Kathmandu to Everest Base Camp, Part II: Solo Khumbu

It's true. My pack was too heavy, my knees were too fragile, my legs were too weak, and my feet were too delicate.

But on a 1000-meter ascent, it's the altitude -- not the fatigue -- which you can't bear.

Long before the symptoms of Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) set in, the thinning of the air around you as you climb is palpable. At 1,000 meters, the oxygen delivery rate is still 88% of that at sea level; by 3,500 meters that has dropped to 60%, and at 5,000 meters each breath is worth just half what you are accustomed to.

Climb too fast, and your body's leaking capillary fluid begins to accumulate. First in your brain. Headache develops: disorientation, fatigue, nausea. Then in your lungs. A dry, hacking cough appears, next accompanied by bloodpink sputum. Soon you notice it is difficult to walk a straight line. This is called ataxia, and it means you are only hours away from a coma. Then, death.

After entering Sagarmatha National Park some three hours North of Phakding, the trail dropped precipitously to the banks of the Dudh Khosi. There it meandered by silted waters through Jorsale before spending a half hour on the rocky eastern littoral and rising to meet the Lorja suspension bridge bedecked in the primary colors of fluttering prayer flags and swaying awesomely high above the watershed.

The rapids roared. Suspension cables sang.

I crossed, and began the 1,000-meter climb to Namche.

The Nepalese economy -- like that of many third-world nations -- is characterized by an abundant supply of labor and very little capital. This, coupled with the fact that it is one of the most staggeringly beautiful in the entire world (i.e., it is rich in eco- and geologic resources) sets up what I might call the sherpa economy.

The Sherpa people (uppercase 'S') are short in stature, bold and handsome in physiognomy, famously thick-blooded, and native to the Khumbu region and Eastern Nepal. They attained international prominence for their work ethic and near inhuman ability to withstand high-altitude hardship during the original assaults on Everest.

Today "sherpa" (lowercase 's') may refer to a guide, a cook, or porter on a trek or mountaineering expedition. See, because of the availability of labor and the exponentially growing tourism sector, most treks in Nepal involve hiring huge groups of relatively cheap but highly experienced sherpa to organize and execute nearly every detail of the trek, down to carrying gear and preparing elaborate meals in campsites at remote locations.

This means that the most common sight on Himalayan trails is a group of three to ten westerners with day packs, and a vast retinue of trailing and leading sherpa. English speaking guides and kitchen boys walking leisurely with porters carrying inconceivable loads of 40, 50, and even 60 kilograms in baskets attached by tumplines to their foreheads.

My trek, of course, is not like this. I'm alone, and carrying everything I own in a 60-liter backpack, which weighs approximately 18 kilos. If I'm carrying water, more.

I do not mean to imply, however, that one type of trek is better than another. Mine is certainly more adventurous: logistically and physically demanding. Unfortunately, it contributes comparatively little to the Nepalese economy and is ecologically less efficient.

My only real point is that it made the climb to Namche fantastically grueling. One-thousand meters, straight up. With my 80 kilos, and my pack's 20. When I got to the top, I collapsed in my lodge unconscious for two hours, woke up and decided it was one of the most strenuous days of my life -- second only to the day I raced an Olympic-distance triathlon.

The next day, thank God, was set aside for acclimatization. I hiked four and a half hours, through Khunde and Khumjung, feeling my legs and lungs grow stronger, my weeks of indolence post-graduation and in Hong Kong giving way to a history of fitness.

Monday came. My itinerary prescribed a 750-meter ascent to Tengboche. I was almost eager.

Tuesday morning brought with it Tengboche's unique 3800 meter vantage point, and one of the most breathtaking panoramas known to man.

Directly East, the silhouette of Ama Dablam blocked the disc of the rising sun until the gongs sounded six, its thumb-shaped peak cutting a bas relief from its cumulonimbus sheath.

Further south, the saddle of Kontega and nearer peak of Thamserku imposed cloudless against a cerulean sky. At the end of the Northern valley, where wispy cloudcover yet mawed and fluxomed, the sharp peak of Lhotse jutted skyward like some child's coloring-book vision of a mountain -- isosceles and unblemished. Rendered here by the hand of God.

Left of Lhotse sprawled the bumpy backbone of the Nuptse massif; and between them -- just -- the Eastern slope of Everest glided into the clouds.

The largest monastery in Nepal, its oriental windows dark from smoke and incense, sat on the highest hill of Tengboche itself, taking in this enormous vista with ease born of habit. Its prayer wheels chimed.

The fog rolled in thick and silent and erased the sky. Monks could be heard chanting. Their voices lyrical, arrythmic, and baritone.

I lunched fried rice and boiled yak meat, packed my rucksack, and ascended to Pengboche.

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