By Helen Han, Recent Retiree, EVC
Vertical
It was silly really, a wager between friends in an exuberant moment. “Whoever gets to Everest Base Camp (EBC) first wins!” I think the prize was a bottle of “really good wine.” Pinky promise notwithstanding, I proceeded to forget the bet, and it wasn’t until two years later that the idea came to the fore again. At that time, I overheard at the Explorer’s Club in New York that “..actually, EBC isn’t technical at all. It’s just a long walk.” Hmmm… something about something in the Himalayas again… Still, it wasn’t until I was actually in Nepal to do some other work, plans which fell through, that the seed planted between friends came to fruition. When I found myself at loose ends in Katmandu with three weeks of open time ahead of me, I thought of the bet seriously. “Why not? I’m already here.” It was quick work finding a guide since Katmandu, specifically Thamel is full of agencies and outfitters to get you up to the Tenzing-Hillary airport in Lukla (deemed the world’s most dangerous airport) and beyond. Prepping was the easy part. Even the short flight to Lukla was uneventful. Then seven days walking to get up to 17,598 feet, including two days along the way to acclimate to the increasing altitude. The first at Namchee Bazaar, colorful and vibrant, and the second at Dingboche, a friendly Sherpa village at 14,239 feet in a cold part of the world. A bonus- first sight of Everest’s peaks. In spite of the two days, got altitude sickness anyway.
Gorgeous pine forests leading up to the heights with slender silver streams glinting through the branches of lush rhododendron and ironwood trees. Smiling brown children, lumbering yaks and hearty porters, who carried barrels of fuel and cords of wood using belts across their foreheads. Neck power really. String-like bridges where we let the yaks pass first, in case they fell through so we wouldn’t. There were many small daily delights like hard boiled local eggs with the yellowest yoke, and constant wonders, human and natural, as we went up, up, up. Sometimes you’d feel like someone was watching you, only to turn around to see a great granite mass leaning over your shoulder. Though the behemoth was thousands of feet high and away, it was breathing down your neck.
Lots of lentils, hot lemon ginger tea and Bob Marley in the guest houses where all the pilgrims gathered every night. We had to gather, as there was only one wood stove in the middle of the “dining room.” The word rustic doesn’t even come close, though we were made comfy with colorful rugs, thin cushions and sincere smiles. Even though we could walk in T-shirts during the day, the nights were frigid, leaving ice crystals on the windowpanes (which were often made of plastic tarp-no insulation, but great views!).
If I hadn’t learned early on to fill my stainless steel water bottle (the ones that say “Do not use with hot water”) with boiling water (for a small price) just before bed, I don’t think I could’ve kept on going. And I did see people turn back along the way. What I’d do is fit the scalding bottle snuggly into a sock so I could handle it. Then thrust it into the bottom of my sleeping bag while I took care of my evening ablutions in a basic (very, and tiny, sometimes outdoors) bathroom. None of the rooms had heat; just the dining room with the smoking wood stove which we all loved and practically worshipped before we shuffled off to bed. But I had the sock-wrapped bottle of hot water in my below-zero sleeping bag, within which I reserved and maximized the small source of heat. I would make sure each part of my body got some contact with the warmth throughout the night. By the morning, the bottle was tepid, cold. It was time to get up and go for a cup of hot lemon tea and some much-beloved wood stove heat. It was like this right up to the final leg up to the big rock at EBC. This last stretch up was the second hardest part of the whole trip. The long lean trail winding up looked desolate and endless, with occasional blue sheet formations that belied the glacial crystals under the stunning greenish-blueish facets. Frigid winds swirling past and through all the layers. Lips turning blue and shivering in spite of having everything I owned on my back, we got there, jumped on the rock, hugged each other, took pictures and soon enough, it was over, time to turn around, the goal attained, the base (if not the summit) achieved.
I say second hardest because it turned out the trip down was harder than the way up. Going up, I was fresh. Not to mention eager with my aim before me to pull me on. On the way down though, the deed was done, my motivation spent, my lips black with exhaustion. My whole body ached and above all, I was tired. Tired to the bones. Tired in the heart. Luckily, my guide took me by a side trail where a friend of his ran an out-of-the way teahouse. There in my own Shangri-la, I rested for two days, the sole guest, sleeping, eating scrambled eggs and french fries (the specialties of the house), reading and considering the highest clouds I’d ever see.
I dreamed about Korean food on the way down after my brief convalescence. As I walked down the rocky terrain, down to more verdant Sherpa villages, I’d cook entire meals in my mind. I’d deliberate and choose the menu, gather and wash, slice and chop, marinate, cook the best ingredients, and finally savor and relish my childhood favorites of chive kimchee, mung bean pancakes, and New Year’s mandu dumplings. I’d reimagine classic Korean dishes (kimchee stew with extra napa and pork belly instead of neck bones? ), mixing my own sauces (mayo may not actually be incompatible with gochujang chile paste), and wondering with my mouth how it would all taste. Lucky for me, there actually was a Korean restaurant in Katmandu. Just one and I hope it’s still there. I ate there for three days after I got back to altitude fit for humans. It was the “run-back-home” comfort I needed at the end of this difficult, but true to the word, not at all technical walk. My friend was gracious as he brought the bottle over, “Well, if it’s not technical and anyone can do it…”
Horizontal
It was eight months after I’d packed away my heavy hiking books, the below-zero sleeping bag and my expedition gear, when I found myself walking horizontal and westward on another long walk. In shorts and sandals this time. Maybe the vertical had been more stressful that I’d thought. In any case, this was sweet! No cold temperatures, little Spanish villages with tapas, pintxos, local wines and a straight flat walk. No problem! And if we average the whole Camino Francés, might only have to walk five or six miles per day. Of course, more on some and less on others, but easy, right? I might even be in better shape at the end of it-stronger, more stamina and at one with the road. High hopes for a rigorous walk while eating fine food and drinking good wine.
By the time I got to Santiago di Compostela, I was like an old lady, mincing my steps and looking for any occasion to put my backpack down. What I’d failed to factor into my Outdoor Explorer dreams was that I’d be spending every night in a different albergue or hostel. In dorm rooms, often coed, with snores, farts, rustles and mumbles, and men in speedo underwear coming down those little bunk bed ladders. And though the hard or lumpy mattresses did indeed add to the difficult sleep, it was really the public nature of the sleeping space that robbed me of any restorative benefits that could weave together “the raveled sleeve of care.” And every night!
Actually, I met a 60-year-old Swiss woman on one of the first few days of the walk after we started at St. Jean Pied de Port. She was in the dorms with a few of us, but over the next couple days as we all become separated according to our different walking rates, she disappeared and our paths no longer crossed. Then about two weeks later, in the wee hours of one morning, just as I was heading out, I saw her coming out of a four-star hotel (most villages had better accommodations, usually for tourists, not us trudging pilgrims). I greeted her saying “Treat yourself to a nice room last night? ” She looked at me and said “I’ve been staying in at least a four-star hotel since day three.” I was taken aback and she could see it. “I’m too old for dorms and giggles in the night. I can afford a hotel every night, so why suffer? This is how I’m doing the Camino!” I have to say, I admired (and envied) her.
This walk was quite different from the one to EBC. But also similar. As before, it was meeting the locals, seeing the children playing with whatever was around, and getting to know the hardworking people who didn’t have two of everything that brought an unexpectedly rich element to the physical effort. Not everyone was immediately friendly, frequently reserved and observing. But most had a shy smile, curious about other parts of the world, of the lives of the stream of people passing through. And overwhelming hospitality once a connection was made. That was true almost everywhere I went. In Spain, the beauty of the land from the Pyrenees past the wine country of La Rioja onto the open spaces of the Meseta. Sometimes I remembered the frozen blue green glaciers. Felt the bone-chilling night cold. Then I’d look up at the endless heather, fields of flowers and green, green everywhere. Or feel the bustle of a city I was walking through in a light summer dress. Feeling the luxurious Spanish sun, the dark rich soil or ancient cobblestones beneath my sandals. Is this the same planet?
It took me forty days when others walked the 479 miles in thirty. But as on the trip back from EBC, I took a few days off here and there to enjoy (recover) myself. It wasn’t a race for me and the extra days gave me a chance to rest and encouraged my appreciation of the land, the people and the food!
Retired and In Place
If I walk, it takes 20 minutes. If I drive, 120 seconds. “How about if I drive to the trailhead and then walk an extra 18 minutes on the trail?” I ask my self. And my self agrees.
It wasn’t until I got a dog that my walks locally took on any color or consistency. And now that I’m retired, I hike the county parks of San Jose where dogs are allowed and parks stay open till sunset. Many don’t even require paid parking!
So now, I find myself walking practically in place, in my own San Jose place, within a few miles of my house. Santa Teresa County, Calero, Almaden Quicksilver, Uvas, Sanborn, not to mention the beaches, and so much more. There’s a part of the Oak Cove trail in Calero, where you come upon a curve in the road with silhouettes of shaded tree trunks alongside. A few steps on, tall trees frame a sight of sparkle and blue of Calero reservoir in the distance. Under the cover of the trees, seeing the distant endless sky and glint of water, I could be walking in a forest by the Dudh Koshi River in Nepal or through a wooded valley in sight of the Miño in Galicia. This moment of the trail always evokes a sweet sense of longing and poignancy. I walk past the stately trees, out into the sunlight to see the lake opening up wide, with rolling hills rising green sometimes brown around the splash of blue. So close to home.
I still want to do the Tour du Mont Blanc and the West Highland Way. But even if I don’t get to them, like Dorothy, I’ve found treasures enough in my own backyard. (Thanks to retired life and the peripatetic dog 🙂