The Everest Diaries: Part 3 (March, 2025)
Unknown Unknowns
A sudden bump threw me forward and my head cracked against the seat in front of me. The shudder of the vehicle on the uneven surface had everyone looking around in fear. We had been dreading this journey ever since we received the news. I glanced down at my watch – I had only been asleep for 20 minutes.
It was going to be a long night. I looked out of the window, desperate to understand the terrain beneath our wheels. Since leaving Kathmandu, we had slowly entered an abyss of pitch black roads and silent valleys, interrupted only by the blaring horns of oncoming trucks. An overnight bus had never sounded appealing, but I figured any sleep at all would at least speed things up.
However, as the bus battled its way through the rubble, that hope vanished quickly. I looked around the bus and studied my fellow wide-eyed passengers who, like me, were wondering whether we were in the middle of an earthquake.
Alan, an enthusiastic American with a thick white goatee beard and a well-worn baseball cap, was recently reunited with his daughter Tali who was snoring peacefully behind me. Tali had spent the last few weeks locked away in a yoga studio in Northern India, which had worked wonders judging by the position in which she had fallen asleep.
Alan told us that he had trained in the mountains of California and Colorado to prepare for the physical challenges at altitude. Serious stuff. His story was also accompanied by some practical advice from Julia, an incredibly experienced hiker, who spoke at length about the kit she had brought, what she anticipated in the mountains, and how she had prepared for this trip in her native Germany.
Of course – trust a German to make us feel like amateurs.
Jez and I laughed to ourselves, mostly to cover the unease creeping in. We’d only packed our bags yesterday. We had naïvely assumed that playing a lot of sports, being relatively fit, and dismissing the exaggerated online travel writers would be enough for us to get on with it. Yet, our fellow hikers had us second-guessing ourselves. Their surprise at our lack of physical preparation was one thing, but their dramatic reaction to the fact that we were also carrying our own bags was enough to strike a mild panic into my exhausted mind.
It was at this point that we decided not to reveal we were undertaking all of these additional challenges on an accelerated itinerary. In classic male-friendship fashion, Jez and I managed to convince each other that it would be straightforward and we downplayed the concerns. My wandering mind eased. I did some extra stretches on the roadside when we stopped for coffee. You can’t be too careful.
Our plan was a loop to Everest Base Camp via Gokyo and the Cho La Pass, crossing an unstable glacier that is covered in snow for 9 months of the year in almost constant sub-zero temperatures. We opted for this route as opposed to the traditional out-and-back trek, which felt much less adventurous – joining an endless conveyor-belt of hikers traversing a well-marked route didn’t give us the kick we were looking for.
Instead, the loop promised us remote villages, wilder trails, and fresh scenery every day. However, having already shaved two days off the recommended 16-day itinerary to accommodate Jez’s limited annual leave, it became clear that we had not only vastly underestimated the challenge, but actively exacerbated it.
It had now become clear that the chances of sleep were approaching zero. Since I woke from my long blink, I had been flung around in my seat as the bus waded its way through the mountainous dirt tracks. At points, breaks in the mountains unmasked the moonlight, and as it lit up the valleys beneath us, we found ourselves in a Nepali standoff with oncoming vehicles, sharp cliff edges, and tailing traffic.
Nepal clearly has a very flexible definition of the word highway. Even as the main road connection between Kathmandu and Ramechhap, the narrow, winding path is incredibly prone to landslides, erosion, and earthquakes. It’s no surprise that given how remote the route is, the high cost of materials, and the frequency of natural disasters, maintenance on the road is ineffective. Fix one problem, three more appear. Our driver even became frustrated with the roads by the end, moaning endlessly as he shifted left and right through this endless demolition course.
After what felt like a lifetime, the sun began to rise and the birds began to sing. Stunning panoramic views of the Tamakoshi River cutting through the valley momentarily distracted me from the shakes and shudders of our rattling cage. Even without snow-capped mountains, the orange-tinted greenery and rolling hills represented the beginning of the adventure, and we became even more excited when Alan spotted our starting point: Ramechhap Airport.
The airport – or rather the vague strip of concrete generously labelled an airport – was also the starting point for many other hikers. An ocean of backpacks, duffel bags, expensive hiking gear, and flailing passports swamped the narrow entrance gate. An unusual number of travellers crowded around the airline counters to the bewilderment of the inoffensive airport staff.
I glanced around at the infrastructure: the airport building was no larger than a bungalow, with black mould creeping across the walls and scratching the corrugated iron roof that had rusted at the edges. The walls were an elegant shade of beige, a testament to the amenities available, which consisted of an unstaffed cafe counter that offered a variety of treats from Snickers to…,well, Snickers.
The quicker we could get out of here, the better.
My longing for sleep vanished and I wandered off towards the edge of the compound to record a quick voice memo. My enthusiastic monologue was then completely drowned out by the violent spinning of propellers, and I turned to see the first flight making its way towards the runway.
Almost immediately, the other planes started their engines and followed at an alarmingly close distance. “No messing around”, I thought, quietly admiring their efficiency. All four planes made for the mountains, their take-offs fairly unremarkable as they faded into the backdrop of the Himalayan foothills. I rushed back to regroup with Jez, Alan, and Tali: the excitement of the first flights was contagious, tempered by the fear of our upcoming flightpath.
We were flying to Lukla Tenzing-Hillary Airport, named after Sherpa Tenzing Norgay and Sir Edmund Hillary, the first people to summit Mount Everest in 1953. Regularly mentioned in conversations about “the world’s most dangerous airports” because of its short, uphill runway, it serves as the gateway to the Himalayas. Flights navigate through narrow mountain passes and steep valleys to reach the uphill runway, which is surrounded on three sides by jagged, cloud-piercing mountains.
Not only does this make an aborted landing almost impossible, sudden changes in weather create dangerous conditions that make landing extremely risky. Given all of these risks, I wasn’t exactly reassured to learn that Nepali aircraft have been banned from operating in European Union airspace due to ageing and poorly maintained aircraft. I suddenly began to miss the overnight bus.
A cheerful-looking host thrust two tickets into our hands. Our official tickets to Lukla! Though, this was about as unofficial as official gets. The ticket appeared at face value to be of a familiar standard, but held next to no useful information at all.
Flight number: ______
Date: 16th March 2025.
Destination: Lukla.
Name: _____
We were told that our flight was scheduled to leave in just under an hour, yet I glanced around the airport, perplexed by the lack of planes. It was then revealed that because Lukla airport is so small, it can only accommodate four small planes at once. There are four airlines that operate flights on the route, so each airline operates a shuttle service between the two airports. At the top of the ticket, scribbled in black ink, was the number “2”, which meant we had been given seats on flight number 2.
We nervously anticipated the arrival of the first planes in Lukla and – to our pleasant surprise – all four landed. However, our excitement was short-lived as rumours began to spread like wildfire throughout the airport. Well, more like across the room. We learned that winds had been reported at over 15 knots (17mph) in the valley, which is a no-fly trigger under Nepali Civil Aviation law.
Fifteen knots. I couldn’t believe it. I imagined the look on the pilot’s face as one of their passengers sneezed, rocking the plane and sending air traffic control into meltdown. I knew the planes were low quality, but this felt like a wind-up.
I was glued to a stranger’s phone in the corner of the room, live-streaming a rooftop view of the runway in Lukla. My eyes gravitated towards the bright orange windsock blowing in the distance, framed by four feeble-looking planes parked awkwardly side-by-side. It was true – the planes didn’t move.
Going Nowhere
And neither did we.
Jez and I found the most comfortable position we could and attempted to nap on metal chairs that somehow felt more uncomfortable than the bus ride a few hours earlier. Eventually, after the airport staff reluctantly accepted that flights would be unlikely to resume for the day, we ventured into the village to scavenge snacks and get a sense of our surroundings.
There were a few makeshift stores charging humble prices for fruit and vegetables, a dilapidated barber shop, and a cluster of multicoloured houses overlooking agricultural land that was divided into small plots. Goats patrolled the streets, their long, patchy hair suggesting that the local barber was taking an extended holiday.
We aimlessly wandered the dirt tracks flanked by glorious greenery on either side, but after only a few minutes we reached the edge of the village. All that remained was the cries of the goats we passed moments earlier. It was a ghost town which, apparently, even the ghosts were bored of. I guess that made it a goat’s town (sorry).
Meanwhile, Tali and Alan found a cosy bed-and-breakfast on the outskirts of the village, and agreed a fair price to house us all for the evening. They called us back to the airport to collect our bags so we could check in and escape the demoralising bungalow, which now felt like a refuge for impatient travellers.
I ventured outside to see a large wheelbarrow filled with bags of all shapes and sizes, stacked haphazardly like a failing game of Tetris. Jez found his bag immediately, but mine was nowhere to be seen. I approached the ground staff who seemed surprised that there could be anything to do while the planes weren’t moving.
One despondent-looking member of their team insisted that my bag must be in the wheelbarrow, and that I simply hadn’t looked hard enough. As he spoke, I noticed a small gem reflecting the sunlight from one of his front teeth, a detail so distracting that it took over any other impression of his otherwise unremarkable appearance. It became clear that he was some kind of supervisor, not because he took initiative, but because he wore a slightly brighter luminescent vest. Very quickly, this member of staff became aptly named Tooth Gem amongst those of us still stranded in the airport.
So, I took his advice and searched the entire wheelbarrow top-to-bottom, placing every bag I could see on the ground by the exit. At this point, I was working harder than the rest of the ground staff, who jeered as other passengers came and collected their own respective bags. I had essentially volunteered myself to do their job, and they excitedly discussed it as rice and dal spilled from their cheeks.
I got to the bottom of the now empty wheelbarrow. There was no sign of my bag anywhere. At this point in the afternoon, with no sleep, very little food and an indefinite delay, I got frustrated. I demanded to see Tooth Gem again, to the amusement of the rest of the ground staff, who laughed as I pointed at one of my front teeth to indicate who I was looking for. It became a game of charades and I was losing.
Tooth Gem eventually reappeared and laughed when he discovered my bag wasn’t there. “Where’s my bag?” I asked, with a few more creative words scattered in between. He translated my desperation to his friends, and jovial responses included: “Heaven,” “Everest,” and “Behind you”. For the record, I didn’t turn around.
Fed up, I retired to the prison that was the departure lounge. The scenes were depressing: fifty-or-so tourists all sleeping uncomfortably, munching on stale snacks, or sipping bitter coffee, desperate for a drop in wind speed that would release us from this Nepali purgatory.
Tooth Gem hurried back over to me, his phone aloft. He had received a call from Lukla airport, where the aircraft were stranded. They had sent him a photo which was now his prized possession. Through the jagged cracks on his phone screen I was staring in disbelief at my backpack, which had been loaded onto the first plane without me. It was stranded in Lukla and I was stuck in the valley with nothing but the clothes on my back.
Tooth Gem once again saw the funny side of it: “Your bag is on holiday and you aren’t!” I produced a noise that was neither a laugh nor a sigh – something desperate in between. I was now stranded in a Nepali ghost town after pulling an all-nighter, stripped of all of my personal belongings, and now with the stress of losing a day beginning to creep in.
Luckily, Alan – our now makeshift father figure – produced a comically-sized map and injected some reassurance into the situation with some additional planning. To stay on schedule, we would have to compress two days of hiking into one. The best time to do this would be the following day when spirits were high and legs were fresh. If we managed it, we would be back on schedule by the following night, just in time for an acclimatisation day in Namche Bazaar, the largest town on the route.
Despite the setback, spirits remained high for the days ahead.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, we chatted with our fellow castaways and tried to stay optimistic about the journey ahead. We all bonded over the absence of my bag. My disappointment quickly downgraded to mild inconvenience, and the story became a great icebreaker.
We were joined by Lily, an outdoorsy and incredibly intelligent American, who immediately became an integral part of our stranded little family. Now outnumbered by our American counterparts, Jez and I began our North Carolina code-switching routine. Words like “dude” and “high school” slipped back into our vocabulary.
I felt my Geordie accent slowly fading away as we wandered down to the river for a perfect sunset. However, it returned almost immediately as I animatedly watched Eddie’s Tricky Mags lift a domestic trophy for the first time in my (actual) Dad’s lifetime. Carabao is my favourite of the Thai energy drinks – I’ve always said that.
Even with all the frustrations, challenges and exhaustion of the day, spirits were incredibly high and as I sat on the brink of tears watching Dan Burn live out every Geordie’s childhood dream, I felt a profound sense of appreciation for where I was, who I was with and where I was going. Even though, for now, I was going nowhere.
