The Everest Diaries: Part 9 (March, 2025)
Green Light
I said one final farewell to our Nepali family as we halved in size. It was a difficult goodbye after an intimate, unforgettable week. We’d been through the highs and lows of Ramechhap, the excitement of our first sighting of the world’s highest peak, and the harrowing challenge of hiking through pain and ill health.
I took one last look back at Gokyo. At first, the village felt like a symbol of achievement and relief after powering through a difficult hike under even more challenging circumstances, but the towering presence of Gokyo Ri left the village overshadowed by a sense of failure.
Gokyo had become a constant reminder of defeat, frustration, and disappointment. Bhakda told me that he was surprised I had made it this far, which felt more like a backhanded consolation, but all I could focus on was salvaging as much energy as possible, getting back onto the trail, and bringing an end to this miserable trek.
I turned to Jez – “And then there were four.”
A Roll of the Dice
I had woken up from my mid-morning slumber as the rest of the group returned from the summit of Gokyo Ri. It turned out that visibility was ridiculously low, so the summit brought nothing more than a cocoon of cloud and chillingly cold winds. The best view of Gokyo was about halfway up, exactly where I had stopped and given up.
I’d actually made a good call heading back down early, as the additional rest left me feeling slightly recharged for the first time in days. This felt like a long overdue stroke of luck – but it wasn’t convincing enough for Bhakda, who still had serious reservations about me continuing to the Cho La Pass.
Uncertainty hung in the air, even as we finished lunch and packed up our bags as a full group for one final time. We were building up to say our final goodbyes, yet it still wasn’t entirely clear who I was saying goodbye to. I was determined to push on, leaning heavily into the brief injection of energy I’d felt after polishing off my first proper meal in two days.
Bhakda had been firm in his words earlier that morning: Gokyo Ri was the final test – and I had failed it. Yet I could sense his sympathy. He could clearly see that I felt capable enough to keep going – even if it was only for a moment – despite every physical indicator suggesting otherwise.
Bhakda, DK and Dan the Man had a brief discussion in Nepali, and I eagerly anticipated the translation as I laced up my boots, rewarded the return of my appetite with some extra snacks, and fought the mounting pressure of my backpack. I put on my bravest face and suppressed every ounce of reservation, even though it betrayed itself with heavy panting and ragged breaths.
I’m not sure what finally convinced them I was fit enough to keep going. After days of soul-draining pessimism, perhaps the sight of me on my feet and ready to go demonstrated enough mental resilience to keep going, even if that strength came between spluttering coughs and aching limbs. Oxygen levels were fine, I had a full meal in my system, and I’d salvaged some enthusiasm.
The metrics were clear. I would keep going. Though even that decision came at a cost.
I was sticking with Bhakda and his boys, which meant saying a final goodbye to Tali, Alan, DK and Dan the Man. The final hugs lasted forever, and it still didn’t feel like long enough. The entire group spirit had been an integral part of our journey to Gokyo, overcoming adversity every step of the way.
Whether it was Alan’s tragically funny adopted dad jokes, Tali’s solidarity in sickness, DK’s bizarre selfies, or Dan the Man’s card game enthusiasm, everyone had carved out a role in their own unique way. On adventures like these, it’s impossible to shy away from a group dynamic and – without realising – we’d watched strangers evolve into friends, and eventually family.
It was a bittersweet moment: the only reason I was able to leave them behind was because they had never left me behind. If these diaries serve any purpose at all, let them be an ode to the people we met along the way.
Alan, Tali, DK, Dan the Man – thank you.
I kept looking back on our way out of the village, still in disbelief that my journey would continue. The first few kilometres dragged as we clambered over the first peak and finally out of sight of Gokyo – partly because we were splitting off from the group, but also due to the lingering sense of reservation in the air. I could sense that the lads were still slightly concerned by my decision to keep going, so I was determined to show that I was up to the challenge.
We traversed the uneven ground of the Ngozumpa glacier – the longest glacier in the Himalayas – stumbling and scrambling over loose rocks and past frozen bodies of water that glistened amongst the grey. Ngozumpa was unlike any expectation of a glacier. the thin layer of snow was disrupted by sharp, jagged rocks that burst through the serene blanket with an aggressive shade of brown.
The surface was uneven and resembled a quarry more than a haven of frozen water, and the water that did emerge between these rocky heaps glistened like small lakes, the crystal blue drawing our eyes away from the remainder of this strikingly bland landscape. The backdrop of snow-capped giants served as a reminder of where we were, towering over a barren terrain of dirt and rocks.
The hike itself was fairly short, and our arrival in Thangnak felt premature. For the first time in a few days I felt like I could actually keep going, and the spirit of revival offered a welcome reassurance that began to offset the nerves amongst the group. However, today wasn’t the real challenge. Tomorrow’s summit of the Cho La Pass would be the real threat, so it was vital that we settled in early, ate well, and rested ahead of the most challenging day of our entire trek.
We got comfortable in our rather unremarkable guesthouse with a classic garlic soup, a Mars bar, and what proceeded to be the longest game of Ludo I have ever played in my life. It genuinely lasted about an hour. Jez was absolutely certain that we didn’t know the rules, but Bhakda’s encouragement and enthusiasm kept the game going well beyond its sell-by date.
Apparently, Ludo is really popular in Nepal, and they must also have their own rules as well, as Bhakda’s game constantly evolved with new tricks and changes that kept him at a suspicious advantage. It felt like things had gone on for too long, yet our excitement had distracted us from our darkening surroundings and falling temperatures.
The nonsense was justified. The final dice was rolled, and our multicoloured minions made it to their final destination. I hoped that would be a metaphor for the following day.
The Big One
I was awoken before sunrise by the inevitable noise of some loudmouth Australians. One guy was shouting up and down the corridor to his mates about whether or not to wear his extra pair of socks. I was hoping he’d opt against it so I could use them to smother him at breakfast, but eventually I dragged myself out of bed and geared up for the day.
Question of the day: How do you know if someone is Australian?
Answer: They’ve already told you.
Jez, Jon and I sat impatiently at breakfast, wolfing down as much food as we could while eagerly anticipating the departure of this unnecessarily rowdy group. My stomach still wasn’t right so I opted for some precautionary Imodium to block the pipes, as well as an extra dose of cough syrup to neutralise the splutters. I remained fairly nervous for the day ahead, and it’s safe to say Jez and Jon shared those nerves.
We had an unspoken reluctance about what was coming as I fought my way through an uninspiring breakfast, doing my best to camouflage any outward demonstrations of ill health that might worry the lads further. We sat quietly around the breakfast table, contemplating the day ahead, where far more was felt than said.
The dining room was basic, but among the stickers and posters on the graffitied wall perched a simple sign reading “Porter Available,” written in capital letters across an A4 sheet of paper. Jon suggested that hiring a Porter might be a good option – a makeshift insurance policy – meaning I could benefit from the reduced load on the climb but also ensure I could turn back and navigate the route with a local in the worst-case scenario that I failed to summit the pass.
Had this been offered earlier in the trek, during my most self-sabotaging moments, I would have scowled at the idea. But now, sensing the relief in Jon and Jez’s voices as we discussed it, I swallowed my pride and accepted support for the day’s climb.
We’d made it this far, and I wasn’t going to let ten kilograms get between us and Everest Base Camp. I paid the fee and recruited an 18-year-old local to join us. He was itching to get started, completely unfazed by the challenge – yet another reminder that Nepalis are simply built different.
The porter paid dividends instantly – not carrying the extra weight was liberating. We emerged from the teahouse and began our first steep climb, spotting our noisy Australian neighbours ahead in what was otherwise an empty, peaceful trail. The snow thickened and the trail vanished, leaving us to trust Bhakda to guide us through the uncertainty of our pristine surroundings.
We picked up the pace, which was good for the legs, but not so good for the ears as we approached the supersonic echoes of the Aussies. There was a small, guilty satisfaction in overtaking them on the uphill, noticing their sudden drop in volume as the incline shut them up, and then leaving them behind as we descended into the valley below.
Looking up at the mountain face, the Cho La Pass really lived up to its reputation. The scramble appeared essentially vertical, and no matter how far we hiked, it felt like we weren’t getting any closer. We stopped briefly for a few snacks and water, with Bhakda offering reassurance as we honed in on this intimidating beast.
We began staggering up the side of the mountain, clutching at makeshift ropes and metal poles that kept us moving as the snow collapsed beneath us. I was throwing everything at the mountain just to remain stationary, at points dragging myself upward with energy I didn’t know I had.
The previous days of effort were catching up with me as I wolfed down some chocolate with my arm wrapped around the support chains, while Bhakda watching on like a proud father (sorry, Alan – looks like we’ve replaced you already).
The final few hundred metres of climbing were strenuous, repetitive, and sickening. I stared down at my boots, my hands clutching the now-degrading chains. There were slips and near-falls as the snow gave way to nature’s booby traps, and each step brought my knees higher and higher above hip height.
The route evolving from soft snow to a rocky staircase. Eventually, after traversing much of the mountain on all fours, we scrambled over the cliff and were rewarded with an expansive panorama of the Himalayas.
A few groups of hikers clustered at the summit, looking out in disbelief at the rolling mountains that dwarfed the pass below. I ignored the view for a moment, fascinated more by the fact I had completed the biggest challenge yet. I lay back on a snowy rock and gave a dramatically loud sigh, half-hoping that the residual sound would induce an avalanche to keep the Aussies at bay.
I chatted to Jez as the snow soaked through my trousers and sent a shiver down my spine. We celebrated in contrast, as he walked around the peak chatting to some familiar faces, while I lay comfortably on my makeshift snowy mattress. I heard a shuffle behind me as our silent Porter dropped my bag, gave us a smile, and powered on back to Thangnak. What a legend.
Second Wind
It took a while to get going again after expending almost all of my energy on summiting the pass. I threw my bag back on, slightly sinking me into the snow, and gazed down at the glacier below. Hikers crossed the snow like an army of ants, following the beaten route marked by tiny yellow poles that glowingly contrasted the thick white snow.
The backdrop was outrageous, and I now admired the landscape that had required such hard work to reach. We were completely engulfed by the Himalayas. Every corner of the horizon was decorated with the world’s highest peaks belittling the trails below.
We strapped on our crampons and began descending the other side of the mountain face, passing struggling hikers heading in the opposite direction, who mirrored our earlier suffering as they clambered up the jagged edges we were now leaving behind.
We reached the glacier and the snow felt like a carpet beneath our feet as we glided effortlessly across it. No scrambling, no extreme exertion – just soft white snow crunching as Bhakda led the way. Jez nearly stacked it at one point, tripping gracefully on a flat surface, and there were a few slips and slides as the snow thinned and turned into a comical icy deathtrap.
The sun peaked in the sky and I began to photosynthesise. A surge of energy washed over me as we continued our descent to the small village of Dzongla. After a physically demanding day, Bhakda had expected us to rest there when planning the route, but my miraculous recovery sparked a second wind.
We were within touching distance of Base Camp, and pushing on today would get us back on schedule, reaching our final destination in just under two days. In the midst of the suffering, it hadn’t even crossed my mind that we were still behind schedule. More pressing issues, I suppose.
Our trail eventually converged with another, and with it came the rattle and cry of yaks carrying supplies. It had been a few days since we’d seen any yaks, having broken away from the main supply routes, and I welcomed their jingling bells and swinging tails even as their formation congested the trail and forced our tired legs to pause.
Their emergence marked an exciting milestone. we’d reached the main trail and were now on a one-way road to Gorakshep, our gateway to Everest Base Camp.
After around 10 hours of hiking, we finally reached Lobuche – home to the “world’s highest bakery” and, apparently, the world’s stalest brownies. Maybe it was because I popped in at about five minutes before closing, but its cracked walls, broken light switches and uninterested bakers suggested that even in its prime, the world’s highest bakery was more namesake than high-altitude culinary masterclass.
We retired to the teahouse and settled by the furnace – and barely moved until it was time to sleep. We were exhausted after a day of extremes. Rising at sunrise, climbing mountain faces, sinking into metre-deep snow, traversing an icy glacier, and then tackling another day’s-worth of hiking.
And, weirdly, I felt fantastic. The game was back on.
