Base Camp
In my early twenties, I trekked to Everest Base Camp. It was a pretty whirlwind decision in the end - I’d stumbled on an Intrepid brochure with pictures of snow-capped mountain peaks and smiling faces over steaming bowls of nepalese curry, and said to my boyfriend at the time, “Base Camp?” and Tom said “Shitchyeah!” and within months, we were airborne.
Cutest airline names, Craziest airport landings.
I have to admit, this all came as quite the surprise to my family and friends. Mostly because of my profound fear of heights, but also because as far as they were concerned, my interests veered far closer to YSL shoe than Yak Poo.
Yet there I was, all thermals, trekking sticks and hair toobs.
Shedding away the trimmings (like charging bays, showers, and toilets that flushed) was surprisingly liberating. Our days consisted of 8-9 solid hours of one foot in front of the other, over sandy soils and moss at first, jagged rocks and creaky bridges, then pebbles and ice.
To pass the time, we’d sing the most karaoke-friendly songs we knew, for the benefit of our international motley crew. Sometimes, the incline was so steep that there wasn't even time to look around, let alone belt out a note. Then, the serenading would stop, and the hollow echo of 8 pairs of footsteps would bounce around the cavernous surrounds.
At night, we'd huddle around the tea-houses' yak-dung stoves, chowing down on momos (Nepalese dumplings) and chocolate-dipped digestive biscuits (light enough for the sherpas to lug up the mountain in bulk, along with prized packets of Pringles), washed down with cups of ginger tea to try and keep our gurgling guts at bay.
The higher we trekked, the greater the gurgling got. We were warned about altitude sickness, sure, but the reality was indescribably worse. Sleepless nights turned into lumbering days, bodies ached, momos and biscuits became boiled potatoes with salt, and still more tea, but soon even these became hard to keep down. Moods turned somber; someone slipped, twisted a finger, turned back.
Contemplating my life choices
I distinctly remember tumbling out of a smoky tea house doorway somewhere up high on day 6, Tom holding my hair out of the way while I exhumed the only scoops of starch I’d managed to stomach, narrowly avoiding the corrugated wall of the outdoor bucket shower I was using to steady myself. A minute’s silence hung in the icy air while we didn’t have the conversation that we didn’t need to have.
There was no way I was stopping. No freaking way.
When my boots crunched across the flag-flapping mound that is Base Camp, I knew something had shifted. Whatever had compelled me to drop it all and wind up in Nepal, added an extra layer of grit; to my hiking boots (fanciest I could find, obvs), my resolve, and, most significantly, to my psyche.
It taught me to be patient; that anything worth doing is probably going to take longer than you guesstimate, and it’ll take everything you’ve got to get you there. I learnt that the closer you are to a finish line, the higher the stakes - and that that’s when the fear and the doubt creeps in… That you won’t make it, that it won’t be what you expected, that you haven’t done it right, that you’re not enough.
The higher you climb, the lonelier it can feel too, because you alone control the steps that you take. No one’s going to carry you, and even if they do, it won’t feel right if you didn’t do it yourself. You can’t outsource a schlep like that, and you sure as shit can’t outsource your schlep.
Oh, and it’s pretty hard to hold on to any height-related hang-ups when the only way forward is across the tallest, ricketiest bridge in the world.
So I guess the most valuable lesson the Himalayas taught me is that the only difference between those who do and those who don’t, is that do-ers feel the fear, have a little spew, and keep on climbing.
Cheerio!
A — Z.