Published: April 8, 2011
Our acclimatization efforts paid off the next day. As we climbed through alpine meadows and past frozen glacial lakes that groaned and popped as the ice shifted, the altitude seemed less onerous than it had been the day before. At the top of Kongma La, we looked out at the Khumbu glacier, far below us, a tongue of rubble-strewn ice that flows down the valley from base camp and the slopes of Everest at a rate of a few feet per day.
We had been warned that the base camp isn’t much to look at: a pile of rocks whipped by an omnipresent wind. When we arrived two days later, we found that it lived down to its billing. And worse, it doesn’t offer a view of Everest’s peak.
Having ticked it off our list, we hurried back down the valley to resume our circuit. We slept that night in the village of Gorak Shep, at 17,000 feet the highest sleeping spot of the trip.
Our next destination was the Gokyo Valley, which we reached two days later after crossing the glacier-topped second pass, Cho La. Nestled between a glacier and a sacred lake, the village of Gokyo offers access to the clearest, least obstructed views of Everest in the entire region. From the peak of nearby Gokyo Ri, we could trace two well-known routes: the north face, where the mountaineer George Mallory perished (when asked by a New York Times reporter why he wanted to climb Everest, he famously replied, “Because it’s there”), and the southeast ridge, where Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay triumphed.
We spent three nights in Gokyo , chatting each evening with our host, a gregarious Sherpa woman. The village had long been a summer grazing station, inhabited for only a few months a year. But she and most of the other families in the area had given up yak-herding. “Too many cheap yaks from China,” she said.
A Scottish couple was also staying at the lodge, as they hiked the Three Passes in the opposite direction. Their seasoned Sherpa guide regaled us with stories of expeditions on Everest, whose summit he had reached, and Manaslu, another giant peak, where he’d lost several fingers to frostbite. The young Scotsman warned us about the Tibetan traders we would meet on the other side of the final pass, Renjo La, one of whom had pestered him insistently to trade his hiking boots for a chunk of turquoise.
As it turned out, we were very glad to see our first trader the next afternoon. After realizing that we’d taken a wrong turn on the way down from Renjo La, we’d reoriented and were heading south (we hoped) along the Bhote River (we hoped) toward the town of Thame. The trader, a weathered herdsman with a deeply lined face, turquoise studs in his ears and hair wound into a single braid, was heading in the opposite direction with a train of about a dozen yaks, steering them with a constant, monotonous whistle like a badly tuned radio.
“Thame?” we asked, pointing.
He stared at us, perhaps wondering what we were doing so close to the Tibet border. After an uncomfortably long silence, he finally nodded his head. Then, with a loud “Tshuh!” aimed at his yaks, he was gone.
We made it to Thame that night, and found ourselves at the nexus of old and new Sherpa life. Tibetan traders with hundreds of those “cheap yaks” we had been told about were camped on the outskirts of town, carrying low-quality Chinese-made goods like socks and rice-cookers, a far cry from the salt, wool and grain that had flowed up and down this valley for centuries. Our host was the doctor at a nearby regional hospital, the first Sherpa to get medical training. His next-door neighbor was a guide who holds the record for the most successful trips to Everest’s summit, at 20.
We had just two days of hiking left, the second of which would be back on the main trail, so we decided to stay for one last day and explore the hills around Thame. After breakfasting on tsampa, a roasted barley porridge that was a staple of the early Everest expeditions (and much more palatable than salt-butter tea, another Sherpa staple), we headed up the ridge for the short climb to Thame Gompa, a 17th-century monastery carved into the side of a cliff that overlooked the town.
Below us, another river joined the Bhote, and together they tumbled down a valley that opened up to reveal the minor peaks we’d marveled over at the start of our trip, almost three weeks earlier. Since then, we’d become accustomed to an ever-changing backdrop of fluted ridges and sheer slopes, punctuated by some of the world’s most distinctive peaks: Makalu, Ama Dablam, Cho Oyu.
We paused to lock the scene into our memories, as we contemplated our impending departure. Ridge after ridge of rock and snow separated us from the bustling crowds on the main base camp trail. Everest’s peak was also hidden, but its spell remained palpable: we knew, as Mallory had before embarking on his doomed expedition, that it was there.
IF YOU GO
The peak seasons for Everest treks are March to May and September to November, though it’s possible to go at any time of year. Most treks begin in Lukla, a short flight from Katmandu ($109 one way). Standard itineraries for the Three Passes trek allow 16 to 20 days from Lukla, and it’s possible to do just one or two of the passes for a shorter trip.
There are hundreds of trekking agencies in Katmandu that can arrange guides, porters and other details; ask if your guide knows the Three Passes route. Himalayan Glacier Trekking (977-1-4411387; himalayanglacier.com) offers Three Passes packages for $1,950 a person, including meals and accommodation, starting in Katmandu. You can pay less or considerably more depending on the level of service.
It’s possible to trek on your own, as we did. The route is well described in the Lonely Planet guidebook “Trekking in the Nepal Himalaya” and in Jamie McGuinness’s richly detailed “Trekking in the Everest Region,” and maps are available in Katmandu. Our total costs in Nepal, including food, accommodation, internal transport and permits, came to less than $1,000 a person.
Having ticked it off our list, we hurried back down the valley to resume our circuit. We slept that night in the village of Gorak Shep, at 17,000 feet the highest sleeping spot of the trip.
Our next destination was the Gokyo Valley, which we reached two days later after crossing the glacier-topped second pass, Cho La. Nestled between a glacier and a sacred lake, the village of Gokyo offers access to the clearest, least obstructed views of Everest in the entire region. From the peak of nearby Gokyo Ri, we could trace two well-known routes: the north face, where the mountaineer George Mallory perished (when asked by a New York Times reporter why he wanted to climb Everest, he famously replied, “Because it’s there”), and the southeast ridge, where Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay triumphed.
We spent three nights in Gokyo , chatting each evening with our host, a gregarious Sherpa woman. The village had long been a summer grazing station, inhabited for only a few months a year. But she and most of the other families in the area had given up yak-herding. “Too many cheap yaks from China,” she said.
A Scottish couple was also staying at the lodge, as they hiked the Three Passes in the opposite direction. Their seasoned Sherpa guide regaled us with stories of expeditions on Everest, whose summit he had reached, and Manaslu, another giant peak, where he’d lost several fingers to frostbite. The young Scotsman warned us about the Tibetan traders we would meet on the other side of the final pass, Renjo La, one of whom had pestered him insistently to trade his hiking boots for a chunk of turquoise.
As it turned out, we were very glad to see our first trader the next afternoon. After realizing that we’d taken a wrong turn on the way down from Renjo La, we’d reoriented and were heading south (we hoped) along the Bhote River (we hoped) toward the town of Thame. The trader, a weathered herdsman with a deeply lined face, turquoise studs in his ears and hair wound into a single braid, was heading in the opposite direction with a train of about a dozen yaks, steering them with a constant, monotonous whistle like a badly tuned radio.
“Thame?” we asked, pointing.
He stared at us, perhaps wondering what we were doing so close to the Tibet border. After an uncomfortably long silence, he finally nodded his head. Then, with a loud “Tshuh!” aimed at his yaks, he was gone.
We made it to Thame that night, and found ourselves at the nexus of old and new Sherpa life. Tibetan traders with hundreds of those “cheap yaks” we had been told about were camped on the outskirts of town, carrying low-quality Chinese-made goods like socks and rice-cookers, a far cry from the salt, wool and grain that had flowed up and down this valley for centuries. Our host was the doctor at a nearby regional hospital, the first Sherpa to get medical training. His next-door neighbor was a guide who holds the record for the most successful trips to Everest’s summit, at 20.
We had just two days of hiking left, the second of which would be back on the main trail, so we decided to stay for one last day and explore the hills around Thame. After breakfasting on tsampa, a roasted barley porridge that was a staple of the early Everest expeditions (and much more palatable than salt-butter tea, another Sherpa staple), we headed up the ridge for the short climb to Thame Gompa, a 17th-century monastery carved into the side of a cliff that overlooked the town.
Below us, another river joined the Bhote, and together they tumbled down a valley that opened up to reveal the minor peaks we’d marveled over at the start of our trip, almost three weeks earlier. Since then, we’d become accustomed to an ever-changing backdrop of fluted ridges and sheer slopes, punctuated by some of the world’s most distinctive peaks: Makalu, Ama Dablam, Cho Oyu.
We paused to lock the scene into our memories, as we contemplated our impending departure. Ridge after ridge of rock and snow separated us from the bustling crowds on the main base camp trail. Everest’s peak was also hidden, but its spell remained palpable: we knew, as Mallory had before embarking on his doomed expedition, that it was there.
IF YOU GO
The peak seasons for Everest treks are March to May and September to November, though it’s possible to go at any time of year. Most treks begin in Lukla, a short flight from Katmandu ($109 one way). Standard itineraries for the Three Passes trek allow 16 to 20 days from Lukla, and it’s possible to do just one or two of the passes for a shorter trip.
There are hundreds of trekking agencies in Katmandu that can arrange guides, porters and other details; ask if your guide knows the Three Passes route. Himalayan Glacier Trekking (977-1-4411387; himalayanglacier.com) offers Three Passes packages for $1,950 a person, including meals and accommodation, starting in Katmandu. You can pay less or considerably more depending on the level of service.
It’s possible to trek on your own, as we did. The route is well described in the Lonely Planet guidebook “Trekking in the Nepal Himalaya” and in Jamie McGuinness’s richly detailed “Trekking in the Everest Region,” and maps are available in Katmandu. Our total costs in Nepal, including food, accommodation, internal transport and permits, came to less than $1,000 a person.
Thank you for sharing this valuable information.Keep sharing, waiting for the next one!!!
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