disorientated, then lost, and they believe that an ice-bridge must have given way
beneath him, sucking him away down the ice-smooth glacial streams that run beneath the surface.
Henry was returning the next day to Kathmandu, and warned us seriously against travelling to Base Camp at any other time than early morning – especially before any safe route was
established. I prayed for the porter’s soul and his family that night, and heeded Henry’s advice carefully.
We spent much of that evening after Henry had left playing with some of the kids in the village. I lent a little girl of five the only pack of cards we had, hoping they wouldn’t get too
ruined. They were an important item for the times ahead. Secretly, though, I wasn’t that hopeful, and pretty soon there were cards everywhere. Fifteen minutes later, it was wonderful to sit
and watch this girl carefully tidy them all up, put them in their box, and place them back neatly alongside my diary. I smiled. I had learnt more about gentleness watching this than I would in
months of charging around London. Funny really . . .
DIARY, 7 MARCH:
We walked for three hours today, up towards the last village before Base Camp – Dingboche, at 14,500 feet. We contoured along and up this huge wide valley that
surrounds the beautiful and majestic peak of Ama Dablam.
I sat on a rock and studied the route I had climbed four months earlier. It felt good to see the peak, and to think that I’d stood on its summit. The mountain, though, still seems
exactly the same as before – it’s as if the climb has changed only me, and not it. As if only I’d been affected. I wonder whether, looking down, it even remembers me
struggling, gasping for oxygen up those last few hundred feet to the top. Looking at it from this angle, part of me wonders how the hell I ever got up.
We passed the spot where Kami’s sister was killed a few years ago in a landslide. It’s strange seeing the torn scar in the hillside where the landslide happened; climbing over
huge boulders of rubble that cover an entire village deep beneath them. Tentatively we made our way along the narrow path, with the ravine dropping away steeply to our right.
Two hours later we reached Dingboche. This village is situated at the foot of the huge mountains of Nuptse and Lhotse, with Everest behind them. Both Mick and I are tired today, and I think
the altitude is now really beginning to have an effect. We’ll rest here tomorrow, to try and recover a bit. It’s this careful balance of rest, exercise and sleep, in preparing
ourselves to be in the best possible state for the rigours ahead.
The tedium of such a strict routine is alleviated by the raw beauty of our surroundings. Vast mountains, the biggest in our world, rise straight up all around us, and when the wind blows
through the valleys where we are, it feels as if the giants are stamping their heels.
A wonderful lady with a huge smile and only one eye, runs the lodge here. We piled up all the straw cushions and rested like the ‘Princess and the pea’ – a treat after the
wooden boards of before.
I’ve just seen my face in an old cracked mirror, it was quite a shock – I hope it wasn’t me who cracked it. Mick confirms that I look pretty rough, having not had a wash
since . . . England. I can’t say, though, that he looks like any Casanova!
At 6.00 a.m. we moved on from Dingboche, heading higher up still, towards Base Camp. We hadn’t gone far, when we came across a great sight that I don’t think I will
ever forget.
Tucked into the side of the trail, stoically enduring the morning chill, sat two seventy-year-old English gentlemen enjoying some early morning breakfast. Seated at either end of a table that
seemed to loll at a somewhat precarious angle on the rough ground. They both seemed lost in the ecstasy of spam and eggs at 14,500 feet.
We soon found out that these British eccentrics’ ambition had been, for years, to walk
beneath him, sucking him away down the ice-smooth glacial streams that run beneath the surface.
Henry was returning the next day to Kathmandu, and warned us seriously against travelling to Base Camp at any other time than early morning – especially before any safe route was
established. I prayed for the porter’s soul and his family that night, and heeded Henry’s advice carefully.
We spent much of that evening after Henry had left playing with some of the kids in the village. I lent a little girl of five the only pack of cards we had, hoping they wouldn’t get too
ruined. They were an important item for the times ahead. Secretly, though, I wasn’t that hopeful, and pretty soon there were cards everywhere. Fifteen minutes later, it was wonderful to sit
and watch this girl carefully tidy them all up, put them in their box, and place them back neatly alongside my diary. I smiled. I had learnt more about gentleness watching this than I would in
months of charging around London. Funny really . . .
DIARY, 7 MARCH:
We walked for three hours today, up towards the last village before Base Camp – Dingboche, at 14,500 feet. We contoured along and up this huge wide valley that
surrounds the beautiful and majestic peak of Ama Dablam.
I sat on a rock and studied the route I had climbed four months earlier. It felt good to see the peak, and to think that I’d stood on its summit. The mountain, though, still seems
exactly the same as before – it’s as if the climb has changed only me, and not it. As if only I’d been affected. I wonder whether, looking down, it even remembers me
struggling, gasping for oxygen up those last few hundred feet to the top. Looking at it from this angle, part of me wonders how the hell I ever got up.
We passed the spot where Kami’s sister was killed a few years ago in a landslide. It’s strange seeing the torn scar in the hillside where the landslide happened; climbing over
huge boulders of rubble that cover an entire village deep beneath them. Tentatively we made our way along the narrow path, with the ravine dropping away steeply to our right.
Two hours later we reached Dingboche. This village is situated at the foot of the huge mountains of Nuptse and Lhotse, with Everest behind them. Both Mick and I are tired today, and I think
the altitude is now really beginning to have an effect. We’ll rest here tomorrow, to try and recover a bit. It’s this careful balance of rest, exercise and sleep, in preparing
ourselves to be in the best possible state for the rigours ahead.
The tedium of such a strict routine is alleviated by the raw beauty of our surroundings. Vast mountains, the biggest in our world, rise straight up all around us, and when the wind blows
through the valleys where we are, it feels as if the giants are stamping their heels.
A wonderful lady with a huge smile and only one eye, runs the lodge here. We piled up all the straw cushions and rested like the ‘Princess and the pea’ – a treat after the
wooden boards of before.
I’ve just seen my face in an old cracked mirror, it was quite a shock – I hope it wasn’t me who cracked it. Mick confirms that I look pretty rough, having not had a wash
since . . . England. I can’t say, though, that he looks like any Casanova!
At 6.00 a.m. we moved on from Dingboche, heading higher up still, towards Base Camp. We hadn’t gone far, when we came across a great sight that I don’t think I will
ever forget.
Tucked into the side of the trail, stoically enduring the morning chill, sat two seventy-year-old English gentlemen enjoying some early morning breakfast. Seated at either end of a table that
seemed to loll at a somewhat precarious angle on the rough ground. They both seemed lost in the ecstasy of spam and eggs at 14,500 feet.
We soon found out that these British eccentrics’ ambition had been, for years, to walk
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