A coffee can make all the difference.
Chimmy’s coffee was infusing into my veins by the time I had climbed out of Phakding, towards Namche.
I knew it would not last long, however. Today was the day I would be crossing the infamous swing bridge that marks the steep climb to Namche Bazaar - the bridge portrayed in the movie ‘Everest’ - and it is every bit as stunning as it is in the film.
The day was gorgeous - blue sky, slightly chilly (although that was changing rapidly), no wind; just stunning.
The trail started upwards with an unrelenting determination and I was feeling the weight of my pack as I slowly climbed the path out of Phakding. Remember, I had dropped 200m from my arrival in Lukla, and had to regain that elevation plus more, on the walk into Namche.
I knew the 7.5km walk would take me several hours.
When hiking through the Himalayas, it is necessary to stop at several checkpoints along the way in order to have your ‘permits’ checked. I had heard that the previously required TIMS Permit was no longer needed, however, this had been replaced with another mootable ‘permit’ which I handed over 3000 rupee for earlier in my trek ( I cannot remember exactly where this occurred). Many of the checkpoints are dubious-looking tiny shacks, within which sits a teenaged male usually in army fatigues. They have been trained in the subtle art of looking gruff and scary. Most could be better trained in the english language, given the number of tourists that visit the region.
The auspicious Sagarmatha National Park permit office in Monjo. Guides usually deal with permits on behalf of their clients.
The Sagarmatha National Park permit office
is housed in Monjo, about an hours walk away from Phakding (if that). Here, all trekkers must show their permits or purchase one. I thought I had already purchased the correct permit, but had to hand over 2500 rupee for yet another permit - this one the Sagarmatha National Park permit. On a whiteboard behind the woman at the counter, was written the number of trekkers for each month of the year. In December so far, there had been over 4000 people pass through the park gates, but the busiest month was October, when over 18,000 people had ventured along this trail. I started to do the math on the revenue created by the park permit and the other ‘permit’ I acquired. I could see how trekking in this region was a lifeblood for the people here.
Lots of reading material awaits those who stand in a queue for a permit.
The Sagarmatha National Park
is officially entered through a grand-looking gate from which a series of steep steps cascades downward towards the river below. Just prior to walking through the gate, I realised I had no water and I started to look around for somewhere to fill my filter bottle. Three men were standing to the left of the park gates all staring down at something; I thought I would ask them where the village tap was. As I approached, I realised they were all looking at a large dead goat. I approached and asked what had happened to it. “Fell”, said one man, gesturing upwards to the sheer cliffs looming above our heads, with trees barely clinging on by their roots.
“Fell dead”, offered another man. “Oooooh” I said, “ramro” (trying out my Nepali and hoping that I had said “bad”). Everyone nodded in agreement, so I assumed there was some level of understanding.
I held up my water bottle; “pani?”
“Yes, yes, pani, yes, water … there behind house”, the first man said, pointing in the general direction of a cluster of houses. I walked over to a pile of rubble, clambered behind two tethered goats and found a tap dripping lazily. I happily filled my water bottle. Regarding water - I purchased a Lifestraw water filter bottle in Kathmandu. It cost what I would expect to pay in New Zealand, maybe slightly cheaper - $70NZD. It was worth every cent, as it meant I could fill my bottle from literally anywhere and 99.999% of all nasties would be filtered out. It was easy to drink from and did not require the suction of a vacuum cleaner to draw the water through the filter.
As I started down the steps, I looked back up towards the gate I had just walked through. I quickly snapped an iPhone shot, even though I thought I would capture an image on my way back in a couple of weeks time. The view of the gate from the park side, is far more enticing.
I was now officially in the park. It suddenly felt ‘legit’.
Monjo is a village that trekkers often opt to stay in, rather than Phakding. It is about halfway to Namche, only four kilometres away from it, however, it is a challenging four kilometres and often where people begin to feel the terrain and altitude mix.
Not far from Monjo - in fact closer than I had anticipated - was a point where the river I had been following, branched into two arms. The rivers flowed through deep valleys with steep walls, and one arm (still the Dudh Koshi), is crossed via a swing bridge - the longest and highest on the EBC trekking route - from which the steep zig-zag uphill grind to Namche Bazaar is reached.
There are two bridges, one upper and one lower; the lower bridge being unsafe for use. It is a truly impressive and somewhat intimidating sight to come across these bridges slung high across the windy valley with the raging Dudh Koshi far below.
The upper bridge is the one in use.
I stopped for a rest at the start of the bridges
and met a French woman who, like me, was trekking alone. She looked exhausted and I thought I would ask her to photograph me on the start of the bridge, and handed over my camera. Sadly the shot was completely blurry when I viewed it later! We talked a bit about our trekking plans; hers to do the Three Passes - RESPECT.
I dutifully captured a shot of her at the bridge on her iPhone and off she strode. “Wow” … I thought … “she is fit!”
The wind howled across that gap between the mountains and the prayer flags flapped loudly.
It is a strange thing to negotiate these metal bridges; they move beneath you with each step, and they feel precariously delicate, yet there needs to be a sense of submission while crossing over - what is the alternative? I stood on the cliff and watched those walking behind me - one woman so terrified she needed to hold the hand of someone in front of her. This was a really big deal for her; the region was full of these suspension bridges and I was hopeful they would become water-off-a-ducks-back for her, by the time she had come full circle.
The trail up to Namche starts in your face at the other side of the bridge.
The only thing I could liken it to was the walk up to Mueller Hut in New Zealand, not as steep in places, but a steady uphill grind requiring lots of rest stops; a 740m elevation gain over two kilometres. I struggled to find my uphill walking rhythm and tried to - as a friend told me - adopt the ‘altitude shuffle’ - two steps, breathe, two steps breathe … it was here that I really noticed the weight of my pack and started to have doubts about making it to EBC with it on my back. It was here that I first entertained thoughts of hiring a porter; it was here that I started to ask myself what the heck I was doing; it was here that my body told me how unfit it was.
But … one foot after another … slowly, slowly … upwards.
Part way up the hill to Namche, you are greeted by the most incredible view of Sagarmatha herself.
She stands grandly for all to see, protruding upwards behind slow clad mountains with spin-drift blasting from her peak, indicating the power of Mother Nature at the top of the world.
There she is … the best view I would ever get of her.
It was not long after the Kushum Khangru peak viewpoint, that I came across the French woman again. She was sitting on the side of the trail, pack off and looking very unhappy. I asked her if she was ok. She stated she was feeling ‘very headachy’. “Perhaps you should slow down?” I offered; “No” she replied “I am used to hiking fast, I will be ok”. I offered her some panadol, which she happily accepted, and that was the last I saw of her.
I was amazed at the internal dialogue I had on that walk up to Namche. Never in my life had I tackled something that appeared so benign, but yet was so deceptively difficult. I berated myself, chastised myself, beat myself up and decided in no uncertain terms, that I was finding a porter when I reached Namche.
Humble pie was consumed.
After what seemed like endless hours of uphill, the entry to Namche was indicated by yet another check-point with another army outfit-clad young lad. He too did not know how to smile and was more concerned with his cell phone than actually looking at my permit. From here, it was one last corner and spread before me like an amphitheatre, was the large village of Namche Bazaar. The entry into the village from the downhill side, is stunning, with a large stupa and numerous prayer wheels making a gorgeous feature.
The inviting and vibrant entry to Namche from below.
I was over-whelmed by arriving in Namche and felt slightly emotional. For me it marked my arrival to higher elevations and was something to be celebrated. I was also though, over-come by extreme fatigue and could barely walk the last few hundred metres towards the village centre in search of a teahouse. I had seen one mentioned on a blog, the Pumori Guesthouse, and so that was my intended target for the night, but when I arrived it appeared to be closed up for the season. I sat forlorn and knackered at the front door, trying to conjure up the energy to try somewhere else, when I heard a voice yelling “you want to stay Pumori Guesthouse?” I looked up to see a friendly face smiling at me. “I see you from below .. I was just hanging out with my friends … little bit bored”, he stated enthusiastically, “if you want to stay I can show you inside”.
I could have hugged the man.
I needed to stay two nights for acclimation. He showed me to a comfortable room with a commanding view of the town and surrounding mountains. I was to be the only guest for two nights as he and his wife were leaving to Kathmandu for the winter, in a few days. They were very hospitable. The room was 400 rupee which included free wifi and free charging of devices. It also included a free hot shower. The food was wonderful and the owner (whose name I have forgotten) was an ex Everest guide - a wealth of knowledge and interesting stories. He was a great friend of Conrad Anker and New Zealand’s Russell Brice. Boy did he have some stories to tell!
I settled into my room, happy with my achievement for the day, which looked like this:
Starting elevation: 8,563 ft / 2,610 m
Ending elevation: 11,290 ft / 3,440 m
Elevation change: +2,727 ft / +830 m
Starting oxygen: 74% of sea level
Ending oxygen: 67% of sea level
Distance covered: 4.6 mi / 7.4 km
Time hiked: 4h 15m
