Everest Journal (II)

Richard W. Frank

The ironic thing is that having finally adjusted our bodies and minds to the rigors of long days basting in our own sweat we were forced to the same pace as these marshmallows joining the mandatory and gradual acclimation program. Every year people die from climbing too high too fast (mostly rotund blue-haired group tour members forced into an itinerary beyond them and porters trying to earn more money by going fast). Almost every day my stroll up the trail was stopped by the thwupping of a helicopter going up valley to evacuate an AMS victim. Physical conditioning is no guarantee against it, even the myriad expeditions converging on Everest followed the same pace...except they had cooler gear and walked with a distinctive swagger. I heard of two fatalities while I was in the area and saw some serious EMS cases a little too close at hand. A British woman we had shared hotels and lazy afternoons with had scrambled up Kala Pattar one day and had not woken up the next. Feelings for our fragile mortality were taken out and then put away with a necessary denial of reality. This is the kind of thing that happens to "other" people.

While I was staying in Lobuche a porter with cerebral edema was brought down in a basket from E.B.C. looking distinctly blue. The Adventure Consultants commercial expedition (the company that Rob Hall owned) was staying there as well, and their young doctor sprung to work. A documentary filmmaker floated around the action as I sat in a corner with friends and tried to focus on our tea. Welcome to the Big Business of Everest. With the tragedy of 10 May, 1996 and Krakauer's "Into Thin Air" the whole world seemed to train an eye on this corner of the globe during the climbing season. Despite the fact that over 885 people (including 70 women) have stood on the summit some as many as ten times, there is still only one highest.

And then I was there, standing atop Kala Pattar (did I say rubble heap...I meant knife-edged pinnacle) with a new trekking partner (I hated to trade in Thomas and Graham, but Christina the Canadian, eh, was definitely more attractive and walked much faster) staring at the mountain I had first seen from the north side over four months and a life time ago in Tibet. This was an area filled with history and triumph, and it was with a humility I found strange that I wandered the three hours up to Base Camp. EBC on the Tibetan side last year consisted of one tent and two Sherpa boiling a sheep in an old battered steam kettle. On the Nepal side in 2000 the circus was in full swing with over 500 tents (including a Starbucks) and many more people yet to arrive. I sat on a rock watching the Sherpa come down from a day of pioneering the route through the Kumbu Icefall. I'm here, I'm really here. Man, this was cool except that I was a spectator instead of a participant. Someday....

"I had time upon my mule for musing upon how melancholy a thing is success. Whilst failure inspirits a man, attainment reads the sad prosy lesson that our glories are in shadows not substantial things..."

-Sir R.F. Burton, After Mecca, p. 247.

The high point had been reached. Difficulties surmounted. After a foray into the Gokyo valley for a week of exploring, climbing, and chocolate-covered Hobnobs (ooooh, Hoooobnobs!) the walk out found us strangely lethargic and unmotivated as we retraced our steps down the Dudh Kosi. Namche with its many temptations seemed a mountainous Manhattan. Suddenly, as we reached Bupsa something inside me clicked, and I decided to light out for the territories (i.e. Hille) for a little more exploring. I felt bad leaving Christina to rapacious innkeepers and lascivious mule drivers, but the lure of the unknown and empty trail was too much for me (sorry, Christina!). The 10-12 day walk from Namche to Hille first used by the energetic (if middle-aged) Tilman is virtually empty nowadays and lacks the tourist facilities, crosses steeper valleys, and swelters through the lowlands of the Arun valley. Perfect...sun, suffering, and solitude.

My gentlemanly guilt fortunately did not last long (she lived) as I climbed through fragrant rhododendron forests; the trail blanketed with pink and rose colored petals awaiting the feet of kings (and fools). It was indeed rougher than I was accustomed to. In the time I took I only stumbled across one expedition to Makalu Peak and three sweating trekkers headed to Namche. I slept in the living rooms of the local Rai villagers, subsisted on improbably large quantities of dal bhat, tea, and biscuits and reveled in the quiet. Thunderstorms echoed through the evenings as I recovered from the daily staggering-from 1,200m to 3,300m and back-in days of masochistic freedom. My legs were steel springs and they propelled me down the track through empty glades and heart-breaking scenery. I was on the road by 5am to get as far as possible before the rains arrived promptly at 2:46pm. I don't know why I bothered, for my things were so filthy at this stage that the rains could do nothing but get them cleaner.

"When traveling don't reckon the distance and when eating never reckon the amount." -Albanian proverb

I had finished my last book, my pen had died, I lost the power of speech, and I found myself regressing to a state of pure action and reaction. As some kind of reward for my bullheadedness Nepal gave me one last embrace and at last fully exposed her ample charms. Bupsa to Hille was the icing of an already spectacular cake. Time lost meaning (as did bathing); I was having so much fun that I kinda' got carried away and found myself in Hille in five days instead of ten. I don't know what I was thinking. Thirty days, 300 miles (482km), and 67,387ft/20,600m climbed. D'oh! I was loath to leave, And yet the myriad pleasures of civilization drew me on through the last heart-breaking 1,600m climb to Hille. The chaos of trucks, people, and Hindi film music overwhelmed this stinky, skinny, and sunburned Yank. Now what? Back to the reality of the subcontinent? First, a deep-dish Hawaiian pizza.

Now back in the hot Technicolor chaos of India, I realize what a gift my ten weeks in Nepal were. Returning to the ambulatory rhythms of my nomadic ancestors I briefly grasped a physical and mental peace (and a stench) that is impossible to convey. As for the lack of edge of the seat drama....one has to have some secrets.

Happy Memorial Day to all the Yanks out there. Enjoy the weekend of BBQs and Indy, and remember that this is finally the Lakers' year! To the rest of y'all scattered hither and non, thanks again for the awesome e-mails and offers to sleep on dirty couches (those of you in Israel and Europe-beware-I am on my way to take you up on the offer!).

Nepal quote of the day:

"At a popular level, even amongst illiterate people, any kind of work is equated with pain (dukkha), and people consider it an act of wisdom to avoid work. The opposite of dukkha is sukkha (bliss) which means living without having to work. People who can live without having to work are considered fortunate."

-Dor Bahadur Bista,

Fatalism and Development: Nepal's Struggle for Modernization, p.12.

Dive back into India

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Then rather suddenly with our arrival at Lukla the trickle of tourists turned into a flood. A battalion of Gore-tex wonders brightly clad, incredibly clean-smelling, and slow of foot were disgorged from sturdy Twin-Otters after their forty minute flight from another century. It seemed almost indecent the way this gaggle of whities with a phalanx of duffle bag and suitcase laden porters ambled down "our" trail. As we spirited past pink, plump arachnids clacking their Helen Keller sticks uselessly down the flat trail, there was a subtle sense of smugness saying "oh, yeah, we're eight days from Jiri....was it tough? Oh, you know not to bad...Steep, yah well wasn't nuthin'...see I just finished the Annapurna circuit." This feeling was accentuated by the collapsed trekkers crowding the chautaras vomiting between their spotless boots and looking half dead (the worst half). Between eight and twelve percent of people who fly to Lukla suffer from mild altitude sickness upon arrival. Mountain Men us; girly-men them. Heehee!