It’s hard for me to put the past two weeks into words, not because of what happened during them (though that is certainly difficult in itself), but because of how much they meant to me. As sorry as I am to admit it, the truth is that my happiest moments here have come during my time off, not during my work and day-to-day life, but outside of Kathmandu and my job and my home. And this latest trip was as special and breathtaking as it gets, up there among the greatest experiences of my life. Here, having returned to the city, looking back on it all, the gratitude reverberating throughout me, I’m realizing that these may have been some of my last days of the time off that brings me so much joy.
Two weeks ago, my school gave a long weekend for the elections. Nepal has some relatively recent history of violence around politics, so on the day of the election itself, the entire city was completely shut down. It was strange to see all the shops shuttered closed, to walk out on the streets, normally choked with traffic, and see absolutely nobody driving. The city turned off for one day, and it transformed into a place of peace and quiet. But that was just the beginning of my vacation, and that evening I went to the airport and welcomed my friend David, fresh off a plane halfway around the world to see me and begin an adventure together.
Early the very next morning, after David had hardly been in the country for twelve hours, we woke up and headed to the airport to board another plane. At the check-in desk, the attendant asked us to wait for a minute before checking our bags, and then left for about an hour. We sat in the slowly lightening terminal and waited, watching people go by, eventually checking in and making it through security. At the gate, there were no people or screens showing our flight departure, so we sat and waited for another hour. We were finally ushered outside and onto a bus, which brought us to an empty spot on the tarmac, where we stood and waited some more. After about fifteen minutes, a tiny plane landed and taxied over, passengers got out and unloaded their bags, and we watched them refill the plane with gas. We boarded, along with about ten other passengers, and then we took off, only a little over two hours late.
Our tiny plane wound its way up through valleys and over hills at a fairly low altitude, mountains poking their heads through the left-hand windows. We bumped over air pockets and felt the whole plane shake in the wind as we crossed above ridges that felt like they were right underneath our seats. About twenty minutes in, the plane gently banked up a valley and began to slow down, the wheels popping out. I looked out the window and even up through the front of the plane, but saw only green hills and rocky peaks—no sign of a village, much less an airport. But the plane started going down, down, and then as suddenly as I saw the runway, we were on it, brakes squealing and plane listing side to side as we came to a stop. We had arrived in Lukla (2,860m/9,383ft), the gateway to the high Himalayas.
From there, the next ten days blurred together, each one filled with the simple happiness that trekking can bring: clear skies, clear minds, full bellies, full hearts. We woke each day in the cold of the valley, before the sun came up over the hills, and watched as the golden light donned its boots, sipped some coffee, and sleepily ambled down towards us from the peaks. The green hills slowly gave way to low brush, then to open, rocky landscapes, and the rivers went from clear to milky turquoise as we approached their glacial sources in the thin air. Every day we walked, chins angled up in awe of the rugged beauty all around us, traversing the landscape and sleeping in warm Nepali hospitality during the cold, clear nights.
It was just as surreal to me to be walking those paths which lead to the top of the Earth as it was to be there with one of my best friends, a piece of home walking by my side. David woke up in New York City one day and Kathmandu the next, even missing Thanksgiving with his family to come visit me. Just being able to have someone I know from home there with me, someone my own age whom I’ve been friends with for years, was so much relief and comfort for me among the difficulties I’ve had here. The setting didn’t hurt either, of course, and being able to share it with someone who knows and understands me, to joke around on the trail and talk about our lives and our thoughts, was more than I could’ve asked for.
In the beginning, we walked through village after village, the main streets paved with cobblestones and Nepalis swimming through their daily lives among the tourist hotels and shops. The paths were full of all kinds of people: we saw other trekkers making their way down and looking tired, porters carrying towering loads in baskets up to the next town, trains of yaks and donkeys lumbering along with propane tanks or other goods, soldiers in full gear hiking in or out of national park postings. We passed through increasingly small settlements tucked away in valleys, on the edges of the rivers and under the watchful eyes of the snowy mountains behind the hills.
After two days of walking, we entered the national park and climbed up to Namche Bazaar, a large and picturesque settlement which functions as the hub of the surrounding Khumbu region. The town was filled with an odd combination of locals going about their business, in shops and homes and a school which brings many students from nearby villages, and the unmistakable heavy-handed touch of tourism, hotels with hot showers and sofas, coffee shops with espresso machines, bars serving Guinness and projecting World Cup games at 3,440m (11,286ft). We took a valuable day there to rest and acclimatize, and walking through the streets we saw closed hotels and stores, empty streets and restaurants, clear signs of the end of tourist season, or perhaps the still-legible signature of Covid.
On our way out of Namche, we carved along the side of the valley by iconic stupas looking up at the striking Ama Dablam and Sagarmatha peaks. Then, our eyes peering skywards, we peeled off into a different valley and left behind the crowds headed towards base camp, slowly starting to make our way up out of the trees and onto the windswept terrain above.
The steady and protective Cho Oyu looked down over our new valley, while raw and rocky peaks stood on either side of us and a river meandered far below. On our sixth day, we reached the furthest point of our trek, the village of Gokyo (4,700m/15,584ft). We spent two nights there, situated right between the Ngozumpa glacier (the longest glacier in the Himalayas), an opaque green lake, and peacefully slumbering snow-capped mountains.
We moved slowly on the way up, adjusting to the altitude as we went, since we had started off at relatively low elevation (for the Himalayas, anyway). David had come directly from sea level, and even though I had a slight head start in Kathmandu, we both had to take it easy as the air got thinner. From Gokyo, we day hiked to Gokyo Ri, a lookout over the town offering views of Chomolungma, Lhotse, Makalu, and Cho Oyu, four of the highest mountains in the world, and the high point of the trek at 5,360m (17,585ft).
It was a strange experience to feel my body at such high altitude, getting winded from slight exertion, having some difficulty sleeping and a curbed appetite. But, as David said, it also made the whole thing feel more real: we knew the mountains were there because we could see them, but on a deeper level we could feel that we were among them in our own bodies. As uncomfortable as it was sometimes, it seemed right that we should be not just seeing but physically feeling the place itself. There's no point resisting: the Himalayas work their way into your mind and your being one way or another.
At Gokyo, after some consulting with the map and talking with other trekkers, we made the decision to add to our itinerary a bit and take a different route out back to Namche. We walked past Gokyo Lake and up, up, up to Renjo La pass, trudging through a sandy, alien landscape with the Himalayas guarding our backs. It was difficult—the most difficult part of the trek—and we felt it in every corner of our bodies as we put one foot slowly in front of the other, keeping our heart rates down and sucking on thin air. At the top (allegedly the same altitude as Gokyo Ri, though we had our doubts about that), I felt a rush of emotion even stronger than the gust of wind that whipped through the prayer flags over my sunburnt face.
Being there, I understood what it meant to have faith. How can you stand next to these wordless gods and not believe? Sitting, watching the last bit of sunlight fade on the Mother Goddess, it was not a metaphor: this is the place where life comes from, where the water reaches up to the sky, where you have no choice but to hope. Living among these mountain creators, protectors, and destroyers, it is impossible not to feel big and small. Big because I, imperfect human vehicle that I am, was there with them, cruising with my windows down between the biggest rocks on earth, feeling the accomplishment of facing down a challenge and overcoming. Small because, among its most intense beauty and intense hostility, where life is given and taken away, above all, nature humbles.
We returned to Lukla understanding the looks we’d seen on the faces of returning trekkers when we’d left, and watched the sun set over the steeply angled runway. Back in Kathmandu, we met up with trekking friends and went to bars to watch soccer, shopped for knock-off outdoor gear and got violent but necessary massages. I reveled in the chance to share my new home with an old friend, someone who could see it in how I see it and in a way that my words can’t express. I miss him already, and I miss the ease of having a friend I know and love with me as I continue to make my way through my life here. But being with him in the mountains reminded me that, even back in the city, I can still be the best version of myself, and that’s a gift I’m grateful for beyond words.
The rest was simple, walking back down in the alpenglow, the hardest part behind us but the light of our trip still shining through our faces. With my friend by my side, I remembered with some relief what it was like to be me—having been here for so long, I’d almost forgotten, and the truth is that I haven’t always loved the person who I’ve become here. But when I was with David, it was easy to love myself, and to share that love with the world. Making friends has been a surprising challenge for me throughout my time in Nepal, but for some reason, whether it was returning to the oxygen-pumping trees or something else, it was easy to find new people on the way back to the start. I was happier than one person could be, but I didn’t care, I let it bubble over to everyone around me, since the only thing better than a the adventure of a lifetime is new acquaintances and old friends to share it with. What good is life, if we live it alone?
Until next time: peace!
Much love,
Oren
loved this! and the pictures!
love you buddy