The Longest Climb

We awoke with difficulty after extremely sound sleep but found that our limbs felt remarkably fresh after our pampering. Away before 7, and crossing the Kali Gandaki for the last time, we soon found ourselves at the meeting of this great river and one of its many tributaries. There our path turned to follow the sides of this narrower valley in a steep ascent towards the clouds hiding the hidden mass of the Annapurnas. For 300 vertical metres the path drew inexorably upwards and, with my water-healed legs in overdrive, I managed to clear the top of the ridge in one mighty effort. For the first time on the trek, I began to feel a natural rhythm developing and when I reached the top it only took me a minute to catch my breath, despite having left Suriya and Michael so far behind.
Waiting for them, I soon took in the ominous presence of some precisely lettered graffiti, standing out in bright red on a nearby rock, inviting me to feel welcome in ‘Maoist Country’. The view as this upper valley stretched away in front of me was far more inviting than the sign and I was pleased to note that the sky was nicely overcast with high, dry clouds that looked like keeping the sun at bay for a good few hours yet. We continued at a robust pace and soon found ourselves sitting down for a mid-morning snack at an eatery with pleasant views back over our route. It was shortly before 10am and – in a little less than 3 hours – according to Suriya, we had covered better than half the day’s distance…including the worst of the steep climbs. My legs felt sturdy and fresh and I was exhilarated by the physical effort and beauty of my surroundings – again, totally different to the previous day’s. Another tick in the plus column was that at this higher altitude the air was fresher and was beginning to dry my dripping t-shirt. We discovered a dumbbell fashioned from round stones and a length of iron and I was feeling sufficiently energetic to clown around and pull out a few curls and a creditable clean and jerk. Unfortunately our food took a very long time to come and by the time we’d finished an hour had been idled away while the day grew warmer. Setting off again, with an immediate and unforgiving climb up a steep slope, Michael found that a niggling Achille’s pain had returned and I found that my previously sprightly legs had turned, temporarily, to lead as my body diverted resources to my engaged digestive tract. Nevertheless, we worked through the pain and kept plodding up the hill, ever shortening the distance between us and our goal. Finally, with little more than half an hour to go, we had our inevitable run-in with the Maoists.
I must admit to being the chief protagonist in my subsequent downfall because it was my suspicious nature that refused to give credence to this ragtag bunch of would-be revolutionaries’ claims. Walking 100m or so ahead of Michael and Suriya, I flatly refused to give them any money until they gave me some sort of proof of ID. When this was not forthcoming, I made to move off and their spokesman (a man who looked to be in his late thirties, well-nourished and sporting a particularly luxurious ’tache) desperately enquired in broken English whether I had a guide. I replied in the affirmative and he politely suggested that I wait until Suriya caught up so that he could act as translator. As it had started to rain quite heavily and this section of path was quite exposed from the cover of the surrounding (beautiful) rhododendron forest, I refused and set off up the path at a good lick, ignoring their shouted remonstrations. I stopped once I’d rounded the first corner, out of sight, as I wanted to see how Michael and Suriya fared. When they eventually hove into view, I was disappointed to see that Walrus-face was tagging along, talking animatedly to an impassive Suriya.
For 15 minutes we stood, partly sheltered by a rhododendron while this (very polite) terrorist remonstrated with me through Suriya. In the end, I was persuaded by his ragged, well-thumbed collection of propaganda leaflets (including photos of smiling female recruits enjoying the well-known, fun group activity of polishing boots – communist propaganda if ever I saw it!). After this long battle to secure our ‘donations’, our friend barely batted an eyelid when we bartered him down from 1200 NRs to 500 NRs on the grounds that we were volunteer teachers, helping the needy people of Nepal. He probably had half a mind on his colleagues who would now be 20m minutes ahead of him in the steadily worsening rain. I gave him and ironic Namaste as we turned our backs on him and I saw a resigned look in those beaten eyes.
All of this had wasted precious time and it wasn’t long after, on the final steep approach to Ghorepani, that I started to notice warning signs that my snarling V8 of the last 5 hours was spluttering to a halt as the fuel gauge registered ‘Empty’. The final 10 minutes were an agony of blurred vision, laboured breathing, dizzy spells and the tired stumbling of rudderless legs. Collapsing on the bench at our guest house, I wolfed down two snickers, two bottles of coke and some water…but I’d left it too late and. 20 minutes later, when a steaming plate of fresh noodles came out, my traumatised and ill-treated body rejected what it needed most. Shamefully, after just 3 forkfuls, I had to push my plate away and staggered off to a beautiful hot shower and then into several layers of clothing and a sleeping bag to try and counter my body’s inability to warm itself. I passed out in a manner my mother knows only too well after the two-match rugby weekends of my ‘invincible’ adolescence. A few hours later I awoke sufficiently steadied to gulp down some salty chips and was later able to do justice to a good portion of Dal Bhat. With Poon Hill (stunning viewpoint for the Annapurnas) to attempt first thing, once again I was early to bed.