Above the Tree Line

Our guide Tirtha paced, speaking urgently to airport staff in Nepali as clouds gathered over the runway, threatening our departure to Everest Base Camp. The scent of sweat and stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. None of us spoke. We just watched the sky.

Our plane was the last to arrive at Lukla Airport before the airspace was closed. The twin-propeller plane descended through the clouds, threading itself through the narrow Himalayan valley, the light craft bouncing at the mercy of strong crosswinds. I turned back to the lone flight attendant who nonchalantly tapped away on her mobile phone. The pilot, who was close enough to touch, found the precise angle needed to approach the notorious runway. The margin for error measured in heartbeats. Too steep and we’d kiss the mountainside, too shallow and our trip would end at the brick wall bookending the landing strip.

A speck carved into the mountainside, Lukla Airport thrummed with the aura of a high-altitude bazaar. Mountaineers and Sherpas weaving between stalls laden with mountaineering supplies that would mean the difference between summit and surrender. The sound of commerce carried through the village, hawkers bartering, bells ringing on yaks, and chickens clucking from wooden cages pinned by weights. Juxtaposed against the ancient market stood the world’s highest altitude Irish pub, flanked by the highest (although unofficial) Starbucks.

Our fourteen-day pilgrimage would begin in Lukla, sitting at 2,845 metres above sea level where the air was still fresh and taken for granted. Our plan was to climb for eight hours each day until we arrived at Base Camp’s hallowed ground on day ten, where earth meets sky.

Hiking to Phakding shattered our assumptions of barren rock and lunar desolation. We stepped into a world dense with green, where fern-lined paths traced the hillsides, rhododendron forests spilled down the mountainsides, and rivers wound through valleys like silk ribbons. Suspension bridges swayed high above the water, narrow but strong enough to carry trains of yaks hauling wares up the mountain. Beyond the valleys, terraced rice fields climbed hillsides like the moss-covered steps that connected the village to Namche Bazaar.

Any romantic notions of traditionally-clad mountain guides quickly dissolved. Our Sherpas were walking billboards for Anaconda – North Face logos, Columbia labels and Oakley sunglasses replacing traditional dress, yet their ancestral knowledge of the trails and sheer strength that defined the Sherpa name remained unchanged. Each Sherpa would effortlessly carry two of our backpacks and reach our destination in half the time, even with frequent cigarette breaks.

Initially, we could have been wandering the familiar paths of the Blue Mountains trail, until the prayer flags strung between ancient trees reminded us we were on sacred ground. Altitude sickness warning signs started to appear on weathered boards nailed at regular intervals, reminding us to drink fluid, and to ‘Descend! Descend! Descend!’ if we experienced severe headaches or felt unusually fatigued. Tirtha’s first rule was to immediately let him know if we started to develop symptoms.

His second rule was to take everything back with us except, to our relief, toilet paper. This was reinforced by many ‘No littering’ signs we saw that threatened hefty fines. Unlike the other signs which were in English and Nepali, these signs were only in English, an embarrassing reminder of whose behaviour had necessitated the warning.

We reached the first teahouse around midday, where an eclectic menu bridged two culinary worlds: traditional Nepalese cuisine with momos, dal bhat, and aromatic curries, alongside Western comfort foods that felt surreal at this altitude. French toast, pizza, and pancakes appeared on laminated menus that might have come from a cafe on the Northern beaches. Tirtha quietly communicated his third rule that we remain vegetarian for the duration of the trek, advice that seemed curious until days later, hiking to Gorakshep, when we witnessed a Sherpa carrying a raw goat carcass on his back. Uncovered, unrefrigerated, and black with flies.

Nights were spent in teahouses, restaurants that transformed into comfortable lodges warmed by crackling wood fires, dimly lit by candles. Our modest group of eleven knew each other by first name and country. Aside from Roger and me from Australia, there was a Kiwi, two Germans, a Swede, a couple of Brits and a cheerful crew from Ireland. Roger and I smiled politely as we were greeted by a wave of G’days. We shared stories and photos, gradually shedding the professional identities we’d worn at sea level. We talked, joked about the stereotypes for which our countries were known, played trivial pursuit and watched ‘Into Thin Air: Death on Everest’, which seemed to be the only movie every teahouse had in their catalogue. While not explicitly one of Tirtha’s rules, alcohol wasn’t recommended at altitude. However, none of us could resist trying Everest Beer, a drop of Himalaya’s finest. When the final embers died, we were forced to withdraw to our icy cabins, simple wooden frames with thin plywood walls. The beds were basic timber platforms covered by thin fabric mattresses that provided little warmth against the frigid air.

Arriving at Tengboche we noticed the forest had given way to rock. Green turned to grey. The rhododendrons replaced by prickly ferns that could survive the harsh conditions. We visited an ancient monastery and were offered blessings by monks in scarlet robes, giving small tributes to the mountain Gods in return. We could first see Everest’s summit from the window of our tea house, the rays from the setting sun giving the appearance of fire spreading up its peak.

It would take five days before we encountered snow, a transformation so gradual we barely noticed. In the morning, we wore T-shirts, the sun warm on our backs, only to finish our hike bundled in windbreakers, our faces hidden behind masks, hands numb in ski gloves against the biting snow covering the next village, Dingboche.

While snow continued to blanket the ground, we spent a rest day acclimatising to the 4,410-metre altitude that had begun its patient assault on our bodies. The small village sat cradled in the pit of a valley, surrounded by the towering sentinels of the Himalayas. Once the clouds lifted their veils, the haunting peaks of Ama Dablam, Lhotse, and Cho Oyu emerged like stony cathedrals.

A few of us discovered a small den with a full-sized snooker table and a room bristling with pool tables, as if we’d stumbled into a pool room back home - as surreal and out of place as a Mariachi band. When Jon the Kiwi asked how they’d been hauled up the mountain, the owner simply mimed the universal language of impossible loads carried on human backs.

As we continued our ascent and the snow melted, the landscape underwent a profound transformation. When the clouds finally parted like curtains, we found ourselves in an alien world. All greenery had simply ceased to exist. No shrubs, no moss, no trees, not even the most stubborn weed could grow. We had crossed the tree line at 4,000 metres, that invisible threshold that separates the living world from the realm of rock and sky. The air had grown too cold and thin to sustain life; a world painted in granite and snow. With less than 60% of the oxygen at sea level, each breath required significant effort. In the morning over French toast and instant coffee, we would share stories of restless sleep and waking up gasping for air, and dreams warped by altitude.

On day seven, most of us had spread out during the walk, seeking our own pace in the thinning air. Our conversation had been exhausted along with the oxygen we were rationing and the energy we burned with every step. The distance between the front and rear of our group could be measured in hours. For most of that day’s trek I walked alone, no one visible ahead or behind, accompanied only by the playlist I’d compiled back in Kathmandu and the occasional mountain dog who approached with curiosity. I secretly battled the clamping of my skull that altitude sickness had begun to predictably deliver. None of us wanted to admit we were succumbing, not with the threat of a $300-per-hour helicopter fee, and certainly not with Base Camp within reach.

I spotted a donkey surrounded by three or four Sherpas far ahead. By this stage I had dropped to the back to walk with my travel companion Roger and Tirtha. We could see a man writhing in agony on the saddle, clutching his knees in obvious distress. His accent sounded English or Welsh. Tirtha later confirmed he had torn both cruciate ligaments during his descent from Base Camp. While the altitude challenged our hearts and lungs during the ascent, the constant pounding and braking demanded by the descent threatened to destroy our knees during the three-day journey back to Lukla.

We had all developed a browning complexion, not from the sun’s rays but from the dirt which would slowly cover us and our adherence to Tirtha’s fourth rule, no showering. It seemed counterintuitive and unhygienic, but the absence of hot water and the risk of hypothermia when bathing in freezing temperatures made the choice between cleanliness and survival an easy one. Baby wipes were also discouraged in the spirit of Tirtha’s second rule. Perhaps another reason the walking groups became more spread out. We were slowly becoming part of the mountain itself, coated in its dust and shaped by its rules.

Our final stop before Base Camp was Lobuche, the toughest day of the trek, starting at 5am in temperatures barely reaching minus ten. We were all exhausted, sick of the endless rotation of potatoes, bread, and pizza that had sustained us for days and we began to crave the kinds of meals that existed only in our memory. I’d lost 6kg and was severely dehydrated. The water in my bottle was ice cold and laced with bitter iodine, a constant reminder of the mountain’s ability to strip us of our most basic comforts. The final push was relentless as we moved through a landscape where mountains surrounded us like a rocky metropolis, the sound of falling rocks and shifting glaciers exposing our fragility in the unforgiving terrain. If we stopped to catch our breath, a Sherpa would urge us forward, away from the risk of falling rocks.

I’d taken several Imodium tablets after self-diagnosing food poisoning from a bad momo the night before. It would be four hours until the next toilet. Tirtha said cooking oil was often used for weeks before being replaced, especially at the more remote teahouses. The stomach cramps were ironically a welcomed distraction from the sensation of the iron vise being tightened around my temples. I was concerned about Roger though. While we could hide our headaches and pain, it was impossible to hide the drunken walk that accompanied advanced altitude sickness. Being so close to Base Camp, Roger made the decision to break rule number one and conceal his illness, remaining out of Tirtha’s view as we stumbled to the finish line.

As we walked the final stretch, we saw yellow tents on the horizon dotting the rocky plain like pins on a map, swaying in the wind that tore through the valley. Base Camp was a stone-strewn expanse, ringed by peaks that held up the sky. It marked the summit of our journey, but for many mountaineers it was only the beginning, a temporary home at the edge of ambition. The Irish crew did a riverdance as we lined up for our photo. The iconic rockpile, wrapped in colourful prayer and national flags, stood as our backdrop. A metal plate hung from a fraying wire, stamped simply: ‘Everest Base Camp, altitude 5,364 metres’. I managed a cracked grin as the icy breeze stung my dust-covered face. Edmund Hillary once observed it’s not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves. Standing there, I understood exactly what he meant. My knees stiffened, bracing for the long descent.