Never Meant To Be - Nepal 2022
Everest Base Camp and Beyond
Day 0
This is a personal tale. It's not a big, remarkable story, nor is it small and insignificant. It's just a personal account of a moment in my life where I was greeted with a defining opportunity to say yes and move forward or say no and stay precisely where I was.
I was heading to Nepal for a much-needed life shake-up. I had booked two extensive treks and was training hard to ensure I would not only make it through the physical demands of what was to come but also enjoy every step. While the training had been hard and demanding, it was progressing well, and I was starting to feel physically fit and mentally prepared for what was to come — an adventure that I had been looking forward to for six months.
Everything was going well; too well, perhaps. As I was crossing out tasks on my to-do list, I noticed a small yet slightly painful lump on my hand and decided to book into a skin specialist to get said lump investigated further. The appointment was easy and painless, but the truth was it didn't go as planned. Moments after arriving, I exited the specialist's office holding a booking to see a general surgeon. It looked like a small operation might be necessary before heading to Nepal.
In my mind, I was thinking, "OK, not really what I need right now, but a small hand operation should only set me back a couple of weeks; a minor bump in an inevitable road."
The operation was taken care of in the next few days, but as I left the surgeon's office, he handed me a plastic medical bottle that contained a little piece of me that had just been removed. The surgeon said with a smile that the lump I was holding needed to be biopsied. Better to be safe than sorry.
Of course, I agreed and dropped Larry-the-Lump off at the pathology lab before making a quick trip to the hospital pharmacy, where I picked up an unusual amount of medication that I apparently needed before walking away, giving the whole matter very little thought. Over the next few days, my hand started to heal, but a nagging ping in one of my teeth began to demand attention.
A quick trip to the dentist to check on it landed me in the chair for six hours, enjoying root canal treatment. I don't know about you, but nothing on earth scares me more than the sounds of a dentist's drill grinding away inside my head. It might be a childhood thing, or it could just be that drilling through your teeth into the nervous system is about the least fun I could ever imagine having. I left that appointment with yet another fistful of medication. As I looked down at all the colourful pills I now had to take, I began thinking that medication had become a habit that I don't remember signing up for nor wish to indulge in.
I thought, "OK, that's all taken care of now; let's get back to training and continue preparing for this upcoming adventure." Over the next few days, I worked hard and was starting to feel as if I was regaining the fitness levels I had lost with all these somewhat annoying interruptions.
I remember it very clearly: I had just finished my best run in years when I received an email letting me know that the biopsy results were back. After a quick shower, I jumped on my bike, happily rode to the lab and picked up the results, still oblivious to the fact that the results could be anything other than exactly what I desired.
I didn't feel nervous about the results until I sat down in the hard plastic chair outside the Lab’s office and opened the envelope, and it turned out that I should have been nervous. In short, the biopsy said it could be this, or it could be that. They didn't know and required further tests, which would take a month to complete. But the one thing they were sure of was that the biopsy was not clean. Every bit of that little piece of me the doctor cut out was screaming "cancer."
I was willing myself to stay calm - no big deal, just another bump in the road. But the reality was that I was so focused on getting to Nepal fit and healthy for what was going to be a tough six weeks at altitude that I was only concerned about what this would mean for my preparations. Maybe it was a coping mechanism, good old fashion stubbornness or just plain denial. Whatever it was, it still had not dawned on me that what was unfolding could have far-reaching repercussions.
I was ushered back into the general surgeon's office, where he calmly informed me that I would need to see a cancer surgeon and more of the hand would have to be cut away. The results of that procedure would then dictate precisely how we would move forward.
A quiet and lonely walk across the car park led me to the cancer specialist's office. She was kind, and perhaps she could tell that I was just a little shaken; as she slowly explained what her plan was: basically more cutting, more tests and then wait and see. Lucky for me, she had an opening to do the operation in the next three days. I think it's fair to say that my relationship with reality was a bit twisted at this stage, as the only thing I was thinking about was that if I had the operation quickly, I should be good to start training again in a week or so. This epic Nepal trip can still work; I just need a little luck.
I came home and went for a hard run. I may have been trying to outrun my troubles that seemed to be building; I may have been trying to outrun the message I was meant to be receiving. I'm not really sure; I just ran.
Walking through the door as a sweaty mess, my better half, Stephanie, greeted me. She strongly suggested that we need to get on a plane to Singapore tomorrow and see a specialist who can give us the answers we need quickly. I could tell by her tone that we were not discussing this; I was being told what would happen next. To her credit, she could see the bigger picture - the lump had been on my hand for six months; if it was what they suspected, it could have spread. Still, all I could think about was what this would mean for my Nepal adventure.
The very next day, we flew to Singapore, and a day later, I was sitting in another cancer surgeon's office. But this time, things felt very different. As I sat down, it suddenly hit me that this could end up being a life-changing shitstorm that could have long-term consequences beyond my immediate desire to get lost in the mountains of Nepal.
I sat, listened, got scared, and before I knew it, I was signed up for a battery of scans and tests, all designed to get me into surgery ASAP. It all went well, and as long as you have the money, Singapore is well-prepared to take care of your health and medical needs in a traditional sense.
Two nervous days later, we received the scans, and they were clean. Whatever had been growing on me hadn't spread. I breathed for the first time in a few days and felt a little tension leave our collective shoulders.
The very next day, we were checking into a hospital that resembled a high-end hotel. And two hours after that, I was being wheeled into surgery, which could have been the scariest part of this journey. As you get wheeled in, you inevitably see people on their way to recovery, and damn, none of them looked like they were having much fun. Lifeless bodies stretched out on steel beds, everyone appearing to have a surgical hangover that now awaited me.
As the general anaesthetic began to kick in and my eyes began to fade, the surgeon assured me there was nothing to worry about and he would see me soon. "Nothing to worry about," I thought, "I need to get to Nepal for two long, challenging treks, and I felt very unprepared. To his credit, my surgeon said we could talk about all this later, as I quickly drifted into the darkness to the sounds and smells of what felt like a foreign planet swallowing me whole.
Removing all the infected flesh from my hand only took an hour. I woke groggily to the surgeon telling me the good news: they had removed everything they needed, it was gone, and the offending cells were now being sent for a comprehensive examination. Everyone else was still worried about what could be as I smiled through my drugged-up fog, thinking, "Great, it's over. Now I can get my ass home and get training. I can still make the trip and be fit enough to do both back-to-back treks."
After picking up what felt like another suitcase of apparently needed medication, I spent two days lying low, licking my wounds before meeting with the surgeon for the final good news. I entered his office feeling great; this was now officially ending. Fifteen minutes later, I left his office feeling terrified, questioning whether this annoying ordeal would ever end.
To his credit, the surgeon seemed like a good guy, but as a professional, he was bound by oath or law to tell me what would happen next. And what I heard, I didn't like. According to him, we now needed to shoot me up with more nuclear waste and then scan my system, trying to find if any of my lymph nodes may light up. If we were lucky and found some, we would do another surgery to remove them and then begin a year's worth of immune therapy.
I sat silently, taking in all this information while planning my escape. It was time to jump off the medical conveyor belt and take matters into my own hands. Luckily, I had the support of Steph and a little time before the biopsy results came back. I said that no matter what the results are, I am taking back control of how I live. And a day later, we returned home, and for the first time in a few months, I felt like I had regained just a little bit of direction. Sitting back in the driver's seat of life, I had steeled my mind for the journey ahead and the outcome I desired.
It took a week to get the biopsy results back, but it was the best news I could have ever hoped for when they came. It turns out this silly little lump was just a silly little lump that shared some characteristics with many forms of cancer. I was happily shocked but also a little pissed off. One average test had caused chaos in our lives and totally messed up all of my preparations. I was happy, but it was a timely wake-up call that I had to continue making good, thoughtful decisions regarding my health and wellness. It was my responsibility, and never again would I jump blindly into the unknown and embrace what was suggested just because it was how the system worked.
Right, this was it. I was back on track. I would be well enough to resume training in just a few more days. It was time to celebrate. We went to a small dinner with friends, one who just happened to be feeling sick; no big deal, right? We have all done this hundreds of times before. Correct, but as it turns out, the amount of drugs I had been taking had destroyed my immune system, and what should have just been a little bug floored me for two weeks.
I laid in bed feeling sorry for myself as I coughed and spluttered through a shitty couple of weeks. All I kept thinking about was I could still make this happen. Nothing had changed; I would walk in the Himalayan mountains for six weeks. That was until one night when the coughing became so bad that while basically lying in a foetal position, I coughed so hard that I blew out a disc in my lower back.
Waking up and not being able to stand upright, I simply looked skyward and screamed, “What the hell are you trying to tell me?” There was no big booming voice with an answer, so I did the only thing I truly knew; I kept moving forward towards what was beginning to look like an impossible goal. A goal that was now the only thing that kept me believing that life would return as I desired.
Surrounded by family and friends, I started to sense the low rumblings of doubt. People began to think I would not be well enough to achieve a goal I now had a lot riding on. I basically shut them out and steeled my mind towards a positive outcome. Even if I had to crawl, I was going to make this damn trip happen, come hell or high water. I needed to believe that I could do this more than I ever needed to believe in anything. I was in a fight, and I was now drawing a line in the sands of my life. The trends of the last few years that had seemingly accompanied my existence are going to stop and stop now.
I know I have lived a blessed life. An existence where I always believed that the outcome I desired was inevitable. A complex journey where I always backed my mind and body to get me through any unexpected obstacles. But what I was now feeling was new; this was the first time I faced blow after blow that seemed to be screaming at me to stop what I was planning and take a different path to wellness. But the little voice deep within was screaming back, re-enforcing the unwavering thought that I would get well, but to achieve it, I had to trust myself and get lost in the mountains. I needed to be free from the doubt, the caregivers, the concerned. I needed to trust myself and believe it was a foregone conclusion that I was well.
I did what I knew best. I crawled forward towards a goal that sat on the horizon, yet with every passing day; it seemed further out of reach. I crawled to the chiropractor. The news was not good. I struggled to the acupuncturist. The news was not good. I even went to the person I call the body whisperer. The news was not good. I could not walk, and the only thing I wanted to do was walk.
Everything was healing apart from the constant and disabling pain in my lower back. Even two days before I was set to fly, the same unhelpful questions kept circling, feeling ever closer, like a looming storm with every moment that passed. Do you really think you have any chance of making the trek? The doubt I felt was massive and relentless, eventually driving me to make the unusual decision and accept lying to myself as a clear and positive way forward. Whenever any question or doubt arose, I would simply batter it away with a well-rehearsed lie. Yes, I was going to make it.
It was as if the journey to wellness, whichever path it took, had become a necessary part of the healing process. The simple truth was that I needed this more than I had ever needed anything in my life, it was as if I had bet the house on a bad hand, but it was a hand I was going to play until the end.
But even as I lied to myself, everyone could see that I was struggling to walk a few meters, let alone carry a heavy backpack to Everest Base Camp. And in the end, I had to concede. I cancelled the first of the treks and now had to find a plan B, but I still refused to cancel the second trek. There was no way in hell it wasn't going to happen. I just needed to find the right answers, and I would search scorched earth to find them.
The answer appeared from left field. Stephanie asked, "Have you ever heard of an Ayurvedic Health Center?" Me, "No?" Stephanie, "Well, me either, but hear me out. It's a series of healing techniques that break your issues down by looking at every aspect of your being, starting with your diet, to yoga and meditation, and even massage techniques with a lasting history of proven results." It was once again one of those conversations you have with your partner where they skilfully make it sound like you have a choice, but the reality is that they are politely informing you of exactly what is going to happen.
The path forward was now clear. I painfully finished packing my bags, took a handful of strong painkillers and jumped on the plane to Nepal, packed for a trek but heading to a healing centre. The irony was not lost on me that to even try and get well enough to trek, I had to load myself up on painkillers to make it to the Ayurvedic Health Center and cleanse myself of the endless medication I seemed to have been taking and of course, to fix my back that had already cost me one trek.
We booked into the centre for two weeks of intensive treatment. My diet was stripped back to the basics. All the foods and drinks I had enjoyed for the last decade were deleted in favour of a vegetable-based diet. The doctor took my pulses and suggested a series of treatments that finished with a Ghee-based cleanse — basically drinking melted butter every day until you add an active drink that will see you chained to the bathroom for a day. I did yoga three times a day, meditated twice a day, did all the treatments they suggested, and slept early every night. It felt like I was slowly starting to repair, but as the last week began, I was still in no condition to trek. I tried walking around Kathmandu for a day and was in constant pain, taking many breaks to release the pressure I was feeling in my back. Things were getting very desperate, and the deadline for a final decision was fast approaching.
While sitting down at the entrance of a random Kathmandu shop, trying to relieve the pain I was feeling, I had to face the truth and consider that I would not be able to make this trip. I was angry, upset, and more than just a little worried. For the first time in my life, my physical well-being was going to stop me from undertaking a challenge that would make me feel alive. I didn't know where to place the desperate feeling inside me, so I pushed it away and worked harder. I was not going to let this beat me. This was now personal and fast becoming far more about living my desired life. And when the stakes became that high, I knew I would not die, wondering if I could have done more to make this little dream happen.
In that desperate moment, I decided to double my efforts in everything I was doing. Each yoga pose was held in the belief that it was making me stronger. Each meditation session was completed with the knowledge that I was healing, each glass of Ghee was taken in the knowledge that I was already well, and each reaction to the Ghee was accepted that I was vastly becoming strong enough not just to complete the trek, but to do it with a smile that was impossible to punch off my face.
Still shaky, and with only two days left before departing, I decided to book into one of the only chiropractors I could find in Kathmandu. I was not expecting that much; I went just hoping that this treatment could make the final difference and deliver me back to a feeling of strength that would ensure a successful adventure.
Walking into this young man's practice, I was expecting very little, but I could not have been more blown away. He slowly assessed my condition and patiently went about his work. This guy was different; he spent twenty minutes warming up my spine before even trying to adjust it. He carefully placed electrodes and gently shocked my lower back, and finally, he pulled out some long ass acupuncture needles, driving them deep into the muscles that had refused to relax for the past month.
The pain was instant as the long needles hit their mark, quickly followed by a strong sense of relief as the muscles spasmed before seemingly relaxing. I lay there momentarily, hoping like hell that the young needle magician had performed his magic. Slowly, I raised myself from the bed and felt the strangest of feelings, something I had been relentlessly chasing for what now seemed like months. I felt well. I was upright, walking and somewhat freely moving in all the directions that would be needed in the following weeks.
A smile grew on my face as I realized that, yes, it had been a hard road to the starting line, and yes, there were many times when it looked like a bridge too far; but yes, this was going to happen. Call it dumb luck, divine intervention, simple stubbornness, or just an unwavering self-belief, I closed my eyes in my shady Kathmandu hotel and drifted towards sleep, knowing that I had chosen to be here and be well enough to tackle this adventure.
Day 1
Kathmandu - Lukla - Phakding (2,160m)
Day one of my trek started early; it was 5am when I left the warmth of the Kathmandu hotel. As I loaded my gear into the back of the waiting car, I had no idea what I was walking into. Sure, I knew that it would be challenging, yet I knew I had done all I could to combat the persistent illnesses that had arisen over the last few months in a vailed attempt to ready myself for what lay ahead. I felt confident, but deep down inside, I knew there was no real way I was fully prepared for the upcoming adventure. This was going to be a challenge, and all I could hope for was that my mind and body keep performing when I hit the many inevitable physical walls I would face in the foreseeable future.
We drove slowly through the sleepy streets of the Nepal capital, Kathmandu. With each passing kilometre, the gloomy fog that cloaked the city slowly began to fade, giving way to the subtle glow of a new dawn seeping through the dusty and textural streets. Stepping out of the car, I looked skywards to be greeted by a low-lying fog surrounding the airport, allowing the sodium vapour lights to paint a cinematic picture. It didn't look like a great day to fly through the world's highest mountain ranges — a challenge in the best of weather, a questionable act of sanity when the weather was not playing ball. We walked towards the terminal, surrounded by what felt like every other trekker on earth. It was busier than I had ever imagined, and although I felt very alone inside my fragile body, the truth was I was immersed in a group of hundreds of people, all feeling just as nervous and anxious as I was.
The plan was simple: we would catch a chopper up to Lukla and begin our hike in earnest, but sadly the foggy morning that painted such a beautiful picture just moments before now revealed its harsh truth — the cold Kathmandu morning meant that the airport was fogged in. There had been snowfalls high in the mountains, and the cool air was trapped in the valley home to the Kathmandu airport. Heavy fog meant that we were all going nowhere in the immediate future. As the hours slowly ticked by and the thick fog showed no sign of lifting, I walked endless circles of the less-than-glamorous airport terminal, just like hundreds of others, all nervously waiting for our treks to begin — all knowing that day one of this adventure could end with a taxi ride back to the hotel, but that was just the reality of a Himalayan trek. You are never in control, and you are constantly reminded that you are just a visitor in a harsh environment.
To say time passed slowly would be the world's biggest understatement. But finally, at 11:30 am, word came through that it was safe to take off. We quickly gathered our packs, exited the terminal and jumped into the back of a waiting pick-up truck that ferried us across the tarmac to the heliport, where the rescue choppers took off from. As we pulled up, our helicopter was landing to be met by an ambulance picking up a group of hikers needing assistance. Standing there watching this everyday drama unfold, I secretly hoped that taking a rescue chopper ride would not end up being a vision of the future that would come back to haunt me.
Once the hikers suffering altitude sickness were unloaded and making their way to the hospital, it was time for us to load up, say a little prayer, and head ever higher in search of an adventure that was fast becoming what felt like a sensory overload. The pilot slowly but surely began to feed the old chopper power. It vibrated more than any other chopper I had ever been in, yet my concerns were quickly put to rest as we gently took flight and began to climb across the sprawling city below, heading ever higher toward our destination, Lukla.
I managed to find myself in the front seat, where I was able to open a window. I had hopes of taking some pictures as we flew through the mountains. But sadly, the weather had other ideas and remained misty, which made shooting out the window a largely unsuccessful concept, but how many times are you going to fly into one of the world's most dangerous airports? I thought I might as well try and take advantage of the opportunity I felt privileged to be experiencing. From the moment we left Kathmandu, we started climbing. The mountains, which I guess the locals would call foothills, seemed to erupt from the earth's surface below. Sure, these were just small hills compared to where we were heading, but as the first glimpses of what lay ahead started to materialize, so did my excitement and apprehension.
The low rhythmical thump of the old bird's rotor blades created a familiar sense of calm as we climbed ever higher while the stunning and ever-changing landscape slipped by below. After forty-five minutes of constant climbing, we arrived in Lukla to be greeted by a thick, low-lying fog that the sun found challenging to penetrate. As we jumped out, the cool winds whipped around my body, letting me know that I had arrived in an environment I was not used to. It was officially one degree, and it was cold. Little did I know then that this would be about as hot as it would get for the next few weeks.
I was hoping for a sunny start to the trek. A little bit of sun always seems to brighten every moment in life, but today we would walk through the low-lying fog that refused to lift. After a quick lunch at a local guest house, we left Lukla and walked for about three and a half hours. It felt good to be underway. I fell into a nice walking rhythm behind the guide and let the first miles walked through the Himalayas silently pass below my feet.
We walked along a breathtaking path that followed the river as it snaked its way through the valley. The mountains that flanked us seemed massive and radiated a cool feeling where the sun had little impact. It was stunning, a pristine environment in contrast. It felt as if you were supported, yet at any moment, it felt like you could be stranded. My cameras stayed locked away on the first day of the journey. There was not much to see or photograph, and I knew that would come later. But as every step drew us closer to our overnight destination, I felt at peace. The work I had put in to be in that very moment felt thoroughly worth it. I smiled, knowing I was at the very beginning of a long and desired walk through a mystical land that felt long overdue.
The strange thing about trekking through this kind of terrain was the fact that you seemed to descend to the valley floor almost as much as you ascended to the mountainous peaks, and that is exactly how the first part of this trek began. We felt fresh and looked clean and energised at this stage of the day. It was not lost on me that we appeared exactly the opposite to those who were finishing their treks struggling uphill in the opposite direction; they honestly looked like they had been to hell and back. As I studied their blank, tired and weather-beaten expressions as they fought their way up their final climb, I wondered if I was being shown a mirror of what I may be feeling in just a few short weeks. I was sure that as the days passed on the trail, there was a good chance I would start to resemble the tired, weary, yet strangely peaceful faces that passed by.
As they passed slowly, dragging themselves to the finish line, I paused and made a promise to myself. Come hell or high water; I would continue to move forward and do my best to enjoy every step. Once again, I reminded myself that I had chosen to put myself through this and was privileged enough to be living out a desire I had chosen. With my resolve re-confirmed, I was determined not to let a moment pass by without gratitude for the most simple yet stunning moments of life, a lesson that too often slips by in a blinkered and busy modern existence.
Our trek continued through the pristine valley for another few hours, and I moved slowly in an attempt to remain present and enjoy everything this simple life had to offer. Our first day ended as we walked into the beautiful little village of Phakding at 2160m. It was a quaint guest house that offered all the comforts one could hope for, and after sharing a warm hardy dinner with a fellow trekker from Ireland, I retired early as the temperature dropped quickly to -8. It was cold, but it was something I was going to have to get used to. As I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep, I rested with a subtle smile that felt well-earned. Day one was beautiful, but I knew tomorrow was going to be a new beginning that had the potential to deliver the unexpected.
It was a cold night that seemed to be enhanced by the valley walls surrounding us, yet despite the chill, I enjoyed a surprisingly warm and sound night's sleep. The rhythm of the trek was set by my guide Krishna: Rise at 06:30, have breakfast at 07:00, and begin trekking at 07:30. I got the feeling that on occasions, Krishna had received some pushback from clients about the early starts to the day, but for me, it was fine. I enjoyed a hot breakfast with a honey lemon tea, packed up my backpack and struck out to begin day two of my trek. As I left the warmth of the guest house, the cool air shortened my breath; pushing forward through the mild discomfort, my feet found their rhythm, and I took a moment to look down towards my watch to see that it was a balmy -5 degrees.
I had to smile as I lived on the island of Bali, where the average temperature at dawn was 25 degrees. As the cool of night surrendered to the warmth of the morning sun now caressing the deep recesses of the valley, I made another note to myself: this temperature difference was just one more thing I would have to get used to. It didn't slip my attention that the list of things I would have to accept on this trip was starting to get long.
As we briskly walked in silence, following the natural rise and fall of this stunning valley in the shadows of the Himalayas, it didn't take long before I felt warm enough to strip off a layer or two. I again glanced down at my watch and realized it was now a warm -2. I laughed at how odd it felt to feel warm when the temperature was still below zero. And I have to admit that I started believing that maybe, just maybe, I would be okay with the frigid weather that lay ahead. Maybe!
We travelled along a small trekking track carved from the mountainside that followed the river's path for a good few hours, rising and falling with the natural lay of the land as we pushed ever higher. It was nothing short of spectacular walking through the richly textured valley that stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with beautiful small villages full of warm smiles and welcoming greetings.
The trekking was comfortable, and we made good time, arriving at our lunch destination at 10:30 am. It was too early to stop, and as I was feeling strong, we decided to take advantage and push on, knowing that there would be many days ahead when we would need to stop and rest. After another hour of making our way through the breathtaking scenery, we arrived at the famed Hillary Bridge. A large-scale suspension bridge adorned with prayer flags and white scarfs fluttered in the gentle warm breeze that invisibly floated down the imposing valley the bridge spanned.
I stopped and took a moment to appreciate the view as the flags and scarves fluttered on the breeze with the hypnotic rhythm that only pursuing something personal can grant. The bridge crossed a vast valley, and the moment's significance was not lost on me. I mean, how could it be? The men and women who first walked these trails are household names we all learn about in school. The reality was that these famous men and women were incredibly gifted adventurers who risked their lives in chasing a dangerous and distant dream.
Once we crossed the bridge, we were met with what I considered our first real test, the uphill push to Namche Bazaar. We needed to gain around 600m in elevation, and I know that it does not sound like such a big deal. But trust me, that relentless uphill slog had the potential to test everyone that encountered it. For me, it felt like the first real moment of the trek where you could test your actual ability against the concept you had created in your overcompensating mind. The truth lay ahead, and there was only one way to find it.
The going was slow and steady, with my guide Krishna setting a wonderful pace to see us seemingly cruise up the steep terrain and arrive at our overnight accommodation shortly after 2:00pm. It was not an easy climb; I huffed and puffed my way up, simply ensuring that I kept putting one foot in front of the other. Some people moved faster than me, seemingly flying towards the top, and others were slower, but all were doing the best they could. Ultimately, it was the first small test, and I knew it was nowhere near the toughest I would face in the next three weeks.
Entering the busy little village of Namche Bazaar was a bit of a surprise. It was beautiful; a mountain oasis that seemed to cling to the side of a sun-drenched Himalayan mountain. In many ways, it reminded me of a European ski resort. The uphill slog had taken the life out of my legs, and I was happy to walk through the guesthouse doors to be greeted with a room that not only had a warm shower but also had an electric blanket - a rare luxury that I would not find anywhere else for the remainder of the journey.
After a long hot shower, washing away the well-earned grime of the last two days, I grabbed my camera and spent several solitary hours walking around Namche Bazaar. I slowly wandered the small yet busy streets and lanes, taking pictures of life, travellers and residents alike, all going about their lives at an altitude many would find challenging.
Personally, I was holding up okay, but as soon as the sun set on that beautiful day, it was time to find a warm fire and refuel with yet another serving of Dhal Bhat - a meal that was the guide's favourite and a meal I was going to have to learn to appreciate. I slid my tired soul in between the warm blankets, genuinely believing that this was about as good as life could get. Beautiful mountains, great food, fellow trekkers to chat with and a warm bed. There was simply nothing to worry about apart from the feeling of that much-needed oxygen was slowly but surely becoming a rarer commodity. A fact that was confirmed at 3am when I suddenly woke in a bit of a panic, struggling to find my breath.
I sat bolt upright in bed, pulse racing and shallow breathing. I quickly had to assess if what I was feeling was real or if I was just having a bit of a moment. It turns out that this shortness of breath when sleeping was something that would accompany me throughout the trek. The best way to describe it was that it felt like I could not get a breath to travel deep down into my lungs. From that moment on, shallow breathing and sleeping would become unwanted bed partners, and although I tried everything I could think of, there was not a single thing I could do about it.
DAY 3
Namche Bazaar - Everest Cafe - Acclimatisation Day (3440m)
Although I slept in a very warm bed last night, I really didn't sleep well at all. At the time, I didn't realise that waking up in a bit of a panic, searching for a fulfilling, deep breath, would become my normal for the next few weeks. As I prepared for the day ahead, I took a moment to calm my nervous system, attempting to breathe deeply and become aware of what my body was experiencing. I was feeling tired but was not too worried about that as today was meant to be a relatively easy day - or so I thought as I left the warmth of the guesthouse and hit the trail for a fun and carefree acclimatisation hike - well that it how it was described to me.
It was 7am when we left the guest house and turned left, which was to become the first steps in a rather gruelling two-hour uphill hike. Everyone else doing their acclimatisation day took the well-trodden path. But Krishna had a plan to show me a view that not many trekkers took the time to see. Life, in general, but especially this region of the world, has a way of testing your resolve. If you want to see the most spectacular views, if you want to experience moments that will live with you forever, then you are going to have to work for it. And that is exactly what this short and sharp two-hour trek felt like damn hard work.
Everybody was heading to the Everest Cafe, a famed view with an expensive cup of tea. The route we took was off the beaten track, and while I appreciated it, I had to admit that it was tough going. I had to slow down, try to control my breathing, and just slowly but surely get the job done.
I followed in Krishna's light and easy footsteps for two solid hours as he took me past some of the most spectacular scenery I had ever seen. It was like every corner revealed yet another world-class view. Stunning would be an understatement. I have to admit that there were times I wished we had taken the easy path, but when we rounded the final corner and climbed the last rise, I was awestruck by what lay before us. My god, he was right. The scene was stunning; an uninterrupted view of the most famed mountains in the world, a spectacle that most only dreamed about seeing. I was still many miles from my final destination, but this glimpse, this tiny sliver of near perfection, seemed to invigorate me. What appeared like a distant dream only a few days before now felt like it was a reality I could almost reach out and touch.
I had no words to describe what I was feeling, so I opted to take a seat on the side of the hill and ponder in silence as the warmth of the sun caressed my shoulders. At that moment, I felt small, so very tiny, as I gazed out onto more seven- and eight-thousand-meter mountains than I had ever seen or imagined. They were breathtaking, awe-inspiring, a true sight to behold, and the most remarkable thing about that moment was that we were totally alone — a rare treat on this busy trail. Krishna was correct; the extra effort was well worth it.
After spending a good thirty minutes soaking in the view that will live on deep inside me for the rest of my days, we slowly made our way down towards the Everest Cafe and enjoyed a well-deserved hot lemon, ginger, and honey tea. It would be the most expensive cafe I would visit in my time in Nepal, but it's hard to complain when you're sipping hot tea graced by a view of the highest mountain on earth.
As everyone headed back to Namche Bazaar, Krishna and I decided to take the long way home and turned right, heading down into the beautiful little village of Klum Sing. We took a break for lunch, basking in the midday sunshine at a local guest house surrounded by fields full of flourishing vegetables while enjoying a beautiful plate of pasta and a sneaky slice of apple pie.
It took us about 90 minutes of hard walking to make it back to where we had started, and the truth was that coming down was every bit as hard as going up. And the funny thing was that we would have to do it all again tomorrow as we set our sights on the famous monastery village of Tengboche.
As the sunset, I could not help feeling very grateful for the day I had just experienced. The trekking was challenging but rewarding; the view just kept giving all day long, and the worries that seemed like a constant companions faded into the distance as if swallowed whole by the sheer beauty that surrounded me.
Day 4
Namche Bazaar - Tengboche (3860m)
We left the comfort and relative warmth of our guesthouse at Namche Bazaar, with the temperature hovering around -5. But the day was clear, not a cloud in the sky, not the best for landscape photography, but clear skies meant the sun was shining, helping to warm our cores and ready us for the uphill slogs that lay ahead not too far down the dusty path.
I have to admit; I was a little concerned about today's climb. Sure, it was only a gain of 500m in total. Yet to achieve this gain, we would first have to descend 700 meters to the valley floor, cross the river, and then climb 1200m up to our destination: the fabled and stunning monastery of Tengboche. Sounds easy enough, but trust me, it was enough to worry most who were heading out that morning.
The day's hike began in a truly impressive manner. I was greeted by stunning views of the ever-impressive Himalayan mountains everywhere I looked. These world wonders are so seductive, and I can feel why so many are drawn to them, yet sadly for the unlucky ones, they never leave. This place can bite you hard if it chooses to, and you quickly learn that every step must be taken with ultimate respect.
For the next few hours, we followed a path that seemed to somehow cut into the side of the mountain, travelling ever deeper into the valley and towards our ultimate destination. This pleasant beginning to the day soon came to an end as we turned off the main trail when Krishna declared it was time to tackle a steep descent that would lead us to the valley's floor. I was looking forward to this part of the day, but the downward path quickly reminded me that descending would never be as easy as I imagined. An hour of solid trekking led us to a beautiful guest house for a relaxing lunch by the flowing river, which helped calm my nerves about what lay ahead. But the simple truth was that the sooner we began, the sooner it would end. Much to my surprise, the slow and steady pace worked wonders on the uphill push. It was still very tough and relentless work, and sure, people were moving faster than me, but I really didn't care. My trekking pace ego was left shattered on the path a few days ago, and in the end, we all seemed to end up in the same place around the same time.
We made it to the top to be greeted by the world-renowned Tengboche monastery in what seemed like just a couple of relatively short hours, and the truth was that I felt good. Not great, but definitely good enough to be enjoying myself. For a moment, I let my imagination run away with itself and almost believed that this adventure might not end up being as complex as I thought it would be. Looking back on this moment, I have to smile about how mildly deluded this thought actually was.
Upon first laying eyes on the stunning monastery, I thought that if a greater power existed, then this had to be one of their masterpieces. While it is not the biggest or brightest monastery in the world, its location perched high on a hill with views of Everest certainly makes it one of the most unique. I spent a moment exploring the monastery and then stepped inside as the monks began their 3pm prayer session. I don't know if it was the location, the monks deep resonating chants or a combination of both, but for the next 45 minutes, I sat crossed-legged and did all I could to empty my mind and live in that very moment.
To say the experience was beautiful would simply be wrong and rather understated; it was special to me in ways that words fail to describe. A deeply resonating memory that will remain forever accessible. As the chanting faded and the session came to an end, I decided to sit in the dirt with the sun at my back and an uninterrupted view of Mt. Everest to indulge and get lost in.
It was a stunning sight that left me mesmerised, as if lost in a childlike fantasy; a moment that seemed to have the same effect on anyone arriving. We all just stopped and stared. There was nothing to be said, knowing that our feeble attempts to describe what lay directly in front of us could never do this majestic scene justice.
As I watched the sun start to dip behind a distant mountain, I quickly grabbed my camera, as I had a feeling that the last of the day's sun would kiss the top of the highest mountain in the world, allowing it to glow like a precious gem while the ever-growing shadows consume everything else. And as I excitedly watched this happen, I knew that no matter how cold it became, watching the last of the day's sun light up the distant high peaks would become my daily ritual. It was stunning, just mesmerising. As the sun began to set, a perfect shadow danced its way towards the shining tip of the highest peaks until all that remained was the fading memory of what pure beauty can be.
As we settled in for dinner near the relative warmth of a yak dung fire, Krishna told me that heavy snow was forecasted and suggested that we might want to tighten the schedule to try and avoid it. That night, I dreamed of glowing mountains and hoped the weather would hold out for the foreseeable future. Sure, a few dramatic skies would not be something to say no to, but history had shown time and time again that tackling the high passes in bad weather was best to be avoided.
DAY 5
Tengboche - Pangboche - Ama Dablam Base Camp (4600m)
It was starting to feel as if many nights and mornings in the guest houses were becoming consumed with talk about blood oxygen levels and how you are holding up to the altitude. Early on in the trek, I was more than willing to engage in these conversations. However, that decision changed as we pushed deeper into our adventure. I saw no advantage in focusing on the ever-present dangers of pushing higher.
I was not trying to ignore the fact that it was a concept; I just chose not to focus on all the things that could go wrong. Every day, with every meter gained, the trekking became harder and harder. I wanted to keep control of my thoughts and focus all of my mental energy on ensuring that I was in the best mental shape I could possibly be at the start of every day. It just made sense to be aware of the dangers but not allow them to become the sole focus of your downtime.
We woke to another beautiful day. Sure, it was cold, but I guess that was to be expected as we reached higher daily. The trek to Pangboche was little more than a delightful couple of hours supplemented with stunning views at every corner, and by this stage of the trek, I had found a pace and rhythm that was working for me. We were going to cross the 4000m mark today, and I was still making good progress. Not the fastest and not the slowest, just a pace that suited me and that could, most importantly, be sustained for the more demanding days that lay ahead.
We were now on day five of the trek, but the truth is that I still had many moments each day where I would stand in silence, looking in awe at the seemingly never-ending views. I could not get enough of these beautiful masterpieces that seem to erupt from the Earth in an endeavour to reach the heavens. On more than a few occasions, I found myself staring in silence, belittled by what lay in front of me. These were definitely life moments that I was experiencing, yet on the other hand, each of them felt personal, intimate, and in many ways nurturing.
After checking into our guesthouse and enjoying an early lunch, we began the trek to Ama Dablam Base Camp. A five-hour trek planned for the following day would see us push to 4600m before descending back to our guesthouse. But since we were all feeling good and the weather was perfect, we decided to strike while the iron was hot.
I know that going up 700m in altitude does not sound that hard or impressive, but the truth is that it felt like damn hard work. As we ventured ever higher, the air was becoming even drier, and now you could feel that it was actually becoming far thinner. It was hard work, and the cold mountain winds kicked an incredible amount of fine dust into the air, just a little treat for your lungs to cope with. Yet whichever way I looked at it, and no matter how hard the trekking was becoming, I was having the time of my life and would not swap a single moment for being more comfortable. It was zero degrees, the sun was shining, and at that moment, I could not for the life of me think of anywhere else I would rather be.
About halfway up to base camp, we stepped onto a plateau, and Krishna pointed out all the mountains surrounding us. It blew my mind. Directly in front of us was Ama Dablam, a massive technical mountain; to our left was Mt Everest, and the list went on for what seemed like an eternity. At that moment, we were surrounded by some of the highest peaks on Earth. The truth is that being so very small has never made me feel bigger. I had to pinch myself, and I honestly don’t believe anything can prepare you for such an amazing encounter.
After basking in the view while enjoying a snack and some hot water, which helped keep the ever-present mountain cough at bay, we were once again heading upwards; passing a series of Yak trains ferrying finished expedition equipment down, closely followed by tired climbers who had either succeeded or failed in their attempts to summit this formidable mountain.
Two hours of strenuous trekking passed before I dragged my tired legs into Ama Dablam base camp. I had never seen a high-altitude base camp before, and to tell you the truth, it was a slightly surreal experience, to say the very least. It was like looking at a very well-organized tent city that lay before the sleeping giant Ama Dablam. The mountain looked so peaceful, almost gentle, but I was quickly reminded of just how deadly that mountain can be.
We spoke to a climbing guide who had experienced three deaths close to the summit in the past two weeks. Although I am only travelling as high as 5700m, it was a timely reminder that this beautiful place could strike without warning.
The trip back to our guest house was made in silence. I was happy to have seen the base camp, but the thought of all the people who had passed away while pursuing what they loved seemed to weigh heavily in my thoughts. I have nothing but respect for all of them.
DAY 6
Pangboche - Dingboche (4410m)
Today started much like every other day on the trek: 6:30am wake-up, 7:00am breakfast, 7:30am trek. It is basically a predictable experience designed to get you up and walking without too much time left to worry about what you cannot change.
I love the predictability of this schedule. There is nothing to plan or expect, and therefore no way of ever being disappointed. Every day you wake and walk, it is up to you whether it will be a great day or not. A life lived on your feet is about as freeing an experience as I have ever encountered. Still, the surroundings of the Himalayas take this experience to an entirely new level.
After yesterday's spectacular acclimatisation hike, we took it easy and trekked steadily from Pangboche to Dingboche, around five hours, at a relaxed pace. Once again, I found that my mind was getting ahead of itself, and I had to take back control, reminding it that every day in these mountains was a unique experience. Sure, enjoy the good days, but also do your best to leave a bit of mental energy in the tank so you can appreciate the tough ones.
As always, the scenery was nothing short of breathtaking and all the other superlatives I am struggling to find right now. At this stage of the trek, the views had almost become predictably common, a sad reality of a world always looking for more instead of appreciating what lay beyond the tip of our noses — considering every bend in this trail offers you something new, something unique, which will never be forgotten; like a bespoke jewel designed just for you.
Dingboche lies at an altitude of 4410m, and typically most trekkers would spend two days here, making sure that their bodies are still functioning as expected at this altitude. But since we were trekking with the chance of bad weather approaching, we decided to tackle the acclimatisation work when we arrived. This simply meant climbing a nearby peak to an altitude of 4850m before returning to the guest house to rest.
The climb was beautifully authentic as we slowly made our way past many old stupas built to honour the memory of those who had passed away. It is a beautiful tradition that feels fitting to the Nepalese people and their gentle and respectful attitudes towards life and death.
Holding a slow and steady pace, we reached our target altitude in about two hours. And the simple truth is that these afternoon hikes are starting to hurt; the higher we travel, the harder we work for every meter gained. I get it; it's essential; I was just starting to not look forward to them.
Each time we set off for an ever higher altitude, I return a little more exhausted. The air has become thin and dry, and slowly but surely, I am noticing that most people I interact with have a cough that sits in their chests with no sign of shifting. The simple fact is that things have become demanding. All the minor mishaps that would not bother you down lower were starting to feel just a little more serious. Don't get me wrong, I was still feeling strong, but I had a sense that I was going to face a hell of a lot more physical challenges before this adventure was complete.
We made it to our destination by mid-afternoon and decided to take a short break, knowing that we still had to get down before dark and, as always, I would want to shoot many photographs. I sat silently on the top of that mountain and explored my surroundings. Once again, I was belittled by the soaring peaks climbing from the earth's crust, shooting ever higher as if attempting to reach the heavens. It was peacefully humbling, to say the very least. Another stolen moment was spent in complete silence and appreciation.
This mystic land is an exotic contrast - beautiful, harsh, nurturing, life-threatening, and everything else you could imagine. It is very hard to describe the feeling that rises in these small trek moments, but as they drift away, I know that their memory will last a lifetime. Such is the power of the smallest moments in the most magnificent surroundings.
As the light faded and we made our way down, I experienced an overwhelming feeling of being so very blessed. This feeling reminded me to be humbly grateful for every step taken in this powerful and exotic land. Every day and every step seems to bring me closer to my truth. Yet, like everything in life, I have to let that perception of truth go, having learnt that even though something feels so real and powerful, it is still just an impermanent truth associated with that moment; just like everything else in life, it comes and goes along with the feelings.
DAY 7
Dingboche - Lobuche (4910m)
Today we started with a long trek through an ice-cold valley flanked by two 7000m mountains. Although incredibly cold, we felt lucky when brief glimpses of the warming sun shone directly onto our backs, creating a shadow we chased in vain. I had to laugh as it felt like the mighty Himalaya was playing a game with the insignificant specs of matter walking upon its beauty
This mildly surreal and beautiful moment got the wheels in my mind spinning, as it reminded me of many things in life that we feel we desire but will never obtain, no matter how much energy we waste on its pursuit. These much-needed things will always remain just out of reach, and the question must be asked: do we need them, or is all we seek hiding deep within?
A constant uphill gradient ensured that my heart rate remained high, which I found very comforting as my life force was pumped around my body, supplying the much-needed energy to continue when the mind started to yell, "Enough, stop!” For me, the truth is that the first thirty minutes of every new day is challenging work. My mind instantly begins to make up stories, and before I know it, I start believing that today will be a very tough day.
That is, until you stop and look skyward to be greeted by a view you will never forget. From there, the hope for the day to come grows ever stronger, and the lingering feeling of self-doubt fades into the background, where it remains until the following day. I thought I was a morning person, but hiking early in the morning at altitude in the freezing cold has got me thinking otherwise.
We walked for a solid three hours through what was starting to feel like a never-ending valley before descending to the river, which is always accompanied by a strong feeling of dread. The simple rule when trekking in Nepal is that if you go down, you will have to climb your way back up. As we approached 5000m altitude, all climbs became far more taxing.
This particular uphill slog leading to Lobuche lasted around an hour. Not the longest and not the shortest, but it was definitely the highest. After another couple of hours of steady walking, accompanied by nothing but your heaving chest and fast-beating heart, we arrived in Lobuche, one of the last villages we would pass through, before reaching Everest Base Camp. As we approached the village, I instantly knew where I would photograph the sunset from. Lobuche was just beautiful, a delightful little village tucked into the valley and surrounded by the giants of the Himalayas.
Looking down from the perfect vantage point, I watched the smoke rise from the chimneys of the humble abodes below. It drifted and danced on a slight breeze that was getting ever cooler, climbing higher until it was no more. My mind wandered to scenes from the American Wild West. Lobuche was beautiful, as it had an otherworldly, lost-in-time quality. Maybe it was the exotic mixture of smoke and dust in the air, lit by another sunset to behold. Or perhaps it was the roaming yaks enjoying the sunshine while feeding on the golden grass. The truth is, I am not sure why I was so taken with the place, but all I knew was that it was far better than everyone had made out, and as an unexpected bonus, the windows in my guesthouse perfectly framed the now closer-than-ever Mt Everest. I mean, who doesn't want to lie in bed and look out the window to be greeted by such a majestic view?
Chasing the sunset had become a staple in my day, and today was to be no different. It was a time of day that I was quickly falling in love with. A time when I could wander off alone to the perfect vantage point and wait for the setting sun to kiss the highest mountains on Earth. To say that I was becoming obsessed with this intimate moment each day would be an understatement. In fact, I made a special effort to be as vague as possible when describing where I was heading and when I would return. I loved everything about this tiny slice of the day when I felt alone with the mountains when I had time to sit, study and appreciate them.
I watched in awe as the last glow of yet another seemingly perfect day kissed the very tip of Mt Everest. Today was a beautiful day that makes me look forward to tomorrow with bated breath. I can only say thank you for the private show, a display of sophisticated beauty that I will never forget.
DAY 8
Lobuche - Gorak Shep (5140m)
Gorak Shep - Everest Base Camp (5364m)
Gorak Shep - Kala Patthar (5550m)
There was no getting around it. Today was going to be a long, tough day, and it started early. The ice-covered ground cracked beneath our feet as we took our first steps up the valley that led to Gorak Shep, the last village before Everest Base Camp. The sun was just emerging over the horizon, yet we would not feel its life-giving warmth for a few hours as we worked our way ever higher in the shadows of the massive mountains that flanked our every step.
We were approaching 5000m, and the trek was getting tougher with every step we took. I was working hard, but my body still felt good. Sure, I knew that I was in a battle, but at this stage of the game, I thought I was holding my own and was genuinely excited about the day that lay ahead.
After three hours of constant toil, we crested a slight rise to be greeted by the surreal views of Gorak Shep. I stood silently on the crest, knowing that what I desired was now only a relatively short and easy trek away. I took a deep breath just as the full thrust of the 50kph winds gusting through the valley smacked me in the face. The moment was totally unexpected; the wind felt ferocious; it was cold, wild and carried large dust clouds that raced through the town, impacting every building in its path before rising skywards, creating a lull before the next gust. Yes, we had walked into a wind storm racing through the valley, creating havoc. It was a timely reminder that we were trekking in a harsh and dangerous environment and a little tap on the shoulder letting you know how quickly circumstances can change in an environment like this.
Even though the weather was less than perfect, we decided to set off into the valley and fight through the wild winds and dust clouds. Knowing full well that the weather would make an already tough day much harder than we had ever hoped for. After checking into our guesthouse, which Krishna claimed to be the highest in Nepal, we stored our gear and took only what we would need as we left the relative safety and warmth of the accommodation and headed out into the storm that was going to be a constant companion for the next few hours.
As you walk the final hour to Everest Base Camp, it is impossible not to be excited. It is a mythical place where so many treks end, and so many expeditions begin, and a place that many of us have dreamed about for as long as we can remember. The trek to base camp was, in fact, a gentle, essentially flat walk across endless boulders that had fallen from high above. And even though I was being lashed and beaten by high winds and fine dust, I was enjoying every moment of this significant trek.
With the famous and impressive Khumbu glacier flanking our right, we slowly but surely closed in on our desired destination, Everest Base Camp. Our last steps up a short incline led us to what could be one of the most famous views in the world. We had made it to base camp, and the truth was, I had to take a quiet moment and let the wonder and contrast of this powerful place truly sink in.
I was stunned by its beauty and overwhelmed by its power and contrast. You could not help but feel that this place on earth was extraordinary, as it was the starting point of so many dreams and the resting place for so many that never got to live them out. For me, there were no celebrations for reaching base camp, just a simple smile and a nod to the achievement. Instead, an overwhelming sense of respect and gratitude washed over me for my journey and the experience I had been lucky enough to pursue.
I was left feeling very humbled by the experience. It is always the same; whenever I reached the top of any mountain, I struggled my way up. I felt a deep sense of thanks that I was allowed to be there, to stand in a place that words paled to describe, to experience the emotion of intimate success while knowing there was always more to achieve. I left base camp pleased that we had made it, and as I passed countless memorials to climbers who remain on the mountain, I wondered if I would ever return for more.
After another ninety minutes of trekking through the gusting winds and dust clouds, we returned to Gorak Shep and enjoyed a warm tea and a light snack. I sat staring out the window, taking in the view of Kala Pathan. Although I knew we were meant to be climbing it at four in the morning after a night's rest, the photographer in me knew that the time to climb was now as it would never look as good in the morning as it would in a few hours, lit up by the last rays of the setting sun. Even though this would hurt more than I cared for, my mind was made up, I was going to climb now, and I was going to do it on my own.
On paper, it was only a 400m climb to reach the summit of Kala Pathan, and while that does not sound like a lot, we were now operating above 5000m, and it had already been a long enough day. Yet, the sunset was calling, and I knew this was an opportunity I didn't want to miss.
As the wind was still a little extreme, and I would be descending in the dark, I rugged up and prepared the best I could for what the next few hours would bring. Crossing the dusty bowl that marked the middle ground between the guesthouse and the start of the climb, I knew this would be tough. Climbing into a headwind that was cold enough to ensure you could not feel your hands and feet would never be fun. But the lure of what lay at the top was strong enough to push away the doubt, get the head down, and tackle the task. In the end, it was simple, if you want to experience it, then you are going to have to work for it.
It took me an hour of constant toil to reach the top, and the truth is that I was delighted it was no further, as by the time I took a seat on a friendly rock, my legs were spent and I had nothing left to give. Yet as the shadows of the setting sun drifted up the face of the mountains, all thoughts of being broken disappeared, replaced by the boyish-like excitement of what I was about to photograph.
For the next thirty minutes, I watched the golden and orange hues of the setting sun dance upon the highest peaks in the world. I can honestly say that I have never experienced anything more beautiful in my entire life. It was just perfection as the shadow of a distant mountain slowly made its way skywards, leaving just a perfectly glowing peak, standing high above all else, looking nothing short of nobel and majestic. It was a scene that will vividly remain at the forefront of my mind for the rest of my days. It was a scene that I chased, and the mountains were gracious enough to grant me the privilege of witnessing.
I sat in silence until I could no longer feel my hands and feet, and that’s when I knew it was time to say goodbye. I strapped on my headlamp, put away my camera gear, extended my trekking poles and took off for the warmth and safety of the guest house. After the day I had just experienced, I felt like I was descending in a bubble of pure joy. It was fun; everything was perfect until I stumbled across a trekker I had gotten to know. Sitting in the dark with her guide, looking exhausted and totally disillusioned, she had hit her wall, and things were getting very tough.
She was spent, out of gas and now cold and scared. We spoke for a moment, and she knew she had to get down, and her guide would ensure it would happen. The only problem was that neither of them had a headlamp. I don’t know why; it was what it was. I offered the guide mine, which he happily took, and once again, I took off down the mountain.
I wasn’t too worried about not having a headlamp, as there was still just enough ambient light to guide the way to the distant glow of my safe haven, the guest house. But the longer the descent went on, the darker it became, and the faster I had to move. Not a bad plan, but not the best either. I didn’t know it at the time, but the pace I was moving at meant that my frozen toes were being smashed into the front of my shoes. A seemingly small problem, but a problem that would come back and bite me hard over the next few days.
Back at the guest house, I enjoyed a warm sweet tea while sitting as close as I dared to the only source of warmth for hundreds of kilometres, the small potbelly stove. The exhausted glow of a stunning day washed over me; it was simply one to remember, impossible to forget. I was surrounded by people but didn’t hear or pay attention to what they were all doing or saying. As dinner was served, I shifted to a table and enjoyed it in silence, happy that to this point at all, I had achieved. But as I wiped my hands and mouth, I scanned the room to be greeted with a large group of trekkers that appeared to all be travelling together. No problem at all, but what was a slight worry was that most of them had nasty coughs and colds. I instantly left the room and went to bed, hoping like hell that whatever bug they were carrying had no chance of surviving inside my body. I had heard numerous stories of people falling sick at this altitude, and it was something I had no plan of personally experiencing.
DAY 9
Gorak - Dzongla (4680m)
Overnight it was cold, damn cold. I was not sure if it was just the altitude or if it was also because I was so exhausted from the day's activities. But to date, it was the coldest day on the trek. I stole all the blankets I could find and slept in all the clothes I had trekked in, and it was still cold.
Following a quick breakfast, we left Gorak at 07:30am, just as the morning sun peeked over the towering ridge lines surrounding this hostile place. I am not sure what it is about the warmth of the new day lighting up your body, but I know that on this day, it gave me a much-needed burst of energy on that tired early morning. I felt like I had been dragged through the wringer. Everything was hurting, even places on my body that I didn't know could hurt.
Feeling somewhat fatigued after such a big day, I was genuinely looking forward to the thought of travelling downhill for an entire day. Little did I know that this would be the start of my problems, and today would become one of the most challenging days I faced. After walking uphill for over a week, I was excited about heading down, but the expectations I had in my might could not have been more different from the reality that was about to unfold
Over the last few days, a chesty cough had started to materialise. It started as just your everyday dry cough but quickly became more severe as time passed. It was not debilitating, but it made walking in the thin air even more difficult. It was starting to feel like every time I stopped, I would launch into a coughing fit that would only end when my lungs felt like they were ready to leave my body. It reminded me of the group of trekkers that I shared the dining room with last night.
"Okay, if stopping is the issue, then I will just keep moving." But wait, over the last twenty-four hours, I had somehow injured my foot by bruising my toes rather badly. Now, every downward step I looked forward to was taken in pain. Today would be a long, hard-ass day, not what I was planning when my feet hit the ground this morning, but something I would have to deal with now. It is as simple as that in these kinds of environments: you keep moving forward, or you give up.
I chose to keep moving forward, and it was slow, tough going. In my mind, I had imagined every step becoming easier as we started our way down. The simple fact was that every step quickly became more painful than the last. It was time to dig deep, put my pain on the back burner, and just get the work done.
We trekked slowly to an intersection where the vast majority of people turned left to retrace their steps down. We turned right and began the next phase of our trek that would lead us across the Cho La Pass, a stunning part of the Himalayas at an altitude of 5420m. I would be lying if I said I was not looking forward to this challenge, but today I felt very beaten up. Whether it was just the freezing cold from last night or the extra effort I put into the day, the bruised toes or the hacking cough, it really didn't matter now. I just needed to make it through and find a place to rest where I could lick my wounds and reset for what still lay ahead. This trek still had many twists and turns left to reveal.
It was slow going all day, and the pleasure of the downhill walk had been replaced by a constant pain that was not going anywhere. After what felt like the slowest and most painful day, we trekked into the beautiful little village of Dzongla an hour before sunset. It was by far the smallest and most basic place we had stayed. But despite its size and lack of so-called modern facilities, it was beautiful. Just a few delightful guest houses flanked by two stunning mountain ranges that funnelled into a breathtaking view that money could not buy.
The best thing about this location was that the perfect sunset view was only a few hundred meters away, and best of all, it was across flat ground. Yes, I was feeling beaten up, but there was no way in hell I had any plans to give up on photographing the sunset. It was just too alluring for me to even consider missing.
I did my best to relieve the pain in my foot, basically giving it a lousy massage as I still had no idea what was wrong. A change of shoes helped, and I rugged up against the cold to once again enjoy the last of the day alone, lost in thought and wonder. I enjoyed every moment of that sunset and took the time to focus my energy, readying myself for the few tough days that I was sure to encounter as we moved forward and across the Cho La Pass. As I closed my eyes, I had to remind myself that I had chosen this and that if I wanted an easy life, I would have stayed at home.
DAY 10
Dzongla - Across the Cho La Pass (5500m) - Thaknak (4600m)
So, I know I said that I would try not to talk about the weather anymore, but last night was the coldest night we experienced. We stayed in a small guesthouse at the base of a valley flanked by two giant snow-capped mountains. Everything that made it the perfect sunset location earlier now made it the coldest place I had ever spent a night. According to Krishna, the overnight temperature dropped to -35°C, but don't worry, inside the guesthouse, it remained a balmy -25°C. I am not sure how accurate Krishna's temperature readings are, but we could all agree that it was the coldest night of the trek.
The great thing about such a cold night was that it really helped with the swelling my foot was experiencing. As I slid my boot on, I was pleasantly surprised that things felt alright. Then I stood up and quickly realised that today would be just as challenging as yesterday, considering we were going to cross the Cho La Pass. But before that, we would have to tackle an ice glacier at an altitude of 5500m.
We woke early, long before sunrise. And as we left the small village of Dzongla, I told myself that at least the first half of the day was all uphill, not what I would call great fun with a nasty chest infection. Still, it was easier to deal with that rather than the descents with a bunch of badly bruised toes that would take their own time to heal.
As we took our first tentative steps into the pre-dawn gloom, the pain from my foot and the coughing in my chest erupted. I took a moment and tried to gather myself in a vailed attempt to convince both myself and others that I was alright. I knew that today would test me, and there would be no space for doubts. All pain and discomfort needed to be pushed to the far recesses of my mind locked up, and the key thrown away.
Ignoring the pain that had become my constant companion, we made decent time as the dawn and warmth of the new day did its level best to reach us and help us along. It took an hour of solid, soul-freezing trekking before we reached the sun, and as soon as we felt its warmth, we all did a little dance of gratitude. The simple joy of feeling like you are no longer freezing was quite overwhelming. And although our dancing must have looked ridiculous, we didn't care. We were feeling warm and energised.
With the dancing over for the day, we started to close in on a glacier that had to be crossed if we were to make it over the Cho La Pass. And the truth is that this was the first time in the entire trek that I felt unprepared as we slid around trying to find any kind of purchase on the slick, icy surface. It was tough going to say the least, as every step was accompanied by a near miss. But we were committed, and there was literally no way we could turn back now. Heading down the ice glacier was always going to be worse than crawling our way up.
Slowly but surely, we scrambled our way to the top of the icy glacier. And from there, it was just a small twenty-meter climb to reach the highest point on the Cho La Pass. Relief washed over me as I took the final step onto the small yet significant plateau. It was intimately divine, just a tiny outcrop of rocks that created this perfect point between two towering mountains. As I looked left and right, taking a moment to study where we had come from and where we were heading, it dawned on me that this was the only way to move from one valley to the next. Everest Base Camp was a high point in the trek, but crossing the Cho La Pass gave me a unique feeling of satisfaction. I smiled quietly, breathing in every precious moment, ensuring this would remain a memory I could recall whenever needed.
I took a lasting moment to savour the stunning surroundings before we started the steep descent to the valley floor below. And this is precisely when things became rather tricky. You see, while we had been walking uphill, my foot felt quite good, but as soon as the tables were turned, I experienced instant and consistent pain. In those moments of pain, I tried very hard to find things to be grateful for, knowing full well that it would take very little to bring the entire adventure to a screaming halt. I had no choice but to place the pain in the bin and get down the other side of the Cho La Pass.
In the end, I made a deal with my mind. We both agreed that the pain was temporary. We then decided to do our best and put it aside, instead focusing on the profound beauty surrounding me while attempting to slowly make my way down to the valley floor below without further damage. Yes, I was hurting, but who was I kidding? I chose this, and to think that I was going to make it through without any discomfort was a deluded concept that was never going to serve the greater goal I wished to achieve.
It took about an hour before the steep descent gave way to the gentle flow of the valley floor. And I have to be honest, it was a very sweet moment when I took a pain-free step on a level surface. I knew the worst had passed, and the adventure would continue, even at a slower pace.
It took us another hour of solid trekking before we stumbled into the beautiful little village of Thaknak, where we checked into a guest house, and I slid my shoes off — much to the relief of my vehemently protesting toe and foot. I knew the pleasure I felt was temporary, but it would be something I would enjoy until tomorrow arrived, and I had to shove my foot back into my boot and start the process all over again.
We had been pushing hard for what seemed like days now, and with a growing chest infection and a hobbled foot, I knew I was fast approaching the time when I would need to take a rest and recovery day. And to tell you the truth, I knew that if I could just make it through one more day, I would arrive at the perfect place to pull rank and take a much-needed moment from the daily grind of constant trekking.
DAY 11
Thaknak - Gokyo (4700m) - Gokyo Ri (5360m)
I woke from a very rough night's sleep. My head cold and chest infection only seemed to be worsening with every passing day I spent above the tree line. There is no doubt that it is spectacular, but as with most amazing things in life, it comes with a cost. And for me, that cost seems to be my deteriorating health.
As I pulled on my now well passed their used by date clothes, I took a moment to remind myself that I was doing quite well, considering the poor preparation I experienced for this trip. It's no excuse, but taking a moment to be kind to myself seems to help ease the pressure of expectation I have a habit of placing on my own shoulders.
We trekked steadily, leaving behind the beautiful little village of Thaknak as we headed ever higher, closing in on the famed Gokyo. You may remember me saying I'm not too fond of the uphill slogs first thing in the morning, but today was different. I loved it as trekking uphill took the pressure off my swollen foot, giving it the much-needed respite it desired. It was not easy; it never is, but at that moment, it was much better than descending.
But as always, there are two sides to every coin, and although my foot was happy to be heading uphill, my lungs did nothing but complain all the way. For some reason, the trek just felt hard. Every step through this beautiful country now felt like a step taken in soft sand. I was now genuinely dragging myself along, and I truly believed that unless I got some much-needed rest soon, my body would hit the wall. Not a concept that I was looking forward to.
An hour and a half of hard work passed in silence as we made our way up and over a rugged ridge line to be greeted by the surreal sight of the region's largest glacier, the Gokyo Glacier. To say that it is massive is a huge understatement. I was in awe viewing this wonder that stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions, but I also knew that this other worldly beauty would take some navigating and hard work to cross.
As we took our first steps onto the glacier and started moving through this unique and extraordinary environment, I was instantly reminded of what a monk had said weeks before, "everything in this life is impermanent.” A simple concept that was well proven by the unnerving sounds of vast blocks of ice shifting under your feet. It felt like massive plates of earth grinding against each other, constantly shifting just below where you stood. It was safe, but it was impermanent.
It took me about an hour to cross the glacier that resembled a war zone, and I was now moving slower than ever before, as if limping to some imaginary finish line. And just when I thought I had made it, I was greeted by a very sharp rise, which was the only way to exit the glacier. With no choice but to move forward, I took a deep breath and summoned what remaining energy I had left and worked like hell to reach the top, a point of the earth that was starting to feel like a quest one step too far.
It was not pretty and took me a good twenty minutes. Still, I made it out of the glacier and stood on a wind-swept outcrop of rocks that overlooked the stunning village of Gokyo while all the time coughing uncontrollably and trying to recover my breath for what seemed like the fifth time that day. It was beautiful; it was painful; it was everything anyone could wish for and everything you would never desire. In short, it was life.
Gokyo is a stunning lakeside village that stands at an altitude of 4790m. It is surrounded by majestic mountains that seem to erupt from the pristine emerald lake. It was a sight to behold, and I was determined to ensure that the following day would be spent resting and lightly exploring this seemingly natural wonder.
Slowly, we made our way down to the village, where our first stop was the local medical clinic. I needed some help with this cough, and I needed it ASAP. It took just a matter of moments to get the required medication and cost more than I care to remember, but who cares as long as it worked?
It was just a quick walk from the medical centre to our guesthouse, where I announced that I would be going straight to bed to get a couple of hours of sleep before we set off on our afternoon trek up Gokyo Ri, which sat a mere 550m above our current location. I woke a few hours later, and to tell you the truth, the few hours' rest did little to replenish my strength. I knew as I woke and made my way to the meeting place that the next 500m would take everything I had left to give.
And it did. From start to finish, my body screamed like hell; it just wanted to stop, curl up in a little ball, and rest. My lungs were heaving, my legs were shaking, and my mind was doing whatever the hell it liked. Constant breaks made the whole experience harder, but I had little choice. If I were going to make it up, it would be done slowly in a manner that meant every meter was earned, simple as that.
We made it just, and to be honest, it really did feel like I had to crawl the last 50m, but we made it. The reality is that I should have stayed in bed and listened to my body. But I am afraid that my somewhat silly male pride refused to let that happen. Come hell or high water, I would watch the sunset from Gokyo Ri.
Coming down after sunset was comparatively easy. The good news was that only every second step hurt, so I put one foot in front of the other until I walked into the guesthouse and headed straight to bed. I didn't even have the energy to take my clothes off. I just pulled the cover over my dirt-ridden body, closed my eyes, and said a little prayer that tomorrow would be a better day.
DAY 12
Gokyo - Rest Day (4790m)
After an excellent night's sleep, I woke early to a lovely blue sky day and instantly realised that today would be the rest day my body, mind, and soul had been screaming for. I smiled at the thought of just sitting in the sun, eating, and resting; and for some reason, felt like I thoroughly deserved.
I made just one commitment to myself: to move very slowly and give my body the time it needed to start to recover. I must admit that Gokyo and its mesmerising surroundings seemed like the perfect place for such a commitment.
I spent the entire day just hobbling around with a camera, soaking up the sun and enjoying a midday nap, which also allowed me a moment to appreciate what an amazing journey this trek had been so far; and to take a moment, considering just how much more there was to look forward to.
You see, without really knowing it, since I had fallen sick, my mood had been sliding ever darker with each passing day and perceived setback. Physically I was doing okay, but mentally I had taken a dive and was now spending far too much time beating myself up over things that won't even be remembered in a week's time. It just made no sense, yet here we were.
It was like I was no longer seeing or feeling the beauty surrounding me. Something that I thought would be next to impossible for the first few days of this trek was fast becoming a reality I would prefer not to deal with. Sitting on a rock by the lake, enjoying the late afternoon sun, I decided enough was enough. I needed to shift my focus and bring my mind back under the control of its rightful owner.
I made a few small yet significant commitments to myself in that moment. I would be kinder with my thoughts to others and myself. I would be grateful to everything and everyone that helped me arrive at this magnificent place in time, and I would look forward to the final throws of this beautiful trek with unbound excitement. It really was as simple as that. I just needed to have an honest chat with myself and basically remind myself of just how amazing life is when you are lucky enough to be doing exactly what you desire.
I stood from that rock, and I found myself smiling once again. It felt good to be back, focused and ready for whatever lay ahead. And as I went for a short 5km walk around the lake, I once again began to discover that every precious step hid just a little of life's pure beauty, just waiting to be discovered.
DAY 13
Gokyo - Porta (3635m)
As we left the relative warmth of our guest house, the owners waved us goodbye before locking the front door behind us. Winter was fast approaching, and the trekking season had come to an end. We were literally the last guests the humble guest house would see for the season until the weather changed and the harsh Nepalese winter thawed, welcoming a new group of intrepid travellers searching for their personal truth.
Our path down took us along the shoreline of the stunning Gokyo Lake. I took a moment and paused to admire the region's natural beauty one last time. It was an incredible vision that I wanted to commit to memory for forever more. The subtle and warm morning light gently illuminated the tips of the surrounding mountain peaks, reflected on the surface of the mirror-like emerald lake that dominates this breathtaking landscape. This was one of the highest locations I would be lucky enough to experience on this trek. While standing there, I knew it was the perfect view to witness before we began our journey down in earnest.
We were finally headed for lower ground, and the truth was that I was looking forward to some richly saturated oxygen. The rest day had done wonders for my body, and I felt again focused on the task. But I knew nothing would speed up my recovery like a significant drop in altitude.
Leaving Gokyo in the distance, we began a leisurely and almost perfect trek through a gentle valley that was nothing short of spectacular. It felt different, a welcome change to the battle of the last two weeks. The valley ebbed and flowed gently underfoot. Fine dust from the dry trail floated in the air while golden grass swayed gracefully on the warm breeze, like a sensual dance that grew ever distant, merging into the mountain ranges that shadowed our progress.
As time passed, slowly caught in the perceived safety of a somewhat hypnotic trek, I realised I was now walking pain-free and began to consider that maybe, just maybe, the pain I was feeling was primarily produced by the negative feelings that were racing through my mind. I decided to allow my thoughts to wander wherever they wished to go and soon found I was focused on a newish concept for me, but one that I am growing to love.
The concept of impermanence was something I first seriously considered while attending a lovely talk by an entertaining monk in Kathmandu. And the truth was that every time this concept worked its way into my mind, it started to make more and more sense. Could the idea of impermanence really be that life-changing yet simple? I guess time will tell.
My rudimentary understanding of impermanence is that, just as it sounds, nothing in life is permanent. Our feelings, both good and bad; our thoughts, both positive and negative; our love, our hate, pain, joy, our breath, every beat of our heart, and even our so-called self, the very entity we have spent a lifetime investing in and grown so attached to, is also impermanent.
As I took step after step, thoroughly consumed with my thoughts, the concept seemed to solidify and take hold deep within my soul. We are indeed nothing, just one of many universal entities floating in the moment, attached to nothing as if just a simple witness to all that is experienced.
The truth is that I have no idea why I find this concept so appealing, and the greater truth is that it does not matter. All that matters is that in the very moment I am experiencing, I am free to enjoy it for what it actually is, impermanent. As I slowly walked ever lower, I found this simple concept could unshackle the chains of attachment that bind our minds extremely compelling. The reality is that with nothing more than a slight shift of focus, I can view the world and all that is on offer from a clean and unattached perspective.
Hours passed as my mind mimicked my stride, wandering without a care further down this somewhat magical lush golden valley. When I finally took a break and enjoyed a black tea in the beautiful sunshine, I noticed the difference dropping 1000m made to the air that was sustaining me. It's hard to describe, but for the first time in many days, a simple breath started to feel rich and life-giving once again; like a much-needed hug from a distant friend.
As we began walking towards the village of Porta, my mind drifted with the warm breeze and arrived at what had seemed like a distant dream for the last few weeks. I dreamed of experiencing a solid night's sleep without waking in fright, gasping for oxygen. Something I have been looking forward to for some time now, a simple pleasure that my beaten body craves.
DAY 14
Porta - Namche Bazaar (3440m)
A cold night in the shadows of two large mountains drifted by quickly as I slept like a baby for the first time in weeks. It was so nice not to be woken by a scary shortage of breath, and it was also beautiful not to brave the sub-zero degrees and use the bathroom thrice overnight. All in all, I felt fresh and ready to keep descending towards the luxurious reality of Namche Bazaar.
But as always in Nepal, to go down, first you must go up. And our day started with a harsh one-hour trek, which seemed to take us right back to the altitudes we had spent the last few days trying to escape. But what I loved about this morning's hike was that it was undertaken and completed with a smile.
The truth was that although the 700m climb still took a hell of a toll on my body, my attitude adjustment and the extra oxygen I was feeling in my system seemed to make the entire situation a pleasure. Like an old acquaintance returning from holidays, my breathing returned to a somewhat normal and recognisable concept. It felt good, and I felt good, a simple fact that was not lost on me.
Reaching the top of the steep incline, I paused to appreciate the beautiful never-ending valley below, cloaked in a foggy atmosphere that made the already sublime even more mystical. An ethereal view created by an endless river of mountains colliding far below and, in turn, evoking the perfect illusion of a path to safety.
As I lingered on the rocky outcrop high above the valley floor, basking in the warmth of the morning sun, I was well aware that I was living an indulgent moment. I knew I was trying to absorb every last element of the journey. The fact that I didn't want it to end was not lost on me. But a seemingly ever-present question remained: am I trying to avoid what is waiting for me, or am I really just living life exactly how I desire? A complex yet somehow straightforward question to answer.
With the indulgent moment now firmly committed to memory, we began descending once again. For the first time in I don't know how long, I encouraged my body to relax fully. The most challenging parts of this trek were well behind us, and with the midday sun beating down on my back, I was determined to enjoy every last step as we approached Namche Bazaar, a small mountain village that I have very fond memories of.
During the afternoon trek, my mind wandered towards Bali for the first time in weeks. When the thoughts of what awaited me first arrived, I have to admit that I was less than excited. In fact, I can honestly admit that I felt an immediate reluctance to return to what was now my home.
It may be hard to explain or understand these feelings, as many see Bali as the perfect place to live. And I have to admit that there are many things that many people love about this tropical island; they just happen to be the things that I do not love. So at some stage in the near future, I am going to have to have a realistic conversation with myself and finally make a solid decision about how my future looks and, most importantly, where it will play out
By mid-afternoon, my thoughts of Bali were left far behind, seemingly dissipating with the clouds of trail dust left in our wake. Feeling good, we stumbled into Namche Bazaar, a wonderful little hillside village that, in many ways, marks the end of the hard work.
As I checked into the guest house, I realised how nice it felt to be back. It felt familiar and somewhat luxurious. As I unpacked my backpack for what felt like the one-hundredth time, I smiled with excitement as I was about to take my first shower in over two weeks. But what I found even more exciting was the simple fact that I was about to dress from head to toe in clean clothes. Oh, the excitement and joy of a simple life! I am grateful.
DAY 15
Namche Bazar - Rest Day (3440m)
With the effort we had put in over the last couple of weeks, we found ourselves a couple of days ahead of schedule. So, with everyone feeling the effects of the trek, it was decided that we would spend two nights in Namche Bazaar resting, recovering, and enjoying ourselves before making the final push to Lukla.
For Krishna, that meant spending the entire day in the guest house drinking tea, which makes sense as I am sure he has seen everything Namche Bazaar has to offer more times than he cares to remember. But for me, it meant grabbing a camera and my favourite lens and slowly strolling through the small and twisty lanes of the beautiful little village. At this stage, the photographs I captured didn't matter, as I knew the act of just doing it was as close to active meditation as I was ever going to get.
It was a wonderful day. The early mountain fog created a beautiful landscape atmosphere. And as it slowly burnt off, I was treated to a stunning blue sky day full of warm local smiles that allowed me to get lost in the process of doing nothing. A process I am not the best at, but on this day of rest, a process that seemed to be a natural fit for exactly how I was feeling.
DAY 16
Namche Bazaar - Lukla (2850m)
We woke to yet another perfect blue sky day. Yet today, I woke with a slightly heavy heart. For today was officially the last day of my beautiful trekking adventure as we began the journey from Namche Bazaar down to Lukla.
Officially, I have already walked this leg of the journey, just heading in the opposite direction. I made an early decision to put my large camera away — an object that had been a constant companion on my shoulder for the last two weeks — in an attempt to enjoy every step and soak in the wondrous surroundings as we travelled our last day in this breathtaking region.
I guess I was trying to eke out every last bit of enjoyment from this adventure, and who could blame me? The last few days had been nothing short of stunning, and I knew that if I approached the day with an open mind, this wonderful country would just keep giving.
The morning's trek was mainly downhill, a welcome change that still took its toll on my aging knees. The truth was, I was tired. Sure, I had a couple of enjoyable rest days that I was thankful for. But I knew that to fully recover from this little adventure would take a few more.
Feeling just a little nostalgic, I stopped for lunch by a powerfully flowing river. It felt like an uninterrupted stolen moment as I sat in the sun for an hour and enjoyed lunch while watching other trekkers scurry along. For the first time in two weeks, the schedule, which is ever-present on a journey like this, seemed to be thrown into the cool breeze in favour of just enjoying the moment. It was a profoundly simple moment — a beautiful way to ensure that the sights and sounds of the Himalayas were firmly imprinted on my soul.
Yet with the warmth of lunch fading, it was time for the last inevitable uphill push to Lukla. I felt good, strong, and ready, but the truth remained; I was not looking forward to it, but it had to be done.
As we had dropped an altitude of 1800m since our last serious uphill climb, I was interested to see how I would perform. I put my head down and attacked the uphill section with gusto. I could not believe how good I felt. Hills that were laying me flat just days before now seemed to appear little more than a slight challenge. I don’t want to sound like a big shot, but the ninety-minute uphill slog was, without a doubt, the easiest I had undertaken in the last fortnight.
I am no expert in all things altitude and, quite frankly, only understand the basics. Nevertheless, I was amazed at how much difference dropping 1800m made to my overall performance. We made great time to Lukla, arriving just as the sun was getting low, which instantly inspired me to pull out the camera and explore the dynamic little hillside village.
I spent an hour or two watching the world go by as the last of the setting sun dipped behind the ever-present ridge lines of the Himalayas. It was a beautiful way to spend my final moments on the trail that had provided so very, very much. I was tested all the way, but as the sun left the valley, I knew I had also been blessed.
DAY 17
Lukla - Kathmandu (1325m)
I woke up on my very last day of this adventure, more than just a little apprehensive about rejoining the hustle and bustle of the so-called real world I left behind just a few short weeks ago. It always amazes me just how much you can change when living genuinely immersive experiences.
On the one hand, it will be good to re-engage and to see family and friends. Yet on the other, I really don’t want this exquisite feeling of freedom to end anytime soon. I know it does not have to end; it is all in my mind. But for the last two weeks, I have simply been moving forward to the best of my ability. A beautiful and gracious existence that seems to have bonded to my soul, subtly calling for more.
There are only a few ways to travel from Lukla to Kathmandu. You can walk, drive, catch a plane or a chopper. Sadly, the chopper return fell through, and there was no way I was walking or taking the six-hour bus drive. So that left me with just one choice. Take the flight.
The great news was that the skies were blue, and I could hear the sounds of the old aircraft that serviced Lukla landing and taking off at regular intervals. The only other issue lurking in the back of my mind was that Lukla was considered one of the most dangerous airports in the world, and take-offs and landings weren’t judged by their smoothness; they were judged by the simple fact that everything was intact and everyone was safe.
After a short six-hour wait in what felt like the coldest airport on earth, we were all set to fly. The Captain manoeuvred the old plane to the top of the downhill runway. Locking the brakes and pushing the throttles forward, the aircraft vibrated and shook until the moment was right. In a heartbeat, the Captain released the brakes, and the old faithful plane launched ahead, doing her very best to dramatically pick up enough speed to take off as she shot down the short yet steep runway.
The truth is that I don't really love flying. Sure, I have spent much of my adult life crisscrossing the globe, but taking off and landing still makes me sweat more than you can imagine. But as the old plane continued to pick up speed, fast approaching the end of the runway, it was now or never. We were going to take flight into the stunning Himalayas, or we were going to fall off the end of the runway.
Everybody on the plane looked calm, but I suspected we all shared similar feelings. We continued to build speed as we bounced along the runway, and just when it looked like we were out of time and space, the nose of the aircraft gently lifted, and we took flight as if there was never anything to worry about.
The flight to Kathmandu is short, around 35 to 40 minutes, yet it offers an exceptional view of the majestic Himalayan mountains for company. I spent the flight staring out the window at the beautiful mountains reaching skywards and suddenly felt emotional. It was like I was saying goodbye to a tiny sliver of earth that had welcomed me with open arms for the last time. Yet as I said my goodbyes, I knew I was not ready to leave. These mountains had left their mark on my soul, and I knew that sooner or later, I would have no choice but to return to immerse myself in their beauty once again.
Touching down in Kathmandu, I made my way to the hotel, feeling just a little shell-shocked and overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of this vibrant city. After checking in, I said my final goodbyes to Krishna and entered the elevator. The doors slowly slid closed as if marking the end of this beautiful life chapter, and as the elevator slowly rose to the fifth floor, I felt happily alone, accompanied by only the pure thoughts and memories of the last few weeks. A moment in time I will never forget.
THE FINAL DAY
With the dirt, grime, and pressure of the trek successfully washed away by my first strong and long hot shower in a while, I now found myself sitting at a small makeshift desk in a cheap, run-down Kathmandu hotel.
There is no one here; just me, my thoughts, and my memories. I can hear the sounds of a busy city at play beyond the hotel's thin facade. Yet, I have no desire to move beyond the safety of my little room, my little existence. Today, I will just appreciate being alone.
Sitting down to write, I notice my reflection in a small dirty mirror hanging on the wall before me. My weather-beaten appearance is lit by a small lamp doing its best to create a warm and comforting glow. Yet this cinematic scene still cannot hide the strange fact that I am feeling. As I look deeply into the mirror, I have to admit the truth to myself; I no longer recognise the reflection staring back at me.
If you are willing, adventures like the one I have just experienced can inevitably change the very essence of your being. These changes can be significant or subtle — lasting for a day, a week, a month, or forever. I find this moment of every adventure extremely exciting. It's a subtle moment where you can sit and relive the feelings of all you have achieved, for better or worse. It's a moment we all have to face as the reality of our existence begins to circle.
But it's a moment I love because if you sit quietly enough and allow all your feelings to pass through your soul gently, you might arrive at a still place where a small voice deep down within you can be heard. For me, the voice whispered that all the hardship and all the joy I have just experienced could very well be the beginning of an extraordinary new life if that is what I desire. As always, the next move is up to me.
So, this brings me to the inevitable question that will be asked.
"What did you discover as you journeyed through the mystical landscape of Nepal?"
The plain and simple truth is that this is not the first time I have walked through the doors of selfish freedom, and some would actually consider me very well-versed in it. But every time I have taken the journey, I have always slowly but surely been pulled back into the very reality I have been trying to escape.
I understand this struggle and, in many ways, accept it. It is much easier to relate to another person if there are commonalities. But it is tough to maintain a meaningful relationship if everything one person cares for means very little to the other. This is why all broad statements of what life means will never see the light of day. In essence, I plan on explaining very little that cannot be understood. I will be revealing less than ever before while continuing on the path of living in a state of gratitude, quietly thankful for all I experience while quietly planning the adventures yet to be conceived.
I can't tell you what anything I feel means, as the true meaning may only ever be known to me. All I can do is attempt to describe what I felt as the miles passed by underfoot, and my inner belief grew with every footfall.
At first, I had doubts that became beliefs, and then at some stage of this adventure, somewhere in the shadows of the Himalayas, the beliefs I lived my life by started to fade like they were becoming more distant with every passing step as I continued to grow and understand the animal that is me. The person I was, the person I am, the thoughts that confined me and the dreams that set me free. The so-called wishy-washy opinion of spirituality was no longer. They were replaced with the space of the impermanent unknown and the freedom to try, fail, and try again. And at that moment, I knew everything would be okay, just as long as I kept walking to the beat of my drum.
I find that when I follow my dreams, deeply immersed in the acts and actions that light up my soul, I become fearless and infected with optimism to the point where I feel bound and honoured to be happily living a simple existence that many, if any, will truly understand. And for me, that is the very point. It's my life, and I am the only one that needs to comprehend it.
I know none of what I am conveying is new, but sometimes it feels like I need to be smacked in the head with a rather large reality check to start indeed doing what makes me feel ultimate joy.
For me, this trip was simply epic, and in so many ways, it felt like I was living a perfectly edited Himalaya highlights reel. Together with the help of Krishna, I accomplished everything I set out to achieve. I experienced Ama Dablam base camp, made it to Everest Base Camp, climbed Kalo Pathan, made it over the Cho La Pass, and enjoyed the sunset on top of Gokyo Ri.
I saw some of the world's most famous and infamous mountains, and I had the privilege of time to sit and ponder in wonder, which created an intimate and personal connection as if I could feel the mountains and almost reach out and touch their souls. Every day of this adventure was a testing challenge, exactly what I had signed up for. And as powerful as every one of these moments remains, it will be the small and intimate moments that will resonate deep within me long after the glory of the highlight reel fades.
The tiny everyday moments are what made this adventure so very special to me. Like the people you meet in the guest houses along the way, the simple yet honest conversations you share with virtual strangers are united only by the hardship of the trek. Like the listening you willingly undertake, knowing full well that you may need to talk tomorrow. Like the humble acceptance of another trekker's experience, never considering questioning it. Being surrounded by highly motivated, like-minded people was just so wonderful. A motley crowd from all walks of life who were simply living their lives the best way they knew how.
There were no prizes to be won, no public recognition to be gained. No, the people I met as the trek progressed were just simple travellers who had chosen the path less travelled. And their tired, dirty grins let you know that, just like you, they had revelled in every uncomfortable moment of their adventure.
However, if I did have to pinpoint one simple thing that stood out and resonated deeply with in me, it would be having the time and space to explore my ongoing relationship with my good self. To be honest, I spent countless hours alone wandering through the mountains of the Himalayas, lost in thought, watching its awe-inspiring views and perfect sunsets and staring intently at the vast space in between. It was a privilege to experience the freedom I needed to engage in endless and ongoing self-nurturing conversations that, until this adventure, appeared as just distant myths that were barely given lip service.
This adventure allowed me the time and freedom I needed to once again know myself at a more intimate and profound level. And in the end, once all the dust had settled, this was all I could have ever really hoped for.
So as this adventure comes to an end, I have decided to reframe it as a new beginning and openly embrace all the twists and turns my life has to offer.
Fin