Ice Wrought: Trekking the Annapurna circuit
The ice and snow crunches under our feet and our breathing labours. They are the only sounds to penetrate the heavy silence of the mountains. The air is still, and a thick shroud of darkness hangs over us. The impenetrable night seems never-ending, a silent, black abyss into which we trudge. Each step we take is careful and deliberate, aided by the soft glow of our head torches. Heads bowed, we concentrate on the body in front, mimicking their steps, in a steady, rhythmic march. Our destination, Thorong La pass, sits at 5,416 metres above sea level, the highest point on the Annapurna circuit.
Nepal’s most scenic hiking route, the Annapurna circuit offers views of Dhaulagiri (8,167), Machhapuchhre (6,993), and the many, numbered, Annapurna peaks. Our guides, Dhane and Tek, have led us from Besisahar and we will finish in Jomsom before flying to Pokhara. Both have completed the circuit more times than they can remember. Though never in January, in the depths of a bitter winter, ‘and I never will again,’ Dhane remarks.
It is a sentiment I echo. My body has been in a deadened state since arriving at High Camp the previous afternoon. The combination of altitude and extreme cold (a forecast high of -18), makes it difficult to function. After hours sitting in front of a furnace stove, drinking cups of ginger tea, I spend a largely sleepless night cocooned inside my sleeping bag. Wrapped in every piece of clothing I have, I burrow inside, and then cover myself with two heavy blankets. Despite my best efforts, the cold creeps in, and my blood feels like ice, slicing through my veins. I toss and turn all night, dozing from exhaustion rather than comfort. At 3:30am there is a knock on my door, it is time to prepare for the trek. My appetite has abandoned me, another result of high altitudes, though I know I must eat. I force down a bowl of garlic soup, and muesli with warm milk. Dhane and Tek, unsurprisingly, are devouring another plate of dal bhat. Outside, a scene of pitch black awaits.
High Camp
Mountains hold a special place in our collective imagination, inspiring travellers, philosophers, revolutionaries, and lovers of nature, and being woven into the fabric of mythology and legend. For millennia, their summits remained elusive, and these mysterious, unreachable places became havens for human imagination. Equal parts hostile and majestic, perilous and splendid, they were regarded as the natural home for Gods, and our closest earthly connection to the heavens. Tibet’s Mt Kailash has, for thousands of years, been worshipped as the home of the Hindu deity Shiva, and climbing is forbidden. In nearby Bhutan, Mt Gangkhar Puensum is sacred to Buddhists, though perhaps more famous to outsiders as the world’s highest unclimbed mountain. Amazingly, the ancient Greeks, living half a world away, also considered mountains the natural home of Gods. They placed theirs in the peaks surrounding Athens, most notably Mt Olympus, home to Zeus. Subsequent religious traditions also centred on mountains. Mt Sinai is where Moses is said to have received the Ten Commandments, and Jabal al Nour, is revered as the site where the Prophet Muhammad received his first revelations.
The abodes of Gods and the scenes of folklore, mountains offer an opportunity to connect with higher beings, as well as our higher selves. In philosophical traditions, mountains have played a crucial role in shaping thought, and as a place of refuge. Ludwig Wittgenstein escaped to the mountains of Norway, building himself a wooden hut to live in, while the Transcendentalist movement of North America was inspired by mountains and the natural world. Zarathustra, the central character of Friedrich Nietzsche’s most famous work, descends from a mountain after a decade of contemplation, to share his wisdom with the world. Indeed, the author enjoyed walking in the hills of Sils Maria, and wrote of it as a great equaliser, ‘a few hours’ mountain climbing makes a rogue and a saint of two fairly equal creatures. Tiredness is the shortest path to equality and fraternity – and sleep finally adds them to liberty.’
Trekking the Annapurna circuit
Trudging through the cold and darkness, I feel neither rogue or saint, nor equal, as each step grows more onerous. From Besisahar to High Camp, I was leading our troupe, striding out in front with Tek, waiting for others to catch up. Now, as we approach 5,000 metres, I am struggling, ushering others past as I gradually fall back to the end of the line. We soon arrive at a small hut, a final resting place before the pass. Altitude sickness has stalked me since we left High Camp, and it is now overwhelming me. My head throbs with the monotonous beat of a metronome, one, two, one, two… I feel nauseous, yet have nothing to expel, and my joints ache. I wiggle my toes. They move only enough to signify they are still attached. My fingers, buried inside two pairs of gloves, fare little better. I clench my hands to make fists, open and close, open, and close… it saps the little energy reserves I still have. I shuffle to the corner of the hut, put my head against the wall, and sob, involuntarily. I want to rest, yet the cold will not let me. I close my eyes, and taste the frigid, salty tears that have come to rest on my upper lip. I want to lie down, roll into a ball, and sleep.
A hand touches my shoulder. I hear Dhane’s voice, and its familiarity and assuredness are comforting. It is time to move again. He will not let me stop and he will not let me fail. My mind is cluttered, confused, ‘I should continue walking. But I should rest, I have no energy. No, I should keep walking and be warm, then I will feel better. No, I feel terrible, I need to rest. Turn back? No, not possible. I can make it. It’s so cold, I feel sick, I can’t think, I don’t know what to do.’ Follow the instructions of Dhane and Tek, that is all I should do. The malicious companion of altitude sickness is frostbite, and if I remain standing in the corner of the hut, I am inviting it, and the situation will deteriorate. Those who can, mutter words of encouragement to the rest of the group and clap their hands meekly, attempting to rouse us into action. Nobody is enjoying this, though some are in better shape than others. I take a deep breath, and with an icy glove, wipe the tears and snot from my face. I take Dhane’s hand and allow him to lead me from the hut.
‘The human paradox of altitude: that it both exalts the individual mind and erases it. Those who travel to mountain-tops are half in love with themselves, and half in love with oblivion.’ The words of Robert Macfarlane ring true, though I feel a greater connection to oblivion than vanity. Dhane holds the door of the hut open for me, and I shuffle outside. I look up towards the pass and face a mighty scene. The faintest outlines of snow-covered peaks are emerging, and a soft blue glow is recognisable in the sky. The dark curtain of night is lifting, unveiling a stunning and beautiful dawn. The embers of whatever fire carried me this far catch alight, spurring me higher, I feel the exaltation McFarlane was referring to. This truly is the world of Gods, a paradise unrivalled in its beauty, where spirits fly, and the heavens are within reach. Hostile and inviting in equal measure, it is beyond the imagination of man. This is where life begins, and sometimes ends.
One of the many stupas on the Annapurna circuit
We march on in silence. A gentle breeze accompanies the approaching dawn, its bitter tentacles searching for an opening in our insulated layers. It finds none, and curls down the ridge, whipping up the overnight dusting of snow. Our breathing labours and breaths become heavier and shorter. I concentrate on my steps, counting, one, two, one two… watching my feet, one, two, one two, listening to the crackle of the snow. Dhane walks behind me, at the end of the line, shepherding me towards the pass. One step at a time, walk slowly, take your time, acclimatise.
Before opening as a commercial trekking route in 1977, the area surrounding Thorong La was strictly off limits to travellers. The mountainous Mustang region, awaiting us on the other side of the pass, was then a refuge for Tibetan resistance forces. Throughout the 50s and 60s, Khampa guerrillas used the mountain towns as a base, as they fought to protect their homeland from the creeping death of the Chinese Communist Party. Sharing a centuries long history with the people of Mustang, the Khampa were welcomed, and their cause was supported and financed by the CIA. However, in the early 70s, when the political winds changed course, the US abandoned the Khampa, and their resistance withered. Unable to compete against the machine of the CCP, they were rapidly overrun and defeated. For the people of Mustang, the ensuing years have seen tens of thousands of visitors of a different kind, and the region, including the town of Pokhara, has been revolutionised as a tourism hub, and trekkers paradise.
Our march is nearing its zenith, and the surge of exaltation I felt after stepping outside the hut has subdued. Each step is a battle, against my inner self, against nature, and against sanity. Rest, walk. Rest, walk. Step, step, one, two, one two. The sky is now an enormous wall of blue, and we exist in a brief window of calm, before the winds arrive, and the fury of the mountains will unleash. Dhane is careful not to hurry me, though he does, in his own gentle way. Tek, who has continued his role as unofficial trail leader, returns from the pass and gestures for my backpack. I offer it freely, and he exchanges it for a pair of walking poles, then bounds away. I hobble on, and soon see the rest of the group, gathered around a weathered mass of prayer flags. The tangle of colours, red and green and yellow and blue, glow like a pot of gold, at the end of a long, dull, grey rainbow. I reach the top and drop to my knees, unable to muster the energy for pride or distress. I simply exist, emotionless and mechanical. A hand touches my shoulder, ‘you made it,’ I hear from above. Dhane calls me over to join the group photo, hurrying me. we cannot linger here. With the aid of daylight, I soak in as much of the scene as I can, the endless horizon of snow covered mountains, our trail of footsteps in the snow, the chiselled brown cliff faces, and the crisp mountain air prickling my face. I shed a few more involuntary tears, from exhaustion, awe and relief, and then do only what is necessary, descend.
