Frostbitten in Nepal

---

Frostbitten in Nepal - Trekking the Annapurna Circuit in January

Right. Now back from the Annapurna Circuit where I got about ¾ of the way round; walked as far as Ghasa but then needed to take a series of buses back to Pokhara via Tatopani (hot springs, very welcome) owing to foot problems. Frostbitten and convalescing in Pokhara.

Back to the trek. I had decided to engage a guide and so off we went on the bus to Besi Sahr which is the main starting point for the trek and can be reached from either Kathmandu or Pokhara. It was a 5 hr trip and freezing. My guide and I got off to a questionable start.

‘Mr Matt, you look like famous American actor’. I opened an eye from my slumber – Cary Grant or something more contemporary- Christian Bale perhaps.

‘Really Raju, who? ‘

‘Mr Bean’.

. ‘He’s a character, not an actor and I don’t look like him’. He’s not the first to say this of course. Git. I sank, shivering into my seat, anticipating a long trip.

I awoke presently to see the bench seat in front had turned into a breast feeding station. Mothers touchingly coy, shielding themselves with shawls whilst the babies stared balefully at me lest I steal their food. I looked out of the window where the landscape was revealing itself as we climbed higher. Wisps of cotton wool cloud caught on tree sided valleys. Further on slopes sculpted with terraced fields barren in winter, cascaded down.

The sun warmed us slowly, babies fat with milk got off with their mothers seemingly in the middle of nowhere and others took their place. I slept, this being the discreet option and soon we arrived at Besi Sahr, our first checkpoint for our trekking permits where I promptly lost my guide, or rather, he me. Finding him again we had a drink before heading off. He tried again: ‘not even a bit Mr Bean? ‘No. Shall we begin walking?’And so we did.

This was an area of total agriculture but not in a Stalinist way; shallow terraces of corn, rice and potato fields, adjacent and interlocking smallholdings that seem to be farmed efficiently, land clearly a premium. Income is supported by guesthouses with little outhouses of chickens, occasional tethered goats and the odd squealing piglet. We had made good time to Bulbhule and decided to crack on, met now by Johannes, an Austrian and Tim a Dutchman both in their 20s and for me a welcome Western tonic. First stop was at the Hilton Hotel at Ngadi. Typical of its pedigree the hotel consisted of shacks of hardboard, sectioned by hung sheets and roofed with corrugated iron. The drinks terrace was quaintly thatched with requisite cat sunning itself and the dining hall pleasingly rickety and candlelit. The food was excellent; dal bhaat with side dishes of chillied pig. A festival beginning the next day had heralded the slaughter of a beast so we were privileged. I was the only one drinking but I pressed on manfully with my Everest. Just the one though. As with all accommodation on the circuit, this was dirt cheap – 100 rupees - on the basis that one eats every meal in the guesthouse. Cheap enough down here at 1300m food would become increasingly expensive the higher up we went. My beer would often double the bill.



Rufus our host (Rupeus, but he and I preferred my version) was 20 and had a wife of the same age, demure and spectacular in the way that makes you feel bittersweet; having seen something wonderful then lost it. They had two children and later that night I heard them trying for a third. I clamped a pillow to my head and slept.

The following morning I watched their 2 year old daughter casually sit on a chicken, break its leg then use it as a duster, washing it back and forth across the clapboard, ignoring its protestations. Thia was par for the course and it hopped around for a bit, doomed if it could no longer lay, to go to the pot. Chickens, we learnt, are expensive but some bartering would acquire another.

We left Ngadi and went up through the colourful brick built village climbing up through the fields. It is still quite warm at this altitude and we saw the first of many of the bridges across the gorges. These are reassuringly well engineered; suspension cables sunk into new blocks of concrete and the floor of the bridge steel panels. Rather worryingly, the side cables are often below waist height whcih could be a problem if one did fall – with several of us on the bridge at the same time in step, it tended to sway. As we swung, it reminded me of the plaque on Albert Bridge that states: ‘soldiers break step’.

We were joined by Eduardo, a Chilean, and so 5 of us trooped off together. I started having problems with Raju now; he wasn’t interested in telling me anything of the villages or landscape and I had to try and engage him in conversation. He seemed put out at the others being along which was concerning – they were going at a reasonable pace and we had discussed people joining us as and when during the trek with which he had agreed. He went ahead, got on the phone to his wife, spat constantly and glumly sat on rocks waiting for us to catch up. That evening we ended up in a ramshackle place in whilst the others continued. I was not best pleased and he sat with this mouth open watching puerile Indian TV. I left to go and watch the waterfall in sunset from the other side of the gorge despite him saying it was too dangerous – a stock phrase when I suggested something he considered an effort.

Tacking him later I learnt that he had been a porter until 6 months ago which explained a lot – he didn’t know how to make it an interesting trip but at lunch or dinner would always try and order for me. I told him pretty quickly that I didn’t want a servant but a guide but he didn’t get it. In the end I decided to use him as a valet if he insisted on it. Besides, I was reading the Ascent of Rum Doodle and a lot of Evelyn Waugh at the time so I was given to speaking to him with a laconic drawl; ‘I say, Raju, d’you think you could... .’ or ‘just a beer for me old boy’. He was none the wiser and relished the feudal role with which he was comfortable. Other guides were far more urbane and basically I’d picked a dud. I settled for picking the hotels and ensuring we were walking far enough each day; certain that a little time made up at relatively low altitudes would mean a lot later when it got tough. True enough yet I had no idea how hard it would get.

Anyhow, we had another stormer on day 3 reaching Dharapani after a lunch at Tal on the large flat valley floor. This had the look of a windswept beachfront town in Lincolnshire but was a lot warmer. My crampons, which Raju had strapped to this pack, were attracting attention, not least from a stocky peasant woman sowing her garlic crop. She eyed them cunningly; they would have made excellent little ploughs strapped to her stumpy feet, providing furrows for her garlic cloves.

That evening we stayed at the New Tibetan Hotel in Dharapani at 1960m, the third Tibetan joint in succession that we’d lunched or stayed at. We’d climbed 760m of path, some sections hugging the valley ahead enabling us to appreciate our plodding journey and others soulless switchbacks, my eyes stuck to ground ahead, avoiding the vertiginous drops and only occasionally taking time to look around. Occasionally we saw white bearded monkeys or nutcrackers – birds that eat seeds from the blue pine cones. Raju had a habit of finding little shortcuts which were stiff, unpleasant little climbs across the track gaining us minutes but no real enjoyment. It seemed a day’s walk was to be despatched as quickly as possible; not what I had in mind and I grumbled accordingly.

The evening in Dharapani though was the best probably of the trip for local interest. After a bit of clothes washing we were invited into the warmth of the kitchen; the dining hall being cold comfort without a fire and a large group. There was a large clay oven with two hobs and fed insatiably by firewood; this opening essential for heating the room and warming vital parts. It is a sort of mini pottery Aga with none of the quaintness. The cookware was impressive; polished by overuse to a dull shine. Vast aluminium kettles, solidly riveted were constantly filled to provide boiling water – used for rice, the staple food here, dal and endless tea and coffee. Plates were stacked neatly in dressers, waiting for the trekkers who would not now come en masse for months; nevertheless were all in place as were rows of tin cups. Above the oven strings of strips of buffalo hung in various stages of smoking; lean and fat, the latter to flavour soups into a thick richness. We had some lean meat with our dal bhaat and it was excellent; fried with herbs into crisp chunks. The side entrance of the oven remained open for logs, continually fed into the voracious flames.

The family consisted of Demancing, the jolly grandfather, Amurthin, rangy husband, wife Sante and the son Susintath. The boy was a lively creature and required constant entertainment. I found my facial expressions did the job and throwing a ball for him, as if for a dog. The wife, probably in her late 20s, seemed stuck between the travails of duty, embarrassment at her son’s antics and the desire to join in a conversation outside her normal limited family circle. Women seem to be more curious than men, possibly as their lot is decided earlier whilst their men have the pretence of independence even if eventually locked into rural grind. The lodge business must have made a real difference to income but perhaps it’s measured in chickens and crops, and therefore nothing really changes. We had an enjoyable evening anyway, my snatches of Nepali causing much amusement; ‘dherai mitho khana’ – ‘very good food’ being a classic and guaranteed to yield a further spoonful of fried buffalo meat. I took a photo of the family and Sante asked if she could have one with me; peeping across with dark eyes. At breakfast the next morning she seemed a bit embarrassed by it but said goodbye happily enough. Susintath waved with shrill laughter as we climbed past until out of sight.

At this point we were climbing about 700m per day and averaging 15-20 kilometres. Generally we would breakfast at 8.30 and finish from 3.30 to 6 depending on the steepness and terrain. I usually hoped we would finish as late as possible as there was little to do until dinner. There were few people around and if Raju ate with me (which depended on whether he had any Nepalese to talk to or was invited into the kitchen) we quickly ran out of conversation; the usual ‘how big is your family, how they feed guides for free. I did as well for a while as one got free refills of everything. However, after 7 straight meals of this I could take no more and didn’t touch it for the rest of the trip.

Moving on to Chame the next day we had reached the administrative capital of the Manang valley, presumably because it is located half the way up. Why not Manang itself though, I couldn’t really fathom – it was possibly too high at 3500m. Anyway, we were now at about 2700m and the sights were becoming more spectacular. At lunchtime we stopped at yet another New Tibetan and had a superb view of Manaslu. From our rooftop restaurant I watched a little tableau of Nepali village life; men playing a dice game on a dusty circular table, thumping leather beakers down with guttural noises while one of the women sat quietly sewing garments on an old Singer machine close by. Dogs were splayed out, mule trains with colourful bridles driven through whilst a cockerel strutted to and fro, squawking its displeasure. Everything in this part of the valley seems proudly Tibetan – the long multicoloured flag is flown everywhere and nobody really mentions Nepal.

With the increasing altitude my pack was conceivably becoming a slight issue. Possibly the largest on the trail it almost had its own personality. Approaching a village with the sun behind (almost always heading North on this leg of the circuit) a huge shadow would loom ahead, over buildings and darkening streets. Screaming women and children would scatter and dogs would cringe fearfully, flattening their ears, covering their genitals with their paws, tail between legs. Then they’d all be greeted by a ‘Namaste’ or a ‘What ho’ and confused at this stranger of average height, dust themselves off and creep back into the streets. The locals, as well as the dogs. Raju, true to his porter’s roots asked me daily if he could carry my rucksack but I always refused. ‘Matter of principle’ I said as I swung it on, knees buckling. The only time I demurred was when I jettisoned the whisky flask and my books but nothing else and just for the climb to the Thorung La. The flask is a handsome feat of engineering; iron ore hewn from some northern mine, forged and milled by Sheffield’s finest into a kilogram of weapon’s grade stainless steel, filled now with a litre of The Singleton, a highland single malt from Ord. All very well but I drank little so it sat like a depth charge at the bottom of my sack, a lurking penance for a dipso’s foolish packing.

The Manang valley was noticeable, at least to my random observations, for two things in particular; deep forestation on the mountainsides and sporadic deliberate burning; and the impressive horses and traders. The pine forests are vital to keep the topsoil intact but apparently the fires, cigarette lighter fames in the distance, enrich the soil. Some sense in this I suppose and they do seem to be localised but containing them must be difficult - there are no obvious firebreaks. More to the point there have been landslides caused partly by poor dry soil. I asked Raju for specifics but he just shakes his head and says ‘very bad people’ but he has very little clue about anything at all so I ignore that. The horsemen on the other hand are really quite something. I can see young Mills (an equestrian chum) stirring in his jodhpurs. They ride proper horses here, serious beasts almost warhorse like in their demeanour, thundering down the slopes from Manang. These don’t seem to be beasts of burden but a means of fast transport for the traders and must be the best way to get up and down the valley. Perhaps they carry limited important cargo, their equivalent of steeds for Queen’s messengers. Anyway, all good stuff. They can get from Manang to Muktinath in one day – and impressive climb of over 2000m and then a steep decline and probably a trip of 30km or so over very tricky terrain. This would take us 3-4 days by foot. I’m not sure that the horses would do the whole trip in winter in one go though.

We came across the burnt out site of a beehive on the way to Chame. What I initially thought were some burrs from a plant turned out to be thousands upon thousands of dead bees and some still dying. The place was carpeted with them, inches thick. Above was an overhanging bit of rock blackened by fire and one could still see the white hexagonal shapes where the honeycomb must have burnt and fallen off. It was peculiarly sad; a mass grave and a result of locals’ malevolent greed. And of stupidity; comb can be harvested bit by bit, allowing the hive to continue and regenerate. Mindless violence, somehow all the more appalling in this place.

On we trod anyway, Raju plodding on, then sitting on his rock out front, hawking and spitting away, with an occasional ‘Mr Matt’ and pointing at something of interest. En route there were some good views of Annapurna II (7937m) and III (7555m) though which I was never entirely sure; distance is difficult, even with my natural navigational ability (ahem). At any rate, it’s easy to get them confused with Lamjung Himal and Gangapurna respectively, being virtually the same height. Big pointy white mountains anyway. In Chame I broke with my habit of dal baht and had some chicken soup and momos and promptly got ill. The evening had been pleasant enough though sedate; listening to an old chap obsessed by his prayer beads and chanting away endlessly whilst I finally had a dram of whisky to help me keep warm by the stove . The next day however, I felt quite grim and weak and with a lot of steep climbing, Raju had to take my rucksack for 15 minutes of which I was ashamed. I recovered a bit after a coke at lunch (but no food) and we bumped into the Chaps again when I learned that Johannes was similarly afflicted; also unable to eat.

I walked to Lower Pisang slowly but surely but was feeling worse. The next 36 hours were constant visits to the loo; a freezing hole in the ground where one tried to squat and not slip. Every hour or so and it became tiring and irritating in the extreme. I was holed up in my sleeping bag in the dining room where the lodge owners refused to light the fire until dusk which I thought a bit off. It had also snowed a great deal and to the extent that we couldn’t have easily walked anyway, so at least we hadn’t really lost time. To relieve the boredom I helped shovel snow, which moved the lodge owners to unbridled mirth particularly when I suddenly downed tools to mince to the loo. We filled up the son’s basket, fixed to his head by a strap and he emptied in the street. Although it snowed heavily again in the night we had to press on the next day. I had no food or water inside me owing to my many expulsions but it was good just to get out of that place. It is unpleasant to linger anywhere as the lodges are seriously inhospitable in winter – freezing rooms and the food getting worse as one gets higher.

By now we all had a lot of respect for this trek. People we met started to look tired and 4-5 days on the trail is the limit of what most people have walked in one go. Clothes and bodies are worn and unwashed. There’s that look in the eyes of having walked a long way but with the knowledge that there is a lot further and higher to go. All the waterfalls one passes are now frozen. Great gouts of cauliflower ice are linked by wispy fronds down a cliff face, one to the other in suspended animation. The glacier fed river still steadily pounds away in the valley below. The sun is shining again but is robbed of its much of its warmth and often the veils of mountain cloud, more prevalent now, are pulled curtain-like across it, yielding only a cold steely light. Life is also clearly harder the higher one goes; more frequently we see entire families bent forwards underneath the burden of large bundles of firewood in baskets welded to their foreheads by bands of thick fabric. Ever upwards, eyes fixed ahead with a quiet determination and no self pity; like Sisyphus, forever doomed for his deceitfulness by the Gods to push his rock to the top of the mountain, only to see it roll down again, causing him to endlessly repeat the process. The wood here is predominantly pine and it burns quickly and without immense heat. I remember my grandparents’ house and the amount of silver birch and Norwegian pine they got through to keep a fire going. What you want are lumps of hardwood to form a core, belting out the heat for hours. The older logs are better of course but most here are now snow covered and brittle.

The next day was beautiful though and it was good to be moving again. We passed a lot of people on the way to Manang which is the traditional place for a rest day to acclimatise at 3500m, or the last place one can really turn back safely. A party of 9 Koreans were plodding back, unable to wait any longer for a clear route through the Thorung La, the high pass that is the key to the Annapurna Circuit. An American couple passed us soon after, again out of time. It was a hard slog to Manang and we got there at 6, just at sunset and it gave us a taste of how ploughing through the snow makes trekking that much harder. There was a pleasant crowd gathered at the hotel; we met a bear of an American chap, Paul, about 60 and saw again an autistic Korean who speaks to no one and photographs everything. The Chaps were there too and a pleasant Swiss guy with enviable mountain boots (how I would rue not bringing mine). I managed to get one guide to have some whisky in return for a swig of his millet beer, which wasn’t entirely unpleasant. I offered the malt around but as ever it was if I’d dropped one in church; admonishing stares from most of them. I did wish there were more Brits there sometimes; they would have shared a drop.

I thought we were due to have a day off to acclimatise as most others had done but Raju decided we’d continue as I had ‘rested’ at Lower Pisang during my shits break. Still, it was nice to move off with a bunch of others; also interesting to see who was up for completing the trek; 11 of us only from Manang including guides. A lovely Lithuanian girl had to turn back owing to time pressure (a familiar ailment for holidaying westerners).There were really no others on the trail apart from a Korean couple behind us, to whose guide I had leant my gaiters as he only had jeans (super chap but taking his client on in Kathmandu had thought it might not snow on the Circuit; wishful thinking ) and a Japanese couple who I almost revered by this stage; utterly charming, Kato and Choco had camped every night on the trail including heavy snowstorms and each day calmly and quietly set out once more. I’d last seen them in Lower Pisang where most of us were grounded by the snow but they’d brushed off and set off, hoping they’d get through. They seemed to know what they were doing and would now have been a day ahead, at Ledar, our next planned stop from Manang. So we collected our boots from the rather high smelling living room, the guides not that keen on washing their kit, keen to air everything which just wafted the ‘body smell’ as Raju liked to put it. I agreed wholeheartedly with him every time he mooted the idea of washing off said smell but it had never developed into positive action. As in Kashmir, the support staff are agog at a westerner using cold water to give oneself a camp shower or towel bath.

The day was cold but gave us the best wildlife shots so far; eagles (technically Himalayan griffons, my LP guide sniffily informs me though I’d rather not believe this), deer, blue sheep and yak. The most impressive are the eagles that ride the therms; large wingspans, black against the sky. Occasionally we saw two of three of them barrelling down the valley at speed. Yaks are amusing; large black lumps indistinguishable from rocks unless they move at which point you suddenly see several shuffling about a bit like noticing ants in your peripheral vision. They are capable of climbing at steep angles high on the mountainside and stay out there all winter. Typically for this time of year, it was warm when we were moving owing to the lack of breeze, but when we stopped to rest we would get cold in ten minutes or so if we didn’t crack on. At about 3.30 we reached Yak Kharta for a late lunch. One of the vagaries of these mountains is that the time the sun sets is entirely dependent on the landscape, logical but unnerving – today almost without warning it fell behind a sharp arête and the temperature plummeted. We decided to stay rather than push on an hour or so further on to Ledar in the dark. Instead we hurried into the dining room and crowded round a yak dung fire. There seems no lack of this fuel and it gives off a herby sort of smell but not unpleasant. We didn’t think it would get so incredibly hot so quickly and, alas, balancing our boots on to dry, all melted bits of them. Johannes, all Teutonic efficiency, had brought lots of duct tape so we made hasty repairs with this. I lost a pair of brand new socks to the heat though. Yak dung is sort of squashed cricket ball size so a stove can be filled with it providing a constant heat provided one keeps shovelling it in. It is also highly flammable; so just don’t keep it close to the dung basket.

We were due to crack on the next day but I woke with shortness of breath inducing a mild internal panic and not feeling great told Raju we might have to stay. He was at his most indecisive and when, suspecting altitude mountain sickness I asked his advice said we should push on to Thorung High Camp – a further 800m climb. I blinked at him and he then said of course we could go back down to Manang; two completely opposed options. I then sought Paul’s help – he had an I Pad with AMS info on it; with this and the Lonely Planet’s advice I decided to stay put and head up the next day if I felt better. If I’d gone back down to Manang (500m) in heavy snow, then back up the day after, this effort may have cancelled out the benefit from the night of lower altitude. Many people were concerned about Raju’s attitude but again he seemed indifferent. By this time I viewed his as a crap travelling companion rather than a guide. I had a restful day anyway, airing my sleeping bag which was much needed and sleeping in the sun. Raju mooched around throwing stones at animals; a favourite pastime. Quite a cool Swiss guy joined us, very relaxed and we studied each other’s guidebooks about climbing up to the Thorung La. Basically you can either go to Thorung High Camp (4800m) and risk having a bad night at this height but less of a way to travel the next day or stay at Thorung Pedi at 4500m and then have a long stab at the climb.

Raju and I decided to crack on the next day and aim for Thorung Pedi (the Swiss guy was resting at Yak Kharta). At that time I was concerned about sleeping any higher and TP seemed a natural place to stop. We had a dangerous walk there – a landslide had obscured a bit of the path and there were some sheer drops in many places. After a while I put on my crampons which really helped but there were some awkward moments. Pedi is very much at the end of the valley, one side petering out into a snub nosed lump of rock into which the other tapers. We were the only people here and had a fairly grim afternoon once the sun had gone down; choking in a little room with a makeshift stove which leaked kerosene. This didn’t seem right for the last proper lodge before the pass and we later discovered that the main hotel burnt down two years ago. This explained the middle of the compound were the gable ends were left with the stubble of foundations. Just the old stables and perimeter accommodation were left. After a forgettable and very expensive meal I tried to sleep, ready for a 3.30 breakfast. I had sat Raju down the previous afternoon and asked him if he’d been up to the Pass in winter, which he hadn’t. Asked whether the path was steep and therefore dangerous, given the recent snow he said it wouldn’t and having tried several different ways to ask the question to check he really meant this and wasn’t just trying to tell me what he thought I wanted to hear (i.e. it’ll be OK whatever)I had to settle for this. I was concerned about leaving at 04.00 as it seemed unnecessary early and all the guidebooks said there was no point. However he said the cold wind in the pass would make it uncomfortable later if we didn’t get up and over. I had to go with this as he was adamant. The main reason Id hired him was to get me through the Pass, after all.

The next morning it didn’t feel too cold initially and we headed off as soon as I’d spooned down some porridge and put boiling water in both drinks bottles. Immediately though, it was a tough gradient and we tried to get into a rhythm. Hard work and after half an hour we rounded a bend in the hill and felt the wind, a bitter pill as we were trying to avoid this later on higher up. It was tough from then on. I’d expected to shed layers but instead needed to add another base layer (making 4) and a windproof Gore tex jacket a little further on. I’d decided not to wear crampons in the dark as this could be tricky and with only one pole (having leant one to Raju) had little chance of arresting a fall. I’d leant Raju my wind stopper jacket and a pair of thick gloves so he was OK. The climb got increasingly dangerous with very steep slopes to our right which, if we’d fallen down, we would have had no chance of survival. By about 07.00 we were seriously cold. There had been fresh snow which meant we had to break trail again and the direction of the path was difficult to find resulting in some stopping and starting. It was difficult to assess whether snow was on the path or loose and unstable. I really wished we were roped at this point and with ice axes – that would be the minimum in the Alps in this sort of terrain. However, we just had to feel our way.

The cold was now intense and just before dawn I could no longer feel my legs below my knees which meant I had to move my hips to lurch forward; hardly what I needed. It was about -30 degrees centigrade and we had to keep moving just to keep functioning; it was not a case of keeping ourselves pleasantly warm. There was a sort of malevolent cold that came up from the mountain as well as from moving through snow often 18 inches deep. As the skies got lighter in the pre-dawn this got even worse. Someone later told me this is because the light starts to burn off moisture which reduces the temperature further and allows the wind to build. I don’t know; it was awful anyway.

We had actually made good time; got to the High Camp after an hour at 5.15 but had had to keep going only resting for a few seconds at a time. Dawn beckoned teasingly for some time but it wasn’t until about 08.30 that we saw the sun come over the mountain. Both of us were breathing very heavily and Raju was very quiet which worried me and I had to keep cajoling him along. I’m sure he was OK but I am equally certain that had either of us stopped and given up we would not have survived more than 2 hours at that temperature. We allowed ourselves a few minutes at sun up but immediately our hands started to freeze so we kept going up onto the pass and pausing only to look at the dawn, carried on down. My camera’s battery had run down the day before, so unfortunately I couldn’t get a photo of Annapurna, a shame as this was the best vantage point.

The descent was in some ways as hard as the climb though mercifully not as cold. Turning our back on the Annapurna massif, the landscape towards the upper Mustang valley was impressive. We headed west towards Muktinath, the relative flat shale and snow of the pass giving way to a steep snowy descent, strewn with rocks. At about 10.30 we stopped to drink again (punching out the ice in the top of he bottle) and only now took off some clothes. Raju went to the loo; ‘Mr Matt, I got to take slash’ being the only thing I really taught him. I still couldn’t feel my legs and felt that strange detachment one does when really tired; I was functioning, keeping moving ok but that was about it. Eventually we got noticeably closer to the brown valley ahead and finally reached Muktinath, a village and monastery complex close to the snowline. We walked passed a line of prayer wheels and ended up in the mucky main drag at the Bob Marley hotel. Bizarrely named it was the best place there. And, crucially, with a hot shower. The Chaps were staying, having got down the previous evening and they were welcome company. It was now 12.15 but as we’d left so early it felt much later. This had only taken us 8 hours and had taken the guys 11 so that was something but our relative speed was borne only out of the necessity of keeping going.

I sat down in the sun and removed my boots to try and get some feeling back. My feet were purple and swollen with the toes sticking out like little sausages. Not a great sight. I was surprised; thought they would be bruised but not like this. Raju sought fit to dispense medical advice and despite my warning him not to, poked a toe. ‘Rub them better’. I gave him a baleful stare and he had the sense to shut up. I ordered a beer and suggested in light of my feet that we alter our plans for tomorrow. ‘We go to Marpha’ said Raju; stabbing a finger at the map. This was 10km further than Jonsom, the usual suggested destination for the next day. ‘25km in one day?’ Again a stare at him; ‘with these feet?’ ‘I always go to Marpha after here’ he said with unthinking finality. Nice flexibility.

The guys (with Chaps, interchangeable) called me down for a drink later to celebrate the crossing of the pass. They had had a day off, getting in at 5pm the previous day after setting off at 6.00 in the morning from High Camp (an hour or so further from Pedi and 300m higher up). Ed had been sick frequently on the way up which sounded awful. Crucially they had only an hour and a half of darkness which helped but it was still a torrid day for them. From a personal perspective, good to see chaps in their 20s stretched – we all have a slight thousand yard stare, not quite sure what has hit us. It turned out that Paul, the American, was there too and was also having a day looking at the monasteries. I was very glad he had made it. He had hired a porter at Yak Kharta owing to the depth of snow; utterly sensible and civilised.

In the event we did move off the next day. I could see that further time spent up here (3700m) wouldn’t help – my feet would swell some more and then I’d be in trouble. The worst thing to do in my basic knowledge of frostbite is to allow it to thaw (which it would, in my snug, if now pungent, sleeping bag) and then refreeze outside. There. was no way out of here but by helicopter and I’m not sure I could justify it to my insurance company (it turned out they wouldn’t even pay for my business class flight back in the end, so I was correct on that one). Also I would have to rely on one of two private helicopter companies coming out in mid winter with a serviceable aircraft. It could have taken a lot of time and money. So I jammed the feet into my boots once more, eased the laces as much as possible and kept on, thumping my feet with exquisite pain into the front of my boots. The Chaps joined us and we travelled along together; in contrast to my guide they made an effort to wait for me every few hundred metres. I had a word with Raju at one point – ‘my feet do you remember? We need to go at a slow pace’. Stroppy perhaps and it only had a momentary effect; he made a brief attempt to go just in front then legged it ahead as usual.

We lunched at Kagbeni, the gateway to the Upper Mustang and furthest one can go before getting a permit for a hefty US $500. This is a seldom visited area and tantalisingly lies beyond the mud fort that guards the walled town, (not very effectively, one would imagine). Kagbeni feels the last point of civilisation, trekking in the Upper Mustang being essentially a camping trip with some local ad hoc accommodation. This has the advantage of being beyond the monsoon so has year round trekking and if you want real Nepal, you’ll certainly get it there.

However, we all felt the pull in the other direction, south now along the long flat river valley to Jonsom keen to make up easy ground on the homeward stretch of this trip. This is an area with dirt roads feeding various development projects. Why they should be this side of the country I’m not sure; it is away from the main towns of Nepal but I think it is largely Chinese funded to provide easy access to the western part of the country. One imagines the Nepalese may regret this cordial though relations with the Chinese currently are. I was in my now typical detached mode that I recognised from the latter stage of the Marathon des Sables; ignoring pain and working within boundaries of what I thought I could sustain. Long ago in my lone term at Sandhurst I was told the body ignores repeat pain signals; probably while I was carrying a tree trunk and being jolly pleased to test the theory, and probably telling my colour sergeant so with a raised eyebrow and predictable results. Here, sarcasm would not help and besides I was helped by being with the Chaps and their relaxed approach; forever stopping and taking photos and just sitting down and savouring the view. We had not expected too much of this part of the trip, thinking it would be a trudge to Jonsom, (necessarily our destination for the day now, not Marpha) but it was one of the best visually, of the circuit. To our left we caught a superb view of Dhaulagiri, first climbed by Diener and a French expedition in 1950, if I remember my visit to the International Mountaineering Museum correctly. Here we stopped and savoured the view, Raju’s spitting almost inaudible, he was so far ahead.

Another view was equally impressive though not in the guidebooks; we were heading southwest nearing dusk and the turning the corner of the road were hit by the sight of the sun shining white gold on the low winter river meandering slowly towards the mountains. These were shrouded in the misty pre dusk apricot light, contrasted on the other side of the valley with sandstone walls whose rock striations arched back like flying buttresses. The Himalayas has such variety it does this to you; rather like a beautiful girl you think can’t impress you anymore, you get sucker punched when you least expect it, from a different angle in a certain light.

We got to Jonsom which looked attractive, lights winking away as we approached. However it proved the least welcoming of anywhere we’d been. Everywhere looks good in the dark, even crap places like Slough – lights are welcoming and promise warmth and plenty. I thought this place may have a buzz though; an Army mountaineering school and an airport may have given it some life but it seemed to have turned its back on mankind for the winter. We could barely get any hotels to admit they were open, not due to our man smells (we had all showered, Raju excepted, at Bob Marley the previous night) but one of the guys negotiated us free rooms in a nice little place, on the basis that we ate there. This isn’t uncommon in winter in order to get custom which made it all the more puzzling with the other places we tried. Well, it was open anyway. I shared with Ed, the Chilean with aviator glasses; the first time I had done so with someone all trip and the poor chap got the full show of bits being cut off my feet, a long, tiresome process involving a few yelps.

We all gathered for dinner which was a limited affair, our burgers being unfeasibly small but we had a very pleasant chat nonetheless. Raju joined us for aperitifs on the sofa (tea for everyone else, beer for me) but declined an invitation to join us for the meal itself. As Rupert, a friend, would suggest, perhaps he’d feel uncomfortable dining with us; daft at this stage though after we’d been together a while. (I should elaborate here; Rupert and I flogged wine together years ago and returning from a colleague’s toga party in Yorkshire broke down in his MG midget in Keighley. We were towed back, on a Sunday to Hampshire whereupon he let me in the front door and took the driver round the back to the tradesman’s entrance (no innuendo, vicar) as he thought he wouldn’t feel comfortable mixing with the family. He was sent packing back up the motorway after a cup of tea and a Kit Kat). We finished up our child sized portions and wondered what to do. Some sort of party got going at about 9pm; unspeakably late for this country but we were not invited so went off to bed. At this height, 2720m, we still needed to use our sleeping bags and foolishly I decided to air my feet, therefore had to unstick them every time I turned over without removing more flesh. I sleep light so this was annoyingly frequent. Ed slept enviably well so at least I didn’t annoy him.

Breakfast the next day was grim as they had it on the table before we woke up. Simply the sort of thing that is never done in England; one should serve himself in his own time, over newspapers. Not helpful this, particularly as and I had to tend to my feet first so when finally downstairs, rolled my cold rubbery eggs and paratha up and ate it on the hoof. It was good to get out of Jonsom though and the beauty of the valley continued as we moved into forested valley that was almost Canadian, with a wide flat river bed flanked by mountains, green now mingling with the dazzling white and the glint of the trickling stream. We continued to Tukuche, the other side of the river, and had a moment of some amusement. We were aiming for Lokhopani but Raju thought it a good idea to zig zag back across the valley floor - about 500m of large pebbles. Good for the feet then. To be fair he realised he had dropped a bollock and had that look of angst on his face that anyone does who knows me well and fears that life may become momentarily unpleasant. This showed uncharacteristic self awareness so I let it go and we both laughed as he waved me towards a bridge, and realised I wasn’t actually going to hit him. We all found a surprisingly good place for lunch with real coffee. At this point he was getting on board about the feet and the guys had also had enough of this and said we would get a bus to Ghasa. I welcomed this – it was the first place we could have got a bus and it was a good call.

We had to wait a good couple of house which was fine; we just sat and ate more. When we eventually got on it was great fun. The driver veered straight off the road onto the valley floor, straight through fords, music blaring. It’s surprising how much one sees on the buses, partly because they don’t go very quickly but also because one is higher up which allows a different perspective on things. Mainly though it’s because you aren’t staring at your feet and if you’re me, by this stage crying onto your boots. The DJ who had mixed the tape was bi-polar I think and it was an unexpected medley of classics from high energy Bollywood drama to Backstreet Boys. It matched the mad driving anyway; forced now to use the road which climbed a bit higher up, the driver slowed as we lurched from pothole to crack in the road and stopped abruptly for tea at a roadside shack. I rather love these random places one comes to. There we met the chap I’d seen asking the way to the TIMS office in Pokhara – who (quite rightly) steadfastly refused my offer of sharing the cost of Raju. It showed an uncanny foresight. He was a serious young man but harmless enough. A debonair army officer was inside scanning the place, possibly for talent as this probably counts for a 'night out' here. The rest was the flotsam that washes up at these places, locals on the last bus from Jonsom, quiet foreigners like us, shabby from too long on the trail. Even here, if you look up, there was a twist in the tail that the end of the day brings; a single mountain’s white flanks turning peach pink in the dusk, an almost full moon directly behind backlighting the scene. I’d given up trying to identify every mountain by this stage; and it didn’t matter.

That night we finally had the sort of heating in the dining hall that worked. A Eureka moment for the Nepalese that no one else had. They had put a stove under the table that warmed one’s legs and therefore the rest of you, owing to heat rising and all that. It gave one a strange feeling of warm intimacy and the expectation that your knee was going to be touched. Not appropriate for a bunch of chaps but an interesting set up to have with a mixed group. Mental note to self to consider if any of us ever does get round to setting up a smart hostel as we have promised over many a drunken night in the hills.

I shared with poor old Ed again but he donned sunglasses and turned on his bunk to the wall whilst the surgery was going on. The result of forcing my swollen feet into boots was that it forced pools of fluid into the toes and sides of my feet that then had to be cut with a sterilised knife, dried and dressed. Laborious and tedious. I tried to wear liner socks to sleep but we hadn’t been able to wash anything for a while so it was better to do the bare feet thing, unsticking as necessary, biting on my hand as I did so.

The morning’s crush into boots was always good fun and next morning I walked off a distance to the bus station to Tatopani, first to the ACAP office. Here the Chaps decided to walk to Tatopani and we shook hands once again. Raju and I sat and waited for the bus. Eventually getting on, I had spotted a couple of English girls, one of whom was trying to get into a seat but the Nepalis with typical excitement were messing about, refusing to sit down or let her past. I took it upon myself to organise. It seems customary with the locals to put one’s bag down thus claiming the seat, then to stand in the aisle until the bus leaves. I told one chap to sit down; ‘it is my seat’, he said wagging his head. ‘Yes, I know so sit in it’. This brought titters of laughter where in England everyone may have stared at the floor. Still, it set up some momentum. He sat down, the girl, now looking embarrassed as I ploughed on; another guide to whom I had leant my gaiters was on the back seat so I shouted at his to save a seat; then began complicated hand signals – directing other Nepalis to sit down, who played along (grabbing an escaped chicken here and there) enjoying themselves thoroughly. The Red Sea parted and she was able to make the journey to the back and sit down. Raju had saved me a seat at the front and I had to eyeball him to keep it, his ‘Mr Matts’ getting more plaintive with pressure of others trying to nab it. Fair play though; he prevailed. The benefits of one’s own valet.

The journey to Tatopani was in a way a comforting one; we wound round the valley down to an area of softness and voluptuous produce. All was green here with dots of colour, the mandarin trees ripening and the first rhododendrons bursting into blood red blooms. The area down from Jonsom is known for the wind that rushes up the valley, particularly the upper stretch, caused by the channel between the peaks of Annapurna and Dhaulagiri. One area is known as Windy Pass which I rather think sounds like a country and western singer or a flatulent prep school teacher. In Tatopani the winds are gentler though the villagers still place rocks on the corrugated iron roofs to prevent them flying away. No sign of this as we got to the town though. It is very much lower here and it was a balmy afternoon. I met the Korean who had terrible frostbite on his hands – all thickly bound up with blood seeping through. He must have been in agony but was still cheerful enough. I reclaimed my gaiters from his guide, a super chap, and climbed up to the Dhaulagiri Guest House. I sat in the garden next to the English girls and they laughed at my antics on the bus, not entirely unkindly.

This area is known for its hot springs and I after washing some socks and celebrating with a beer I thought it time to clamber down the steps to take the waters. A bargain at 60 rupees, one de-robes, retaining modesty with some sort of acceptable underwear, and then climbs into the stepped, shallow pool. It is kept to 45 degrees centigrade, tempered with cold water and this is a lovely temperature. Though sulphurous it wasn’t malodorous and I thought it may do my feet good. Raju had been keen to come down but as ever he shuffled about on the fringes saying he wouldn’t come in. Not sure why; we Europeans were, after all, outnumbered by Nepalis strutting about in their fake Calvin Kleins. The girls were in there and were fascinated by my feet, taking a proper gruesome interest. In this they didn’t disappoint; purple and livid, with black and yellow patches to make everyone wince. After a while of course they stung quite considerably and feigning nonchalance I perched on the edge and had a beer with the Chaps who had just turned up from their walk in. Raju was most odd that night, standing sentinel all evening which was bloody irritating. Several times we tried to pull up a chair for him to join us but he wouldn’t, just unnecessarily re-issued our dinner orders to the waiters and seized salt cellars from puzzled diners on adjoining tables every time we looked around. I was finally shifting the whisky, tasting alongside apple brandy; rustic stuff the Chaps had got from some shack near Ghasa.

The next day we were due to get the bus back to Pokhara. However the driver had decided to leave early which was bafflingly annoying. The next bus was due 5 hours later at 2pm, if it went at all which would be dependent on how many passengers there were. This is typical hair pulling stuff and Raju again froze in indecision. His default solution to transport delays was to say I should get a taxi which I curtly refused. In the end we decided we should walk to the next village where we might be able to pick up a local bus. So off we toddled, 2 of the Chaps in tow and Johannes deciding to carry on over the other side of the valley and walk to Ghoreapani, a climb of 1650m. Fine fellow. An hour and a half later of painful perambulation and we hit a landslide. Fortunately, Chinese investment appeared to have extended to providing locally built Mahindra and oddly imported John Deere tractors so it was cleared quickly allowing us to cross on foot and grab a cab the other side; a Nepali version of a Bedford Rascal with the requisite ‘Speed and Control’ assurances painted on the back. This took us to a bus in Beni which no sooner than we boarded, took off. Lucky timing indeed. It was a jolly and relieved party who were going to Pokhara particularly as we hadn’t really expected to get there. We took the whole back seat and in front of us were two Americans who had choice New York accents; Queens or Brooklyn perhaps. I expected and rather hoped one was going to pull a pistol and tap someone in the back of the head for being a schmuck (there were lots of candidates). One of them stuffed his sweatshirt in the speaker above his head with a ‘Goddam’, which symbolically was much the same thing.

With muted discordant Bollywood tunes straining against the hoody, we continued along and down the valley, seeing Pokhara and Phewa Tal shining in the distance, some 20okm before arriving. After installing ourselves into a guesthouse and picking up my stuff, Raju implored me to do ‘the writings’; a glowing recommendation of his guiding skills. I didn’t have the stomach so after tipping him with instructions to buy a down jacket (which will be ignored) I went off to a guesthouse rest my feet.

Since then it has been a process of convalescence. The next day I was having breakfast prior to going to hospital when KB, the head of the guiding company saw me and took me off to the tourist hospital in a cab. Dr Gupta was a genial fellow who had seen plenty of minor frostbite but not anything as bad as this so took me across town to the teaching hospital to see his surgeon chums. He drives rather like my grandfather did; as if it was really beneath him, but the importance of his position would give him a divine route through, which other road users would also understand. However the little Suzuki vehicle got us there unscathed. When I eventually saw the doctors, 3 of them cooed round my feet for 20 seconds then after conferring said they wouldn’t have to remove anything with I think, slight disappointment. So we took tea instead; an occasion of solemnity and jollity, rather like the first time you meet your tutor. I thought this would be a good time for them to prescribe crutches but alas not and I went hobbling after Gupta back to his car like a phenomenally slow Olympic walker.

On the way back he gave me his life story; he had wanted to work in Birmingham after graduating from Delhi but mysterious and unexplained family problems prevented him from doing so; he then worked in Iran, during the Iran and Iraq war which was unpleasant for an orthopaedic surgeon as he was cutting off limbs from war victims rather than fixing joints and bones. Here he was forced to remain, every luxury when he was there but forbidden to actually leave the country. When he finally got out he went to Nepal and meeting his future wife left for Pokhara. This, I assured him was at least as good an option as the English midlands. I paid him the requisite 60 dollars – standard tourist charge for a medical consultation - and received, in return, various unguents and pills with quaintly written instructions.

Since then it has been frustrating. I was rather tied to my guesthouse as the hotelier leant me crutches and I could not rely on getting these anywhere else. However, these proved invaluable and the place was pretty central so it was a good option anyway. My world was been limited to a gradually increasing radius from about 70m to 200m or so, in the first few weeks including several restaurants, a supermarket, pharmacy, water stalls and various fruit and veg salespeople. I have got to know all the characters here; every day I had my breakfast at the same absurdly cheap place from a chap with a stutter and a conspiratorial laugh. I felt included in a joke that is never explained; it is important to know if one is being laughed with, at or just next to, as my father once said over a whisky. I consulted the pharmacist every couple of days as we mulled over options to replace the various potions that were running out. One of our successes was finding the same antibiotics under a different brand name after an exhaustive search.

I did however, after several weeks feel I had hung around here too long and believed others did too, viewing me as an extra on set who is unwilling to accept his scenes are over, keeps popping up in various places messing up filming (‘what, him on crutches again?; he was phased out in an accident with Ranjit’s cow last week.’) I became pleasantly cafe-ridden; doomed to drink lemon sodas and coffee on the main strip or by the lake in the sun until it was an acceptable time to have a beer. Sounds awful I know. Much of the day was spent dressing the damn feet which healed slowly and but where there was still raw flesh which hurt considerably, ably assisted by the dull ache of bruised toes in which the feeling was increasingly returning with appropriate level of pain. I also lost some muscle mass owing to not doing anything but stumble pathetically like a Glasgow drunk (muttering foully though, not singing).

The pressure in my feet during the 6 weeks I was there abated somewhat but mainly came on at night. Often though, it chucked in a cameo appearance, particularly on my left big toe and right side of my right foot which had a raw deep wound that hurts like hell (both areas would result later in amputations). I took to swearing and blaspheming quite appallingly, followed by grovelling to the Lord for my deliverance from the pain. I anticipate thunderbolts though for my moral weakness, somewhere along the line. After several weeks I hoped I could fly somewhere hot soon, but where and to do what? My idea of India had become too complicated, involving either a series of expensive plane journeys or long train journeys to get to Goa. I did not fancy getting infected without good treatment being available so this or Kerala was probably out. Thailand was suggested though so I looked into it – the great advantage being apparently cheap flights from Kathmandu and a visa available at the airport. The medical treatment is also very good according to a physio I met. Provided I could walk this sounded like an option I thought, and Krabi looks nice and accessible.

In reality it was not to be; the healing process was taking ages and it became clear I would be in Pokhara until I flew back on 5^th March. Concerned about DVT I booked a business class flight back so my feet were elevated, economy not being an option with my feet cramped and on the floor. The less said about my insurance company the better; unable to offer proper advice on the emergency medical line and then saying I would be covered for my flight when I wasn’t.

However, that mithering was in the future. I’d bumped into a good bunch; a Swiss guy mad on motocross, an English physio, a Norwegian chap and a little Aussie girl; she did the circuit with no problems though I’m bound to say it couldn’t have been quite as cold. We laughed at my feet, drank and play pool, using my crutch as a rest which worked rather well. Then I’d stumble back, trying not to kick anything. Generally the weather was increasingly lovely, the town was betting busier, coming into the second most popular time of year – mid Feb to May so it was not a bad place to spend the winter provided I could move at some point.

Eventually I could do some exercise. With a few other people I met I went kayaking on Phewa Tal; taking red wine and supplies from the German bakery we had some merry and relaxed picnics. Paul, the physio and Don, another English chap and I have pondered on the idea of setting up a trekking service using good local guides but western kit. We’ll see; plans are in motion. These people made my time in Pokhara, along with the Ghurka officers I met, and Dutch and German girls; nights at Maya bar for a couple, Busy Bee for music and then to the Blues Bar until the early hours and the Skyline Bar for cocktails until the dogs howled, heralding dawn. It was university life for an invalid for me, recuperating until a late morning breakfast of spinach, eggs over easy, hash browns, tomatoes and onion, all with soda bread and lots of Himalayan coffee. Thus fortified I would wander to my lakeside cafes and ruminate once more over lemon sodas, ignoring the constant throbbing in my feet, and sometimes my head, as best I could.

Back in Kathmandu I caught up with Paul for a couple of nights before heading back to Blighty. It was warmer here now and very busy, more like an Indian city than ever. Then back to an English winter on my expensive upgraded flight where I impressed upon the staff the need to keep the wine flowing.



Back in the UK

It’s now late April and almost 6 weeks that I’ve been back from Nepal and I have finally had an operation on my toes. All the new flesh that will grow has done so and last Monday it was time for the black gangrene to be debrided and the dead areas cut off. As a result I have lost most of my left big toe, half the one next to it and the top joint of each little toe. I was – and am continuing to be – treated at Stoke Mandeville hospital which is fantastic. They are geared to getting people better and active as soon as possible.

This won’t inconvenience me too much long term as I still have the balls of my feet; I will still be able to climb and do triathlon, dance badly etc. I have therefore been lucky but this sort of injury is immensely time consuming. It is also not much fun to look at livid stumps. Bizarrely the pain still seems to come from the whole toe, which is no longer there. I gather this is not uncommon but must be very disconcerting for people who have lost limbs; perhaps there is that semi- conscious moment of hope on waking each morning until one gets used to it.

I haven’t been able to work and wasted a lot of my travelling time (from late January) sitting around. Still, that’s the risk with trekking in the mid winter, particularly somewhere high and without a proper mountain rescue service. I would implore anyone considering climbing or trekking in the Himalaya at this time of year to pack proper kit – including mountaineering boots. The only thing I messed up on - albeit it critical – was my boots but I had read that normal boots were generally OK. Though others got away with it, mine, were comfortable but old and lost their waterproofing, and eventually remained wet; stoves ultimately proving inadequate to dry them. Good down gear (I had an arctic rated bag and jacket) is essential as there is no heating in the lodges.

Equally as important is be very careful about choosing your guide. It is almost better to go with people you know or have met travelling rather than hiring someone you know nothing about. This is not a general criticism of Nepalese trekking guides but the standards are not necessarily high and the TAAN accreditation means little. Many are former porters and have little actual guiding experience. That said, recommendations are very important and I know of a number of people who will only use certain guides and will sort everything out prior to leaving the UK, particularly kit and making a generous allowance for timescales. For those trekking independently, as I wished to do and meet people en route, you probably will but it is worth sorting this upfront. Johannes and Tim (two of the Chaps) met through www.trekkingpartners.com in Kathmandu. As with everything, weigh the risks, particularly if going at this time of year. I wanted to set off on my own, though felt ultimately I shouldn’t and this was probably the right decision. For his part, I’m sure Raju will become more confident (not mentioning the firm as he’s a good guy and it’s down to experience) in time but the TAAN needs to shape up and get some firm criteria in place. I’m only concerned with the trekking areas here as they are so accessible and therein lies the potential danger.

I’d finish off by saying that for those who haven’t been, Nepal is a wonderful country and I look forward to trekking there again as soon as is realistically possible. I’d still be there now if bits of my feet hadn’t needed to be chopped off. Possibly when it’s a bit warmer next time though.

---