The Chance to See Mount Everest is a Dream for Many

Who travels to Kathmandu, Nepal, and passes up a potential once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see Everest?

THAT EVEREST

That Everest that at 29,031 feet is the tallest peak in the world.

That Everest that has mesmerized me for decades after living in Alaska and meeting mountaineers who climbed Denali, the tallest North American peak.

That Everest that has swallowed more than 300 lives attempting its summit.

That Everest that intrepid sherpas navigate, risking life and limb while saving countless souls.

That Everest that numerous riveting documentaries and books¹ have portrayed.

Visa run

It was my second visa run exiting India to fulfill its ever-evolving rules regarding allowed stays.

My prior odyssey had been a mind-numbing, down-and-dirty, gruesome overnight to a grungy burg, the name forgotten the instant you escaped. In the middle of nowhere, its sole existence was to support border hoppers.

That junket was a 17-hour grind via a conglomeration of seven transports. Train to bus to oxcart to motorcycle to truck to van to car, reversed 24 hours later.

Coming in, I hadn’t the foggiest notion of what to do, where to go, or the actual location of the amorphous Indian-Nepal border, designated amidst a dusty lane and scraggly grasses. No sign, marking, or indicia reflected the crossing from India into Nepal.

No help was to be had from Google Maps because Wi-fi was non-existent. Nor was there aid from a pack of “you-foreigners-are-clueless-but-we’re-here-to-help-you” bikers who descended upon me like vultures, shouting at high pitch in unison, “Come with me!”

That was until you agreed to their tenfold exaggerated price. Or wisely figured out the check-in station was a 300-meter jaunt away.

Though never a fearful traveler–and mostly a solo one–the place was creepy, befitting a Coen Brothers or Quentin Tarantino flick replete with nighttime boozy card players eyeing the middle-aged, single white woman with suspicious disdain. Let’s say I didn’t wander alone after dark.

Six months later, when it was time to depart India again, I decided to chalk that ramble off as a once-in-a-lifetime nightmare, with no repeats necessary during this incarnation. I coughed up the rupees to fly to Kathmandu.

To go or not to go

After a few days of playing tourist in the charming capital city, shopping for cashmere, and interacting with delightful locals, I still remained uncommitted whether or not to sign up for an Everest trip.

Whenever ambivalent about a decision, I reverted to the default ubiquitous yellow legal pad “pros" and "cons” columns.

Cons:

• Flight in a small aircraft.

• Several crashes over the years — with no survivors—of course. The industry’s safety record in the Himalayas wasn’t what aviation experts would rate top-notch.

• Not inexpensive.

• Flights departed early in the morning — extremely early for this died-in-the-wool owl. Arising at the requisite time before the extremely early flight would be brutal.

• No guarantee of espying the mighty mount if the weather was uncooperative. Inclimate weather in the Himalayas wasn’t unusual and could move in fast.

Pros:

• The most obvious: It’s Everest, goofball. Did I want to admit being so lazy not to sacrifice some shut-eye?

• The cost: Some people spend more on a round of golf or a swanky dinner.

• Safety: The pilots have flown the route hundreds, or even thousands, of times. A faux reassurance because it could be Day One on the job; if so, the hope was that the new hire would be second in command.
• Crashes: Indeed, planes had gone down, but that could occur anywhere. Dying in a crash had always been less frightening to me than myriad other paths of perishing anyhow. And, what a fetching story: “She died en route to see Everest!
• Likelihood of success: No takeoff guarantee if the weather is bad. That’s fine; we have few guarantees of anything in life. As preposterous as it may seem to larks, early risers and lovers of the dawn, the extremely early hour remained the primary deterrent.

I have always detested arising in the wee hours. My body clock is of a vampire and requires eight hours of slumber. Did I want to drag myself awake before 5 a.m. on the off-chance of possibly seeing the mighty mount?

Decision made

The pro arguments prevailed. Passing on the monumental opportunity would prove a too-embarrassing admission of sloth.

Naturally, every hotel, tour company, and guide in town had connections. After researching and liking the sound of “Buddha Air,” my reservation was made. Flights were scheduled all day, but someone recommended booking an early morning one. Whether that related to a potential likelihood of agreeable weather or statistically fewer crashes, I don’t recall.

Once committed, I queried every Tom, Dick, and Harry about recent conditions. Had trips been successful? Were they aware of cancellations? The fallacy of judging potential future weather conditions based on the past several days didn't hinder my inquiries. I was jazzed now.

No one would be the bearer of anything remotely resembling bad news in a city where revenues revolved around mountaineering, tourism, and Everest. Hence, all reviews were glowing, upbeat, and positive.

Tending toward an “ignorance is bliss” philosophy, I bothered not to research the safety statistics of the three airlines. Roll the dice and take your chances was my attitude. When your number’s up, it’s up. Until then, enjoy the ride.

Never prepared

A poster child for arguably one of the world’s most disorganized travelers, it’s wise I prefer traveling alone.

We with ADHD tendencies procrastinate. We lean toward a fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants mentality. We forget things. We want last-minute change options and flexibility. Those demanding scheduled itineraries would go bonkers with me. And I with them.

Miraculously, at the final moment, I had the foresight to toss a fancy-schmancy “real” Nikon camera into my bag. A red one (Why does everyone buy black? Is that a secret photographer rule?) with two detachable lenses. Its purchase had been a feeble plan to become a "serious photographer” and document my newly adopted home.

Despite tutorials from my friend Bill, a gifted photographer and instructor, I’d made dismal progress in improving my marginal skills. He once gingerly mentioned keeping the camera in the cupboard didn’t help much. The few times I remembered to carry it, I often couldn’t recall the basics or how to use the automatic settings. And, if I managed a few shots, I failed to edit or review them afterward.

I’d even taken some private lessons, but mastering anything new requires discipline, study, and scads of practice. My non-techie gray matter could grasp the Rule of Thirds and basic composition. However, any mention of apertures, F-stops, and shutter speeds propelled me into zombie land.

Now, I hurriedly engaged in a mini-cram course, and only the afternoon before the trip. Along with not being a planner, I’m a first-class procrastinator.

The manual was confusing, and Internet sites weren’t helpful. I even took to the streets to practice, accosting an unsuspecting foreigner because he had the misfortune of carrying a bona fide camera. Although pleasantly offering a couple of suggestions, he likely considered me a straightjacket candidate.

I crammed photo tips: Clean the window of the plane. Hold the camera directly against it. With three cameras, two being cell phones, I might score a decent shot or two — IF, of course, my flight lifted off.

The morning of

I successfully fell asleep at a decent hour the night before. As is typical, though, if something significant occurred the subsequent morning, I feared oversleeping, slept fitfully, and managed only three hours.

Aware that wake-up calls in small hotels in that part of the world were hit or miss, where the night crew slept through their shift, and who knew what their system was, I’d set two backup alarms. That proved prudent because, naturally, the call never ​materialized. Fumbling half-comatose through a shower, at 5:10 a.m. I crawled down the two flights of stairs.

The night manager — the likely non-wake-up caller culprit—was sacked out on a lobby sofa. An empty whiskey pint graced the coffee table. After awakening Rip Van Winkle to inquire about my taxi, he, barely coherent, began phoning. No answer. He claimed to have confirmed with the driver last night.

He made more calls, finally reaching reached someone. I understood none of their Nepalese conversation. Staggering outside, he returned to inform me he'd snagged a street taxi.

At night, the hotel — for whatever bizarre reason — had lowered the front metal grated door a couple of feet, unbeknownst to me. In my marginally alert state, I plowed wham-slam into it. Lovely…a mini-concussion. What is a concussion anyhow? There was no blood, but likely, a charming egg would materialize.

Already, the day was shaping up, and it wasn’t yet 6 a.m. Self-talk: Think positively. These are not necessarily bad omens.

In the wee hour, traffic was scarce. We arrived well in advance of the required time. Drat. I could’ve caught an extra thirty minutes of zzzzz. Self-talk: Quit whining. You may see Everest today.

The airport and the wait

Oddly, the terminal door wasn’t yet open. The airport didn’t operate twenty-four hours? This was peculiar, given the 6:30 Everest departures. I wandered back to the taxi still in the lot to inquire if this was the terminal for Buddha Air.

“Buddha Air?” the driver replied, “No,” pointing down the way to another building, the domestic terminal.

When hailing the cab, the barely awake hotel chap obviously hadn't mentioned my destination, whereupon the driver assumed I was leaving the country because we were at the international terminal. I asked for a lift to the domestic one.

My brain was ticking: This feels just like India. Self-talk: India has taught you something. At least you didn’t sit in front of the wrong doors for an hour and miss the flight.

The small domestic terminal was​ ​abuzz. Check-in was a disorganized rigmarole. Perhaps everyone was sleep-deprived or had drunk an abundance of whiskey the night prior. Someone had informed me they assigned seats and to ask for a good one, wherever that meant. I snagged row five, which was not over the wing. Bags went through security twice, and we were all patted down.

Eventually, we were shepherded into a minuscule metal quonset crowded with fifty waiting passengers. The bare amenities consisted of a coffee counter, book stand, and toilets. As best I could discern, there was one​ departure​​ gate.

More waiting

Progress, at least…but more waiting.

After heading to the bathroom, I returned to play with my camera, still hoping for an ethereal bolt of clarity. My photographer muse had recommended underexposing shots. I may have ascertained the setting but remained uncertain. The little I’d shot had been on “auto.”

Self-talk: You couldn’t have considered learning this earlier and practiced a few times. But, hey, it’s ONLY Mt. Everest. At least, it’s nothing significant.

Why wasn’t a professional photographer on board to sell us fantastic shots at outrageous prices? Oh, that's right, because it's Nepal, the country of mellow disorganization. Or probably because no one would know when if they were taken  today or a year ago.

While searching through my backpack for my boarding pass and passport, not​ yet panicking about their location, up meandered an airport employee, coyly inquiring as he held my passport open to my photo, “What are you looking for?” He’d been searching for me.

It was an eventful morning  indeed: a minor concussion (later that day, in a restaurant restroom, I fainted briefly for the only time in my life), the wrong terminal, and dropping my passport.

The monitor indicated all flights with a 6:30 departure time. More waiting…and hoping. A good omen: it was a bright, sunny day. Nevertheless, the weather could change suddenly. I learned at check-in that the first flights left two days earlier, but the 8:00 ones were canceled.

Flights began to be called

Anticipation was escalating. Flight 101 was boarded, then 200. Mine was 300, but they skipped it, boarded 400, and then 500. “Oh no, was there something wrong with our plane?” Finally, our flight was announced. Whew!

Expecting to walk onto the plane, instead, we hopped on a shuttle bus – a typical drill in both Nepal and India – that drove to the farthest plane on the tarmac.

But before moving, we again waited for some time. Finally, a dour Indian couple and girl sauntered on as if they had all the time in the world. Most likely, their dilly-dallying was why our flight had been skipped earlier. It was so typical; Indians were always late for everything. I swore none owned a timepiece.

A guy holding an identical Nikon to mine was seated across from me on the bus. Excited to query ​him, I’d ascertained how to change the exposure level but was having difficulty adjusting it back. The fellow, his wife, and ​his teenage daughter were leaving Katmandu at noon. Their Everest flight had been canceled a few days prior due​ to bad weather.

From him, I learned an invaluable tip  for future Nepal travelers. The first Everest departure flight was 101, whereupon that pilot radioed back about the weather. Hence, booking the first flight was the safest.

The guy was​ delightful, but ​hysterically, ​he​ knew even less than I about the camera, having purchased it for his wife for Christmas. S​he, too, had been reading her manual. Ah, well, I’d manage the best I could with it and my cell phones.

On board

My first reaction upon boarding was a silent giggle. I had wondered what type of plane had only window seats. Duh! It was a standard small fixed wing with two seats on each side. But only the​ window ones were sold.

Excitement was mounting. Fingers and toes were crossed that I’d not awakened in the middle of the night for naught.

I’d been in a similar situation. Years prior, after three days of shuttling between hotels and the Delhi airport to fly to Dharamshala in the Himalayan foothills, all passengers were seated, belted, and awaiting take-off. While queuing to board, a wise traveler proclaimed, “We can’t count on it until we’re airborne.” Sure enough, the announcement came: Bad weather. Flight canceled.

But it was a good sign that all planes ahead ​had lifted off. It was looking promising. I was stoked about seeing the world’s tallest mountain. Woohoo!

Until cleared for take-off, no announcements were made about our likely departure. A collective holding of breath by us all: Please, let’s make it. By then, however, always the eternal optimist, I was convinced we'd be good to go. The Universe had cooperated nicely thus far. And I'd taken a brain hit to be here. Surely, to the travel gods, that must count for something.

While awaiting the magic words, a flight attendant walked the aisle with handouts identifying the other peaks in addition to Everest we’d be passing. Six of the eight highest mountains in the world are either in Nepal or on its borders. No wonder they’re proud of the resplendent treasures​.

Then, the pronouncement–we were cleared for take-off. My stomach leaped. Tears welled. I really was going to see Everest today!

There wasn’t a preferred side of the plane because the pilot ensured everyone would see Everest. Leaving Katmandu, the sight below was awe-inspiring. There are mountains, and then there are the fabled Himalayas. How blessed I felt to be witnessing their commanding grandeur.

Our side reveled in the mountain views first. Passengers from the other side of the aisle moved over, crowding us in our seats for a glimpse. The flight attendant walked the aisle, naming the various peaks. Despite being quite far in the distance, the pristine snow-capped magnificence for miles and miles in all directions was divinity-incarnated.

And there it was – Everest! Words couldn’t capture the emotion of the surreal vision, even though it was a considerable distance away. Indeed, it was an opportunity of a lifetime.

I took photos with two cameras, but having apparently set the camera for "overexposure" instead of "underexposure" and never ascertaining how to change it. I was fearful my​ Nikon shots could be worthless.

Each passenger was invited into the cockpit to bask in even more mesmerizing views, with the pilots pointing out Everest. I scored two trips! On my first, the captain grabbed my phone and took a couple of shots.

Some might be disappointed because the plane didn't fly close to the mountain. But it was sublimely spectacular and incredibly momentous for me.

Back on terra firma

We left about seven and were back on the ground by eight. Before landing, available for purchase were t-shirts that read: "I didn't climb Everest, but I reached it with my heart!" How could I not buy one?

We all received signed, verified certificates also. Photos were graciously taken on the ground by the crew.

The finale

When bused back to the terminal, everyone was wickedly thrilled, except for a dour, obviously well-off Indian trio. No smiles or enthusiasm whatsoever from them, just glowering. My thoughts: Why do these kinds of jerks bother to travel? If Everest can't bring a smile to people's faces, their lives must be pathetic. (Sorry, but I have no tolerance for insufferable, self-important "tourists"). Chatting with a delightful Australian couple, they were as mesmerized as I was.

Wandering back to the parking lot jammed with taxis, amazingly, I found my guy easily (transport to and from the airport was included with the trip), and off to the hotel we sped. 

I couldn't quit smiling. Sleep deprived. Who cared? Concussion. Who cared? 

I had seen Everest!

Back at the hotel, Manager Pushkar was ecstatic to hear it had been a stellar trip. I climbed the four flights of stairs to the rooftop garden for breakfast. The service at the hotel (aside from wake-up calls) was terrific. The previous day, they had offered to pack my breakfast to take to the airport.

Eating breakfast, I reveled in the once-of-a-lifetime magic of seeing Everest. Sure, it was some miles in the distance, but hey, it WAS Everest! I had reached it with my heart.

If I ever returned to Katmandu, I’d take it again in a heartbeat. A helicopter trip which lands at the base camp is also available at five times the cost. The proliferation of visitors to and climbers on Everest remains a balancing act between the country's desire for economic benefit and environmental concerns. But, alas, as long as there are adventurers, they will continue to go.

The next day

A day later, when wandering the streets, I noticed a woman taking numerous shots with a Nikon. Approaching her, I asked if she’d mind showing me how to reset the exposure. Like most fellow travelers, she was incredibly helpful. It was easy — push one button. Perhaps I shall remember how to do it.

Offering to send me copies of her Everest shots, she took my email address. But, alas, they never materialized. That’s okay; I’m happy with my own. They’re mine despite not being of superb professional quality. Photographs only trigger memories of significant events anyhow.

Footnote:

1. Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer is an exceptional read about Everest. Unable to put it down, it’s of the into the wee hours sleep-depriving genre. My initial scoff to the recommending friend was, “I don’t want to read a book about a bunch of climbers dying on Everest.”

She wisely advised, “Trust me, you'll love it.”

Amusingly, when thereafter suggesting it to my nephew, himself a voracious reader, his reply was verbatim. I begged him to at least commence it and gave him my copy. He, too, was captivated and quickly devoured it.

Everest Trivia:

1. Mt. Everest is situated on the border of Tibet and Nepal. 

2. Sir Edmund Hillary, a New Zealand mountaineer, and Nepalese Sherpa Tenzin Norgay were the first to summit Everest on May 29, 1953.

3. There have been 11,996 recorded total summits through January 2024.

4. The official tally is of 330 dying on Everest. It's too dangerous to retrieve bodies. Hence, many still litter the mountain and are nearly perfectly preserved because they have remained frozen.

5. Nepal is the only country in the world that doesn't have a square or rectangular-shaped flag.

Your time is valuable. I’m honored you chose to spend some of it here. Victoria 🙏

© Victoria Kjos. All Rights Reserved. 2024.