We make the drive from Sakya to Rongphu, a few kilometers from Base Camp. Our first view of Everest appears as we mount a rise and round a curve. The line of the Himalayas is before us. The snow-covered range is so tortured and twisted it looks like waves on an angry sea. But Everest is unmistakable. Our drive towards the mountain takes us off the Friendship Highway onto dirt roads through barren territory, with the peak disappearing behind crushed land. We stop at a government checkpoint, the guards marking each passport against the cleared list. We are on our way again.
Our next view of the mountain is at the top of a near-endless series of switchbacks. All around us are twisted and folded sedimentary rocks, testament to the violent ongoing collision of India into the Asian continent. I suddenly realize this is why I came. Not for having been to Tibet, not for Buddhist-sourced enlightenment. It is because I am driven to visit that place that is forbidden.
We descend again and the massif is hidden from us. We take lunch at a small, poor town. I have chinese noodles with vegetables, the best I’ve had so far. The day is clear, the air is warming and we are making good time. Up, up through rock-strewn moonscapes where only scrub grass grows. Another curve, clearing a last series of hills and there it is. A pyramidal mass scraping an unblemished blue sky, leaving a trail of white clouds from the peak. It is unbelievably awe-inspiring. The air is thin here – a few hundred meters from the monastery and the dorms where we will stay the night. 5000 meters above sea level.
We have daylight and the weather is with us, so we drop our bags off at the dorms and set out on the 8 kilometer trek to Base Camp. The start is easy. We are following a dirt road that is level and straight. The mountain looms ahead. Even so, walking at 5000 meters – 16,400 feet – is difficult. My head begins to hurt, my heart is beating rapidly. I pass small buildings, a field of stone piles. The sun is slowly going down. After 4 kilometers, the road begins to rise. It is here that things get tough. I concentrate on my steps. I look up at the mountain. It does not want me here. I am alone. The road begins a series of switchbacks to get up a hill. I still have 2.5 kilometers to go and I have pushed my body to its limit. But this is a pilgrimage. A test. A headwind has been picking up, now around 25 knots. There is a shortcut up a steep incline that cuts off a switchback. I take it by concentrating on landmarks a few feet ahead. Those are my goals now. A rock up 2 meters. A boulder 3 meters beyond. I’m at the top. I want to stop. There is a red “1” marker ahead of me. I think, hope , pray that that means 1 kilometer to Base Camp. I estimate my steps at ½ meter, 2000 steps. I begin to measure in 100s. Now all I focus on is the next 100. I know I have 900 meters. 800 meters. 700 meters to go. The road straightens out, the sun dips behind a ridge, the headwind hits me in full force. The mountain is there. Of course it doesn’t mock me. It doesn’t take notice of my existence. I know that getting the last ½ kilometer is all mental. My body will do it if I make it. My heart pounds, I gasp, I’m at 5200 meters – 17,000 feet – when I pass a sign, some portable toilets, a building. Then I’m there.
I have my picture taken in front of a monument and the peak. I climb one last crest, covered with prayer flags, for a spectacular view of the pyramid catching the full rays of the setting sun. I have made my own pilgrimage, completed my trek. I have pushed my body to its limits – to the point where it is a mental challenge as to whether I can tolerate the pain. Now I can say I did it, went to the Forbidden Place. I feel like vomiting.
