Everest Base Camp

No matter how you look at it, Everest Base Camp is a long, long way up. Consider that Ben Nevis – the highest peak in Britain – is 1,344 metres above sea level. Consider also, that the highest peak in the whole of Western Europe – Mont Blanc – tops out at 4,810 metres. Everest Base Camp, by comparison, stands at 5,360 metres above sea level. Like I said, it’s a long way up.

Completing the trek to EBC (as those who have been there are entitled to call it) goes down as the toughest challenge I’ve ever embarked upon, taking into consideration the accumulation of difficult circumstances that it presents. For instance, just getting to the foothills of the Himalayas is an adventure in its own right. For those readers who don’t expect to ever need to take the infamous flight from Kathmandu to the Hillary-Tenzing Airport in Lukla, I urge you to take a peek on Youtube at a clip of the hair-raising landing/take off on the inclined, 527m landing strip at Lukla; a test of any pilot’s skill and nerve, I’ll say. After our first night dining (and “bonding”), myself and the 11 others in my group (5 Brits, 4 Aussies and 2 Swedes), plus our illustrious leader, Jagan, were scheduled to board our flight into the mountains at 7:00am on the morning of March 29^th. After delays to earlier flights, we eventually got airborne at around 8:15, on our Yeti Airlines “Twin Otter” 18-seater aircraft, to behold some of the most spectacular window views you are ever likely to set eyes upon. However, all was not seemingly well, and when we were an hour and fifteen minutes in to what was scheduled to be a 45 minute flight, news filtered through that the pilot had made the decision to turn around and head back to Kathmandu. Conditions were deemed too dangerous to land in; we would have to try again the following day (it wasn’t until later that night that Jagan revealed to us that the two somewhat severe “bumps” we’d experienced that had induced air-sickness in three passengers, were in fact aborted efforts at landing the aircraft – only we weren’t aware at the time due to the fog).

The following day the flight was far more straightforward. The weather was ideal, we were bumped up to first flight of the day, and the Twin Otter managed to screech to a halt just in time to avoid the brick wall at the end of the landing strip. Belatedly, we were on our way. The first day of trekking which followed involved a gradual descent of 200m over a 3 hour period – afterall, we had already climbed to 2,860 metres above sea level with the flight to Lukla alone.

As a general rule, the structure of our trek would follow a pattern of 2 full days of trekking (6 or 7 hours of trekking per day) followed by an acclimatisation day (usually a stiffer, 3 hour walking day, involving a steep ascent before returning back to our starting level to sleep). Four days into the trek – April 1^st 2009 – and I gazed upon Mt. Everest for the first time. It felt like a significant moment; Everest is one of the most famous icons in the world, but if you compare it to sights of similar fame and recognition – for instance, Eiffel Tower, or the Grand Canyon – very few can lay claim to having set eye upon it. For that, it’s hard not to feel a sense of pride and privilege.

Once you get above 4,000 metres, things get cold. Like, really cold. So when we passed through that particular ceiling on our way to Dingboche, it’s not surprising that I came down with a cold – especially having just spent 5 weeks in the searing heat of India. The temperatures were more than manageable during the daylight; the thin air doing little to block out the warmth of the sun. But at night, things become very difficult, to the extent that taking one’s clothes off in order to get into your sleeping bag becomes a mammoth psychological battle. A grit-your-teeth-and-get-the-job-done sort of a task; kind of like ripping off the elastoplast, multiplied by a few thousand. What’s more, once you get to that kind of altitude, you’re on the lookout for any tell-tale signs of Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS), to the extent that you’re scrutinising every sensation in your head and every motion in your stomach. The fact that Jagan was questioning us regularly to see if we had any nausea or headaches indicated that the symptoms would be imminent. By the night of April 4^th, I had my first bout of nausea. Walking during the day had become noticeably more difficult for everyone; many of the so-far strong members of the group were now breathing heavily – even at rest. Although I was still coping well with the walking during the day, the nausea hit me that evening. And, although I couldn’t face food that evening, our Nepali guides insisted that I force down a bowl of garlic soup – their trusted antidote to altitude sickness. The western solution to altitude sickness, by contrast, is a drug called Diamox; which is actually a prescription medication for glaucoma and epilespsy, but has also (controversially) been found to help the body acclimatise to high altitude. Although a couple of members of the group had begun to use Diamox, I was keen to avoid it as far as possible, and so persisted with the garlic soup before bed. And, thank the Lord, it seemed to do the trick – I felt like a new man the following morning. [Be aware that when I say “a new man”, it’s all relatively speaking. The “newness” I write of means simply that the nausea had gone. As a rule, once above 4,500 metres, every day begins with a throbbing headache that intensifies every time you move your little toe. You feel dizzy just from bending down to tie your shoelaces, and you can’t for the life of you understand why you can’t recall simple facts of trivia, like the name of that Swede who Niall Quinn signed to play wide left for Sunderland in the Championship a couple of years ago. Your body feels like it’s running at about 30% of its full capability, and is frustrating the Be-Jeezus out of you because it cries out for a rest for every ten minutes of distance that it covers]

So we finished our day’s walking, with the next morning being the start of our push to Base Camp. The day would start with a 5am departure, aiming to reach Gorek Shep (our resting place for that night) at 9am. Then, after breakfast there, we’d push on to Base Camp, with the warning ringing in our ears that if we didn’t make it there by 2:30pm, we’d have to turn back and admit defeat – the bad weather rolls in quickly after 3pm, and walking away from our nightspot after then was not an option. Fortunately, we made it to BC in plenty of time, with some especially ballsy efforts to get there from Chris (who had endured a sleepless evening of sickness and diahorrea), and Trevor (who was clearly ravaged by AMS). Arriving at Base Camp was more exhilarating than I had expected. The day’s climb took us through a dramatic change in scenery, above the tree line, in to a landscape of almost lunar-like rockiness. As barron as it is, it has a definite “roof of the world” feel, and you know for sure that you’re closer to the summit side of things than you are to the prelude of it. In fact (and perhaps it’s the altitude), you see the route that the ‘summiters’ take, and a part of you thinks “ya know, it doesn’t look THAT much further…”.

Shortly after we got back to Gorek Shep, an unseasonal Spring snowfall began, that lasted through the night. We had been scheduled to climb Kala Patthar the following morning – at 5,545 metres, it’s the highest altitude we would reach, and is the renowned viewpoint for the Everest range. Ordinarily, it’s a tough walk, even though we’d passed it on the way to Base Camp and it hadn’t looked particularly daunting; a brown, rocky mound surrounded by snow-capped peaks. But the night’s weather meant that the whole area would be covered in snow, making it a much more difficult proposition. Jagan made the ascent to Kala Patthar an optional one. 10 out of the 12 took it on, and 5 of us made it to the top. It represents the most grueling test of will power I’ve ever put myself through. The steep gradient, the altitude, the accumulated fatigue that had built up over the last week or so of trekking would have made it difficult enough, but the slipperiness of the snow made it feel almost like running up a sand dune, to the extent that you almost feel like you’re losing ground with each step. But the rewards were spectacular. It’s hard to imagine that I’ll ever take in a more remarkable panorama, and the irony is that the snowfall which had made the task that much harder, had enhanced the beauty of the scene by ten-fold. Absolutely breathtaking.

And so, the reward for our efforts, was a full day of trekking AFTER we got down from Kala Patthar. Lest we forget, the delay to our flight had set us back a day, and we still had to make up a day somewhere (which meant covering the same distance, in less time than scheduled on the way down). But things were comparatively blissful on the way down; the drop in altitude is remarkable tangible with each downward step. The thick head soon disappears, the lungs are miraculously satisfied by an intake of breath, and conversation becomes compatible with walking once more. So the last few days – although difficult, distance-wise, were a lot more pleasant than on the way up. Most began looking forward to home; to thoughts of that first meal they’re hoping to gorge upon, of TV shows they’ve recorded, and so on and so forth. Obviously, that wasn’t the case for me, but once we arrived back in Kathmandu, and spent the final night together feasting and drinking and reminiscing the night away in Rum Doodle’s (the legendary trekker’s bar, where Everest summiters eat for free), every one of us was able to look back memories of views that we’re never likely to match, an unparalleled physical and mental challenge, and trip that provided a truly life-defining experience.