by Fergus White
We say our goodbyes and leave Kunde. We’ll descend to Namche by a different route. We amble along, our bodies busy coping in the thinning air near 4,000 metres. We stroll for less than an hour, along a flat track, to a village where Edmund Hillary helped build a school. I loiter at the rear of the gang, enjoying the repartee with the lads around me. An al fresco group pee behind a bush breaks down barriers further in this new team. My mind is on the job that I’m here to do, and I delight in registering a clear stream. The body is hydrated, and my kidneys expel more evil alkaline.
At the village I pick up a bottle of Coke. The liquid and sugar will trump my earlier mass hydration. Everything I do this week is to get me fat and healthy to Base Camp.
“An Irishman who turns down alcohol but then has a coke,” Roger says. “They’ll take away your passport.”
“What can I say, no excuse.”
We hike through a small forest. On its far side we stumble upon a building. The large construction looks more recent than the Sherpa homes. It has the air of a castle and a spooky Norman Bates feel. Steps lead up to a mystery door that hasn’t been opened in some time.
“What on earth is this?” Doug asks.
“It was a hotel for rich tourists,” Ted says. “They could view Everest from here.”
Through the clouds, there’s no hint the peak can be seen.
“They’d arrive by helicopter and land just over there.” Ted points. “Having not acclimatised at all, a donkey and oxygen tank were available, if needed, to get them to the door.”
On this grey afternoon, it seems the most bizarre location on the planet to raise a structure this size. Scant grass and green bushes are all that surround it. What insanity led someone to build this here? But the surrounding wall wasn’t built in vain. I jump over it for my fourth pee since lunch. Drinking and peeing as much as possible was the strategy, but I must have a word with Dr Greg later about the volumes.
We ramble on and cross the far end of the grassy airstrip we saw this morning. This takes us to a ridge, below which lies Namche. We should make it back to the lodge within the hour.
We follow rocky steps down a steep section, most of the way to the village. Today has taken little out of me. At the edge of town Greg elbows me.
“The woman talking to Charlene.”
“Yeah, what about her?”
“That’s her.”
“That’s who?”
“That’s the other woman, you dummy. That’s the one Charlene’s racing against.”
“I got you. Are they friends?”
“You tell me,” Greg says.
I observe them from a few metres. It’s all a bit too polite, a little cold.
“There’s no love lost there. I think the race is on. She’s in good shape too.”
“Yeah, she runs ultra-marathons, and I heard she’s got a lot more experience than Charlene. Let’s see what happens up high.”
“We’ll see. By the way,” I leave the ladies behind us, “I’m peeing like a race horse, I mean, like non-stop. Is this normal?”
“That’s the plan,” he says. “Your body has figured out what it needs to do. Just keep drinking.”
Altitude Graph
April 4
Trek from Namche (3,400m) to Pangboche (3,800m)
We’ll hit the trail again today. We’ll push out of Namche and trek up the valley into the wilderness.
I enjoy breakfast with the team and drink as much as I can take on board. Word reaches us that Roger has suffered a bad night. I look around the table but can’t see him. He’s been vomiting since midnight and might not be out of the woods yet.
“Will he rest here and recover?” I ask.
“No,” Ted says. “He’ll travel with us.”
Roger faces a brutal day. I hope his body is up to it.
The gradient out of Namche with a loaded pack asks more of me than I’d expected. Greg and I toil near the rear. My raised breathing reminds me of the altitude. But my discomfort pales in comparison to the man beside me.
“I heard you’d a bad one, Roger. Take it easy today,” I say.
“Bad? Worse than that.”
“Has it passed?”
“I got locked in the room while you guys had breakfast. I had to throw up in a plastic bag.”
“God, that’s some start to the day.”
This man should be in bed. I can’t understand why he hasn’t been left here today to recover. Ang Nama or his personal Sherpa could have kept an eye on him. Greg and I give what reassuring words we can. We remind him that we’re not up against the clock today. At times, on the steeper sections, he comes to a virtual standstill.
We drift ahead of Roger. The brown, dusty trail twists along the left edge of the valley, with scrubby vegetation at its edges. Far below us, the white water river snakes through trees, bringing glacial melt to those lower down in the plains. Snowy peaks reach up above 6,000 metres on the right side of the valley. Trekkers fill the route on this cool, bright morning.
We notice the team has stopped at a religious shrine a hundred metres ahead. The sunrays are bouncing off the brilliant white surface of the ten metre high stupa. Colourful prayer flags flutter all around it.
We round a spur and climb up a few steps to join the team. The full valley unfolds in front of us. Spectacular mountain scenery stretches for at least thirty kilometres up the gorge.
The 6,800 metre white flat top of Ama Dablam stands just up ahead on the right. At about 6,200 metres, on its steep side, a hanging glacier sticks out of it. It’s hard to grasp how this glacier, weighing thousands of tons, can jut out the side of the face. Expeditions often aim for the summit. Climbers pitch three camps during an ascent, with Camp 3 just below and to the right of the hanging glacier. Ice that calves off it tends to plunge left. On a November night in 2006, a large section collapsed right. It swept away several tents and killed six mountaineers.
“Is that where we’re going today?” Greg points to a green knoll a few kilometres along the valley.
“Yeah, we’ve got to climb up over that. See the building at the top, the colours?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s Tengboche monastery. That’s where we’ll be this afternoon.”
“It’s about the same height as here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but don’t get your hopes up. The trail drops down to the river. We’ll cross it and then climb up six hundred metres to the monastery. A killer.”
Beyond the forest covered hill, the colours become less verdant. Green makes way for brown as the air gets thin and the cold temperatures support little if any plant life. Further away, as the valley reaches towards the sky, brown gives way to white snow. At its end rears the white ridges of Nuptse and Lhotse. The white yields to brown again, as the slope becomes too steep even for snow to lodge. The pinnacle of the Lhotse ridge, the fourth tallest mountain in the world, clocks in at just over 8,500 metres. A Swiss team first climbed it in 1956. In addition to the main peak, Lhotse Middle soars up over 8,400 metres. For a long time it remained the highest unclimbed named point on earth. Eventually in 2001, a Russian crew sat atop it.
And behind the ridge, Everest stands proud. Cameras catch the moment. For many, this is the first time they’ll have seen her.
Viewing Everest from a Stupa
Snow blows off the summit of Everest (left peak). The Nuptse Ridge runs in front of it. Lhotse stands to the right. The summit is about thirty kilometres from this point and more than five kilometres above.
“That’s some wind now.” Greg shoves his hands into his pockets. “What are we doing sitting down?”
My mind comes back into focus. I’ve seen all this before, and this year I aim to climb that beast on the horizon. Back in Kathmandu I’d packed my camera into a duffel bag and sent it on to Base Camp, to reduce the weight I’ll carry. This week is preseason. I’m here to acclimatise, stay healthy, and remain strong en route to Base Camp. I slide to the sheltered side of the stupa and wait for the last
few to arrive. Behind us, Roger drags himself around an outcrop.
Back on the trail and moving, the slope on our left protects us from the wind. Greg and I make steady progress. We push up one of the short, stiff uphill sections.
“Just the nose, just breathe through the nose,” Greg says. “If you have to breathe through your mouth, you’re going too fast.”
On the Trail out of Namche.
From left to right: Me, Greg, Martin, Ade.
The summit of Everest is above my head, while Lhotse is above Greg. The Nuptse and Lhotse Ridges stand in front of those peaks. Ama Dablam is above Ade.
We fire off a quick pee with pride and trek on. As we round a bend, we spy the team up ahead relaxing on a teahouse patio.
“Lunch? Already?” Greg asks.
“Just elevens,” I say. “It’s time to knock back the tea again.”
“Super. That’s some view isn’t it?”
“It’s incredible. This is like a ski holiday, cold air, but you’d be burnt to a crisp in the sun.”
The lemon tea flows in the late morning suntrap. With the exception of Roger, smiling faces surround the tables. After a few minutes relaxing back in a chair, I forget we’re in thin air.
The Route Ahead
1: We’ll trek down through this forest in the next hour.
2: Lunch will be here on the banks of the river.
3: Mid-afternoon should bring us to Tengboche Monastery on the top of this knoll.
4: Over the next few days we’ll trek up these valleys and route left around the Nuptse Ridge.
5: In about six weeks’ time we hope to stand here, the summit of Everest.
“Ok, let’s get moving,” Ted says. “We’ll have lunch down at the river. See everyone there.”
The views change as we move into a forest, and the route winds its way down the incline.
“It’s good to have those branches overhead. That was getting hot,” Greg says.
“I’m pretty certain we won’t have that problem in a few weeks.”
We pass through tiny villages en route to lunch. Small clay houses line the trail. Children in threadbare clothes play in the dust. We see no electricity supply cables overhead. I doubt there’s much in the line of plumbing underneath either.
A check on my watch altimeter as we stop for lunch puts us at 3,250 metres. Despite the stiff uphill sections this morning, we’re a hundred and fifty metres lower than today’s starting point. One step forward, two steps back I guess.
Our team crowds around a long table on the patio. Most have been here for some time already. I squeeze into a gap at the end and take on the simple fare. Potatoes form the base carbohydrate. My mouth doesn’t want to know about the food. Is the cooking plainer or is it just the altitude?
♦ ♦ ♦
We haul our packs onto our shoulders and push out. After crossing a metal-cable rope bridge over the Dudh Kosi River, the incline bites. We face a six hundred metre pull up to the monastery at Tengboche. On a dusty trail through a sparse forest, the sun will find us for much of the ascent. The last time I was here, I’d blasted up the hill in under an hour, ahead of the group. Then I’d sat and waited at the top for sixty minutes as the sweat turned cold on my back.
“There’ll be no ego today, Greg,” I say. “I’ll take pride in how long I can stretch out this climb.”
“Just sit in behind me then.”
Most of the others pull away from us.
We hike past a small military billet just to our right in the forest. A few soldiers with rifles from the World War II era man the sentry posts. I’ve no idea what they’re protecting, maybe positioned in case the Maoist insurgents we’ve heard about try to shake us down.
With measured discipline, Greg and I continue our climb. Ascending trekkers toil past us. A constant flow of Sherpas with enormous cargos labour up. By contrast we have it easy; although, it doesn’t feel it. We never breathe through our mouths. The simple gauge stops us going too fast. Any suggestion of breathlessness or oxygen debt must be avoided. We’re already locked in a battle to generate an ever increasing number of red blood cells in this thinning air.
♦ ♦ ♦
Halfway up the hill, we sit down on the edge of the trail for our third stop.
“I feel fine,” I say. “This pace isn’t killing me.”
“Nor me. Just keep it steady”
He’s right. I must remember those words. They must be my mantra, today and every day on this mountain.
As I stop for another timed break, Greg eases on ahead. I recognise the three who close in on me from behind.
“Hey Fergus. It’s good to see you. How’s it going?” Angel arrives with Roger and Ang Nama. “It’s hot man. Whoa. Look at this place.”
He’s the other guide along with Hugo. He looks like a nutcase with a Ming the Merciless beard that trails ten centimetres beneath his chin. In his late thirties, this Argentinian is of fit build and a little taller than me. He’s led some sixty expeditions to the top of Aconcagua, the tallest mountain in South America. Always full of energy, I struggle to keep pace with his bustling conversation on the steep uphill sections. He thrives at this altitude. I don’t know anyone who can talk this much while exercising. I’m not sure if I should be glad to have such an able escort on the team or worried there’s such a difference between his level of fitness and mine.
“Hi Angel. Hi guys. I’m doing ok. Just seeing how slow I can go. Ok Roger?”
“I’ll get there.” Roger leans against the ditch.
“I don’t know where you’re pulling this from, Roger. You’ve got some balls. I’d have been flattened if it were me.”
“Little choice.”
“Just keep it handy. No rush.”
Angel Relaxes by the Edge of the Trail
We reel in the final quarter. My altimeter is my companion, indicating steady progress. I’ve slipped ahead of the three. Angel and Ang Nama tweak their pace to ensure Roger’s not alone.
I take what will be my last mini-break of the ascent under the shade of a few trees. I turn around to wait for the others. Through the leaves and branches, I stare back down the valley we’ve travelled this morning. The foliage frames Ama Dablam. It would make an incredible photo. But I’ve seen this trail before and already have a few photos of it. In one sense, I’m here to enjoy myself, have an adventure, and build memories. But reaching the summit is the aim. If saving a smidgen of energy improves my chances of standing on the peak, by even the tiniest fraction, then that’s what I must do. The camera is not being transported in my pack. In my mind I take a good snap of the view. The three rejoin me.
“Hi guys, almost there now,” I say. “By my reckoning, it’s just fifty metres higher.”
I’m well within myself, having accomplished the climb at such a relaxed pace. I’m proud to reach the top in the closing group, taking a full two hours.
“Is this it?” Roger asks.
“Well done,” Angel says, “you’ve made it.”
We pass under a colourful stone archway and into the Tengboche monastery grounds at 3,860 metres.
Reds, whites, and yellows abound on the monastery’s stone exterior. Prayer flags flutter in the wind, their colours symbolising the five Buddhist elements: earth, wind, fire, water, and consciousness. This is the largest monastery in the valley. Out front lies a camping area and a few lodges.
Several monks potter around on the steps, I’m told about sixty live here, but fewer and fewer boys now join, preferring to work in mountaineering or trekking-related activities. Tenzing Norgay, who summited Everest with Hillary, had been sent here to study as a monk. But the allure of climbing big mountains, particularly a peak that had never been scaled, had been a call he couldn’t resist.
Contemplating what lies ahead, I take in the panoramic views of the elevations in every direction, including the spectacles of Ama Dablam, Nuptse, Lhotse, and Everest.
Tengboche Monastery
The sun disappears behind clouds, a
nd the chill wind steals our body heat. The rest of our team is sitting on the grass in front of the monastery. We join them, and I munch on a bar of chocolate. I’ve just enough time to finish my snack before Ted gives the word that it’s time to move on.
“The trekkers will stay here for the night,” he says. “The climbers will go on to Pangboche.”
He wants the latter group to receive a traditional local blessing tomorrow morning in Pangboche. Then we’ll rejoin the trekkers at lunch time.
We saunter down the far side of the hill. I trek alongside Greg towards the rear, our now unofficial position. We drop down a hundred and fifty metres and pass a small nunnery in the middle of nowhere. It’s hard not to wonder if there may have been some unscheduled trips over the years from the monks in Tengboche to this convent.
Protected from the wind again, the temperature suits hiking. The trail becomes a slight uphill. We ease off the pace.
“Tough, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s thinner here.” Greg says.
“Anything steeper than flat, it feels like someone’s sitting on my shoulders.”
An hour passes. We walk across another bridge. Below us, white water thunders through a narrow, rocky channel. Greg and I take a minute to gaze at it from the crossing and enjoy the untamed sights and sounds of nature. The route has become quiet; many groups trek no further than the monastery.
We move on and ascend a rocky section on the other side of the river. We keep the pace even and watch our breathing as we progress up. To our surprise, we reel in Ade, Martin, and Doug. They’re sucking in big mouthfuls of air. Could it be that our plan is starting to pay dividends?
“Keep it easy, lads,” Greg says.
With controlled movement, Greg and I step up past them.
Demanding section behind us, we get back into a rhythm as the sun loses its heat.