The Harshest Hours in the Himalayas

It was just before 5am, the sky still dark and cold when we departed. Outside the lodge, porters were pulling on their hats and gloves and adjusting their bundles. Trekkers were slowly stepping out into the chilled air, bracing themselves as they turned on their head torches, watching the frosty breath leave their mouths after a last bowl of hot porridge or garlic soup.

Shubas, my porter, came unprepared with no torch, so it was up to me to lead the way. As we set out for the great mountain ahead of us, a very distinct feeling came over me. It was the first time I would walk these paths in the dark, and as I carefully tread over different sized rocks and sensed the vastness of the abyss that lay in wait beside me, only inches from my innocent feet, I realized what I was feeling was fear.

Sukra, my scrawny Nepalese “guide” with less-than-adequate English and almost no inkling as to the importance of communication and professionalism, was already far behind me, accompanying my much slower roommate. And here I was in the blackness of the night on the edge of this beast of a mountain in the freezing cold with a lightless, phoneless porter who brought himself only one liter of water for a five thousand four hundred and sixteen meter pass.

“You can do this, Lauren. You've made it this far. This is the last test”, I told myself. I searched in front of me, unable to make out the curves of the trail ahead. Behind me in the distance, I could see the slow-moving torches of other trekkers, already much lower on the mountain than I found myself. I wondered if they, too were unsure of their footing.

When the first hints of light began to reveal the trail beneath my feet, I felt immense relief. My fingers ached from the bitter cold and I questioned whether or not I could afford to blow hot air into my gloves at such a high altitude. I was already measuring my breath, and noticing that the inside of my nostrils was now frozen. The further we walked, the slower we got. My usually fast feet seemed to be betraying me as the trail steepened. Shubas stopped to sit on a rock, removing the bundle from his skinny frame. “Water”, he exhaled, his voice already exhausted. I stopped walking and looked up at the magnificent golden coat that swept over the snow-capped peak we were facing. I shook my head in disappointment but smiled at the irony. For the first time in my life, I was too tired and too cold to take out my camera.

As it got lighter, my fingers did eventually thaw, reminding me of a pain I had experienced only once before while bike riding near midnight in a rural Dutch village one New Year's Eve. I wondered how long frostbite might take to set in and tried not to worry. My feet moved more slowly than ever, one occasionally crossing over the other as my body responded drunkenly to the increasing altitude. Less-affected trekkers cautiously, respectfully passed me from time to time, greeting me first and exchanging the familiar lift of the eyebrows or shake of the head to acknowledge the challenge we were taking on.

The landscape was changing beneath my feet, crunching as I stepped over the thin layer of hardened snow. Another rock, another rest. I marveled at the peaks that surrounded us and listened to my own quiet breath, until the silence was broken by a helicopter flying overhead, which in these parts, could only mean one thing. I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer. This mountain seemed to have a way of making one feel so small – so insignificant.

The two hours and forty-five minutes it took me to reach the almost eighteen thousand foot pass of Thorong La were some of the most challenging hours of my life. I spent them on a pendulum of ponderation, swinging between the awe-inspiring Himalayas and hyperconciousness of my own mortality.

When I spotted the colorful string of traditional Buddhist flags at the top of the pass and the group of Polish trekkers lifting their glasses to toast, I stopped moving and simply raised my eyebrows and smiled back at Shubas. “Black tea?” he asked, as we weakly eased ourselves onto a bench in the small wooden lodge where ten or fifteen other trekkers were attempting to regain some warmth. I was shaking so much that I couldn't hold my tea, so I set it on the table and used the metal mug to warm my hands.

 After about thirty minutes I decided I was ready for the four hour descent. Just as I stepped outside, I heard my name and turned to see my roommate arriving on horseback with a giant smile on her face. “You made it!” she shouted excitedly in her adorable Chinese accent. “Barely” I laughed, “but yes, I did.” Suddenly I looked over to where the path would continue and I felt a surge of energy. I made it, I thought, and it's all downhill from here.