have sounded spectacular. Instead we had to satisfy ourselves with silent grandeur. The day cemented itself into my memory as we moved off round the next bend and (as I had been caught up by the view a bit too long) Lisa called back, a spec on the other side of a dip. Arms flailing she was pointing into the sky. The vultures shadow passed over me and engulfed my whole body. I was too busy staring at Lisa to notice at first. A second later, I had forgotten I couldn’t breathe and was sprinting the way we had just come to try and get a decent picture. The same day we saw our first glimpse of the impressive national bird for Nepal and a kestrel nearly got me killed by a yak. Not a bad walk in the park at all…
The only day that topped this for me, was something I don't think I will ever forget. I had been spotting birds and taking average photos the whole way. Every now and again I would get something I was proud of and sprint to catch up to Lisa so she could repeat how happy she was with it and exemplify a true friend. It was our second acclimatisation day, Temboche was the coldest place so far and it granted us the true marvel that is frozen baby yaks. We had to climb a peak that overlooked the tiny village to finally break the 5000m barrier for the first time. It was a big day. Towards the top the wind was so intense that we hid just on the other side of the peak in amongst some rocks, marvelling at the stand alone houses and farms scratching a living from the literally bare rock. Lisa was the first one to notice the vultures. I had heard a few days before while entering Namche, that old guides used to play dead to try and compete with who could get vultures to come the closest. I'm never going to see a vulture in the wild again right? I scrambled to the peak a bit further away from the others and laid spread out as big as I could as if my illuminous orange coat and blue trousers weren't an easy spot for a vulture anyway. Kind of giddy at seeing my second ever wild vulture, I was already laughing to myself as it circled a mere speck in the distance. It didn't take long for my laughter to turn to stunned silence as this tiny space became a clearly defined wonder of the natural world. From there it slowly morphed into a clearly detailed almost lifelike vulture and from here it was only two more turns until it became a too close for comfort stupidly big two meter wide scavenger bird intent on foraging in amongst my rib cage. It was roughly 25 meters away and could clearly see I wasn't dead. Casually it glided over the edge of the mountain past where we were huddled against the wind and out into the valley. I would be lying if I told you that I had two dry eyes at this point. In my defence I was exhausted and emotional and whatever.
The afternoon we reached base camp an old cliché was on the edge of everyone’s lips. No one wanted to be the first to say it in case it detracted from the moment or undermined what we had just done. So I’ll say it now. The destination had nothing on the journey. By nothing I mean it had a climb over the biggest glacier I have ever seen which is fed directly from Everest herself, was the closest point to the highest footstep on earth any sane person will ever get, two unbelievable avalanches which rocked our whole worlds and a rose finch to boot. The essence of what I mean is simple however, where we had walked and how hard it had been meant so much more than the photo with the flags and the sign. We had done it, there was talk of lengthening our walk and a stubborn part of me was holding onto the idea of climbing another peak as a challenge. But in this moment it all melted away. We were done, we didn’t jump for joy, we hugged and posed then started walking back. It was dangerous and we couldn’t stay for long anyway, but we didn’t need to. There was no need to achieve any more. It was a complete feeling that is hard to describe. The need to gain, to reap a reward or push a little further wasn’t just gone, it was satisfied.
It’s strange how even after a genuine achievement such as this, it took everything inside of me to allow myself to value it properly. I wanted to climb to the top, I wanted to do more, somehow like this would make me more. But it was interesting how your body speaks to your emotions in a way your brain can’t. We are done here. Not because we can’t do any more, but because we don’t need to.
The long walk down was supposed to be easy, it was invigorating having more and more oxygen with each step and the mood was higher in the group. We met up with some friends who hadn’t made it and ended up walking and taking breaks together. We met people who had injuries and were being carried down on horse back, it didn’t seem to matter though, the challenge completed fear and danger seeped slowly further away from reality. We decided to shorten the return and make the days longer, hoping to speed our way back to the plane. Arriving back
The long walk down was supposed to be easy, it was invigorating having more and more oxygen with each step and the mood was higher in the group. We met up with some friends who hadn’t made it and ended up walking and taking breaks together. We met people who had injuries and were being carried down on horse back, it didn’t seem to matter though, the challenge completed fear and danger seeped slowly further away from reality. We decided to shorten the return and make the days longer, hoping to speed our way back to the plane. Arriving back
It needs to be said as I sit on a train surrounded by pairs of eyes reflecting flashing screens and the resigned looks of what their days will hold. Pushing against yourself and your limits is a blessing, finding a part of life where you get to charge head on and use everything you have, gives exactly what is missing. It isn’t sustainable and sometimes I want to curl into the comfort of a day to day which challenges my grim determination to rinse and repeat those things I already know I can do. But sometimes; sometimes you need to realise what you are capable of, what happens when you clench your teeth, ignore the taste of blood throw yourself through your next step and nearly fall over the other edge of yourself. Standing and looking at the trail of despairing moments and spots of perfect achievement it does dawn on you that this is more living than we do with a lot of our lives. A famous man once said: “too many people die at 25, but aren’t buried until they are 75.” This is the truth behind everything I can say about our trip, It was beautiful, it was hard and took everything we had. But it was living.