The Yak & Yeti isn't your typical Kathmandu hostelry. It's a palatial hotel, at least by local standards, set amongst beautifully landscaped grounds -- a Western oasis separated by only thin hedges from the surrounding noise and grit of central Kathmandu. Pascal and I were more than ready to embrace Nepali life, but it was perhaps appropriate that, at this early moment of transition, we met our fellow trekkers at the Yak & Yeti.
There was Anne, a rheumatologist from Kansas; her son Tom, a college graduate working in Kansas as a bartender during these times of bad unemployment; and her brother Bill, a very early retiree who lives in California. There were also David, a civil engineer from the Seattle suburb of Bainbridge Island, and his wife Caroline, an artist. We met as seven strangers, but would soon know each other's strengths and foibles more intimately than those of many long time friends. And there was Lhakpa, our Sherpa guide, who knows the Khumbu area of Nepal like the back of his hand, as well as the names and faces of virtually everyone living there.
We had a day in Kathmandu before the trek to get acquainted -- some Hindu cremations beside the river, a Buddhist stupa, pizza in Thamel, the trekker's paradise that is central Kathmandu. Some of us realized we weren't in Kansas anymore! As it were.
I had duplicated significant portions of the trek in 1995, but sixteen years can be a long time in this part of the world. Physically, there has been little change, but the Sherpa people seem better off, better dressed, more familiar with the outside world. Nowadays, the cell phone is ubiquitous. Also, the number of Western trekkers must be at least ten times what it was in 1995. Our trek was early enough in the season to beat most of the crowds, but two weeks later, as we came down from the mountains, we met virtual hordes moving up the trails -- hordes that, at lower elevations, created literal traffic jams.
But once above Namche Bazaar, we were back in a lightly populated, spiritually intense world that has changed little over the centuries since the Sherpa people first migrated here from Tibet. Tibetan Buddhist rituals continue unchanged at monasteries and in villages. Trails pass on either side of manis and chortens -- monuments that must always be passed on the left, even when doing so increases the difficulty of passage. Juniper branches burn in the morning in tiny shrines, offering their pungent fumes to heaven. Lachpa tells us stories along the trails of strange happenings, whether centuries ago or just last year -- encounters with yetis, place names based on a pregnant woman's unsuccessful attempt to find help for a difficult child birth, zombies. Yep, zombies.
Do you know why the doors in Sherpa houses are so low? For protection. Because zombies are unable to bend down when they try to enter. Zombies in the Himalayas. Lachpa tells stories of a lama who ordered the inhabitants of an entire village burned to death because of a zombie "infestation."
Does Lachpa -- an educated and worldly man -- really believe his own stories? We can't tell. Cognitive dissonance? Maybe.
Above Tengboche Monastery (12,664 ft.) we begin following the Dudh Kosi river upstream toward its source. This is all new country to me. The trail, on the east side of the river, is one rarely used by trekkers. We walk for hours without encountering another Westerner. The third day above Tengboche, we cross the river to the western bank. But not by a bridge. The river is now a broad glacier, covered by glacial till, and we cross it gingerly, climbing up and down, reflecting the 15,000 elevation in our gasps for breath. Ahead, to the north, Cho Oyu -- world's sixth highest mountain -- beckons us on. Keep at it, guys, he says. I'm worth seeing.
Having crossed the glacier, we arrive at the tiny trekker's hamlet of Gokyo (15,580 ft.), in the shadow of Cho Oyu. We spend two nights at Gokyo, acclimatizing. During our "rest day," we climb an adjacent hill, Gokyo Ri, a relentless zigzag up a barren slope to the summit at 17,990 ft. It ain't an easy climb, but the view from the top is incredible. Everest is in front of us, together with Lhotse (world's fourth highest peak). To the right, and in the distance, is Makalu. To the left of Everest is Pumori, from whose lower slopes -- the hill of Kalapatar -- Denny and I viewed Everest in 1995.
Denny and I climbed above 18,000 ft. to reach Kalapatar. Pascal has never been that high. Gokyo Ri is just ten feet under 18,000. Pascal is 6'2". He raises his hand. He leaps. His hand arguably pierces the 18,000 barrier. A personal best!
The following day, we climb to 16,700 feet -- Renjo La base camp -- where we sleep at the highest elevation at which I've ever spent a night. A beautiful camp site. We watch Everest and Lhotse glow in the sunset, and keep watching until the last beams of sunset die from the very tip of Everest. Hard to explain now that I'm back in Seattle, but it was a transcendent moment.
From the base camp, we "scampered" (yeah, sure!) over Renjo La (17,880 ft.), lingering in a small area at the pass from which we gazed at a reprise of the view from Gokyo Ri -- our final close-up view of Everest before descending steeply the western side of the pass into a new valley system with new and unfamiliar snowclad peaks. Once past Renjo La, we were definitely on our way home. It was all downhill, so to speak, to the monastery town of Thame, and then on down to Namche Bazaar, completing our loop. After a night in Namche, we trekked in a single day the entire path back down to the end of the trail at Lukla, from which we flew back to Kathmandu in our tiny and seemingly insubstantial Twin Otter.
My re-visit to the Khumbu was a richly rewarding experience, giving me perspectives on the area that I'd not experienced before. Traveling with a good friend, and meeting one of the most enjoyable group of fellow hikers I've ever trekked with. Lots of laughs, lots of political and economic discussions, interminable gin rummy tournaments at every altitude. We finally found ourselves back at the Yak & Yeti, eager to get back to our homes and families, but reluctant to separate from the like souls we'd grown so close to over a three week period.
The weather had been perfect. It had been raining in Kathmandu -- delayed monsoon -- up until the day we arrived. After we returned to Kathmandu, we learned that it had started snowing -- snowing! -- up at Namche. We trekked in a window of ideal weather. The gods had been kind to us. We must have displayed plenty of good karma.
And -- thank god -- we never did have a run-in with the zombies! It's good to be home, but I sure hope to return.
-------------------------To view 40 photographs of the trek that I've posted on Facebook, click here.
