NAMCHE BAZAAR (3440M) TO EVEREST BASE CAMP (5364M)

We rose early on the fourth morning of our trek, departing Namche with a heavy heart. Climbing the steps to the rim of the valley, yesterday a relatively simple task, now took its toll in the thin morning air.

The trail evened out over the lip, and we strolled along a relatively wide, flat track that curled around the mountain side above Namche. The views were simple inspiring, looking back over our shoulders down the forested Kumbu Valley, almost all of the way to Lukla, and looking forwards to the mass of Everest, Ama Dablam and Lhotse. Stupas and prayer rocks studded the landscape, and vultures passed silently overhead. The trail continued like this for around two hours, before dropping steeply down to the valley floor via a forest track. I kept my eyes peeled for roe deer, but was disappointed.

We lunched beside the river, watching birds nesting in the cliffs above the water, before beginning the gruelling two and half hour climb to Tenboche monastery. The day grew hotter and hotter, adding to the difficulties. The switch back trail had some tree cover, but there were long gaps between the shaded sections, and soon we were dripping with sweat. Carlos steamed ahead in his usual fashion, while Richard paced himself with Tek at the rear. I was left to my own devices in the centre, which I preferred. There was nothing for it but to put one foot in front of another and trudge slowly up the steep slope. The sight of teams of porters following the same route, and often overtaking me with their gargantuan loads, served to spur me on, and I reached the monastery in a breathless mess. I sat down at the top for half an hour, getting my breath back and letting the sweat dry in the cool breeze. Tengboche sits on an exposed ridge, with breath taking views of Everest and Ama Dablam. At just under 4000 metres, it is the highest monastery in the region.

I ate a few squares of chocolate and rehydrated in the sun, before hauling myself to my feet and heading off in search of Carlos. I knew Richard and Tek would be an hour at least. I found Carlos on the balcony of our guesthouse, grinning in amazement at the spectacular views around us. We spent a comfortable hour drinking lemon tea and chatting, before Tek and Richard joined us.

We were delighted to discover that we were in time to witness the daily prayers of the Tengboche monks, and we hurriedly filed into the monastery compound and removed our shoes. We were eventually ushered into the inner sanctum, and sat cross legged against the wall in the monastic gloom. There were around fifteen trekkers huddled against the wall, trying hard not to disturb the echoing silence with movement, when a single monk entered. We all froze in anticipation.

Without as much as a glance in our direction, the monk settled himself into position in front of one of the cushioned benches used as sleeping apparatus. He began to intone his prayers. His soft voice resonated in the darkness. At the altar stood a number of Buddhist shrines, each with bowls of water in front of it and candles flickering, the only light source apart from the sun flitting between the slatted windows. His voice seemed to mirror the small, flickering flames; sometimes dying away to almost nothing, making the room seem smaller somehow. Then with a flicker it would resonate louder, filling the space suddenly with a wall of sound, only to die away again slowly. Mesmerised, we all sat in complete stillness. Some closed their eyes, and I confess I felt myself drifting at one point, almost hypnotised by the sounds coming from the young monk.

When the prayers were done, the monk stood. He moved methodically to the bowls of water before the shrines, and carefully refilled each bowl with a murmured prayer. Then, nodding almost imperceptibly, he left the room. We left a small donation and exited, each lost in our own thoughts.

After a great dinner of buffalo momo’s (deep fried meat and potato dumplings), we went to bed. I awoke in the early hours of the morning to Carlos shuffling around our room. He explained that he wanted to photograph the stars. I followed sleepily. When I looked up at the sky above, the sleepiness seeped out of me, and my head was suddenly as clear as I can ever remember it being. The sky that I’d always look upon had changed. The stars that I knew and recognised were still there, but they were surrounded by thousands of pinpricks of light, almost to the point where I couldn’t pick out individual constellations. I’d always dreamt of seeing the sky as our ancestors would have seen it, without the problems of light pollution, and here it was. The light from the stars lit up the ridge, and the valley below; brighter than any moonlight I’d ever seen back home.

I stood and stared for around an hour, the cold forgotten. I counted shooting stars in their tens, and saw a few satellites gliding past. I watched with interest as Carols captured some amazing pictures. Sitting there, with Everest outlined in the moonlight, and the stars in their millions above, I felt happy.

Back on the trail the next morning, we descended a steep and muddy slope back down to the valley floor, losing much of the altitude we had gained on the way to Tenboche. At the river crossing on the valley floor, I took my favourite picture of that beautiful mountain; Ama Dablam. The name means ‘mother and daughter’, and the two peaks are staggeringly picturesque. We climbed from the valley floor steadily to Dingboche, where we would spend another acclimatisation day. On the slow, meandering ascent, we stopped for some lemon tea. There were village children playing opposite us, and Carlos took some pictures. The children’s mother, however, grew annoyed quickly, and shouted abruptly at Carlos to stop. The children carried on playing.

After arriving at Dingboche, at an altitude of 4,530m, we were slightly disappointed to learn that there was no running water, electricity or Wifi – all of which had been in plentiful supply thus far, and would continue to be most of the way up. To make up for this, the common room/restaurant was probably the most comfortable we had stayed in. And it was here that we discovered a chess set, which Tek agreed we could take with us as he would be able to return it on his next trek. So began an epic battle between myself, Carlos and Tek, played out on the chequered wooden board with bottle-tops for pawns and a paper rook. Tek was an aggressively good player, while Carlos and I were evenly matched. Every night was now spent playing game after game after dinner.

The acclimatisation day in Dingboche included a short hike to a nearby false peak, with great views of Island Peak in the distance beyond Dingboche. We visited a “French Bakery” after descending, and were pleasantly surprised at the quality of their coffee and brownies. The rest of the day was spent relaxing, writing postcards and playing chess.

We continued our ascent the following morning, climbing up onto the plateau separating Dingboche from neighbouring Periche. The snow had fallen steadily through the night, and we were by now above the tree line. We walked on a thick, unyielding carpet of compacted snow, enjoying the crunching sounds and springy sensation as we crossed the summer yak pastures. With the dramatic snowy Himalayan views and the absence to too many people, it truly felt as if we were explorers on an expedition of old.

At around noon, we reached the summit of yet another hour long switchback section, and found ourselves at the Everest memorial grounds. This abrupt clearing was a spiritual place amongst the Sherpas of the Nepalese Himalayas, and for every Everest fatality, a stone cairn was erected and a plague/inscription produced. I wandered around for a time, gazing at the names and nationalities; some famous, some not. After completing a circuit, I sat down with Carlos and waited for Richard and Tek to catch up. As we waited, the sheer number of the cairns became clear. The more you looked, the more there were; some barely sticking above the thick layer of snow, some obscured by others. It was an earie place, and a sombre reminder of the dangers of the mountain. The weather cast its own gloom at the altitude, and added to the atmosphere.

We reached Lobuche just as the snow began to fall again, crossing another snowbound plateau, hot on the heels of a yak train and a friendly dog, who had attached himself to our group. I later saw him in Lobuche, happily padding through the tiny collection of snow covered tea houses.

We followed our usual routine at Lobuche, consisting mainly of lemon tea, chess, reading and/or writing. An Australian girl befriended us, and we spent a happy evening watching the snow fall steadily. It wasn’t a heavy snowfall, but rather a constant light snow. Icicles soon formed on the overhanging roof outside of the windows, reaching down towards the ground in beautiful twisted forms. Shortly before heading to bed, the door burst open, and a troop of boisterous Sherpas piled in, shoving past each other to get closer to the central stove that was the only heat source. Their matching kit set them apart from the other Sherpas we’d encountered, as well as their confident banter. The intimidating group kept to themselves, which again was unusual, as we’d found that the Sherpas were generally interested in who we were and what we were doing. Tek later confirmed that these were in fact the fabled “Ice Fall Doctors”, who’s task it was to set up a preliminary base camp beneath Everest and begin the incredibly dangerous work of clearing a path through the Khumbu Icefalls. The path consists mainly of metal ladders and ropes attached the moving Icefalls, and it’s this route that takes the Everest expeditions up towards camp 1. In awe, we silently regarded them. One of the common features of a trek in the Everest region is the almost irresistible urge to know more about the expeditions. By the time we’d finished, I’d read two books about the 1996 disaster, and had watched a number of documentaries about the subject. Here were Sherpas who were directly involved with the expeditions, and the aura around them was undeniable. When we awoke, they had departed.

As we left Lobuche, a renewed excitement infused the group. Today was base camp day, as we gleefully reminded each other. Before us was a two hour walk to Gorak Shep, and the snow was still falling softly around us. The trail was strangely deserted, barring one choke point where herders and trekkers generaly rest before climbing a sharp, steep section of rocks. From the top of this bluff, I looked back through the diminishing snowfall towards Lobuche. The blank white canvas was dotted with Yak trains and trekkers, all spaced generously apart in the desolate landscape. It struck me that from here, I could see that there were actually a fair number of groups on the trail. While walking, it’s easy to be overcome by the sense of isolation that comes with the snow. Even to the extent that you can begin to believe you are alone out there.

From the top of the bluff, we followed the glorious Everest glacier along a winding ridge. The ice formations loomed large and surreal in the bright white landscape, casting a freezing blue green sheen over the glacier. Like fallen ice cubes of mammoth proportions, the huge building size blocks leaned precariously against each other, and I caught tantalising glimpses of ice caves amidst the mass as I followed its path to Gorakshep.

On arriving at the tea house, I found Carlos waiting for me as usual. The room was bedecked in flags from countless nations, each signed by the nationalities represented. I saw two Welsh flags, and proudly signed one. It was strange, I was almost expecting to see a name that I recognised, which was foolish I suppose, as no one I knew from Wales had done this trek. Finding no one, I suddenly felt exhausted, isolated, and very far from home. I settled down to some writing and a round of lemon tea.

Once the group had assembled and eaten breakfast, we eagerly set out for the two hour trek to base camp. Following the ridgeline above the glacier once more, the ice forms grew evermore dramatic and alien. Sinister shapes, imagined by the unimaginable forces that created the moving river of ice, reared up from the whiteout. The snow kept coming, now accompanied by a biting wind that threw up mounds of snow and ice into our faces. Head down, keep moving, one foot in front of the other.

Eventually, we could see our goal. Carlos and I stopped and stared. The glacier, rather than following the usual river like course, opened out suddenly into a gigantic bowl of ice forms, dwarfed by a coliseum of Himalayan giants. To the far right, almost hidden by a shoulder of rock, the icefalls climbed impossibly up through a narrow ravine. This was the ascent route that the expeditions would take.

We hurried eagerly on, and climbed down from the ridge, jumping over crevices and slipping on the glacier ice that we were by now walking on. Luckily, we’d bought crampons in Kathmandu, making our path slightly easier. Soon a pile of rocks marked our arrival. One of them proudly bore the proclamation “Everest Base Camp 2015”. Prayer flags and photographs littered the landscape, poignant in the lonely setting. As the expedition wouldn’t start for another month or two, the only signs of life were a cluster of three tents about a mile away, tucked into the furthest corner of the glacier bowl, sheltering from the driving winds and snow flurries. For a glorious forty minutes, Carlos and I had the place entirely to ourselves. The wonder of the place is in its utter desolation, and the feeling of being completely alone on the edge of the world. I can’t imagine anywhere more starkly beautiful. Any further description would fall short of the place. The surreal air that pervades is hard to describe. The weather certainly added to the effect, and I’m glad that the only day of bad weather took place at base camp. It made us feel as if we were truly on the edge, of everything.

We were soon joined by a gleeful Larma and Karma, our friendly porters, and we spend a freezing half an hour waiting for Tek and Richard. As the minutes ticked by, more and more layers were added. The cruel wind threw up flurries that made it seem as if we were in a blizzard, though by this time the snow let up. Once the group was assembled, we celebrated together for another ten minutes. My feet were by now painfully numb, and I needed to get moving again. Carlos was of a similar mind-set, so we beat a hasty retreat to Gorakshep, smiling all the way under a suddenly clear, sunny sky.