The Everest Diaries: Part 10 (March, 2025)
Redemption
As we left the world’s highest bakery behind, the rupturing roar of helicopters drowned out any remnants of peace that had blessed the remainder of the trail. Our morning of hiking had been slightly tainted by a congested trail as we clambered over rocks, weaving through small crowds of hikers and flailing yak tails.
It was our first full day on the main Everest Base Camp route, and the difference was stark. We probably saw more hikers in the first few hours than we had on the rest of our trek so far, clustering at different points on the trail and bringing with them an injection of energy and spirit that rivalled the teahouses.
It had been an incredibly positive start to the day – partly because it was the first day of the trek where I hadn’t woken up with any kind of debilitating sickness, but also because we celebrated a chance reunion. As we navigated our way to Gorakshep, we encountered Lily and Julia on their way back down from Everest Base Camp, and we crammed a lifetime’s worth of stories into a quick 15-minute pit stop.
I felt the spirit of the trails through that fleeting yet heart-warming catch-up, and it reminded me that, as easy as it would be to berate the slight congestion on the route, there is a hiking spirit embedded within the culture that connects everyone on the trails. The people you meet are at the heart of every real adventure, and it’s better to embrace that than reject it.
We finally reached Gorakshep, its mosaic of multicoloured roofs represented our final stop on the trail – a vibrant reminder of the effort and endurance that had brought us here. The village lies on the edge of an ancient lakebed that resembles a desert plain, sitting uncomfortably in the shadow of Kala Patthar – “The Black Rock”.
Much like Gokyo Ri, this mountain towers over the village and offers panoramic views of the surrounding Himalayas and, more importantly, a close-up view of Mount Everest. Summiting this beast was our challenge for the afternoon, and I was itching to get started and make up for my failure just a few days earlier.
We dumped our bags in the teahouse and fought our way across the winds of the plain, their resistance compounded by the force and noise of the helicopters overhead. The trail meandered up the increasingly steep mountain face, and the oncoming winds only exacerbated the challenge.
Each step felt less and less momentous until there were points where I could barely lift my legs, struggling just to remain upright. Jez powered ahead with impressive momentum, while Jon and I dropped back, fighting against the elements.
As we slowly traversed the steepening trail, rocks slipped from beneath my feet, and I focussed all of my attention on each individual step – to the extent that my eagerness to avoid an accident delayed a glorious reveal of Mount Everest. I reached for some water from Bhakda’s bag, his calmness completely neutralised by my own exaggerated gasp. I stood motionless, stunned by my clearest view of the beast yet.
The assumption that this view could only get better motivated me to continue the climb, suppressing the coughs, splutters, and inevitable heaves my chest tried to decorate the trail with. Eventually, we clambered over some intimidating boulders and rested at the peak of Kala Patthar. Multicoloured prayer flags danced aggressively at my feet as I shuffled and fumbled to find a comfortable spot for the show.
At an altitude of 5,555m above sea level, this would be the highest point of my entire adventure, and I was absolutely overwhelmed with relief. After my failure to summit Gokyo Ri and all of the challenges encountered along the way, the sense of achievement after overcoming so many obstacles felt like redemption.
I’d peaked – both literally and metaphorically – and I was rewarded with an emotional rest at the summit of the Black Rock. I looked out over each individual peak that had collectively shaped one of the most difficult experiences of my entire life.
Everest Base Camp was in sight, but my eyes remained fixed on the powerful giant above me. This up-close view of Mount Everest was an iconic reward for resilience, endeavour and patience – and it couldn’t possibly disappoint. The mountain face was painted with snow, standing in stark contrast to the vibrant blue sky behind it.
The peak glowed as chilling winds lifted a layer of snow from its surface and carried it across the skyline in cloud-like fashion. The whistle and rattle of the winds deafened me but couldn’t break my focus as I gazed, undistracted, at the highest point on Earth.
After the moment had passed, I fumbled for my film camera and lined up the perfect shot, desperate to preserve this once-in-a-lifetime moment with the eternal appreciation of a photo album.
Turns out things are never that romantic, and photo albums are overrated anyway. At least my thumb proves I was actually there.
Back to Basics
Exhausted after reaching the highest point of our trek, we slumped in the teahouse until the sun began to set. The elevation change also meant that we all finally suffered our first altitude headaches, and not much was said as we drifted in and out of consciousness at the dinner table, waiting for an early meal that would give us an excuse to head to bed.
In between naps, I noticed the teahouse became increasingly full – to the point where extra chairs were brought out and dinner tables were extended, with bubble-wrapped hikers clustering around these tiny wooden desks hoping for any sliver of surface to rest their garlic soups on.
At the end of the main trail, it seemed as though the village hadn’t caught up with the demand of hikers, and Bhakda implied that guesthouses were continuously oversubscribed because of how challenging it is to build new infrastructure. This was probably compounded by the fact that Gorakshep is also a drop-off point for some of our propeller-powered counterparts.
I can’t pretend I wasn’t heavily judging them as they swanned across the plain towards the village with fresh legs and clean jackets. After everything it took to get here, I think I’d earned this one.
We wolfed down our dinner and headed for our room – a cramped triple room with barely enough space to store our bags. The walls were hilariously thin, the floor was slanted, and the low, mouldy ceiling was decorated with a few holes. I threw my sleeping bag onto the giant sponge of a mattress and contemplated changing into some comfier clothes to sleep.
Jez, Jon and I laughed for a moment, and as the vapour of our breathing filled the room like a Galatasaray away end, we decided to combat the lack of insulation with our own. And so we retired to bed in their hiking gear – like overexcited children before a holiday – eagerly anticipating their 04:45 alarm and blissfully ignoring the -15ºC reading on the thermometer.
There was one more adventure waiting for Bhakda’s Boys.
Sunrise Surprises
The harmonious ringing of our alarms should have woken the entire teahouse, but we emerged from our cell in the pitch-black darkness, and there was no movement to be seen. I flashed my torch and headed towards the dining room, but nearly jumped out of my skin as the light reflected back at me. An army of vibrant jackets lay horizontally on the benches around the edge of the room, and I quickly switched off the light and stumbled back to our room.
Bhakda had also emerged from the dining room by this point, and had already whispered to the lads that we would have to sneak past the sleeping lions. Our oversubscribed teahouse had transformed the dining room into a makeshift hostel, where hikers and guides had found any comfortable spot they could to beat the cold.
They probably did a better job than us, though, as Jon revealed that he had been awoken during the night by snow falling onto his face. Nonetheless, we were well rested, and fought our way through the darkness of the teahouse to the final stretch of the trail.
We were blindly following the beams of our headtorches, their narrow beams guiding us over uneven terrain as Bhakda navigated the unmarked trail swallowed by darkness. Even while wearing every layer that we’d carried with us all this way, chattering teeth and loud shivers disrupted our complaints, which echoed through the surrounding abyss.
The sun slowly began to rise, and the orange morning glow reflected off the snowy peaks ahead as it delicately lit the trail before us. The abundance of light felt almost immediate – as if a switch had been flicked – and we were surrounded by an intimidating cluster of mountains pointing towards our final destination: Everest Base Camp.
We clambered over the rubble, which slowly gave way to a marked trail, evident by the early-rising yak traffic that traversed the route ahead on their morning commute. Shuffling in unison to the light rattle of cowbells and the sporadic cry of their pack leader, they were decorated with boxes, canisters and heavy bags that transported essential goods to Base Camp.
As we politely skipped past our furry friends, the scale of the operation became increasingly clear, and I was in awe at the efforts required by both people and animals to establish a hub for what may be the most dangerous challenge in the world. It turned out that the aggressive rattle and tug of yaks had startled Mother Nature, as an enormous rumble sent shockwaves across the valley.
We looked around at each other, confused and concerned by what sounded like an explosion, before climbing a few steps higher to gaze across the valley at an enormous avalanche.
It was absolutely unbelievable. We stood in awe, watching the snow cascade in slow motion, gracefully demolishing everything in its path as it powered its way into the valley below. I watched with bated breath before returning to my regularly scheduled heaving, still stunned by this devastating display of Himalayan might.
I stared down at the foundations of Everest Base Camp below, its little yellow tents contrasting sharply against the snow and rock that decorated the landscape – unintimidated by the wall of collapsing snow behind it.
For a moment, I feared that the avalanche might completely engulf the valley below – its scale and force appeared completely unstoppable. “How often do these things happen?”, I wondered, concerned for the safety of the little yellow tents. But as I eventually broke my gaze and regained perspective, it was clear that Everest Base Camp would be fine – the experienced mountaineers had prepared well.
Who would’ve thought?
Everest Base Camp
And so, as we converged on our final destination, I became overwhelmed by a sense of achievement. The final few kilometres were a blur of hops, skips and jumps across boulders, clearing gaps of rubble and the smaller stones that fell away as we hiked.
The time passed rapidly as our eagerness to reach the end of the trail carried us forward with unexpected momentum. I entered autopilot as I meandered through a sticky stretch of trail, and I barely felt each step as we glided across the glacier – until, finally, we spotted our iconic finale.
The Everest Base Camp rock marked the official endpoint of our trail: but, it’s just a rock. I’m not going to glorify it as some symbolic piece of nature that has evolved into a timeless monument – it’s literally just a rock. Yet, for me, it was absolutely incredible.
I’d spent two years dreaming of this adventure, visualising this exact moment, and imagining the incredible journey that would lead me here. The journey itself might not have been exactly to plan, but the final moment was every bit as special as I had hoped.
Beyond Bhakda’s Boys, only one other group of hikers had braved the sunrise freeze to reach Base Camp that morning, and we looked out over the sparsely decorated camp in a reflective silence broken only by the ruffle of prayer sheets.
Because we were hiking in March, Base Camp was only just beginning to form ahead of the late-spring climbing season. The isolated yellow tents were surrounded by raw materials, unpacked equipment and canisters. It was hardly glorious – but it was a glimpse of what was to come.
Every year, around a thousand people attempt to summit Mount Everest, most of whom stay at Base Camp for over a month, and that number seems to rise each year. We’ve all seen the photos and reports – the queues of people congesting the peak, some people even freezing to death in pursuit of their claim as one of the few people to reach the world’s highest point.
You won’t be surprised to hear that none of that appeals to me. Jez and I talked about this as we looked out over the sacred land that will go on to host some of the world’s greatest adventurers, and we shared the same thoughts.
Even though summiting Everest is a clear definition of adventure, it is more of a statement of adventure than an adventure itself. Adventure exists anywhere, and it’s a sliding scale. Achievement isn’t absolute – and whether or not you take on a challenge shouldn’t be dictated by how many people can, or have, done it.
Thousands of people reach Base Camp every year, yet every single one of them has a slightly different story. That’s the beauty of it. It doesn’t undermine the achievement – it reinforces how incredible each individual journey actually is. Even as footfall increases, all that happens is your experience becomes more and more unique. More personal. More special.
Sickness, delays, weird airports, Tooth Gem, fire engines, Dan Burn, terrible food, waking up with snow on your face, smelling like smoke and yak shit for a week, makeshift yoga classes, excessively long board games, annoying Australians, falling on your arse, heartfelt conversations, avalanches, tears, laughter, pain, relief.
It was never actually about a weirdly shaped rock graffitied with red paint, or little yellow tents on a glacier. It was never really about Base Camp. It was about literally everything else.
And yet – in true hypocritical fashion – we embraced the one part of our trip that wasn’t unique: the classic photos on top of the Everest Base Camp rock. Some things you just have to accept, and an iconic photoshoot is one of them. We gleefully jumped on and off the rock, struck our poses, and soaked in every moment until the sun grew more intense and brightly-decorated hikers emerged from the shadows towards us.
For a brief moment, Everest Base Camp felt like it belonged to us – and we’ll never forget how that felt.
I looked back at the little yellow tents as we scrambled up the trail towards Gorakshep. With one last glance, their colour faded into insignificance as the size and scale of the Himalayas swallowed them whole.
Everest Base Camp will always belong to the mountains.
