Social climbers, mostly, in Himalayas

BOB STARK

November 26, 2008 at 11:05AM AKST

“Beep beep, beep beep.”

I pulled my arms out of the down-sleeping bag, stiffly reaching over to turn off the alarm. My body was filled with aches and pains from the past week.  

“What time is it?” Sarah muttered.

It was 4:10 a.m. We had to get up, we really didn’t want to, but we had to.

The previous night we had slept at 12,795 feet, and Sarah, showing signs of altitude mountain sickness, had tossed and turned the entire night. I knew she wasn’t going to get any rest tonight either, being that we would climb to 14,764 feet. We couldn’t stay another night here; she wouldn’t have the energy to make it over the pass without sufficient sleep. We slowly crawled out of our warm and cozy bags and began packing our stuff. Today was the day we had been anticipating since the beginning. Lying in the Himalayan Mountains of Nepal, the Thorong Phedi pass stands 17,769 feet, and today, we were going over it.

Eight days before we had begun the Annapurna Circuit Trek, hiking anywhere from four to eight hours a day, slowly gaining elevation with each step. Thus far we had walked through countless small mountain towns and caught a glimpse of the real Nepal we had come to see.

The only way for the locals to obtain supplies is by yak or donkey caravans. Strong family members make the multi-day treks, carrying the necessities in huge straw baskets and bearing the weight with a strap which runs around their forehead. This is called portering, and it’s a big business with the trekkers who come from all over the world to hike the mountains of Nepal. Not wanting to carry their own over-loaded backpacks, many pay the locals roughly $8 a day to carry their gear for them, and then make loud complaints about the high price and slow pace of the porters. Every local we passed along the way we gave the melodious greeting of “namaste,” blessing the god within each and every one of them and feeling bad for the ones carrying the other hiker’s gear. We crossed countless dodgy suspension bridges, hiked through wild-cannabis fields with plants as big as trees, and all-the-while we had the pass in our sights and minds.

We arrived to base camp the previous day, to a light snow and thick fog that barely allowed us to see five feet ahead. Upon entering the restaurant countless pairs of eyes turned towards the door to judge the condition of the newcomers. The temperature was right around the freezing point, which to Alaskans is really not all that bad. Instantly we began to laugh at the pathetic sights which sat before us, completely bundled from head to toe as if they were in Nome during February. After dropping our bags in our room, we took seats next to a pair of Israelis who sat reading their books without any movement whatsoever. Both wore mittens, neck gaiters, beanies with those long stringy things that hang off the top, down jackets and snow pants, resting their cameras on the open books in front of them so they did not have to use their hands to hold them.

There was another couple from the Lower 48 who, not allowing us the privilege to enjoy our books or silence, decided to pester the hell out of us for a while with those same typical questions. “So, what do you think about Palin? Are you voting for her? What does your state think? Have you ever been to Wasilla? What’s it like?”

They must have not realized that some of us leave our states and countries to escape the same old conversation topics we always seem to have with strangers. We deterred their useless questions with the truth, “We really don’t feel like talking about it. That’s why we left.” They took it as us being rude, though we didn’t feel that way at all.

It felt like we were at the premier day of the X-Games, or the Telepalooza contest in Girdwood. Everyone was wearing the latest and greatest gear, and all of it matched. People were decked out in mountaineering boots, waders, snow pants and jackets, trekking poles; you name it, they had it. And there we were, Sarah wearing her Capri-style “yoga pants” with leg-warmers and a pair of running shoes and I had on some light, baggy pants I had bought in India the previous week for one buck with a pair of second-hand Adidas shoes. Both of us were wearing our standard fleeces with light rain jackets, which were easily a few years old. But for some reason, which was strange to everyone there besides us, we were not shivering, or whining. (Either we Alaskans are used to the cold or the majority of Alaskans are simply more bad-ass then most people, or maybe a bit of the both.)

After we finished packing our bags — like soldiers in war when they hear of fellow comrades being shot up in another location — we were out the door. A couple inches of fresh snow lie on the ground, and a light snow was still falling from the perfectly black sky. Perfect. We quickly relieved our bladders, put on our head lamps and took a couple of portraits of ourselves, and we were off. As we found the trail and looked up the only thing we could see were the other head lamps in the distance, slowly working their way up the pass. I had heard, and read, how hard it is to walk and breathe at high elevation but had never experienced it before. Each step was a battle, and slowly placing one foot in front of the next was real work. My lungs felt miniscule, as if there were no oxygen entering, my breathing was heavy, fast and hard, and my heart nearly ripped itself through my chest cavity.

After one hour of the slow and steady switchbacks we arrived at the high camp. We went into the lodge, had two quick cups of black tea with lots of sugar and the pastries we had purchased the night before and were ready to go. The guides were rushing their clients due to the excessive wind that comes later in the day. No one wanted to be stuck in the middle of a blizzard, including us. We left the scene as quickly as we had entered, climbing higher and higher into the thick fog. By this point our head lamps were both off, and we could finally feel the sun coming up. There was not much to see besides the thin-icy trail before us and the rocks below, taunting us with their grossness.

“Look, Bob, look!” Sarah yelled with the last of her lung capacity. I slowly turned to see four or five snowy peaks peeking their way through a small patch in the clouds. A beam of light had snuck its way through at the exact same time, creating a yellow orb which radiated off the edge of a cliff in the distance. It was as if I were seeing the mountains’ aura or energy. I have never been a huge God fanatic, but if there is a creator of all of this that surrounds us, whether that be Brahman, God or science, I was seeing her first hand. Never before had I witnessed anything that could relate to this, it was nearly unreal. Neither one of us moved a muscle for what seemed an eternity, until the orb suddenly disappeared.

After nearly four hours we came upon a note in the snow saying, “Only 20 more minutes to go!” Our morale soared. Up there, each man was in his own world, and nobody talked more than a few words. Sarah and I merely passed nods to one another and gave confirmative nods on the beauty of that which engulfed us.

Roughly 15 minutes later we were at the top. The flapping prayer flags made their beautiful music in the wind, and people gave hugs and high-fives to their partners and complete strangers. Groups took turns standing in front of the sign, taking their photographs to prove their accomplishment. After snapping a dozen or so photos and sharing a snickers bar and a pack of peanuts, we were ready to descend. This was our true cup of tea. Alaskans don’t slowly walk down mountains, especially if there’s snow. It takes far too long. After quickly finding the trail we began sprinting and sliding our way down, passing countless trekkers with their porters and guides, each carefully placing their trekking poles into the ground before taking a step. They stared at us in amazement.

On that day, over a 10-hour period, we climbed nearly 1,100 feet, descended nearly 2,200 feet and stretched it out over 15 miles. When we finally found a hotel, we took hot showers, changed out of our stinky clothes and ate like two drunks who had stumbled home after closing The Pit. Then we closed our eyes and slept for a solid 10 hours.

Bob Stark graduated from Seward High School in 2002 and spent four years in the Army. He’s traveling around India and Nepalfor the winter. Read more about his travels at: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=3106372, or google myspace and Ekahau.