DAYS 71-78: GREEN CLIMBERS HOME (LAOS PART 2)

X I A N G L I A B ,  L A O S

The thing about climbing is…a lot of the time I really hate it. A lot of the time I’m muttering curse words under my breath wondering how in the hell I voluntarily got myself into a position hundreds of feet above the ground, desperately clinging to a quarter inch morsel of sharp rock with sweaty fingers and trembling toes praying to god I have enough strength in my puny little arms to pull myself up to the next hold without falling…

But the other thing about climbing is that I love it. It’s ridiculously exhilarating. It makes you feel alive. It forces you to overcome your fears. To get out of your own head. It works your body into this beautiful exhaustion. And when you conquer something that once scared the shit out of you, the high you get is so tingly and incredible that it makes you dumb enough to want to do it again. 

I also love that it’s something Brad and I do together. And that it’s something we’ve been able to take with us as we’ve traveled. Because there are only so many temples you can visit before they get a little boring. And so many markets you can wander through before they all start to look alike. And climbing has given us an escape of sorts - a way to enjoy the ever changing scenery around us - that’s not eating or shopping or looking at old buildings. And we’ve found that if we seek it out…we usually end up in pretty cool spots…which was definitely the case with Green Climbers Home. 

Green Climbers Home is unlike any place we had ever been before. Their website uses the term resort. And I guess it was kind of true. But it’s like a resort for people who hate resorts - for those scruffy misfits who can’t sit still on a beach. And who would rather spend their vacation scrambling up stone than lounging with a pína colada by a pool. 

Basically in the middle of nowhere Laos, in this gorgeous jungle valley, sit two “camps” - or collections of tiny bunglows surrounded in every direction by miles and miles of breathtakingly beautiful limestone cliffs. There are literally hundreds of routes (321 to be exact) - enough to provide any guest with an ample amount of entertainment. 

Pretty much everyone that we met shared the same story. They had come for a few days…stayed for a few weeks…in some cases months. Because they just. couldn’t. leave. Because the rock in this part of Laos is unbelievable. It’s gravitational….three-dimensional and diverse. There are slabby climbs and overhanging climbs. Climbs that have natural “drums” you can play music on. Climbs covered in giant tufas - these crazy stalactite-looking things that jet out at you from all directions and force you to wedge and shimmy and contort your body into these odd positions to get around them. Climbs with huge roofs where people dangle from their finger tendons as they inch their way along the underbelly (certainly not me).  And when you’re not climbing there are caves to explore and slack lines to bounce around on and swimming holes to cool off in (provided you can get past the giant water spiders skimming along the surface). It was insanely fun. 

We like everyone else, ended up staying longer than we had originally planned. And for just a little while it was nice to not be on the move. To settle into a routine. We spent our mornings climbing. Our afternoons reading in hammocks. Our evenings drinking beers with people from Belgium and France and Japan - who all loved to climb and travel. There was no wifi or distractions from the outside world. Days passed by rather slowly. It was peaceful. And beautiful. And awesome. We were so thankful we had stumbled upon this little paradise hidden in the within the countryside. I think our only regret is that we didn’t stay longer. 

Sure, climbing can be difficult and painful and scary as all hell. But it also takes you to the most beautiful places on earth. It teaches you things about yourself. It strengthens the trust you have in your partner. It’s totally worth the scraped knees and jammed fingers and wasted adrenaline. Because the thing is…if you keep both feet on the ground you might stay comfortable, but you’ll never get to see the view from the top…and the view from the top is usually spectacular. 

-Kenze

Xiangliab, Laos

Xiangliab, Laos

Xiangliab, Laos

DAYS 64-70:LUANG PRABANG & VANG VIENG (LAOS PART 1)

M E K O N G   R I V E R ,   L U A N G  P R A B A N G ,   L A O S 

I had no idea what to expect when we arrived in Laos. It wasn’t one of those places I remembered being forced to memorize in geography class or I saw frequently highlighted on the traveler’s channel. I had never eaten at a Lao restaurant or seen ‘made in Laos’ written on the back of a shirt tag. It was completely and utterly foreign to me…

But I fell head over heels for the country before we even landed. My forehead glued itself to the plexiglass window as we flew over soft pillowy mountains covered in jungle and a giant mud-colored river that carved the land in half and spilled into hundreds of hairpin-turn tributaries. Probably the only mud-colored thing I have ever classified as beautiful.

And I continued to fall in love once we got off the plane. 

I loved how peaceful the town of Luang Prabang felt our first night as we sat at a tiny restaurant along the Mekong and watched long, skinny slowboats inch their way up and down its banks.

I loved the the way the sun hugged everything in a warm orange glow before heading to bed behind those jungle covered mountains. 

I loved walking down the sleepy streets at dusk and admiring the French influenced architecture and Parisian style cafe’s. 

To me Luang Prabang still felt very much like third world Asia - there were the usual chickens roaming the sidewalks and questionable looking meats for sale on street corners. But there were also croissants and baguettes and a sense of slowness. A stark contrast from most of the other places we have traveled thus far.

Laos has an absolutely heart wrenching history. It was a French territory until 1953 (hence the baguettes) and has had a pretty shit time ever since. The year after they gained independence, a brutal civil war erupted between a communist party and the Royal Government of Lao. In 1964, when the US was trying to smack down communism in Vietnam, we also got involved in Laos. And between 1964 and 1973 we dropped more than TWO MILLION TONS of of explosives here. That’s over 580,000 bombing missions—equal to a planeload of bombs every 8 minutes, 24-hours a day, for 9 years – making it the most heavily bombed country per capita. Ever. In history.* And to make it worse, up to one third of those bombs didn’t explode  - so now they’re  just sitting there – littering the countryside - waiting to be disturbed by some poor farmer who accidentally walks in the wrong direction. Over 20,000 people have been killed or injured from these unexploded devises and today, 40% of the victims are children. Ugh.

In the end, communism won the battle and Laos remains one of the poorest nations in the world. It wasn’t until the 90s that the government loosened up its economic chokehold and the borders were opened to tourism. 

And being here and learning about this has been so eye-opening.  And what I can’t even begin to fathom that all of this suffering could have happened in such a beautiful place to such beautiful people who are so kind and smile and wave at us as we pass by. Who have invited us into their homes and resturants and excitedly shared with us their homemade wine. They’re the definition of bravery and resilience. And I adore and admire them. But I suppose that’s enough of a history lesson…

We had ourselves a few adventures in Luang Prabang. We took a dip under Kiang Si Falls, this beautiful waterfall that cascades into these crystal blue pools which continue to empty into more pools and more pools and more pools of gorgeous ice blue water. We explored a nearly empty nature conservatory with stunning views of the rainforest that continually made me think Tarzan was about to leap out of the bushes and start beating on his chest. We got ourselves into our first motorbike wreck involving an unpaved dirt road, giant pothole  and the two of us flying through the air towards the gravel (thankfully escaping with a couple skinned knees). And then we headed south to this little town called Vang Vieng. 

Getting there was a little bit insane. Most of the road is unpaved and for four hours we had the pleasure of a batshit crazy driver who flew around corners, dodged herds of cattle and hit bumps so hard we literally flew into the air. I have never been so thankful for a seatbelt in my life. Brad was practically green by the time we arrived. But the views of the Laos landscape that bounced their way past our windows were absolutely stunning.

Vang Vieng isn’t much - a tiny town that sprang up around an airstrip that the CIA built during the war. But in the past 15 years or so it has become a backpacker’s destination - a stopover for young travelers looking for a good time.  Brad and I did our best to disguise ourselves amongst the 20 something’s and went bar hopping down the Sam Nam Song  river via tube. I drank a wine cooler for the first time since college and we had a blast floating from bar to bar, occasionally crossing paths with a water buffalo or two. But I’m sure our complete lack of interest in the free “whiskey buckets” (gag) and vodka beer pong (ugk) didn’t do much to camouflage the fact that we’re practically senior citizens in the backpacker world.

The next day we climbed some of the area’s crazy limestone crag and did some of the most beautiful yoga that I think I will ever do in my life…on a rickety little platform in the middle of a rice patty at sunset. The green and yellow in the field and the purple of the mountains and the burning pink sky…and the tiny people in their round pointy hats shuffling around in the distance…and that wonderfully fantastic sound of no sound at all. It was unreal. 

I really had no idea what to expect when we arrived here. But the landscape, the people, the coconut pancakes...the absence of traffic and big buildings....the way that life moves a little slower - it's all been such a pleasant surprise. And I'm excited for it to continue to unfold in front of us.

- Kenz

* For more info about the effects of the Vietnam war bombing and Laos check out the website below (also where I got my statistics). If you want to feel really awful, read the casualties & survivor stories...they'll make your heart hurt.

http://legaciesofwar.org/

LUANG PRABANG, LAOS

KUANG SI FALLS, LUANG PRABANG, LAOS

LUANG PRABANG, LAOS

VANG VIENG, LAOS

THOUGHTS ON TRAVELING THUS FAR...

J U N G L E   H U T   B A T H R O O M ,   T O N S A I   B E A C H ,   T H I A L A N D

It’s not a “vacation.” Certainly not a few weeks at a fancy resort with a pool, fresh towels and comfy beds. But there are cold beers. And sandy beaches. And beautiful sunsets. We just watch them in the same clothes we wore yesterday.

I really started to struggle this week. With the whole prolonged on-the-road mentality. I miss showering in an actual shower…one where the shower and the toilet aren’t directly on top of each other. And I miss being clean. Actually clean…the kind that lasts for more than ten minutes before you’re again covered in dirt or sunscreen or bug spray or sweat. I miss clothes that smell fresh and were actually dried in a dryer. I miss mascara.  And having more than two wardrobe options. And getting dressed up on Saturday nights and feeling pretty. I miss reliable wifi and watching TV. I miss being able to splurge on a latte without thinking about the extra dollar it costs. I miss calling my mom every day and getting coffee with my girlfriends. I miss the feeling of home and predictability and familiarity.

I used to think I was one of those “cool” girls. But who am I kidding. I can’t survive on a universal bar of soap - I literally have like five face products I’ve dragged around from country to country. And it grosses me out that Brad and I have to share a towel. And I hate sleeping on the sheets in hostels because all I can think of is the dirty hippy with dreadlocks and bedbugs who probably slept here the night before. And I literally thought I was going to die the day I had to take a pair of disposable underwear from a kind 73 year old Jewish woman because I unexpectedly got my period at 15,000 feet. And the lady at the "pharmacy" counter confusedly looked at me when I asked for tampax…

“You mean twix bar???”

“No, I do NOT mean twix bar…”

But I am grateful. I know that we’re getting to do what a lot of people just dream of. And I feel guilty. SO guilty. For even feeling an ounce of this feeling. We have seen people who have nothing. Who literally live amongst garbage. And here I am, complaining because we have a colony of ants living in our bathroom and a rusted out shower head.

I guess it’s the price you pay to see the world. You have to know that it all won’t be pretty and that there will be moments it is going to totally suck. You have to be willing to live in a little discomfort (or a whole lot of it) and just have faith that nothing lasts forever. The good will outweigh the bad. Because when you look over that mountain pass and see with your very own eyes, the things only before existed in a Patagonia commercial, you forget about the week you spent freezing your butt off to get there.  And the 45 minute, 105 degree, mosquito-infested bushwhack through the jungle becomes a distant memory when you catch a glimpse of crystal clear ocean surrounded by giant, lush palm tree covered islands.

So I shall continue to ride the wave. Maybe I’ll get more used to this whole “dirt bag” thing. Maybe it will start to get easier. Or maybe it won’t. Maybe I will always look longingly at the girls on the beach in their pretty sundresses who probably have a suitcase full of them back in their comfy hotel rooms. But while those girls unpack those suitcases and head back to work, I’ll be collecting another stamp on my passport and gazing at some new, strange place with my best friend in the world and wondering what will happen next. It’s all worth it in the end. The lows might be low, but the highs are so high. And sometimes you just have to just sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.

-Kenze

DAYS 52-63: SOUTHERN THAILAND

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L I G H T E N I N G  S T O R M   -  K O  P H I  P H I ,  T H A I L A N D

We’ve been looking forward to enjoying southern Thailand and its beaches ever since we first began planning this trip. We envisioned climbing its limestone cliffs during the day and spending relaxing evenings writing and reading on its beaches. We wanted to swim in the warm waters of the Andaman Sea and watch monkeys play in the jungle trees. All from a beach bungalow hut - you know, the ones so often highlighted in our Instagram feeds. And I (Brad) intended to do so as cheaply as possible. 

Our first destination in Southern Thailand was a small village in Krabi called Tonsai, which is only accessible by longboat. Tonsai is known for its laid back secluded atmosphere, beautiful beachfront, and its climbing scene. The small bay is guarded on all sides by steep, overhanging 500 foot limestone cliffs. It’s like Avatar meets Jurassic Park. Truly amazing. 

From the beach, a five minute walk inland leads you to the heart of the eccentric bungalow village which attracts hippy locals, vagabonding climbers, broke artists, and penny pinching backpackers. It’s not a typical honeymoon destination. Instead of plush resorts there are a handful of very basic $10 to $15/night “jungle huts” to choose from. And each “resort” if you can call it that, has an adjoining laundry, mini mart, restaurant, and coffee bar. 

The village also offers a handful of eclectic “bars” (open air huts constructed with bamboo and palm leaves - more emphasis given to their neon light placement than to their structural soundness). Each advertises “Magic Mushroom Shakes” and other drugs are just as easy to come by. Bob Marley is always playing. Nightly entertainment includes fire and light shows, slack lines, and live DJs. The entertainers are also the bartenders and by day they serve as landscapers and hut handymen. The “resort” staff is like a small family and everyone chips in. 

Stray cats, chickens, lizards, and monkeys outnumber humans in Tonsai. Shirts are rarely worn.  Bugs are everywhere - mosquitoes, beetles, caterpillars, spiders, weird ones of all varieties, colors, and sizes. Poisonous snakes occasionally slither into bars at night only to be hammered by the bartenders shoe. The scene is anything but normal. So very fitting for us at the moment.  

As one staff member from the Chill Out Bungalows described it to me, “It’s not big here but we have everything you’ll need.” And we found that generally to be true…

In my mind, we didn’t need power all day - power in Tonsai is generator fueled so bargain places only turn it on in the evenings. We didn’t need air-conditioning because the rickety old oscillating fan in the corner seemed to be up for the job. We didn’t need a proper flush toilet (the hut toilets were referred to as gravity flush, which involves dropping a bucket of water in the bowl to chase down your business). We certainly didn’t need daily room cleaning. We’re both tall so we could easily step over that highway of ants crossing our bathroom floor. And I’m pretty sure, like at least 70 percent, that the termites we heard throughout the night eating away at our hut walls and those unknown rodents scurrying underneath the floorboards were all outside. At $12 a night it was inexpensive but I wouldn't exactly call it a "deal."

But who cares about the the lodging?

We were in Tonsai for its beaches, the climbing, and to experience Thailand. You can’t do that from the partitioned off confines of a plush mega resort. And how much time were we going to spend in the hut anyway? Life in Tonsai tended to be rustic, basic, cheap, and simple - and for the first couple days it was.

Our biggest challenge, if we can call it that, was attempting to keep ourselves and our stuff dry. 

Between the heat, humidity, daily rain showers, and ocean soaks, that was actually more daunting than it sounds. After only a couple days our climbing harnesses developed horrible smells from the steady wetness that I won't even begin to describe. 

There was also the ongoing sunscreen and bug spray applications. A sticky shine coated our bodies day and night. And our sandals, always damp and sand covered, began to wear raw spots into the sides of our feet. After only a couple days, the raw spots turned into full-on open wounds, which seemed to be yet another attention getter for those f***ing bugs, as if they weren’t annoying enough.

These discomforts began to add up - even for cheap me. Instead of joking about the stray cats that had decided to make their litter box on our front porch, I began to plot strategies against them. Our moods started to sour. And a big part of the mood shift was due to the futile effort in this environment to stay dry or feel clean or get comfortable.

Despite the growing discomforts, it was cheap so we remained at the bungalow hut. The straw that finally broke my back was getting sick. 

It started by feeling a little weak and shaky one afternoon. As the hours ticked by it got progressively worse. I stumbled back to our bed and laid motionless under the bug net. Keep in mind that the oscillating fan didn’t work yet because there’s no power until 6PM. But instead of sweating uncontrollably in the 90 degree humid temperatures, I covered myself in dry clothes and sleeping bag liners, anything that would make me feel warm. And I still shivered. I didn’t have the energy to get up to go to the bathroom. I didn’t have energy to eat or drink. McKenzie would come in to check on me every 20 minutes, running back and forth to the wifi to consult with my sister, a doctor in Colorado. It had to be a scary for her to watch as my pale (even paler than normal), and thin (also more so than normal from our Nepal adventure) self go from bad to worse underneath some bug net in this electricity-less hut 8,000 miles from home. And the nearest medical care is a boat ride away. Many Tylenols later, my fever subsided and I started feeling better. We’re still not sure what caused it, but, thankfully I was completely recovered in 24 hours. 

Our “travel funk” was almost as short lived. The next day we upgraded to a $30 a night hotel room, equipped with air-conditioning, mechanical toilet and proper shower. This made my wife very happy. Also, our good friends Jon and Brooke arrived from Colorado. We were so eager to see familiar faces that we probably borderline suffocated them over their visit. Tonsai returned from a hot, humid, and buggy jungle back into an island paradise.

We continued to climb, rented kayaks for a day, traveled to Ko Phi Phi, drank vodka buckets and watched tourist bar fighting matches (believe it or not this is an organized affair in Thailand), and went to Phuket to live the resort life for few days. 

As this trip progresses I’m coming to grips that we’re not as capable of living as cheaply in our 30s as we might have been in our 20s. I’m also coming to grips with loosening our steadfast travel budget. And I think we’re both getting better at knowing that even when things seem shitty, the next new sight or experience is right around the corner. 

-Brad

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E A S T  R A I L A Y  B E A C H,  T H A I L A N D

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E A S T  R A I L A Y  B E A C H ,  T H A I L A N D

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E A S T  R A I L A Y  B E A C H ,  T H A I L A N D

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T O N S A I  B E A C H, T H A I L A N D

DAYS 35-48, EVEREST BASECAMP TREK, NEPAL

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Sure, I love the mountains.

But I’m not a mountaineer.  

I think all of those people you see in the documentaries, losing their limbs to frostbite, sleeping in tiny windblown tents and suffering through negative bajillion below zero temperatures just to stand on top of a summit are absolutely insane. Like they have to have a screw loose or something. But for better or for worse, I married a man who is a little bit crazy about mountains, and so sometimes I find myself agreeing to do things that I would otherwise reserve for those insane folks…like spending two weeks hiking through the Himalayas and eventually to the basecamp of Mount Everest at 17,600 feet. 

Now, to put this into perspective, the tallest mountains in the intercontinental US are about 14,000 feet. We’ve got 53 of those peaks in Colorado, and my slightly crazy husband has summited 45 of them. And little ol’ inexperienced me? Oh, I’ve only summited one. But I knew enough to know that what had been proposed was no easy task. Which is why I immediately shot down the initial three week proposal - and rebutted with a two week compromise. I could survive anything for 14 days right? No big deal. And how cool would it be to see the tallest mountain on earth? Oh, how clueless I was. I had absolutely no idea what I was in for...

Day one began in Kathmandu, Nepal. Elbowing and shoving our way through the most archaic, disorganized, chaotic airport you could possibly imagine and finally finding ourselves on this poor excuse for a puddle jumper of a plane. Spirits were high and the flight was wild. Forty-five minutes zipping from one cloud to the next, clutching the armrests with white knuckles while the cabin jiggles and jostles and your stomach anxiously somersaults its way into your throat. You expect the giant peaks you see out the window to disappear as you reach cruising altitude, but they don't. They just sit there in their ginourmaty as you begin your decent to Lukla, a tiny town practically hanging off the edge of a cliff. You shakily step down to the tarmac and into a land of dense fog and deep green and blue hues.

Most people hire porters (people who carry your stuff) for their trek, but considering our lack of income, we opted to carry our own load. So we strap on our packs and start hiking and I am just so curious and excited and enamored with the surroundings. Lukla is like the entrance gate to a fairy tale. The windy dirt path is scattered with small stone cottages and wildflowers and waterfalls. Adorable almond-eyed children drop their sticks and balls and run to happily shout “Namaste” as you walk by. Women in brightly colored outfits tend to their lush green crops and stir huge metal pots over flaming stoves. Herds of yaks announce themselves with the bells around their necks and practically run you over as they lug food and supplies and giant North Face bags up the trail. You cross terrifyingly long bridges that sway in the wind as a glacial river storms by, hundreds of feet below your boots. There are prayer flags delicately fluttering in the breeze and giant boulders carved with Buddhist mantras and small temples with these beautiful wheels that you spin to send your prayers up to the heavens.

 The whole place is just magic. It's no wonder the native people regard it as sacred.

On day two we end up in this tiny town called Namchee at 11,500 feet. It’s only reachable by foot or helicopter, but it’s scattered with cool little bars and restaurants and shops. Throughout the hike, you stay at these “tea houses,” pretty much glorified hostels which I initially found adorable and quaint. Everything is made out of plywood, there isn’t any heat, the bathrooms usually consist of a bucket, a jug of water and a hole in the ground, but they’re painted really sweetly, have awesome little gardens and these common dining rooms where smiling Sherpa women serve you rice and noodles. It's all so cool and fun and unlike anything we’ve ever experienced. And I’m still all happy and smiley and loving life. La la la. 

On the following days we keep hiking. Hopping from village to village. Climbing higher and higher. Sometimes taking a rest day to let our bodies acclimatize our new elevated position on the planet. Eleven thousand feet turns to twelve thousand feet to thirteen thousand feet to fourteen thousand. As we continue to climb the air gets thinner and thinner. The villages get smaller and smaller, their tea houses less and less idyllic. Altitude begins to rear her ugly head. We start waking up in the morning with pounding headaches. Brad, who has been sick from day one, begins to cough from deep inside his chest. 

 The nights are the worst. The sun goes down and it gets cold. Bone chillingly, body achingly, toe numbingly cold. The tea houses heat their dining rooms with yak dung (a smell that will forever haunt my dreams), but as soon as you finish your noodles and head back to your plywood closet, you’re freezing again. And it’s all you can do to force yourself to head to the communal bucket to brush your teeth before you have to climb into your sleeping bag and shiver yourself warm. And then there’s the lying awake. For hours and hours. Tossing and turning in frustration. Because even though your body is exhausted, the second you find yourself dozing off, you abruptly wake back up gasping for oxygen. I stop sleeping on night four. 

But after you make it through the night, the mornings greet you with their beautiful views. And the mountains - Oh! The mountains! Once you’re above the cloud cover, the Himalayas reveal themselves. And they’re absolutely spectacular. Behemoth masses of striated granite swaddled in scarves of crisp snow. Sheets of luminous ice that hang suspended and heavy against their sides. Sparkling white streams that dance off their windy jagged peaks and thread themselves into the surrounding sky. They're so quiet and so big and they make you realize what a small insignificant peanut you really are. 

We keep hiking day in and day out. Some days we walk for three hours. Some days we walk for seven. And it’s manageable enough. There’s lots of time to think and joke around and stop and stare in awe. I stay pretty happy until day seven when we come to our first “pass,” which is basically a point through which you cross a mountain range. This particular one is called Renjo La and stands towering at 17,600 feet. 

Now let me tell ya a little something about trekking that high. It’s miserable. That kind of altitude does crazy things to your body and your mind. It makes even the simplest of tasks, like putting one foot in front of the other, exponentially difficult. Your legs start to drag. Your feet become cement bricks. Your body feels like it is starving for a breath your lungs can’t seem to reach and your chest begins to ache as your inhales become more frequent and more desperate. The harsh wind bites your cheeks with it’s sharp teeth, staining them the most uncomfortable shade of rosy. And you quickly learn that tears won’t do you any good. They just waste precious oxygen. But you’ve got Brad. And even though he’s sucking air too, he’s behind you the whole way. And he’s pushing you forward, telling ridiculous stories, making you laugh, carrying your pack at the very top when you can barely take another step. And he pushes you through.  

And then you see her in all her glory. The mother of all mountains surrounded by a sea of other Himalayan giants. And at their feet stands this placid turquoise lake, bluer than any Caribbean sea. It’s unreal how quickly your body can forget misery when presented with unparalleled beauty. The moment is sublime. Really and truly. And we smile and take photos as our pain evaporates into the thin air. 

And then of course we have to get down again. Back down to 15,600 feet. But we’re heading to this gorgeous little village that has parked itself on the edge of that blue lake. It’s called Gokyo. 

We finally arrive. And we’re dog tired, but we still can’t sleep. And when the sun peaks out the next day we’re feeling bruised and battered. And our noses are stuffy and now we’ve both got colds. So we decide it’s best to rest for a day.  We eat breakfast at the World’s Highest Bakery. And I don’t know if it’s the fact that I had only eaten noodles for a week or if they really were the most delicious doughnuts I had ever tasted, but those chocolate covered sugar-highs totally lifted my spirits. 

We read and relax. We meet old hippy artists and young hipster filmmakers. People with kind souls and true hearts. We commiserate about the altitude. Swap stories of adventure. They’re great and it’s refreshing to talk to other people and listen to the tales they have to tell. 

 But despite the wonderful day, the night comes again. And it sucks. I start to get a belly ache (yet another fun side effect of altitude). But we know if we are going to stick to our Everest Base Camp itinerary, we need to wake up and make it over the daunting 17,800 foot Cho La Pass. It is going to be a whopper. 

We don’t sleep as per usual so we’re out of bed at 4:45 am. We ignore our drippy noses and rumbling tummies and hit the trail. It’s freezing, but there’s a soft alpine glow on the peaks so at least it’s pretty. We break for breakfast, but I feel so nauseous I can’t force myself to eat anything. We get back on the trail. And the hours tick by and the incline gets steeper and we keep moving forward. It’s grueling but we eventually reach the top of the pass. This time I don’t even enjoy the view. I just curl into a ball for a few minutes because my stomach is hurting.

We descend down a glacier and continue to make our way. Four hours turns into five and then five hours turns into six. The trail winds up and then down, and then back up. We cross fields of boulders and sheets of ice. The sun begins to set and it gets cold again and we keep walking. Seven hours, eight hours, nine. More walking. By hour ten we finally set our eyes on the intended destination for the night, conveniently located at the top of yet another hill.

By the time we make it to our room, I collapse on the plywood cot in complete and total exhaustion. I’ve just hiked further and climbed higher than I ever have before on nothing but a piece of toast. My body is achy and sore and covered in 6 days of un-showered dry sweat. I smell like a teenage boy’s dirty gym bag. My hair is a greasy tangly mess. I've been wearing the same shirt for more than 72 hours. I'm sick of being tired. I’m sick of being cold. I’m sick of sucking air and sleepless nights and disgusting bathrooms. I don’t want to hike anymore. I don’t want to look at the mountains anymore. It is day nine and I’m all kinds of cranky and I just want to be done. 

 I quietly drag my pity party to the washing basin. And as I’m standing there, something happens to the grip I have on my toothbrush handle and I watch, in slow motion, as it falls out of my hands and cascades into the grimy bucket…clink. clink. clink. It lands smack dab in the center next to a bar of soap covered in someone else’s hair.

And that was it. That was the moment, the last straw. I completely unraveled. 

I started to cry. And cry. And cry. Not just a few rolling tears, but these deep, heavy, get-me-the-hell-out-of-here sobs. I couldn’t stop. The floodgates had opened. I probably stood there for a good ten minutes just crying. The kind that poofs up your eyes and clogs up your nose and leaves you breathing those awful staccato-y, hiccup-y breaths.

Once I was able to pull myself back to reality, I snuck back into the room, trying to conceal my complete and total meltdown. But it wasn’t long before Brad caught on…those damn hiccup-y breaths. He climbed into my cot and held me and without any hesitation whatsoever announced that we were heading down. I know that he really wanted to get there. That if it hadn't been for me he would have made it. But he didn’t try to convince me to go further. He didn't make me feel one ounce of guilt. He knew I had tried hard and I had hit my limit. We were both tired. We were both sick. It was time to go back. 

We spent the next five days hiking down. Back to the towns, back to the oxygen. On day eleven we even got a hot shower. I didn’t care that I had to take it in the basement cellar of a teahouse. Or that it was probably filthier than a women’s prison. I didn’t care that my hair immediately froze into icicles the second the water turned off or that I had to dry myself with a hand towel.  For fifteen glorious minutes the hot water had made me actually feel warm and clean. A luxury I hadn’t had since the beginning of the trip. On day twelve we started sleeping again. And god did that feel good. On day thirteen when we crossed back through the gates of Lukla, I didn’t look back. I wasn’t sad it was over, I was just happy I had survived. 

In the end we didn’t do what we came to do. We didn't actually stand at the Basecamp of Everest. But we had had gotten a peek at the top of the world. We had seen things that most people only dream of. We had made it through really good days and really bad ones and we had done it together. I will forever remember those monstrous mountains, that bluer than blue lake, those smiling Sherpa women, the stories of the crazy travelers we met along the way. I will forever be thankful for indoor plumbing and unlimited toilet paper and oxygen. I will never take for granted a deep breath, a home cooked meal or a best friend who can make me laugh even when I can’t stop crying.

I suppose it’s true what they say. That it’s the journey and not the destination. We had ourselves one hell of a journey. And it was definitely time for a beer. 

-Kenze

LUKLA, AIRPORT, NEPAL - 9,383 FEET

OUTSIDE OF LUKLA, NEPAL

PHAKDING, NEPAL

PHAKDING, NEPAL

NAMCHEE NEPAL, 11,500 FEET

NAMCHEE, NEPAL

NAMCHEE, NEPAL

THAME, NEPAL

RENJO LA PASS, NEPAL - 17,600 FEET

GOKYO RI, NEPAL - 17,500 FEET

PANGBOCHE, NEPAL

GROSS BATHROOMS, SOMEWHERE ON THE TREK