Everest Part 6: Lobuche Base Camp to Everest Base Camp
I started the day with a breakfast of corn flakes with an unexpected splash of hot milk. All of our IMG cooks have been inventive: producing treasures like broccoli tempura, creatively incorporating canned meats like spam at least once a day, some of the best soups I’ve ever had, and other bunker creations, but some monstrosities have slipped through. Including this strange cold cereal and hot milk pairing!
After, we had another optional acclimatization climb. This time only three climbers opted in including me, the remainder chose a rest day back in their tents. The other two: Kieran and Mike, booked it as usual while I made a concerted effort to focus on my own journey and take my sweet time while also enjoying the surrounding majesty of the Himalayas.
Still wanting some semblance of a rest day, I just climbed up to a ridge high above camp for a stunning view and then decided to turn around while the other two honed their testosterone and raced each other up a very steep and tall hill (“This is a rest day, dumbasses!”, I kept thinking somewhat jealously). During my return to camp, I chatted with a sherpa who headed back with me, Purba. A common theme with the sherpas is a life full of struggle and resilience. His house was seriously damaged in an earthquake a few years ago. Since his mother forbids him from guiding on perilous but more lucrative mountain climbs (so he’s only guiding treks, this is a normal obstacle and outcome in Sherpa guiding culture), he headed to Kathmandu to explore alternate quick ways to get cash in order to fix his home. The best option seemed to be heading to Cyprus to manage tourist lodgings. His boss was a total dick and the payment structure was draconian (basically indentured servitude, it taking months to simply pay back his boss for his unbelievably high “traveling costs” before ever breaking even), but he had a great attitude about the whole situation, saying he learned the ropes of the hospitality industry and credited his English fluency on the gig.
When the mic was turned over to me, I was once again prompted on my motivation for attempting a monster like Everest. I’ve obviously been asked the question many times, and it might be my own hang up, but I sometimes sense a bit of resentment to my own lackadaisical answers and lack of a captivating ‘purpose’. In this case, I couldn’t help but feel especially humbled about my comparatively cushy and privileged life in general, especially after learning his story. Epic British mountaineer who took part in the first Everest expedition in the 1920s, and might’ve actually summited first, George Mallory’s, answer to why he wanted to summit Everest: “Because it’s there” probably doesn’t make much sense to these spiritual people who’ve lived here their whole lives and have a deeper sense of respect for the mountains. He was kind and didn’t judge me though. Anyways, its been a priceless gift being allowed to learn more about these sherpas lives and outlooks.
That evening, we witnessed the sherpas burning pine branches, which they do every morning and night for protection purposes.
I woke up at an ungodly hour with a bit of a headache and some congestion, probably attributed to the high altitude. I’m always a little paranoid that I’ve picked up the dreaded Khumbu cough. This arises in the Khumbu valley of Nepal from the brutally dry and cold air that dries up the lung lining and produces the infamous hacking. Climbers often get it on the approach to EBC and are left with raw throats before the real fun even begins. We’ve been trying to trek with a buff pulled over our mouths to prevent it, which gets difficult when we breathe harder once we exert more energy going up steep difficult parts.
Amidst copious grumbling from the group, we left before 6 AM for Everest Base Camp. I simply couldn’t wait to get to the speedy Wi-Fi and my standing cot, so I had a spring in my step for the initial part of the day’s trek.
It was freezing cold until the sun finally peeked out over the monstrous peaks. Dodging dzos, porters toiling under their 80+ lb loads, and westerner trekkers with no sense of awareness of their surroundings, we passed through Lobuche town, Gorak Shep, and this beloved “Way to Everest B.C.” sign.
Most of the way was very dusty and rocky and the pace felt blistering, and the last hour or so especially was tough. My legs felt like lead below me. But Jonathan, Max and Kenno egged me on until we finally arrived at the famous Everest Base Camp rock 3.5 hours after leaving Lobuche Base camp.
The IMG tents were just another ten minute rock hop away.
Once there, we finally collapsed into our comparatively grand (there’s a charging station and even heating!) mess tent for snacks and tea.
We dropped our stuff in our new domiciles. Each of the climbers had their own standup tent with a cot and thin mattress, and padded walls and ceiling; my mind couldn’t help comparing it to an insane asylum’s padded cell. But it was great to have all that space. I knew eventually I could have some semblance of organization, with the pockets sewn into the tent and under-cot space.
Before we could get too settled in, the five Everest climbers hauled out our heavy boots, helmets, ice axes, crampons, and harnesses while gingerly stepping over the precarious rocks that made up the hilly grounds of EBC. We were going to participate in our Puja ceremony, in order to bless our mountaineering gear and impending journey up the mountain. This ceremony was required by the sherpas before traveling further up the mountain. We placed our gear beside the makeshift altar near IMG’s camp, which already held offerings of tons of candies, cakes, snacks, pyramids of cake with fondant flowers, beers, and sodas, all for the resident goddess of Mount Everest, Miyolangsangma.
A lama chanted mantras from a very very long book and tapped a cymbal while Purba Sherpa beat a dream.
The five climbers and the 15 or so sherpas and staff all sat cross-legged on a tarp in front of the altar while we were plied with endless refills of teas and rice wine. Phenuru poured oils into overflowing containers during each break in the lama’s mantra chanting. I continually shifted positions as my legs went numb in the cold wind. Then rice was passed around to everyone in the group and thrown (sometimes at each other).
The monotone chanting and drumming continued amid the dazzling background of yaks frequently crossing in front of the Himalayas.
Ropes of colorful flags were tethered down on rolls of mantras then staked down into the earth in four different directions while the wind whipped them mercilessly.
Then Dawa Sherpa went around the tarp and rubbed grey flour on everyone’s faces while they playfully rubbed his back (this is supposed to signify a grey beard and a long and safe life). He was absolutely covered and looked like a ghost by the end. Then the sherpas danced, the same kind as the Khunde ladies treated us with the week before. Then they made us join, I did my best with my two left feet.
A couple passing Russian climbers looked on curiously, and were plied with tea, then forced to join the dance.
Finally, after four fascinating but freezing hours of the ceremony, we piled back into the mess tent. We were crestfallen to learn that the Wi-Fi was down?! I felt myself turning into a pain-in-the-ass client while politely but repeatedly querying poor Phenuru about the status of the downed connection. But I couldn’t help but feel slighted because it was a carrot dangled in front of me, one of the motivations to get to EBC. What are we here to do anyways, climb?
Late the next morning, I finally got my Wi-Fi! We were all like placated addicts. Back in the dining tent, the entire table of us was silent as people updated their instagrams, read their emails, and sent out their precious texts.
The rest of the day was a centering day of organizing my new home for most of the next eight weeks, doing some much needed laundry, taking a hot shower, and getting my ropes and equipment fitted.
Soon after, a couple of trekkers took a helicopter out from IMG’s helipad at Base camp. It was sad to say goodbye, especially to David Jones, a world record holding and hysterical 72-year old ultramarathoner who had just started to give mountaineering a try. Throughout the trek, he was struck with various unfortunate maladies: pinkeye at Pheriche (after he was sitting isolated at his own table and donning sunglasses to protect his eyes, Max and Kenno performed a hilariously spontaneous but tasteless imitation of Ray Charles) and a nasty cough he picked up at Lobuche camp. But throughout, he had a great attitude and deadly sense of humor.
At dinner that evening, the remaining clients were introduced to all 20 or so of our climbing sherpa and staff. At the end of the introductions, we tallied up their Everest summits, and arrived at a whopping 95 summits! I knew I was in good hands with these guys.
The next day, I felt better. We (re)learned the ropes: ascending, traversing and rappelling. It felt amazing to get on that perfectly steep and beautiful ice. Sassy Denise was struggling up there and screaming to be let down, but when she finally made it through and down amidst our cheering, she was genuinely elated, not a snarky comment to be made. I couldn’t wait to do more ice climbing next winter in NH.
