Movin' on Up

April 26, 2010
Kathmandu (4,593) feet to Lukla (9,380) feet

I awoke at 4 AM, well before my alarm went off, after a night of very restless sleep. It was in large part due to anticipation, but also in no small part due to the fact that my room faced a courtyard, which I initially thought would be nice. The courtyard turned out to be an amphitheater of screaming children and hollering men well into the night. It also turned out to be a halal butcher center. Sometime before daybreak the families were up saying their prayers, then they went straight to work. Waking to the deranged symphony of Arabic being screamed over bleating goats and squawking chickens doesn't exactly make for a glorious morning. I looked out of my window at an inopportune moment and, following the initial revulsion of seeing a goat get his throat sliced as my first sight of the day, I decided to just get up. The sun was barely starting to rise, and it shed some light into my room, but the power was out. I set my headlamp on the bedside stand, angled it at the bathroom, and took what would be my last shower for three days in the dark. At least the water was hot.

In an entirely uncharacteristic moment, I was downstairs early, at 6AM, a full half hour before Phurba was to arrive. Our flight was at 7:30, so I was a bit concerned, but I knew the airport was close and having seen the handwritten tickets, I figured we'd be okay. The only flights that were departing out of the domestic airport were carrying tourists, off to Lukla, in the Everest region where I was headed, or to Jomsom in the Annapurna range. The planes were all tiny, 10-20 seat propeller planes, and looked to be a bit old for my taste. I wasn't crazy about the idea of boarding one of these flights; they do crash. My only other choice would be to hike to Lukla, a five day trek from a place called Jiri near the Kathmandu valley. It is rumored to be a hard walk, a constant of peaks and valleys. During the civil war here ('96-'06) and for some years following, the Maoists were known to extort cash from tourists trekking this route, so it has decreased in popularity and is somewhat of a ghost town. Did not sound too appealing, and I didn't have the time anyway. So after a rather unsettling security check, [“You have matches?” “No, no matches.” (I did have waterproof strike anywhere matches, but figured I could take my chances with a lie here.) “You smoke?” “No, I don't smoke. No cigarettes, no lighters.” (I don't smoke anymore, so this was not a lie.)] I walked through an unplugged metal detector and boarded the bus that would take us over to the runway. As I noticed the giant UN and army rescue helicopters that I was sure got good use this time of year, Phurba chipperly pointed out the wreckage of one. “Crash in Everest base camp 3 years ago. No rescue, all die. Part helicopter brought back to airport.” That news was less than settling. I also wondered about Phurba's credibility – there is no way that wreckage was hauled down from 18,000 feet.

A few minutes later we boarded our Sita Air flight and were taking off for Tenzing-Hillary Airport in Lukla, reported to be one of the scariest airports on earth, due to the fact that the runway ends with a sheer drop off the side of a mountain. I was surprised to see an actual flight attendant and wondered what purpose she would serve. I knew that tray she was fiddling with would not be used for a beverage service. In lieu of peanuts, we were handed a hard candy and cotton wads. The cabin is not pressurized, so the hard candy would help your ears. The cotton would help with the noise, as it was deafening. Unfortunately they had no remedy for the feeling you got in your gut when the plane hit an air pocket and dropped or shook uncontrollably. I kept my eyes closed until the giant snow capped peaks came into view, then was again filled with dread, realizing what I'd signed up for – which was a long and hard walk in their direction. I hoped my body would be able to cope with what I was about to put it through. Just when I was about to turn around and ask Phurba if we were supposed to be flying so close to the mountains, I felt the wheels come down and we were on the ground, landing on an airstrip that materialized out of nowhere. It's a tiny little bit of pavement and it is on an incline for take off, a decline for landing. Made me feel like we were going to crash right into the stone terminal. Luckily, the breaks worked. As I stared in awe at the pilot, who jumped out of the plane and lit up a cigarette on the runway, inches from where the plane's fuel tank was being opened for a refill, Phurba surfaced with our bags and we were on our way.

We walked out of the airport, grabbed a quick breakfast in Lukla, and hit the trail. The weather was perfect; skies were clear and blue and the air was clean and smelled of pine. And the scenery, well it was spectacular. The high peaks are out of view here, but it matters little. As soon as you leave Lukla the trail heads downhill, bringing into view a village on the edge of a hillside that disappears into a deep gorge. The homes and lodges are all made of stone, with roofs and window panes painted blue or green. The villages are lined with prayer flags tied to impossibly tall evergreen trees, the mountainsides peppered with terraced potato and spinach gardens. A swarm of schoolgirls in their white and navy uniforms ran past us as we reached the first turn and another valley came into view. 20 minutes on the trail and I was instantly walking through the pages of every photo book I've ever seen of Nepal. This is why people flock here time and time again. I think I walked all the way to Phakding with a smile on my face.