Spooky Denis
April 09, 2005
The Dutch
When Michael’s alarm went off at 5am I was too comatose to notice and it was only as he was rustling through his pack for extra layers that I groggily peeled back a lid onto the grey, pre-dawn light that was struggling past the tracing-paper curtains. I cricked my neck to look out at the sky and was greeted by the slenderest crack of growing brightness between the tops of some of the lower hills and a dark, damp mass of thick cloud. I felt disappointment and relief in equal measure as I realised we were to be denied the sight of the full Annapurna Himal bathed in sunrise…and saved the laborious exercise of scrambling to the summit of Poon Hill in the twilight. I gave it not another thought and fell guiltlessly back into a deep sleep for another 2 sweet hours.
After breakfast in front of a lovely warm stove I was just about fit and ready for the trek to Tadapani. I was still feeling a little weak after stupidly over-exerting myself the previous day and was certainly in no hurry to make the same mistake twice…from now on I intended to take a steadier, slower pace and to make more frequent rest-stops. However, I did want to escape from this higher altitude owing to a bit of a headache and therefore, as the path sloped cruelly upwards into intermittent flurries of snow, I was loath to take a break until the trail had started back downhill again. After my experiences at Muktinath, I knew the best way to ease the pain would be to descend a couple of hundred metres – the sooner the better! Eventually the trail broke down off the hill and dropped back into the thick rhododendron forests of the previous day and then into a damp, fertile valley where we found a warm, welcoming teahouse to reward our efforts after the first snow of the trek. Mindful of my failing energy the previous day, I gobbled down a packet of coconut cookies with my hot lemon in order to keep the fires burning nicely. Leaving the teahouse, we traversed along this high, narrow valley before heading steeply down once again – this time, into a pleasing, picturesque river gorge. The river had cloven a deep and extremely steep cleft from towering sandstone cliffs and all around the air was alive with the sounds of birdsong and running water. Sunlight found its way between the tangled branches of gnarly old trees, dappling the ground and canyon walls and making every turn of the head a cascading kaleidoscope of visual pleasure. All too soon, the narrow stream bed flattened out into the full light of the sun and we arrived at our designated lunchspot.
The teahouse was run by a pair of friendly ladies and their food was excellent. To add to the pleasure we were joined by two Dutch and a Belgian who had stayed at the same teahouse as us in Kagbeni. Loes, Sylvie and Denis were affable, friendly and good fun and we had plenty of time to laugh and joke about our different nationalities’ stereotypical shortcomings before it was time for us to head along the final stretch to Tadapani. Interestingly, Loes was from Eindhoven – the same Dutch town that my mother’s family hails from – and we soon made plans to meet up to help them celebrate Queen’s Day at the Dutch Consulate in Kathmandu at the end of the month.
Michael, Suriya and I left them to finish their lunch and set off into the last valley between us and Tadapani – 15 mins of steep descent, followed by ½ hour of heavy climb brought us to our destination. Perched on the saddle between two valleys, overlooking a further four, Tadapani has highly-regarded aspects towards the Annapurnas range. As we crested the rise we had views, partially obscured by cloud, of Annapurna South, Himchiuli and Machapucharre and it seemed like we’d just have to wait for the clouds to break to get some much-coveted photos. Of course, waiting for the clouds to break can be a lengthy business in this neck of the woods and, not long after depositing our packs in a particularly gelid bedchamber, Michael and I found ourselves witnessing the power of a Himalayan squall. Even at this height (only 2620m) sudden gusting winds picked up heavy wooden outdoor furniture from the patio and deposited it scornfully down the hill into a vegetable patch. Within seconds even the neighbouring foothills were lost in a swirling mist and the mountains themselves were enveloped in dense, dark clouds, which began to unleash a surprisingly heavy rain. We stood on the balcony watching the effects of Nature’s power with awed expressions, hoping to see the Dutch come over the pass before conditions got any worse. After a few minutes, slightly bedraggled but in remarkably good cheer, our new friends struggled over the windswept ridge and tumbled into a room next door to us.
We had an entertaining evening in the dining room with them, their guide Dumbar and Suriya as the banter and the hot tea flowed and we warmed ourselves around an ingenious heated table. At one point the clouds cleared sufficiently for us to fire off a few shots of Machapucharre’s beautiful profile. Chief amusement for me was watching the Dutch (Sylvie had become and honorary Dutch person as she was a Flemish Belgian and the two languages are practically identical anyway) and Michael go off, one by one, for ‘hot’ showers – only to come back shivering and cursing the lack of heat in the Nepali definition of hot. I cunningly bided my time, waiting for the stove-heated water system to get up to a decent temperature and then smugly enjoyed perhaps the warmest and most-satisfying shower of the entire trek…of course, I made a point of sharing this fact with everyone else ;-).
The Dutch introduced us to the novel entertainment of entertainment of ‘Evaluation’, when each member of the trekking group finds positive and negative things to say about each of the other members. This was a great team-builder and highly amusing – particularly when oiled by a little of the local Raksi. Despite all the fun and shenanigans we all still got to bed by 9pm – the Dutch because they were heading up to Annapurna Base Camp (meaning another 8 days on the trail before arriving back in Pokhara, necessitating an early arrival at the next day’s destination in order to get their laundry done); Michael and I to continue reading gripping books (I’d given him ‘Into the Wild’ and I was midway through Joe Simpson’s ‘Touching the Void’). He and I had the prospect of an easy day to come – the penultimate day before returning to Pokhara.
After breakfast in front of a lovely warm stove I was just about fit and ready for the trek to Tadapani. I was still feeling a little weak after stupidly over-exerting myself the previous day and was certainly in no hurry to make the same mistake twice…from now on I intended to take a steadier, slower pace and to make more frequent rest-stops. However, I did want to escape from this higher altitude owing to a bit of a headache and therefore, as the path sloped cruelly upwards into intermittent flurries of snow, I was loath to take a break until the trail had started back downhill again. After my experiences at Muktinath, I knew the best way to ease the pain would be to descend a couple of hundred metres – the sooner the better! Eventually the trail broke down off the hill and dropped back into the thick rhododendron forests of the previous day and then into a damp, fertile valley where we found a warm, welcoming teahouse to reward our efforts after the first snow of the trek. Mindful of my failing energy the previous day, I gobbled down a packet of coconut cookies with my hot lemon in order to keep the fires burning nicely. Leaving the teahouse, we traversed along this high, narrow valley before heading steeply down once again – this time, into a pleasing, picturesque river gorge. The river had cloven a deep and extremely steep cleft from towering sandstone cliffs and all around the air was alive with the sounds of birdsong and running water. Sunlight found its way between the tangled branches of gnarly old trees, dappling the ground and canyon walls and making every turn of the head a cascading kaleidoscope of visual pleasure. All too soon, the narrow stream bed flattened out into the full light of the sun and we arrived at our designated lunchspot.
The teahouse was run by a pair of friendly ladies and their food was excellent. To add to the pleasure we were joined by two Dutch and a Belgian who had stayed at the same teahouse as us in Kagbeni. Loes, Sylvie and Denis were affable, friendly and good fun and we had plenty of time to laugh and joke about our different nationalities’ stereotypical shortcomings before it was time for us to head along the final stretch to Tadapani. Interestingly, Loes was from Eindhoven – the same Dutch town that my mother’s family hails from – and we soon made plans to meet up to help them celebrate Queen’s Day at the Dutch Consulate in Kathmandu at the end of the month.
Michael, Suriya and I left them to finish their lunch and set off into the last valley between us and Tadapani – 15 mins of steep descent, followed by ½ hour of heavy climb brought us to our destination. Perched on the saddle between two valleys, overlooking a further four, Tadapani has highly-regarded aspects towards the Annapurnas range. As we crested the rise we had views, partially obscured by cloud, of Annapurna South, Himchiuli and Machapucharre and it seemed like we’d just have to wait for the clouds to break to get some much-coveted photos. Of course, waiting for the clouds to break can be a lengthy business in this neck of the woods and, not long after depositing our packs in a particularly gelid bedchamber, Michael and I found ourselves witnessing the power of a Himalayan squall. Even at this height (only 2620m) sudden gusting winds picked up heavy wooden outdoor furniture from the patio and deposited it scornfully down the hill into a vegetable patch. Within seconds even the neighbouring foothills were lost in a swirling mist and the mountains themselves were enveloped in dense, dark clouds, which began to unleash a surprisingly heavy rain. We stood on the balcony watching the effects of Nature’s power with awed expressions, hoping to see the Dutch come over the pass before conditions got any worse. After a few minutes, slightly bedraggled but in remarkably good cheer, our new friends struggled over the windswept ridge and tumbled into a room next door to us.
We had an entertaining evening in the dining room with them, their guide Dumbar and Suriya as the banter and the hot tea flowed and we warmed ourselves around an ingenious heated table. At one point the clouds cleared sufficiently for us to fire off a few shots of Machapucharre’s beautiful profile. Chief amusement for me was watching the Dutch (Sylvie had become and honorary Dutch person as she was a Flemish Belgian and the two languages are practically identical anyway) and Michael go off, one by one, for ‘hot’ showers – only to come back shivering and cursing the lack of heat in the Nepali definition of hot. I cunningly bided my time, waiting for the stove-heated water system to get up to a decent temperature and then smugly enjoyed perhaps the warmest and most-satisfying shower of the entire trek…of course, I made a point of sharing this fact with everyone else ;-).
The Dutch introduced us to the novel entertainment of entertainment of ‘Evaluation’, when each member of the trekking group finds positive and negative things to say about each of the other members. This was a great team-builder and highly amusing – particularly when oiled by a little of the local Raksi. Despite all the fun and shenanigans we all still got to bed by 9pm – the Dutch because they were heading up to Annapurna Base Camp (meaning another 8 days on the trail before arriving back in Pokhara, necessitating an early arrival at the next day’s destination in order to get their laundry done); Michael and I to continue reading gripping books (I’d given him ‘Into the Wild’ and I was midway through Joe Simpson’s ‘Touching the Void’). He and I had the prospect of an easy day to come – the penultimate day before returning to Pokhara.
April 08, 2005
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.
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.
April 07, 2005
A Day at the Spa
This turned out to be our toughest day so far - mainly due to the almost continual descent and sticky lowland warmth. Occasionally we’d climb out of the valley to skirt rocky protrusions into the ever-narrowing Gandaki gorge and this would provide some light relief for our legs, whilst breaking us out into a heavy sweat. The climate was beginning to assume an almost stifling quality as the warm air was laden down with heavy moisture, struggling to escape from the valley bottom and this did me no favours at all. With so much humidity in the air my perspiration was unable to evaporate and produce the necessary cooling effect and as I walked I could feel my core temperature rising continually. The only light relief of the morning came as we descended into a valley in which we found ourselves surrounded by a sweet, heady perfume, which seemed to be emanating from the surrounding flora. On closer inspection we discovered, much to our amusement, that the forest floor was completely carpeted by young marijuana plants. There didn’t appear to be any signs of ordered cultivation and when we asked Suriya, he confirmed that it simply grew wild…although, of course, the locals weren’t averse to harvesting it when it matured in July/August. Fascinated by the sight and unwilling to leave behind that rich, pleasant smell, Michael and I spent a few minutes gathering photographic evidence of our find before we continued on our way.
We later crawled into Tatopani (meaning Hot Water), too exhausted to notice the rich profusion of colours and accompanying sounds of a tropical climate. In full recuperation mode, I sank two bottles of flat coke and a litre of water before savagely attacking a pizza and a bowl of delicious home-made pasta. Much fortified, I was then capable of undertaking the steps up to our room and taking a blissful hot shower to remove the salt rime and adherent grime of my day’s travails. I then laid on my bed in the cool shade, reading Jon Krakauer’s ‘Into the Wild’ (truly inspirational and just as good a read as ‘Into Thin Air’) and listening to that uniquely tropical soundtrack of chirruping insects, calling birds and trickling water.
Eventually, with the heat of day all but gone, it was time to pay a visit to the natural springs that give this lively oasis its name…and we were not disappointed. The intial pain of easing sunburnt calves into the piping hot water was soon replaced by the sublime relief of this same water caressing away the aches and pains of our shot knees and trembling quads. A little later, used to the heat of the water, I was able to slip my pack-weary shoulders under and allow the hot springs to work their magic on these too. An hour later – like new men – we sprang jauntily back up the hill to our guesthouse to enjoy a warm evening before sitting down to dinner. Sitting on the lawn with stunning views up to Dhauligiri I became fascinated by the hunting skills of bats, who seemed to have taken a particular interest in the air above my head. When I then spied not one, but two toads appearing to enjoy a field day at the top of the steps near my feet, I decided to investigate. I found that there was an ants nest swarming from a hole in the ground and spent a fascinated ¼ hour watching the toads gobble and the bats swoop and dive as this temporary, flying buffet eventually dispersed. Leaving the toads and bats behind (sounds like a scene from Macbeth!), I descended down to the restaurant to enjoy my own, slightly more mundane, meal.
Suriya had informed us that the climb to Ghorepani would take approximately 7 hours the following day. We would be ascending from 1200m to 2800m in one, continuous stretch and, accordingly, I tried my best to emulate the eating feats of Kagbeni and Jharkot – but with only limited success. We went to bed early because I was keen to try and break the back of the climb in the cooler morning air and prevent a repeat performance of my exhaustion on arriving in Tatopani.
We later crawled into Tatopani (meaning Hot Water), too exhausted to notice the rich profusion of colours and accompanying sounds of a tropical climate. In full recuperation mode, I sank two bottles of flat coke and a litre of water before savagely attacking a pizza and a bowl of delicious home-made pasta. Much fortified, I was then capable of undertaking the steps up to our room and taking a blissful hot shower to remove the salt rime and adherent grime of my day’s travails. I then laid on my bed in the cool shade, reading Jon Krakauer’s ‘Into the Wild’ (truly inspirational and just as good a read as ‘Into Thin Air’) and listening to that uniquely tropical soundtrack of chirruping insects, calling birds and trickling water.
Eventually, with the heat of day all but gone, it was time to pay a visit to the natural springs that give this lively oasis its name…and we were not disappointed. The intial pain of easing sunburnt calves into the piping hot water was soon replaced by the sublime relief of this same water caressing away the aches and pains of our shot knees and trembling quads. A little later, used to the heat of the water, I was able to slip my pack-weary shoulders under and allow the hot springs to work their magic on these too. An hour later – like new men – we sprang jauntily back up the hill to our guesthouse to enjoy a warm evening before sitting down to dinner. Sitting on the lawn with stunning views up to Dhauligiri I became fascinated by the hunting skills of bats, who seemed to have taken a particular interest in the air above my head. When I then spied not one, but two toads appearing to enjoy a field day at the top of the steps near my feet, I decided to investigate. I found that there was an ants nest swarming from a hole in the ground and spent a fascinated ¼ hour watching the toads gobble and the bats swoop and dive as this temporary, flying buffet eventually dispersed. Leaving the toads and bats behind (sounds like a scene from Macbeth!), I descended down to the restaurant to enjoy my own, slightly more mundane, meal.
Suriya had informed us that the climb to Ghorepani would take approximately 7 hours the following day. We would be ascending from 1200m to 2800m in one, continuous stretch and, accordingly, I tried my best to emulate the eating feats of Kagbeni and Jharkot – but with only limited success. We went to bed early because I was keen to try and break the back of the climb in the cooler morning air and prevent a repeat performance of my exhaustion on arriving in Tatopani.
April 06, 2005
Changing worlds
The bad news when we awoke was that Don was in absolutely no state to be walking anywhere other than the toilet. It seemed that the antibiotics were working but that his guts were still in spasm. It sounded familiar to me after my own experience but the last thing to do was to bung up the leak if there was still an infection inside so I advised him to finish the course of antibiotics before taking any Immodium. Of course, all of this left me with a very difficult decision to make: did I cut short my trek to stay with Don…or did I leave him behind to recover and continue as planned? In the end, I decided to leave him for three reasons.
Firstly, there was nothing more I could do for him in terms of making him feel well. Secondly, as my best friend and brother, he and I have a lot in common and I was acutely aware of the appalling kind of patient I make. Frustrated at the failings of my mortal body, I become petulant and unpleasant – particularly towards those who are looking after me. I certainly didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Don’s chagrin at his illness. Finally, knowing how much my brother loves me, I knew that once he’d recovered sufficiently, he’d begin to feel guilty about my quitting the trek on his behalf and I saw no reason to make him feel any worse.
I suppose, if I’m honest, there was a fourth (more selfish) reason: that I wanted to complete the trek and see all the sights that the remainder of the trail had to offer. However, it was with no small amount of regret that I left Don, looking washed out and weak, very much hoping to see him recovered at a happy reunion in Pokhara. After our departure he would be able to rest up in Jomsom until he was able to catch a flight back to the lakeside to complete his convalescence in more genteel surroundings. What I’d seen of Pokhara so far seemed to indicate that it would make the perfect place to recover – the sort of location you could imagine 19th Century physicians sending TB patients to ‘take the airs’. As Suriya, Michael and I trudged down the valley away from Jomsom I felt the loss of my brother keenly – all the more so for having been reunited so recently. I consoled myself with the thought that a fit, healthy Don would be much more of a pleasure to regain in six days time.
The rest of our day was marked by gradual changes in altitude and the surrounding countryside until we appeared to have travelled into a different world. We dropped from the high desert of the Upper Mustang, through wooded alpine slopes and finally into the lush, green valley of our evening destination, Ghasa. It was an extremely long and tiring day and, looking at the map later on, Michael and I weren’t surprised to discover that we’d covered the equivalent of 2½ days trekking in one arduous effort. The river went from a distant, meandering ribbon winding across the bottom of a wide valley to a raging, foaming torrent, tumbling through narrow channels strewn with house-size boulders and down constricted gorges, spanned by metal suspension bridges. At one point, with Dhauligiri behind and the brooding mass of the Annapurna Himal ahead, I turned to Michael and asked him how it felt to be crossing the deepest gorge in the world on a particularly slender and unsteady bridge. Between Dhauligiri (8176metres) and Annapurna (8091metres), the Kali Gandaki flows at an altitude of less than 1500m – the resulting 6500m difference in height often being quoted as the world’s deepest river gorge.
With my mind very much on the altitude question I happened to notice that my mammoth appetite of the preceding two days had dwindled to more human proportions…and I wondered if, like a yak, my body was perhaps better designed for higher altitudes. Certainly, after my initial difficulties acclimatizing due to the sudden change in altitude (caused by flying from Pokhara at 800m to Jomsom at 2700m), I had adapted pretty well. I knew this tentative hypothesis would be well and truly tested during the course of my Everest trek (max. altitude 5545m) two weeks hence. In the meantime, I suppose my wallet was just happy to be at a lower altitude.
The lower we descended the higher the temperature rose and, to add insult to injury, the cooling, drying breeze that had accompanied us since arriving in Jomsom dropped to an insignificant whimper as we came through dark, verdant forests, hugging the lower reaches of the mountains. Colour that had been so absent in the dry Mustang now returned with wild abandon – fields of green wheat and blossoming trees took the place of dull scrub and dusty groundcover plants. Eventually, like a sponge, this greenery attracted water and, as we stumbled down the last weary steps into Ghasa, we were welcomed by a warm steady rain that reminded us we had left the desert.
Firstly, there was nothing more I could do for him in terms of making him feel well. Secondly, as my best friend and brother, he and I have a lot in common and I was acutely aware of the appalling kind of patient I make. Frustrated at the failings of my mortal body, I become petulant and unpleasant – particularly towards those who are looking after me. I certainly didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Don’s chagrin at his illness. Finally, knowing how much my brother loves me, I knew that once he’d recovered sufficiently, he’d begin to feel guilty about my quitting the trek on his behalf and I saw no reason to make him feel any worse.
I suppose, if I’m honest, there was a fourth (more selfish) reason: that I wanted to complete the trek and see all the sights that the remainder of the trail had to offer. However, it was with no small amount of regret that I left Don, looking washed out and weak, very much hoping to see him recovered at a happy reunion in Pokhara. After our departure he would be able to rest up in Jomsom until he was able to catch a flight back to the lakeside to complete his convalescence in more genteel surroundings. What I’d seen of Pokhara so far seemed to indicate that it would make the perfect place to recover – the sort of location you could imagine 19th Century physicians sending TB patients to ‘take the airs’. As Suriya, Michael and I trudged down the valley away from Jomsom I felt the loss of my brother keenly – all the more so for having been reunited so recently. I consoled myself with the thought that a fit, healthy Don would be much more of a pleasure to regain in six days time.
The rest of our day was marked by gradual changes in altitude and the surrounding countryside until we appeared to have travelled into a different world. We dropped from the high desert of the Upper Mustang, through wooded alpine slopes and finally into the lush, green valley of our evening destination, Ghasa. It was an extremely long and tiring day and, looking at the map later on, Michael and I weren’t surprised to discover that we’d covered the equivalent of 2½ days trekking in one arduous effort. The river went from a distant, meandering ribbon winding across the bottom of a wide valley to a raging, foaming torrent, tumbling through narrow channels strewn with house-size boulders and down constricted gorges, spanned by metal suspension bridges. At one point, with Dhauligiri behind and the brooding mass of the Annapurna Himal ahead, I turned to Michael and asked him how it felt to be crossing the deepest gorge in the world on a particularly slender and unsteady bridge. Between Dhauligiri (8176metres) and Annapurna (8091metres), the Kali Gandaki flows at an altitude of less than 1500m – the resulting 6500m difference in height often being quoted as the world’s deepest river gorge.
With my mind very much on the altitude question I happened to notice that my mammoth appetite of the preceding two days had dwindled to more human proportions…and I wondered if, like a yak, my body was perhaps better designed for higher altitudes. Certainly, after my initial difficulties acclimatizing due to the sudden change in altitude (caused by flying from Pokhara at 800m to Jomsom at 2700m), I had adapted pretty well. I knew this tentative hypothesis would be well and truly tested during the course of my Everest trek (max. altitude 5545m) two weeks hence. In the meantime, I suppose my wallet was just happy to be at a lower altitude.
The lower we descended the higher the temperature rose and, to add insult to injury, the cooling, drying breeze that had accompanied us since arriving in Jomsom dropped to an insignificant whimper as we came through dark, verdant forests, hugging the lower reaches of the mountains. Colour that had been so absent in the dry Mustang now returned with wild abandon – fields of green wheat and blossoming trees took the place of dull scrub and dusty groundcover plants. Eventually, like a sponge, this greenery attracted water and, as we stumbled down the last weary steps into Ghasa, we were welcomed by a warm steady rain that reminded us we had left the desert.
April 05, 2005
Disaster strikes!
Our lodgings were considerably colder at 3500m but both Don and I had taken the precaution of wearing an extra layer inside our sleeping bags. Combined with the knackering climb and a degree of acclimatization, we both slept extremely soundly. Michael – ever the first to feel the cold – was, unfortunately, only wearing a t-shirt and spent the best part of the night awake and feeling the chill. Still, we all surfaced for breakfast at 6.30 and got underway by 7.15.
I had chosen to wear only shorts and t-shirt to start, trusting breakfast and the weight of my pack to bring me up to running temperature in the cold morning air. Of course, I had to blast down the early trail until I hit the sunlight burgeoning from behind Thorung La but, gratifyingly, just as I began to feel comfortable and the right side of warm, I witnessed my companions having to strip off several layers to stay cool. This return trek down the hill was tough on the legs and, having seen our surroundings well during a slow ascent, there was less to excite us. The scenery was still breathtaking and unique but we were robbed of the pleasure of surprise and it didn’t take long for our attentions to focus on the trembling in our knees and the aching of our thighs. Don seemed to be struggling more than I’d expected, despite taking a precautionary Diamox with his breakfast. I just assumed it was the tale of a lot of weight going through rugby-ravaged knees and didn’t foresee that it might be something more sinister but, as we wended our way down the edge of the broad river valley, he seemed to lag further and further behind. I really wanted to push myself whilst still at altitude (in preparation for the Everest Base Camp trek) so I often forged ahead to try and shorten the gap between breakfast and lunch but my rhythm was constantly being broken by the urge to fall back and shoot the breeze with my brother and to try to bolster his ailing spirits.
We stopped finally in Jomsom for lunch and it was here that Don let us in on a grim secret. His guts had been troubling him all morning and it seemed he was in the grip of a particularly nasty bout of diarrhoea. Firstly, we made the decision to overnight in Jomsom instead of pushing on to Marpha as intended. This would give Don 18 hours to assess his situation before deciding on a course of action. Secondly, I ran back up the road to the pharmacy I’d spotted on the way through, in order to purchase a pack of the magic Metronidazole that had straightened out my bout of the squits. Returning with the goods, I left him in an en-suite stocked with juice, dioralyte (kindly donated by Michael) and water, hoping that the anti-biotics would work quickly, allowing him to resume with us the following day. We were on a particularly tight schedule getting back to Pokhara as our return flight was on the 12th…and we couldn’t afford to miss it on account of Don’s return flight to Blighty, two days later. Add to this the complications caused by the Maoist strike (adding a day to our walk, due to a lack of buses and taxis) and we really had no time to be waiting around for illnesses to clear up.
Michael and I shared a separate room (leaving Don and his bowels in privacy) and both fell asleep reading during the afternoon. Dinner was another hearty affair consisting of four courses and lashings of hot lemon. We played cards with Suriya and met a group of other trekkers who were fun to chat to but by 9.30 I was pooped and headed off to get my head down after ensuring that Don had his second dose of medicine.
I had chosen to wear only shorts and t-shirt to start, trusting breakfast and the weight of my pack to bring me up to running temperature in the cold morning air. Of course, I had to blast down the early trail until I hit the sunlight burgeoning from behind Thorung La but, gratifyingly, just as I began to feel comfortable and the right side of warm, I witnessed my companions having to strip off several layers to stay cool. This return trek down the hill was tough on the legs and, having seen our surroundings well during a slow ascent, there was less to excite us. The scenery was still breathtaking and unique but we were robbed of the pleasure of surprise and it didn’t take long for our attentions to focus on the trembling in our knees and the aching of our thighs. Don seemed to be struggling more than I’d expected, despite taking a precautionary Diamox with his breakfast. I just assumed it was the tale of a lot of weight going through rugby-ravaged knees and didn’t foresee that it might be something more sinister but, as we wended our way down the edge of the broad river valley, he seemed to lag further and further behind. I really wanted to push myself whilst still at altitude (in preparation for the Everest Base Camp trek) so I often forged ahead to try and shorten the gap between breakfast and lunch but my rhythm was constantly being broken by the urge to fall back and shoot the breeze with my brother and to try to bolster his ailing spirits.
We stopped finally in Jomsom for lunch and it was here that Don let us in on a grim secret. His guts had been troubling him all morning and it seemed he was in the grip of a particularly nasty bout of diarrhoea. Firstly, we made the decision to overnight in Jomsom instead of pushing on to Marpha as intended. This would give Don 18 hours to assess his situation before deciding on a course of action. Secondly, I ran back up the road to the pharmacy I’d spotted on the way through, in order to purchase a pack of the magic Metronidazole that had straightened out my bout of the squits. Returning with the goods, I left him in an en-suite stocked with juice, dioralyte (kindly donated by Michael) and water, hoping that the anti-biotics would work quickly, allowing him to resume with us the following day. We were on a particularly tight schedule getting back to Pokhara as our return flight was on the 12th…and we couldn’t afford to miss it on account of Don’s return flight to Blighty, two days later. Add to this the complications caused by the Maoist strike (adding a day to our walk, due to a lack of buses and taxis) and we really had no time to be waiting around for illnesses to clear up.
Michael and I shared a separate room (leaving Don and his bowels in privacy) and both fell asleep reading during the afternoon. Dinner was another hearty affair consisting of four courses and lashings of hot lemon. We played cards with Suriya and met a group of other trekkers who were fun to chat to but by 9.30 I was pooped and headed off to get my head down after ensuring that Don had his second dose of medicine.
April 04, 2005
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