Mount Everest stands at 8848 metres. Its base camp is at 5364m. Its around 40km to trek there from the Himalayan town of Lukla, situated 2800m above sea level.
The only way to get there is to fly.
And its runway is only 200 metres long.
And uphill.
This is going to be interesting
My story in Nepal had started badly. Crossing in from India on foot, I had arrived at the border town of Kalabhittar feeling decidedly unwell. But the bus to Kathmandu was to take me overnight allowing me the chance for some much needed sleep.
If only I’d known.
The first thing that went wrong was my seat allocation. The rather harangued Nepalese man at the bus ticket counter gave me the back seat on the next one leaving to the country’s capital. He gave me the impression that this was a bit of a bonus option.
It didn’t take long to realize that this was not to be the case. On boarding, every other seat was a semi recliner offering a degree of comfort and stability on this mammoth journey.
Mine was a loose plank of wood, an unmovable backrest and a cushion that seem to enjoy sliding forward.
On top of that, the 5 bottoms the back seat was supposed to fit, was going to accommodate 6.
It wasn’t nice though realizing this was to be my home for the next 17 hours.
Thing was the journey was to take 14 hours because of a very impatient driver. And this proved no advantage. As the idea to burn it to Kathmandu in as little time as possible seemed to bypass the state of Nepal’s broken and bumpy roads.
Its very bumpy roads.
I was first launched from my seat upwards within minutes of setting off. Soon after my head hit the ceiling. Twice during the night while I fought vainly to get sleep I headbutted the seat in front.
I wasn’t alone in my grief. Even the local woman who had squeezed her sizeable posterior next to mine would curse blue in Nepalese every time our compressed, numb arses would literally lift us into the air.
I was on a mobile bucking bronco, and after 14 hours of virtually no sleep, I was a broken man.
But my arrival in Kathmandu offered comfort in the shape of the Kathmandu Guest House – the country’s most famous Hotel – situated in the town’s tourist quarter of Thamel.
Signs everywhere declared that this place had once been inhabited by The Beatles amongst its other luminaries. It seemed a shame though that the expensive paved slab they had commissioned to celebrate this had fallen foul of the spell checker and declared that the Beetles had once graced its presence.
Still it was comfortable and offered me a morning’s asylum.
After a little snooze I headed into Thamel’s heaving streets – littered with signs for treks, adventure experiences, internet facilities, money exchanges and happy hours – to start to formulate a plan to conquer Base Camp.
It took no time at all to realize that though I was leaving it very late in the season, it was perfectly feasible. And imperfectly expensive.
However, if that was what it was going to take, then so be it. Agencies offered me guides and porters to ensure the safety and ease of the trek, and it was still cheaper than booking it from England. I tried in vain to join other groups already on their way, but due to my timetable – it was the 9th, but I couldn’t leave until the 16th – they didn’t have anything booked in to accommodate.
So I kept shopping around. Walking through the streets of Thamel, reminded me of India, touts and hawkers curbing your every step. And like my training in India I was getting very good at shirking their advances.
Until a curious lapse in my otherwise stubborn facade. After having just seen a good street front agency run by an ex-Gurkha who was quite convincing in his pitch, a tout came out of nowhere promising 'good price' on trekking. But instead of dismissing him as I had done with all of his predecessors, I listened. Not only did I listen but I even followed him. Perhaps it was the good feeling that I got from the previous agency, that I was sure would be my final choice, allowing me to feel that I didn’t mind wasting a little time making this tout’s day.
He took me to the back of this shop, up some narrow stairs into a tiny office that no one would have seen from the streets. The whole time I was thinking, what am I doing? I could just abandon this guy and go and do something… ooh I don’t know… fun!?
Little did I know when I entered the shop how much it would change the outlook of my upcoming adventure.
Ryan Kelly is a long haired, crazy mustachioed American from Carson City, Nevada. Growing up around Lake Tahoe and its surrounding mountains had given him a real joy of the outdoors, and after leaving the army at 18 he took this sense of adventure and travelled the world, including 3 years of teaching English in Thailand.
His carefree, spirited attitude can charm even the most stoic Nepalese matriarch, and even a cynical Brit can quickly see past his American surfer/stoner persona and demeanour to see a man of warmth and intelligence.
He had been sitting in Vista agency organizing a trek to Everest Base Camp. His journey would start from Jiri - 5 days walk from Lukla, and the only place to start from the road. I walked in just before the proprietor produced the final quote.
‘$1200???? Dude, that’s way over my budget.’
‘Is good price. 21 days walking, all food, lodges. Very good. You can check elsewhere’
I was sitting there waiting to see the man behind the counter myself. And I’m not the most shyest of people. While he faffed with printing off the breakdown of the quote, I ran a proposition by Ryan.
‘If you don’t mind leaving from Lukla, and saving yourself a few days, especially as I can’t leave till the 15th why don’t we split the cost of everything together.’
Ryan quickly showed himself as a man of reason. So we turned back together to the Mister Vista and double teamed him on getting the best price for our guides and porters.
After successfully getting him down to around $600 each, without food and lodging we left with the promise of sleeping on it before we came to a decision.
Fate again has wonderful habit of sticking its nose in though.
As barely had Ryan taken a foot outside the door when he bumped into a fellow American who had just returned from doing the trek on his own.
No guide, no porter, no drama.
Ryan and me however were not so foolish as to believe that we had anything on this experienced trekker, so we agreed to meet later for drinks to mull over our options.
Fate has a wonderful habit of sticking its nose in though.
This time it was me. Back at the Kathmandu Guest House I got talking to a large group of English lads from Lancashire. And these were not experienced trekkers.
‘Mate, it’s the hardest thing we’ve ever done. 9 of us went up and only 6 of us made it. Other 3 ‘ad to be helicoptered out. But I gotta tell you, getting up there without any guide or porter was best thing I’ve done. Mate it was fucking brilliant.’
It was weird how I chose to ignore the ‘helicoptered out’ remark. If these lads could do it then maybe…
…just maybe.
Alcohol has a wonderful habit of sticking its nose in.
Me and Ryan that night, over the course of 2 for 1 cocktails at Mayas, very quickly started to follow a very dangerous train of thought. By the time our night had taken us to the local Irish Bar, where we bumped into the English Lads, delirious after their achievement, jumping up and down to the sounds of a rather ropey Nepalese covers band, we reached the same conclusion.
We were going to Everest Base Camp on our own.
No guides. No porters… but lets hold the drama for now.
It was still the 9th and our plan was to fly out to Lukla on the 15th – that gave us 5 days to recruit any other foolish gringos and get our shit together.
And there was a lot to get together.
And by the next day I had already started to have doubts.
Luckily the arrival of my sister, 5 nights at the 5 star Crowne Plaza and the joy of spending time with her crucially curbed those doubts from gaining any momentum.
However all good things must come to end, and before long it was time to say goodbye to the Gwynnster.
I set off in a taxi at 6am on the Monday morning of the 15th November, to Kathmandu domestic airport, my bag filled with map, sleeping bag, fleece, down jacket, a camel bak (kindly donated by the Lancashire lads), fake-North face gear and enough glucose biscuits to feed a army of sherpas.
Bleary eyed, I already started to miss my 5 star bed, and knew that comfort was going to be a hard thing to come by over the next 2 weeks.
At the airport I met Ryan and our new recruit.
Thomas Hilber is a 22 year old Austrian DJ, who had never left home, bar a school trip to Germany. His fresh faced, wide eyed attitude to a life outside – and vastly different – to his country was to be ultimately endearing…
…though initially slightly concerning considering we were taking him on a hugely challenging trek. At the altitude we were heading to there would be no room for mistakes or inexperience.
And I was already far too worried about my own inexperience.
Still our mantra was step by step, no rush, we all had time on our hands, so we could keep risks at a minimum.
We met, we greeted, we checked in…
…and quickly realized our 7.30am flight was delayed due to the bad weather conditions at Lukla.
No matter. We would chill, play some shithead (which we had just taught Thomas) and wait.
And wait.
And…
‘Excuse me, exactly what time are we leaving today’
‘Leaving today?’ A English woman’s voice perked up beside me at the airline desk. I turned to face her. ‘You’ll be lucky. We’ve been waiting 4 days for a flight now, but Lukla airport’s been closed every day.’
Bollocks.
As after that the floodgates opened. The stories from other travelers started to pour out of the woodwork.
‘I’ve been here 5 days’
‘I’m having to pay for a helicopter for $600 to take me’
‘We’re scrapping it and going Pokhara instead to do another trek’
Soon Ryan, Thomas and I were having to face the prospect of a huge wait to start our trek, or the prospect of extortionate helicopter prices.
However, we consoled ourselves with the knowledge that this was a first day – and time was one thing we had in relative abundance. After nothing had changed by 3pm, when the airlines stop running, we decided to reschedule our flights at the office.
But first we had to wait for 2 Bristolians, Craig and Steve to do theirs. Steve sat down in the office, surrounded by the mayhem of our airline reps running around and shouted ‘IS ANYONE GOING TO SERVE ME’.
Interesting approach I thought. Glad to know our British charm is so visible.
It worked though, and piggy backing on Steve’s belligerent manner we had our tickets rescheduled for the same flight tomorrow. Bad news was that the forecast was looking ropey.
Still, tomorrow was another day.
Except, on waking, it wasn’t. Arriving on Tuesday morning, the weather had hit it out of the park. Fog. Everywhere.
Landing on 200m of tarmac would be fatal.
So positions were resumed. Shithead dealt, the affable whingeing ensued and a new crop of frustrated travelers were met… but at least the price of helicopters were coming down.
At $200 this needed some serious thought. Could we? We could? It would mean losing out on a bit of cash, but seeing how much we’re saving on not having guides, its not a real drama is it? No. You up for it? I’m for it. Right lets do it!
The plan was set we were to cancel out tickets and chopper out. We asked the man, when?
‘Soon, soon. Soon, soon’
Brilliant. That is until Geovanni from Atlanta dashed our spirits.
‘I’ve been waiting 5 days for a chopper. I’ve already paid $500 for it. But all you get everyday is ‘soon, soon’
AAAAAAGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!! This was turning into a nightmare. Though you know travelling will be beset by waiting and frustration, this was the one thing I needed to get done, and the waiting was doing a great job of ratcheting up my nerves, my fear, my dread, my-
‘LUKLA’S OPEN!’
Out of nowhere, Craig’s west country voice cut through the chitchat like a Gurkha knife through butter.
And Kathmandu Domestic Airport, a prison for many, a morgue filled with down and depressed travelers sprung into life with military precision.
At 11.30am, we were sitting on a Agni Airlines Flight 103.
Surely we can’t be…
But the engines of the plane started, the propellers deafening its sitting attendees, and with sweets in mouth and cotton balls in our ears, we were off.
And in all our excitement, there was one thing that had kind of slipped our minds. The runway at Lukla is only 200 metres long. And uphill.
There will be nothing quite like the sight through the cockpit window of the strip of tarmac the size of my old school drive emerging from the side of a huge mountain that we seem to be racing straight for.
And then, in seconds, its upon us. The wheels smack with no great finesse onto runway, the plane’s frightening forward momentum showing no signs of abating. The pilot flings his hands back to brake in a sudden and clinical movement, and the stone wall that we’re rattling towards that will end our days….
…stays where it is: comfortably away from our plane.
I have to say that landing will live long in the memory.
We disembarked, joked about the landing, checked our pants, picked up our bags, bought water, looked around at Lukla, chatted to locals, and found the path out.
It was to be 3 hours to Phakding our first nights stop.
And finally, after nightmare buses, huge shopping lists, delayed flights, route planning, and tiring Thamel…
…this was it. The moment had arrived.
The trek could begin.
