Silver Bells

Eventually, I figured out I was not musically inclined. After years of lessons, forced marches through songs and struggles with sheet music, I quit. I had been learning to play the organ. The two tiered type with levers for sound effects and foot pedals that mirrored the key boards. One’s hands and feet all had to be moving at the same time. It was just too much. My father was disappointed feeling that I could “make extra money playing at roller rinks.” My grandmother, the main instigator of my musical training, looked disappointed as well, but seemed to shrug it off.

Grandma had owned a building in Portland that housed Day Music Company (yes, it’s still there). I’m guessing that she got a discount because we all had instruments and lessons. My brother, the guitar. My sister, also the organ. Grandma had one in her very ’50’s party room. All pine wood paneling, bright red vinyl furniture, green and red tile floor, and a full, stocked bar that never got much action. She did not drive, so every Thursday we would go into town, take her grocery shopping, and she would buy us dinner. After, we would take her home and she would sometimes give music lessons. She played a little herself, plodding through songs much like we did. She did not work, so I can imagine playing was something she enjoyed that occupied her time—like gardening and spying on the neighbors.

We also had an organ at home. I’m guessing it was probably a Hammond. A heavy, wood and plastic chunk of a thing that sat in the corner of the dining room. A metronome stationed at one end along with piles of sheet music. Mom hated it. When we all grew up, stopped playing and the organ parked there as a giant dust collector, she often commented that she wanted to toss it over the riverbank. Dad would sit down and play on occasion. But, although I don’t think I ever saw him at it, he had an accordion. I have a hard time visualizing this without a snicker. Fingers flying up and down the keys, the other hand pumping the bellows—a regular Myron Floren.

At one point, while in grade school, Grandma arranged for a private tutor. He was an older gentleman with a white compact car. I don’t remember his name or anything about him, but he would pick me up about once a week from Troutdale Grade School, drive me home, and give a lesson while mom puttered in the kitchen. I felt a bit privileged leaving school early before the other kids as I skipped down the front steps and hopped in his car. Would that happen today? A strange man picking up a grade schooler in his car and driving off? Had he been vetted? I doubt it, but those were different times.

My sister and I had particular songs we were assigned to learn that we recall the most. For sis, it was Lady of Spain. For me it was Silver Bells—the classic Christmas song first performed by Bob Hope and Marilyn Maxwell in the silly 50’s movie The Lemon Drop Kid. Aside from the main melody, I would attempt the embellishments. Graduated key jumps that symbolized falling snow or echo-y sounds of ringing bells. So at Christmas time when family friends would visit for cocktails and dinner, I would play Silver Bells and more in my pj’s before being sent off to bed so the adults could party on without watching their language. I can imagine now that these guests sat in polite, snockered silence while I slogged through each sappy tune, smiling and sipping their Tom & Jerry’s*.

Do I regret walking away from a career playing at roller rinks? Uh, no. As I grew and got older, I was able to distinguish what worked and what didn’t. Soon enough, I found that my creative talents lie elsewhere in the visual arts and I ran with it. But I can still remember my grandmother’s reaction to my quitting the organ. She was not the most demonstrative with her feelings or the most sensitive of souls, but maybe our music lessons were a way for her to connect with her grandchildren. Something that only she would share with us. In my memory, there was a slight flicker of disappointment that crossed her face when I announced that I was finished with Silver Bells. But the flicker was momentary and we moved on. She never brought it up again.

Silver Bells

City sidewalks

Busy sidewalks

Dressed in holiday style

In the air there's

A feeling of Christmas

Children laughing

People passing

Meeting smile after smile

And on every

Street corner you'll hear

Silver Bells, Silver Bells

It's Christmas time in the city

Ring-a-ling, hear them sing

Soon it will be Christmas Day

Strings of street lights

Even stoplights

Blink a bright red and green

As the shoppers rush home

With their treasures

Hear the snow crunch

See the kids bunch

This is Santa's big scene

And above all

This bustle you'll here

Silver Bells, Silver Bells

It's Christmas time in the city

Ring-a-ling, hear them sing

Soon it will be Christmas Day

Silver Bells, Silver Bells

It's Christmas time in the city

Ring-a-ling, hear them sing

Soon it will be Christmas Day

*A concoction of rum and brandy mixed with with hot water or milk and a thick, frothy batter made from eggs with cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg.

Nepal Days 13-14 | Trek Day 8-9: Everest Base Camp

Altitude

Eyes closed, Deborah Kerr kneels before a crucifix below an open window. Sunlight and shadow jump and flicker across her face. Hands held in prayer, her mind shifts and thoughts drift to another time. A time in her youth when she wears glistening emeralds as clear as water and bright as her eyes; when she races on horseback next to her lover across lush, verdant fields; when she stands waste deep in a loch fishing in an orange gingham dress. As she comes to, her fellow sisters stare at her sidelong in suspicion and wariness. The purity of her habit contradicts her memories. High in the thin air of the Himalayas, she loses herself. Her mind is not her own.*

High in the Himalayas I have lost myself. I have lost a sense of time. I do not know what day it is. I have not bathed in over a week. I have not seen my reflection in almost as many days. I have let go and embraced a scruffy existentialism. It is a liberating feeling, really. I am experiencing a level of freedom I have not felt. Only one other time in my life came close. I was driving in my Jeep heading north on California highway 395. With the eastern slope of the Sierras on my left, I was alone. No one knew where I was on that day. I knew no one could find me. I felt free and only responsible for myself and the road before me. With all windows open, the warm air swirled around the cab as I drove north. Desert flatness turned to alpine cool as pine shadows stretched across the highway. I could have drove on and on and on in my solitary, in-the-moment frame of mind.

In late afternoon, we reach our goal. Months, years of looking toward this destination have come together. Everest Base Camp at over 17,500 feet. We are alone on this trail. The only sounds are our crunchy footfalls and a light wind blowing across the ridge. Our path meanders among boulders and skirts the Kumbhu glacier of spiky ice formations. It cracks and shifts like a living thing as we hike. Sounds of falling rock echo and dot the landscape. I imagine that I am walking in history, sharing the same steps as Sir Edmond Hillary and Tenzing Norgay on the first summit of Everest some 57 years before. In my light headed disconnection, I sense the ghosts of bygone days and the dreams of reaching the top.

Against a clear blue sky Everest shows its pointy top at over 29,000 feet over the shoulder of Chuptse peak. I think that there maybe people up there struggling to breath, hearts beating with excitement and fear. I know definitely that the bodies of many climbers are there as well, vanishing into the frozen rock and ice. We only spend about 10 minutes at base camp. Enough time to take the required photo posed in front of the camp’s marker. I sense this is the tourists marker since tents can be seen pitched some distance away—the real camp. We head back with the sun setting and moon rising perfectly staged next to Everest. The snowy peaks turn pink then slowly fade as we stumble along the rocky path until reach the lodge in darkness.

The thin air around me has slowly caught up. My head feels big and temples throb easily. My stomach churns and I have no appetite. Canned pineapple is the only thing I can stomach. My sleep is active with dreams and restless with wandering thoughts of other memories. I have to pee what seems like constantly. I do sleep but don’t feel as if I had. I am aware that I’m experiencing a slow, physical shut down. Both Chris and I wake in the morning feeling terrible. I am unable to eat. My temples are pounding and there is a dull ache at the back of my head. I know this is bad and Ngima confirms this. “Ache at the back of head...serious.” We had hoped to climb Kala Patar. A small peak with spectacular views of the Everest and the surrounding mountains—a general must see for all who make this trip. But it has snowed in the night and morning clouds had moved in anyway. Descending was necessary. I really didn’t want to be helicoptered out.

So we make our way down to better sleep and healthier appetites. The clouds have lifted and morning sunshine sharpens my pounding head. I feel a little sad not wanting to let the moment and sense of place go. Having reached a goal, what is the next step? As miserable as I felt, I didn’t want to leave my goal behind. I wasn’t ready to make my way back to a crazy world and give up my scruffy existentialism.

I have understood the concept of letting go but never truly experienced it. For someone as vain and self-conscious as I am, this is an achievement. In losing a sense of time I became connected only to where I was on a particular day; and in forgetting what I looked like, I was more aware of how I felt. This was however only a physical letting go. The spiritual would have to come another day. Perhaps another lightheaded journey to higher altitudes is required. It was glimpse though. Enough to get a sense what that really might feel like. To fully lose the weight of self-consciousness, give in and go with it. To completely lose my mind.

*Scenes from the 1947 film “Black Narcissus.”

Photos from this trip can be viewed here.

Nepal Day 12 | Trek Day 7: Dingboche to Lobuche

The Perfect Day

“I lift up my eyes to the hills. Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth.”
Psalm 121

What?! During the past 2 days, the opening line of this passage from the Bible kept popping into my head. Not being remotely (and even anti-) Catholic, this was a surprise even for me—especially since I have never read the Bible. It felt weird, like a voice from another lifetime. Thoughts from another person, plucked out of the thin air around me. Where was this coming from? I kept asking myself. Obviously, I heard it somewhere. Read it someplace. Probably watching Charleton Heston utter the line in “The Ten Commandments.” Who knows?

The day was perfect. Chris and I stepped outside our lodge room in the inky blue of pre-dawn. The mountains were etched against the sky and the glittering stars began to fade. In the cold, clear air of 14,500 feet, the pale blue of snow capped Himalayas slowly turned pink with the rising sun. Finally, mountains! They rose around us in the morning light and we were surrounded by the giants of the Himalayas.

As we made our morning climb, Lhotse, Ama Dablum, and Island Peak made their presence known in the crystal clear day. Prayer flags gently waved in the morning sunlight, strung from the white washed gompa high above Dingboche. Yaks grazed along the hillside, their bells jangling as they yanked their meal from the ground ignoring us as we snapped a few pictures.

The high alpine meadow we began to cross transported me. I didn’t know where to look. Whiplash was about to set in. We were surrounded by mountains. Behind, in front, to the left, to the right. The jagged peaks reached high into the deep blue sky like the teeth of dinosaurs. A river valley fell below us in varying shades of green, the small village of Pheriche nestled in the corner. Below my feet the meadow revealed another world. Small scrubby vegetation hugged the ground for protection mingling with wildflowers. Pale blue star shapes, pink puffs, dainty yellows, red berries, violet bursts tucked themselves against stones and ruts. I found my self tip toeing so as not to crush these delicate plants. Seemingly vulnerable, they must be tough. At nearly 15,000 feet, they would have to be.

We stopped for tea in the one lodge village of Dughla in the shadow of Awi Peak (I was sure the Grinch lived at its top) before making the final leg to Lobuche for the night. As we kept climbing higher we passed piles of stones carved with names and dates on a windy ridge—memorials to those who died on Everest. The landscape became increasingly lunar and the air sharper and thinner. Our pace slower and breathing rapid as we reached our lodge at over 16,100 feet.

As we walked across that meadow, I forgot myself. Forgot where I was from, forgot what I did, forgot what I was about. Forgot that I was filthy. Forgot about cancer, money, growing old. Forgot about worry. I was in a bright, indefinable moment where the world falls away. Even though I continued to noticed the unbelievability of where I was at the top, and other side, of the world, I didn’t feel the distance.

At the end of the day I don’t think I was looking for the Lord but a pathway into my own connectedness. Whether it be God, Buddha, Allah, whoever you choose, something had brought me to this place and time, this particular day. And in being here experienced a complete connection between spirit and earth. It was a day, a moment, that flashed. Where the planets aligned themselves and crossed paths with my lifeline. Where my soul expanded to be a part of it all. I was surrounded by a perfect world. Snowy peaks reached into the deep blue sky above me and the high alpine meadow, with its confetti of wildflowers, beneath my feet. The air, clean and cool. The sun, bright and clear. The elusive here and now that exists in dreams and lives in memory. Heaven. When I lifted my eyes to the hills, I knew I was exactly where I was suppose to be.

Photos from this trip can be viewed here.

Nepal Days 10-11 | Trek Days 5–6: Namche Bazar to Tengboche to Dingboche

Up and up, we continued through forests and edged our way along mountain ridges. Although the day had started with a promise of clearing, the gray descended and stayed for the next two days. After first, the trail marched up and down in elevation until we crossed the Imja Kola river. From there it was all up. Heart pounding, heavy breathing and small steps for roughly two hours until we reached Tengboche flush and damp with sweat at 12,700 feet.

The village, if you can call it that, is a handful of lodges and the large, famous Tengboche Monastery. We arrived shrouded in a thick gray cloud. Jopkyo dotted the grassy areas around the lodges. We checked in at the Gompa Lodge for lunch and place for the night. So far the worst lodge yet. Very rustic and bare bones basic without charm. Toilet, a shack outside with a hole in the wood floor very near a running stream (do NOT drink the water). The people who run the lodge are abrupt and unfriendly.

Accustomed to western comforts, the lodges overall are a challenge. Most are simply plywood boxes with a bare light bulb at the room's center—that is if there is electricity at all. There is no heat. One must spend the evenings before sleep in the dining/common room of the lodge with its dung or wood burning stove. With a couple of exceptions, bathrooms are down the hall or outside. Toilets are squat style for the most part although a few have western style. None of them flush and large barrels of water and a pale are provided to flush it all out by force of gravity. Neither of us are practiced in the squat toilet experience and we hold off as long as possible until the inevitable rears its ugly head and we are finally initiated—whatever the, um, outcome. Let’s just leave it at that.

But the lodge is an all encompassing experience. Meals are provided with your stay over and the dining/common room is the social center to share stories and experiences, tips and recommendations with your fellow travelers. The guides and porters congregate around the stove, catch-up, and, most likely, gossip about us trekkers in languages we don’t understand. They are homey and family-run businesses. Although most are bare boned in construction, some attempt at decoration with lacy or flowery curtains on the windows and wildly patterned comforters on the beds. You can purchase basic supplies from toilet paper to chocolate bars to Mt. Everest Whiskey. For a price, you can take a shower.

After lunch, Ngima takes us to the famous monastery. In the wet courtyard, monks are practicing dancing in sneakers for the upcoming Mani Rimdu festival. They are dressed all in red—including their sneakers and down jackets. Inside, the main temple is wildly colorful with walls painted with stories of the Buddha’s life. Angry faced gods and deities swirl on the walls and columns. The room feels as if its alive with movement and smells of burning incense. A large modern Buddha sits at the front staring down on us all as we snap photos and gawk. Chris ends up attending the daily, evening ceremony but I stay in the lodge room and rest. I hear it though. Cymbals crashing and horns blaring in the wet twilight.

It is now raining heavily as we make our way to dinner. The dining room at the Gompa Lodge is packed and smokey reminding me of an Indiana Jones movie. I expect Indiana himself to burst in followed by gun toting Nazi’s as we hit the deck below a spray of bullets. But no such excitement. Ngima has loyally saved us a table where we survey the lively but tame dinner crowd babbling in French, German, and English. The night has become cold and we wear our knit hats to sleep in covered by 2 blankets each. Sleep generally comes easy after so much daily exertion and I pass out to the sound of rain.

The morning fades in to crashing cymbals and blaring of horns from the monasteries morning ritual. Spots of blue sky hover above us as we make our way on the trail. More brief glimpses of mountains tease us with the enormity of their presence. The days walk is fairly easy compared to the previous day's slog. The trail slopes gently upward through rhododendron forests hanging with long strands of pale green moss. We pass villages with fields separated by hand stacked stone walls. We slowly climb up the valley above the tree line. Furry yaks dot the hillsides along with bright red bushes that glow against the gray stones and green moss. Piles of mani stones edge the path blessing our way.

After a stop for lunch at Shomare, the clouds finally begin to break. We move onward through a lunar landscape of stones and yak ruts. Occasionally, the high peaks around us show through. It is hard to describe these peaks. Their enormity seem beyond comprehension. Here you are at close to 13,000 feet and they tower above at more than 20,000 and much higher. They don’t look real and feel painted against the sky. You can almost reach out and brush your hand against the backdrop. A haze of snow blows around the tip top and I begin to feel very tiny in this land of giants. But we ain’t seen nothing yet.

At one point we are befriended by—who we named—Manny (as in mani prayer). A fluffy, black mountain dog, he trots along beside keeping a watchful eye. He stops ahead of us only to look back to make sure we are still there and catching up. Since our guide books recommend that one does not pet or handle animals we do not. But it’s hard to resist since he became our guide and protector. Manny accompanies us all the way to our next stop for the night, Dingboche. Chris and I want to bring him home with us.

We reach the Paradise Mountain Lodge by late afternoon. At over 14,500 feet, we like Dingboche. It has a nice feel about it nestled against the mountains with a river running alongside. Stoned walled paths guide you through the village. Although the night will be cold at this elevation, our room is clean and cozy with its own bathroom. The owners are friendly and welcoming. The lodge itself sits above the town so that the view from the dining room surveys the village. As I rest before dinner, a storm blows through. The sky becomes dark and winds make the walls creak. Heavy rain and snow fall outside the window as I drift in and out of sleep. But after its all over the skies are clear. The peaks at twilight are illuminated by a crescent moon and, later, the sky is full of stars, large and twinkling at this altitude. So large and close you feel you can reach up, pick one out and put it in your pocket.

We still get short of breath easily but recover quickly. All in all we feel pretty good at this altitude although the real test comes in the next few days as our elevation sharply increases and we approach the base of Mt. Everest just 2 days away.

Photos from this trip can be viewed here.

Nepal Days 8-9 | Trek Days 3–4: Namche Bazar

Clouds descend and rain sets in. The mountains are hidden from view and the waterfalls cannot be seen. We had reached Namche and our lodge just in time. As night fell, only a gray wall and the sound of rain above our heads.

Before the rain hit, we wandered the town. Ngima, acting as tour guide, took us to the towns namesake, the daily bazar. Locals were selling a variety of wares including fruits and veggies, bright red chili peppers, clanking metal housewares, plastic wrapped candy, white yeast balls for making alcohol, and yak butter weighed out with a fist-sized rock on a makeshift scale. The town itself is the largest in the Khumbu region and a designated stopping point for all trekkers for a 2 night stay to acclimatize to the altitude. The setting is especially dramatic. Streets and buildings are tiered up the hillside like a Roman amphitheater. The open end of this horseshoe shape is a steep cliff drop to a river below. A gompa sits at this opening with the large eyes of the Buddha watching over the town. It feels a bit like the wild west if you squint your eyes and shift your imagination. Namche is a crossroads of cultures and ethnicities that meet briefly then move onward. Accents of German, Italian, French, American, British, Australian can all be heard mingling with Nepali and Tibetan as we stroll. The streets are lined with souvenir shops and trekking supplies, internet stations, lodges and bars. An occasional yak browses the stalls. But the ancient stone streets are slick and the air is wet so we take our precious shower and huddle in for the night.

I wake to the sounds of crowing roosters and gray skies. The sharp mountain air is clean and cold with a touch of wood smoke. I had been dreaming of an old job which, not surprisingly, left me cranky and anxious. I was ready to set out and hike, clear my head in the fresh air, see the mountains and hope for clearing skies. After breakfast with, um, tea, we climbed the hills above Namche. Chris and I are adjusting slowly but surely to the altitude at this point. The town sits at roughly 11,000 feet. We get out of breath quickly but recover easily. Slight headache comes and goes. I have begun taking Diamox to help adjust but the reason for this day hike is to ascend then descend to become accustomed to the increasingly thinning air. We have brief glimpses of the towering peaks that surround us. A few spots of blue sky give us hope of gradual clearing. Sadly, the day is all wet and gray, however beautiful nonetheless. We climb through misty landscapes of moss covered stone—many painted with mani prayers—that feel like a set from 70’s B-grade horror films. I expect Peter Cushing to pop out from behind a boulder baring his fangs like an apparition from my imagination. We continue up among fields of scrubby juniper and small blue flowers that look like stars. Textured hillsides of color glow in the gray light. Hot reds and bright greens, neon yellows and ghostly whites among the rough gray stones. Pray flags stream and flutter overhead, radiating out from white washed gompas. High up, we find ourselves in the wind and mist of the clouds and make our way to the famous Everest View Hotel. Looking a little Frank Lloyd Wright-ish, the hotel is the highest in the world at 13,000 feet. Each room has a view of Mt. Everest. I realize that I am now higher than Mt. Hood (the local mountain in Oregon where I grew up). We stop for hot chocolate and try to dry out, but no view of Everest today. Just the blue pines with their phallic-like, erect blue cones swaying in the wet and clouds outside the window.

We arrive at the small, quiet village of Khumjung and stop for lunch with a lively bunch of French and Germans. The lodge room is warm and inviting with amber colored pine paneling and a stove cranking out heat at the rooms center. By the time we finish our meal, the rain is heavy but we move on regardless along muddy, squishy paths to the local Buddhist monastery built in the 14th century. After a bit of prompting, the cranky caretaker let us in to check it out and take a few photos. For a small donation, he opened up a metal cabinet containing a still hairy “yeti” skull. What is it really? Who knows. It looks like half a coconut with an abundance of course, brown hair— worthy of a chuckle. The room swirls with color, filled with prayer books and unlit candles, relics and robes—and, of course, the Buddha watching over it all, eyes half open in contemplation. Finally, the caretaker kicks us out. On the way, Ngima shows us the enormous prayer wheel. In a dimly lit room painted with images of the Buddha that barely fit the wheel itself, it had to be 8 feel tall.

Through relentless rain and heavy gray skies, we make our way back to Namche. Although a different route, we again amble through fields and eventually reach a designated path that descends to the stones streets of the town. On the way, we catch our first sighting of Nepal’s national bird, the Monal. Roughly the size of a turkey or pheasant, it’s feathers are largely bright blue but all colors of the rainbow that shimmer in the light. A small sprout of feathers from the top of the head reminding me of a Looney Tunes character. We arrive back at the Khangri Hotel drenched and tired, holding on to hope that the next day will clear. We finish our day with dinner. Tonight was spaghetti and corn soup. And to top it all off, a deep fried Snickers bar. As nasty as it sounds, it is incredibly delicious, although I seriously doubt I will ever do that again.

Before we settle in for the night, we stop at the shop on the street below our lodge, Sherpa Adventure Gear. Chris and I had purchased this brand of clothing in New York before we left home. As we paid for the few articles of clothing, I mentioned to the salesperson that we really liked the gear we picked up before the trip. “In Kathmandu?” he asked. “No, in New York,” I replied. “Paragon?” he asked. “Yes!” Here I was on the other side of the planet and I had to laugh. The world is just way too small at times. It just goes to show you. Home is really never that far away.

For those of you unfamiliar with Paragon, it is a popular sporting goods store in Manhattan.

View photos from this trip here.

Days 7–8 | Trek Days 2–3: Chheplung to Monjo to Namche Bazar

I step outside with a gasp. Earlier, I woke at 5:30am to the sounds of rushing river, birds and chortling of the lodge owners baby. The smell of burning wood in the air. I looked through lace curtains to see the sparkling stars fading in the growing light. Mountain ridges defined themselves as the sun rises. I eventually dress and make my way down steep wood stairs to the lodge’s dining room. Ngnima (I’ve discovered I have been spelling his name wrong) hands me a cup of hot black tea as I step outside. “Oh!” I say to myself at the first sight of jagged Himalayan peaks reaching into the morning blue sky to our north, the direction of our journey. A rich, green forested valley spreads out before me leading the way. Lodges and shacks dot the hillsides on property edged by stone walls. Here and there waterfalls pour down the rugged mountainsides.

Breakfast was a cheese omelette, doughy pancake with honey—and tea. Milk tea this time—delicious, rich and sweet. We gather our belongings as the baby giggles and entertains us before we set off. We stroll on the dirt and rocky path through villages and countryside keeping a close eye on the piles of dung that dot the way. We pass trekkers and natives carrying heavy bundles on their backs. Pack animals slowly plod along as their herders whip them with thin branches. We cross steel suspension bridges sagging by their own weight over the beautiful jade blue-green-gray roaring Dudh Kosi river. We pass boulders with “om mani padme hum” painted large and small. Stone tablets carved over and over with the same sacred prayer. They’re gorgeous and I can’t stop taking pictures of them. I want to slip one in my day pack like an iPad. It’s hard to know where to look because there is so much to see and I try hard to avoid self whiplash. I want to burn every vista and every feeling into memory.

Lunch was in the village of Phakding. A high-carb meal of roasted potatoes and pasta with cheese and vegetables. I’ve realized that the Nepali’s do potatoes quite well. I figure they have been fried or roasted in butter (yak?) and pleasantly salty. And, yes you guessed it, tea. Lemon again that we sipped in a courtyard bursting with marigolds in the afternoon sun. As you may have figured out, tea is a part of life on this journey. Our guide books suggested this as a way to say hydrated without worrying about the microbial hazards of untreated local drinking water and without carrying pre-filled plastic bottles that are not easily disposed of in the Khumbu. So we drink tea. Much of it at Ngima’s insistence. Lots and lots of it until we practically slosh our way along the trail. I like tea so it’s not an issue and I enjoy the morning ritual and daily stops as we catch our breath and rest our feet.

Upon finishing a six hour stroll through stunning countryside, we reach our next village, Monjo. In the fading light of afternoon, we unpack at the pleasant Hotel Mini Tibet lodge for the night which we share with Germans, Swiss, and Americans from L.A. More sherpa stew for dinner by candlelight as the lights faded in and out with the electrical “load shedding” process of shifting power from one community to another.

After passing out at by a staggering 8:30 the night before, I again stir to the sound of rushing river along with wood smoke and the mumbling voices of a waking village. Full from another breakfast of omelette and pancake, we pack up and head out for our next destination of Namche Bazar. The trail to Namche is roughly 1900 feet. Most of it straight up. Up stone steps through pine and rhododendron forest, the trail was busy this day with many trekkers and porters. Sharp horned jopkyos (a cross between a cow and a yak) carry heavy loads as they deftly maneuver the stone steps and steep paths. Bells on their necks jangle like Christmas and alert you to move out of the way and step up trail — or they just won’t stop. Although I’m sure my pre-trip preparation on the Stairmaster helped, I couldn’t help but feel my heart would explode at times as we climbed up and up, sweating and panting as if trying to catch my last breath. But each step was rewarding with a new panorama to greet us. At a brief rest stop for water, we have our first glimpse of Everest. The bottom of it anyway since the top is shrouded in clouds. I worry for our porter, Subaas, carrying all our crap on his back supported by his forehead. But he is clearly able and accustom to the altitude, barely breathless as he swiftly passes us by.

With 3 hours of climbing, our final leg was slow and winded, heart pounding with effort to keep up and adjust to our first taste of thinning air. There were many butterflies escorting us to Namche—elegant black with white edging, bright lemon yellow, and glowing yellow-orange with black spots. The sound of jopkyo bells lead the way into town and on wobbly legs we reached our fanciest lodge so far, the Khangri Hotel. We have our own bathroom with a flushing toilet—what luxury! And we can take a shower. The first in 3 days and the last in many more.

I’ve thought a few times on this trip that, although I am so far from home and what I know, I feel very at home in myself. Maybe it’s the mountains and the smell of pine. Maybe it’s the kindness of the people. Maybe it’s the excitement of new adventure. But I don’t feel far from where I’m suppose to be.

Photos from this trip can be viewed here.

Nepal: Day 6 | Kathmadu to Lukla

The outskirts of Kathmandu drift below in the late afternoon. Like my arrival 5 days before, Nepal from high up makes me think of Shangri La. Terraced gardens and patchwork crops pass by in every color of green imaginable. The valley gives way to the foothills of the Himalayas. Villages of flat roofed buildings tuck against hillsides. Lush, sharp ridges grow as we fly onward and snow capped peaks play hide and seek behind spotty cloud cover as rays of late day sun point the way to our destination. We are finally on our way, and, even after 5 days, I have to remind myself where I am. Nepal? Can’t be.

The day began, again, clear and bright and we arrive at the domestic airport early for day 3’s highly anticipated take off. After the usual pushing and shoving with Germans through security (the officers don’t really seem to look at anything and wave everyone through), we are ushered to the restaurant by Gnima for tea (why didn’t this happen yesterday, I think?). We wait for our highly valued boarding passes on a different airline to get us to the mountains with anxious anticipation. The previous days frustration has passed though Chris and I are wary. But we reach a new step when our golden tickets finally arrive. We pass through more security and enter into the departure area at roughly 8:30am for a 10am flight. So we sit. Our butts are over it. The people watching is still good though. The saris are still colorful. Travelers rush to their gates as if the plane will leave without them. Chris writes in his journal which seems to be a fascination for the locals. Although I guess that people do not understand what he is writing they peer over his shoulder or slow down as they walk by as if they’ve never seen such a thing. But as the day chugs along we begin to wonder. Parked by our gate, each flight number but our own is called. When the airline rep shows up we stand. When the flight is not ours, we sit. We stand. We sit. Gnima circles the room in his customary aimlessness and occasionally stops by to offer tea. We know there is a cut off time for the day that is fast approaching and begin see another night at the Annapurna in our future.

Did I hear that right? Our flight number is being called? Can you believe it? So we position ourselves to pass through the gate to get on a bus to take us the 50 feet to our plane. I instruct Chris that we have to sit on the left side of the plane for the best views. Our plane is a double engine prop with a single row on each side that seats about 18. The cockpit is open in front of all passengers. As we board, there is a young, pretty flight attendant in somewhat traditional garments to greet us all, palms pressed with a “namaste” and a slight bow (or is she just bent over because the ceiling is low?). We share our flight with a group of excited and rowdy Brits just as anxious as Chris and I to get to Lukla. The attendant offers us a wad of cotton for our ears and a piece of candy (“Lacto Fun!” it is named) as I watch the bright red propellers loudly begin their revolutions. The plane taxis for position then zooms up into the sky. Our 10:30am flight finally takes off a bit after 4pm (welcome to third world scheduling). Last flight out to Lukla that day.

Deemed “one of the worlds most dangerous airports,” as I’ve read (uncomfortably) in my guidebook and online, Lukla Airport is an experience in and of itself. The village of Lukla is the starting and stopping point for all treks in the Everest region as well as for delivery of all goods, supplies, etc. It literally sits on a mountain ledge. The runway is roughly 2 to 3 New York City blocks long—or 1 block in mid-town. The beginning/end of the runway is a sheer drop off. Oh, and the runway is at an angle (landing uphill, taking off downhill). With all these factors, both landings and takeoffs are quite dramatic. As we make our approach to land in-between mountains that rose up on both sides of the plane, I could see the airstrip fast approaching through the cockpit window. Immediately, as we landed, our pilot hit the brakes and we all braced ourselves so as not to smack our face against the seat in front. The parking area for all planes and helicopters is about the size of your local gas station and as we hurtled to the end of the runway (and a stone wall) we make a fast right turn and stop with a jolt. We then are hurried off our plane with a quick “namaste” so the next load could pile in for the day’s final flight.

Gnima gathers our luggage and we find, and meet for the first time, our porter, Subaas (sp? pronounced Soo-boss. Shoebox is how I remember his name in the beginning), standing in the middle of the village trail in flip flops. Subaas is classically handsome and quiet with us since he speaks little English and we little Sherpa. He and Gnima tie our luggage together and, after a quick cup of tea, we’re off. We head off down the trail in the dimming light wanting to slow down and take in what we can barely see and sometimes only hear as twilight turns to dark. Waterfalls and ringing bells. Porters with heavy loads and trekkers reaching the end of their journey. But the trail is uneven and rocky in spots and I focus on my footing so as not to break an ankle on my first day. I wonder if Subaas, luggage strap braced against his forehead, is planning on carrying our bags all the way to Everest base camp in flip flops?

At full dark with a bright crescent moon we reach our first lodge at Chheplung—the Everest Trekkers Lodge. I have my first taste of Sherpa Stew. A tasty and hearty combo of a vegetable or chicken broth with carrots, onions, garlic, cauliflower, rice and noodles. And the ever present apple pie which occurs on every menu in the Khumbu (Everest) region. Then, finally, tea. Lemon this time which is basically lemon Tang mixed into black tea. As we discover with all of our lodges on the trek, the rooms are basic plywood boxes with two cots on either side, no heat and, if there is electricity, a bare bulb in the center of the ceiling. Bathrooms are down the hall or outside, and are, more often than not, squat toilets with a bucket of water for flushing. A, um, new experience. In total darkness by flashlight, we throw ourselves into the experience and settle into our cots with the realization of finally reaching the starting point of the reason for this adventure to the top of the world.

Thus the trek officially begins.

Photos from this trip can be viewed here.