Chapter 30 - The door to the moutains

Surke

We left the bikes with the still-incredulous sherpas and packed our riding kit into a closet in a small guesthouse. I changed into the cheap walking gear I’d bought in Kathmandu and looked up at the rocky path threading its way through the pine trees. A plane skimmed the valley toward Lukla, probably full of excited hikers and supplies for the official start of the Everest Base Camp trail. A mean little flicker of smugness rose in my chest. We had reached the same point by bike. Vipassana hadn’t finished stripping my ego yet.

Most of my gear had been chosen months earlier with the idea that I could hike as easily as ride. Motorcycle kit wants to protect you from sliding metal and road rash. Trekking gear wants to forget gravity. Finding the balance with one dry bag and a bike’s tiny real estate was almost impossible. One pair of walking trousers, a long-sleeve shirt, one T-shirt, two pairs of socks, shorts that doubled as swim gear, a puffer jacket, a Gore-Tex shell, sandals, semi-hiking shoes, and a shemagh I picked up in Afghanistan. That was the wardrobe.

At the edge of Surke I felt two pulls. One part of me wanted to slip ahead and walk alone in the thin air, to let the mountain clear my head. The other part looked at Alvaro tightening his straps with that stubborn grin and knew the mountain wouldn’t forgive pride today.

The Climb to Tok Tok

We fell in behind a train of donkeys, bells tapping softly against the morning. Surke is the last village the road can reach, a little Buddhist temple perched on a knoll above a cold river. Pens of animals below, waiting to splash before another haul upward. A sherpa tapped my shoulder armour like a turtle shell and laughed before handing us tea that tasted of smoke and salt. Their lightness struck me. No fuss, no excess, just work and movement.

The trail bit into our legs fast. Air cool and sharp on the lungs. We crossed a scatter of houses and prayer wheels and reached Tok Tok as night fell. Exhausted from the morning ride and the climb, we ate momos by a small fire and drank Nepali tea. I fell asleep to the river rustling against stone and the mountains whispering above us.

Leaving Alvaro Behind

Up early. Meditated. Alvaro had barely slept; altitude was already working on him. We were around 3,300 metres. I wanted to leave before the tourists clogged the trail, but we only managed to set off around 08:30. We hit the tail end of the North Face parade immediately. Hikers of every size and age, poles clacking like a slow escalator grinding its way uphill.

Frustration won. I pushed through them in yomping mode, legs burning, lungs working hard in the thin air. I left Alvaro behind. It felt good to let the body run and shake off the weight of the crowd. Soon it was just me and the porters.

I fell into step beside an old didi in her sixties, climbing from Monjo to Namche Bazar with twenty kilos on her back, more than a third of her body weight. She grunted and sang to herself in a quiet rhythmic tone, some mix of struggle and endurance. The path steepened until it forced breaks on me. Didi never stopped. She climbed on with a steady, melodic resolve.

The Door

Rounding a tight corner with a cliff on one side and a long drop on the other, I almost walked into a full two-metre wooden door. It moved up the path on a pair of flip-flops underneath. The porter beneath it panted hard, each step a battle. The sight froze me.

Then a large, Arcteryx-clad westerner appeared, red-faced and irate that his path was blocked. He moved to grab the top of the door, ready to drag it aside, which would have toppled the load and sent the porter tumbling into the void with eighty kilos on his back.

“OI. If you even touch this man I will throw you off the fucking mountain.”

He stopped dead, stunned. Maybe shocked by my fury, maybe finally aware of the danger. Either way, he stepped aside. The door continued its slow, painful climb.

The Porters

I pushed on. Lungs near bursting, legs on fire, heart soaring. In the shade of some pine trees I found a small inlet where a group of porters were eating lunch. I sat a few metres away, gulping water, trying to steady myself. They looked over, smiled, and beckoned me to join. They didn’t take no for an answer.

I sat among them, shaken to my core. These men earned maybe twenty dollars a day for work that broke their backs, yet they wanted to share their food with me. I handed them the high-powered snacks I had left. They asked nothing. We talked quietly about their journeys, the risks they took, and why it was worth it. I couldn’t do anything except sit in awe. The whole valley rests on their shoulders. The famous climbers get the glory. These men carry the world.

Namche

I resumed the trek and climbed until Namche Bazar appeared. A bizarre and unexpected sight at this altitude. Behind me a vast mountain rose into the clouds; in front of me the town curved along a ridge at around 3,600 metres. Built on airlifts and porter sweat, Namche serves the thousands who pass through every year. Bakeries, coffee shops, restaurants. An oasis perched on a ledge above the Khumbu.

I wandered the streets in a half-daze until I met Nima and Suren, tattoo artists and climbers that my friend Robyn had connected me with. Nima owns the highest tattoo parlour in the world. Both are Sherpas, locals to Namche. They work the season here and descend to Kathmandu in the off-season to let their bodies recover. Seasoned climbers and guides, quiet and sharp.

They were impressed that I had ridden to Surke, which humbled me, given what they had achieved. Nima had once tattooed a client on the summit of Ama Dablam. Anyone who knows the region knows Ama Dablam is the real prize. Technical, precise, deadly. Everest is the box to tick. Ama Dablam is the mountain climbers dream of.

Standing there, listening to them, the climb still burning in my legs, I felt small and human again. The mountain had done its work.