The instructor began tightening our harnesses together and signalled me to shuffle my feet toward the door, where the wind nearly sucked me out. Inching closer to the ledge, about to willingly fall from the sky at two hundred kilometres an hour (120 mph), I suddenly panicked at the thought that, if I died that day, Grady would never know how I felt about him. Just in time, I turned and shouted as loud as I could over my shoulder and over the roaring of the engine, “I LOVE YOU!”
Then the whole world flew out from beneath my feet and I screamed with the joy and excitement of jumping and of having finally confessed my love to him. But that foolish, spontaneous act used up all the oxygen in my lungs. The high speeds and the thin air whipping past my face made it almost impossible to catch my breath again, and the wind blew tears into my ears. The earth below was a series of miniature golden cornfields cut into neat squares and patches, testing my grip on reality.
I wondered if Grady’d heard. Even if he had, would he have taken it seriously? He never said anything after the jump. Come to think of it, neither did my tandem master, whose face was inches from mine all the way down.
Two years later, here we were – Steph, Bree and I, three of the four who’d gone up in those planes together – in another tiny passenger plane about to fly over the Himalayan mountain range. The takeoff was really wobbly, and the propellers whined from the power of the engine as the flimsy tail swayed with every gust of wind. Despite this being the start of another new adventure, I couldn’t help thinking about being cut off from the Internet, and I desperately wished the fourth member of our original sky-diving party were here. I imagined my little MSN icon, sitting there stagnant and red, reading, ‘Savannah appears offline” for a whole two weeks. There was no way to grab him and keep him. I was like a bird’s song in springtime that’s been silenced. He could hear me, but he wasn’t able to hold me. I was afraid that he’d find another girl who was prettier and much more accessible.
Something positive came out of all that angst, though. The more I had Grady on my mind and involved in my journey, the less I missed home or dwelled on what I’d lost. Those longings were replaced by dreaming about sharing this kind of travel moment with him. I really hoped he’d be able to save enough money to come and see the world with me – ASAP. Maybe in India?
We were soaring over the most breathtaking mountain range I’d ever seen, flying amongst the tropical canyons and narrow gullies on a very intimate level. Rising through the white clouds and emerging so close to the tops of the mountains made me feel like Indiana Jones on the verge of a great adventure. My jaw slackened; I was both completely entranced and blown away by the view out the window. Only the deafening engine and mechanical smells kept me grounded.
“This is amazing. Will we see Everest from here?” Bree asked, her nose stuck to the small window. “Is that Everest?”
“Not quite, Bree,” Ammon laughed.
“So, then, what are the highest mountains after Everest?” Steph asked. Ammon paused long enough to give me a chance to answer her question.
“After Everest is K2, and then the rest of the list, from three to ten, are all in the Himalayan range,” I told her. “Oh, and K2 is in Pakistan.”
“And Kilimanjaro. That’s in Africa,” Steph said.
We’d been talking about the possibility of maybe seeing Africa one day, so I’d done some reading about Africa’s mountains. “Yep. Kili isn’t one of the highest in the world, but it is the highest free-standing mountain in the world and the highest in Africa. So that’s pretty cool. Reaching, how high was it again, Ammon?”
“Something like five thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five metres, so twenty thousand feet,” he said.
“I think that’d be really cool to see. I’d love to go on safari,” Steph said. “What’s the capital of Africa, again?” Ammon’s eyes popped even more than Bree had ever caused them to, and he was momentarily left completely speechless, but he somehow managed to say, ever so slowly, “Ummm… Africa is a continent, Steph. It has more than fifty countries, and each one of them has its own capital city.”
Lukla’s airport is notorious for being the world’s third most dangerous, because high winds and cloud cover significantly affects flying safety. Drastically changing visibility in the mountains often results in delays, cancelled flights, or the airport being shut down entirely. Luckily, we were flying on a spectacularly clear day, suspended between brilliant blues and blissful greens.
Leaning into the aisle, I could see straight into the cockpit and out through the windshield. We were approaching the mountainside’s short, uphill runway. Rocking slightly as the pilot precisely adjusted our alignment, the nose of the plane tilted down and we went for it. The axel of the fastened wheels seemed to bend as we bounced on impact and came to a rapid halt. Relieved passengers heaved unconscious sighs of relief in unison. As I peeled my fingers off the seat in front of me, the worn headrests made a lot more sense– the torn fabric was beginning to look like someone had been trying to get a grip by gnawing on it.
“I wasn’t expecting that, but it sure was great.” Mom smiled.
Once the pilot had dropped the cabin door down into a short staircase so we could exit onto the tarmac, Ammon filled us in. “So before we go anywhere, this is Lukla, the starting point for trekking to E.B.C. (Everest Base Camp). Sir Edmund Hillary, from New Zealand, and his local Sherpa guide were the first climbers to reach the summit of Mount Everest–”
“So what exactly is a Sherpa, then?” I asked.
“It’s a porter. I read up about it,” Steph said.
“Yes, but not quite,” Ammon said. “Today, that’s a slang term used more by foreigners to refer to pretty much any paid guide or porter working here. But Sherpas are actually an ethnic group from the most mountainous regions of Nepal. They’ve been living in these high altitudes and rough terrain for generations, so they are biologically conditioned to be great porters. They are a bit like mountain goats that way, and are capable of handling the intense labour required to do that difficult job. They were immensely valuable to early explorers of the Himalayan region, especially for expeditions to climb Mount Everest. And honestly, they get far too little credit. Did you know that Sir Edmund Hillary was knighted for being the first person to ever summit Everest? I think it’s his face on the New Zealand five-dollar note, too. But have you ever heard of Tenzing Norgay?”
“Ummm, no,” I admitted.
“He was Sir Hillary’s Sherpa, who summited Everest with him.”
As I beheld the exact same lands where those adventures had taken place, I imagined myself climbing right along with them. But we were going to do more than imagine it; ultimately, we would be standing in the same place where they had embarked on their renowned ascent up the famous mountain. First, though, we had to find ourselves a pair of Sherpas. This part of the trip felt a bit like a quest-style video game, where we needed to collect supplies and attain certain powers and characters. Everything was simply done and well set up in Kathmandu for buying or renting hiking equipment. Anything you needed was available there, from oxygen tanks to hiking poles to jackets, from booking flights to pre-booking Sherpa guides and porters. The only downside was the big commissions charged by the companies who arranged the bookings. Ammon had read that, for half the price, you could hire and choose your own Sherpa guide directly in Lukla.
All around the town of Lukla, big blue signs, hand-painted with white script, encouraged trekkers to support the Sherpa community: ‘Porters are the backbone of Nepal. Hire them. Treat them well’, ‘Hire a Porter. Hire a friend’.
“As planned, we made it here by late September, so we’re well ahead of the main trekking rush. Plus, with the Maoists acting up and the warnings against coming to Nepal right now, it will probably be a slow tourist season.
“What makes this the best time for trekking?” Steph asked.
“Well, the wet monsoon season just ended, and we’re not into the super-cold winter yet. And because of the tourist war
nings, we won’t have any problem finding accommodations or picking up a pair of porters here,” Ammon said. That was about the extent of our planning; the rest would just work out somehow, as it always did. We had brought enough cash in the form of rupees to pay for food and lodging and to pay the Sherpas, as there were no ATMs available in these remote mountains.
Deciding it was best to just hang out for a bit while Ammon scouted the town, we four had breakfast in a cute wooden guest house. Its large windows offered views of the stupendous mountains surrounding us and of the single, insanely short runway we’d just come in on. Watching a couple more airplanes take off and land from this angle gave me a new appreciation for the accuracy of the skilled pilots as they manoeuvred their straining, shaking airplanes onto the upwardly sloped runway. Watching them drop off the edge of the cliff and vanish during takeoff was even more terrifying. I grew wary of the idea of leaving the mountain that way. It wasn’t unheard of for planes to fail to gain lift-off and plummet to an explosive death. We could also watch helicopters coming and going, and they appeared to me to offer a safer and much more enticing mode of departure.
Before I could ponder further about how we should best leave the mountain, the small lodge’s wooden door creaked when Ammon returned, with two young, male Sherpas in tow– one named Dendee and one who called himself “Dalai Lama” – aged twenty and eighteen respectively. We went through some negotiations before deciding whether we could “work” effectively with each other.
Before leaving Kathmandu’s “Happy Hostel,” we had packed our essential stuff into two of our five backpacks for the Sherpas to carry and left the rest behind. Each of us had our own individual daypacks with water, sweaters, journal, money, passports, toothbrushes, and a few other personal items that we would carry ourselves.
Once we’d negotiated a price acceptable to all, we surrendered our loads to our two new Nepali companions and headed out and up for our first of many strenuous hiking days to reach Everest Base Camp.
Ch. 31-35 photos here
Yakity-Yak-Yak
36
I was amazed to see that there was more than just a trekking trail up in the mountains; there was really a community lifestyle. Children ran around cheerfully with rosy cheeks and bare feet, playing and waving to us as we passed through their small villages. We often saw women out collecting water in the morning or cradling babies in their dim doorways. Everywhere, people went out of their way to greet us. They placed their palms together in a bow with a pleasant ‘Namaste’, which means ‘I greet the God in you’. Each of us would respond with an equally friendly ‘Namaste’.
We made good progress on the first day, but our Sherpas warned us that reaching our second stopping point, Namche Bazaar, would be the longest and most gruelling stretch.
Both our Sherpas had dark features and deeply tanned skin. Dalai Lama was a bit plump and had a very boyish face. He spoke to us sparingly because he didn’t know a lot of English, but he was observant and always smiling. Dendee wore mirrored sunglasses nestled in his short black hair. His eyes were the colour of caramel chocolate, and I knew Bree would have to struggle to resist their warmth. There was no doubt he was endearing with his small, pinched nose and his deep dimpled smile.
Because he spoke English pretty well, Dendee served as much more than just a Sherpa. He explained his culture and the landscape and, best of all, helped us to see into the hearts of the Nepali people. As we hiked he not only introduced us to the Sherpa lifestyle but he also kept our minds off the physical exertion.
“Head is sacred part of body, so never touch someone on head. Also, not children. Pointing with feet, don’t show bottom of foot. Is disrespect. And fire is also sacred in the homes. Never throwing garbage in the fire in someone’s home. Is not good to do.” We had already learned many of these beliefs from Buddhist teachings, but it was all new to Stephanie, and it never hurts to be reminded.
Acknowledging a Nepali man walking down the trail, Dendee told us, “This man, he is having a death in the family. You see it from the white clothes. You must never touch the clothes of person who is mourning.”
“Though eighty percent of the Nepalese people are Hindus, Tibetan Buddhism is very visible around here,” Ammon said, “because of the Sherpas’ religious background. Theirs is allegedly the oldest Buddhist sect in Tibet.” Its dominance was clearly indicated along the path we took up the mountain. The trail was adorned with prayer flags, prayer wheels, and the large, ever-watchful, white stupas. Their squiggle-nosed faces and huge eyes ensured the safe passage of all those who came to experience the beauty of this land. Temples with golden spires standing tall on the roofs acted as gateways arching over the paths. Their colourfully painted ceilings naturally engendered respect as we passed beneath them.
Placed alongside the narrow paths were flat rock tablets stacked on top of each other and giant boulders hand-painted in white local scripts. I felt like I was passing scriptures from an ancient time, and I wondered what the writing meant.
“This is Buddhist chant,” Dendee said, standing next to the artistically displayed stone tablets. “ ‘Om manipandme hum’ means ‘be peaceful and compassionate.’ To have good journey, we must always passing on the right.”
“That’s easy enough, since they’re always on the right side of the trail.” I hadn’t noticed that before he mentioned it. It reminded me of the ovoos in Mongolia that were also thought to ensure safe passage; created by those passing by, travellers were expected to circle these shamanistic cairns clockwise three times.
Naturally, the high altitudes created fickle temperatures, and the intensity of the sun beat threateningly on my bare skin. The warm rays streaking the mountainside made hiking in a T-shirt enjoyable, yet whenever the sun dipped behind the clouds, it became noticeably colder; we kept our fleeces close at all times.
The smell of dirt and pine trees was sharp and zesty in the air. We relished a mix of scents from the hemlocks, firs, junipers, birch trees, and even rhododendrons that hung over the trails. Water was plentiful and it rejuvenated the earth. Waterfalls and rivers flowed abundantly above and below, sunlight dancing on their ripples. Rudimentary bridges laced the steep gorges above the rushing waters far below, but Steph was accustomed to much sturdier structures.
Stalled at the foot of the first dangling suspension bridge, she panicked a bit. “Oh my God, I can’t do this. Oh, oh, oh.”
“You’ll be fine,” Mom assured her, taking a noticeably timid step forward herself. “It could be worse. You could be as afraid of heights as Ammon is.” His failure to reply confirmed her declaration. By the age of sixteen, Ammon had completed his accelerated free-fall skydiving course but, ironically, there was nothing he was more afraid of than heights. His worst attack was at the Stratosphere in Las Vegas, Nevada – the tallest free-standing observation tower in the United States. We’d taken the elevator to the top floor in order to ride the Big Shoot thrill ride from the top of the tower. The dizzyingly high view from the observation windows made him literally sit on the floor and crawl in reverse like a crab until he had his back safely against a wall in the centre of the building. He laid his head down on bent knees and closed his eyes. It had caught us all by surprise, but especially Ammon.
I remember Dad laughing at his reaction and saying, “I suppose that means you’re not going on the ride with me then, huh?”
“I feel like I’m being sucked out the windows,” he’d said, refusing to open his eyes. And here we were in the Himalayas, standing at the brink of a bridge suspended high over a raging river. We stepped aside to let a row of heavily loaded, hairy yaks pass. The bridge was only broad enough to accommodate the width of their big horns, but amazingly, it was strong enough to support a whole parade of them fairly bursting with heavy baggage.
“I still don’t get how you can be so terrified of heights. You should be used to it by now,” I kidded Ammon, “since you’re so tall.”
“Do you really think you’re going to fall? Or what
part of it actually scares you so much?” Bree asked.
“It’s not that I believe I’m going to fall. I know how scientifically improbable that would be, but I just feel like gravity is pulling me over the edge,” Ammon explained. “I know it’s nonsense; that’s why it is so frustrating.” He tried hard to approach even something like fear with a logical mindset.
“Plus,” Mom said, “tons of people go over these bridges every day.”
“I’m not sure if that’s supposed to make me feel better or worse,” I said, noticing how worn the ropes and wood were from all the traffic. The wooden slats were smeared with a layer of dirt from all the boots, flip-flops, and hooves that had crossed before us.
“I’m sure it’s sturdy enough if it will hold all those yaks,” Mom said, “but oh boy, can you imagine trying to cross during a rainstorm?” Despite her rational reassurance, I felt a jittery pulse rising in my neck. The bridge seemed to twist from the illusion of the colourful prayer flags that were tied along its extended length and flapping in the wind. Their shreds of faded, ripped cloth stretched out as if they were trying to reach the sky.
Making my way across, I could see through the cracks under my feet to the white rapids far below. The small crosspieces placed for gripping were soggy and obviously deteriorating, desperately in need of replacement. Parts where wood had fallen off or broken through left gaping holes that were sometimes covered over with flat stones. I wondered how many ankles (human or beast) had been caught or broken in their clutches. To top it all off, gusty winds made the bridge sway unpredictably. It was magically terrifying.
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