Around Everest Base Camp, you're well above the tree line, and while in May you won't see much snow during the day, around you magnificent glaciers tower in all directions, punctuated by the occasionally rocky cliff. Every so often, you're able to see the tip of Everest itself poking shyly out from behind Nuptse, the 7,821 m "small" mountain positioned directly in front. To get the best look at the top of the world, one usually had to climb Kala Pattar, which we were standing beneath--"only" 5,545 meters, or 18,200 feet. Thousands of feet higher than the tallest mountain in North America.
We were debating: up or down.
Flash back to me the night before, at 5,200 meters, at the teahouse on our return from Everest Base Camp. The entire trip, I amongst our team had suffered the least from altitude sickness, which can cause nausea, headaches, loss of appetite, and in its more serious, dangerous stages, vomiting, disorientation, and death. I'd walked to EBC in high spirits, sat and had a lunch of Tibetan bread with my team to celebrate getting all twelve members to our goal, and then merrily trotted back down the hill to bed.
Except that, as soon as I'd unrolled my sleeping bag, I became terribly unwell. I found myself inexplicably sitting with my head on my knees, dead asleep in the middle of the dining room, only waking long enough to wanly place a halfhearted dinner order.
It took five minutes of staring at my noodle soup before I could get any down, and then I almost gave up on my omelette. The worst thing you can do at elevation, though, is take in too few calories. Another twenty minutes later, I persevered through the last bit of egg and pushed my plate away.
A fellow trekker, trying to console me, offered a bite of Cadbury. "If I feel like this tomorrow," I said limply, "I'm not going to Kala Pattar."
We were all feeling a little run-down, to be honest. We were on our eighth day of trekking at extreme altitude, and we had all developed Khumbu cough--a wet, persistent cough common above a certain elevation--and the air was so thin even walking took immense effort. Let alone walking uphill. Let alone walking to the top of a mini-mountain before sunrise to get a view of Everest. Rumor had it that you could see just as much from halfway up Kalla Pattar.
Halfway up was where my group now was, debating whether to call it a day and descend to our next camp, or whether anybody would actually try for the top.
I climbed a few feet above the group to have a moment with the view, still strugging for breath. Just about everyone wanted to descend. I was feeling better, but after struggling so badly I was nervous about going any further. Most of my compatriots agreed, and after snapping a few photos trudged back down with our guides.
But one Brit still wanted to go up. "Come on," he said. "It's only a piddly little hill." He and a guide gave us a wave and started walking.
I swore to myself and shook my head. I pointed at him with my walking stick. "We're going to walk slowly, OK?"
"Pardon?"
"We're walking slowly." Then I got into line behind him.
"Bugger," said another Brit, And then there were three. We trudged upwards.
It wasn't the steepest climb of my life, and I wasn't exactly speeding along, but that next half-hour was pure respiratory hell. Cough, wheeze, cough, wheeze, and all the while my legs and lungs burned with the exertion. Even our Sherpa guide just sort of trudged along, setting a snail's pace and looking spent.
It didn't matter. Even after being sure I wouldn't make it, even after questioning if I'd get out of bed, I found myself at the top of Kala Pattar with Everest, the South Col, Nuptse, Ama Dablam, and the whole Himalayan panorama surrounding me.
What's funny is, I had never seen a mountain until I was eighteen years old. I went to Vancouver for Spring Break my freshman year of college and my friends still laugh about how I hadn't known mountains came in ranges. Eight years later, I was on top of a Himalaya. A piddly little Himalaya, maybe, but on the horizon was the tallest mountain the world. I felt like hell, but it was worth every step.
The sun had already risen over Everest and the wind picked up, sending the prayer flags fluttering. "OK," I said, finally looking downhill. "Let's go home."
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