Photo courtesy of James Bullard.
This all started as a challenge a friend of mine and I were supposed to take on together. He and I worked on cruise ships –he’s a sound engineer and I sing. He’s a hillbilly from West Virginia and I’m a redneck from Alabama. We both love performing and traveling and Tide football, so it was a pretty easy “yes” on my part. I’m normally a creature of comfort, preferring a hotel and a museum/church/town square combo to a wilderness adventure in South Asia, but when Derrick dangled that Everest carrot in front of my nose, I bit.
The morning I was to leave for Nepal, Derrick wrote me to say he’s having a snag with his passport: Australian authorities won’t let him through to Nepal without six months’ validity on his passport. They’re insisting he go back to the U.S. and go from there. He’s got four months until expiration. We’re keeping fingers crossed he’ll still be able to join me on the mountain. We built a week cushion into our travel plans for just such an emergency. Well, the Australian consulate and family crisis kept him from joining in Kathmandu.
So now I was flying solo. I had a couple of options: continue the adventure without him or bump my arrival in Italy by three weeks to stay with my girlfriend. Shoot. I was already this close. I bought all the gear, and by this point, I was primed to make the trek to Everest Base Camp, so I jumped. Here’s my daily travelogue of my time in Nepal and all that’s fit to print.
Friday, March 29: My first 24 hours in Nepal have been eye-opening. Humbling, intriguing and cage-rattling, and all in a good way. Average monthly income: 200 USD. Holy cows chewing…something…in the middle of busy streets as taxis, mopeds, bicycles and pedestrians swerve to leave them be. Temples covered with monkeys. I’ve arrived for the tail end of Holi, which has many of the citizens decorating shrines and themselves with red powder, flowers and food offerings, the toll of bells filling the air. Spicy everyting to eat, blowing a hanky full of black boogies because of pollution and dusty dervishes blown into being by a million cars honking and hustling to get to their next destination. Truly an exotic and throbbing culture. A life- and perspective-changing experience. I leave for the mountain on Monday.
Saturday, March 30. Day 2: Initially I was worried I wouldn’t be physically able to trek Everest. Now I’m concerned I’m not cool enough. These guys show up with their beards and dreads, reeking of patchouli, decked out in North Face and Marmot — I’m sporting peach fuzz and Johnny Bravo hair, slathered in Old Spice, outfitted by Amazon, eBay and Marshall’s. Bought a pair of XL snow pants today (I’m a beast by Asian standards) after trying them on in the storefront window. Newborn Nepali nearby on a pile of blankets supervised. No lie. I’ve caught myself adopting and affecting the “hang loose” sign — rock ‘n roll fist with thumb and pinky out, a little shake for emphasis. I dunno what that’s about. I fly to the mountain at 6:30 a.m. tomorrow.
Sunday, March 31. Day 3: Shortly after our arrival to Lukla, we headed down the valley then up the mountain path, passing trains of pack animals — yaks and donkeys, mostly — and more than a few Nepali lugging impossibly heavy-looking loads over the rocky trail for a great day’s wage. Grimy little honey-colored children yammer through the hillside. I wolfed a yak steak with roasted vegetables for lunch, washing it down with an Illy coffee. The thrum of the river below the mountain pass washes away the last bits of the bustle of Kathmandu. Perfect weather. A pair of ribbon clouds streak the sky, leaving mountain vistas proudly displayed. Showoffs. Today: Lukla to Phakding. Tomorrow: Namche Bazaar and the first views of Everest.
Monday, April 1. Day 4: Fruit and porridge with a side of yak cheese kept me going from Phakding to Namche today. We were making excellent time, even after getting caught behind several yakavans (see what I did there?) and groups of other international tourists. Please pardon my vernacular, but folks, yak piss is one of the strongest, most severe odors my olfactories have ever experienced. The term “tinkle” or “urine” just doesn’t do it justice. The lady yaks must just swoon when they get a whiff.
As I topped one hill, there was a farmhouse with two beautiful little snot-encrusted babies playing with the family dog. They spy the American and run for me. They each grab a sleeve and start shouting “CHOCOLATE! CHOCOLATE!” I happen to have one of those monster bars of Ghirardelli super-dark chocolate in my bag, so I bust it out to give to them. The little boy snatches it and the little girl starts looking through my bag for more. I try to take it back from the little boy to divide among them and this kid ain’t budging. I had to enlist my guide Raj’s help to get the situation under control. After a few minutes of discussion, Raj breaks up the fight and the bar.
The commotion brought in a crowd, and just like in the Good Book, there were eight squares for eight eager little cherubs. Unfortunately, since neither Raj, Ayush nor myself are Jesus, there was none left for us. Whomp whomp. I got some great pictures, though. We made it to Namche after near-crippling double quad cramps and salty outlines on all my clothing. Now I’m in clean and dry, enjoying milk tea and wifi. Everest? That coy mistress is hiding behind a cloud. But soon there will be photos of her in all her glory.
Tuesday, April 2. Day 5: It’s our day off after a hardcore leg on the trail yesterday. So what do we do? Up at 4:30 a.m. to stretch and do push-ups before a side hike to see the sun rise over the highest mountain peak in the world. On the way, we see the fattest pheasant you’ve ever laid eyes on — beautiful birds, colored like quail. My dad would’ve LOVED it. They made the stuffed one in the foyer look downright anorexic.
We took our time, because without the sun, it’s really cold at this altitude. I’m sweating within 15 minutes anyway, layered in spandex, thermal, fleece, waterproof everything and the Alabama hat/scarf combo I plan to wear when I have my picture made in front of Everest. Roll Tide. We turned the corner, crested a hill, and there she was. I can’t describe it accurately enough. I was hoping I could take a picture to give you an idea of the…magnitude of the mountain. But even my fancy pants-er of a camera can’t do that well in capturing the magnificence of a new day breaking over Everest. I’d say it had the power and glory of heaven’s spotlight shining on the soloist in the angel choir. I’m crying now, just trying to describe it to all of you. Unreal. Joyous. Breathtaking.
Photo courtesy James Bullard.
From there, we went to Khumjung for breakfast and to see the ecologically friendly village they’ve built there. This village, established by Sir Edmund Hilllary, the man who is to Nepal what MacArthur is to the Philippines, is a beautiful little town set in the palm of the mountain hand that rises up to surround it.
Now we’re back in Namche Bazaar, looking forward to a day full of good food, rest and recharge before pulling out for Tenbuche in the morning.
Wednesday, April 3. Day 6: Today was rough. I mean, for real. Getting snowed on at the tail end of the day’s trek didn’t help anything, either. And I’m not talkin’ flurry. I mean thumbnail-sized flakes flying horizontally.
Today was a lot of retracing steps. From our day-off hike, we’d seen most of the highlights we saw yesterday. And we did a lot of hiking through forest — and up a bazillion hills — so I didn’t really take the time to absorb the grandeur of the scene around me. I just tried to live through it. We went up…and up…and up. I caught a bit of a stomach bug in the last couple of days and trying to trek with your guts in a knot wasn’t the most pleasant. This morning I’m up and at ‘em, ready to go again…I hope.
Since yesterday was so much repeat and concealed hiking, I got to spend a lot of time in my head. I remembered parts of shows with great people and I got to thinking how a lot of great things from friends and family are helping me along this adventure. Huge thanks to my cousins Danny, Karen and Kati for all the weekends and afternoons on the Warrior River. Climbing over all those slippery rocks then has been a Godsend for this. Every time I hear a yak herder goad his charges, I think of Dad in the fields of Blount County with the cows, shaking the bucket and bringing them all to eat. Tamar, my manager at my restaurant job in New York City, I think of you every time I turn a corner and there’s another zig or zag to conquer before we get to the next rest stop. Ain’t nobody can deliver an expletive or a side-eye like that woman. I’m just glad my momma ain’t around to hear it. And every once in a while, we’d find a space in the trees, and the sunshine would hit us and it seems as though the temperature would go up umpteen degrees. Martina baby, that was you.
There are so many little moments like this that make it easier to put one foot in front of the other, dealing with a face full of snow or dust, all because of the great things I remember while I’m going. Thank y’all for these memories and all the love and support you’re throwing my way. It means a lot.
Thursday, April 4. Day 7: Stomach bug has been eradicated. Good riddance and don’t bother coming back. Raj, Ayush and I tore up the trail today. The snowfall from last night made a very similar scene seem somehow different, pristine, even more “travel brochure” than the days before. And that took some doing. Now that we’re above the tree line, the landscape is spotted with shrubs and lichens, all of them sucking greedily at the snow that the sun is so quickly melting. The mud makes the going both better and trickier. Better in that there’s no more dust to blow around in our faces, ears, up our noses. Trickier in that now you have a not-so-gently sloping SLIPPERY terrain taking you to your next destination.
It amazes me how quickly the mountains go from white to brown, green and red. There’s some sort of mineral deposit that turns the stones that slide down the mountain a rusty red. Iron, maybe? Whatever it is, now that we’re above the trees, Mother Nature continues to flaunt another stunning ensemble in her wardrobe. We are duly impressed.
I had a great moment with the kids again today. I’ve made it a habit to keep candy in my bag after our first encounter. Well, today two little girls are playing outside a bakery in Dinboche, and I reach into my bag to get a piece for each of them. The little girls grin from ear to ear as I pull the candy out of the bag and, as all the kids do, put both their hands out, fingertips overlapping, to receive whatever treat is coming their way. Well, they both got a green one, giggling and saying “thank you” as they trotted off. Then one of the little girls got brave and came up to me and patted my big furry hat. Squeals of delight ensued.
Friday, April 5. Day 8: Though I love most days on the trek, I think the nights are my favorite. Once the sun goes down, they light the fire in the dining hall, and that’s where everyone congregates. The favorite pastime is hanging trail-sweaty gear in front of the stove while reading. The Chinese, the German Amazon and the Swedes are in that camp. There’s a clump of Nepali guides warming themselves on the other side of the circle, but what they’re discussing? I don’t know. Probably the cute Danish girls. They’ve made quite a commotion among guides and porters.
The trekkers have been affected too, of course. The guy from the U.S. Air Force is teaching his guide the Rubik’s Cube. The sweet little fiftysomething Chinese-American lady regales me with stories of her daughter that went to NYU for undergrad and UVA for law school. Now that the daughter is out of school, Mom can live her life to the fullest. This is one helluva first step. My buddy Brian Kelly from (you guessed it) Ireland is here to do Everest, then he’s spending two weeks in a monastery in Delhi. He’s looking for something and he figured the best place to find it was inside himself. He just needs a little guidance.
I’m in the corner, in as much light as I can muster, writing it all down. There’s a light soundtrack going — if not Indian, it’s very heavily influenced. It’s loud enough to notice, but not so loud you can’t hear your neighbor’s story. The smell of burning firewood pervades the place and it fits — plywood floors, rough-hewn support columns, cylindrical iron stove (the heart of the room). Long tables line the walls, bench seating upholstered with shabby tapestries that have seated a million weary travelers. Large windows cover two of the four walls, providing jaw-dropping, squinting views of the snow-clad Himalayas. There’s a trade-off, though. The closer you get to the windows, the further you are from the fire.
At every lodge where we’ve stayed, there have been dozens of stickers on the windows: guide services, trek equipment sales, tour groups. I wish I’d known. I’d have papered this place with Crimson Tide paraphernalia from start to finish.
Oh, hey — Air Force figured it out. Good job, brother. And the German Amazon broke her chair. Saw that coming.
The clouds are rolling in, but I am safely, warmly, blissfully shielded with my trek family in the dining room. There’s no meat in the house, so buffalo kofta is out. Looks like vegetable curry again. Worse things have happened. In a nation that leans more toward vegetarianism, I’m in good hands.
Photo courtesy of James E. Bullard.
Friday, April 6. Day 9: Dinboche (4350 m) to Lobuche (4930 m) is on the menu for tomorrow. Raj says internet may be difficult to come by, so I wanted to get another entry in, just in case. And at that altitude, I have no idea what to expect.
Life on the mountain is hard, folks, and that’s coming from a severe tenderfoot like myself. When I see grandmothers flying by me on the path, with 100 pounds of supplies in a gigantic basket supported by slings over their heads, it’s humbling. Everything must be carried up the mountain via pack animal or basket burden. That explains the higher prices further up. Vegetables, baking goods, noodles, hay for livestock, even building materials — they’re all borne by brawn. Yesterday I saw this “kid,” probably 19 years old, flying up the mountain in jeans, Crocs and a Britney Spears t-shirt. His load easily outweighed him by 50 pounds. The fact that I have at least two layers covering 90 percent of my personal surface area, struggling with a 20-pound pack as I hike the mountain path? Shiver-inducing and head-hanging.
Some tips for the mountain: give way to animals. They have horns and bells. And they don’t care which passport you possess. They’ll push Swiss down the mountain as quickly as Swede. They don’t care. Stay out of their way. I’ve been told they’re more docile in the morning, but we still make a point to avoid close contact.
Baby wipes are a must. You can strip in halves, clean away the trail sludge, and redress before hitting the other half. Naked and wet in this climate is not a pleasant prospect. They’re also great for hands-washing, as there’s rarely anything that resembles soap or towel in most of these places. It’s been six days since my last real shower. The hair’s worse for the wear, but the pits are posies. You’re welcome.
Photo courtesy of James Bullard.
This is not a race! Some of these guys are doing the trail for speed. I am not one of them. Slow and steady gives plenty of time for taking in the grandeur around you. It puts you in a great mindset for amazing photos, as well. Follow your guide like you followed your dad when you were a kid — try to put your feet in his footsteps, keep his pace, and you’ll be fine. He knows the trail, many of the conditions are familiar, and he can take you safely to your goal.
It’s an interesting relationship between guide and trekker: symbiotic. We pay a great wage for his services and he keeps us alive, finding the best routes, showing us the must-sees and providing a cultural and historical view of what we’re seeing. Raj has been amazing. He’s been mother-henning me since the first symptom of my belly bug and is constantly asking if I’m OK now that it’s gone. He seems as hesitant for a relapse as I am. He wears many hats along the way: waiter, interpreter, negotiator, caregiver. He’s married to Niru, and I think that someday he’s going to make a great father.
Rogues! Ruffians! Scoundrels! 500 rupees ($5) for 30 minutes of Internet a hamster could outrun?! I hope you’re happy with yourselves. If I can post again tomorrow, I will. But if not, thank you for following me along the journey. Love y’all. Roll Tide!
Day 9, Part II: We woke up to a beautiful morning–perfect, actually. Coquettish little cotton candy clouds didn’t stop the sun from smiling down on us, especially since we’re so close to our goal!
The first half-hour was nearly straight up. It was easier to climb on all fours in some spots. But once we reached the crest of the ridge, it was a glorious, sprawling expanse of flat that greeted us. It’s moments like that that make you happy to be alive. I used to think it was a downhill stretch that was a heart-leaper, but now I know to dread those, because a decline is always a loan, never a gift. You’ll have to pay that back somewhere along the line.
Across these great stony moss plains, we came upon another set of monuments. But these looked somehow different from all the other Buddhist prayer mounds we’d encountered along the way. Upon closer inspection, we saw these were actually memorials, or TOMBSTONES, of failed alpinists who attempted Everest. Groups, singles, expeditions — “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,” isn’t that how the saying goes? It’s like showing Titanic on your Caribbean cruise. We continue undaunted.
I knew it would happen, and today it did; I passed a guy wearing a Bama baseball hat! I clapped him hard on the shoulder and hollered “Roll Tide!” I was wearing the Alabama baseball jersey and bracelet my niece gave me for Christmas and Mom’s UA scarf/hat combo. He didn’t get too excited. I guess the mountain caused his Crimson Tide to ebb a bit.
I don’t know if it’s the cold, the cuisine, or the altitude, but I’ve been having some crazy dreams lately. I dreamt I got that call while I was on the mountain: the one from Mr. Broadway. I also dreamt I was thrown into a Broadway show last-minute where I had to dress in drag and sing harmony with two other guys in dresses. They already knew the show but wouldn’t give me script or score, they just kept mincing and flailing around the dressing room, snapping fingers in the air and screeching “YAAAAAASSS!” “GEEEETT IIIIIIITTT!” “WEEEEEERRK!” and my personal favorite, “FIIIIIEEEEEEERCCCCCCE!”
I’ve been pondering these dreams along the trail today and I’ve come to a conclusion. Performing is my job. All of it –auditions, rehearsals, performances — a job. It’s a job I live for and love to do. But this, this trip, things like this I do? This is my life. This is what makes me better, badder, bigger, stronger — pushes me past my limits and forces me to dig and scrape and scrounge from the underside of my soul to get ‘er done. I live for the lights, the music, the laughter and applause. But my life is what’s happening when the curtain goes down. And I am loving how this fills the space when the house is empty.
Tomorrow: Everest Base Camp. It’s the day of the show, y’all!
Saturday, April 7. Day 10: We left Lobuche on another absolutely gorgeous day. We were bound for Gorakshep, a halfway stop on the way to Base Camp. It’s funny — the closer we get to Everest, it seem the grumpier the innkeepers become. You don’t have to be nice when you’re almost the only game in town. The name brands on their clothes are fancier — a direct reflection of the inflated prices of the fast food they’re serving trekkers. (There’s only so much garlic soup one can stomach before he’ll never worry about mosquitoes or vampires ever again.)
We spend two hours in Gorakshep resting, scarfing a Bounty and a Twix — I’m still feeling a little fragile after the stomach bug and hesitant to dive into a plate of local fare after recent events.
The constant change in terrain is amazing. Yesterday was moss- and lichen-covered plain. Today looks like a giant beach, except it’s not a vast sandiness but rather millions of fist-sized rocks covering the way. I feel like a beetle scurrying across a crumbling wintry landscape, trying to scuttle quickly and carefully over an ever-shifting shoreline.
To our right, the Khumbu Glacier is hiding just under a thin veil of soil, its boundaries thrusting out of the dirt in sky blue and cloud white insistence. Lakes of ice pool solidly and hoary fingers point and mock the folks pushing toward the mountain.
We’re caught in a sensational conflict — the clear sky we’re so grateful to see allows yesterday’s smiling sun to sneer as we bake in the warmth we so desperately wanted. But the wind at this altitude, with no protection of tree cover, causes us to hug our coats even closer, huddling toward that warm center that keeps getting eaten away by the cold, little by little, hour by hour.
As we near the mountain’s base, Raj warns me to watch my step, because as we near our final destination, we are on the glacier itself. What I thought to be a muddy patch reveals solid ice below when tested with a boot heel. That ratchets the careful quotient up a few levels.
I wish you could hear this place — the only sounds to mar the silence are the stones sliding down the mountain to our left and the muted thunder of the crack and shift of the glacier under our feet and covering the floor of the valley. Well, that and the footsteps of the intruders into this sanctuary. By this point, Raj is a little impatient with me as he can see our goal and I keep stopping to just listen.
I snap out of my reverie and return to task. The skyline is larger, grander than anything I’ve seen to this point in my life. It fills my sight, leaving the only space in my view to sky. We approach the entrance mound to Base Camp, stones piled high with autographs, dates, national flags. Atop this monument fly the Buddhist prayer flags, an amusing juxtaposition of local and foreign offering welcome to newcomers.
Down the hill we see tent villages for those dedicated — and wealthy — enough to risk ascent to the summit of this great lady. Out on the main body of the glacier we see alpinists honing their ice climbing skills with axes and crampons. I wish them the best as they train for their incredibly daring and dangerous mission. I’ve done what I came to do. Everest Base Camp has been accomplished. Time for Ed Bullard’s boy to find someplace warm to rest on that big ol’ bed of laurels.
Photo courtesy of James Bullard.
Tomorrow: The rapid and unexpected descent.
Sunday, April 8 into Monday, April 9. Day 11 into 12: The helicopter arrived at 6:28 a.m. It would’ve been there the day before, but wind in Lukla prevented take-off and landing. It seems that along this journey I picked up a couple of uninvited guests: a colony of bacteria and some amoebic parasites. What I thought to be an overdose of garlic soup and ginger tea — Raj’s cure- and prevent-all combo for trekking — was actually something a bit more serious. After two nights of frequent, urgent trips to the gentlemen’s, Raj intervened and called in the cavalry. Recessed (read “in-floor”) toilets are not your friends, America. They are NOT. They airlifted us back to Kathmandu to the Vayodha Hospital where I spent 30 hours convalescing with a couple other members of our group — one with pneumonia, one with oxygen deprivation. I think I got off pretty easy, to be honest.
They rehydrated me and pumped me full of enough antibiotic to kill whatever lodged itself in my intestines. It was a mildly embarrassing end to a fairly macho experience. But to fly over the Himalayas after spending the last week covering them on foot? Glorious. The hospital stay was great, as hospital stays go. They gave me some of the most comfortable pajamas ever (not ashamed to say I swiped the pants), but were pretty indelicate about putting me in them.
They put a port in the back of my right hand for fluids and antibiotics. Occasionally, one of the bevy of beautiful nurses would come over to check on the fuzzy, smelly American, throw some more drugs in the cocktail, giggle and return to the nurses’ station. Folks, I’m taken — “saled,” to be specific — but I’m here to tell you: a little flirt goes a long way. I will always prescribe to that doctrine. An hour later, I’m enjoying free wifi, charging all my devices and waiting for dinner in my private “deluxe” room. See? Flirting. And Raj.
A venerable old doctor, clearly the head resident, comes in with his posse of proteges to monitor my progress. He leads, they follow. He nods, they nod. You get the picture. It’s pretty funny, actually. He is very kind, but a palpable authority rolls off him in waves. He is the pinnacle of the pyramid and nobody doubts it. He tells me I’ll be spending the night, just to be safe. Turns out he was the doctor for the Royal Family of Nepal back when it was a monarchy! They still call him the Royal Doctor. I hope travel insurance is gonna cover all this fancy treatment.
I can’t access Facebook due to hospital network restrictions, but I send an email to Mom to let her know what’s happened. When she finds it at work, the room phone rings shortly after. I clamber out of bed to answer, dragging tubes and bedsheets as I fumble. The relief of hearing her voice! I reassure her I’m fine and chat for a minute to assuage fears in both hemispheres. That night I sleep like the dead and wake to a new shift of lovely nurses. Thank you, Nepal.
Dr. Pinnacle returns after two more units of morning antibiotic drip, doctoral ducklings in tow. One of the men is trying a little too hard — too much cologne, super-expensive suit and a really nice tie (though it’s tied a little short for his rounding middle). He’s dressing the part, but he’s gonna have to work on that half-Windsor.
Royal Doctor asks if I have somewhere to stay in town and I answer in the affirmative. Truth is, I can’t wait to get out of here and let everybody know I’m alive. Last I’ve posted, I’m at Everest…then nothing. I know Momma is climbing the walls. And I wanted to get the story out before anybody else started to worry.
So now I’m showered and soon-to-be laundered. I’m meeting Raj today to get my trekking pass from him for my souvenir and to thank him again for taking such good care of me. I’m still on antibiotics for the next couple of days, but I’m a well and free man…who kissed the foot of Everest.
Afterword: Upon returning to Kathmandu, I changed my flight and arrived a week earlier in Italy to be with Martina. I found the 11 pounds I lost on the mountain, and with her family’s cooking and every female member of the family up in arms every time there’s anything left on a plate, I’ve invited some of their friends to the portly party. I heard my Irish friend Brian didn’t make it to Base Camp, as a pretty serious bout of altitude sickness prevented completion. I hope he found his way to Delhi to study at the ashram, as days later, the Internet was abuzz with a mountain horror story.
The very next week, there was an avalanche on Everest, killing 13. I reached out as soon as I heard the news to check on the folks I met along the way to Base Camp. Luckily, no one in my group was anywhere near the tragedy. I consider myself and those who made the trip with me blessed and incredibly lucky to be out of the area, and my thoughts and prayers continue to go out to those affected by what the papers are calling “the single deadliest accident on Mt. Everest.”