Everest Circuit Rerouted XIII: Base Camp

Wednesday, 23 October 2013 17:30 Hrs at 4910m (Gorak Shep)

The terrain between Dingboche and Labouche is a narrow plain of grass and juniper and rock. Its ascent was fairly gentle except for the small hill immediately above the village of Tukla where we paused briefly for lunch. And by small hill, I mean something similar to the gradient and size of Sugarloaf (my father's hill) or the Lyre bird Track adjoining the 1000 Steps, Dandenongs. To the east of our trail and south of Tukla, a small collection of buildings and rock walled farm lots in the valley made up the village of Periche. It is said that when the Khumbu Glacier finally breaks free from its moorings further up the Khumbu Valley, the village of Periche will exist no longer, built in the path the glacier will travel. Our leader, Meet, advised that measures were being taken to reduce the likelihood of such an event, however one day the glacier would give way and there will be little more warning for those in its pathway than if it were a flash flood.

The way to base camp:

Labouche is a village that exists solely on the purse strings of tourism. Unlike Portse, Pangboche, Dingboche and Periche, farming is not sustainable. There are no farm lots, only teahouses and lodges that rely on the constant influx of tourists from Australia, UK and North America, Europe and Asia, all here to make the pilgrimage to Everest Base Camp or Kala Pattar or both.

The view into Gorak Shep:

Gorak Shep exists similarly as a launch point for many of those tourists. It was the original Everest Base Camp. In October and November, accommodation in Labouche and Gorak Shep must be arranged in advance due to popularity. The hike into Gorak Shep is fraught with pedestrian traffic jams, the fastest way in or out being as part of a caravan of yaks which have precedence and are always met by cries of, “Safe side, safe side,” as tourists and guides alike shift as far from the path as the snow will allow. The early snow has made the trail precariously slippery in places, either because the snow has melted too much or because it has iced over. We slipped and skidded our way into Gorak Shep at approximately 10:00hrs this morning following a 05:00hr wake up call.

After a short break for an early lunch, we then made the push for Everest Base Camp. It being autumn in Nepal and summiting season being late spring, there was no tent city to mark the camp. Instead, we recognised it by the colourful prayer flags and throng of milling tourists, each vying to have their photograph taken at the infamous ‘Base Camp’. There was, however, no formal signage. The camp itself being impermanent due to the shifting nature of the glacier on which it exists, there can be no one fixed sign. In the background, the would be Everest summiteers must negotiate a (mostly) solid wall of ice that from Base Camp appears deceptively small against the enormity of what we can see of the mountain, which is very little at all.

Base Camp:

To reach Base Camp, trekkers must contend with a rocky moraine and a rock fall. During less than favourable conditions, when the cloud comes in, I understand that it is very easy to get lost on the moraine. However, with the path cut into the snow, we could see the way laid out before us ridge to rocky ridge, and where it was not so clear, there was always a bobbing, moving tide of coloured beanies and caps, and bright gaiters and jackets to mark the way. These ridges went on for some time.

The rock fall crossing:

We could see Base Camp slowly advancing in the distance (I personally was able to identify the camp by the icefall behind it) while at every crest there was a new gully and a new ridge awaiting us. Not that the trek could be undertaken head up. Much of the trail was either rock or ice. Rock was preferable – we could skip between them easily enough, particularly using one walking pole for balance. Ice was more difficult. It was not always immediately obvious whether the snow was slush or frozen over again. Both falls I had were on ice and in both instances it was my camera I tried to save first. Successfully, I might add. The snow for all its hazard, however, added to the spectacular view. The moraine, a sweeping tundra of grey rock, was utterly transformed into snowy rock cropped valleys and ridges and ice lakes with ice waterfalls. It was truly magnificent.

Returning to Gorak Shep:

(Postscript: The contrast provided by the snow made for spectacular photographs. While it was disappointing that we were not able to summit Gokyo Ri or cross the Cho La because of it, and we were prone to falling over, I do not regret the experience of hiking through the snow. As someone that loves a good picture and carried a DSLR by hand most of the journey, the memories I captured on camera have such amazing depth and contrast, I doubt I could have achieved otherwise. If you are an avid photographer, it would be well worth bearing that in mind when considering making the pilgrimage for yourself. The snow we experienced was certainly not the norm for that time of year and was the result of typhoons throughout South East Asia.)

Back in Black

Seven months and 1 day ago, I stood on top of the little bump that is Kala Pattar, not even a mountain in its own right and yet 5545m above sea level with the most spectacular 360º views. After the less than favorable weather encountered 2500 metres down below, we were treated with the amazing contrast of snow and black rock from every angle. All the training on Sugarloaf, the hill on my father's farm at Mount Lonarch, and it still took me 2 hours to reach the top (although to be honest, I did not scramble up the little rock precipice that arguably forms the very pinnacle of Kala Pattar but then again, aside from our sherpa guide, Basu nor did anyone else). I remember forcing myself to walk 50 steps up that bad boy before allowing myself leave to stop and rest when a tiny little native rodent went scampering between the rocks above me not far from the top. As tired as I was, I would have gladly carried the extra weight of my stronger Nikon lens to photograph it had the weight restrictions on the flight to Lukla not been so prescriptive.

It all seems a lifetime ago now. I dearly want to return that I may experience it all anew but to do so now would be to forgo other mountains and other dreams and I cannot do that just yet. I am, as it so happens, already preparing for my next high altitude escapade: Kilimanjaro. I research the subject relentless until my wrists ache and my download limit hits red and I create and recreate lists of gear that I need.

Yesterday it occurred to me as I was readying myself to go to a friend's birthday, my legs not yet sore from my first attempt at the 1000 Steps in the Dandenong Ranges this calendar year, that I might have just edged myself back into training without having even made a conscious effort to do so.

I had recently gone through a particularly unmotivated over-sugared 3 month period where Cadbury Marvelous Creations levened themselves into my mouth on a too frequent a basis and I had stooped to buying both my lunch and breakfast in the work canteen. I was fatigued and fogged and entirely too beholden to crappy processed food.

The conscious decision I did make 3 weeks ago was to break my sugar addiction. I had done it before. I knew the side effects. Headaches. Fatigue. General irritability. I started taking porridge and banana to work for breakfast and homemade soup for lunch. I quickly developed the most frustrating sinus headache right behind the bridge of my nose and my computer seemed to misbehave entirely too often for my liking. Friday this week gone I felt as though I had turned a corner.

I awoke while it was still dark, my head clearer than it had been in months, and found the motivation to do the dusting before I even left the house for work. I came home that evening to vacuum and my usual weekend of housework was already done. In the background, my newly delivered washing machine was humming quietly and my kitchen finally cleared of all the things I had moved out of the laundry earlier that week when the first new washing machine arrived and then departed again, having been damaged before even packaged.

I was even more motivated upon rising Saturday morning, 8 hours of sleep reviving me. The market, brunch, a bargain buy at a local outdoors store that I had popped into on a whim while on my way to another store in search of Kitchen Tea items for my best friend. I returned home long enough to hang the freshly washed sheets and change my clothes before getting back into the car and making the 40 minute journey to the Dandenong Ranges where I proceeded to trounce up the 1000 Steps twice before returning to my car to devour with the utmost pleasure the salted caramel donut that I had purchased from the Tivoli Bakery stall at the market that morning, relishing in its sugary reward. Then I was scooting home again to prepare for a night out at The Aviary in Richmond to celebrate a colleague's 30th birthday.

Today was similarly motivated. I made soup. Lunched with my best friend. Went for an unintended but wholly needed short hill run to remove some of the lactic from yesterday's efforts. I was inspired by a blog I read from the author of a book I had previously devoured in the months leading up to Nepal on the writer's own experience with Mount Everest. I was curious as to her experience preparing for Mount Kilimanjaro, knowing already that she had previously completed Kili along with 5 other great mountains in her Seven Summits pursuit. I had long intended to write about my experience returned from Nepal. It had just fallen to the wayside as I allowed my best friend's new engagement to take centre stage.

As I write I have formed the conclusion that the most important thing about this year is not being her maid of honor. I am certainly grateful for its bestowment and will take my responsibilities seriously to do all I can to make her day the happiest in her life thus far. It would be an injustice to myself, however, to rank her important event before my own. Nepal's greatest lesson taught me that the most important day in my adult life was the day the surgeon stopped my heart to repair the genetic error that restrained me. The physiological damage mostly corrected (not entirely, however, my heart will never work as efficiently as one that never knew genetic adversity as mine did), the psychological damage took much longer and perhaps persists in some capacity even now. I understood early on that I was just not as good as other children on the field, that only those with obvious physical handicap were worse than I was. Asthma or obesity only could I outpace yet there was never anything visibly wrong with me. It did not matter how hard I trained, and I trained very hard during my rowing years, the average lazy teen that chose table tennis as their term sport (because it required the least effort) was fitter than I was. Hell, so were the muso's that were exempt from playing sport at all because their extracurricular timetable was already consumed by orchestra practice.

I am the sum of all of my experiences, however. The curves and planes of my personality as molded by those more formative years in which my physical inadequacy fed into my social insecurity were not wholly undone by my affectionately termed 'patch job'. Nor by the high altitude and impressive vistas of the Himalayas. The person that I found there is stronger than the person that left Australia, of that I'm certain. She trusts in her capacity more now than she ever did. She trusts that Nepal was not the end of her big dreams of big mountains. Her stomach rounded by this now concluded hiatus from personal responsibility and calves pleasantly sore from exertion, she has 7 months before the next one becomes a reality and she's determined that she should enjoy it!

There was no real conscious effort to commence training for Kilimanjaro. Ultimately it came down to a pair of shoes. I possess a keen dislike of the stereotype between women and their shoes - indeed, I feel much the same about pink - but it remains the same. Thursday week I stumbled across the pair of trail shoes that I had been coveting since February in the colour I want (have you got any blacker?) and not that awful pale grey and purple (seriously, how much dirt do you want to show?). I christened them on that family rite of passage, Sugarloaf last weekend and then again yesterday. I started riding again also but not so long ago, as my saddle sore rump should attest. This evening's run just confirms it: I am once again in training. I wholly intend on making last year's attempt look menial by way of comparison. I will never be the fittest person on any of the mountains that I climb but I will be one of the well prepared ones, even in spite of the residual inefficiencies of that most central of organs, my heart.

Right now, however, I must unhand the phone on which I now write if I am to get my 8 hours before the new week greets me. I hope that it will be as uplifting as this one has been.