annapurna — Blog — Aram's Path

Awaiting a delayed flight that would begin my long journey home, the spectre of an unfulfilled calling haunted me. I'd been in Nepal nearly 2 months and had already done a wonderful trek in season when weather conditions were optimum. Alas I was not satisfied. I knew I had not achieved the extent of the Himalayan experience I sought. I’d foregone doing the legendary Annapurna Circuit trek, a multi-week trek leading into the ancient forbidden kingdom of Mustang. Bordered by the Tibetan plateau and surrounded by some of world's tallest peaks, its one of the remotest areas of Nepal. I’d partly opted against the Circuit due to perceived time constraints (I’d wanted to attend a festival above the idyllic Begnas lake in the warm, verdant lower hill country). But undeniably, I was intimidated by the prospect of crossing Thorong La, a daunting high altitude pass rising nearly five and a half kilometers into thin air, the gateway to Mustang, and crux of the trek. Unfortunately, the window of opportunity for doing another trek deeper into the high Himalaya seemed all but closed; for now it was winter.

Eating away at me was the sense that I'd given into fear; the fear of high winds, freezing temperatures, and lack of oxygen; the fear of acute mountain sickness; and fears of other kinds. I had made the safe decision, but could not find peace. I recognised this was about more than a physical challenge, it was also about something deeper within. Sitting on a roof top terrace, the fog which had closed the airport, had lifted. A gentle breeze blew while I peered over the runway, the city of Pokhara’s colourful streets under their bright green canopy of subtropical trees spread beyond. The majestic white snow and ice-topped Himalayan massifs of the Annapurna range gleamed serenely in the distance. They invoked a sense of peace, but one I knew to be both true and illusory given the extreme environment they actually entailed. Soon this would all be just memories. At that moment, a lucid awareness arose within me; Life does not guarantee second chances of this sort. I may never be back here, and always feel I’d sold myself short. Then it dawned on me; I did not have to get on this flight. Sure it would involve a little extra cost, and other travel foregone, but the true barrier had been a construct of my mind. I rose, and with newfound resolve, made my way to the airline counter to change my ticket, retrieve my checked luggage, and quickly hailed a taxi back into to town. I had one day to make the necessary arrangements; permits, gear and supplies for a solo expedition into the high Himalaya in winter. I was going to do the Annapurna Circuit.

The following morning, getting over a cold and a little behind schedule due to wet hanging laundry, I headed off alone to the local bus depot. My destination was Besi Sahar, a town in the lower Marshyangdi river valley five hours away on crumbling roads from where the Annapurna Circuit traditionally began. The sense of fear that initially held me back had not magically disappeared; it was still right there with me, a passenger in mind. Only time would tell if I was being brave or foolish. As the rickety bus tottered along a bumpy winding road, Nepali ballads with their fatalistically optimistic melodies blared. Wind pipe, flute, drum, string and melodious impassioned vocals filled the cabin. Our slow progress meant it would be too late to start trekking by the time I arrived. A slightly-built man wearing a red traditional Nepali Dopi brimless hat and fu man chu moustache sitting beside me struck up a friendly conversation. He appeared quite a bit older, but with a twinkle in his eye and infectious gap-toothed smile, exuded a joyous youthful spirit. It turned out we were the same age; his weathered face a result I supposed of a rural life without first world comforts. Within minutes he’d invited me to stay at his home that night. Besi Sahar, was a small bustling commercial town at the foothill gateway to the mountains. Upon disembarking my 60 litre pack and poles were handed down to me from the rooftop of the bus, and we walked to a woody area upriver from the bus station where Amar worked as a ticket agent. With the sunlight fading, we arrived at his rustic house. Chickens roamed the yard while goats and buffaloes rested on hay in their sheds outside. His young wife cooked a savoury stew in a metal pot on the stone floor. Friends came by to visit, laugh and smoke. All were curious and happy to share my company. In the morning Amar got me an egg breakfast at the station. When it was time for me to depart I tried to stuff some bills in his hand. He promptly stuffed them back into mine. This spontaneous offer of friendship and hospitality is something I'll never forget; a true manifestation of the warmth and generosity of the Nepali spirit, transcendent far beyond what we in the West might perceive as material limitations. I couldn’t help but sense these people - who most back home would consider “poor” - were happier than most in my own society.

Pack on my back and a little constrained for time, I arranged for a jeep to take me a little further up the valley before starting the trek. On board were a young German and Nepali guy, named Alex and Uday, who’d met through a couch surfing website. Together we set off moving through a landscape of rice and banana fields, then bamboo and rhododendron forest. These in turn gave way to deciduous, pine, rock and scrubland. Like a fellowship out of a fantasy, we trod the quaintest of earthen paths along rivers and through forests. Before us across beautiful valleys and peaks shone the bright icy white cap of Manaslu Himal, the 8th highest mountain on earth. I was literally brought to tears by its beauty, its summit glimmering like a heavenly temple not of this world.

On the trail with Uday between Dharapani and Chame (Day 3)

I ended up walking with them for the next five days. As we rose, small idyllic mountain villages became fewer and farther between, wood houses became stone and mud. Hindu temples and Shiva shrines were largely replaced by gompas and chortens, the look of its inhabitants morphed from largely indo-aryan into primarily mongoloid-Tibetan. Layers came on and off as sun appeared and disappeared between soaring peaks, immense shadows arose and ended, and chill winds roared to gusts then faded into palpable silence.

By the third night we were a mile higher. Nights were cold. Sleep became difficult; my body too unsatisfied with the amount of oxygen each breath provided to rest well. The sun and splendour of the mountains the next day however made an uncomfortable night soon forgotten, infusing me with the energy to carry on.

After another day's trek we reached Upper Pisang at 3300m. Mist escaped with every breath as the air chilled to freezing with the lowering sun. That night I slept not at all. Real doubt crept in concerning my chances of completing the journey. Thorong La Pass, still days of hard trekking away, was more than two kilometres straight altitude higher.

Meals became all about bolstering one's constitution faced with the harsh environment and task ahead; hours of slow pack-laden march upward into cold, thin air. Lemon ginger tea and garlic soup were staples taken as herbal remedies against the constant threat of colds and altitude sickness. Evenings were spent huddled around the rare warmth of a wood stove in solidarity with the few kindred spirits on a shared quest onward. These ended early with worn trekkers retiring to chill rooms where they retreated under piled blankets, sub zero sleeping bags, and layers of clothing to pass the night.

From Pisang we set off for Manang, where the dirt vehicle road ended. From there, if all went well it would take three days to get up and over the Pass. Evacuation, if the need arose, could only be done on foot, slung over a pack animal, or by helicopter. The trail wound high on the mountainside, far above the Marshyangdi snaking for kilometres below. We passed through arid shrub land blanketing massive slopes and into a valley of petrified pine forest. As the sun lowered it painted the dry grassy northeast slope to our right a golden yellow. On the other side of the valley to our left, the faces of Annapurna peaks II and IV stood draped in blue and black shadow hues. Nearly as high as the sun, only their white tips shone from its brilliance, vapour rising mystically from their crests.

Night had fallen by the time we reached Manang. Too cold and tired to explore further, we settled on a three story wooden lodge near the edge of town,iIt’s exterior gilded with dust from the arid external surroundings. It was larger than we were used to, but made sense given Manang was the main town in the upper district, and where the new dirt road ended. At 3500m, trekkers are highly advised to stay at least a couple nights in Manang for acclimatization. Inside was a courtyard around which the rooms were laid out. The wood trimmed common areas were cozy and ornate, adorned with Tibetan Buddhist imagery. A rest and launch point for the pass, there were a larger number of adventurers here than the few or none we were used to seeing. A good dozen intrepid souls packed the dining hall bantering at tables or warming their hands, toes, socks and mitts by the wood stove in the centre of the room. There was Chase, a determined American from Atlanta 10 years my junior who we’d passed back and forth a few times on the trail; a charismatic Colombian named Julio traveling with his pretty, young, German doctor friend; Sven, a knowledgeable and talkative German from Berlin in his 40s; as well as a smattering of Brits, French, and a few others. Chase informed he’d just purchased his fifth property, however much of the talk centred on how people were physically making out and what they were taking or doing to manage the altitude. I learned the day before two Dutch guys were helivac'ed out from Yak Kharka for altitude illness. That night I once again slept hardly a wink, and teetered on calling the whole thing quits.

Come morning I resolved to give it one more night to see if I slept, taking my first pill against altitude sickness, a generic version of Diamox, to help my cause. After breakfast Sven and I hiked up to a remote monastery or “gompa” 400m higher to help with further acclimatization and make use of the time. We found the gompa abandoned but for the wind and crows. Prayer flags fluttered loudly. The lama, (Buddhist monk), who apparently lived and meditated there most of the year, had left for the winter. I learned Sven had rode an off-road motorbike from Berlin to the Gambia in west Africa the year before, and was a former member and sought after future coach of the German kayak water polo team. I coined the term “super german” for him due to his impressive conditioning that frequently left me several meters behind, struggling to keep up.

The following day, I woke having slept maybe twenty percent of the night. But, at least it was something. That, a word of encouragement from Chase, and my own deep resolve, kept me walking onwards and upwards. I said an emotional farewell to Uday and Alex who would take a few days to do an acclimatizing side trek to the frozen Tilicho lake, and formed a new group. This time with Chase and Sven, as well as Martin, a gregarious German, and Bishu an Indian from Bangalore possessed of a sarcastic self-aggrandizing sense of humour. Beyond Manang, we walked through more arid high mountain scenery, passing a herd of yaks along the way. The sky was a deep bright blue hue unlike any I’d seen before, the backdrop of shimmering white himalayan peaks breathtaking.

Passing a yak herd on the high trail to Yak Kharka (Day 7)

We reached Yak Kharka, a the tiny cluster of ramshackle lodges (all but one closed for the season), late afternoon. Conversation in the lodge hall was subdued, people focused their scarce energy on replenishment and resting tired bodies. I retired early that evening to a frigid room. The electricity was out which meant no light. One could only liken it to a dark monk's cell, my water bottle was frozen in minutes. Two heavy blankets above me kept my core body temperature bearable, but needed gloves and a tuque to keep my extremities from freezing. I tossed and turned throughout the night, time and again zipping up my body-constraining sleeping bag as I attempted to sleep. Every few minutes I’d jolt myself up gasping for oxygen, unzipping the bag in a claustrophobic fit. Upon regaining my composure I’d read a little to distract myself, soon tiring again. This whole torturous pattern would then repeat itself, hour after hour. At about 1:30am, I heard a crumpling sound next to me. Startled, I clicked on my head lantern, and turned over to see a dark grey rodent run under the bed beside me. Disgusted, I curse the vile thing, but too cold and tired to do more, roll back over. The crumpling started again. I again peer over and realise it was coming from my knapsack. I aim the lantern's beam right on it, holding it there as if to blast the vermin. But the crumpling continued. The nerve of that damn thing, I thought! Finally a mouse's head appears out of the outer pocket holding in its mouth a cracker half the size of its body mass. It looks up at me momentarily, then scampers off with its prize.

As I sat for breakfast the next morning Chase informed he was turning back and asked if I was continuing. He hadn't slept and the cold was too much. I was taken aback. Here was the person who’d motivated me to keep going the day before, a determined man ten years my junior, taking a decision to end this agonising test of endurance and acknowledge his body's limits. Limits, that should you push them too far and not reach help, would stop you with collapse, sickness, or even death. The universe was mercifully offering me peer validation to quit, as well as company for the return. Logically I should take it. Continuing on to a fifth night of sleep deprivation, followed by a torturous 4 or 5-hour ascent to the pass and nearly as many again going down, was irrational and dangerous. Somehow though, I still found energy and the desire to continue within me. This defied my self-understanding as a person who required a decent night's sleep to function. All I could think of was “one more night and one final push”. As soon as I replied I would keep going, Chase stood up, grabbed his gear, and was out the door - seemingly not wanting to linger or second-guess his decision.

The now four of us set off towards Thorung Phedi, one of two final sleep options prior to attempting the Pass. The other option, High Camp was 500m higher still, and a steep hour or two climb further. It offered less of a climb upwards the next day and a not quite so early start, however the prospect of an even more hellish sleepless night I was unwilling to stomach. About 90 minutes beyond Yak Kharka, two trekkers appeared ahead, descending towards us. It was Julio and the blonde German doctor. After a characteristically warm greeting, they informed she was suffering from headache and nausea. They were heading back down to Manang. The deliberations I'd had of turning back now really seemed less defeatist, but I noticed a new feeling stirring within; a flame of pride and emboldened determination. Thorong La, you bitch I'm going to conquer you! I offered them a few words of encouragement and understanding, then continued onwards. A couple old gompas and chortens (shrines of piled stone erected in places of spiritual significance), and a steel suspension bridge decorated an otherwise barren landscape of either sparse brush, or more predominantly brown or grey scree aligning the slopes. Pointed crags of ice and rock formed a jagged crown where earth met sky high above. Sometimes ash-coloured rock met an azure horizon, most of the time it contrasted minimally with misty grey-white sky. Breath was heavy and laboured. I tried some pranayama yogic breathing techniques I’d learnt in Pokhara, but none of them were robust enough to provide the oxygen my lungs so yearned for. The best I could do was breath in my nose and let my exhalation fall out my mouth in order to refill my nostrils again as quickly as possible.

It was snowing when we arrived at Thorung Phedi base camp sometime after 3pm, casting doubt on whether we'd be able to cross in the morning. There were severe warnings against attempting the Pass when snow fell, especially since the tragedy of October 2014 when 43 people lost their lives in a storm. And even if we wanted to try under such conditions, the pass could be closed. God, I prayed conditions would be favourable in the morning. I didn't know how I'd avoided hitting a wall from lack of sleep thus far. Another sleepless night would be too much to bear. Nor had I days to spare before my flight.

After receiving my room assignment, I joined the usual quiet huddle of worn but determined trekkers near the wood stove where I played a couple frustrating losing games of chess with an English bloke. I’d always considered the game a sort of intelligence test, and the fact I hadn't played in years gave me little solace. More than half the dining room had already cleared out when I retired to my quarters around 7:30pm. Weather permitting, we'd set out at 5:30am, right after breakfast. This was later than most, who opted to leave even earlier to avoid the high thermal winds known to blow hard across the pass by mid morning. Air temperatures of less than -20C were enough to bear without being magnified by roaring wind and the risk of being blown over.

At 4:40am my alarm went off. The weather outside was clear; it seemed the day of reckoning had arrived. I hit play to a bassy techno set on my phone to psyche myself up for the occasion, threw another layer over the clothes I was already wearing, and went about stuffing my belongings into my pack. Inside the breakfast hall after a brief moment of hesitation the owner gave us the green light to make the attempt. I wolfed down a garlic onion omelette, and bought a few snickers bars for vital fuel energy along the way.

Some last minute fiddling with gear made me the last of the eight or so now in the group to set off into the dark. The climb was steep from the get go. My headlamp was drained and dim after many hours of having inadvertently been turned on in my pack. I stepped laboriously passed Bishu who was without a light. He pleaded I wait for him so he could see. I slowed hesitantly and shone my lamp back towards the path for him, nervous myself of losing the group and the risk that entailed. Fortunately the lead waited a little further up the path and set a pace to keep everyone together. We made our way huffing upwards. Whenever a brief rest opportunity availed itself, I leaned over onto my trekking poles for support. A couple of times I even found the energy to look back around and take in the otherworldly horizon of frosty white summits that had emerged by the grace of dawn’s light, all around us.

We arrived at High Camp a good hour later to find the handful of trekkers who’d slept there eating breakfast. They were very surprised to see us. "What are you doing here?" a French girl exclaimed. "Our guide told us we can't go!"

"The lodge said we could, and there's no way I'm spending another night up here", I replied calmly but determinedly, unwilling to entertain the idea I could be held back, risking the mission after coming this far. She and her French companions entered into an impassioned discussion on whether they should proceed. While we’d had the benefit of the tracks of previous climbers for the first leg, no one had yet started the final climb up and the trail was covered in snow. The group decided to pool together to hire a guide from the camp to lead us across. The guide agreed to take us as far as the top of the Pass. Nerves frayed as he took his time for breakfast and to get ready, the rest of us concerned about making it over before the winds picked up.

It was sometime around 8am when we left High Camp. One tired step at a time our energy-depleted oxygen-deprived human caravan crawled upwards. The next 3 hours were about the mind pushing the body against its will. There were numerous false summits. Finally, as if out of nowhere, the red, blue, green, yellow, and white Thorung La high point prayer flags at last appeared; a beacon fluttering in the middle of a bleak white and black rock-bespeckled landscape between two high peaks. We'd reached the High Pass! We stopped for the few obligatory photos before our freezing fingers could bear no more. I called over to Sven that I was concerned about frostbite and needed to keep going. He agreed, and we began our descent. Before us, sweeping downward at varying steep and shallow angles, lay miles of mountain slope surrounded by high snowy peaks. Cold and worn from the ascent, we had hours of knee pounding descent still ahead. However knowing each step downwards was towards more hospitable conditions motivated me to draw on unseen reserves of energy as if out of thin air (literally!).

Shortly after beginning our descent it began to snow heavier than the night before. The only thing to guide us down the rolling rocky slopes, were marker poles spaced 50-100m apart. Sven and I started out front, slowly feeling our way forward around rock and ice through the ever-rising snow. Following our footprints, the remainder of the group who’d set out with us at High Camp caught up and the caravan reformed for safety and support. Soon we’d completely lost the trail. Sven looked back at me with a concerned look, and said “super German is no longer”. A couple minutes later while taking another step downwards I jammed my left pole hard into the ground to support my weight, and it collapsed inward. I fell hard forward and felt sharp pain as my right knee slammed down onto a rock under the snow. Soon after the trekker behind me slid, nearly taking me out again. Everyone was falling. Snow had filled my boots. On extra steep parts, people sat down and slid on purpose to avoid falling; some found brief amusement in it, then recalling their dire predicament, trudged soberly onwards.

It was early afternoon when we came across a blue roofed refuge. Open on one side, it had three walls and a roof. Exhausted trekkers filed in one by one. Judging by the toilet paper on the ground, some before had used it as a bathroom, but many, myself included, practically collapsed onto the floor for repose. Such was our fatigue. One of the French guys, a tall bearded fellow suggested people await the passing of the storm here in the shelter. The idea did not gain traction; a good thing given the conditions, altitude (I calculated still close to 5000m) and cold, which would get much worse after nightfall. After 15 minutes or so, people began slinging their packs back on, and pushed onwards.

The long slow shuffling march continued. Even if our bodies were screaming for it, there was no question of stopping. Eventually, far downward in the distance, the landscape took on a beige-green tinge; it was not totally covered in snow. In the form of a sweeping valley, hope was on the horizon. We began reaching partially uncovered land about an hour later. The trail became visible again. My shell-shocked knees ached, as did my bad toe from constant banging against my boot front with every precarious step downwards. But the end was in sight. By late afternoon we reached the village of Muktinath, and were welcomed into a small but tidy lodge by a smiling Tibetan-looking woman. We’d made it.

Epilogue

I’d completed a physical challenge, greater in scope than any other I’d ever embarked on. And, while I’d set off on my own, rarely did I step alone that fortnight in the mountains.

Trekking over Thorong La Pass in winter was on the surface a test of strength and endurance in a harsh environment that pushed my body’s limits. Deeper down however, it had become a metaphor for willpower and confronting fear. More than physical fear, at this junction it had become a metaphor for psychological fear of an uncertain future. My life was at a crossroads. I had left employment and was staring at a career I no longer knew I wanted, or was suitable for. I’d been flirting with following my artistic muse into writing and visual media, but recognised at this point it was farfetched as a livelihood plan. After years away, I wanted to be home but feared I’d have to go away again to make a decent livelihood. All the while I was bound by the shackles of self-doubt and weighed down by depression. The willpower I summoned to go on became a test in my mind of my inner strength and resolve to build the life I wanted. I won the first battle. I crossed the High Pass in winter - a symbolic victory to draw upon for strength now, and whenever winter comes and the path becomes daunting.