Maybe the journey isn’t so much about becoming anything. Maybe it’s about un-becoming everything that isn’t really you, so you can be who you were meant to be in the first place.”
― Paul Coelho
"...with farts, face-plants, and all..."
― Tony McKenny
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Stories of high altitude climbing, whether in summer or winter, can come across as surprisingly banal, even predictable: we climbed this or that, survived near death or it was a doddle, we got on/hated each other, put one foot in front of another, survived another avalanche, put another foot in front of the other, and usually no one died - although a few digits may have frozen off on the way…
Oddly enough, on challenging ascents, it often tends to be the little things, the incidentals on the journey, that you remember and reminisce about and laugh at years later, small cameos that somehow summed up the adventure, the fear or the joy. And sometimes the climbing is actually the safest (dare I say, least entertaining?) part of the whole trip... And so it was for Tom and I on a winter trip to Nepal back in the early 2000s. |
Winter climbing with Tom in the Langtang Valley, Nepal (Photo Credit: Tony McKenny Collection)
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It all started with a bang, yep, a literal bang, which marked this little jaunt as different sort of climbing trip right from the very first night.
Short of funds as always, we had a room in a crappy rundown hotel in downtown Kathmandu, having arrived exhausted by the usual problems with shepherding all our kit halfway round the world and then through the labyrinthian Nepalese customs. As we switched on the light upon arrival there was a massive explosion and instant blackout. Struggling up from under the beds where we had both dived, we found our torches in the gloom and discovered an overloaded power system had literally blown all the light fittings and sockets off the wall – the switches were hanging out of their fittings, with a wisp of smoke rising from the swinging central bulb, or what was left of it. We were grateful the place didn't burn down.
Short of funds as always, we had a room in a crappy rundown hotel in downtown Kathmandu, having arrived exhausted by the usual problems with shepherding all our kit halfway round the world and then through the labyrinthian Nepalese customs. As we switched on the light upon arrival there was a massive explosion and instant blackout. Struggling up from under the beds where we had both dived, we found our torches in the gloom and discovered an overloaded power system had literally blown all the light fittings and sockets off the wall – the switches were hanging out of their fittings, with a wisp of smoke rising from the swinging central bulb, or what was left of it. We were grateful the place didn't burn down.
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Our exit from the city for the Langtang valley* was not for the vainglorious. Somehow we had accumulated a veritable circus of porters, guides, cooks, post boys, two full busloads in all… even a child or two although they were secreted on the second bus out of our sight.
This was winter, and there was no work for the locals, so they had all jumped on board for the ride. To this day, I don’t know who we actually paid for, some got off in villages along the way, others we never saw again after we arrived at the Dunche road head. But off we drove in regal style, with us, the two chief clowns, in prime place in the front seats - affectionately known as the suicide seats - and a chatter of mountain men, an aunty, chickens, a goat, vegetables, and presents to drop off for relatives along the way. |
*The Langtang Valley was totally devastated in the earthquake of 2015, with up to 400 fatalities, local farmers, tourist operators, and trekkers, a very sad time for Nepal and all the people caught up in the tragedy. With international aid the surviving inhabitants have managed to re-build Langtang village and the Kyajin Gompa and are again open for business.
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It was of course chaos as we unloaded, our sirdar running around in the snow shouting orders and berating laughing porters until finally we moved off for the 5-days hike up the Langtang Valley. It was a generally uneventful approach trudge, but in a magnificent valley. Heavy packs were carried up and down over steep spurs and across rivers. The nights were very cold and met with some snow and raksi to drink. And, as it tends to do with altitude, oxygen decreased and helped us along with getting sick (on Christmas Day of course).
We established our base camp at the small monastery village of Kyajin Gompa at about 4000m (just over 13,000 feet). No sooner had we gotten established than a bevy of ill-equipped Indian tourists arrived by helicopter, walked around, became more and more frozen, started to collapse with altitude sickness, and within a few minutes of arrival were hustled/carried back aboard and disappeared in a cloud of snow and dust. What was that all about? Even the locals seemed perplexed.
We established our base camp at the small monastery village of Kyajin Gompa at about 4000m (just over 13,000 feet). No sooner had we gotten established than a bevy of ill-equipped Indian tourists arrived by helicopter, walked around, became more and more frozen, started to collapse with altitude sickness, and within a few minutes of arrival were hustled/carried back aboard and disappeared in a cloud of snow and dust. What was that all about? Even the locals seemed perplexed.
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Now, climbing in the Himalaya in winter can be tricky; a holiday it ain’t. Avalanches on steep faces after heavy winter snow fall, hidden crevasses, blocked tracks, closed tea houses and roads, really heavy rucksacks, more warm gear for all and sundry, and so on…and always the unforgiving, relentless cold - real cold, frost bite freezing cold.
Then there are the compounding problems with altitude – low oxygen levels just when your body is demanding more energy, more fuel needed for your already struggling internal metabolic stove to warm those cold muscles, AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) and HAFE ( High Altitude Flatulence).
If you haven't heard of, or experienced, HAFE, let's take an educational side trek - since side treks (and stories) are part of the journey.
Believe it or not, HAFE has an official definition: "a gastrointestinal syndrome which involves the spontaneous passage of increased quantities of rectal gases (flatus) at high altitudes." Yep, you read that right – you fart much more and much louder.
HAFE was apparently first described in the literature by one Joseph Hamel as far back as 1820. (In fact, the word fart itself comes from the Old English meaning “to break wind” and boy, can we do that!)
The phenomenon is based on the decrease in atmospheric pressure as you ascend. As the external atmospheric pressure decreases, the difference in pressure between the gas within the body and the atmosphere outside is higher, and the urge to expel gas to relieve the pressure is greater. Or, as good ‘ole Boyle spelt out in his Gas Laws, the amount of gas produced is constant in mass, but the volume increases as the external air pressure decreases, rather like blowing up a balloon.
For the chemistry inclined, a fart is a delightful combination of gases, including Nitrogen, Oxygen, Carbon Dioxide, plus the two we probably know best, explosive methane (sometimes thought to be a product of constipation, not usually a problem in Nepal…) and the stinking hydrogen sulphide.
To exacerbate things climbers’ reliance on gas-producing dehydrated foods certainly adds to the condition...Once, when my climbing partner and I were camped around 6,000m (20,000ft) while exploring a new peak in Nepal, we ate dehydrated Black Eyed Beans (an American concoction). We really thought we might blow up the tent (methane...), so we lit the stove outside.
Apparently the expulsion of gases has been amusing to humans since, well, the dawn of flatulence. And, since story-telling is part of climbing, here is one you can pull out in the tent when the gas starts flying: Believe it or not, the story of the fart gets weirder - throughout history there are actually professional farters.
“A flatulist, fartist, or professional farter is an entertainer often associated with a specific type of humour, whose routine consists solely or primarily of passing gas in a creative, musical, or amusing manner,” says Mr. Google.
Then there are the compounding problems with altitude – low oxygen levels just when your body is demanding more energy, more fuel needed for your already struggling internal metabolic stove to warm those cold muscles, AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) and HAFE ( High Altitude Flatulence).
If you haven't heard of, or experienced, HAFE, let's take an educational side trek - since side treks (and stories) are part of the journey.
Believe it or not, HAFE has an official definition: "a gastrointestinal syndrome which involves the spontaneous passage of increased quantities of rectal gases (flatus) at high altitudes." Yep, you read that right – you fart much more and much louder.
HAFE was apparently first described in the literature by one Joseph Hamel as far back as 1820. (In fact, the word fart itself comes from the Old English meaning “to break wind” and boy, can we do that!)
The phenomenon is based on the decrease in atmospheric pressure as you ascend. As the external atmospheric pressure decreases, the difference in pressure between the gas within the body and the atmosphere outside is higher, and the urge to expel gas to relieve the pressure is greater. Or, as good ‘ole Boyle spelt out in his Gas Laws, the amount of gas produced is constant in mass, but the volume increases as the external air pressure decreases, rather like blowing up a balloon.
For the chemistry inclined, a fart is a delightful combination of gases, including Nitrogen, Oxygen, Carbon Dioxide, plus the two we probably know best, explosive methane (sometimes thought to be a product of constipation, not usually a problem in Nepal…) and the stinking hydrogen sulphide.
To exacerbate things climbers’ reliance on gas-producing dehydrated foods certainly adds to the condition...Once, when my climbing partner and I were camped around 6,000m (20,000ft) while exploring a new peak in Nepal, we ate dehydrated Black Eyed Beans (an American concoction). We really thought we might blow up the tent (methane...), so we lit the stove outside.
Apparently the expulsion of gases has been amusing to humans since, well, the dawn of flatulence. And, since story-telling is part of climbing, here is one you can pull out in the tent when the gas starts flying: Believe it or not, the story of the fart gets weirder - throughout history there are actually professional farters.
“A flatulist, fartist, or professional farter is an entertainer often associated with a specific type of humour, whose routine consists solely or primarily of passing gas in a creative, musical, or amusing manner,” says Mr. Google.
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This is really gorgeous - Saint Augustine first attests back in 300AD to flatulists breaking wind at will, as though singing. By the 12-century, Ireland had professionals called "braigetoír." In the 13th-century the English had one Roland the Farter, a court jester who lived in Hemingstone Manor in the county of Suffolk, for which he was obliged to perform for the king "Unum saltum et siffletum et unum bumbulum" (one jump, one whistle, and one fart) annually as rent at the court of King Henry II every Christmas.
I will never just fart again; it will always be a “bumbulum!" In Japan, flatulists were known as "heppiri otoko" (放屁男), or the "farting men", and held farting competitions... and could apparently blow cats into the air. Sheer gold. |
Japanese drawing of the "heppiri otoko" (放屁男), or the "farting men."
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Think of all that time wasted in high camps just plain old farting when it could have been music to our ears…But then as the tee-shirt seen in Kathmandu said, “Happiness in Nepal is a dry fart…” At the very least, as you spend more time at altitude, you soon stop apologizing for the noise (and smell) and you have to “let it rip"… Along with it, I have to admit, a competitive side of most climbers soon appears.
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With the Christmas bug and altitude adjustments at bay, our first mission on this trip was Nya Kanga (5844m/19,160ft), a popular summer peak that we had to ourselves in winter. It was a good acclimatisation climb for other objectives further up the valley. Our chosen line was directly up the north face. The conditions were mixed snow and ice with a fearsome wind on the summit ridge, hammering us with sharp ice shards.
Again, I caught a bug, bronchitis this time. When we got down to Camp 1, we had to abandon our other Himalaya objectives. Apart from the grinding cold, my hacking cough, and the new cook who produced some absolutely outstandingly novel cuisine – like milk rice pudding for breakfast, stirred though with tuna in condensed milk, tomato sauce and sugar – the other immediate excuse for running away was to get our sirdar down alive. He had been asleep when we left very early on the final day of the Nya Kanga summit bid, and upon our return, we found him clearly suffering from fairly advanced mountain sickness. A hasty exit was made, bundling up the tent, packing his kit and half carrying the sirdar down the long moraines back to our Advanced Base Camp. As we wound our way back down the valley, we were greeted with other character-building challenges - falling in the river, freezing in the unheated lodges, face-planting into a bed of vicious nettles, getting lost, and being arrested by a police patrol (“just checking up that your health was okay” – no, seriously, the resident police chief had received intelligence from further up the valley that I was ill and he just wanted to know we were okay), vomiting and descent headaches, being rudely propositioned by a gaggle of giggling sherpanis, and me coughing my gurgling lungs out every step of the way. If you are considering climbing in Himalaya, don't let the extra freezing winter cold, oxygen deprivation, bad cooks, exploding light sockets, illness, and HAFE tempt you to turn off the exit and give it all away as simply too hard. With some cunning planning, the rewards of winter climbing in the Himalya can also be sensational. By choosing slightly lower, more accessible summits, you can benefit from relatively stable weather, typified by cloudless and windless blue skies, fewer people on the hill, good snow conditions, and a choice of peaks to play on. You will also have your choice of porters, and, might I suggest, your choice of drivers... |
Nya Kanga, 5844m (19,160ft), our route up the central couloir and middle ridge. (Photo Credit: Tony McKenny)
Tom on the summit of Nya Kanga. (Photo Credit: Tony McKenny)
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At Syabru Besi we were scheduled to be picked up by a land-cruiser. We met up with our driver who assured us proudly he was an ex-Ghurkha sergeant and had never, ever had a crash in his life. With that, he settled into what was I think the most sustained bout of whiskey drinking I have ever seen, continuing as far as we could tell from the singing, well into the night. But at 6.00am he reported for duty, Sah!, and drove us at breakneck speed up the hairpins out of the valley. We opted to move to the back seat, the suicide seats were unappealing, and at regular intervals asked him to slow down, then pleaded, then ordered, and finally we just cowed down and hid behind the front seats. “Never had an accident in my career Sah”… that is, until we went round a corner too fast on the dirt road and ran slap into the back of a bus.
Chaos in the cruiser, kits everywhere, passengers and the driver out of their seats but mercifully, no one injured. But worse was to come. As the bus doors opened, a swarm of men in blue uniforms came stumbling out like angry bees from a hive. If you are going to have your first crash, Sah, you might as well run up the arse end of a busload of off-duty policemen….no, wait, make those TWO busloads of off duty policeman. The initial crash had pushed the first bus up the tail of a second bus.
With bits of metal, glass, lights, diesel and plastic all over the road, Tom and I did the only thing any sensible coward would do – we locked the cruiser doors as soon as our driver got out and refused to budge until it was all over. From behind the windows, we looked on through much shouting and angry gesticulating. And then, suddenly, there were wreaths of smiles as money surreptitiously changed hands and they all climbed back aboard and drove off. After prising the cruiser’s mudguards off the wheels, we proceeded at a much more stately, thoughtful, even sober, speed.
With bronchitis and a backend-bus bashing under our belts, we were ready for our comparatively quick journey home to Tasmania. Well, it would have been quick if we hadn’t missed our connecting flight and ended up marooned in Bangkok…. but that is another story.
Chaos in the cruiser, kits everywhere, passengers and the driver out of their seats but mercifully, no one injured. But worse was to come. As the bus doors opened, a swarm of men in blue uniforms came stumbling out like angry bees from a hive. If you are going to have your first crash, Sah, you might as well run up the arse end of a busload of off-duty policemen….no, wait, make those TWO busloads of off duty policeman. The initial crash had pushed the first bus up the tail of a second bus.
With bits of metal, glass, lights, diesel and plastic all over the road, Tom and I did the only thing any sensible coward would do – we locked the cruiser doors as soon as our driver got out and refused to budge until it was all over. From behind the windows, we looked on through much shouting and angry gesticulating. And then, suddenly, there were wreaths of smiles as money surreptitiously changed hands and they all climbed back aboard and drove off. After prising the cruiser’s mudguards off the wheels, we proceeded at a much more stately, thoughtful, even sober, speed.
With bronchitis and a backend-bus bashing under our belts, we were ready for our comparatively quick journey home to Tasmania. Well, it would have been quick if we hadn’t missed our connecting flight and ended up marooned in Bangkok…. but that is another story.