Day 1: Lukla (2860m) to Phakding (2610m). Est. trekking time 2.5 hours
Lukla has a Starbucks
The town that launches you onto the world famous Everest Base Camp trek, the town that can only be accessed by the most dangerous airport in the world unless you’re willing to walk 5 days through ‘bandit country’ from Jiri…
…still manages to get itself a Starbucks
Bastards
In truth, its Nepal’s classic way of selling you something that is ‘Same, same but different’ (as per my fake North Face T-shirt). Not official, but I doubt the forces of Starbucks can really be arsed to take it on. Can’t imagine the writ’s an easy thing to deliver.
Ryan Kelley, Tomas Hilber and I have arrived via the most intense landing I’ve ever experienced in our attempt to climb to Base Camp on our own. Without guides or porters. Just armed with map, full backpacks and a load of Buddha’s nuts.
The day we arrive is the 1st day for 5 days the airport has been open. We knew we were lucky to have got our flight, but the fact is endorsed as we pass lines and lines of desperate, weathered tourists pining for their plane back to the traffic and noise of Kathamandu.
Lukla’s not a place for those on a tight schedule.
Luckily we have time on our hands, something that we continually use to reassure us in this mammoth undertaking. There’s no rush – the first sign of altitude sickness we stop. We get into trouble – we stop.
Pity this mantra didn’t last long.
The crowds of people didn’t stop at the airport fence. The trail from Lukla immediately reminds you of how popular the Everest region is for trekking. We walk with and past huge groups of tourists with their guides and porters in tow, making it feel like 8.30am on the Aston Expressway. We know the further up we go, the crowds will lessen, but its still quite a surprise to see this amount of people of the trail.
And before too long the Yaks put in an appearance.
And when loaded down with goods that supply the surrounding villages – that the Sherpa can’t carry – the Yak isn’t the most accommodating of animals. It’s either get out of their way, or coming through you.
We heard tales of travelers being gored, or bumped off cliffs by these huge creatures (huge when the path you’re dealing with is only a couple of feet wide) so we were sticking flat against the mountainside. Not too easy when your backpack sticks out a foot itself.
But today was going to an easy day. A 200 metre descent to Phakding – the first overnight stop, before tomorrow’s long day. Me and Ryan actually made it in little under 2 hours, but Thomas didn’t.
Though we knew he hadn’t had much trekking experience, we didn’t account for how slow he would be. Looking at him, young, fit and able you wouldn’t have thought, but his short labored strides soon started to give me a resurgence of those doubts. We were all sworn to look out for each other and do it together, but could Thomas actually make it? Especially as at between 2600 and 2800 we weren;t even scratching the surface of the toils ahead.
Thomas arrived eventually, feeling spritely, but a little tired. We’d found rooms at the ‘See You Lodge’, dumped our bags and headed into town.
It would be lovely to say that these towns gave us a real insight into how the Himalyan Nepalese live. But I doubt if Phakding’s Reggae Bar was created for the Nepalese’s penchant for Afro-Caribbean beats.
Still you do get some sense of the isolation with goods and food suddenly at premium prices due to the prices of basic stuff – like water – being hiked up to extortionate prices.
No matter. Phakding, on the side of the valley route that would eventually take us into the mountains and the Khumbu glacier was a beautiful spot, surrounded by huge pine trees with the Dhodi Kosi (Milk River) thundering away at its foot – it’s creamy blue appearance lending itself its name.
We met Craig and Steve – the angry Bristolians – who were planning to make their way to Monjo, another hour and a half away late in the afternoon. They were less angry, though within minutes of saying goodbye, it
We pottered, we slept, we ate and prepared ourselves for the big step up.
Namche Bazar
Day 2: Phakding (2610m) to Namche Bazar (3420m): Est. trekking time 6 hours
The climb up to Namche Bazar is not for the fainthearted.
No siree.
It is what is commonly known in the trade as an ‘absolute bitch’ of a climb.
The path to its root is a pleasant meandering one. Taking you from Phakding, skirting along the banks over the Dhodi Kosi, crossing wide, bending, wobbling metal wire suspension bridges, through small towns and villages and finally into Sagarmatha National Park.
Sargarmatha is the Nepalese christened name for Mount Everest – for some reason the Nepalese don’t insist on its English name after Welsh Surveyor George Everest. Can’t think why.
Strangely, Sagarmatha (Goddess of the Sky) isn’t actually the mountain’s original name. Long before old taff George earned his legacy – and though Tibetan in origin – it had gone by the moniker of Qomolangma (Saint Mother). But in the early 60’s the Nepalese, feeling a little left out after the English and Tibetans had penned their titles to its majestic mast, decided its people needed to have its own name for it.
So with all our permits stamped and our entries logged (you know, in case we get lost and die), we entered the Everest – oops – Qomolangma – sorry – Sagarmatha National Park.
The track gets us closer to the river. We cross our last suspension bridge. And we look up. Up and up and up.
Almost 1km above us lies the busy, bustling mountain town of Namche Bazar – with its lodges and bakeries, market and bars selling scandalously priced beer. But we’re not there yet. And with one foot in front of the other, we start our climb.
In 2 hours I would reach Namche – tired, sweaty but nowhere near as exhausted as I’d anticipated. It was the first time a little light flicked on inside my head, a light illuminated me to the potential that I could do this, I could reach Base Camp.
Not only that, but I could perhaps push myself a little more.
The guide books advise that you take an acclimatization day in Namche, getting used to the altitude before the higher climes of the following days.
But I’m not too patient. I had this sense that I could do this quicker. I felt fit and ready after my Indian Himalyan trek, and when Ryan trundled into town just 10 minutes after me, I vocalized my intent. He was in agreement.
The biggest hurdle we were against was Thomas. He had been slow today, but was at the same pace of a couple of people we had met at the Lodge the previous night, so we had left him in good company.
But if he had struggled up that climb, finally trudging into town, exhausted and spent, I needed to curb my eagerness.
Just an hour later he arrived.
I had been sitting there waiting, getting edgy and nervous – what was the rest of the trek going to be like with Thomas? Was he to be the reason that I might not do it? Did I have to align myself with him? Why did he suddenly become my responsibility?
Craig and Steve – the furious, bitter, anger ridden Bristolians from Lukla airport, who were increasingly making mincemeat out of my first impression by being quite cheerful and friendly – told me he was going to be 2 hours behind them, and I had really started to panic.
But good ol’ Thomas, head-in-the-clouds, cheerfully camp, and wonderfully innocent Thomas walked into town a mere 20 minutes after the 2 West Country heavyweights.
He wasn’t 100%. He had really struggled, but then a lot had. He had found it overwhelming, but the unrelenting nature of the mountains was a long way from his home in Austria. And he was only 22.
Our decision to move on was left with him, and how he would feel the following morning. We stressed that whatever he wanted to do, would be fine by us, and decided to take an early night to mull it over. In the mountains, as bedtime is around 8pm, he turned in at 6.
Me and Ryan went to a nearby pool bar next to our lodge (Buddha Lodge), covered head to foot in T-Shirts signed in achievement of the respective treks. Countries from all over the world (saw a couple of Chilean oones!) were represented, stretching back over years. It gave me that thirst for success, that urge to be one of those characters etched in the history of the trek, to come back with my own tale of endurance to pin up on the bar wall.
But we had a long way to go.
And the hurdle of Thomas to get over first.
Day 3: Namche Bazar (3420m) to Pangboche (3860m): Est. trekking time: 6 hours
Thomas was fine
He was raring to go.
In actual fact, the person who was suffering was me. Oh, the cruel twist of fate… or maybe Karma? I had a mild headache. The reason could have been anything – mild dehydration, hat head – but at altitude its hard not to panic about Acute Mountain Sickness. Anything that doesn’t feel right, suddenly becomes magnified, and only the foolish tend to ignore it
Foolishly, I ignored it. Bought some ibuprofen to deal with it, packed up and went along our way. But the headache wouldn’t shake. I started to get worried.
But the worry had good little side effect. I drank a lot of water. I had 2 litres of it in my Camel Bak, and kept reaching for it every few minutes. Sip, walk, sip, walk… and what had started to be diagnosed as AMS in my head, turned out to be mild dehydration. As we walked along high mountainside paths, bare of the pine trees that had sheltered our path below, I started to feel the headache fade, and my confidence return.
And Thomas was in fine fettle, chatting to a German couple as he skipped along behind us.
We dipped suddenly a couple of hundred metres (I wasn’t going to enjoy that climb on the way back), crossed the bridge and prepared for 600 metre climb to the monastery town of Tengboche, which boasts the highest ‘German Bakery’ in the world.
With my renewed confidence (and my iPod urging me on) I scaled it in little over an hour and a half. I arrived at the top to a stunning plateau, that looked gave us the first clear view of the valley we were heading into, flanked by huge white mountains on either side. I met Ryan at the Bakery and we discussed options.
It was only 12pm, and if we chilled out here – depending on Thomas – we could still make the 2 hour trek to Pangboche, a little further up the valley before dark.
Thomas, a little beaten and tired, turned up 40 minutes later. And after sampling the bakery’s rather magnificent food, we set out.
The path from Tengboche to Pangboche takes you through a Rhododendron Forest, down to the river, and up back onto the high paths of the mountains, our of the trees and back to barren heath terrain. We entered Pangboche passed small fields where they still farm potatoes and veg, echoes from when it used to be the last village before Base Camp, before the juggernaut of tourism had its say.
We were tired but happy, pleased with our decision to skip an acclimatization day in Namche. Our lodge – the Om Kailash – provided us with a hot wood burning stove that staved off the cold from outside, fuelled by the Yaks dung the owner had collected throughout the year.
Virtually all the woodburning stoves at this height are fuelled on dry dung, which takes around 6 months to dry properly for fuel. And a hell of a lot of shit went into keeping us warm that night.
The plan was set that night (in and amongst a group of 10 loud Germans, who told us to be quiet during a game of Shithead – there are some moments where you just have to bite your tongue...). We going Dingboche, finally going above 4000m, and much closer now we’d walked the extra 2 hours to Pangboche. And we were definitely, DEFINITELY going to spend an acclimatization day there.
It’s funny how things work out.
Day 4: Pangboche (3860m) to Dingboche (4330m): Est. trekking time 3 hours
Good old Craig and Steve.
Do you remember the old mardy bums from the airport, they’re not a bad pair. In fact, I quite like them, in fact…
Within an hour of setting out to Dingboche, 3 became 5.
I, the only one out of our 3 who had any idea of route and destination (it took Ryan till day 5 to pick up a guide book and read about our trek) managed to drop the map soon after leaving Pangboche. Cursing to myself, I ran back along the route and bumped into Craig and Steve - both from Bristol but now living in London.
‘We’re all heading in the same direction,’ they said, ‘so just use ours for the moment – you could always buy a map in Dingboche’.
They had set out from Pangboche as well, which they reached after our recommendation when we saw them in Tengboche at lunchtime the previous day. Craig Basil, a copper in Hackney, thought it was worth the effort, and though Steve Smart – an Investment fund salesman based in Putney – was a little reticent, they followed our example.
So with our timetables and ultimate destination synced we all walked into Dingboche as a 5, along a much more flatter and gradual ascent, at the spritely hour of 11am.
And this was supposed to be our home for almost 48 hours.
We had been recommended a lodge that promised us that ‘We would Feel The Difference’. Difference was it was bloody locked.
Luckily the adorable Mama Nimi and her family took us into hers. Her delicious food, and gracious hospitality afforded us the comforts of home far away from ours. And other than burning my down jacket on her raging hot, dung fuelled stove (that’s my £50 deposit down the window then…), it was a wonderfully relaxed night. So relaxed, we felt a bit reckless.
The point is with altitude, is that sometimes little by little is better than nothing and then a lot. By that I mean if we had waited at Dingboche for another day at 4300, we would have over a 600m climb to Lobuche at 4900 and that was one hell of a jump in altitude.
So the decision was made to move on.
Not dramatically, but a little. 300m little. To a little camp called Duglha.
Thomas looked slightly concerned, so did Steve. But as the evening drew closer, and beddy bumbles beckoned, they came round to the idea. As always it was a case of ‘lets see how we feel in the morning’.
But the story was already being written.
We were flying up to Base Camp.
Lets hope it wasn’t a decision that was going to haunt us.
Day 5: Dingboche (4330m) to Dughla (4610m): Est. Trekking time 2 hours
We woke up late.
Well around 7.30am.
And that’s late. We coughed and spluttered a bit, but we were all fine. Mama Nimi brewed us up a sumptuous breakfast and filled us with tea and we were off again into the mountains.
The going had started to get tough, even with the relatively easy day we had in terms of distance. Our breathing was restricted, the terrain had changed – bleaker, more barren – with only the strongest of grass and moss surviving in little patches.
Once we were on top of the ridge of the hill sheltering Dingboche, we exposed on a wide plain, facing the cold wind coming from or too mountains. Paths scattered in front of us, with very little guidance of which to take. But we knew the general direction we needed to head, so it was a case of trudge on almost directly due north.
But we knew we were in the mountains by this point.
2 hours passed and Duglha came into sight.
Me and Ryan arrived first, with Craig, Steve and Thomas close behind.
There was only a single lodge, and it basked in the shadow of momentous climb we would have to undertake the next morning.
But that was to worry about the next day.
We settled, and made plans to aid our acclimatization, by aiming to climb a nearby hill to view a hidden lake we had seen on the way in. It would be a tough climb, but one without our packs.
Lunch was ordered and once again I had opted for noodle soup. Essentially the Himalayas are not a place for good cuisine. Every lodge is shackled by the same damn menu offering the same damn food. So if noodles, rice, potato and egg are not high on your menu then be prepared to compromise. Or starve.
Slightly bored of my noodle soup, I had asked for chilli sauce. Again this is occasionally a rare commodity up high, and the owner of our lodge – a charming jovial man who called himself Mr T – had an alternative. A homemade chilli pickle made with chillies the size of the fingernail on my pinky.
The old adage is that the smaller the chillies the stronger they are. And these were small. It was an adage I chose to ignore at great cost. I plumped for 3 of the little ring stingers, mashed them up and added them to my soup. 3 slurps in and I was struggling. Halfway through I was sweating. By the time I finished I was simmering.
My stomach was already posting complaints to operations board on my recklessness, but I had to ignore them to do our climb to the lake.
It was a another tough walk, but off the main track – isolated and peaceful. The altitude still held us in its grasp, every few steps bringing on a little gasp for extra Oxygen, but we reached the ridge pretty soon.
And so did the cloud. Steve and Thomas were a little behind, and when me, Ryan and Craig turned round, we realized we may have misjudged the ease of this. Resorting to shouting people’s names is a little uncouth, that maybe seperates the pro’s from the amateurs. But in this case it worked, and Steve and Thomas soon joined us to huddle behind a rock for shelter waiting for little glimpses of lake behind the stubborn cloud.
It was not a place to enjoy for too long, and my stomach was by this time standing by the customers services desk bellowing into intercom. So we retreated to the sanctuary of Mr T’s lodge – where everyone else was pink faced and happy with their days work.
But I was having serious trouble. A little thought, that had started by the lake, had grown to megaphone proportions inside my head. I might have food poisoning. My stomach was twisting and gargling, I was visiting the toilet and expelling from both ends. Surely this just can’t be the chilli? But I had eaten nothing that no one else had ate…
All I knew was that in this state I couldn’t carry on. Thomas as well, perhaps on seeing the state of me, was starting to criticize the rate we were going up.
‘Why so fast? I don’t know?’
I was usually the loudest voice in our plans conviction, but I couldn’t argue, slumped in my chair and arm grasping my stomach. Even the games of shithead were doing nothing to distract me from my pain – and the frustration of getting into this state.
I never returned from my latest toilet exit, crashing on my bed and hoping that my army of chocolate bourbons in my bag could take on the poison rebels in my belly and stage a Henry V type recovery.
Sleep came quickly, but my worries plagued my dreams.
Day 6: Duglha (4610m) to Gorak Shep (5160m): Est. trekking 6 hours
With a sigh of relief – from both ends – I woke to the cracking news that I felt alright. Better than alright. I felt pretty damn good. And at over 4500 metres that’s good news for anyone.
Swearing to lay off the chillies till I was safely down, Mr T cooked us up brekkie, and we were off.
Our plan had been to hit Lobuche, still a destination short of our intended highest resting point of Gorak Shep – the base camp for Base Camp so to speak. But Mr T – a true veteran of the area, had, in his unassuming way, got the cogs turning by saying ‘Lobuche good, but if feel good, Gorak Shep okay.’
This was huge, and had caused a fierce debate amongst us that had lasted from the night before to morning.
We’ve been lucky so far, so real affects of altitude… but we’re ahead of schedule, so why push ourselves… but it’s a gradual climb from Lobuche to Gorak… but Gorak’s over 5000m, and the whole point of heading to Duglha was about increasing our altitude in the little increments…
One big factor was Kala Pattar. This stands at 5550 metres, a peak that offers the only clear site of Everest itself and accessed from Gorak Shep. Could we do Base Camp and Kala Pattar in one day, in fact tomorrow? Because this is what we were tying ourselves into. We didn’t want to spend longer than we needed to at over 5,000 metres so we had to be sure.
The clincher was always going to be our bags. Climbing normally, without our packs the day before had been tough. Add 10 to 15 kilos on your back, and it becomes a whole different proposition. We knew we were risking a lot, but if we reached Lobuche and felt fine, then pushed onto Gorak Shep, we were facing no more altitude climbing with our packs. And if we could blitz EBC and Kala Pattar in one day, in 2 mornings time we were heading down.
So we set off for Lobuche.
And immediately things started to unravel. We climbed the first big ridge after Duglha, and found it really tough, only to rock up to another. Ryan, Craig and I waited at the bottom for Thomas and Steve. We were all finding it tough to breathe, but Steve was having real issues.
Thing is Steve’s a proud man, and kept it under his hat as best he could.
We reached the top of the next climb, which led us out onto a ridge full of memorial stones to climbers who perished on the mountain side. I found the one to Scott Fischer, who died in the tragic loss of 12 climbers in May 1996, detailed in Jon Kraukaur’s book Into Thin Air.
It brought home, though a fraction of what it takes to conquer the mountain, the feats it takes to get this high. And it should have brought home how no one, no matter how confident you, should ever underestimate the danger of the mountains.
Lobuche gave us that chance. We arrived for early lunch, with enough time for us to chill and take stock of how we were feeling. I was finding the going tough, but still okay to push onto Gorak. Thomas was ready to stay in Lobuche, Craig and Ryan chose Gorak.
Unbeknown to me, Steve had found that last leg really hard. He was struggling with his breathing. He was taking Dymoxin steadily to combat AMS. He had popped a couple of my strong Ibuprofen. But the one thing that Steve is a cool customer. And on the face of it, he was alright. Willing to push on.
Thomas came round to our way of thinking. It was still early, and Lobuche offers very little. If he was still okay to walk – which he declared he was – what would he do all day in Lobuche?
So Gorak Shep was our next stop. Bridging the 5000m gap in the afternoon which offered 50% oxygen to feed our lungs while scrambling over rocky terrain and sizeable boulders, over endless ridges and twisting paths was one of the toughest afternoons of my life.
The one bonus is that we could see the Khumbu Glacier ahead of us, slipping up into the bosom of the hidden Everest, a beacon of achievement and glory, the foot of which hosting Base Camp, and the final resting place of my flag to my dear friend. The one single thought that had kept me going the past 5 days.
Push on. Push on.
We had separated like a mortar bomb, the climb and altitude affecting us at different rates and times. I’d walk, breathing heavily in a ferocious rhythmic motion, just to feed my starving lungs in their vain attempt to support my journey. My head was constantly down, negotiating its way along paths that would disappear in the face of boulders and rock.
But Gorak Shep wasn’t going to be hidden forever. And finally a crossed a ridge and saw a building. Wait, 2! And some people – that’s Ryan. And… is that people playing volleyball?
Seeing Gorak Shep was one of the greatest moments of my life, let alone the trek. We had some work to do, but finally we were in sight of the finishing line. And nestled among a bowl of Himalayan peaks, it was one of the most stunning places on earth.
Gradually we all trickled in, exhausted and broken, but elated that we’d all made it.
We were nearly there, surely nothing could stop us?
Then Steve started complaining of a headache. Not just any headache, but one that was felt like it was crushing his skull. Coupled with that, his cough had worse. A lot worse, which only aggravated the pain in his head everytime one of his uncontrollable spasms hit.
He taken enough Diomoxyn to cure a Japanese tour group, and tasting a lot of my ibuprofen.
Bedtime came with serious doubts. We arrived together, we wanted to do this together. But there are some things in life not worth the sacrifice it might entail.
Day 7: Everest Base Camp (5364m), Kala Pattar (5550m)
Steve Smart is a big lad.
Not big in fat way, but built.
His time at the gym gives him the look of someone not be messed with. And when that size of man coughs with a chest infection, stand back.
Our night had been plagued with Steve’s spasms, ringing through the lodge like a Yak in a china shop. We woke up, fully expecting Steve – and us – to be making rapid plans to get down.
But Steve Smart is a machine. And no bottler.
‘I’m pukka mate. Don’t worry about me. Lets get to Base Camp’
Nuff said.
His sleep had been fitful, (so had ours) but his cocktail of drugs had seemed to work. We had been reckless, we knew, but someone had been looking over us. And when things had seemed at their worse, our fortunes would change suddenly. But this was dangerous for us now, and we couldn’t take any chances.
But Steve Smart is a man to listen to. And if he says we go, we go.
The trek to Everest Base Camp is incredible.
You head straight for the Khumbu Glacier, the same slab of ice you see in photos or on documentaries, its broken edge footing a steep sheet of ice that leads you up to Everest and its peak.
You pinch yourself as you walk. Are we really here? This can’t be it? But its there in front of you, like a HD image on a 1000 inch plasma screen, getting closer and closer until…
The path appears and disappears. You scramble up and down over loose rock, and then out of nowhere you reach a little ridge, a multitude of flags, and a huge rock bearing the name of the biggest thing on your mind since you left home.
‘Everest Base Camp. 5364m. 50% O2’
Its so unassuming you could walk right past it. But in the months of March to May, the place is filled with climbers ready to take on the roof of the world.
I had made it. The highest I had ever been, and the single biggest thing I’ve done. Beneath the phenomenal Khumbu Glacier no longer seems a staple image from the National Geographic, but a living, touchable natural wonder.
After our photos were taken, me and Ryan went into the heart of the glacier, surrounded by towering walls of ice, slipping but coping, laughing and joking, with sudden relief of our achievement gradually sinking in.
But you can’t waste too much time at 5,300m. So we headed back, because there was still one thing in our way. The 5550m peak of Kala Pattar.
Thomas had already decided EBC was enough for him, so he stayed behind with a German he had befriended so we could get back quickly to do the remaining peak.
We arrived back at Gorak Shep shattered, buoyed and happy, but more than a little concerned about Kala Pattar.
To put into context, its just a 1km walk. But a 1km walk that gains 400 metres. Which almost equates to a 45 degree angle.
This was going to a real bitch of a climb. We debated over lunch the feasibility of doing it. After all, cloud was setting in, so seeing Everest would be unlikely. Was it worth it? We were feeling drained after EBC which added to the argument of not doing Kala Pattar.
But you don’t walk the world to not see everything.
And so, as the clock turned 2.30pm, 2 hours before sunset, we headed up. We were concerned with Steve, the biggest voice in the anti Kala Pattar camp, but he wasn’t going to shirk this last challenge.
From the bottom, Kala Pattar looks – in the words of Craig Basil – ‘a piece of piss’. But it’s a fucker, a downright, dirty, cheating fucker of a peak.
It pushes you to its last available breath, when your supplies of Oxygen well into the reserve tanks, when your legs are screaming at you to relent…
…but when you cross the last visible ridge, the one you think will give you the golden ticket to its peak, it smiles at you with a malevolent twisted smile, and says ‘Uh uh. You’ve got a little bit more to go’. And the blow to the soul you feel when you see that ‘the little bit more to go’, is another almost sheer face climb of at least a 100 metres can shatter even the strongest of spirits.
Step, step, breath, breath, step, step, breath BREEEEEAAAAAAATTTTTHHHHH. There is never enough Oxygen in the world when you’re this high, and the joy of breathing normally is a privilege long since left behind and forgotten.
It was the most physically draining hour of my life to reach the top of Kala Pattar. Me, Ryan and Craig had arrived together. Everest wasn’t showing, but we didn’t care.
We’d hit 5550m. And a peak. Needless to say the view, with or without Everest was stunning, as we stood proud elevated surrounded 360 degrees by snowcapped mountains, as if we were holding court. It was time to celebrate.
Almost time to celebrate. Because in our haste to reach the top, there was something missing. Steve. It took Steve another hour to reach the top. This should have been beyond him. Any normal man would have turned back, and if you have AMS that’s the only thing you should do.
But step by step, one foot in front of the other, the man mountain Steve Smart hit the peak Kala Pattar.
Together finally, we took our photo, and headed down, not too angry at Everest who was having one of shy days, but thrilled that we had done everything we had set out to do:
We had conquered Base Camp, and climbed Kala Pattar.
And the only thing left to do was go down.
Steve struggled badly that night, worse than the night before fighting for breath in between his coughing spasms. But the owner of the lodge had given him an Oxygen inhaler and that had started his eventual recovery.
We had had beers to celebrate, and signed the T-Shirt we were to pin to the wall of the lodge.
The day had taken its toll on us, though. We were a group of exhausted, hairy, smelly lads who had had the last drop of energy expunged from their broken bodies.
But nothing could take away the achievement of what we had done.
And for every time I woke gasping for breath that night, it was thought that soothed me back to sleep.
Day 8 to 10: The way down
Teachers have this habit of falling sick, the minute the school holidays start. Its like they’ve been on adrenaline the whole time, and the minute there’s nothing left to do, the viruses and germs attack their immune system, and their body just puts its hands up and says, ‘crack on’.
I woke up and felt like shit.
My body was weak and limp, my throat sore, my head heavy – the cold affecting every last bit of space inside. I had nothing left to give. And though we were heading down, the prospect of lifting that bag onto my shoulders and walking anywhere felt beyond me.
Steve on the other hand was alright.
Bastard.
Knowing full well what that man had been through, there was no way I was going to kick up a fuss about this.
So we headed down, passing towns that had taken us whole days to get to, in the space of a morning.
The first night we stayed in Pangboche, at the same Lodge as on the way up. The next day saw us lunch in Tengboche – and have a proper walk round the monastery – and stay overnight in Namche Bazar.
And in true full circle style, Ryan, Craig, Steve and I went for one drink at the pool bar next to Buddha Lodge that a week ago I had sat in admiring everyone else’s achievements. But we were there to admire ours, and the 40 beers we ploughed through at 3400m, certainly helped us do that.
I reached Lukla around 4pm, Thursday 25th November. The rest followed quickly after.
The guidebooks say that it should take you 10 days to reach Base Camp.
We’d done it in 7. And while we knew we had taken risks, BIG risks, we knew we had done it our way.
No porters, no guides, no drama… well maybe a little
But we had visited most of the unforgiving places in the world and survived. We even heard how a young lad had died at Base Camp the day after we left, how a German guy passed away the week before on the nearby Gokyo trek.
But it just fuelled our pride that we had come, we had seen – walked a little bit – and conquered.
And with that behind us, in the minds of Ryan Kelley, Thomas Hilber, Steve Smart, Craig Basil and Danny Gwynne, there are memories that will last forever.
RIP Dutch
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