Can't You Smell That Smell?

April 29th
Namche Bazaar to Tengboche – Part 1

You would think that being so high in the mountains, the thin air would be crisp and clear, the wind carrying with it scents of pine and earth, wafts of the occasional meal being cooked in the distance drifting your way. And you would be right, for the most part. Except for when you'd be wrong, which is about every 7th or 8th minute on the Everest Base Camp Trek. In addition to all the trekkers bound for EBC or Goyko Lake or Cho La, and the mountaineers en route to tackle Ama Dablam or Island Peak (teams attempting the Everest summit have been in place for two months already) the road is also populated with their gear. This is transported one of two ways: either by yak or human porter.

The yaks, or more often in Nepal the dzos (yak/cow half breeds and the chosen beast of burden up here) have bundles (very heavy and very large bundles) tethered to either side of their backs. They travel in caravans of 3 to 10 or more, and carry everything from bags of rice to giant North Face dry sacks stuffed with expedition gear, to drums of fuel (kerosene, I suppose) to their own food (after 12,000 feet, there is no growth for them to graze on). The animals wear bells so you can usually hear them coming, and are generally accompanied by a herder either leading the pack or bringing up the rear. Since I'm told I had an imaginary yak friend as a child, I harbor a certain affinity for the creatures, and always got excited when we would see the rare and sightly pack of real yaks, standing tall with their unmistakable long hair and giant horns. They are an integral part of the scenery and an absolute necessity for sustaining life in these hills.

The first thing you learn upon encountering a pack of dzos headed your way is to watch out – because they will not be doing the same for you. You get pretty used to prostrating yourself face first against a mountain wall when yaks are lumbering by, considering the alternative is being thrust off the trail or trampled. The second thing you learn is that when animals are present, so is their poop. The entire trail is covered in crap. You're on it long enough, and you start to decipher between purebred yak crap, dzo crap, and donkey crap (the most pungent by far). When you're pushing your exhausted body to climb an endless incline of giant stones, chest heaving in the thinning air, sweat dripping down your back, the last thing you want to be breathing in are the fumes of a hot yak load. Actually, it's the second to last.

This is Sherpa country. Having been part of this hostile environment since the beginning of time, sherpas are physically pre-conditioned to have very little problem adjusting to altitude. They also climb up and down these hills like spiders, most of the time in flip flops and t-shirts. This makes them perfect candidates for porter work, and they outnumber everyone else on the trail. Since I was traveling alone, my Sherpa guide Phurba was also my porter. He carried my pack on his back and his on his front. I packed as light as possible and guessed I'd only given him 10 -15 lbs to haul. Unless they are carrying their own gear (and some extremely physically fit people do), any trekking group of two or more will hire a porter to carry their gear. Mountain expeditions for Everest, among others, already set up in tent cities at 18,000 feet, require constant supplies to be refurbished. Tea houses along the way, especially the ones over 14,000 feet where it is impossible to grow any food, require all of their goods to be carried in on foot. The Sherpa porters haul everything – from tents, crampons, ice axes, sleeping bags to cartons of eggs, cases of Fanta and Mars bars to bushels of hay for the animals to wooden doors, aluminum siding and 2x4s – on baskets strapped to their head. A strap goes across their foreheads and is connected to a giant basket resting on their backs. They cruise up and down the path, stooped over, their necks bearing the brunt of the load; which many times exceeds 100kg. One of the tea houses we stayed in had a pool table inside. I could only wonder how any man could bear its weight, let alone carry it up a mountain.

Most people who live in these parts do not have running water in their homes. There is usually a village tap where washing (of cookware, bedding, clothing and people) is done. The temperature, as you would imagine, is ICE COLD. Bathing is not a regular ritual for these villagers (some folks I talked to say they bathed once a week, if that. And these were people who worked at tea houses and generally stayed put.). And so it is certainly not high on the agenda for the porters, who are hauling more than their weight for miles per day over difficult terrain. And, man, do they stink.

I am not sure these guys bathe, ever. The ones who wear flip flops have so much dirt and crud caked to their feet that toenails are seldom visible. My guess is that clothes are worn, sans washing, until they literally fall apart. As for the ones who do wear socks and shoes – well, try and imagine the pungent odor of months old sweaty, funky, unwashed feet that are used daily for 10 or more hours, and that constant funk growing and seeping into synthetic sneakers that retain it. Couple that with b.o., dirty, greasy, dusty hair, cigarette smoke (somehow, these guys can skip up to 18,000 feet and all chain smoke), bad breath, animal crap, fart, kyu (a porridge that literally smells and tastes like rotting garbage), and you learn to breathe through your mouth when one walks by. Get caught in the slip stream of a multi-porter caravan and you're a goner.

The porters and guides usually all sleep in a common room at the lodges. Sometimes it has beds, sometimes carpet-covered benches in the dining rooms are used as beds. Rarely will a guide get his own room. Never will the porters get one. Phurba was complaining after our second night in Namche that he had not slept well. I thought maybe it was the cold (tough guy had not brought a sleeping bag since we were not going that high). “No,” he said, “forgot face mask. And porter not washing the feet. Room is smelling very bad. Keeping me awake.” I hated to admit it, but I knew what he meant. As all of my gear, including and most importantly, my socks and hiking boots, did not make it to Nepal, I was forced to rely on supplies purchased there. (Thanks, Iceland volcano.) The boots I purchased were heavy, clunky, gave me terrible blisters and stunk to high heaven. The sock choice was equally poor. “Special North Face Coolmax Trekking Sock” turned out to be nothing more than cheap knockoffs of the real thing, made from cotton (which is your enemy in as it retains moisture) and I think cardboard. The first night I removed my boots and socks, half of the sock had remained on my foot (kind of like wet cardboard) and I was almost knocked out by stench. Now I know why Patagonia charges $30 bucks a pair for moisture wicking, anti-bacterial trekking socks and never before had I really needed them. The boots, too, were obviously of the non-breathable variety. After a day or so of this nonsense, I quickly learned the routine of washing my feet in the subzero (and public) water spouts as often as possible, and applying a mixture of Purell, underarm deodorant, medicated powder, and straight up Lysol to my feet each morning to keep the smell down. If the Lysol got past my moleskin blister protectors, the pain was intense, but I knew that 8 hours later, the sting would be worth it.

Back on the trail, those rare moments when the thin air was clear and (almost) filled your lungs with the pure scent of the Himalayas were all the more special.

Heaven Isn't Too Far Away

April 28, 2010
Rest day, Namche Bazaar

The Everest Base Camp trek is relatively well mapped out. Most everyone flies to Lukla, spends a night in Phakding, then moves onto Namche Bazaar for two nights. Because of the extreme gain in elevation, it is essential to spend an extra day acclimitizing in Namche. People who are sensitive to the altitude usually start to exhibit signs of distress at around 3500 meters. Symptoms start with a headache, dizzy spells, nausea, unsound sleep and, if ignored, can progress rapidly to Acute Mountain Sickness. AMS is a life threatening disorder brought on by not giving the body enough time to adjust to the lack of oxygen in the air. HAPE (high altitude pulmonary edema) and the more serious HACE (high altitude cerebral edema), mostly affecting climbers at higher altitudes than I'd be going, can be fatal. The only cure is to go down, period. Hence, the treks are arranged with acclimitization days built in. It's often times the strongest and fittest people who don't allow time to acclimitize and ignore early signs of AMS (such as a headache) that run into trouble higher up. I was feeling okay, but was exhausted from the grueling day before. I was thrilled to have a “rest” day.

Of course, a Nepali rest day is not a rest day at all. Instead, we'd be doing some more trekking. The motto up here is “climb high, sleep low.” Climbing higher, even a few hundred feet, then descending to sleep at a lower altitude helps the body adjust. I knew the walk would be good for me, even though I was very sore. After breakfast at 7AM (no sleeping in here, even on a rest day) we embarked on another uphill climb to the Everest View Hotel. This hotel, supposedly the highest luxury hotel in the world, was built by the Japanese. Rooms are expensive at a couple hundred bucks a night, and it's rarely full. Trekkers certainly are not staying there. I assume the hotel makes its money by the tourists who chopper in for the day (there's a tiny airstrip about a 90 minute hike from the hotel and it might even have its own helipad on top), have lunch, and split before the altitude makes them sick. Phurba told me there was a sitting area where we could take tea and see the mountain. I was excited for this and hoped the weather held.

The day before, after spending an hour at the lodge resting in Namche, and once I was sure my legs would let me stand on them again, I asked Phurba to help me find some trekking poles. During the brutal climb, I had serious thoughts about knocking one incredibly rude German woman off the mountain and stealing her poles. Luckily, Namche is a trekker's outpost. The stuff is mostly overpriced knockoffs, but I did not care. Phurba talked the vendor down to a respectable(ish) price and I hoped my purchase would lend some extra support to my aching limbs. It did. Namche Bazaar is a crescent shaped settlement nestled into the steep curve of a mountainside. It looks a lot like terraced rice paddies, except the terracing holds stone buildings. The entire town is a system of stone steps. And so we left the guest house and immediately started ascending up through Namche. The trekking poles didn't make my agony disappear, but they definitely helped. We got through the town, climbed over a boulder/wall and the trail presented itself. It was a vertical zigzag to the top, and it hurt. When I looked down to see just how steep this climb was, I realized how steep the town of Namche itself is. I've no idea how those buildings were even built, let alone how they don't topple over.

After an hour of tough climbing (think 2 or 3 thousand giant stone steps) we reached a wide open plateau. The trail was visible for miles, a little brown path cutting through the mossy clearing that wound around the side of the mountain and disappeared, only to reappear far off in the distance, on the other side of a gorge. The weather was perfect for the time being with clear blue skies giving me my first glimpse of some really high peaks. To the west was the omnipresent Kongde Ri (6187m) and the holy and unclimbed Khumbila (5761m). They were absolutely giant, covered in snow and ice many thousands of meters up, towering over the shrub covered meadow we were walking through. It was as scenic a place as I'd ever seen. That is, until we turned a bend and the meadow ended. The path hugged the mountain and the first thing I noticed was the gorge you'd plunge to your death in if you took a wrong step. The second thing I noticed was an extremely rude group of French trekkers literally (and dangerously) running down the trail. Nobody runs at this altitude and I started to curse them under my breath, when I noticed the third thing. Behind them, about a 7 day walk away, towering up above the majestic and vast Solkhumbu range, was Mount Everest (8848 m), with its unmistakable plume of “smoke” (there's always a cloud formation blowing around up there) wafting off its angled peak. Right next to it was the mammoth Lhotse (8501m), and closer to us was the utterly recognizable Ama Dablam (6856m) sticking out like a sore thumb. Tawoche (6542m), Kang Taiga (6685m) and I think Chhukhung (5833m) and Thamserku (6808m) rounded out the view. Pink, white and red blossoms of the rhododendron forest peppered the deep valley separating me from the gigantic peaks, and the place where I was standing pretty much marked the end of the evergreens. Higher up was only shrub, then rock, then snow and ice. This was the single most scenic thing I have ever seen. Every agonizing step I'd taken to get there was worth it, and the pain and shortness of breath disappeared for awhile. We walked on further to the lodge, all the while feeling like I was in a dream (or the Sound of Music, or Lord of the Rings) in utter awe of the landscape. I was in disbelief that I was actually seeing the single biggest thing on the planet with my own eyes. The sheer magnitude of the place was heavy; few people ever get to look upon the Himalayas outside of a book and now I was one of them. We had tea (and paid New York City prices for a pot) and I took about a hundred photos. I made sure to linger for as long as possible, and only started the walk back to Namche when the afternoon weather began to cloud Everest and Lhotse from view. I hoped no climbers were up there, and turned to leave.

I discovered during the climb down the rocky and hazardous path that I'm not too good on the descent. Out of nowhere, my right knee started to hurt (and would continue to do so until I got back to Kathmandu), which made the going pretty slow. There was a lot of scree (loose small rocks and pebbles) on the trail which makes sliding and falling a real concern. I've already got one scar in the middle of my face; I'm not trying to get another one. I was obsessively cautious of my footing. On this stretch of the trek in particular, vertigo became an issue for me because we were in a clearing, so our destination far below was visible, as were the thousand places you could fall into and break your neck. I was also starving and Phurba, who, like all Sherpas, is like a spider on these hills, skipping along in flip flops, was far ahead with my bag - which had snacks. It was difficult and I had to let a lot of people pass me by.

We had to go to the Sherpa museums (yes, 2 of them) before going back to the lodge. I had agreed to do this before I knew how deflated I'd be by noon (which is when my body was used to eating lunch). To tell Phurba I didn't want to go would have been bad; I didn't want to insult his heritage. He really wanted to show me both of these museums. They were interesting enough, but my head was starting to pound and they were not exactly next to each other, which meant more walking. My interest was waning, as was the Mt. Everest afterglow. I was feeling weak and just as we were on the outskirts of Namche, I slipped on some scree and fell down a few steps. I used the pole to break my fall, which thankfully wasn't that hard. Phurba was getting on my nerves and his nonchalant, “careful, please” response didn't help matters. I snapped at him that it was 2pm and about time he got me fed. He produced some cookies and didn't talk to me until later.

I wanted to collapse into a giant white bed with lofty down covers and watch reruns of the Simpsons. No such luxuries existed at the Khumbu Lodge, where the main dining room was warm and cozy but the rooms were like sleeping in a barn. When we finally got back there, I was in no better shape than the day before. Phurba forced me to drink a liter of boiling water (his cure for everything), which actually worked to get rid of my headache (if only it did the same at sea level). I had some food and asked the owner where the shower was. He charged me about 5 dollars, then led me to a padlocked room. The clouds had moved in and the air temperature was probably around 30 degrees. After three days of trekking, I badly needed a shower, but could not put my body through the shock of plunging under ten degree water. I was relieved to see an actual heater, and though the pressure wasn't great, the water was steaming. It was the last hot shower I'd have until I got back to Kathmandu, and was certainly a luxury.

I spent the evening hoping my hair would dry and talking to a guy from Norway who had been stuck at the lodge for a week with pneumonia. He had some dried snot in his beard and a curious gurgle in his voice. I wasn't sure whether he was hitting on me or just making conversation, but I wasn't sticking around to find out. Getting sick up here would be crippling. I finished my dahl baat (lentils, rice, vegetables – a Nepali staple), highly recommended the shower to him and retired to my sleeping bag. I bundled up in my nighttime gear of hat, headlamp, fleece pants and slippers and quickly passed out into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I Want to Take You Higher

April 27, 2010
Phakding (8573 feet) to Namche Bazaar (12,303 feet)

On my first morning in the Himalayas, I once again awoke with the sun at 5AM. I didn't have to get up until 6:15 but still found it impossible to fall back to sleep. I've never been one for sleeping bags, and my cozy rental was of the cocoon fashion, which I found rather uncomfortable for morning lounging. I dawdled as long as possible, then unzipped myself into a cold room and stepped into an even colder hallway. The lodges up here (none of them heated) have thin walls and rarely offer private bathrooms, so you are humbly forced to share toilets, see fellow trekkers in their long underwear, listen to their ailments during the night, and wash your face with the coldest water you have ever felt in front of strangers. After hearing someone have diarrhea a mere 12 inches from where I was brushing my teeth, I was thinking this has got to be the rudest way to wake up in the morning, when Phurba Sherpa knocked on my door. I was still in pajamas and glasses and was packing up my stuff at the time, with a good 10 minutes to go before breakfast. (Up here, you order your breakfast and pick a time to eat it before you go to bed. This affords the kitchen staff, usually one woman cooking over an open fire, time to prepare breakfast for all the guests.) At dinner the night before, I ate with a tour group of Aussies and Kiwis. As I was the only person not part of their group, I was there when their guide described their morning wake up call. The porters were to knock on their doors around 6 am with bowls of hot water for washing up. I thought maybe Phurba was knocking on my door with such a luxury. I thought wrong. Instead, he came into my room empty handed and just kind of hung out. My cheeks were still burning from the icy water I'd splashed on them, I wasn't dressed, I was having trouble fitting my sleeping bag into its stuff sack, and my sherpa guide had just walked into my bedroom at 6:30 in the morning empty handed. This was the rudest way to wake up. I don't know why Phurba was uncomfortably hovering over me, but I wasted no time in telling him to get lost so I could finish getting ready. Ten minutes later, packed and suited up, I unlocked my door to find Phurba still standing there, as if he was ready to raise a fist and start knocking. He grabbed my big pack, followed me downstairs and sat next to me in silence as I ate my yak cheese omelette. (Said he'd already eaten.) It was weird.

Lukla to Phakding, while up and down, is actually all down since Phakding is at a slightly lower elevation than Lukla. My first day of trekking was a relatively pleasant 3-4 hour walk through lush valleys and scenic passes. I knew today would be different. We had a hard day of climbing ahead; we'd be ascending almost 3300 feet in altitude, and trekking mostly uphill for at least 5-6 hours. What I didn't know was just how hard it would be.

We were on the road, so to speak, by 7:30ish. Starting later is not an option this time of year, because the weather patterns dictate that at around 1pm every day, thick clouds roll in and carry with them rain or snow. It's best to be at your tea house by that time. Since there's absolutely nothing to do once the sun goes down, and your body is usually drained, going to bed at 8PM is not uncommon, nor is waking at 5 or 6. Hence, the morning walk was relatively pleasant. There were a few steep inclines, and lots of stairs, but in general the steps (which were giant rocks worn or formed into a crude staircase over time) would lead to a natural resting point, where you could stop for 5 minutes, have some water, take in the scenery. Often times stairs led to bridges or villages. We stopped for tea sometime around 9 and continued onward. The trail was broken up quite nicely, winding up and down the mountains. I was getting a workout, but it wasn't anything to complain about. Certainly beat sitting in a spinning class. I saw my first snow capped peak, which was awesome in the true sense of the word. I asked Phurba its name and he said it did not have one. In this part of the world, where the mountains are the tallest on earth, peaks under 6000 meters are not even named. Yet another of Phurba's intimidating facts, since I knew to view the really high peaks, we'd have to actually walk really high.

Just before lunch, we crossed into Sagarmatha (Everest) National Park. This was an exciting landmark for me. It is the gateway to the Khumbu region and meant that I really was in the presence of the largest things on earth. I've read countless books on the area, and it was startling to think that I'd actually figured out a way to get here and see it with my own eyes. While Phurba dealt with my trekking permit, I checked out a little tourist room with maps and a model of the entire region, which provided a mini overview of the path we were waking and gave a real scope of the vastness of the Khumbu. I was headed towards Everest Base Camp, but there were so many other routes – towards Gokyo Lake, Island Peak, Thame and Tibet, Ama Dablam. It's a giant park. I thought of all the people, from inexperienced trekkers like myself to famous mountaineers, who had passed this way en route to something bigger, many of them never to return. There were teams assembled right now at Everest Base Camp, having been there since March, waiting for the weather to give them a window to attempt a summit bid as it usually does every May. There were novice climbers taking a stab at Island Peak, hoping their newly learned ice axe skills would guide them to the top. There were high and scary winds atop Ama Dablam, making summit attempts dangerous that morning. It was an exciting time to be in this part of the world, even if the next few hours would prove to be utter misery for me. As I walked through the park entrance, I felt very privileged to be there.

Around 11, after being slightly delayed by yet another passing yak caravan, we walked into a small village called Monjo and sat down for lunch. The temperature had more than doubled since morning and I was happy to shed some layers and sit down for a bit. I gulitlessly ordered a giant platter of fried potatoes and vegetables. It's a rare occasion that I could feel good about eating such a meal, but it's rarer that I burn as many calories as I was. I knew the afternoon would be tough and I needed the energy. There is some meat on the menus here, but I've seen the porters carrying leg of yak around for days in the blazing sun, which can get to over 90 degrees. Better to get your protein from eggs, and otherwise stick with what's local, which are potatoes, spinach, carrots, cabbage, all grown in the restaurants' back yards and all delicious.

When was the last time you had a six hour workout? Can't pinpoint it? That's because only people who are training for marathons, or the Olympics, or to summit an 8,000 meter peak do that regularly. I was doing it daily for the next week by choice, just to spend time in this fabled land and to get a view of the mammoth peaks. So it began after lunch, where we once again crossed the Dudkhosi River (or “milk water,” because it moves so fast it's always milky white) and were on its rocky banks, where we walked on nice, flat ground for the better part of a half hour. It was good to be on the ground, looking up at the mountains and level eyed at the river, rather than glancing down from above. It was possible to momentarily forget how high you were, except for the slightly labored breathing. I say momentarily because after only about 20 minutes, an extremely long and high prayer flag-covered hanging bridge came into view, and with it, some steps disappearing into the hill. On the other side of that bridge was a dark mountain that I couldn't see past, though I knew we'd be climbing up and over it. And then, just as quickly as I was sizing up my surroundings with anticipation, I was at the foot of a staircase that did not stop for the next three hours.

We climbed up a good 30 minutes before crossing the bridge, which I did with trepidation. It was almost littered with prayer flags and khatas (scarves) there were so many, and was long and crowded. We swung over the river at a rate that was a little too fast and when I saw the row of heavily burdened yaks coming from the other side, I hoped the bridge would hold. Following in Phurba's stead, I threw myself face first against the chain link fence and tried to will my body to be as skinny as possible to let the beasts pass without incident. They stop for no one, as I would come to learn in future close encounters. I felt uneasy as I stared into the river, noting to myself that it really did look like gallons of rapidly flowing milk.

From there onto Namche, it was agony. The path zigzagged at steep (sometimes very steep) angles across and up that massive hill. Some places were a sand-like dirt, making a hard climb harder to gain footing on. Some places were thigh-high stone steps that ascended into oblivion. It was endless, and here that I realized I might have bitten off more than I could chew. I'd spent the last three weeks sitting on my ass eating paneer and chapati in India, and the week before that sitting on the beach in Malaysia. I wasn't exactly in great shape, and endurance has never been my thing regardless. I am also 5 foot 2 inches tall at best, which means that for every one step a 6 foot tall German takes, I'm taking two. It basically takes twice the effort for my legs to carry me. After awhile, I was in so much pain, and also so dizzy from the altitude that I had to rest and breathe every 4 or 5 steps. I felt like I might topple over. I kept telling myself one foot in front of the other, mind over matter, all the while my heart nearly beating out of my chest to compensate for the loss of oxygen. This hike would have been a bitch anywhere. Add the near 1000 meter gain in altitude to the equation, and it could have been a recipe for disaster. Each step made it harder and harder to catch my breath. My lungs hurt and my chest heaved. I was getting a headache and was light headed. If I'd still been a smoker I would not have made it. I felt every ounce I was carrying in my stuffed pack, and realized just how heavy my cheap boots were (thanks again, volcano). It was very slow going.

Phurba kept asking me what was wrong, and I kept telling him that I was dizzy and tired. He didn't offer too much by means of moral support. What he did offer, just when I literally was not sure I could take another step and was on the verge of a mental and physical collapse, was a glimmer of hope. Far in the distance, was a little speck of blue. He pointed out the corner of a building that was barely visible. It was still 30 minutes away for a strong walker, but Namche Bazaar was within eyeshot. Within earshot was some low talking and congregating. We had come upon a tiny tea post. I was too weak to even walk inside, and dropped my bag on the side of the trail and leaned against the stone wall with the other weary trekkers, all too tired to talk to one another. I breathed heavily and wondered if I would have to spend the night out there. Phurba got me black tea with extra sugar, which helped to bring me back to life a little. I remembered the chocolate I'd bought in Kathmandu for such an occasion, and broke off a few pieces. It gave me the energy, however low, that I needed to push on through to Namche Bazaar, the highest trading post in the world. We got to our lodge at around 3:30 in the afternoon, just as heavy clouds were rolling in. Two liters of boiling water and one cup of ginger tea later, and I was feeling human again. We sat in the heated dining room and watched through the picture windows as a violent thunderstorm covered the town in blackness.