The Everest Diaries: Part 8 (March, 2025)
Deutsch und Doledrums
“Only a week until we’re back in Namche” were the words echoing through my head as I adjusted my damp, smoke-infused clothes. I lay almost horizontally on the armchair, clinging to any remnants of heat as the furnace fizzled out. Such were the circumstances, I found myself pleading for more yak shit – a sentence I never thought I’d say – hoping that the extra fuel would somehow dry my clothes and bring a sliver of comfort to my otherwise dire situation.
I was craving luxury and, for the first time, found myself missing Sri Lanka: the seafront beers, the blinding sun, the fresh air of the hill country, even the chaos of its congested streets. Strangely, all the tainted memories had softened, leaving only nostalgia. I sat for a moment, reassured that one day I’d probably romanticise this misery too – though it was difficult to imagine given how I felt, and how I smelled.
An older couple – clearly not deterred by my appearance or odour – sheepishly approached the furnace and sat next to Tali. They offered me some of their spare hiking gear, their pity poorly disguised as kindness. I declined, but mustered up as much energy as possible to exchange some pleasantries.
Christina and Wolfgang kept Tali and I company by the furnace. They were an adventurous duo spending their later years doing what they loved: hiking, meeting new people, and escaping the bustle of Germany for the remoteness of Nepal.
Conversations bounced between English, German and Spanish as Christina shared stories of teaching in Spain, Tali opened up about her Argentinian roots, and I dusted off some embarrassingly outdated A Level German that still stretched beyond asking how many pets someone had, or recounting the time I drank my first beer underage on the German exchange (sorry, Frau Neibig, I’ve never had the heart to tell you).
Our conversations mingled with shouts and laughter from elsewhere in the room, where a surprise birthday celebration and some downhill enthusiasm injected some warmth into the air – sadly, it couldn’t speed up my drying laundry. Our hosts passed around a clear, throat-searing alcohol called Raksi.
Bhakda insisted that a shot would be good for my chest. One sniff had me retching, yet I couldn’t bring myself to distrust our trekking guru, so I took a gulp which brought equal parts burn and splutter.
This was the beauty of the Nepali teahouse: a single room, no larger than a classroom and barely insulated, brimming with stories. Travellers from all over the world huddled together for warmth and found something better – connection. The communal area starts as a survival strategy, like penguins crowding to escape the cold, yet the furnace becomes a social engine, lifting both the temperature and the mood as small talk evolves into intimate conversation.
If not for the constant adjusting of my slowly defrosting laundry, I could have forgotten the day’s troubles entirely. The laughter, the kindness of strangers, and the easy exchange of stories softened the pain in my chest – and almost masked the stench of smoke and yak shit clinging to my clothes.
One thing I couldn’t distract myself from, however, was the urgent need to escape my sleeping bag and sprint for the bathroom the following morning. I must have startled Jez with the speed I shot out of the pitch black abyss of our shared room. If not, the accompanying soundtrack certainly did.
I will spare you the graphic details from my audio diary, but suffice to say I recreated a Las Vegas fountain show – in both directions – decorating this otherwise basic bathroom with a vivid and deeply regrettable display.
By the time I stumbled back, I felt like I’d lost several kilograms and most of my dignity overnight – or at least what was left of it. I had no energy, a throat lined with razor blades, and now an ache that pulsated through every joint and muscle in my body. With no appetite whatsoever, I managed to stomach a few mouthfuls of bread before promptly returning it to the sender.
Bhakda watched the entire episode unfold with his usual calm, trying to inject some composure by checking my blood oxygen levels. There was one piece of good news – I was still oxygenated. That was it. My blood-coughing, dust-plagued body was now blessed with a bout of food poisoning.
It didn’t make any sense. I’d been meticulous – purifying every drop of water, keeping to the simplest foods, staying clean where possible – yet here I was, running on fumes and nearly passing out after a brief walk back from the bathroom.
I was gutted, but didn’t have the energy to express it. I completely internalised my anger and convinced myself that this failure was self-inflicted. In my fog of frustration, I decided that I’d done something wrong, and spiralled as I lay horizontally at the breakfast table dismissing any hint of support. Strangely enough, the most effective medicine was shared misery. Tali emerged from her room looking equally pale and defeated.
We were both sick – and oddly, that helped. It dissolved the guilt I’d piled on myself and replaced it with a quiet determination to help us both through the day. We opted to lag behind the group, ensuring that we did everything possible to prepare for what was going to be a very challenging day. We moved slowly, packed reluctantly, and said a quiet goodbye to our teahouse hosts while our Nepali family had already vanished down the trail.
The details of the day’s trek were mostly irrelevant – what mattered was that it was meant to be our last full day together before the group split off on separate paths. Our grand finale had been cancelled. The only goal now was reaching Gokyo, a serene village perched beside the region’s highest altitude freshwater lakes, separated from the Everest Base Camp trail by one of the longest glaciers in the Himalayas.
We finally stepped outside and the conditions were brutal. We trudged up a completely exposed and uneven trail, battered by blisteringly cold winds, sub-zero temperatures, and ironically gentle snowfall. Conversation was difficult, mainly on account of our deteriorating health and spirits, but silence became its own language. Side by side, we climbed – breathless, aching, and bonded by struggle.
Exhausted and demoralised, we sought refuge in a tiny house at the side of the trail, desperate to regain some energy. I pushed open the stiff door and slumped uncomfortably by the window, feeling almost no benefit from the shelter as the inside temperature mimicked the outside. We huddled together in an attempt to salvage any kind of warmth, desperate for some respite, and ordered some hot drinks in the hope that our stomachs would tolerate them.
Moments later, we heard the stumble and mumble of some fellow hikers. The door swung open and Wolfgang and Christina emerged. In our exhausted and delirious state, we hadn’t noticed them not far behind, our eyes just glued to our boots as we battled through the wind.
It had barely been 12 hours, but our reunion felt like one of friends separated for decades. We hugged, smiled, and laughed – relief and joy replacing the fatigue that had hollowed us out. Our chatter resumed as though the furnace from the teahouse had followed us up the trail, but trilingualism was kept at bay as I could barely even think in English.
It’s incredible how much this encounter lifted us. We hardly knew them, yet the simple magic of familiar faces resurrected our spirits. They shared gentle words of encouragement and somehow motivated us to keep going. Normally, I’d make a sarcastic comment about how I don’t actually remember anything that they said, but one thing I do remember is Tali bursting into tears as she exchanged email addresses with Christina and they hugged for what would be the last time.
But, that’s exactly the point. People don’t remember what you say, sometimes even what you do. They remember how you made them feel. They made us feel capable again. They made us feel brave enough to keep going. They made us feel grateful – for the company, for the moment, even for the misery. They made us feel lucky to be exactly where we were, despite everything we’d internally lambasted for hours earlier.
We pulled up our buffs, gave one final wave, and braced ourselves for the long, slow trudge ahead. I don’t remember anything else from the rest of that hike – other than clambering over low rocks and lying on my back in the snow to shelter from the blistering winds. But, through the blur of exhaustion, I remember my first glimpse of Gokyo.
Its brightly painted houses bursting through the snowy camouflage and its shimmering lake appeared like an oasis. It was one of the most beautiful sights I’d ever seen – partly emphasised by the feeling of relief after finally reaching the next bathroom – because it represented a finish line at the edge of breaking point.
Vielen Dank, Christina und Wolfgang. Whatever you said to us. It doesn’t matter. You made us believe we could do it – and we did.
A Fork in the Road
The beauty and serenity of Gokyo had briefly distracted me from my deteriorating health, but I was pulled back to reality when lunch arrived and my appetite was nowhere to be found. After hours of maximum exertion and an overnight evacuation of my insides, a full serving of pasta and potatoes was the last thing on my mind.
I stared blankly out of the teahouse window until the sun sank behind the mountains and left the lake in a dark vacuum – a reminder that I hadn’t moved in hours. I stretched my legs, then surrendered once more to the safety of my horizontal throne.
Worry had set in amongst Bhakda and DK, particularly when I showed reluctance to eat dinner. “Dal Baht power” was no longer “24 hour” – at least for me – and that’s when the subtle reality checks began. They gently hinted at the possibility of returning to Namche with Tali and Alan.
Their route was an out-and-back to Gokyo, whereas Jez, Jon and I had planned to cross the Cho La Pass to reach Gorakshep, and eventually, Everest Base Camp. It would be our final night together as one big Nepali family – a fact made heavier by the uncertainty in the air.
I had absolutely no intention of quitting, but I also didn’t have the energy to argue. Jez and Jon’s encouragements to “do what feels right” were kind but cautious. They knew the truth, and so did I. Their own journey hung on my decision.
A summit pass at nearly 5,500m, Cho La was daunting. The climb required scrambling through thick snow and steep cliff faces, navigating unmarked trails, and eventually crossing an open glacier with crampons (metal spikes attached to hiking boots). Even in good health, it was the most physically demanding challenge yet.
In my current state – coughing blood, dehydrated, and barely eating – it was genuinely dangerous.
Bhakda explained that tomorrow’s ascent of Gokyo Ri would be the crucial test. The short, steep climb would push my lungs and legs to their limit, showing whether I could handle the higher altitudes and physical challenge of the Cho La Pass. If I struggled, it wouldn’t just be a bad indicator, it would be a decision point.
However, it wasn’t my decision alone. If I couldn’t summit the pass and reach Gorakshep, turning back wouldn’t be an option – not unless both Jez and Jon did too. The terrain and route ahead was too remote and treacherous to tackle alone.
Jez and Jon encouraged me to do what was best for me, to listen to the advice of the guides, and put my health first. I could sense the reluctance in their voices. I was terrified of ruining their trip – of becoming the weak link in a trip we had all dreamed about for months.
Still, I couldn’t accept the idea of turning back. I’d signed up for the challenge. I’d promised myself I’d reach Everest Base Camp. To quit now would be to fail. And, just like that, all of my earlier frustrations came flooding back – guilt, anger, and self-doubt. The nostalgia that had comforted me hours earlier now turned into an internal assault.
The liberation I’d felt from quitting my job and throwing myself into this adventure twisted into the belief I was failing this too. Failure, inadequacy, insecurity – they filled my head, and I didn’t have the bandwidth for any of them.
I needed sleep, I needed water. I needed to prove to Bhakda – and to myself – that I could keep going. Tomorrow, I need to summit Gokyo Ri.
Red Light
I stood overlooking Gokyo, admiring the most beautiful panorama I’d ever seen. The Himalayas loomed above, their white peaks guarding the tiny snow-dusted village below. I gazed down at the glistening blue lake in a moment of reflection, peacefully appreciating the silence of my surroundings. But it was silent for the wrong reasons.
The rest of the group had pressed on, shrinking into the distance, while I’d been forced to stop. I turned to face the summit of Gokyo Ri – now swallowed by thick white clouds – and watched as my Nepali family powered upwards, their silhouettes fading into the mist. I stayed behind, then slowly began the long descent down the uneven snowy trail.
I’d failed the test – and I already knew what that meant. Bhakda had been clear: if I couldn’t summit Gokyo Ri, I had no business crossing the Cho La Pass.
Back at the teahouse, I lethargically collapsed onto a hard wooden bench and passed out instantly. I was too sick, too drained, and too demoralised to process this failure. Too tired to even consider the next steps. I’d exhausted myself over the past few days, burning every last bit of energy I had trying to outrun the inevitable. Now that it had caught up with me, there was nothing left to fight.
My adventure was over. And I didn’t even care.
