The Everest Diaries: Part 7 (March, 2025)
Blood on the Trails
I staggered to a standstill, bent forward, and spat viciously into the thin layer of snow that coated the rocky trail. We had only walked thirty minutes, but my lungs were screaming for me to stop. I wiped the water from my eyes and saw a red blotch dissolve into the pure white snow beneath my feet. As I inhaled yet another dust-laden breath, the air snagged on invisible threads and sent vibrations through my chest. I kicked some snow across the trail, wiped my mouth, and kept on struggling uphill.
I’d fallen behind the group slightly and blamed it on a lack of sleep the night before. That was partly true, but the lack of sleep was a byproduct, not a cause. I’d been up all night spraying dust into the frozen atmosphere of our teahouse. The combination of thin air, dusty trails, and relentless winds in the previous days had seasoned my lungs with a cocktail of sediment and surprises, which now manifested as a dry, persistent cough.
Nicknamed the “Khumbu Cough” (after this region of Nepal where it has become so common), many hikers develop bronchitis-like symptoms as they climb higher on the Base Camp Trail. Bhakda had overheard my dramatic spluttering earlier that morning and told me of my fate. The blood, however, was new, as were the clumps of dust, sediment, and mysterious solids emerging from my nose as I sneezed and coughed. I figured those details were better left unsaid, for now.
Up ahead, my Nepali family dropped their bags and rested, masking their patience with a water and snack break – a gesture I appreciated but wasn’t falling for. During the first two days of hiking, I’d felt comfortable and even complacent, taking things slowly as the group stayed close, spirits high with laughter, random conversations, and frequent stops to admire our environment. This atmosphere had temporarily suppressed my competitive streak – probably because I’d convinced myself that the slower pace was by choice.
As I looked up at the ridge and saw everyone waiting for me, frustration set in. I couldn’t help but feel disappointed with myself for lagging behind in what was the least competitive environment imaginable. My mood shifted. I said very little as I internalised my physical failures. “Yeah, all good,” I muttered, through my gritted teeth and dusty lungs, as the fear of the challenges ahead tumbled through my mind.
I kept up for a while as the trail flattened out. The wind had calmed down since yesterday, but I wasn’t taking any chances. My final conversations with Lily were faint, each word fighting its way through the fabric of my buff. She was splitting off from the group to take another trail, and our goodbyes were surprisingly emotional. The family was downsizing for the first time.
After almost a week of chaos, challenges, shocks, and endurance, we had created lifelong memories with people we may never see again. I laughed – and coughed intermittently – as we reminisced about Ramechhap, Tooth Gem, the fire brigade, our first sighting of Everest, and all the other fine details that somehow felt ancient. We’d only met four days ago.
As Lily disappeared into the last remaining pine trees of the trail, I was overwhelmed by the feeling of loss among our little family. I reflected on how quickly you can build such incredible relationships while travelling. Maybe it’s just self-selection bias – or traumatic bonding – but I looked around and couldn’t believe my luck. I was in the company of such incredible people, old friends and new, but only for a while longer, as I was falling behind again, keeping my eyes fixed on the trail.
By late morning, we passed through a monastery village at 3,600 metres. I reached for the golden handle of a giant prayer wheel and was surprised by its warmth. The sun was directly above us, but between my sunhat, long sleeves, and otherwise-occupied mind, its intensity had simply passed me by. The frozen water and visible breath of the early morning seemed like a thing of the past.
The climate fluctuations were intimidating. During the day, I was overheating in my long trousers, yet a few moments in the shade brought a chill to the sweat on my back and left me shivering. We were still, by DK’s tree-dependent definition, comfortably in the hills – but I couldn’t help worrying about what the true mountains might bring.
I observed the landscape more closely and noticed some unusual features. Fast-flowing rivers and tree-covered hills were sprinkled with balls of snow and ice where permanent shadows shielded them from the harsh midday sun. The trails were cracked and eroded from the daily defrost of the overnight ice, and the trees shook gently in the wind above us, dusting the trail with the last few drops of the morning dew.
The route was painted an uninspiring shade of yellowy-brown, often resembling a desert path rather than a winding mountain route, and it was these minor climatic details that stood out in what was an otherwise uneventful day. The trail grew less impressive as we hiked into endless rolling hills with the snow-capped peaks behind us, and we stopped regularly to look back at the jagged giants we were leaving behind.
Jez and I consulted Bhakda, who reassured us that today was short and prioritised altitude gain over distance. Jez was absolutely flying up the trail, and while I couldn’t help but be impressed by his stamina so far, I can’t deny that a flicker of competitiveness had crept back in, on account of our similar fitness, build, and preparation. He kindly offered to drop his pace to keep me company, which I – while slightly patronised – happily accepted to break the soliloquy of crunching footsteps and hearty splutters.
The rest of the day was a cough-filled haze that ended in Dole, our first night above 4,000 metres. We celebrated this milestone the only way we could: with a hearty garlic soup – which Bhakda insisted was a remedy to mitigate altitude sickness – a few more card games, and twelve hours of sleep.
Nepali Flat
I reluctantly rolled out of bed and into the communal area of the teahouse, a simple dining room with few tables huddled around an overworked furnace. Jez told me I’d been moaning in my sleep – probably thanks to the blockage in my chest – but I wasn’t too concerned, since that’s pretty much all I do when I’m awake anyway. Night imitating day, I suppose.
I forced some Tibetan bread down my throat, to the clear disapproval of my chest, which fought to eject its oily remains from the wrath of my respiratory system. Wrapped up warm, I packed up my gear and went to brush my teeth. As I turned the tap on the sink, there was an uncomfortable creak followed by a few reluctant drops of water.
It was a sign of what was to come: over the next week, we expected temperatures to drop so low that running water would become a memory. The pipes had frozen, and so the main water supply became freshly boiled water from the kitchen – a luxury that, naturally, cost a few extra rupees. I sighed, and my body responded with more forceful coughing. I had bigger things to worry about.
I felt terrible. My throat burned like sandpaper. I was coughing up solid matter stained with dark red blood, and no matter how much water I drank, I felt dehydrated. The silver lining, though, was twofold: firstly, I hadn’t experienced any altitude sickness yet – which was one of the main concerns on the trail – and today’s hike was similar to yesterday’s, meaning a relatively short hike.
I eagerly anticipated a full afternoon of rest. I mustered up enough energy to hurl my increasingly heavy backpack over my shoulder and drag myself back onto the trail. Competitiveness didn’t even cross my mind today. The goal was simple: get to Machhermo.
Bhakda eased me into the hike, reassuring me that the trail was “mostly flat”. I soon learned that ‘flat’ means something very different to an experienced Nepali trekking guide. We emerged from the village and were immediately faced with a rocky cliff and a meandering staircase made up of jagged and broken rocks. I looked at Bhakda, who grinned and – before I even had the chance to complain – exclaimed, ” Nepali flat!”
Over the course of the day I learned that Nepali flat just means a gentle, steady incline. True flat ground simply doesn’t exist in the Himalayas. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but Bhakda’s child-like enthusiasm spared me any disappointment, and I warmed to what was a surprisingly pleasant trail.
The landscape grew more and more barren, with trees becoming more sparse, as we stumbled along peaceful hillsides to the music of the gushing river below. The wind picked up again and the combination of strong gusts and overheating left my clothes in a double layer of dust and sweat.
By the time we reached Machhermo in the late morning, I was wrecked. I collapsed into the teahouse and immediately changed into some cleaner, comfier clothes. Given that we had the entirety of the afternoon to rest, Jez and I decided to give our clothes a quick wash while we had access to running water – especially since the dusty shield wasn’t doing my lungs any favours.
I lethargically hand-washed our clothes in the cold basin outside, watched by a curious yak that admired my scrubbing technique. I hung the clothes on the washing line in the intense sun, then took up my horizontal position on the benches inside.
Laundry-Gate
After what felt like a blink, I woke up to a darkened, quiet room. The family sat scattered around – some reading, some resting, others playing silent card games. The sun was setting, and the temperature had dropped noticeably. I got up to collect my clothes from the washing line before dark, but Jez kindly assured me he’d already taken my clothes off the line and folded them on my bed.
What a wonderful gesture. In these trying times, my best friend had spared me the duty of facing the cold and made sure my clothes were ready for the challenge ahead. I lay back down, safe in the knowledge that there was nothing to do but rest.
About an hour later, I emerged from another slumber and wandered down to my room to grab a sweatshirt. It was almost completely dark outside and a small lamp in the corner of the courtyard guided me down the corridor to my room. I glanced out at the courtyard and saw some clothes hanging from the washing line, moving stiffly as the line danced in the evening breeze.
Some poor bastard’s left their clothes out, I thought. I squinted – that t-shirt looked familiar. So did those trousers. And those socks. Shit. That poor bastard was me.
I dashed out of the door and was met with an ice-cold slap in the face. It was the coldest temperature I had felt so far, and I couldn’t help but admire the vibrancy of my breath as I gasped in disgust at my frozen laundry. I grabbed my trousers – they were frozen solid, the legs clinging on for dear life as I peeled them back from the washing line, snapping as they came free. The rest of the outfit followed, a brittle heap of fabric that I lumped back into the teahouse.
I didn’t have to say anything. Jez and I have known each other long enough to communicate in silence. I disheartenedly looked him in the eyes, hands full with stiff, icy clothes. He looked back at me with sickening guilt. I didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed.
I tried a quiet laugh, which was disrupted by a respiratory counter attack far more dramatic than the situation required. Jez had brought some of the clothes in – just not mine. He thought he had. Good intentions, at least.
Given that I had only one pair of hiking trousers and that temperatures were now well below zero until, the only option was to defrost them on the communal furnace. I eagerly anticipated the arrival of firewood to light the furnace for the evening. We’d all gather around the fire like we had done on previous nights, stay warm, and my clothes would defrost by bedtime. Every problem has a solution.
But the firewood never came. In fact, the room was filled with anticipation as the temperature dropped and our hot chocolates cooled faster than we could drink them. Eventually, one of the hosts sheepishly emerged from the kitchen with a rusty metal bucket. She lifted the lid on the furnace, prompting a collective exhale that almost warmed the room on its own.
Though, it certainly didn’t look like she was carrying firewood. That’s because she wasn’t.
The increasingly barren landscape flashed through my mind. Of course there was no firewood, there were no trees. These remote mountain villages struggle enough to access running water and fresh food, let alone having to pay exhausted porters to carry piles of firewood on their backs.
So, the question remained: what makes for an easily-accessible fuel source for a furnace in the Himalayas?
A thick, turgid smell spread slowly around the room as the flames grew and the fuel burned. No one said a word. A silent and sympathetic audience gave me my moment, as I slowly laid tomorrow’s outfit across the lid of a yak-shit-fuelled furnace.
