Beyond an Ascent

Altitude: 1,400m / Kathmandu

The Nepali sun burns through the morning haze, casting pink ghosts across Tribhuvan International Airport servicing Kathmandu and surroundings. Our shuttle bus jolts over the rough tarmac to a Dornier 288 - a repurposed cargo craft resembling a lego toy from the 80s. Through the open cockpit, pilot and co-pilot prep to fire up their worn out machine. Seats are barebones; flat military canvas stretched over steel frames with no trace of armrests or seats numbers. I strap down into a spot beside the starboard propeller. Pieces of cotton are handed out as earplugs. It’s a crucial detail I fail to catch. I consequently enjoy the deafening blast of engines as we rocket down the runway and jerk up into the air with gut wrenching force.

Below, Kathmandu sweeps away into an orange-washed filigree bordered by the purplish blue of the looming mountains standing guard over Nepal's capital city. Twenty minutes later, we are amidst giants threading through high winds. As we cross a ridge and hit an air pocket, the plane instantly drops with a sickening lurch and an audible bang. My heart teleports to my throat and a wave of nausea and vertigo washes over me. Who knew, one could sweat through fingertips? Beyond the window, the harrowing view is an imminent mountain face - dark, icy, and far too close for comfort. Out of its mist looms the lonesome runway of Tenzing-Hillary Airport stapled to the side of a slope. Notorious as one of the world’s most dangerous airports, it provides access to the mountain village of Lukla – considered a gateway to Mt. Everest. The pilot fights against gale winds to line up and guns the plane into the runway at full speed. Tyres squeal as we brake hard and I disembark feeling unsteady. Unfazed by our intrusion, the majestic peak of Kongde Ri gleams serenely above us against stark blue skies.

Altitude: 2,860m / Lukla

We meet Karma of the Sherpa clan – a 31 year old father and our professional guide into Sagarmatha (Nepali for Everest) National Park. While we boast heavy packs and alpine gear, this mountain man is dressed down in light trekking wear, sneakers, and a daypack that is empty save for a bottle of water and a pair of gloves. Clearly for Karma, the path to our destination Namche Bazaar, is but a gentle stroll and not the arduous feat that awaits us inexperienced lowlanders. For the moment however, the journey ahead does not feel insurmountable. On the contrary, the weather is favourable, the sun is warm on our faces, and the air is scented with the sweet earthiness of the forest. It clings to our clothes and skin with the vague familiarity of an exotic perfume that I cannot quite place. Stone, gravel, and patches of ice and snow crunch beneath our footfalls. In buoyant spirits, we begin our journey into the depths of the Himalayas.

We follow the Dudh Kosi river upstream through small outposts and villages where we occasionally stop for tea. With shy smiles, the villagers offer heartfelt welcomes: “Namaste!” Young children are intrigued by our cameras, wanting to touch and play with them. Teenagers stop their games of football to watch us plod by. A young mother in a teashop composes herself for us to take her photo. There is an openheartedness that makes us Westerners suspicious. “Why are they being so nice?” we ask ourselves. Our culture educates us to be cautious; “Don’t talk to strangers!” Our society ingrains us to mistrust; “What’s their angle?” Yet, there’s a mnemonic resonance spreading through me, dissolving the skepticism. I am reminded of my own Japanese heritage - a culture which values honour, family, and respect above all else. That same peaceful trust resides here in the Himalayas.

Altitude: 2,610m / Dudh Kosi River Valley

However idyllic it may momentarily appear, a journey into this wilderness should never be taken lightly. At one village, a poster gives notice of a trekker gone missing after falling into a river in the upper regions of the Himalayas. He is presumed dead until found. Later on, we pass a procession of old gentlemen carrying a wrapped corpse down the mountain on a makeshift stretcher, most likely back to the family of the deceased. According to The Himalayan Database, over one thousand climbers who dared to ascend its heights have been snuffed out of existence since 1950. The beauty of the mountains easily disguises its feral nature.

One such aspect being altitude sickness. At sea level, the percentage of oxygen is about 21% and barometric pressure at 760mmHg. As we climb in altitude, that percentage stays constant but the number of oxygen molecules per breath decreases. At 3,600m the barometric pressure drops to 480mmHg, meaning 40% less oxygen molecules per breath. So while there are lesser degrees of altitude sickness, the more severe tend to occur around altitudes of 3,600m and above. Our sights are set to just above 3,500m. As such, we follow our guide with blind faith - pausing, eating, hydrating, and sleeping when suggested. Even so, our bodies begin to feel the effects of oxygen deprivation.

From the village of Phakding, we continue North, threading through a string of villages that progressively gradate in altitude. After lunch in the village of Jorsale on the west side of the Dudh Kosi river, we ascend a vertical difference of over 700m to reach Namche Bazaar. Before long, my limbs lose tenacity and I am unable to hold my camera in hand. Muscles are on fire as fatigue sets in, and my lungs begin to gasp for breath. Blood pounds in my temple with staggering force, trying to supply the demand for oxygen. With water rations depleted and no way to refill, dehydration attacks. Each plod forward and up turns into a battle of will. Resting on a fallen tree trunk, I consider my options. But with our time constraint, there is no turning back.

Altitude: 3,490m / Namche Bazaar

Four hours later and filled with despair, we round a bend to find Namche Bazaar slapped precariously against the face of the Himalayas. Relief floods my heart. Traditionally this village was a trading post for locals bartering higher altitude produce with lower level agricultural goods. However all that changed in 1953 with the first recorded successful summit of Everest by Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay. The impossible had been achieved and climbers and trekkers began to pour into the region for a taste of the world’s highest peaks.

Modern day Namche Bazaar is a bustling commercial point for mountaineers to stop, rest, and acclimatise before pushing forward to Everest Base Camp. For us, this is as far as we go. Exhausted but feeling victorious, we feast on momo dumplings and Sherpa beer. Afterwards, we huddle by the fire to sip the local hooch, and trace our journey on a map. As the mountains drift off into sleep, there is a shared understanding that’s crept into our core: we are not ready to leave. At least, not without one more sunrise amongst the titans of our world.

So come dawn, we wake with the moon still bright in the sky. It’s -8ºC in the hotel room. We’ve slept with our gear and batteries under bedcovers to keep them from draining. The oddities that we noticed at the start of the journey have by now become second nature: sleep with your next pair of socks to warm them; bring your own toilet paper; brush your teeth with bottled water; don’t consume fresh produce – how contrary to the idea of maximum nutrition and peak health. We go through the morning rituals and step out to a frigid blue-black sky.

Altitude: 3,510m / Helipad

Our ride out of the mountains is by helicopter charter, supposedly landing at a remote helipad high above the slopes of Namche Bazaar. Will the weather allow it? Time will tell. En route we pass beside Namche Gompa, a Tibetan Buddhist monastery on the Western edge of the village. Its golden prayer wheels emit a mystical hollow clanging. The lonesome echoes are quickly swept away by the howling wind, always pulling the unwary towards unmerciful wilderness. We reach the helipad just as the sun summits the visible eastern ridge from elegant Ama Dablam to spiky Kusum Kanguru, lancing the Western peaks of Kongde Ri with gold.

Everything about the Himalayas will dwarf the human scale. After all, its creation is a resultant of an ancient (and continuous) collision of the Indian and Asian tectonic plates. These mountains have never favoured the affluent or the poor, the courageous or the weak, nor does it care for politics, religion, or race. It is marked only by time and age. Any who have experienced its formidable presence are inevitably equated. And instilled by an insatiable allure to return again and again to vet body, mind, and heart against forces so utterly incomprehensible that it requires a dose of insanity.

As I watch and photograph the sunlight come creeping down mountain faces and into valleys below, this much is clear: the true heart and soul of Nepal broods in the Himalayas. Whether or not I return to this corner of the world, I recognise the notes of its landscape. Lacking any concept of finality, it resonates with the human struggle for eternity. No matter how far I travel, even back to the Atlantic coastlines of distant Portugal, I know I will forever hear its beckoning.