A Himalayan Trek Takes Power and Pills

by Erica Gehrke for thevancouverobserver.com

Morning and night I peeled my socks off and with them came pieces of skin, scabs, and a malodorous waft.

Surviving
another day, I hobbled along, walking stick in hand, heading for
Junbesi’s Health Post, the medical station touted as the largest health
facility in the Kumbhu region.

I
felt sorry for the young nurse who had to disinfect my feet. The doctor
prescribed five days bed rest and a combination of mild painkillers,
antibiotics and a topical disinfectant. After a day, I was back on the
trail, my boyfriend at my side, pressing toward the Himalaya peaks.

I decided to carry on at least to Lukla, a small town where an airport shuttles tourists from Kathmandu
to hammer up to Everest Base camp on their annual two-week holiday.
Once I arrived in Lukla I would determine whether or not I would head
onwards and upwards or get the hell out.

Who’s idea was this anyway?

That
boyfriend of mine, Larry, was always getting me into shit. Didn’t he
realize I wasn’t made for this kind of suffering, I thought, as I
nursed my wounded feet.

At the next health centre, I consulted another doctor about my feet. They were getting worse instead of better, I told her.

“You were not taking enough pain pills,” she said. “I recommend you take six of these a day.”

She prescribed a bottle of 15 mg tablets of Codeine.

“You must carry on," she told me. "Don’t let your blistered feet ruin this trip.”

What was it going to take to get me to the top of Mount Everest? I wondered as I thanked her and paid for the pills.

It was going to take a lot. To be specific, it was going to take an arsenal of medicine:
15mg Codeine, 1 bottle, to numb the pain
200mg Aspirin, 1 bottle for the inflammation
Band Aids, 2 packets
Antibacterial solution, 1 bottle
Moleskin
One bottle Mount Everest Whiskey

Lukla, the only village in Sagarmatha National Park
has a runway strip for an airplane. I couldn't help thinking about
getting on a plane, as we walked through the village. It was my last
chance to escape this adventure. But on I walked. The village, along
with any possibility of getting on an airplane, faded as the trail
opened up in front of me.

By now, with a little help from my
pharmaceutical friends, I was beginning to understand and even accept
the pain with every step. But at 9468 feet above sea level, I began to
imagine other forms of escape and to seriously consider them.

Stories
from other trekkers of the high altitude maladies they’d endured
stressed me out, despite the codeine I was now regularly taking.

People
talked of overwhelming nausea, sleeplessness, hallucinations, plunges
into psychotic behaviour and $20,000 USD helicopter rescues. But I
continued to walk.

The lush green farms with potatoes, corn,
wheat and soybean morphed into bare, shrubbery under the backdrop of
snow-capped mountains.

Barren moonscapes replaced the pink and
red rhododendron forests as we cut through thick cloud forests,
drinking tea and arrack with porters who carried our huge loads on
their backs.

We had little time to rest. We had to get to the
top, and then immediately go back down, where we had to head back to
India to catch a flight to Canada. Our flight was booked for less than
three weeks away.20 We had a lot of ground to cover and now that I'd
gotten this far, even with my feet deteriorating, I didn’t want to give
up.

I didn’t want my pain to affect my boyfriend’s experience,
but then how could it not? For days, I had been hurling mental darts
his way, cursing him for getting me into this mess in the first place.
My silent screams kept him walking well behind me on most days.

We
slept in teahouses, buildings really no more than a few pieces of wood
nailed together to protect us from the wind. The only heat that came in
was from the random goat that found its way into our room. The goat’s
plaintive cries woke me out of much needed sleep.

One foot in front of the other, hour after hour and day after day we arrived in Gorakshep, the land of the expired Tibetan crow.

Arrival
at Gorakshep was reminiscent of the après ski scene in Whistler. There
were spacious log cabins polka-dotted with huddles of mountain climbers
from around the world. They had pink-tipped noses and rosy cheeks
burning from the cold and dry Himalayan wind. Sitting around, we
swapped stories and jokes, while those who had already made it to the
top, toasted their successful ascents.

It was only a couple hundred meters to summit. Our destination was Kalapatthar, the Black Peak.
But the altitude forced us to slow down. There were times when I
couldn’t take more than 5 steps before gasping for air. So this is what
was meant by “thin air,” I realized, struggling with each breath.

Nausea
and sleeplessness crept in and acute mountain sickness began to take
hold of Larry. Four sleepless nights and respiratory complications,
especially at night, were making him grumpy and irritable.

We passed hundred of graves on the way up. They were shrines made of mantras chipped into the stone.

Along
the way, we heard someone had died of acute mountain sickness, from a
cerebral hemorrhage, but decided that it wasn't an omen.

Encompassed
by the Himalayas for days on end made me feel how miniscule I was in
the universe and, how, no matter what any human being might do, nature
will have its way.

The weather was clear and sunny the day we reached the summit of Kala Patthar. The good weather was a blessing. There was Mount Everest, framed by a sharp blue sky.

The air was so thin I felt ghostlike, as if the air was passing right through me.

At times, we couldn't take more than ten steps before having to stop for a rest on the shallow incline.

Turning around, I saw Larry toiling up the mountain, still a ways back. From where I sat, he looked tiny.

“Just keep going,” a voice seemed to whisper.

The last stretch was the longest. And suddenly, there I was.

Eleven hours later, I dropped my pack at the door of Tengbouche, a world-renown monastery.


A monk showed me into the Rinpoche’s meditation room. I asked the
revered old man questions about my life, even though I knew he couldn’t
understand a word that I said. Despite the fact that he only spoke
Tibetan, I was convinced he could read my thoughts. He shrugged as he
listened and when I’d finished pouring out my heart to him, he blessed
me.

The next morning a garage-band like sound of noise rocked
me out of bed. The monks were doing a good luck ritual for the
teahouse. They blew horns, threw rice, rang bells, and waved incense.
The ceremony went on for hours.

Afterwards a monk with a
lined face called me over. He stared at me for a long time. He shook
his head. He told me how lucky I was.

I told him I agreed.
  url="http://www.thevancouverobserver.com/cgi-bin/show_articles.cgi?TOPIC=0&ID=128&ISTART=undefined&NSHOW=undefined&S=undefined"]by Erica Gehrke

Morning and night I peeled my socks off and with them came pieces of skin, scabs, and a malodorous waft.

Surviving another day, I hobbled along, walking stick in hand, heading for Junbesi’s Health Post, the medical station touted as the largest health facility in the Kumbhu region.

I felt sorry for the young nurse who had to disinfect my feet. The doctor prescribed five days bed rest and a combination of mild painkillers, antibiotics and a topical disinfectant. After a day, I was back on the trail, my boyfriend at my side, pressing toward the Himalaya peaks.

I decided to carry on at least to Lukla, a small town where an airport shuttles tourists from Kathmandu to hammer up to Everest Base camp on their annual two-week holiday. Once I arrived in Lukla I would determine whether or not I would head onwards and upwards or get the hell out.

Who’s idea was this anyway?

That boyfriend of mine, Larry, was always getting me into shit. Didn’t he realize I wasn’t made for this kind of suffering, I thought, as I nursed my wounded feet.

At the next health centre, I consulted another doctor about my feet. They were getting worse instead of better, I told her.

“You were not taking enough pain pills,” she said. “I recommend you take six of these a day.”

She prescribed a bottle of 15 mg tablets of Codeine.

“You must carry on," she told me. "Don’t let your blistered feet ruin this trip.”

What was it going to take to get me to the top of Mount Everest? I wondered as I thanked her and paid for the pills.

It was going to take a lot. To be specific, it was going to take an arsenal of medicine:

15mg Codeine, 1 bottle, to numb the pain

200mg Aspirin, 1 bottle for the inflammation

Band Aids, 2 packets

Antibacterial solution, 1 bottle

Moleskin

One bottle Mount Everest Whiskey

Lukla, the only village in Sagarmatha National Park has a runway strip for an airplane. I couldn't help thinking about getting on a plane, as we walked through the village. It was my last chance to escape this adventure. But on I walked. The village, along with any possibility of getting on an airplane, faded as the trail opened up in front of me.

By now, with a little help from my pharmaceutical friends, I was beginning to understand and even accept the pain with every step. But at 9468 feet above sea level, I began to imagine other forms of escape and to seriously consider them.

Stories from other trekkers of the high altitude maladies they’d endured stressed me out, despite the codeine I was now regularly taking.

People talked of overwhelming nausea, sleeplessness, hallucinations, plunges into psychotic behaviour and $20,000 USD helicopter rescues. But I continued to walk.

The lush green farms with potatoes, corn, wheat and soybean morphed into bare, shrubbery under the backdrop of snow-capped mountains.

Barren moonscapes replaced the pink and red rhododendron forests as we cut through thick cloud forests, drinking tea and arrack with porters who carried our huge loads on their backs.

We had little time to rest. We had to get to the top, and then immediately go back down, where we had to head back to India to catch a flight to Canada. Our flight was booked for less than three weeks away.20 We had a lot of ground to cover and now that I'd gotten this far, even with my feet deteriorating, I didn’t want to give up.

I didn’t want my pain to affect my boyfriend’s experience, but then how could it not? For days, I had been hurling mental darts his way, cursing him for getting me into this mess in the first place. My silent screams kept him walking well behind me on most days.

We slept in teahouses, buildings really no more than a few pieces of wood nailed together to protect us from the wind. The only heat that came in was from the random goat that found its way into our room. The goat’s plaintive cries woke me out of much needed sleep.

One foot in front of the other, hour after hour and day after day we arrived in Gorakshep, the land of the expired Tibetan crow.

Arrival at Gorakshep was reminiscent of the après ski scene in Whistler. There were spacious log cabins polka-dotted with huddles of mountain climbers from around the world. They had pink-tipped noses and rosy cheeks burning from the cold and dry Himalayan wind. Sitting around, we swapped stories and jokes, while those who had already made it to the top, toasted their successful ascents.

It was only a couple hundred meters to summit. Our destination was Kalapatthar, the Black Peak. But the altitude forced us to slow down. There were times when I couldn’t take more than 5 steps before gasping for air. So this is what was meant by “thin air,” I realized, struggling with each breath.

Nausea and sleeplessness crept in and acute mountain sickness began to take hold of Larry. Four sleepless nights and respiratory complications, especially at night, were making him grumpy and irritable.

We passed hundred of graves on the way up. They were shrines made of mantras chipped into the stone.

Along the way, we heard someone had died of acute mountain sickness, from a cerebral hemorrhage, but decided that it wasn't an omen.

Encompassed by the Himalayas for days on end made me feel how miniscule I was in the universe and, how, no matter what any human being might do, nature will have its way.

The weather was clear and sunny the day we reached the summit of Kala Patthar. The good weather was a blessing. There was Mount Everest, framed by a sharp blue sky.

The air was so thin I felt ghostlike, as if the air was passing right through me.

At times, we couldn't take more than ten steps before having to stop for a rest on the shallow incline.

Turning around, I saw Larry toiling up the mountain, still a ways back. From where I sat, he looked tiny.

“Just keep going,” a voice seemed to whisper.

The last stretch was the longest. And suddenly, there I was.

Eleven hours later, I dropped my pack at the door of Tengbouche, a world-renown monastery.

A monk showed me into the Rinpoche’s meditation room. I asked the revered old man questions about my life, even though I knew he couldn’t understand a word that I said. Despite the fact that he only spoke Tibetan, I was convinced he could read my thoughts. He shrugged as he listened and when I’d finished pouring out my heart to him, he blessed me.

The next morning a garage-band like sound of noise rocked me out of bed. The monks were doing a good luck ritual for the teahouse. They blew horns, threw rice, rang bells, and waved incense. The ceremony went on for hours.

Afterwards a monk with a lined face called me over. He stared at me for a long time. He shook his head. He told me how lucky I was.

I told him I agreed.

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