26 Steps. How Island Peak captured my heart
For my English speaking friends
"Petya, ask him how much longer this is going to go on." It's been three hours now that we've been walking - very steeply up the rocky outcroppings. I am overwhelmed with thoughts of the hopelessness of infinity.
Petya looms a few steps higher in his bright orange jacket. In front of him is a guide whose name we reproduce with difficulty. Something to do with a fish from a cartoon, either Nimu or Nemo. The names are a mess this time. Our most important friend and guide on this trip was at first JAMBU, then JaNBU, and just before we parted it turned out that he is actually JaNGBU. Petya was Ilya to me, and Oleg to Sonya. What can I say, it happens.
There are about thirty other people on the mountain that night besides us. We are going separately. The bulk of the climbers are down, may be four or five people ahead of us. But Nimu obviously wants to be the first on the summit and he takes a pace that seems to be fast even for Petya.
Jangbu, having been following us for a week, decided that on the day of the ascent our harmonious group, me, Sonya and Petya, would be divided up. He himself planned to go with Sonya, and handed me and Petya to his colleague, whom he hinted unequivocally that we were very fast. That is why we can hardly keep up with him tonight. Nimu is not verbose, which is very different from our Jangbu, Nimu is serious. He just walks and walks, allowing us only very short stops for "breathing".
At two in the morning on the mountain, I need someone to talk to and give me some guidance on how to live my life. Well, say, I need an understanding that this difficult section - with stone steps, steeply climbing upwards - will end in about an hour. After that, something else will begin, no less difficult, but it, too, will definitely end. Then something else and something else, and then there is the top. The uncertainty of the future worries me, my brain can't find anything to cling to, trying to sabotage what is happening. But Nimu is relentless in his straightforwardness. He looks at me - down - over his shoulder in surprise: "It's going to last for eight hours." "Eight hours exclusively upwards?", I interrogate. "Eight hours exclusively up," Nimu reflects to me.
I'm almost desperate. It's like saying you have to run 120 kilometers or, say, 26 hours. It's impossible. Even if you have to run these 120 kilometres, you shall not think of them as a whole. Possible would be 3 hours, then another 3, 4..... Or, if you prefer, 10, 20 kilometers, 30.... That's how much the mind can accommodate and that's how you need to move through the distance.
I decide to live events. I look up - the lanterns of those ahead cannot be distinguished from the stars. It seems the mountain rises vertically and I cannot see the end or the edge. I look back under my feet, now looking back down the rock - far below there are long lines of adventurers who have yet to reach the place where I am now. Having defined my place in space, I mentally divide the distance into parts: the rock, the stones, the ridge, the crampons point (the place where we put the crampons on), the snow, the technical part where we have to use the railing, the summit. The gala event of the night is dawn. Now I can move in stages: forgetting about the final goal, climbing as if there is only a specific moment in time and one specific task. It's two o'clock in the morning, soon to be three. It is still dark. Stars of dazzling brightness. The chiselled silhouettes of the mountains.
The ability to be in the moment is a skill I've been trying to master all the time I've been in Nepal. For almost two weeks now, I've just been walking. From one village to another. Up and down. Meditative forward movement, enjoying the crazy views and detachment from the rest of the world - every day here I was happy to just live.
At the same time, I am constantly watching. The time, the number of steps walked, what and how much I ate. When I walk, I think about what I will do when I get to the end point - what I will order for dinner, what I will take out of my backpack, and what I will put away. I am so control-frozen that when choosing between whether to charge my phone or my Garmin (and I had to choose), I invariably choose a watch that will remind me again the next day to walk some distance and make me nervous about not counting the steps up. Such a foolish thing to waste time here like this. I am trying to come back in the reality which only matters. Forcing myself to look, to see, to remember.
This is my third time in Nepal. Late October evening of 2079, I found myself at the airport in Kathmandu (Tribhuvan). The nullification process began immediately. The phones didn't turn on, the roaming and wi-fi didn't work, and the guide didn't meet me. I was standing away from the airport building in a crowd of Nepalis, leaning on my huge backpack, and thoughtfully watching the tourists scatter, not knowing where I needed to go. "To Tamel," I tell the occasional driver the most popular address among visitors. A touristy area of the city with hotels, a market, restaurants, bars, a climbing wall, and rumor has it, even a strip club. One of the hotels is definitely mine. I wish I knew the name. I came up with the idea to ask a taxi driver to dial the number of my Nepalese vis-a-vis. He emotionally discusses something with someone who is presumably my unsuccessful encounter, I lean on the seat and happily recognize the places we pass. In just a few minutes I find myself at home. The main thing is not to be lost in the mountains, I think before I fall asleep sweetly after a full day's journey.
The next day was entirely at my sole disposal. There was no plan-except to enjoy the city. Kathmandu was bombarding me with smells, colors, and people. I went wherever I could see, smiling all the time, dodging mopeds every now and then. Funny. Almost immediately I was caught up in a story that shows the whole essence of deceptive Asian hospitality. This time people played a whole play on me, but it was nice to be a part of it.
The smiling guy offered to show me the way to Durbar Square, where the palace of the living goddess, Kumari, is located. I gladly agreed: seeing Kumari is considered a good omen. On the way we got to talking, my new friend turned out to be very sociable and open - in excellent English he told me about his family and with a genuine, as I thought, interest asked about my life in Moscow. In a short time we reached such a level of intimacy that I showed him a picture of my cat. The drive to Durbar was long and winding: we ducked into yards, my Nepali friend showed me how the locals did their rituals. There was a religious festival in town, it turned out. I learned how to properly place candles to the Hindu gods, and got a "tilaka"-a dot on my forehead that symbolized a blessing. After surrendering to the power of local traditions, I ended up at an academy where a friend of mine happens to be studying the art of creating mandalas (geometric drawings - models of the universe). I could not have dreamed of such a rapid turn of events in the first hour of my stay in Kathmandu. The hospitality and cordiality of the Nepalese in the person of a random encounter touched me to my core. I love such stories, they strengthen my faith in people (no matter what).
At the academy, a small apartment on the second floor of an apartment building, there were a lot of drawings - some that had just begun, some that had already been finished. Another boy materialized, and began to tell me about the mandalas - what they were painted on, and what it all meant. We talked about Nirvana, Sansara, and Buddha. I already knew that I couldn't leave without buying one of the drawings as a memento and a thank-you. Of course, that was the plan, but I was glad to be deceived in this way. It seemed to me that it was all for my own sake, and I wanted to thank the boys for their efforts. I bought the smallest mandala, which my guide had told me he had drawn himself. It had a special symbolism to it. Toward the end of our gathering, I wrote my name in a notebook, and I was promised to pray while I was on the mountain. Completely happy, I left my new Nepali friends, intent on continuing to disappear into Kathmandu. After showing me the way to Monkey Temple "with a great view of the city," the guy whose name I couldn't remember hugged me goodbye and disappeared. I smiled. I was pleased that the city was welcoming me in this way, and, more importantly, I believed that it was completely sincere and real.
I wandered into some not at all touristy area. I got lost and found myself. I sat on the curb for a long time, looking at the colorful houses, at the street, where life was breaking through everywhere - at the sky, at the flowering hedges, at the pigeons and funny dogs, at the children in school uniforms and women in saris who were hurrying somewhere.
I went back. I finally made it to Durbar, where I met another guide who tried to charge me for telling me that Kathmandu was a "wooden city”. I refused, telling what I thought was a cautionary tale of how disinterested his fellow citizens were in taking visitors around the city. They even show mandalas! He got very angry and said that my friends with mandalas were not friends at all, but businessmen. I did not want to believe him - until suddenly that evening my friend Egor Sharov, who by a miraculous coincidence on the same day was in Nepal, wrote me a message. With Egor, who along with Gela was going to go around Dhaulagiri, the guys I met earlier performed exactly the same manipulation - with candles and mandalas, which successfully culminated in a notebook, where eventually he found my name. When we met later at a Tibetan momos eatery (pelmeni, that is), we laughed at the ingenuity and cunning of the Nepalese. But again, being a victim of such deception was a pleasure. It's the magic of Nepal.
Things are different here. The Nepali calendar is about 56 years and 8 months ahead of ours. The time difference with Moscow is an unusual 2:45. When you meet, Nepalis say hello to the God within you ("Namaste") or, in the mountainous regions closer to Tibet, wish "Happiness and Peace" (Tashi Delek). There are castes, but not officially. In addition, the country is inhabited by many nationalities, each of which speaks its own language. For example, the Sherpas are descendants of Tibetans who migrated here in the Middle Ages. The Sherpas are indispensable in mountain climbing. They are believed to have an inherited altitude adaptation. Almost all of them are Buddhists. However, the leading religion in Nepal is considered to be Hinduism. Buddhists differ from Hindus, among other things, in their cleanliness. Thus, both burn their dead. Petya and I observed the funeral pyres at the Hindu sacred site of Pashupatinath. What remains of the deceased is dumped into the river, in whose waters the locals don't disdain to wash and shave. The river runs into the city and it is better not to think about what happens next. Buddhists keep the ashes of their dead loved ones at home in a special box, which is honored 49 days later buried in the jungle.
Jangbu, whom we met on the night of the mandala story, told us about this and much more on our journey. We are - me, Sonya and Petya. Sonya will be my roommate in all the lodges (guesthouses) we will visit, my sleeping bag solemate, my support in the moments when I feel very, very bad here, and my friend who will share in the happiness when I feel very, very good here. Petya. Petya on this trip is our angel. Not once he will save Sonya's and my life, although his modesty does not allow him to admit it ("If you can help, help"). Petya, by the way, also a runner, was the only one who never got sick, who never got cold and who never had a hard time. He never got tired and readily accepted all the hardships of camp life. People like Petya are eventually disliked, but Sonia and I routinely found him a source of courage and motivation to do heroic deeds.
We made the acquaintance of each other very quickly, because just a few hours after the guys arrived, we had to go on a fascinating journey from Kathmandu to Ramechapp - a place where the airport where the planes leave for Lukla is (and also the home village of the guy who was so enthusiastically telling me about sansara). Lukla (2 860 meters) is a legendary place. It is the staging point from which all the daring Everest ascents begin. Equally legendary is Lukla airport, which is considered one of the most complex in the world. The runway is only 520 meters long and falls into a deep ravine. If the pilots fail to get the plane into the air the first time, disaster is inevitable. There is no right to make a mistake.
Interestingly, there is also an airport in Namche Bazaar, where we will arrive in a few days on foot from Lukla. By flying there, we could save two or three days of travel. However, that airport is not used because the authorities thus support small businesses by letting tourists along the trail, where they eat and drink in a variety of guesthouses located between the two localities.
So, our first night together was a very tedious drive down a scary serpentine road - we drove 5 hours to wait another three hours for the plane, which was supposed to take us to our destination in 15 minutes. All of us, except, of course, Petya, were terribly seasick, very sleepy after a sleepless night. But all this could not spoil the joyful anticipation of an early rendezvous with the mountains.
One of the peculiarities of Nepal is disregard for schedules, traffic lights and other trappings of orderly life. Here reigns an organized chaos - it is unclear how, but everything works. For example, a plane in Nepal will either fly or not, I have known this since I tried to get from Jomsom village to Pokhara a long time ago. In Ramechapp (and in Lukla, as it became clear on the way back) much was determined not only by the weather, but also by the number of people waiting for the plane to depart. Let's say you only know that your departure is scheduled for 8 a.m. But that's just a reference point - the same for everyone else who also intends to leave. Planes to Lukla fly like shuttles - back and forth. So you'll probably leave on the fifth or, say, eighth flight.
After looking at the small propeller planes parked so far, and admiring the skill of the pilots who perform the intricate take-off and landing operations several times a day, we went to the nearest cafe - to wait for the fog to clear. Here we met Manu and his friends. Manu on this trip is my unfulfilled dream. A German, a Lufthansa pilot. Sociable, charming. A twisted look in his eyes. We sat at a long table. He and his company drank tea with chocolate chip cookies while we sulkily devoured sandwiches from hotel lunchboxes. "Give me cookie! Give me cookie! Give me cookie!," I muttered to myself in Russian, looking away, as if I wasn't even particularly interested in the others' breakfast. Petya and Sonya smiled. "Wanna cookie?", Manu suddenly holds out a box to me. Universe, you are undeservedly kind to me.
The acquaintance, which began with a cookie, continued on the street. We all waited for the plane together and talked about lots of things. Petya, me, Sonya, Manu, we shared our lives. Suddenly I had a burning interest in aviation. Manu was clearly interested in running (I, of course, told him that I had run the Berlin Marathon and had even written a book about it). We exchanged contacts. Manu and his group while going to Everest base camp had met us more than once on the way - at the lodges for lunch, on the trail... However, I was never destined to learn all the secrets of German piloting, for our group eventually turned off in the direction of Island Peak. I never saw Manu again, and now I am thinking with some sadness that I had given the wrong coordinates, which made it impossible to find me. But what could I do, a dream is a dream.
But that morning we were all still just getting started. We boarded the small plane, which, accelerating, slowed down just before takeoff. In the hanging silence, my guide said he was scared. But on the second try everything worked out, and after a few minutes of crazy views under the wing we landed in Lukla. Our ascent has officially started.
We didn't stay long in Lukla. We had lunch, met with the porters, and distributed our luggage. The peculiarity of trekking in Nepal is that it is accessible to absolutely everyone. Even those who are disgusted by the idea of trekking and carrying many kilograms of luggage. Meanwhile, the question is ambiguous. Sonya was tormented by the ethics of using other people's labor and tried in every way to relieve the burden of the young guy who was assigned to be in charge of her backpack. On my first visit to Nepal I was in solidarity with her, but this time I looked at the institution of porters from a slightly different perspective, preferring to think of it as an opportunity to earn good money, which is generally valuable in Nepal. Carries usually haul refrigerators and building materials from one village to another - for much lower wages. In contrast, the labor of mountain porters is partly regulated - there is a certain weight they can carry (although no one actually checks whether the norms are met), and it costs more by Nepalese standards. I've even read that porters have their own union. In general, getting into portering with tourists is considered good luck. In addition, after 5-7 years of such work, a porter can expect to become an elite mountain guide or trekking guide. But all this, of course, does not cancel the fact that the work of porters is very hard. One of our assistants fell ill halfway and another had to carry all three of our backpacks most of the time.
On the first day, the trek took only three hours. From Lukla starts one of the most popular treks in Nepal - to Everest Base Camp (EBC), so the trail is quite crowded, especially during the season. I constantly had to overtake someone to stay alone. By evening we were already in the village of Phading (2,610), where we stayed for the night in the first lodge. It is customary to stay at a place owned by the guide's friends or his family members, and it is considered unacceptable, for example, to stay in one lodge and eat in another. Somehow they find out about it right away and may even kick you out.
In Phading, I made the fatal mistake of going to bed with my head carelessly uncovered. The fact is that the lodge is a house without any heating, which at night in the mountains, the pampered civilization body is fully aware of. It is recommended to go to bed in a sleeping bag, to wear a lot of warm clothes and a hat on your head. I ignored this rule, and the first morning I got up feeling I had a wind. I had a stuffy nose and a sore throat. It seems to be nothing, but taking into account that we were gaining altitude I had no chance to recover. In general in the mountains, all life processes are much slower - hair and nails do not grow, wounds do not heal. Every day I was getting worse.
Monjo (2,855). We walk along a very scenic road - along the river, admiring the peaks, ridges, waterfalls, villages. On the way there are many interesting things - for example, in one village I bought a book about the culture of Nepal, signed (and sold) by the author. As a future writer, I felt a kind of solidarity.
At the entrance to Sagarmatha National Park there is a large checkpoint where you have to check in and show your pass. The park is huge - there are several iconic peaks, including Lhotse (8,516), Cho Oyu (8,201) and, of course, Sagarmatha, aka Jomolungma or Everest (8,848). Here is also our main goal, Island Peak (Imja Tse in Nepali). 6,165 meters high.
Island Peak got its name in 1951. When the members of the British expedition, who later became the pioneers (1953), saw the peak from the village of Dingboche, it reminded them of "an island in the sea covered with snow". One of the climbers was the future Everest conqueror, sherpa Tenzing Norgey. In fact, the mountain was a training peak before the first ascent of Jomolungma. For some reason, for a long time I thought that "Island" came from the word "ice". But it turned out to be from the word "island". Problems with names kept haunting me.
I was a bit disappointed, I admit, because the name of almost every mountain in Nepal means something usually very poetic. For example, Sagarmatha means "Mother of the Gods" or Manaslu means "Mountain of Spirits". In this case, the mountain was inexpressively called and looked the same. We look at the peak on the map, and afterwards, from the same village where the peak was observed by the pioneers. The mountain in the shape of a trapezoid seems to us quite low. Being on the same panorama with Everest makes it look like a hill. But of course it is not - Island Peak, like any other mountain, deserves respect. Despite its unsightliness, Island is not an easy target. The mountain is in classified 3A-3B, which means the climber needs to be in good shape and know how to use safety gear.
I was the least prepared for the technical challenges in our group: touching the safety equipment, though familiar to me, still arouses curiosity and a feeling of novelty. I should mention that, as it often happens with commercial climbing, in general all amateur climbers are taken on the mountain. Both those who can put on the crampons themselves and those who see them for the first time. Local guides usually conduct one introductory training session at the base camp or, a little lower, at the village of Chukhung before the ascent. On a simple rocky slope you go up with a jumar first and then down, but this is obviously not enough to feel confident on the mountain. Still, this is a technical skill that is built up by a number of repetitions. And people like me not only take risks for themselves, they also endanger others. I was helped directly on the ascent by my guide - so far it takes too much time for me to do it myself, and in general, every time I change the carabiner, I feel as if I am assembling my own parachute. However, I am well aware that if I go higher (and I will), I will have to close this gap.
From Phading we move to Namche Bazaar (3,446), the capital of the mountainous region. It takes about 6 hours to walk. Everything around is bustling, alive. Waterfalls, verdant slopes. Thickets of rhododendrons that will bloom in the spring. Suspended bridges. Buddhist prayer flags carried by the wind into the sky.
We do not gain more than 400-600 meters a day. Petya and I did not think it was serious - we were ready to cover much more distance in a day. Every time Jangbu, with a mixture of admiration and reproach, said that we were going too fast and ahead of schedule. At one of the first dinners, this prompted a conversation about whether it was possible to make the ascent earlier - the initial plan was to storm Island Peak on Wednesday night in the second week of our trip. Such a long acclimatization and wandering around the summit seemed excessive to us. With a specific goal in mind, Petya, Sonya, and I preferred to go to the trekking part (up to the EBC) after the ascent. But the guide insisted that there was no need to hurry.
Namche is beautiful - it became for us a picture of paradise, where we wholeheartedly longed to return to after the ascent. There's an Irish pub, coffee houses, a library, and a post office. Free plugs and warm water. The nights here are so warm that you can even get one foot out of the sleeping bag (though in a wool sock). We stayed here for two nights, climbing one day to the observation deck at 3,880 meters, the luxurious Hotel Everest View, from whose terrace, sipping ginger tea with lemon and honey (it replaced to me the traditional masala tea as a favourite one this time), one could admire Everest.
Frost on the grass, low vegetation, already quite cold. Following Jangbu's precept not to rush through life, I try to forget days of the week. More and more I prefer to be silent on the trail, I don't even want to listen to music - there are a lot of pleasant, natural sounds around. I do not want to read in the evenings. I wean from the phone in my hand. Internet - for a fee and not everywhere. I learn the news once in three days - superficially, from the headlines. Not finding reports that planes no longer fly to Russia, I turn my phone off, put it deep in my backpack and don't worry when the charge eventually runs out.
We are gradually forming habits for this trip. Taking the backpack apart every night and putting it back together in the morning was one of mine. Sonya, on the other hand, amazed me daily with her independence and nonchalance - she continued to lounge in her sleeping bag, even though I was stirring up a lot of activity in our common room at 6:00 in the morning. Petya lived in the next room, but by the end of the first week, in many ways we were in sync and could anticipate each other's actions. A sandwich for breakfast or a huge serving of pasta. Black coffee or coffee and milk. A jacket or two jackets. In the mornings, we all ordered hot pots together and make tea for the road. In the evenings we liked to indulge in apple pie. Apple pie has become a kind of Caesar salad - it is on the menu of all the lodges, but each of them cooks it differently. One could form an opinion about the quality of service in general by tasting a slice of this uncomplicated dessert.
When traveling in Nepal, you have to be prepared for the fact that there are things you have to put up with from the beginning. Well, for example, the inability to wash. No, of course, hypothetically such an option exists. Hot shower is in many lodges and is not very expensive, but it is often a gas burner with a mandatory open window in order to comply with safety regulations, or the shower cabin on the street. During the trek around Manaslu, I was once offered a bucket of heated water as a shower and a toilet, which was thus combined, so to speak, with a bath. But the main discomfort of hygienic procedures is the cold. It is indescribably cold to undress and bathe in such conditions at altitudes of four thousand or more. In the morning, the water in the tanks, from which it is suggested to draw water just to wash your face, freezes. What's more, the water in the bottle you leave near your bed at night to drink in the morning freezes to the state of ice. When we got to a real height, a simple brushing of the teeth became a challenge. Each time I almost cried because of how much my fingers were freezing after five minutes of awkward attempts to put myself in order. After I washed my face, I sat in my room for a long time, warming my hands in the pockets of my jacket, which I no longer took off. I wore gloves and a hat for breakfast.
For a long time you don't see yourself without clothes. In the evening and especially at night you often have half the contents of your backpack on and sometimes you hardly fit into your sleeping bag (yes, I know you have to do it without clothes - but, really, I haven't met a single person who does that). Every day you have fewer and fewer clean clothes - in the end all that matters is how warm they are.
But all these circumstances must be taken philosophically. In our over-saturated good life, we give too much importance to things that really aren't that important. Nepali life teaches us to be happy for the simplest of reasons - a hot home-cooked meal, a roof over our heads, a clear sky, the unrestricted possibility of communing with nature. The main condition is a stock of wet wipes, and that no one else in your group washes either, otherwise the harmony can be easily disturbed.
In Namche we stocked up on what we lacked for the climb. Petya couldn't resist a crazy orange jacket, I was looking for pills. My illness was progressing. Every night I had a high fever, I was choking on a cough and runny nose, I was short of air all the time. The nights became torture - I was cold and hot at the same time. Having once suffered from dysentery in Nepal, this time I took all possible remedies for intestinal infections, but the fact that I would fall ill here with a cold was absolutely not in my plans, so in my first aid kit was only "Strepsils" and "Teraflu", which quickly found their inability to fight the unknown disease that overwhelmed me. I desperately wished that the disease would become a mountain desease, so that I could hope that it would go away. My treatment was directed by Nastya, Petya's girlfriend, who advised me from faraway Yerevan about the proportions of "Nemisil" and "Teraflu", and then about how to take the antibiotics that the guys found me in the local pharmacy.
Cramping in my sleeping bag, I intended to call a helicopter the next morning and fly to Kathmandu, being sure that it was not safe to continue on the way in such a condition, much less to climb the 6,000-meter peak. Each morning, however, I felt as good as the day before. My journal entries during that time spoke of the onset of bipolar disorder: "What a sad day," and immediately, "What a wonderful day."
One of my favorite days was the road to Tengboche (3,867). Here is an ancient Buddhist monastery (Gompa), where we were even lucky enough to attend a service (the action, I must say, is mesmerizing - trumpet sounds, prayers in a strange language, thudding drums, fuming). But the Namche-Bazaar-Tengboche trail is, above all, magnificent for its views. The ascent underfoot is not felt at all - we walk up, "hugging" the mountain, with absolutely fantastic views of the already snow-covered peaks. Everest, Lhotse, Ama Damblam - in clear weather they will be visible all the way up. Gradients, shadows, valleys and rivers below. Firs with soft needles, somehow native birches, blue pines. All together it is divinely beautiful. Yaks, big shaggy cows carrying loads, are already coming across. If you see a column of yaks, you have to lean against the mountain, otherwise there is a risk of flying into the abyss.
It is also part of the route of the famous Everest Marathon, which, of course, could not leave me indifferent. The world's highest mountain race with a start at an altitude of 5,356 meters is held annually on May 29 - it was on this day in 1953 that Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay, the first men in the world, climbed to the summit of Everest. Marathon runners run mostly down to Namche Bazaar, where the finish line is located. It seems that this competition combines the best of everything - you can jump on the rocks, run downhill with a breeze, and have the opportunity to showcase the skills of running uphill. It's peppered with some truly breathtaking beauty. Definitely, the Everest Marathon goes to the list of competitions that I will definitely run someday.
From Tengboche we went straight to Deboche (3,890), which I remembered, among other things, for its rhododendron garden. On the trail and in the lodges it is still quite crowded, as we are all going in the direction of the EBC, but very soon the streams will separate. It was getting colder and more expensive to live in almost all the "boches." Besides, my illness continued to hold me tightly by the throat. "It's time to feel bad!", I joked at dinner, when at "my usual time" I felt a fever approaching. In the evenings I felt dirty and sore, molten from the altitude and the local food, and in the mornings I would jump up - happy to continue the way.
From Deboche to Dingboche (4,358). Fir forest again, thickets of juniper and rhododendron. Prayer walls (manu), Buddhist stupas decorated with prayer mantra flags. Around the stupas are prayer drums, which we always spin as we pass by. The vegetation gradually disappears. More and more often on the way I start to feel sleepy and dizzy on the last meters of ascent. I note to myself that I used to tolerate altitude much better - I didn't start to feel similar symptoms until 5,000 meters, but either it's my age, or a recent COVID, or the disease that's been plaguing me now.
Dingboche is the village where the British expedition saw Island Peak in 1951. I walk here like a fish thrown on the shore - with my mouth open, it's hard for me to breathe at all. My fingers and face go numb. At night I have a strange dream that I'm swimming - for some reason on the Hudson River - toward Manhattan. As it were - in a fleece, track pants, and boots. I swam, then rolled over onto my back, looked up at the sky, and decided I was tired. In my sleep I was ready to drown.
I wonder. What's wrong with me? Is it a cold that can't go away at altitude, or is it this strange mountain sickness? Or maybe it's karma cleansing? "He who has seen the Himalayas has purified his karma," says an ancient Indian epic. And, most importantly, at what point is it not too late to decide to go back? When difficulties overwhelm us, there is a great desire to surrender to the mercy of circumstances. We are faced with a choice - to show character or to make the easiest decision. I had the option of returning to Kathmandu and from there to Moscow, where I would have another week of blissful inactivity with a hot bath, walks, and books, both with my own and those of others. Could anyone condemn me for such a choice? After all, if you feel bad, you have to make yourself feel good. And the closer the climb was, the more I thought about the risks. I doubted that, if anything, someone would be able to save me by summoning a helicopter to the mountain, and I did not know whether I would be able to go down on my own, nor how the weakened body would behave at altitude. I had run marathons when I was ill, but I had never climbed a mountain in such a way. The guide or anyone else could not make the decision to go or not to go, I had to take it under my own responsibility. And it is very difficult to do when you're lying in a sleeping bag, dreaming only of warmth and air. Of course, in the city I would instantly feel better. But, being weaker than I had always thought I would be was one of my biggest fears. So in Kathmandu, standing under a hot shower, I would surely regret my choice. No, I don't want to go back. Sonya jokes that I just don't need to let myself stop - I have to keep going.
Up to Lobuche (4,928), where a couple or three hours to get to the legendary EBC, I walk slowly, without overtaking anyone - the altitude is humbling. On the way we saw the memorial - small monuments made of stones with prayer flags and nameplates full of love and melancholy for the deceased loved ones. Here they mourn for those who did not return and remain forever in the mountains. Italians, Belgians, there are also Russian names. Even Rob Hall - a New Zealand mountaineer and guide known for the tragic death of himself and several members of his team on Everest in 1996 - has been found. While we wait for Sonya, I wander among other people's memories and pain. Thinking, naturally, of death. By the end of the first week of trekking and a few days before the ascent, the top of my lungs began to ache and I was getting chills on the move as well. Helicopters were circling around temptingly - there are a lot of them here. Mostly tourist flights: not everyone is willing to go such a long way to see where climbers are preparing to summit Everest. But there are also many evacuation flights - you can only get out of here on foot, by horse (donkey) or by helicopter. In two weeks we did not see a single car. Any, even the simplest injury could be a reason to stop the trip, so taking out insurance, which includes a helicopter evacuation service, is an obligatory part of the preparations for the ascent.
Sonya finally shows up. I shake off my thoughts and helicopters from my head, grab my tracking poles and head for the guys.
The landscape changes. The snow-covered peaks seem even closer. Rocks, ice, cold rivers and emerald lakes. No greenery, soon disappearing and squat bushes with small purple flowers.
We also spent two nights in Lobuche. From here our main acclimatization trip was to Kalapatar ("Black Rock", 5,645), the summit of which offers a view of Everest, base camp and the Khumbu glacier.
Actually, a detour to EBC is not necessary for acclimatization - it is possible to get to the necessary altitude in Dingboche, but this was the program that we could not influence at all. Petya planned not to lose time and to reach EBC the same day we had climbed Kalapatar. It had originally been my idea. When we discussed the plan Jangbu said that we would not have time both to climb the mountain and go to the EBC, but it seemed to me and Petya quite realistic to do it in one day. The guide then marveled at our craziness, which, in fact, was the whole tsimes. But, as you already know, the closer was the possibility to do what we had planned, the worse I felt. At lunch after Kalapatar in the intermediate point between Lobuche and EBC - Gorak Shep (5,100) - I thought about my prospects and eventually decided not to risk and save my strength for the day X. Especially since there is no climbing on Everest in the fall, and now the camp stands empty. Petya said that the public, represented by his Instagram, was waiting for the promised result - a photo with "Everest Base Camp" on a rock - went solo and, to our great surprise, returned home before dinner. It seems no one had ever done that here before. I, on the other hand, decided that I would return to base camp the one spring when I ran the Everest marathon. "You won't get worse or better by being weak today," I wrote in my journal.
In fact, when we finally reached five thousand meters, the physical discomfort and malaise no longer bothered me. There was a stage of cleansing and rethinking. It was as if my illness was my passions coming out of me. It's as if it's payback for all my indiscretions and mistakes made on the way to Nirvana. I accepted everything that happened with gratitude. And, as it often happens, I began to feel better.
But in Lobuche, Sonya got sick an woke up with nausea and a sore head. "I'm tired of fighting to survive," my friend sighed, eating her morning dose of painkillers. Following the symptoms we attributed to mountain sickness, all of "mine" symptoms also manifested - by evening Sonya had a fever and developed a severe runny nose. Jangbu expressed the hope that we would feel better when we went a little lower, to Chukhung (4,730), where the ascent would start soon.
Jangbu turned out to be right. The way from Lobuche through Dingboche, which we had already known, was very pleasant at least for me. The altitude gradually let up, it became easier to breathe. It was very warm, there was no wind, and most importantly, I didn't feel any pain. How good it felt to feel strong and healthy and to just walk! I wanted to sing and dance, which I did, a little behind Petya and Jangbu. In Chukung, I felt completely healthy. For the first time in the evening I didn't have a fever. I had made it, or my body was mobilizing before the big throw.
In Chukhung you would meet people who had descended from Island Peak, or who were just getting there - almost no one from the EBC this time. The lodge where we stayed was quite spartan. Wooden barracks, the room is a realm of cold, there are no nightstands, no trash can, no hooks on the walls (meaningless prose of life, I agree), and no water in the barrel, to which a sock was tied for some reason. Sick Sonya made a scandal and we were quickly moved to the second floor where it was slightly warmer.
But no amount of domestic turmoil could further dampen my sense of absolute happiness that I felt every minute in this village - especially when I went for an afternoon walk along the river the day before the climb and saw the signs for the start of the trail to Island Peak. I wanted this mountain like nothing else.
Before leaving for Island base camp (5,240) we had a rest day. We rent the missing equipment from the owner of our lodge: ice axes, crampons, helmets, boots, belaying system, jumars and carabiners. The rest of the day we devoted to packing assault backpacks (part of the luggage would be left in Chukhung to await our return) and to a short training during which Jangbu showed us how to correctly jumar, strap in and out, and knot.
Little was known about the ascent in advance. Only contradictory information coming from other climbers and sympathizers. We were mostly interested in the length of the rope to be climbed on the final ascent to the summit (from 5 to 400 meters) and the temperature on the mountain (from minus 26 to complete, according to participants of previous expeditions, outcrop at the summit). We only knew for sure that we do not have satellite phone, and, as it turned out later, a working walkie-talkie. However, the trust in our guides' experience and Sherpas' legendary endurance outweighed all the doubts, although Sonya and I had a lot of fun playing the scene of trying to reach the insurance company at 6,000m: "Could you please tell us your exact address? Sorry, can't hear you."
The climb was scheduled for Wednesday to Thursday night. From Chukhung it takes 2.5 to 3 hours to get to the base camp by a gentle ascent among old moraines. On Wednesday, quite late, about 11 am, we left the village. We pulled deliberately - we wanted to spend as little time as possible in the tent and went without hurrying. In a halt while waiting for Sonya, dozing in the sun, I felt the altitude again. By the way, Jangbu had told us that one must not sleep on high altitudes during the ascent. He even showed me a video of Sherpas pulling a poor climber out of his tent who, tired after the summit, had fallen asleep at 8,000 and accidentally taken off his oxygen mask. The body was picked up from the mountain two years later by relatives. I reluctantly opened my eyes. Gradually my head began to squeeze in a vise and a characteristic pain appeared in the back of my head. Petya treated my altitude sickness with tea and apricots brought from Yerevan.
In the tent-dining room, where we, having reached the place, sat down in anticipation of the fried pasta and bread we were offered as lunch, opposite us sat quite badly burned and weathered men, who looked like they had just come down from the summit. One had a huge black eye for some reason. While we were pondering the nature of the injury, a group of Russian guys, whom we had already met the day before in Chukhung, materialized. It was a company of large, bearded men who stood out starkly against the stunted Nepalese. "Vikings. No. Bogatyrs," Petya said respectfully. The guys turned out to be from somewhere in Vladivostok - noisy and very Russian. "Trekking - it is hard, and mountaineering - it is a controlled way out beyond one's abilities, self-testing", one of them thoughtfully sipping tea, characterized our activities. The realization that the big Russian guys would be on the mountain the same night as we were, made us feel calmer.
Walking from camp a little higher up, just beyond the moraine, I found a simply stunning view of the Imja Tse mountain lake. Its waters are constantly fed by the Imja glacier, which rises right into the lake, and on the surface of the water you can see the blocks of ice chipped from the glacier. The lake makes a rumbling noise, and if you look closely, you can see how it beats in waves against the high ice shores.
Going to sleep is scheduled for 6 p.m., rising at midnight, and hitting the trail at 1 a.m. It's getting dark quickly, we're getting ready for dinner. All the talk, of course, is about the upcoming challenge. Who is planning to wear what ("Nobody died of the heat on the mountain yet!"), whether we need helmets, whether we take ice-axes, when it is better to have a safety rope. Katya, the only girl who was a member of the Russian knights, gives us freeze-dried meat, we help ourselves. Meat is a delicacy in Nepal, and we miss chicken breasts and steaks (and also fruits and vegetables). "Come on, let's all go up," comes from the other end of the table. "Pensioners (referring to the Europeans we saw at lunch) are up - so it's a sin for us not to be up, too." I disagree. "To begin with, not getting up is not a sin." While I am prepared to make the effort, I accept any possibility of this happening. After all, life is more precious than mountains.
After food, having put on almost everything that I was going to climb the mountain, I climbed into a sleeping bag. Anticipating not just a cold night, but a very cold one, Sonya and I moved Petya into our tent. Jumping ahead, I would say that all three of us seemed to enjoy the night. Before going to bed we watched "White Sun of the Desert" (there's something about watching a movie about the desert and the sea while lying in a tent surrounded by snow) and dove into a shallow sleep. Snoring began immediately on all sides from different tents. Vikings are Vikings, no matter what.
On the night of the climb everything was working out just fine from the start. Those few hours that we spent in the tent turned out to be not as terrible as we had imagined the day before. It was cold, of course, but no colder than any other night in some Ding- or any other "boche". Petya breathed in my direction, while Sonya snuggled up against my back with her entire sleeping bag and I, taking the most advantageous place in the tent, curled up snugly, felt cozy and even warm for a while.
At midnight I climbed out of the tent in joyful anticipation of events. It was much warmer outside than the promised minus 26. There was no wind at all. The outlines of the mountains stood out against a background of deep-black sky, and the stars were shining so brightly and there were so many of them that it was impossible to make myself look away. I could just stand and look at the constellations and nebulae, which no other city in the world could see, until morning. But I had to distract from contemplation - the timing is tight, no one will wait. A light breakfast - eggs or oatmeal, a cup of tea or coffee, getting some food (cookies, juice, apple), and we are ready to go. The fireflies lanterns stretched out. "Have an easy leg, guys!" I say out of habit.
The trail turns steeply upwards almost immediately, we walk along the moraine berms. A little higher up the road we see the assault camp (about 5,500) - it is a lonely tent with a lighted torch in it. There is a rocky couloir from the assault camp. Screes. Tours - piles of stones. On the whole there is nothing very difficult - everything is passable by feet, but in couple of places on short sections you will have to help yourself with hands a little. The main difficulty here was that every step was made with a little more effort than on the flat. I breathe deeply and try to catch the right pace - I'm not rushing anywhere this night. I know that a quick start kills the finish.
Petya helped me all the way. He gave me his puffy coat, which was very warm to live in. He fed me and gave me tea when I was too lazy to get my own (the thermos was wrapped in a wool sock and tucked away deep in my backpack). Took my helmet, which, while strapped to my backpack, was hurting my head. I was given all the comfort and security possible on the mountain - all I had to do was walk.
A rocky ridge about 10 meters up led us to the beginning of the glacier. The long-awaited crampons point. Petya, Nimu and I arrived here at the beginning of dawn. We put on our equipment: the crampons, the harness. We hesitated while Nimu was tying the rope. In some time the path will lead us to a steep snow slope, where there will be a closed glacier under our feet and there is a risk of cracks, which we can't see now, so we have to go together. Petya and I thought it was unnecessary and even dangerous, considering that in the end neither of us took ice axes, but we preferred not to argue with Nimu.
After about 20-30 minutes, we find ourselves under a slope with a railing (ropes). This is the only technical and the most difficult part of the route. The slope is 45-50 degrees of steepness (though Sonya and I estimated it to be 90 degrees) and it goes to the summit ridge. Petya, perfectly mastering the jumar, rushed up. I stayed with Nimu, who commanded my movement. To be honest, I am terribly bad at all kinds of sports where, besides my body, there is some other mechanism - rollerblading, biking, skating, climbing, so this early morning I can't understand how a jumar should help me. I put all the load on my legs, and my calves in an uncomfortable - hanging - position are instantly clogged. The jumar in my hands was moving freely, not giving me a fulcrum, but only making me uncomfortable, because I had to strap it 10 times, along with the whole harness. Just about to get the hang of it, I reached the knot where the operation with the self-belay (safety first!) had to be started from the beginning. Nimu was hanging on another rope and, while no one was here but us, he could help me with the technical part. I'm really tired, but the rope won't stop. I lift my head and see Petya's back - the slope itself seems endless. We spent about an hour and a half here. The sun has already risen. The only thing that kept me from the desire to leave everything was the summit which I could finally see.
We unbuckled for the last time and reached the ridge. Nimu went forward. Up to the right - 100 meters along the narrow ridge. 26 steps.
Petya smiles and holds out his hand to me. Almost six thousand and two hundred meters above sea level. My Everest. My top of the world. I freeze, looking in all directions. Lhotse. Nuptse. Ama Dablam. Other mountains whose names I do not know. And silence. Absolute silence and peace. I take in a chest full of air. Tiredness vanishes like a hand. The world is so beautiful. I feel grateful for the opportunity to live and - to see it as God intended. Now I feel truly free and happy.
Finally being in the (very) moment and feeling it fully, I even forget to take my commemorative photo. But Nimu says it's time to go down.
We had to go down the same path, repeating all the stages of the ascent in reverse order. On the railing we found a queue of those who followed us on the ropes. We were lucky - having climbed in a record 6 hours (okay, me in 6:20), it was just the three of us on the tiny patch of the summit. Nimu reminded me how to abseil - put your feet on the slope and push off, holding the rope behind you with one hand and pulling it up, setting your own direction with the other. It was necessary to look back over my shoulder in order not to run into someone who was coming up from below. Abseiling turned out to be no easier than using jumars, so when I finally got my feet firmly on the snow and untied the rope, I sighed with relief - the most difficult part of the ascent was behind me.
We crossed the glacier again, took off our belaying harnesses and crampons. We undressed. We had tea and snacks for the road. We had a long stony descent ahead of us. According to tradition Petya went forward, I got the guide, but he went somehow by himself, giving me a chance to go down, choosing the way by myself (not always the obvious one), while he was running forward - now sitting, now running. Going downhill is always harder for me than going up, where I am as focused and concentrated as possible. On the descent I lose concentration and the last strength, begin to think about the finish and suffer from the monotony of the movement. The descent from Island Peak was complicated by the fact that there was not a single slope where I could give my legs a rest - when the rocky section ended, the endless descent down stone steps began. My big toes were badly crammed into my heavy boots, and by the beginning of the second hour the pain was no longer allowing me to walk quickly, which made the descent agony even worse and prolonged.
The guide continued to keep a respectful distance, apparently realizing that at any moment I would be ready to snap at him, as if it were his fault that so many rocks had been poured here. However, soon the lake appeared in the distance and two hours after we had started the descent from the crampons point, I found myself at the base camp - exactly at 11:05 am, where Petya had been waiting for me for an hour. It took me 10 hours to get up and down, it took Petya 9 hours, and it was so fast that the Sherpas hadn't even waited for us there. They were drinking tea and getting ready to meet the climbers with lunch much later, so we ate the leftovers of either supper or breakfast. But we didn't mind: it was not in our plans to stay longer in the camp. After quickly gathering our things and taking our porter as an escort, we ran towards Chukhung, where we planned to wait for Sonya and Jangbu.
We arrived in the village a couple of hours later, before dinner. And this is where fatigue finally caught up with us. It was cold again, and the fog had gone down, but we felt warm and comfortable in the knowledge that a great job had been done.
However, Sonya and Jangbu still did not appear. There was no communication with base camp. "They probably stayed in the tent," Petya suggested. And added: "The simplest explanation is the most correct." For some reason I found it hard to breathe again. Falling asleep for the first time in a long time without Sonya, I was worried about her, thinking that she was spending the second night in the tent after such a difficult day, but this time all alone. In the morning we decided that if the guys didn't show up soon, Petya and I would go back to camp. But as it turned out, Petya was right - having descended the mountain in 16 hours, Sonya refused to go further and she and Jangbu stayed at the base camp. Unfortunately, we did not know about it until the guys arrived at the lodge. There was no way to contact the camp from Chukhung that night, nor was there any way to contact Chukhung from the camp and, say, call for help. "How come, Jangbu, you didn't have walkie-talkies?" we asked our guide afterward. "Why, we had them," he replied. "They just didn't work." The magic of Nepal.
Next followed the return descent along the familiar trail. Deboche. Pangboche. Everything was green again, rivers were buzzing, birds were singing and yaks were walking. Each day was getting warmer and the air was so thick that you could cut it with a knife. By tradition, Sonya was waited for everywhere. At one of the resting places we stretched out on the lawn in the sun. They lay down and looked at Island Peak, on top of which we had stood only twenty-four hours before. We were silent about our own things. It was a strange feeling. It was as if everything was over now, and we were saying goodbye to the Mountain, to the Himalayas. It was undoubtedly an interesting and challenging marathon. I am sure that this experience in many life situations later on will make me feel firmly on my feet. I asked myself how I feel now. I was pleased with myself, a little proud even, and immeasurably happy. "And looking from the top of the mountain, from where you see all your problems resolved, you wonder, "How did I not realize at once?" As if there was something that was possible to realize" (Exupery, "The Citadel").
Dobuche. Tengboche. Namche Bazaar again, where you can actually see home already. These last days were a real fairy tale. "How happy I am to be here," I report to Jangbu at one of the stops. He laughed. We saw peacocks in the woods, talked about relationships at lunches, and met people along the way who were just starting out on the EBC. Once we also met runners who had apparently come for the Solukhumbu Trail Race, which was scheduled to start here one day (254 km with a set of 5,500 meters). A guy with a trail backpack whizzed past me - with some envy I followed him with a glance. The lower we descended, the more I caught myself thinking that I measured the distance between the villages not by hours, but by kilometers, and when I learned that Lukla was only 18 ahead, of course, I was a little sorry that I couldn't leave my things and rush off. The local trails are very tempting to run through them, but at the same time, the magic of Nepal is that by a long slow walk it immerses you in yourself, and sometimes I think that running can inadvertently destroy this magic. So it didn't take me long to regret I could not run. On the contrary, I stretched our last day as much as I could. And we almost didn't even wait for Sonya - either she was getting faster, or may be we had finally adapted to her pace.
Even before I reached the final point, I was already missing the mountains. In Lukla, a big city with a slight hint of the Middle Ages, we took a commemorative photo and leisurely proceeded to our final resting place. In the evening we had dinner together, which is the custom here. We invited our porter, whose name we could never remember, Jangbu, ordered local apple wine and reminisced about our adventures together. We definitely got lucky with our guides. Jangbu and ... uh, no names this time, our porter were wonderful guys. Kind, hard-working, helpful. I would definitely go hiking with them again (but I would probably give Jangbu a walkie-talkie first).
At Lukla airport, as expected, we spent a couple of extra hours before getting on our plane. The airport was already crowded with tourists having the same conversations - about the routes they've traveled, the lack of clean clothes, and the desire to get under a hot shower. I leaned my forehead against the window and stared for a long time at the way the lively mountain planes landed and took off. The mood was melancholy - everything was almost over, very soon I will be in the place I dreamed of, and I will have everything I needed: a big bed without a sleeping bag, clean clothes, hot water in the tap, hair that smells good, and really warm sun - so warm that I don't even have to wear thermal underwear. But none of that seems to matter to me anymore. In a couple of days I'd be ready to move on. Jangbu, how far is it to the next village?
Kathmandu. The last sunset in Nepal. After looking at the stupas, the monkeys and seeing Kumari, we walk through Durbar Square, where just a couple of weeks ago it was just beginning for me. "Petya, I'm cold," I shiver in just a T-shirt. Petya fulfills the role of an angel until the end - pulling a windbreaker out of his backpack. "Will you go with me to Manaslu?", I ask. Jangbu says I can do it, and now I need a team. Petya is not embarrased. "And will you come with me to Ama Dablam?"
I smile. Kathmandu, this is not goodbye.
