123 - Chukkung Valley (Three Passes Trek, Nepal)
I LANDED AT CHUKKUNG VILLAGE AROUND MIDDAY, secured a room at the Chukkung Resort, and basked in the sunroom (a dining area with windows for walls and a roof capturing heat from the sun). I took a load off and panned the gorgeous valley. The term “village” is a tad misleading. Stops throughout the Everest region are a collection of guesthouses erected to service trekkers. Many use words like “resort”, “hotel”, and “lodge” but contain only the basics. That’s not to say they’re not comfortable, just they lack the luxury their names imply.
There was nothing more to accomplish, so I sipped tea and soaked up the magnificence. The next day I’d saunter up Chukkung Ri, then cross the Kongma La (Pass) the day after that. I was giddy as a schoolgirl, but this schoolgirl needed to rest and recuperate. After I arrived, I met an Englishman and a Frenchman who’d just crossed the Kongma La from the other direction, starting in the village of Loboche. This was welcome news; I feared I might be the first to cross that season.
They said they had a smidge of trouble finding the path. There was a significant, although not dangerous, amount of snow. Team France drew a map to aid my journey. They’d deviated from the trail but were confident I’d find my way. One must traverse a large valley enclosed on all sides by lofty peaks, meaning there were few options, unless I wanted to play bionic mountaineer. All this was encouraging, but I was still nervous about going it alone.
I was further heartened by another duo, a Frenchman and his Spanish girlfriend. They, too, had some trouble but reassured me there was only one route. I also discovered they were following my intended circuit in the opposite direction and had crossed the other passes (Cho La and Renjo La). My confidence level blossomed. What’s the worst that could happen besides severe injury and a solitary death? If I became disoriented or had a bad feeling, I’d return to Chukkung. Game on.
The lodge owner was kind enough to point out the route over a ridge and on to the pass. I inquired about hiring a local guide in the interest of safety but was met with a disquieting laugh whose significance evaded me… gulp.
Chukkung is en route for treks up Island Peak (Imja Tse), a “smaller” mountain requiring a minimum of technical know-how. At 6,189 m (20,305 ft) it’s nothing to shake a stick at. I wanted to join the fray, but the price ($500-$600) in light of limited cash on hand and the requirement arrangements be made in Kathmandu prevented a last-minute audible. From my lodge, I could see the “island” (so named for its isolation in a sea of leviathans) to the east, whispering my name with a gentle air of seduction.
The Englishman was set to tackle the island. He awaited his guide to begin preparations. Team England was hesitant to face the peak as this was coming near the conclusion of his trek. He wasn’t pumped for the prolonged exertion, to say nothing of the cold. When the guide and cook appeared, he was not encouraged. The guide's English was on par with my Korean, and the cook was soused on roksi (homemade wine).
We inquired into the competency of the guide and were reassured by the lodge owner of his top-tier status. He’d summited Island Peak forty-five times… allegedly. Of course, the owner also told me, with a straight face I might add, climbing Island Peak is more difficult than Mt. Everest. Right. That's like saying laps in the YMCA pool are more challenging than swimming across the English Channel.
After some preliminary exchanges, Team England’s enthusiasm cratered. They went outside, where he watched his guide struggle to tie a basic knot, and then made up a fictitious name for it. (My friend was a rock climber and knew his way around a rope). Luckily for my tea-sipping comrade, in the end, all was well. It turns out the guide's skills were specific to the task at hand (i.e. Island Peak). When they practiced some ice climbing the following day, all was copacetic. I ran into Team England back in Kathmandu, where he touted his success, albeit after a 15-hour slog. Good on ya, mate.
The next morning, I set off for Chukkung Ri with my new French companion in tow. The view from the top is described as a “fairy-tale panorama.” Accurate. Very accurate. Clear blue skies and mountain peaks almost too many to count. Ama Dablam, Baruntse, Island Peak, Nuptse, Lhotse, Chukkung (Chukkung Ri's big brother) and Makalu were all standing at attention. Add chortens, cairns, prayer flags, a vague sense of cosmic belonging, and you have the makings of a superb morning. The trail isn’t terribly challenging, but once you reach a ridge overlooking the valley, the upward climb becomes a bit dodgy. Loose stones and decreased wiggle room will keep you on your toes. The reward? Well…
On the way down, I encountered an Israeli couple and their guide. I’d passed this duo in Dingboche and on the path to Chukkung days earlier. The female was carrying the lion's share of equipment. The male (boyfriend or husband, I presumed) had nothing but a day pack and was gliding along while talking with the guide. I found this to be a mite queer (as in odd or strange).
When I greeted them on the ridge just below Chukkung Ri’s final ascent, they were squabbling. She was exhausted and had little desire to make the push… I think. (The argument was in Hebrew.) I was caught in the middle. Literally. As I rested on a rock and stared at the ground, she (at my front) and he (directly behind) sniped at each other in Klingon at increasing decibels. This was awkward. Very, very awkward. I escaped.
The descent was much harder. That signature Chukkung valley breeze had been absent the day prior. It’s like getting slapped in the face constantly by someone I'm not allowed to retaliate against. On the way up, it was akin to a friendly pat on the ass, a “good game”, if you will.
Back at the guesthouse, the sunroom was overrun by mature Irish tourists who looked as if someone had just mowed them down with a submachine gun. They were shattered. All appeared to be passed out. First time in the Himalayas? The day before, it was a Japanese entourage enjoying the valley views from the sun room’s relative comfort. When they departed, I noticed a man being carried on the back of the Japanese liaison/guide they'd brought from Japan. Yes, stereotypes are offensive, but for the love of everything holy! That’s so “Japanese tourist” trope, it’s almost beyond belief. Almost.
What dreams may come? Mine were bonkerballs bananas for the duration. Something about sleeping at altitude supercharged my brain’s psychedelic capacity, ramping up my neocortex to “ludicrous” speed. “Sleep” is a misnomer. It was more like a series of naps with periodic bouts of fitful semi-consciousness. Although most of my visions dissipated as soon as I opened my eyes, I did retain a few.
One involved me watching an adolescent boy retrieve an errant Frisbee that landed in a nearby river somewhere in the tropics. The water was only waist deep, but after grabbing the disc, and as he was wading back to shore, I spotted a large crocodile moving surreptitiously in his direction. Before I had a chance to scream, it was all over. Gobble, gobble. A sociopathic tourist snapped a photo and showed it to other bystanders, including me. The picture showed the croc with his mouth wide open and the boy sitting in its jaws with an expression of calm acceptance. If I didn’t know better and had only the photo to go on, I would’ve assumed the croc was giving the boy a ride.
Another dream involved a silent coup in the United States where a Bulgarian man whose name I can’t recall usurped Barack Obama's presidency and took control of the government through some constitutional loophole. Obama drove away with his family but vowed to return and regain his office. I wasn’t amused and decided, in Che Guevara fashion, I’d start a revolution. Freedom isn’t free, ya know?
And then there’s the hostel in Mexico City. I found a youth hostel so enchanting, I bought it. Mexico City? Now there's a peaceful place to delve into hotel management.
Ummmmm… paging Dr. Freud.