Adjusting to the Khumbu
Mon, May 17, 1999 —South Side Base Camp

Once again we find ourselves anxiously awaiting news from the team as they navigate into the upper amphitheater of the Western Cwm. Some of you may even wish to be there with them, climbing amongst the hanging azure seracs while the cadence of crampons on ice rings in your ears.

I'll admit there is an inherent mystique to mountaineering. This is the excitement we wish to share with all of you. Not all days, however, are sunny upon summit. Any of you mountaineers out there know that no glory comes without a little groveling. So for the uninitiated neophyte or the armchair mountaineer, here's a review of the not so glamorous underbelly of this strange practice I'll call 'Himalayan Expedeering.'

					"The hunger pangs will come, and in time you will have to play that enterogastric gamble, rolling those dice, hoping to God that you don't, well... shoot craps..."

But before you burst open those airport doors and run into this brave new world with outstretched arms, you've got official business to do. Ah yes, time to queue up for the suspicious smirk of the immigrations and customs officer. It's not that they are any worse than their uniformed counterparts in the states. No, I'm afraid we're at fault here. Think about it. If someone showed up in front of you with a jet-lagged face, bloodshot eyes, toting a thousand kilos of Base Camp duffels, wouldn't you be curious?

So consider yourself lucky mate if you slip through those doors with anything short of a strip-search; but don't drop your guard just yet, for out there within the Kathmandu valley stews a virulent flora of bacteria just waiting to violate your sweet entrails. There's no escaping it. The hunger pangs will come, and in time you will have to play that enterogastric gamble, rolling those dice, hoping to God that you don't, well . . . shoot craps.

Soon the smoke and smell of the lowlands will have you racing to the hills. That is if you can catch a flight to get there. I've been told a bottle of duty-free whisky bought right there in the airport can aid in this endeavor, but be weary in your choice of pilot. One of our boys caught his skipper reading the flight instruction manual before takeoff. Instilling confidence, I think not.

If your patience persists, however, you will eventually find yourself in the majestic shadow of the Grand Himalaya. To get a closer look, I'm afraid, requires a little work and at times some displeasure. If you hike during the monsoon, well you've got rain and leeches. Need I say more? Dust permeates the air during the dry season, and as you cough on those inhaled bits you can't help but think to yourself, 'could some of this be dried yak dung dust?'

Speaking of dung, the trailside toilets are less than pleasant. I don't intend to criticize the Nepalis' lack of plumbing. That I don't mind. It is my fellow trekkers' apparent lack of aim that is more appalling. Some just can't seem to line up their derrières over a hole.

The list of 'not-so-pleasants' goes on and on. Out of respect for your patience, I haven't even tried to discuss the climbing scene. There we enter the world of stinky socks, frozen snot, and Khumbu coughs. There's Marmite up there too. Yuk!

So why do we do it? Why do we deal with peeling sunburnt noses and super-glued finger flappers? I believe it is for those moments of peaceful bliss that linger strangely with us. Those moments that arise as we watch snow slowly fall over the crevasses of the Western Cwm or the alpenglow burn upon snowcapped mountain shoulders. You non-mountaineers out there have experienced these moments of mental clarity too; listening to a captivating chorus of song, maybe simply watching the gaseous dance of steam rise from a morning cup of joe. We just choose to find these moments in a different way.

You're more than welcome to join us. Just bring a mask for the yak dung dust.

—Terry O'Connor

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