Day 1 (November 12, 2013) - Kathmandu (1337m) to Phakding (2610m) via Lukla

Startled from a dream, my sleep saturated with thoughts of mountains stoic in a blue sky, I woke on the first morning of our trek. Em and I had packed our bags the night before, and they stood ready by the door. All the other random gear, and sweet things of home Emily had brought with her were already stored away in Dream Nepal Hotel's storage unit, waiting for our return. Quickly dressing, polishing off the last of the Kashi cereal from Naples, we were downstairs meeting our guide, Bishnu, at 0600. 

Bishnu!

Somehow Bishnu had miraculously secured a taxi even with the political strike that had gridlocked Kathmandu as a prelude to the November 19th elections. Skittering through the relatively empty streets, we arrived in 15 minutes to the domestic terminal of Kathmandu airport. Tourism reigns large and looming in Nepal, so despite the strike, the domestic airport was bustling with trekkers, porters, guides, luggage and all manner of controlled chaos. Barging through the mountains of gear and wayward trekkers, we wrestled our mochilas to the check in desk of Tara Air, to receive our boarding passes. Gingerly we placed our packs on the scale (a little frightened at what the weight would be) and were confirmed in our fears. 16.3 kg for me, 16.5 for Emily. Essentially 37 pounds of gear, not including water and a few carry on items (so tack on another couple of pounds). 

Our packs feel almost as heavy as a mountain.

Already proving to be indispensable and pro at all manner of things, Bishnu had us bumped to an earlier flight, and suddenly we were being ushered towards a rickety bus to take us our to our plane. My fingers and toes tingled in a state of an adrenaline high (or maybe it was a side effect of the Diamox we were taking for altitude sickness) as I anticipated the roller coaster of the flight. As much as Em was already praying to be safely landed at Lukla, I was curious to see just how all of this would work. Situated at 2800m, the Tenzig-Hillary airport is considered one of the more dangerous airports in the world. Unpredictable weather has caused fatal crashes at regular intervals throughout the years, and the very location of the runway, perched at a 12 degree angle (the runway is so short, the angle is needed to arrest the speed of a landing plane, and to aid in the acceleration of one taking off) on the slope of a mountain is enough to make most people a little queasy. 

Em and our little plane.

With no more formality then telling us to buckle our seat belts, we climbed through the smog of Kathmandu and headed towards the mountains, I looked around the tiny Twin Otter prop plane, and was comforted by the relative boredom of the female flight attendant, the nervous joy of the other trekkers, and the jittery anticipation of the guides. As we swooped in towards Lukla, flying so low over the brown mountains rolling up towards us, I felt I could run my hand through the green brush. Looking forward, through the cockpit, the glare of the sun being deflected by a magazine stuffed into a panel in front of the co pilots face, I saw the depressingly short runway appear at a ridiculous angle. Banking at a precariously angle downwards, suddenly, both pilots gripped the archaic controls tilting the nose upwards, and we landed on the very edge of the runway, barreling towards the mountain face and airport in front of us, brakes screeching, and at the last minute swerving into a side taxi area, out of the way of another plane close on our tail. Clapping weakly, we all gathered ourselves and deplaned to a mellow "Namaste" from our flight attendant.  Aloha Himalayas.

The taxi area and sloped runway of Tenzig-Hillary Airport.

Following Bishnu, we collected our mochilas, and with giant grins for a milestone accomplished, we clicked with our trekking poles through the town of Lukla. Top heavy, we picked our way down a stone and dirt pathway, surprisingly descending, rather than ascending. Leaving Lukla, we passed colorful villages, each with tea houses and lodges. Nepalese children gave us shy greetings, and one ran out to give Emily and I purple wild flowers. At this lower elevation, villages are agriculturally based, with fields of cabbage, potato, lettuce, tobacco. We weren't walking long before we saw our first train of beasts of burden. There are no roads in this part of the world, so all goods are transported on the backs of men (and the occasional woman) or animals. A common misconception is that the hairy, short-legged, horned, cow-looking animals are all yaks. Actually, the most common animal transporting goods are the offspring of pure-blooded shaggy yaks and cows, and are called khirkoo. For the purposes of this blog though, I will stick with the common vernacular, and call them yaks. 

Yaks!

Turning a pinched pale shade of green, Emily encountered our first suspension bridge. Great lines of steel, the diameter of my forearm, supported the metal bridge set across the gorges and river crossings of this trek. Shivering and swaying under even one persons footsteps, the reverberation of your crossing, and those on the bridge with you keep you moving with a purpose across the bridge's length. I loved the bridge, and made sure I was the last to cross so I could defy reason and stop to my hearts content and take pictures of the dizzying height. 

After four hours of walking up and down, but mostly down, crossing the rushing Dudh Kosi river, we arrived in Phakding and settled into our guesthouse. As a common practice, trekkers must eat in the dining rooms (often, brightly lit sunrooms) of their guesthouse, or be made to pay more for their room. All of the menus on the trek, filled with delicious and hearty meals, are essentially variations of the same one. There isn't much variety, but each place has their own style and care.

Following a lighter lunch of lentil soup, we embarked on our first side acclimatization trip up to the Buddhist monastery at Ghomla, an hour walk from Phakding. Like entering Neverland, we found a dozen young monks at play in the giant room of the monastery, colorful in blues and greens and reds. Like an open air arena, the boys played without an adult in sight. When Em and I inquired as to where the minks were, the answer was "cooking, praying, meditating..." One of the older children let us into the inner prayer room, leaving our shoes outside, we received a lesson on Buddhism, Hinduism and the political history of Nepal from Bishnu. 

Walking back to Phakding, we committed our first and last suspension bridge error. As we crossed, a yak started crossing from the other direction. With our eyes watching the river between the metal bands beneath our feet, we failed to notice the yak until too late, as we leaned dangerously against the railing bands of steel to avoid the yak. First rule of bridge crossing, yaks and donkeys have the right of way. Following behind the yak train, was a baby yak, bleating and following its working mother. Watching the baby yak, I struck up a conversation with a trekker headed down towards Lukla. His eyes told of the wonder and beauty we would be encountering, as he wished us luck and health on our way up. 

Ignorant to the grime that was to come, we enjoyed hot showers upon our return and returned to the warm dining room for our first dinner of dal bhat. The national staple of Nepal, dal bhat is oftentimes eaten twice a day by the people of Nepal, and for good reason. An energy and nutritional powerhouse, dal bhat consists of a bowl of dal (lentil soup), vegetable and potato curry, a heaping pile of rice, hopefully steamed spinach, and maybe a pickle or small chili. The most spectacular and delicious part is: free refills. It packs a fibrous punch, keeps you full and tastes delicious. Oh, dal bhat! 

As the sun set early across the sky, the dining hall was full of the voices and laughs of trekkers. Bishnu's shy laughter, soft talkativeness, and quick smile had us feeling at ease on our first night, ready for what lay in store. At 1930, stifling yawns, we headed to our unheated room, crawled into our mummy bags, and slept in the quiet darkness of the Himalayas.