Nepal Trek 4: Annapurna Base Camp

Way back in my first week of trekking, Adam the Australian knew I was heading to the Annapurnas eventually and repeatedly described how much he liked the Annapurna Base Camp trek, his voice turning soft and wistful at the memory. On his recommendation, I was able to arrange my last week in this region to fit in a fast trek up to "ABC."

ABC is a straightforward out-and-back trek with a half-dozen settlements along the way, starting at an elevation of 324 meters/1,070 feet, and topping out at base camp at 4,100 meters/13,550 feet. Guide books recommend 10 days; I did it in five, and I met a elderly Swiss man who ran it in three days! (He's lived in Nepal on and off his entire adult life and this was his twenty-fifth time trekking ABC.)

Mood

I recognized even at the time that I was on autopilot. I had been trekking in the mountains for five weeks at this point, and this would be the easiest and shortest hike I'd do since starting out. I liked the rhythm of waking up early, walking all day, eating dal bhat in the evening and falling sleep early. But my appreciation for my surroundings was getting crowded out by a compulsion to walk as fast and far as I could every day. My fitness and acclimatization made this very, very easy to do, even while I made a feeble effort at asking myself, what's the hurry?

ABC draws a lot of first-time hikers who are looking for great views without the punishment of high, high altitude. By contrast, I was ripping down the trail at a pace that made the guides and porters look at me funny.

Day 1:

I took a jumpy, uncomfortable bus ride from Tatopani sandwiched in the back seat with five teenage boys who shared their oranges with me, arriving in Naya Pul in the afternoon. I got a Jeep ride into the Annapurna Sanctuary, up to the end of the road and the start of the trail and hiked a few hours to New Bridge. (Truly, the new metal suspension bridge is so much nicer and way more secure than the old wooden plank bridge.)

Day 2:

Still at low and lush elevation, I hiked up and down over foothills and river valleys through Jhinudanda to Chhomrong, through Sinuwa, then Bamboo, Dovan and finally stopping at Himalayan Hotel (not an actual hotel, just three lodges tucked together on a trail). Chhomrong is lovely settlement of lodges, cafes and places to buy supplies, scattered up and down a hillside that looks up the river valley to the mountains. Lots of steep stone pathways run through town, I took one of them a little further off trail than I meant to. I was sitting at small clearing looking at my map and eating snack when a teenager came through carrying a massive load of branches on her back and head. I offered her water, and she looked at pictures on my phone while we took a break in the shade. We didn't have any language in common, but it was easy to deduce that a white person is a trekker and asked me, "ABC?" Then we shared a chocolate bar and she led me back up the stone path to the right trail.

From Sinuwa on, the trail ascends steadily through one river valley heading both north and higher in altitude. Vegetation starts to change and the landscape feels less like a jungle forest, and more like a mountain climate. At Himalayan Hotel, I met an awesome group of solo travelers over dinner and got a bed in dorm room with 5 guys each from different countries. It felt like being at camp, all of us in our tiny beds laughing and telling stories as we fell asleep.

Day 3:

Ascent! I trekked through Deurali up to Machhapuchhre Base Camp (MBC), where I warmed up with soup and wardrobe adjustment and reunited with two of the people I'd met the night before. From MBC, the altitude started to impact my speed and breathing, all the trees had long since disappeared, and I walked up the last rocky beautiful valley with the mass of Annapurna I directly in sight. Base camp is a few lodges at the edge of massive receding glacier. Staring you in the face is the expansive steep wall of the Annapurnas, and all around you the prayer flags stretching among memorials to dead mountain climbers are snapping loudly in the wind.

After a bowl of warm lentils at base camp, I walked back down to MBC, back through Deurali and Himalayan Hotel, and stopped at Doban just at sunset and right before a rainstorm parked itself for the night. On my way to Deurali, I stumbled hard and came away with scrapes on my forehead and nose, giving me plenty of opportunity to wonder again why I was hurrying so much. At Dovan, all the lodges were full but an incredibly nice woman from the UK shared her room with me and I fell asleep with Neosporin on my nose, listening to rain pound the metal roof.

Day 4:

Thanksgiving Day. Over breakfast with a British woman, a Chinese man and two Nepalese men, i told them it was Thanksgiving in America and they enthusiastically launched into a discussion of Black Friday. Horrified, I tried to explain that's not what Thanksgiving is about but they were more interested in how stores coerce people into lining up on a holiday. "I wouldn't wait in line at midnight for anything," the British woman said. "Unless it was a kidney I needed,  guess."

I cruised back through Bamboo, revisiting the spot where I had encountered a black-faced langur two days earlier, and hearing the monkey-like animals jumping and swinging through trees all around me. In Chhomrong, I stopped for a real cup of coffee and a real piece of pie at a really fake German bakery. I was back in the terrain of climbing up and down from one river valley into the next, headed through Jhinudanda, back to New Bridge. I had hiked into the region on the west side of the river, but at New Bridge I crossed over to the east side to walk southeast toward the town of Phedi and the road the Pokhara. The late afternoon took me through Landruk and Tolka, where I encountered a final, short wooden suspension bridge that was the worst-looking bridge I had encountered. I stared at it for awhile, contemplated the map, complained out loud, "Seriously?!" to absolutely no one, and then I just went for it. I felt relief stepping onto the stone at the far side. Thanksgiving dinner that night was dal bhat with a woman from Poland, and something approximating apple pie.

Day 5:

Just a few short hours up and over to Dhampus, and down into Phedi. As I walked, the jungly warm feeling of the lowlands was back in force, and way more people were on the trail. Trekkers who were just starting out from Phedi told us that the upcoming election had prompted a transportation strike and no buses were running between Phedi and Pokhara. Damn. I was little worried about this would shake out, but as soon as I reached the trailhead, there was a car parked with two big backpacks leaning against it. Moments later, two trekkers from Turkey and their driver walked up, and easily agreed to let me split the fare with them back to Pokhara.

Thanksgiving was a meaningful coincidence with my last night of trekking. Despite my hurry and impatience on this final trek, I was also full of appreciation for the people I had met on the trail, the bracing weather and scenery and the physicality of the effort.

[Annapurna Base Camp: November 20-24, 2017]

One Bad Day

Starting out from my lodge in Jharkot, reliable guides pointed across the horse pastures and rock-walled fields to a white house on other side of the small valley. From there, a trail was visible climbing over the bare hill to the next valley, down to the town of Lubra. I was contemplating whether this would be the last day of hiking on the Annapurna Circuit Trek, and the weather was perfect for the half-day walk to Jomson.

Just getting to the trailhead was a more time-consuming walk than I expected, dead-ending at rock walls and icy streams. I scaled one wall and dodged across a pasture to finally reach the white house, at which point the trail that looked so obvious at a distance was hard to find. I started climbing up the hillside without the trail, figuring I could find it with the benefit of a high perch. From above, there were many, many trail laced through the low brush, so I chose one that seemed to go in the right direction and started walking. A well-marked trail junction finally confirmed that I was now exactly where I wanted to be, and I was rewarded with a view that was stupendous: in every direction barren brown hills in the foreground where overpowered by massive white jagged peaks of the Mustang Valley in the distance. I ran-walked down the trail full of energy from the gorgeous landscape and the knowledge that I was back on trail. And then in my distracted glee, I completely took a wrong turn, missing the trail to the village of Lubra and heading instead toward a lonely promontory that overlooked a flat desert plain. I consulted my map and the landscape. The open expanses made it easy to realize where I was; I just wasn't where I wanted to be.

Aye yi yi.

My options were to 1) go back uphill to the trail I missed and enter Lubra from the north as I planned; 2) continue east across this plain to the village of Ekle Bhattee and then head south to Jomsom on the Jeep road, a route I had vetoed as unpleasant when I first planned this day; or 3) follow the narrow black line on my map down  a little-used local trail that would eventually deposit me just south of Lubra, but on the trail to Jomsom that I had inadvertently left.

I took Door #3, and after the first easy minutes of the walk, I disliked this trail strongly. When the flat plain gave way to a steep descent, the trail was dodgy with loose sand and gravel and an forgiving slide down several hundred feet if I misstepped. I paused several times to consider if continuing down was still a better choice than retracing my steps back up. "Wow. You have really made some interesting decisions today," I said aloud to myself, partly to defuse my nerves and partly to pierce the punishing quiet.

Once the bridge came into view, I felt a little easier. Now I just had to get to it.

Dry gravel sliding underfoot, I finally edged myself down to the head of the suspension bridge. I bandaged the scrapes and cuts on my hand that were the only, blessed reminder of a spill on my way down and took a moment to assess the bridge's ominous length and height. Earlier in the descent, I had spotted a trio of people walking down this riverbed but now not a soul was visible up and down the massive rocky valley. I walked across the bridge with more trepidation than I had ever felt on one of these ubiquitous spans; its lack of use removed the usual reassurance, "people and yaks cross this all the time!" The clanging metal footbed and natural sway of the bridge had me taking deep breaths and walking quickly. I stepped off the bridge onto firm stone at the far end with a massive sense of relief, and a painted trail sign on the rock greeted me with good news: Jomson was a just a couple of hours away.

Panorama of the Panda Kola.

Jomsom, heck yes! 

I worked my way down to the Panda Kola river to follow the path I'd see others taking from high above. This wide, rocky riverbed joined the wider, dustier Kali Gandaki Nadi river not far from here. The thin veins of water that run across these rock fields hardly seem able to carve the deep, wide canyons above them. Despite the rocks and dust, the flat exposure of these riverbottoms makes them the preferred path of travel for trekkers, vehicles and animals alike. The roads that trekkers had bemoaned as "ruining" the Annapurnas were back, if riverbeds counted as roads. Walking on the rounded, uneven rocks was exhausting and annoying, and soon turned worse: joining the Kali Gandaki Nadi, I turned south into a massive wind tunnel that shot sand and debris at my face and added serious effort to the act of walking forward. The few trekkers on this stretch who hadn't hailed Jeeps from Muktinath to Jomsom were walking directly into stiff, sand-filled wind, alongside buses and Jeeps that kicked up even more dust. For the first time in weeks of trekking, I could sense cracks opening in my tenacity and a bitter dislike of the challenge seeping in. The astonishing mountain views of the Mustang towered on the horizon, and I struggled at moments to appreciate them.

Kali Gandaki Nadi "river" bed.

Eventually I could see Jomsom ahead, and I was still debating whether to stop here or keep going. Just at the edge of Jomsom the river swelled with water, forcing trekkers and trucks out of the riverbed and onto a road. Tired, annoyed and distracted, I picked my way out of the riverbed, surrounded by rivulets. I climbed onto a shaded, grassy bank and noticed a woman doing laundry 50 feet above at a spring. I stepped gingerly onto a tire that was halfway across the sodden patch of grass. As I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, I realized the tire was afloat, and it flipped over sending me straight into the marsh. Splashing nearly up to my waist, I unleashed a volley of hostile sounds that approximated language. My pack weighing me down, I threw my arms forward grasping for solid ground, inadvertently slamming the water bottle I held in my hand against a rock. I slithered out of the cold liquid muck and assessed: I was soaked in mud up to my hips, my shoes were leaden weights of muck, all of it smelled vaguely offensive, and an angry crack in my water bottle was releasing a stream of water with a nonchalance that offered an unwelcome commentary the tableau. I walked, defeated, into town.

Downtown Jomsom.

Jomson's position as the administrative center of the region means the dusty street through town has not only trekking lodges, but actual hotels, bakeries, an air strip with service to Pokhara and even an ATM that occasionally worked. As I walked through town evaluating my options, a German trekker walked with me and pointed out a coffee house that served cappuccino. I had thought I would eschew the luxuries of Jomson, but a sign offering laundry service outside a hotel pretty much made the decision for me. I was aghast at the $15/night cost for the hotel room, but a big bed with a featherdown duvet and private bathroom with intermittent hot water was a pretty great salve for my bruised ego.

The morning had started with such promise, and in the intervening six hours I had climbed through walled fields, walked off-trail up a hillside, picked the wrong trail down a steep precipice to a bridge that worried me, trudged headlong into a scouring wind tunnel, and finally, unceremoniously, fell deep into a fetid, soupy marsh.  It was only mid-afternoon, but I was done.

The day was littered with mistakes born of distraction, regrettable decisions and unpleasant conditions. This would serve as the ignominious final day of my Annapurna Circuit Trek. But Type 2 fun!

Photo taken during the twenty minutes when everything was great.

Postcards From Nepal Airports

I. Pokhara

Hello! I’m writing this on a plane from Kathmandu to Pokhara, a small prop plane with maybe 21 seats. I’m sitting cross-legged on my narrow seat because my big backpack is jammed into the space where my legs might be, and my small backpack is piled on my lap. Actually my legs have kind of fallen asleep... but at least I know my luggage will arrive with me, and also that when a Yeti Airlines (real name, no joke) official asks, "Are you checking a bag?" that the answer is totally your choice.

I was ticketed for a 1:00 p.m. flight and when I checked in at 11:42 a.m. the guy asked, “Do you want to be on the 11:30 flight?” Ummm, sure? At noon they said the 11:30 a.m. flight would leave at 12:45 p.m. and we took off around 1:15 p.m. So, Nepal Time is a real thing.

As we prepared for takeoff, the flight attendant paid zero notice to me and my bags crammed around my seat. She cheerily offered me a Yeti Airlines branded caramel and cotton balls for my ears to dull the sound of the plane’s propellers.

Landing soon, cheers!

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Lukla airport. Google it, but don't tell mom.

ii. Lukla

Hey friends, finally got out of the Lukla airport. Yes, this is the one in the YouTube videos, supposedly the "most dangerous airport in the world," with its angled, very short runway that's jammed into a mountainside. More relevant to my three days there, it's possibly the most dysfunctional airport. Everyone shows up with a ticket that has a flight number and departure time and it seems normal, but the airlines keep a separate list that has everyone assigned a number 1 through 20. People listed under #1 go out on the first flight, whenever weather and whims allow that to happen. Hive wisdom was that groups #14 or higher never get out, and I sat around Lukla for a long time listed with #15, #16 and worse.

Meanwhile, helicopters were taking off constantly and I really wanted to get on one! I made a nuisance of myself to the helicopter operations manager and a few pilots, and they finally sneaked me onto a medivac flight for a cash sum that I'd rather not specify and which I'm certain stayed in the pocket of the ops guy. No matter, he came into the waiting area singing out loud, "You're going to Kat-man-du!!" and I was STOKED!

In addition to my first helicopter ride I also got my first ambulance ride, with the Australian couple who were the primary passengers on the helicopter. A 1970s-era ambulance met us at the KTM helipad and their guide and the medical assistant were both like, "You get in too." (?!?!) In the back of the ambulance, the Australian woman was on a stretcher, and sitting on the bench alongside her were the medical assistant, her husband, me and their guide. The guide and the medical assistant chat each other up the whole time, and the Australian man gives me a nudge and wink when they appear to exchange phone numbers. As we're driving through Kathmandu with the siren on, the guide says to me, "You're staying in Thamel, right?" (Solid guess - it's the main tourist area.) "The hospital is close by there. We save you a taxi!" I'm sure the insurance company won't mind...

PS: I ran into the family later and they are all fine! We didn't even learn each other's names but we hugged hello on the street when we recognized each other.

[Click for photos: What happens in Lukla stays in Lukla. At least for 2-3 days...]

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iii. Kathmandu air cargo customs building

Hi guys,

You know in action movies when drug smugglers bury cocaine deep inside shipments of coffee and there's a dramatic scene when the police tear open the shipping container to reveal the contraband and the customs officials are like, uhhhhhh......

So, I'm standing in this massive warehouse that processes all the cargo that's shipped by air to Kathmandu, which I think means basically anything that's shipped to Nepal. I'm waiting for one tiny FedEx package, but all around me are piles of merchandise and goods. As the afternoon wears on, it gets busier and busier -- the floor-to-ceiling gates that held all the cargo on rafters behind lock and key are opened, and little by little all these piles of goods are brought out to the receiving area. Art Vandalays are all over the place, waiting for their shipments. Towers of crates and boxes are deposited by forklifts, some of them tumbling over in direct defiance of their 'fragile' labels. I see eight boxes marked Yamaha guitars, 50 HP desktop computers, medical supplies from an Indian factory, hundreds of boxes of Swarovski jewelry, 24 boxes marked "neon" that just crashed to the ground.... 

At first all the shipments are in piles unopened, their recipients standing by. Then the customs officials get to work, flipping through paperwork and interrogating the import guys and opening boxes to verify the contents. It's taking forever for a customs agent to get around to me with my single box, so I stand there making note of other people's stuff that is now cascading out of its packaging. Nervous, urgent men are working to prove to the skeptical customs officials that everything is just as the manifest says it is. (Having had my own spurious interaction with one of the import agents, I look at everyone wondering who's getting a cut of what.)

Two customs officials finally get to me and I find myself holding my breath that the FedEx box my sister sent me does, in fact, contain the cell phone that I think it does. The agent had told me sternly, if there is anything else in this box you HAVE to tell me. You have to say exactly what's inside. "It's just a phone, that's it!" I promised.

The customs officer ripped open the box and in addition to the phone, out spilled handfuls of silvery, individually wrapped Peppermint Patties. For just a moment, the customs official thought she'd caught me, and for a moment I panicked, too. Then I tore one open -- partly to prove it was innocuous, and partly because I'd been there for hours and was starving. "Candy!" I beamed at her, offering her one. She half-smiled, disappointed but amused, declined the Peppermint Pattie, and handed me my phone.