Having been told that our expedition was off yesterday morning our part of base camp was a miserable and cold place to be. Indeed the whole of base camp was cold and miserable. Many of the bigger, typically American, expeditions had already declared closure with the clients having headed down the track or having paid around US$1500 for a chopper ride. In many cases the tents remained in place, neglected, yellow or orange domes blowing in the wind, loose guy ropes flailing.
Tempers were running high and feelings were easily hurt. I got into a battle of words with one of the other guys that was about nothing really and we were on the same side. I urged care over the making of defamatory statements about the militants and their threats that were based on hearsay. He accused me of ducking the issue and not being prepared to tell the world what was really happening. We shook hands shortly after and resumed a cordial relationship but this demonstrated how feelings can run over. There were other examples.
Some people couldn't wait to get away; Paul and Ingo left yesterday afternoon. This was a particular blow to me because after Tim, these two were my closest buddies on the expedition and, truth be told, I knew I would miss their banter and friendship. Both of these guys were incredibly gregarious and every time we met there would be a high-5 or a hug or a merry quip. Paul is a big Frenchman living and working in Singapore and a huge rugby fan while Ingo is Iceland's foremost male adventurer, mountaineer and paraglider pilot.
After a cold and snowy night Tim and I were to leave early the following morning. Breakfast was set initially for 7 a.m. In order to enable a 7:30 start. In the event it was pushed back to 7:30 with getaway due at 8:00. Then 8:00 came and went, as did 8:15 and I was getting restless. Once 8:30 had been missed too I told Tim I would see him on the trail. I sought out several others to say cheerio but they were busy on their own stuff so I simply confirmed to Tim that I would see him later, and walked out of camp. Our plan was to try and make it to Namche Bazaar but with a checkpoint at Pangboche (the wedding venue) at 2:30. That is to say whoever got to Pangboche (Sonam Lodge) first would wait for the other and then decide whether to progress to Namche. If the second person arrived after 2:30 we would stay put. Tim was fine with this as while I was probably faster on the flat he was quicker up the hills and we both expected he would catch me after an hour or two.
Setting out at 8:30 into the cold crisp air was a joy. Already I was leaving behind me the trials and tribulations of the past week or so and my spirits soared. Of course I would rather have had Tim with me but he had final business to do in camp.
Climbing and descending over the slippery boulder field that passes for base camp I soon reached the deserted Adventure Consultants camp (intact but deserted) and then the main track facing the glacier and the ice fall; the scene of such tragedy just over a week ago and indirectly responsible for our early departure. Turning right I headed to the entrance to base camp, around 20 minutes of seriously undulating rocky path, stepping to one side periodically to avoid the dozens of yaks heading the other way, presumably soon to be harnessed and laden with tents, cooking gear, loo seats, and all the other paraphernalia of life at base camp. Meanwhile overhead helicopters made repeated runs through the icefall to collect stores already pre-positioned at Camps 1 and 2 but now unreachable on foot thanks to the threat of maiming or worse made to the Sherpas whose livelihoods has been wrenched from their grasp by the militants.
It was time to go and I revelled in the feeling of the rucksack on my back and the crunch of the rock under my boots. Farewell IMG (also deserted). Farewell Mercantile hotspot (no meaningful service for the past 2 days). Farewell Jagged Globe (people still there, including 2 friends of mine, but already declared to be leaving).
Past the rocks adorned with prayer flags yet grotesquely disfigured by graffiti with which some of those who trek to base camp feel compelled to endow to the world. Thank God these people aren't allowed into base camp itself! Then down into the gorge and out the other side onto the steep rock and sand track that angles along and up the lateral moraine. Head nervously twitching to the right looking out for the all too common rockfall. Step, breathe, step, breathe, one at a time to the top. Once on the ridge I stopped and looked back one last time to see if Tim was in sight. He wasn't. The sky was a crystal clear blue above the pristine and now familiar outline of Mt Everest and Nuptse. Beneath these was the glacier where I had belatedly found the 3G-Spot which enabled contact with home. Closer still was the ghost town that had been home for the past 2 weeks but which now marked the end of my dream to follow in the footsteps of Hillary and Tenzing.
No regrets! Turning my face to the wind I headed out along the ridge of the moraine with a spring in my step. It was not, after all, just about the summit. I was in the Himalaya, the beautiful, vast, Himalaya. I didn't need a chaperone. If Tim caught me that was fine but if not I had around 6 hours of the finest walking in the world ahead of me. Boy I felt good!
Crunch went the boots on the rock. Click-click went the walking poles that I always use to give stability, for extra forward traction, to protect my knees, and to ward off yaks. At one point a helicopter roared overhead and I waved at it enthusiastically in farewell to 'Bulks' (the first European woman to complete all 4 desert marathons), Daniel and Nigel. These had each paid US$800 for a chopper to take them and their bags to Lukla. They were in a hurry but I didn't envy them. Though the day was cold I was working hard and perfectly comfortable in my lightweight trekking trousers and t-shirt chuckling to myself at the goretex-festooned big hat wearing base camp trekkers coming the other way. Tut! What do they look like! Click, click, click. Gotta make progress with every step. No matter how slippery or how steep, when a line of plodders or yaks or porters weighed down with all manner of worldly goods (cornflakes, noodles, nails) gets in the way just go round and press on. I was flying and loving it. Maybe I'm made for extreme trekking?
After a while I espyed Gorek Shep. Green roofed, stolidly built stone dwellings all geared to providing a service (typically a fairly basic one) to the trekkers, it was bathed in cold sunshine. Ears tingling and fingers, frankly, cold I was delighted to reach this press of people, most (the orientals) with so much sun cream daubed on their sunglassed faces that they looked like Pierrot the clown, in just over an hour.
Eschewing the temptation of ginger lemon tea I pushed on to Lobuche. Over spurs and around precipitous rockfalls. Click, click, crunch, crunch. Skipping from one rock to another 'off piste' to avoid the panting masses, or yaks coming on in increasing numbers to assist the dismantling of base camp that would soon resemble Napoleon's retreat from Moscow. Then down to the level of the river, very low at the moment, and after another hour Lobuche was reached. Occasional backward glances revealed no Tim. I wasn't hoping he wouldn't catch me but after weeks of instruction to take it steady it was simply a release to stretch my legs.
After Lobuche came Dughla, a further hour along the track. Much of this leg was also high level as the track wound it's way along the side of a rocky gorge, river in low water to my left, but rising to cross the Dughla pass which features memorials to many famous mountaineers who met their ends in this region, for example Scott Fischer and Rob Hall who died in the tragic events of 1996 as recounted by Jon Krakaeur in his book 'Into Thin Air'. After the field of monuments the path drops sharply to the collection of food and drink retail outlets that goes by the name of Dughla. Tempted to stop for a bite? Ugh!
Swinging left it was over a rickety bridge then contouring around the snout of a spur then down, down, down towards Pheriche. This is glorious walking. Every step downwards brings a deep breath of ever more rich air. No noise, no pollution, the only sounds are my boots and sticks and the pump of blood in my ears. The sun is getting hot now and my bright red baseball camp is wet with sweat, as is my t-shirt. I'm loving it. Still no Tim and I reach the valley floor and head left to Pheriche, seen vaguely in the distance as a series of metal roofs glinting in the sun.
As I approach Pheriche the wind gets up and I am concerned that I may get dust or worse in my eyes. On go the sunglasses recently discarded once I'd left the snow behind, and a buff over my face. Wet t-shirt steaming a testimony to my efforts I continue revelling in such freedom in deeply, deeply magnificent terrain.
Pheriche was a pleasant enough little village with the various wi-fi advertising establishments a serious temptation but, no, don't stop. Down the main track I pushed, offering a nod and a 'namaste' to anyone who looked like they might reply, which was most people to be honest. Friendly farmers, or mums with children. Ladies washing clothes in the street or boys or men doing the transportation work normally done in western towns or villages by trucks or the ubiquitous 'white van'. All were treated to a 'namaste!' All responded. Heaven knows what they made of me but what a joy all the same. Reaching Pheriche at 12:30 it was time for a break so setting my back to the wind, I hunkered down against a huge boulder and tucked in to a couple of crunchies and a full litre of water. Peering back up the river valley I still couldn't see Tim so 20 minutes later set off once again.
The gorge narrowed south of Pheriche and the way once more became steep and precipitous with the narrow, typically 3 to 4ft wide, rock and sand track winding its way around the side of the gorge. After the pebble and boulder-strewn path typical of the approach to Pheriche this was actually a pleasure to walk on. Over a narrow metal bridge across the raging Lobuche Khola river and up, up to the top of the gorge. Passing a group of puffing trekkers I revelled in the palpable richness of the air and swore I could feel the oxygen-enriched blood now pumping through me. While still at an altitude of 4270m and higher than all but the very highest Alpine peaks I had still descended over one vertical kilometre since leaving base camp just 4 hours previously.
The views from this elevated path were stupendous. Ama Dablam to my left was a brooding yet beautiful presence it's shape resembling a white-hooded and robed nun with arms beckoning. Ahead through the valley the clouds were gathering but I could see my target; the Sonam Lodge at Pangboche, at the end of the track, still several miles away.
Though vegetation remained sparse whereas previously the track was sometimes hard to follow now the way was clear. A bold sandy track could be seen contouring along the right hand side of the gorge, seemingly protected on either side by the dark green of evergreen low scrub and increasingly by juniper and pine. Swinging along this joy of a track I ate up the miles and soon reached the little hillside hamlet of Shomare. Steeply stepped this tough yet delightful place offered rest and accommodation, food and drink. Old women talked behind stone walls, dressed in the heavy woollen garments typical of the region almost always wearing a headscarf and the traditional flat-chequered apron that I first noticed at the wedding in Pangboche on my way up. However with my lunch destination now only a mile or so away I kept going.
The final leg was a relatively straightforward and gradually descending path, although it was not without excitement. This came in the form of several strings of yaks making their way north who were best given a wide berth. Yet such was the steepness of the ground getting uphill of them was tricky while getting downhill would have been suicidal. When walking in single file there was no problem but if they decided to double-up in spite of their whistling or shouting herders they occupied the full width of the path. In these circumstances I found the best approach was to stand on the uphill side of the track (obviously), plant my sticks firmly in front and stare down the front animal. Yaks are fairly docile so any similarity to bull fighting should be put to one side, however their heads and horns are a considerable size and more to the point their burdens are always wider than the animal itself. Even once the head and horns of these dopey beasts have passed it is still necessary to take care not to be smeared along a rock wall by a roll of carpet or box of tins of baked beans or whatever the cargo is.
Arriving at the Sonam Lodge at 1:45, quietly pleased with the time I'd made and completely knocked out by the rugged beauty of the scenery, I said (of course) 'Namaste!' to Gurmen the owner, who recognised me from the previous stay. Sipping ginger lemon tea while waiting for Tim, as agreed, I got in conversation (in English) with a group of trekkers from Finland. They were very excited about their day so far and in particular because later that afternoon they were going to attend a Puja conducted by ....... yep, Llama Gyeshe, the man who had conducted the weeding ceremony 2 weeks previous. I learned from Gurmen that he lives in Pangboche.
At around 2:45 Tim, Ellis and Alex turned up also having had a great day. By this time the weather was closing in as is often the case in the afternoon so we decided to stay at the Sonam for the night.
Ahh. The joys of walking.
Fried eggs on chips for 4 please Gurmen!