I suppose the best place to start my story is
upon leaving Kathmandu, which feels like so long ago. Our destination was
Taplejung, Nepal. We were accompanied by "the connection", Iswari, owner of
one of the leading guiding companies on Everest. Along with Issari was his band
of high powered friends, including the major of the Nepalese army, the owner of
an indian bank and college, a wacky Nepalese celebrity singer Krishna and
his side singers Amrita and Mina.
Phil's and
my purpose in this unlikely circumstance was to attend the festival surrounding
Taplejung's annual marathon, in hopes of promoting tourism in this remote
region of Nepal. Our bribe to tag along was free food, accommodation, and alcohol. After the three day festival was over we were to be set free to trek through
the Kanjanjunga range.
To put into
perspective how little tourism this area sees: Everest base camp trek sees about
600 people per day, while the Kanjanjunga base camp trek sees roughly 600
people per year.
Upon arrival in
Taplejung we were adorned with special occasion silk scarves and local food and
drink, all due to the festivities at hand. During the four days Phil and I
spent in Taplejung I saw more authentic local culture than I have in the past
five months of travel through Asia and India. Everyday we were shuffled from
place to place being force fed local food and drinks. After enough alcohol was
drank the local people would inevitably start singing and dancing, insisting my
hand to join.
After the festival
had passed we turned our eyes towards the mountains. Iswari hooked us up with a
local porter to carry our extra bag of camping food and climbing gear.
Unfortunately our porter wasn't exactly the cream of the crop. As I shook his
hand I gazed down upon a disappointing bear belly and an unenthusiastic
expression to match as he picked up the bag he was expected to burden on the
trail.
Never the less we
agreed to wait for him to go home and acquire his trekking gear
and return by 10:00am. Hours passed and still no porter. After four
hours time we assumed he felt the weight of his bag, understood our ambitious
trekking itinerary, and decided to bail.
Frustrated and
left to our own means, we carried all three bags into town in hopes of finding a
porter on our own. Within 20 minutes a man of short, stalking posture and the
square face of the Sherpa people, approached us. Pasang inquired where we were
headed with bags covered in ice axes and camping gear. And he enthusiastically
thrust the extra bag on his bag and offered to be our porter for a nominal fee
of about $14/day.
Within an hour we
were on the trail, due north, for Kanjanjunga base camp. After four days
we burst out of the foothills into the "real mountains." Dramatic peaks
over 7000 meters in heights surrounded us. One peak in particular I will never
forget. At 7700 meters, Jannu rose out of the Himalayan range like a great
tower. It's most prominent face was an ominous ice frosted granite face rising
for thousands of feet to a sharp wind strewn summit.
There were however
many beauties to admire while avoiding the highest most dangerous country of
the range. As we walked at about 14,000 feet we passed gorgeous waterfalls and
wildflowers growing on the most unlikely dry, rocky surfaces. At one point
Pasang stopped, whistled and said abruptly, "blue sheep!".
We turned
our heads uphill in curiosity and saw a herd of increasingly rare, endangered
species of mountain sheep. With great proud, curled horns they turned their
heads in unison to Pasang's whistle then carried on with their peaceful lives
among the hills.
The day following
that rare sighting we gazed skyward as high altitude birds soared above on their wings to a span of 2 meters from tip to tip. I'm am still unaware of that
birds' name. But they were the most unique looking creatures, out of place where
no other bird dared take flight in a world of thin, desolate air.
After
reaching our high point at about 15,300 feet and taking a few photos of the
worlds third highest mountain, Kanjanjunga, we turned around due south. By
sunset we were back in Mangbachen, where we ate a much deserved meal, and hit our pillows hard. And by pillows I mean those bags of sand Nepalese people call
pillows.
We awoke bright
and early to Pasang kindling an extremely smokey fire. See, in every house on
the trail there was an open fire with separated ceiling boards for a chimney.
Needless to say this makes for a very smokey household. I had come to
temporarily accept this cultural difference as an ignorance to the health
problems it would cause. However that morning Pasang had acquired some of the
greenest, smokiest plant life to start his fire, making it quite unbearable.
Breathing
shallowly I frantically dressed myself in my sleeping bag as quick as the confined
space allowed. I then grabbed my water bottle, to fill in the stream, and
sprinted outside.
Rubbing my weary
eyes, I stepped onto a seemingly solid rock on the riverside. Then with a
surprise, too fast for my stiff morning reactions to counteract, the rock had
shift weight and I was flat on my ass in a pool of icy water.I dub that
the rudest awakening I have ever received.
Frustrated but
understanding the comedy of my predicament, I told Phil of the mishap with a
smirk, then dried my shoes as best I could in front of the fire before we left.
However as was expected I had to slosh along the trail that day with wet shoes.
Once at the trail
intersection town of Ghunsa we deviated from our previous path and turned east
to make way for Bokta peak. To reach our goal, Bokta peak, we first had to
traverse over a series of high mountain passes, rising to about 14,800 feet.
The first day attempting to push over the passes we were only wearing trekking
shoes and subsequently got soaking wet feet from breaking trail through deep
snow. By mid afternoon we were forced to succumb to our cold feet and the
increasingly severe snow fall. In retreat, we took shelter in an emergent porter
hut, which was more or less a barn without doors.
When morning
dawned Phil and I geared up with mountaineering boots, waterproof pants, and
warm gloves. Pasang however was not so well-equipped. When I asked him what footwear
he had, he showed me plastic bags to waterproof his feet and a pair of Nike
shoes with a proud smile on his face. And instead of a water bottle to stay
hydrated at altitude he would stop and eat snow, or desperately ask one of us
for a drink of our dwindling water supply.
This sort
of unpreparedness is quite typical in third world nations when facing the elements.
At first glance it appears simply to be tough and enduring. But as time pressed
on, I had to subdue myself from attributing this behavior to a general lack of
intelligence.
I came across
many similar circumstances in India. I would be carrying water to climbing
destinations when a sheep herder or other local would wander out of the dry
landscape asking for water.
That day I
enthusiastically broke trail for 7 hours over the first of three passes, to my
eventual exhaustion. We had planned to push on to the nearest village, Tserum,
on the opposite side of the two remaining passes. However waist deep snow,
blinding white out conditions, and Pasang's inadequate gear forced us to pitch
a tent on an icy hillside for the night.
Lucky me, I got the
pleasure of the downslope of the tent as Phil and Pasang were forced to
slide into me, pushing me against the cold tent wall. That was a shivering,
sleepless night to say the least. None better for Pasang, I suspect, with his
sleeping bag that looked no warmer than a baby blanket.
That night as I
lay awake with Phil's ass pushed against me and Pasang shivering on the other
side I decided I was out of the Bokta peak expedition. For some mountaineers
pain and suffering has no limit while striving for the summit. For me however,
there is a point it stops being fun and games.
The following day
we had a merger, rationed breakfast and conserved fuel while melting snow to
save our limited supplies. More trail breaking and difficult route finding
pursued. Until finally we arrived in Tserum, dehydrated, hungry, and tired.
Unfortunately our hopes were dashed and no one was to be found living in
Tserum.
I insisted we
strike off Bokta peak at this point and finally feed our selves well with the
food we had left. Phil, being a mountaineer by trade had different plans. He
suggested we push another three hours to another more populated village to be
fed dinner, and refill our provisions with packs of noodles to fuel our ascent
of the mountain. Reluctantly I refused to carry on with the climbing and
apologetically told him I was to go down with or without him the next
day.
He understood and
we agreed to head down to the next village to get a "hot out of the
pot" meal to avoid diving further into the camping food. One hour later,
to our surprise we came upon a stand alone house that called itself the village
of Andha Pedhi. As Pasang saw smoke rising from the roof he scurried past me
muttering, "lucky, very lucky! No more food for two hours further!"
An animated
conversation in Nepalese followed between the home owner and Pasang of hungry
stomach motions, up and down walking hand gestures, and wide eyes from the
listener. Within a short time we were filling our stomachs contently with dow
bat, a typical Nepalese cuisine of copious amounts of rice, lentil soup,
potato, and vegetable.
With a late start
the pursuing day Phil decided to carry on solo with a full food supply for one
man, and attempt Bokta peak alone. We separated gear, said our good byes, and
went opposite ways.
Still
exhausted from the day before I only decided to hike on that day because the
map indicated a drop on 1300meters between myself and my destination of
Yamphudin. However, before those 1300 meters, I was, unknowingly, to ascend
a Himalayan foothill about 1000 meters in height. So like a soldier I trudged
uphill until finally the grade dropped downhill.
I was
within one hour of Yamphudin when the trail passed through the yard of someone's property. As I carried on with high hopes of a long day's end in my
future I heard the clanging of a cow bell. As the noise drew alarmingly near I
turned around in haste to investigate. With a shocked face I saw a bull
in full charge coming at me with two menacing horns aimed at target.
Suddenly my
feet didn't hurt as much and my legs found new vigor. With a fleeting dash I
kept downhill onto terrain the bull surely could not follow.
The good news, I
was safely out of range of the pissed off animal. Bad news I was well off the trail
I had been following so diligently. I certainly wasn't going back into the
domain of that pissed off bull to find the trail again. The best option, as I
could see it, was to tread diagonally uphill, pushing through bamboo
thickets until I found the path again.
I did indeed find a trail. However, in
time it proved to be the wrong trail. After 20 minutes or so I came to a
clearing of cattle-grazed ground ending at a very steep, eroding hillside.
This hill led down to a rushing river, and on the opposing side I could clearly
see the path start up again.
So
composing a bold climber’s mindset I thought, “ Why spend time searching for
the right trail when I can surely make my way down this hill to the river?”
As
I tediously made my way down this eroding hillside, holding on via thin tree
roots and unconsolidated clumps of dirt and rock, the hill progressively got
steeper. At one point the hill cliffed out to a short rock face, at which point
I had to take off my backpack and toss it below while I climbed down to the
next ledge to retrieve it.
At
last I reached solid ground! Covered in dirt from head to toe I rushed to the
river to wash myself off. With an adrenaline induced rush of energy I pushed
on the final 45 minutes uphill to Yamphudin.
I
walked by a man working the field. He stared at me intensely, with my trail
worn clothes and face to match. With a delayed response he offered, “You stay
at my house? Eating the rice, yes?” Enthusiastically I followed him through the
village to his house. Where he fed me one of the most appreciated meals of my
life.
At
this point in the trek I was quite enjoying the local, rural culture of Nepal.
I found everyone to be so welcoming and giving. I opted for a short three
hour walk the following day and a much needed rest day.
I
woke up early the following day feeling refreshed and ready to tackle a long
day on the trail. Within three
hours I was well ahead of schedule, at the village of Manangkhe. From here I
continued on what seemed to be the most obvious trail, laden with heavy set
stones on either side.
This
path brought me to a bridge composed of rusted metal wires and rotting wood.
Convinced a bridge of such instability would not be left on the trading route I
was following, I turned around. Then I spotted a faint fork in the trail.
Curiously I followed the trail as it continued to get fainter, and surrounded
in thick vegetation. I forced my way through some particularly sharp weeds
until I emerged at a rice terrace.
I
followed this plantation uphill until I reached what appeared to be a well
travelled path. “This has to be the right way.” I assured myself. And so I
followed this “right way” until it emptied out onto the banks of a roaring
river.
Once
at the river I understood I had strayed far from the path, for there was no
more trail at this point. But I just couldn’t resist the urge to see where the
twists and turns of this river would take me. I hopped stones and treaded water
for an hour or so until I came upon the most beautifully narrow, steam line,
remote waterfall I’ve ever laid eyes upon.
This
waterfall cascaded down into a deep pool of glacial melt water. In the heat of
the day, exhausted from a day’s march, with an intense sun overhead, what would
you have done? Skinny dipping of course. With absolute solitude I dove into the
majestic blue water’s and treaded water until the cold got the best of me.
Reluctantly I dried off with a T-shirt, got dressed, and left that beautiful
place.
Still
unaware of the where the correct trail was, I decided to retrace my steps to the
nearest village to ask for directions. I was told to go left at an
intersection, then follow this path to a modern suspension bridge. The man
giving me directions failed to mention to then go right after the bridge, not
left.
Given
my poor choice of random selection that day I decided to go left after the
bridge. Forty five minutes later the trail took a turn down hill I knew was not
right. So out of water (again!) I turned around and trudged up hill the right
way to the next village, Polke. In Polke I was greeted by a smiling Nepalese
housewife, eager to give me a room and food for the night.
I
thought the next day would be my last on the trail. Being told it was eight
hours further to my final destination, Taplejung, I set off with a quick pace.
However, after nine hours that quick pace was forced to succumb to aching feet
and skin breaking chaffage.
The
next day I walked for a mere thirty minutes until I reached a major town,
Suketar, with paved roads and an air strip. I continued down the switch backing road when a man and his
son on a motorbike stopped and asked if I wanted a ride to Taplejung. “DO I!” I
responded with appreciation.
Within
twenty minutes we arrived in Taplejung. After thanking the man extensively I
retreated to my guesthouse and booked a bus back to Kathmandu.
After
a few days waiting around Kathmandu I ran into my friend Phil. Immediately he said,
“I sent it” with a smile on his face. Bokta peak turned out to be a pretty straightforward
mountain. Phil reported some loose
rock that could have stopped the three failed attempts last year, but beyond
that short section it was just a deep snowfield to the summit.
In
hindsight I wish I would have pushed on and finished the expedition we set out
for together. However the failure will inevitably motivate me to set out on a
similar expedition in the future. Until that time comes I’ll be here in Colorado,
rock climbing, training and quietly planning my revenge on the mountains.
