Still glowing from reaching our goal, the village of Phortse, Dean chose a path through the village that went past the Khumbu Climbing Center, the building Dean had helped design as a graduate at Montana State University and then later, lived in Nepal for 2.5 years to start construction. The project is funded by the Alex Lowe Charitable Foundation, run by Jenni Lowe-Anker and her husband, Conrad Anker, a world famous mountaineer and climber. While the building has been in construction for the past 8 years, the school has been going for over 15 years, teaching Sherpa and high-altitude workers the technical skills vital to their safety in guiding and working on the mountains.As we walked through the site, I saw that all the external walls had been erected and the current building team was working on the supporting structure for the roof. The plan is to have the entire building complete for the 2019 climbing season (March – June) with a grand opening ceremony in the spring.

Just beyond the climbing school is the Namaste Lodge where the proprietors, Lhakpa and Ngawang, welcomed us with delight. Well, they were mostly delighted to see Dean as he’s considered an extended part of their family. But they were very happy to make my acquaintance and immediately demonstrated their famous hospitality over a cup of ginger tea. After exchanging initial pleasantries and finishing our tea, they showed us to our room and I collapsed into my sleeping bag exhausted but proud.

That night, we shared the dining room with 4 boisterous Germans and after having rested throughout the afternoon, my appetite had returned to enjoy a full plate of dhal bhat – lentils, rice and vegetable curry. Unfortunately, my stomach did not cooperate and I found myself perfecting my squat technique shortly after. We had planned on continuing our trek up to Pheriche the next day but after the 7 hours of torture experienced on the way to Phortse, I asked Dean if we could take an additional day to rest before continuing to trek.

My sinus infection hadn’t improved, meaning that I carried tissues and ColdEase in every pocket. Now my stomach was choosing to rebel, forcing me to visit the back house several times daily and my appetite to disappear. I spent the morning sitting in the sun, chatting with Ngawang about our respective families and asking a number of questions about her life. Both Ngwang and Lhakpa have spent time in the US, so their English is fairly good and we were able to communicate easily.

A new set of trekkers joined us at the lodge around noon and I enjoyed speaking to a woman who shockingly enough, lives about 1 mile from us in Denver. What a small world! Dean had been down at the site, working with the current building team, Bud and Mike, but wanted to show me around the village a little since we intended on leaving the next morning. So in the afternoon, we slowly hiked up one side of the village, the hill being much steeper than anticipated, and worked our way over to the local Buddhist monastery (traditionally called the Gompa) perched on the hill overlooking the entire village. We enjoyed the view down valley, looking across and up to Mong La and the trail that we had painstakingly travelled the day prior. The peace was only broken by the “ooing and ahhing” from the nearby group of Spanish speaking trekkers, reveling at the same beauty.

In packing that night, we discussed my health and weighed the risk of continuing our trek. While the brutal sinus pressure had subsided, I was still constantly blowing my nose and my cough had worsened. I hadn’t kept any nourishment in my body for the past 2 days, my appetite had vanished and so far, my body wasn’t responding to the first day of antibiotics. By any account, things weren’t looking good. As I took an Ambien to ensure a good night’s sleep, I told Dean that we would reassess in the morning and I quickly proceeded to fall into a deep slumber.

Eating my toast and Larabar the next morning, I wasn’t feeling any better. Alarms were going off in my head, red lights flashing “Danger!” But when asked what I wanted to do, that little voice inside my head said that I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel.

Just before the sun had peeked over the looming peak of Thamserku, we slowly made our way up to the top of the village, stopping every few minutes for me to lean on my poles and catch my breath. A Sherpani woman was on the hill above us, herding her three yaks out of the village to graze, so I could clearly see the path we had to take – which according to Dean, would be the most difficult uphill of our day’s 6 – 7 hour hike.

While enjoying the sunshine at a porter’s ledge, where the trail finally had stopped climbing out of the village, Dean again expressed his concern over how long it had taken us to make the climb and my apparent lack of energy. I shrugged it off. We’d finished the hardest climb of the day and I figured if I could just warm up a little, I’d start to feel better.

As we tackled the next section of trail, a 3 foot wide cut in the side of a cliff, I experienced a few moments of light headedness and my right trekking pole slipped over the side of the sheer drop. In that moment, I knew that this was as high as we would climb.

The little voice inside me screamed. You see, I’m not a quitter. If there’s one thing I know about myself it’s that I charge into things, head first and open hearted. It’s both a strength and a weakness. God damn it – I wasn’t ready to give up. I could do this! But the thing is, I couldn’t.

I then did one of the hardest things I’ve ever done – I turned around.

Tears filled my eyes as Dean hugged me, again stating that there was no shame in turning back. I didn’t want to hear it. I did feel shame, as well as the overwhelming grief of the death of my dream. We stood there for what felt like ages – probably closer to 10 minutes – perched on the side of a cliff in the sunshine while Dean’s arms encircled me as I cried.

Everyone was very sympathetic once we returned to the lodge and I was immediately whisked back to our room to lay down. Dean tucked me into my sleeping bag, ensuring an appropriate supply of tissues, Strepsils and ColdEase within easy reach, and I proceeded to cry myself to sleep.

I slept through the morning, got up for lunch in the dining room with Dean, and then returned to our room to cry myself to sleep for the remainder of the afternoon. At dinner that night, Dean watched as I half-heartedly ate half a bowl of RaRa veg noodle soup.

My symptoms persisted throughout the night and into the next morning, I could only stomach a cup of tea and a single piece of toast for breakfast. I think this is the time where Dean really got concerned as he started to insist that we head down to Namache the next day to seek medical help. However I still wanted to ride it out and thought another day of bed rest might help.

So reluctantly, Dean left to spend the day rock climbing with the guys from the KCC and allowed me to rest. I laid in bed most of the morning, hovering in that place between wakefulness and sleep, occasionally pausing for a bout of good crying. Not only did I feel miserable but I was also mourning the loss of seeing Everest Base Camp. More importantly, I think I was mourning the loss of the experience and the pride I would have felt in achieving that goal. I had dreamed about this for so long, and now I knew there was nothing I could do to make it happen.

The next morning, Dean made the call. It was time to head to Namche and get medical attention. We unloaded virtually everything from my daypack, overpaid a Sherpani woman to carry our big packs down to Namche, said our good-byes to the people in Phortse, and began the trek out.

I felt good during the 30 minute hike down the hill from Phortse to the river, but prepared myself for the brutal climb up to Mong La. Luckily, this side of the hill is shorter than its sister trail on the other side of the pass. Unfortunately, that means that the path is more vertical, comprised almost entirely of switchbacks and irregular rock stairs. I tried putting in headphones and counting my steps, but towards the top, with Mong La still towering above us, I could only manage 20 at a time before needing to sit down.

After an hour and a half, we finally made it to the top. The lodge owners remembered us from a few days prior and asked if I was feeling any better – I wasn’t. I spent our hour long break with my eyes closed, laying on Dean’s pack in the sun streaming in through the windows. Once lunch was eaten, we said good-bye (and good riddance) to Mong La and cruised down the long hill. We passed a dozen groups of trekkers, in the same state of struggle we had experienced days prior, causing us to christen the hill “Soul Crusher.”

The remainder of the hike was mostly downhill and we made it to Namche just after 2:00pm. We proceeded to the clinic and checked the placard listing the opening hours posted on the side door – Open Monday – Friday until 3:00pm. We had barely made it! As we proceed to the main door and we were confronted with a handwritten sign stating that the clinic would close at 1:00pm on Fridays, and is closed on Saturdays. Welcome to Nepal!

The next day, Dean consulted with Dawa, the owner of our lodge, and called Tsering to discuss our options. He was told that there was a slight possibility of getting a helicopter down to Lukla, otherwise we would make the 2 – 3 day hike out the next morning. At 3:00pm we received a call from Dawa, stating that he could get us a helicopter down to Lukla. Oh, and we had to be at the helipad at the top of the village in the next 20 minutes. We made a mad dash sprint up to the helipad, my big pack strapped to my back while Dean balanced my daypack on top of the large pack on his back, while his daypack was strapped to his front. I would have applauded his strength if I hadn’t been about to pass out. We made it to the helipad with 3 minutes to spare.

As soon as our helicopter landed, Dean hustled me up the step and I scooted along the back seat. He and Dawa then threw in our bags and we were away. The whole operation took less than 2 minutes. Tears had filled my eyes while saying good-bye to Dawa and once seated, I couldn’t hold back any longer. I unceremoniously cried as a large group of trekkers stood at the edge of the helipad, taking pictures of the fascinating performance.

The ride down to Lukla took no longer than 15 minutes and during the journey I was conflicted. I was heartbroken, tears streaming down my face, but we had just paid $300 for this helicopter and damn it, I was going to get my money’s worth of stunning views!

I was still bawling as we disembarked in Lukla and made our way to The Nest, our lodge for the night. We shared the dining room with several trekkers and a group of porters playing dice, all of which were giving me sideways glances as the tears continued to fall. Dean finally got the key to our room and ushered me upstairs. For the next 20 minutes, he rubbed my back as I cried. I felt like a complete failure.

Dean let me cry, allowing me to grieve. After my tears were finished and I was hiccuping like a small child, he said something that blew my mind (as he does on occasion). He reminded me that the reason why I wanted to take this trip was to learn and grow, to put myself in uncomfortable situations to hopefully gain perspective and become a better person. And this is how life works – sometimes, you have to deal with disappointment and unfulfilled expectations. Maybe, this experience could help me learn that some things are outside of my control. Not a welcome message to a person who is super Type A.

As I reflected on it further, I realized that he’s right. Life is all about change. It’s good to have big dreams, to constantly be striving for something. But you also need to know when to recalibrate. The learning happens throughout the journey.

I’ve learned a lot over the last few weeks. I’ve never questioned that I’m made of some stern stuff and that I can push well past my limits. But this experience has helped to remind me that I’m not invincible, my health is important and I need to listen to my body. I need to accept change and count my blessings. And maybe most importantly, this experience has demonstrated that I have someone who loves me more than anything, even the highest mountain in the world.

We started out our journey to the Khumbu like any new adventure; with me bouncing up and down, asking unending questions, and extremely excited for what lay ahead. I’d gotten a taste of the chaos of flying domestic during our trip to Pokhara so I was prepared for the endless waiting. All I knew is that we had one of the early flights of the day scheduled at 8:00am.  The departures waiting area was mayhem, even more crowded than our previous venture to Pokhara, people ruthlessly eyeing and snatching open seats. I finally snagged an end seat next to the gate, and opened my book to wait patiently. After two hours of watching airline employees, looking at other traveler’s tickets, and false starts, we learned that there was a “traffic backlog” on the runway that was causing the delay but had now cleared and we were finally out the door and on our way.

Similar to our flight to Pokhara, we were treated with a view of the gigantic mountain peaks presiding over the lowland network of valleys, however this time, the view held more than beauty as we were going to be trekking around these mountains, valleys, and peaks. After landing in Lukla, we took a short walk over to a lodge, The Nest, to get a cup of ginger tea, discuss reserving our room for the return trip, and left our return plane tickets in 18 days in the care of the lodge. Dean found a porter willing to take our heavy backpacks up to Phortse – a somewhat difficult task as the porters tend to prefer the longer treks which guarantees a longer trip and more wages.

Balaram, our porter, is a small, skinny man who appears to be in his mid to late 40’s. While Dean had provided the name of the guest house that we intended to stay at that evening, allowing Balaram to take off and meet us there, instead, he paced with us on the trail, consistently pulling ahead during the hard, uphill sections and waiting for us to catch up. It was humbling to be passed by the numerous porters, carrying heavy loads. I mean, I’m a Coloradan, not some pansy from the coasts, but watching these small men carry huge, awkward burdens at a slow and steady pace, wearing shoes completely inadequate for the terrain (sometimes flip flops), I couldn’t help but be impressed and humbled.

We made good time descending the hill out of Lukla to follow along the Dudh Koshi river below but as the afternoon continued, my energy started to wane. I had been struck with bad allergies on our last day in Pokhara, which had decided to morph into an aggressive sinus infection, causing me to get very little sleep the night prior due to a runny nose and sinus pressure. I’d taken Mucinex, but the medication hadn’t touched my symptoms, and I paused often on the trail to blow my nose. Per usual, my appetite flees when feeling ill and I had repeatedly told Dean that I wasn’t hungry, causing us to continue hiking on only a slight breakfast. He wisely stopped us for the day after three hours, two hours shy of reaching the village where we had initially planned to stop. I immediately collapsed into my sleeping bag while Dean went down to the dining room to order dinner. When I reluctantly left my warm cocoon for dinner, he made sure I ate everything.

The next morning we were on the trail by 6:45am. Feeling a little better, I was energized by the beautiful scenery and the fact that we had the trail to ourselves while the throngs of other trekkers heading into and out of the valley were still waking up and having breakfast. Crossing our first cable bridge, I was awarded a view up the valley and the realization hit that we would be following the river for most of the remainder of the day, meandering up and down on either side but always moving up between the big peaks.

We hiked steadily for four hours, stopping once for tea on a patio in Jorsale and again at Monju to purchase the permits that allowed us entry to the Sagarmatha National Park (a park that encompasses the Khumbu Valley). It had taken 20 minutes for Dean to work through the Nepali bureaucracy to obtain the permits. In the meantime, I had a conversation with an Army guard from Kathmandu. His job was to stand at the checkpoint to ensure travelers hiking out on the trail had the necessary permits. A national park enforcer if you will.

Dean and I continued on the trail, navigating a riverbed and dodging a number of middle-aged Japanese trekkers heading down-valley. Looking at this group, I thought to myself, “if they can do it, this should be a piece of cake.” A half hour later, Dean pointed to a cable bridge, located high above the river, and told me that we were now starting the hike up to Namche Bazar, our final destination for the day. Nonchalantly, he mentioned that our next 1.5 – 2 hours would be spent climbing the hill up to Namche. Um, pardon?

The hill was no joke as this is where the trail leaves the river and starts to ascend along a higher position amongst the mountains. We started up the stairs, crossed the cable bridge suspended 200 feet above the river, and began the slow plod upwards. Immediately I fell in behind a group of porters and I worked to mimic their foot placement and pace. We stopped several times at porter ledges, multi-height benches of stone built into the hillside to allow for respite without the difficulty of dropping the load on the ground. At one of these ledges, Dean called my attention to the big peaks above moored in clouds, specifically pointing out the base of the Everest massif. My heart leapt. Getting an on the ground glimpse towards our goal, I couldn’t help but feel re-energized and for the next 10 minutes, we attacked the hill. But as Newton’s First Law of Physics dictates – an object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force. And that unbalanced force, my friend, was the extreme degree of the hill. I quickly fell behind the porters but was able to miraculously continue my slow upward progress. When Dean pointed out the first views of the village, perched another 100 feet above us, I couldn’t help but feel relieved. We had a brief respite at a permit checkpoint and then made our way up to our lodge.

After dinner and a quick shower, I felt like a new woman. My sinus infection felt like it was improving, well, at least the Mucinex was making a dent in the symptoms and Dean had procured tissues, Strepsils, a hard cough drop, and Coldease, a Vick’s knock off. So I was fully armed to deal with the lingering discomfort.

The following day, our scheduled stay in Namche for rest and acclimatization, we awoke early and made our way to the top of the village to the Sherpa Museum and Nepal Army post perched atop a promontory overlooking the valley. This hike was intended both to gain additional elevation and enjoy the clear early morning views of the mountain peaks and villages that enclose the valley. As our lodge was located at very bottom of the Namche Bazar, a village built inside a steep mountain bowl, we hadn’t seen these views the previous day. We sat in the sun for over 30 minutes, enjoying the views of Ama Dablam, Thamserku, Khumbyula, Everest and other massive, snow covered peaks. Dean and I went to check out the museum while Balaram, who we had run into coming down the trail, waited outside for us.

We said good-bye to Balaram for the remainder of the day, and decided that we would check out Namche Bazar. Over lunch, I made the comment to Dean, that notwithstanding some differences in architecture, Namche had the feel of a Colorado ski town, with restaurants, retail shops, and coffee shops at every turn. For some reason, I began this trek expecting everything to be more rustic. My imagination had built a picture of single story stone huts with low windows and outhouse toilets. However, most of the two and three story buildings appeared newly built with large, common dining rooms that boasted walls of windows to allow for the amazing mountain views. This village clearly capitalizes on the money flowing in from the trekking community and caters specifically to that population. It made me anxious and excited to see Phortse, as Dean had explained that it was often overlooked by trekking groups, who instead, opt for a different trail through Tengboche (a village across the valley that boasts a famous Buddhist monastery) on their way up to Everest and therefore a bit more traditional.

We left early the next morning, hiking the rock stairs to where the trail continues high along the mountain Khumbila above Namche. The path was sparsely populated and we enjoyed clear views of the sunlit, snow covered peaks at every corner.

After a quick cup of morning tea shared with Balaram in Kyang Juma, we took the middle fork where the trail splits; the left fork heading to Khumjung and the right to Thangboche. The morning felt magical as we climbed steep irregular stone staircases through the deciduous forest along cliffs The sun had finally risen high enough to peek over Ama Dablam and the light made the terrain feel enchanted. The sun’s warmth was a welcome addition as there had been frost and snow the night previous and I quickly shed my gloves and coat.

At a porter’s ledge atop a haphazard set of stairs, the valley opened and Dean pointed out Phortse, nestled on a hillside across from us. All we had to do was hike up to Mong La, a village towering above us, down the backside of the hill to a river crossing, and then back up a hill to Phortse. The hill to Mong La appeared to be moderate and I actually told Dean, “No problem.” An hour and a half of slow plodding later, Mong La appeared to be no closer. My cold symptoms had returned with a vengeance and with each step, I became more miserable. I sat down on the side of the trail, completely unconcerned about the line of porters passing us, and had a good cry. Dean, being the extremely loving and patient man that he is, took my daypack and after an appropriate amount of time allowing me to vent of my frustrations, asked if I could continue for another 20 minutes to the lodge where we would eat lunch.

The lodge was perched on the edge of the hillside and has panoramic windows on three sides, allowing for 270 degrees of stunning views. However, I felt so poorly that the most I could do was stare into my cup of ginger tea as I waited for my bowl of vegetable soup. Dean also made me eat an energy bar and some jerky, trying to get both protein and carbs into my system to provide energy for the next two hour hike. After an hour of recovery and lunch, we started the trek down the back side of the hill to the river. This part of the trail is extremely technical, with mostly stairs and steep dirt track allowing for a quick descent to the river below. We took a 20 minute break at a lodge next to the river for a cup of tea and a Bounty bar (the magical coconut and chocolate candy that cures all ailments) before continuing.

Here’s where things got inspired – I decided to put in headphones and listen to music to help pace on the hour long hike up the hill to Phortse. After crossing the river on a short steel truss bridge, I hit play on my Soundtracks playlist and started plodding to the musical stylings of the Moulin Rouge soundtrack (no judgement). I also started counting my steps and at 350, I made Dean stop for a rest. During our break at 749 steps, we made a bet – Dean thought it would be 1200 steps to the top, while I thought his guess was conservative and went with 1500. It took everything that I had to continue up that hill but after 7 hours and 1376 steps, we made it!

We arrived in Nepal almost a week ago. Having talked about this trip for so long, Dean had set my expectations and highlighted some of the differences in culture. We hopped out on the dark tarmac at 10pm, being one of the last people to deboard the plane and were greeted in the airport by a long line to use one of the 5 automated machines for our visas, followed by an even longer line to pay our $40 (note the American currency instead of the Nepalese rupee) per person entry fee. If you know me, you know that I am an extremely efficient person who follows the rules and hates to waste time. But I settled in for some good people watching and we made it through with very little hassle.

Driving through the city, we were rewarded with a city adorned with decorations for the Nepali Hindu festival of Tihar. The most common of the decorations being assorted colored lights strung down the facade of most every building. Our ride to the hotel was quiet and quick as everyone was at home and the roads clear of traffic due to the Tihar celebrations. On arriving to our hotel we quickly collapsed into a deep sleep.

Waking up early the next morning, we had the city to ourselves with a few other early risers as we meandered through Thamel, the tourist quarter of Kathmandu. It appeared that every other shop was a trekking outfitter, cashmere supplier or art (read: tchotchke) dealer. Obviously, this area is prepared to take advantage of every tourist dollar available and ensure that you don’t leave wanting for any souvenir that Nepal can provide. 

Later in the day, we had the opportunity to leave the tourist quarter and see an older part of the city around Durbar Square. Dean’s friend Sushil had arranged for us to attend a Bhai Tika ceremony, the last ceremony of the 5 day festival of Tihar at his friend Narbottom’s house. Here’s the thing about travel, you try to make connections with people and learn about their culture but often you only touch the surface. We had the good fortune to delve a little deeper while waiting for 4 hours with Narbottom’s daughter, Namrata, and nieces, Samata and Sachita. We had the opportunity to ask an unlimited amount of questions about their lives and the Nawari culture. I hope they didn’t feel that I was grilling them, but I couldn’t help but be curious. We learned a lot about each other that afternoon, and more importantly, we found that we have a lot in common.

Toward 5:00 in the evening, both Dean and I were fading from jet lag, amplified by sitting in a warm room for several hours. Fortunately, we were soon shown the family’s rooftop terrace with a view across the city to Swyambunath Stuppa, more typically called the Monkey Temple. Invigorated by a cool breeze and the imminent promise of the Bhai Tika ceremony, we both were able to perk up. 

The ceremony is something that I will never forget as long as I live. Dean was asked to sit next to the three brothers of the family and was effectively worshipped as one of the family’s own siblings. We were given special foods that are typically cooked by the family’s ethnic group (Newar); lung, liver, prawns, mutton curry, and homemade yogurt were only a few of the delicacies on our plate. The love demonstrated within their family and the hospitality they showed us was unforgettable. This ceremony and the gracious hospitality served as a reminder for why we continue to travel – a chance to connect, learn, and share experiences with one another. 

I was flying high after our experience, especially after pictures with the entire family and after a nighttime stroll back to our hotel, through the old city with the family’s three daughters as our local guides. This feeling spilled over to the next day as we woke up early to go to Swayambunath Stuppa, the Monkey Temple. As we navigated through the busy streets of Kathmandu, we could tell that Tihar was over; the roads were crowded with cars & motorbikes adding to an ever growing reddish haze of dust and exhaust. When we arrived at the bottom of the hill to climb to the temple, I was shocked at the amount of litter discarded in the open spaces and the smell of rotten garbage. It was overwhelming and, I’m ashamed to say it, deflating. Here I was, feeling so high after the previous night’s once in a lifetime experience, and the scene of squalor sent me into a state of disgust. How can people live like this? How can they desecrate what is supposed to be a holy place with what appeared to be pure ambivalence? 

My feelings increased as we made our trip to the top of the the stuppa, the disarray worsened with trash thrown unconcernedly on the ground, street dogs with open wounds, and monkeys eating rice and other sacrifices from in front of the temples. It took two rounds of the stuppa and roughly 15 minutes of standing by myself, watching those around me, before I could finally start to find some calm. A little boy was walking in front of a group of adults, making their way around the stuppa, spinning the prayer wheels as part of their devotions. He smiled at me. His smile was so genuine, it was disarming. In that moment, I could tune out the noise, pollution, and wounded animals to just be a person, smiling back.

A seed of empathy was planted and on the way down the stairs, Dean and I talked about the challenges of the Nepalese people who culturally are still in a transition from historically biodegradable garbage to the modern world of packaging. I’m sure there’s more complexity to the issue but I can’t help but wonder if the pollution and garbage is normalized and perceived by the citizens as simply a part of life. Does that make the stuppa any less awe inspiring? Or people’s devotions any less holy? Or that little boy’s smile any less authentic?

During the 45 minute walk back to the hotel through the outskirts of the city, instead of looking at the trash, pollution, and squalor, I looked at the people. Men, sitting in a group laughing. Women taking care of their children. Tourists actively taking in sights that are so different than those they see at home. And I remembered that which yesterday, was so apparent to me; we’re all people living our lives and our similarities often are much greater than our differences.