128 - Gokyo to Lukla (Three Passes Trek, Nepal)
"I have no special talents. I am only passionately curious."
— Albert Einstein
THE SNOW THAT STARTED AS I CROSSED THE NGOZUMPA GLACIER continued into the night, accumulating six inches and covering the landscape with a fresh white blanket. Though I was to spend a day in Gokyo for a stroll up Gokyo Ri, I worried this might complicate my assault on the Renjo La Pass. No trail. No guide. No clue. A snow-covered path solo in the Himalayas? I might be crazy, but I isn't stupid. Fears dissolved when I watched a group with a guide and seven yaks make their way to the pass that morning, paving the way with footprints aplenty. I breathed a sigh of relief and crossed my testicles in hopes of no more snow.
After breakfast, Gokyo Ri was the order of the day. The challenge was more than I’d anticipated for two reasons: 1) the aforementioned snow; and 2) the intensity of solar radiation. The snow and ice were no picnic, but nothing compared to the heat. The days’ haze and thin cloud cover intensified the ultraviolet energy. Slow, steady movements mitigated overheating potential. Pants were a mistake. I wouldn’t have been uncomfortable in a speedo (only ashamed). Such a maneuver would’ve required gobs and gobs of sun cream. The temp on the mountain might well have topped 60℉ (15℃).
My reward for the crucible was a hazy, degraded view of the nearby mountains—Everest, Lhotse, Makalu, and Cho Oyu. That’s not to say the vista was terrible, only diminished relative to what I’d witnessed thus far. I’d been spoiled, so cry me a glacial river. The descent was more expeditious, a giant Slip n’ Slide of melting snow and ice. I avoided going ass or teakettle, a moral victory.
On my ascent, I’d met a German woman (Madeleine) who was outgoing, friendly, and physically appealing. She invited me to stop by her lodge after the hike for a hot beverage. I love hot beverages and appealing women, so it was a no-brainer. I thought, Yep, you got it going on, you sly fucker, you. I was right on the money if by 'it' I mean an uncanny ability to misinterpret and engage in delusional self-aggrandizement. I stopped by to say hello and was met by her and her husband. Yep, you got it going on, you sly fucker, you.
The upside was a reunion with Other Rich. He’d hired a guide for a snowy slog over the moraine where hidden rocks and boulders became Himalayan land mines. After catching up, I bid farewell and returned to my teahouse for dinner and early retirement. I’d hoped to meet another group or individual headed to the Renjo La, but no such luck. Solitude would reign supreme.
I arose promptly the next morning, threw down as much breakfast as I could stomach, and set off. The weather was exquisite, and I left Gokyo in high spirits. No intensive mental processes required. All I had to do was follow the trail of yak and people prints. Easy-peasy.
Dead horse time. I was, once again, enveloped by the haunting solitude that is the Himalayas. Just me and the result of seventy million years of continental collisions. I took time to stand and absorb the brilliance. I did this not only out of cosmogonic appreciation but also because the grinding journey had taken its toll. My pooper was pooped. As I drew closer to the slope beneath the pass, my motivation cratered.
Mother Nature provided entertainment à la a private avalanche viewing. I gave it two thumbs up. I suppose if I wanted to dwell on the experience I could go in the “If a tree falls in the woods, but no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound” direction. I was the only sentient mortal ringside for this natural exhibition. Only me. It will never happen again, and once I’m no longer among us, it will be as if it never happened at all. Kind of blows your mind, huh? Or not. The same could be said for anything. Being the only one around to hear a mountain gorilla fart isn’t existential poetry, but then again…
I reached the Renjo La in less than three hours and was presented with the view I’d hoped to see atop Gokyo Ri. Another pass, another dazzling panorama. Ho-friggin-hum, eh? I imagine reading the same description over and over gets to be tedious. Shall I dig deep into my thesaurus? The views were superb, admirable, august, best, breathtaking, choice, elegant, elevated, exalted, exquisite, fine, glorious, grand, great, lofty, magnificent, majestic, marvelous, matchless, noble, optimal, optimum, outstanding, peerless, prime, proud, resplendent, solid, splendid, splendiferous, splendorous, standout, stunning, sublime, super, superior, superlative, unrivaled, the very best indeed.
I lingered for a spell, gazing from east to west. Pondering. Savoring. Pulsating with life. Sometimes I wanted, maybe even needed, someone to share the Kodak moments. Other times, I wanted, maybe even needed, to sit in silence alone, pretending I was the last man on Earth. So which was it then? I can’t recall, though hindsight points toward the latter. Had I the mental fortitude, I might have assumed the position and put forward my best meditative effort, but I was in no condition to tame my subconscious elephant. The universe wrote me a rain check.
Time to head down. Oh, most glorious down. At times, the descent can be more of a chore than slugging your way up a steep incline. This wasn’t one of those times. Not only was there a pre-packed trail through the snow, but also a stone stairway ushering the way. It was still a tad dicey. The tracks from the previous day were icy, but it was a general improvement from what I'd encountered on the Kongma La and Cho La passes. The track from Gokyo to Thame is slated for ten hours in the book, but I did it in seven and a half. Yippee.
I met a guy who appeared to be carrying his entire life. Not sure where he was from as I couldn’t place his accent, but he seemed a little off, as in touched. He said something about setting up high camp for a trekking peak, not realizing there were none close by, moving on to the pass, something, something, so forth and so on. High camp? I considered asking him what the hell he was talking about, but I feared he might tell me. He was either a clueless semi-lunatic who’d end up freezing while eating his underwear or a mountaineering savant who never quite came to grips with everyday social interaction. No way to be sure.
As I ventured downward, I passed through small villages and abandoned summer-grazing areas that had an “edge of civilization” feel. The clouds rolled in, casting a dismal, semi-apocalyptic shadow that made me think I was searching for a hidden enclave of survivors. Fatigue was setting in, leading to a series of circus-type slips and falls. As the day wore on, the snow softened. Falling on your ass does little to improve one's disposition and had me swearing like a drunk truck driver.
Around four in the afternoon, I arrived in Thame amid a light snowfall. Thame is a quaint little village constructed with stone masonry nestled in the valley beneath Kongde Ri. There’s a manicured charm you don’t find elsewhere, and unlike most places on the trail, this is an actual village existing for reasons other than tourists. It lies along the ancient trade route between Khumbu and Tibet, which includes the Nangpa La pass.
Thame is also the childhood home of Apa Sherpa, otherwise known as “Super Sherpa.” He’s summited Mt. Everest twenty-one times, hence the designation. I happened to stumble into the Everest Summiteer, the lodge he owns. Dreams of meeting the man were dashed when I learned he lived in Salt Lake City, Utah. The walls of the dining room were a shrine to him and his family. At the time, he was preparing to make ascent number twenty. I'm all about tempting fate, but this guy exists on a higher plane.
My 8:00 a.m. start was a late one. I think my brain sensed the end was near and started signaling it was okay to slow my roll. Motivation was an issue. My goal was to get to Lukla that day, so I could catch a plane the next morning to Kathmandu. No reason to linger. I had an open ticket, but weather was unpredictable and limited seats were available. When I arrived back in Namche Bizarre, my cell phone became more than an alarm clock again. I called my travel agent and secured a seat on a morning flight. Super.
The most challenging part of the journey came in the last two hours from Phakding to Lukla. My body just did not want to go, my mind already at a hotel in Kathmandu. As I had passed all this on the way in, it wasn’t terribly exciting. The minutes dragged on. I was also irritable and in no mood to wait for a train of yaks to cross a suspended footbridge suitable for one-way traffic. I was halfway across when the yak driver ushered his herd onto the bridge, knowing I’d have no choice but to turn around. The fact he yelled and gave me a dismissive hand gesture did nothing to bolster my disposition. I wanted to smack him, and I’m sure my countenance conveyed every iota of vitriol I was harboring. Of course, this was nothing more than childish petulance stemming from fatigue, but he’s lucky I didn’t go spider monkey on his ass and start flinging my own shit. Instead, I pressed on.
In retrospect, my timing was impeccable. I'd entered the region and completed my trek before the tourist herd assaulted Khumbu. In Lukla, I did something I'd neglected to do for eleven straight days: showered. My guidebook pointed me to a lodge that even had hot water. Never in my life have I appreciated it more. A good trip. A very good trip.
