Pokhara, Nepal

Maintaining flexibility in travel plans is necessary when undertaking such a long trip as you’re bound to discover a new locale or adventure you previously didn’t know existed. The flexibility can come with a price, however, as failing to book ahead can often times result in wasted days, as the timing of events may be off, or the bus you’re looking to take may be full.

The former can be chalked up to bad luck or poor planning. The latter can always be negotiated.

Arriving back in Kathmandu on a Sunday meant all the bus offices were closed, so Monday morning we made our way to the offices just as they opened, and 30 minutes before the only bus of the day left, headed for Pokhara. We needed 2 tickets, but unfortunately, they only had one seat left. The office worker gave me a sad look as if he thought I was just going to give up on finding another seat. I awkwardly stared at him and assured him we would find a seat. He pretended to make some calls, again telling me there was only one seat left. After 15 minutes, he must have got the hint that I wasn’t going to let the bus leave without me, as he opened the door to the bus, folded down a makeshift co-pilot’s chair across from the driver, and pointed to the 1 square foot platform, asking with his eyes if I was crazy enough to buy a ticket for this newly-found “seat.”

With my front row seat, I saw the chaos of every little town we passed and the serenity of the open mountain roads, potholes and all. 8 hours later, sore butt and all, we arrived in Pokhara. It didn’t take long for us to decide that we would leave hiking in and around the Annapurna range for another trip, and instead enjoy the lakeside setting, picturesque views, spas, and delicious, healthy food of Pokhara for a few days as a well-earned respite.

The town of Pokhara can, all at the same time, be considered a trekking capital, a locals’ getaway, a congested, smog-filled city, a health and wellness retreat, and a raw/organic/granola foodie paradise. Somehow, it all works. After weeks of dahl, we welcomed the smoothie bowls, adaptogen drinks, and avocado toast. Grueling glacier climbs turned into peaceful strolls along the lake, the energy previously spent carrying our packs was now used to paddle a rowboat to the distant shore, the ringing bells of prayer wheels turned to releases from nearby OSHO yoga classes (yes, the Wild, Wild Country guy).

We did manage to squeeze in a little adventure in between massages, juice cleanses, and sunrise panoramas, as we hiked the hills for temple views and zip-lined from the top of the mountain (or at least the mountain that sits in front of the real mountains). On our last day before braving the night bus back to Kathmandu (with a real seat this time), we ventured out into the mean streets on a potentially-not-registered scooter, making our way to Begnas lake, a lake that lacks everything Pokhara has grown to be, mostly untouched, save for a few hotels and coffee lodges scattered in the surrounding hills. Between pit stops for fresh coffee, we passed through rice fields and lush forests, making detours for viewpoints and swinging sessions with the local children. Like a daydream, I was brought back to my time in Southeast Asia, where the back roads, best navigated by scooter, seem to always steer one towards the greenest of scenery, smiling locals, and freedom from the business and burden of the towns left far behind.

As is the case when time is of no concern, we were brought back to earth only by the gas meter, as the blinking light signified an end to our ride through paradise, and with that, our time in Nepal.

Mischief Managed.

Gokyo

Nestled deep into the Khumbu, at least a week’s walk from the closest airport, and two weeks from the closest road, lies a village with an aura and setting that every backpacker, wanderluster, businessman, laborer, working mom, housewife, retiree, and Instagram-addicted teenager dreams about. A place where emerald lakes run into snow covered peaks, where strolls along the lakeshore lead only to more lakes in both directions, where every window in town provides a lake view, and where adventure or serenity awaits, take your pick.

Descending upon Gokyo after an arduous 8-hour day over Cho La pass felt like discovering an oasis in the desert, a respite from unforgiving terrain. I had but one desire upon making our way down to the shores of the lake: take the plunge to cleanse from the 2 shower-less weeks and to re-energize my tired feet, legs, back, shoulders, and mind. Alas, my intentions proved to be futile, as the lake is considered to be holy for the native Sherpa, no swimming is allowed. I understood, but lamented what I considered to be a waste of pristine natural surroundings waiting to be enjoyed.

After checking in to our $1.75 room and enjoying some salty yak butter tea along with a fresh-baked brownie, we stared out our window onto the glistening lake, watching the sun make its way slowly behind the peaks as the afternoon fog rolled its way in. The following morning, we made our way up Gokyo Ri, a summit just outside of town, for a panorama of all the surrounding lakes, Everest, and the whole valley. The views never get old, even if the words to describe them run dry. Despite the panorama in front of me, my gaze continued to revert below, as the now tiny village of Gokyo and its dozen or so lodges lay perfectly positioned on the emerald lakeshore, directly opposite a string of peaks similar to Lake Moraine in the Canadian Rockies.

After making our way back to town, I decided to take a walk along the lakeshore in the late afternoon sun. Past breeze-blown prayer flags and meditating trekkers, I found a spot as close to the water sans swimming, and stared through the scattered clouds into the reflected rays on the water, through the peaks, into the hazy sun. I prayed, I praised, I let myself go for a bit, freeing myself from the physical and mental challenges of the trek. With the warmth of the sun fading, I became overwhelmed with emotion as the urge came to speak with my grandfather, catching up on all the things he’s missed since he passed almost 5 years ago, and just how much he’s inspired them all: the trips, the work, the life I’m living. I laughed, cried, joked, and smiled. A long overdue conversation, a physical and mental reminder of what heaven looks like. As the tears dried, the clouds descended, and the sun disappeared, I bid farewell and made my way back along the lakeshore to town, fresh off a cleansing and re-energizing that no dip in the water could have ever accomplished.

Perhaps it is a holy lake after all…

Through the Clouds

The mental alarm went off at 5am. Breakfast was packed and we were out the door by 6, ready to take advantage of the typically clear mornings. Our hike up the valley would be flanked by snow-capped peaks as we would spend our breaks trying to identify which was which from our map. We’d be floating on air, energized by the surroundings, unencumbered by the high altitude. It was going to be the quintessential day hiking in the Himalayas.

Until it wasn’t.

Thick clouds blanketed our route, as we descended all the way to the valley floor before climbing back out and up half again as high as we started. With each hour, we anticipated the clouds would burn off, but alas, they never did. Again, our gaze was forced towards what lay in front of us instead of above us. Again, what the sky hid from us was revealed through a different medium: through a serene and beautiful monastery in the hilltop town of Tengboche, through joyous conversation with an Israeli couple turned trekking partners, through internal self-reflection and thought between trying to catch a breath, and through the comfort of a hot glass of ginger-lemon-honey tea after a long day of hiking downhill, uphill, but seemingly never flat terrain.

The next morning in Pangboche, through the condensation of the tea house window and the sleep in my eyes, I glimpsed a patch of bluish-purple sky. Immediately, I rushed outside into the freezing cold morning, anxious to see what could be seen. And see I did. As clear a morning as imaginable, right in front of us lay a double peak, jetting into the sky, looking like a combination of the Matterhorn and Mt. Fitzroy: Ama Dablam, my pick for most attractive in the Khumbu. The morning sun glow behind it, lighting up the entire valley, peaks all the way down. I’d found what I’d come for, just waiting to be explored, seen from every angle, admired, even climbed perhaps. The day’s hike took us through Dingboche, another town engulfed by surrounding peaks, and onto Chukung, a resting place for 2 days prior to tackling the first of three passes. Upon arrival in Chukung, we found ourselves at what seemed like the foot, or perhaps the heel, of Lhotse, a neighbor to Everest, standing at over 26,000 feet. The face of Lhotse, along with its sister peaks, dominated the Skyline with a jagged ridge and rocky, snow-covered face. While other peaks were somewhat majestic, to me, Lhotse felt ominous, like it meant business. We sat in awe as we attempted to recover from our slightly-too-quick ascent from Pangboche, feeling the effects of our 15,000+ foot elevation.  

Our recovery and acclimatization day was spent, you guessed it, hiking. We took an offshoot trail to Island Peak base camp, making our way through glacial river bed run-offs, enjoying some flat terrain as we took in the beauty surrounding us. The scale of everything becomes mesmerizing, as you realize the peaks in front and around are up to 2 miles above. The sense of scale and scope stop functioning, what’s truly known is just how small we ourselves become, that the small rock seen tumbling down the glacier face across the way is most likely the size of a car, and that the trail in the distance, the one that seems to endlessly go in one direction and slope (up and steep) is on the docket for tomorrow.

As the clouds part and the air gets thinner, the breaths become harder, and the steps become slower. We are continuously reminded of the effort required to do what we came for, and must make the conscious effort to continue towards the peaks and passes in front of us, and those hidden as of yet, but that we know await.

And so we go…

Into the Khumbu

There are those places that we so often imagine ourselves being, imagine the feelings we’ll feel, the state of awe we’ll be in, the romanticism, the adventure, the grandiosity, the serenity. For some people, it’s the backstreets of Paris or the cobblestones of ancient Rome, for some it’s the promenade of Rio de Janeiro or a palm-fronded beach in the South Pacific, still others it’s a lakeside villa in the Alps, or standing atop the lost city of mystical Machu Picchu. Wherever the locale, we create the scene in our minds and run it over and over whenever we feel the need to Walter Mitty our way out of daily life. We imagine, we save, we plan, and, if we’re lucky, we go, in the hopes that the fantasy we’ve created becomes reality before our eyes. I, myself, have dreamed up a list of time and place perhaps larger than most, and have been fortunate enough to translate fantasy to reality for many a locale.

Mount Everest was never on that list.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, the Himalayas never made their way into my daydreams. The biggest mountains in the world, accessible to any willing trekker, were never a place I wanderlusted over, incessantly researching and imagining what it’d be like to stand at the foot of the giants. My last world tour came to an end ever so close, as I made it as far as India, but never north into the mountains. Since then, I knew I would make it to Nepal and the great peaks next, but I can’t say I ever really wondered what it might be like. I never put myself at the foot of Everest, never smelled the thinnest of mountain air. Curiously, my only real daydreaming came from a short scene in Benjamin Button, as an aging, but now able-bodied, Brad Pitt travels through India and wakes up to the sun in his eyes rising over some snow-capped peaks that I determined to be the Himalayas where I would one day find myself.

While a lifetime’s worth of wanderlust can enhance an experience, sometimes adventure lies in the unknown. And so, I decided to jump in blind, doing as little research as absolutely necessary to plan for the trip, ready to be overwhelmed by whatever lay ahead on the multi-week trek to and through the Khumbu, the region in and around the tallest mountain in the world. The trek would take us to Everest Base Camp, the jump-off point for would be summiteers, and over three 5000+ meter passes: Kongma La, Cho La, and Renjo La.

We began the journey with a thankfully non-eventful puddle-jumper flight into Lukla airport, a short runway stuck between a mountainside and a cliff (watch the 1st minute or so). From there, our trek began, meandering along the mountains high above, alongside, and over roaring glacial rivers. We passed through village after village situated into the hillsides, with farms, gardens, goats, yaks, porters, and, of course, Tea Houses. Tea Houses in Nepal serve as de-facto room and board for trekkers, glamping if you will. The basic structures typically have a large, comfortable, sometimes warm, common area where meals are served, tea is drunk, and smelly trekkers commiserate before heading to their chilly rooms to sleep the necessary 10-12 hours each night to recover. If you’re lucky, a warm shower may exist (for a fee), and there might even be a fully functioning sink. While glamping may not be the appropriate term, the comfort of protection from the elements, a hot meal, and a steaming cup of yak butter tea sure are some significant perks over pitching a tent.

The first 2 days of the trek were devoid of the peaks we were chasing, as the high clouds that typically make for excellent hiking weather weren’t quite high enough to reveal the looming mountains that we were unaware surrounded us. Our eyes instead were fixated on the dense forests, covered in ferns and mosses, and the ubiquitous mani wheels and stones found at the entrance to nearly every village. With each village came a twirl of the wheels to cleanse our souls and ensure a safe passage. Tombstone-like slabs of carved rock piled high and long, all repeating the mantra, served as guideposts. Porters with loads piled high on their backs serve as the long-haul truckers of the region, as no roads exist to transport goods up the mountain. Distances between villages are referred to as days’ walking, rather than kilometers covered. We crossed many a bouncy bridge suspended over the powerful rivers below, some a bit more precarious than others, dodging donkey-train traffic jams and doing our best not to look down over the sometimes hundred-plus foot drops.

The deep greens of the forest and the icy blue-gray of the river below were interrupted by the vibrant pop of color emanating from the famous prayer flags. A repeating series of green, red, blue, white, and yellow flags can be found in and around every corner of the mountains, hanging from bridges, strewn across high passes, covering stupas, decorating the walls of teahouses, you name it. Always eye-catching as they blow in the breeze, they served as a sign that we were near something important, perhaps our destination for the day, providing a vibrant reminder of the different world we were in as we lost ourselves on the meandering trails.

After the first of many arduous climbs, we found ourselves in Namche, the last major “city” before climbing deeper in teahouse-only territory. Sitting at 11,500 feet, Namche is the last stop for anything a trekker may have forgotten; you can find all the gear, food, souvenirs, and WiFi you can dream of. The city itself is situated like an amphitheater high above the valley below, with peaks (still hidden to us) surrounding in all directions, it’s colorful buildings and lodges making for a kind of lego-land feel from high above. All roads, er trails, in the area lead towards, from, and back to, Namche. Many trekkers (us included) choose to spend 2 days in order to begin the acclimatization process prior to proceeding higher into the hills.

After a successful start to the trip and sufficiently getting our hiking legs under us, the anticipation began to build for the prize of the whole adventure. Sure, the vastness of the mountainside, the power of the rivers and waterfalls, the quirkiness of the donkey and yak trains, the charm of the teahouses, and the mystique of the prayer flags and mani stones made for a trek already worth writing home about, but these were the Himalayas, we came to see the Giants, and it was time to do so. My wanderlust was in full effect, no more relying on Benjamin Button, no more zero-expectation travelling. I was Koo-Koo for the Khumbu, ready for the great peaks to knock my socks off.

Let’s Hike…