124 - Kongma La (Three Passes Trek, Nepal)
"Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark in the hopeless swaps of the not-quite, the not-yet, and the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved and have never been able to reach. The world you desire can be won. It exists… it is real… it is possible… it's yours."
— Ayn Rand (Atlas Shrugged)
EARLY BIRD CROSSES THE PASS… or something. The Lonely Planet allots nine hours from Chukkhung to Lobuche in the valley on the backside of Kongma La. I figured I could shave off two, assuming I didn’t run afoul of the path… a HUGE assumption. So, I got moving, leaving Chukkhung at 6 a.m., not long after dawn cast its silvery glow across Himalaya’s resident monsters.
I can’t deny it. Going it alone made me nervous. It also adrenalized the shit out of me. Would I get lost? Be eaten by a yeti? Hit by a meteorite? Those were the obvious risks, but my trepidation centered on the mundane—altitude sickness, broken ankle, cuts, scrapes, tooth decay, painful gas, etc. In tandem with a fellow adventurer, the risk was mitigated, but alone, a minor obstacle could turn deadly, especially if I were the only person to cross that day. It’s wise to bring a buddy. Really. I had no buddy. Me, myself, and I. Would I prefer a compadre and/or guide? You bet your ass. But we work with what we have. (Why no guide? See here.)
Early morning was splendid. Blue skies. Fresh air. Heart-stopping scenery. And quiet. An eerie quiet. This caught me off guard. I didn’t anticipate the stillness. Was I the only asshole on Earth? Maybe. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Well, maybe a bird here or there. Ever walk into a room and hear the proverbial record scratch? It was like that, except it’s the valley spirits who halt and take notice, a sort of innocuous intruder alert. They know I’m here. Don’t piss ‘em off. The cosmos honed in, its center shifted momentarily in my favor. Words are moot, at least my words. Take a breath. Close your eyes. Hold it for a second… but not too tight, or it’ll slip your grasp. Thank the universe. Move on.
At the onset, the track was easy to distinguish, but an hour after setting off, I came across snow cover. This wasn’t much of a problem because the footprints of the two previous parties were visible. This eased the pressure, though it didn’t take long to realize folks coming from the pass hadn’t stuck to the trail, deviating in predictable ways to circumvent snow. The trail visible going up eluded my predecessors coming down. It’s all about perspective. Still, as they assured me, there’s only one way in a valley. Can't go wrong, right? Wrong.
I misjudged which ridge I was supposed to climb and gained way more elevation than necessary. Right way. Too high. A brief spell of poopypants panic ensued, but from my vantage point, I only had to head northwest into the bowl of another valley, and then beyond. I could see distinct prayer flags marking Kongma La in the distance. Phew.
Two things made the journey more arduous. First, I spent so much energy hauling my disoriented ass up the ridge, I was exasperated upon descent. Second, there was enough snow to make finding the path of least resistance a bit trying. I should’ve put on my gaiters and plowed through, but I was in a grove, so I circumvented the snow, increasing exertion levels. Dumb.
As prayer flags and stone cairns came into view, a Russian trekker, who’d arrived a few minutes before from Lobuche, startled me. After the initial jolt, I was relieved to have a chat. I sat atop the Kongma La basking in high-altitude sunlight while exchanging pleasantries with my new pal from Moscow. It was nice to have someone to share the moment. We bonded like rubber cement.
I had to go down. Descending may sound like a pleasant break in the monotony, but in some cases, it downright sucks. This was one of those cases. The area just below the pass was steep and littered with small boulders and loose scree. Not an issue as long as you move slowly and concentrate. I wanted to let my mind wander inside my internal realm of private ridiculousness. But it was not to be. Focus, fucker, focus!
And if thinking weren’t enough of a chore, my Himalayan ADHD was compounded by the effects of altitude, which, until my downward jaunt from the Kongma La, had been blissfully dormant. Then again, altitude may not have been the culprit. Solar radiation (reflecting off the snow) could’ve been to blame. Or it was a tag-team effort. Either way, a snare drum pounded out Hakuna Matata in my brain. Shortness of breath and fatigue were the other two musketeers of discomfort. This explains the lack of photographs on the way down. I was grumpy and couldn't be bothered.
After playing trip-a-dee-doo-dah on the descent, I had one more obstacle in my way: a glacial moraine with more ups and downs than a telenovela. In retrospect, it wasn’t that bad, but I was tired and hungry. I needed a nap. No rest for the wicked. More pit stops would’ve been the smart move, but I was all about getting to Lobuche before granting a reprieve.
Seven hours after departing Chukkhung, I stumbled into Lobuche, found a suitable abode, and laid prostrate on a bench in the dining area, exhausted and famished. I was so drained and bereft of motivation, my inner bitch considered returning to Lukla. I was in the grip of fatigue and in no mood to fantasize about Kala Patar and Everest Base Camp. Buck up, Skippy. Tomorrow’s a new day. And it was. One pass down, two to go.
***********
Walking alone for hours in an isolated mountain landscape can do things, make you think, force you to ponder life’s deeper mysteries along with the inane topics churning through the mind when exploring one's depths.
Regrets, I’ve had a few, as do we all. Anyone professing otherwise is full of caca. Choices lead to regrets. That’s life. You can’t have it both ways. “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood” or so the poem goes. I have two that phase in and out of my consciousness from time to time. They’re not fatal. By that, I mean they don’t tear at the fabric of my being, though they do tug a little, perhaps even gnaw.
The first is my grandfather. I miss him. In a way, I miss the grandfather I never knew, the one I never bothered to ask about. Though fond memories abound, one set stands out. When I was four years old, we’d sit in the kitchen and sip coffee. I liked mine black, as did he. (Don't go social services on me. It was a small yellow plastic cup not much bigger than a shot glass. It's not like we were out nights cruising hookers and throwing down shots of Jack at the local speakeasy.) After our post-lunch café, we’d often retire to the living room for a game of Sorry! and some lively conversation. Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing dramatic. A somewhat mundane recollection bolstered and solidified in the annals of memory by the aura of safety and security I experienced. If you’re sipping warm brew and playing Sorry! with grandpa, all is right with the world. Looking back, I suspect he did everything he could to lose.
He was an iron ore miner for Republic Steel Corporation in Lyon Mountain, New York until the mine closed in 1967. The job was extremely hazardous at times. Grandpa was known to refuse a job when he deemed the risk too great. Those who took his place paid the ultimate price. When a miner died, a siren blared its accursed refrain to the nearby villages, Lyon Mountain and Standish. I’ve tried to imagine it. One moment you’re immersed in the familiar rhythm of everyday life, the next you’re counting minutes to confirmation, for or against, the death of a husband, father, brother, or friend.
Grandpa had a million stories, his mining career a fraction of the whole. They’re gone forever. Yes, I could ask my mother or my uncle to share their recollections, retelling stories told them, but it wouldn't be the same. I can’t look at my grandpa's face and see the memory flash across his eyes as he delves deeper into his archive. I can’t listen as he shares experiences I couldn’t understand.
I traveled across the globe, experienced people and places that will inspire me until the end of my days, but long before I explored the rooftop of the world or the Papua New Guinea jungle, I had a fascinating blog entry right there in front of me. I was too immature to appreciate it. What I wouldn’t give now to sit and let him talk. He would have loved it. It’s a sad irony I had to gallivant abroad the world before I realized how intriguing was my “boring” old grandpa. Youth is wasted on the young. Never a truer phrase spoken.
We all have those specific memories we can’t shake. Sometimes the neural emphasis resonates, sometimes it feels random—an artifact of human consciousness. A few years before he passed, grandpa gave me a puzzle of the United States as a gift, a non-jigsaw puzzle requiring little more than rudimentary geographic knowledge and basic matching skills (each state was a separate piece). It may have been for my high school graduation, or no reason at all. I appreciated the gesture, though the puzzle was more befitting a toddler than a kid in his late teens. The “gift” wasn’t the puzzle, it was the act itself. The world moved on. My grandfather hadn’t moved with it. He was out of touch in the best possible way, possessing a generational naïveté simultaneously beautiful and heart-wrenching. The callousness of youth didn’t extend to this pure act of love and generosity. I recognized the value. It’s one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received.
Regret number two centers on a woman. (Regrets are often clichés.) I was seventeen. She was twenty-three. We both worked at Duke's Pasta House—she a waitress, I a multifaceted dishwasher/pizza cook. Deb had blond hair and a gaze that could pierce titanium. She was kind, intelligent, and old enough to consume alcohol. She did smoke, but I forgave her this vice. (Or my hormones did.) We got along well, and I thought I saw a hint of longing in those eyes. As a teenager, my self-esteem teetered on a knife’s edge. A tall, gangly, socially awkward high-school student barely old enough to see a rated ‘R’ movie, let alone drink? Stop it, you’re making me damp. But wait, there’s more. I sported a banana yellow 1979 Chevy Impala monstroid with plenty of space for all my bitches, a real chick magnet. And yet, I think Deb Campbell saw past all that. She went on to grad school at NYU and out of my life forever… sigh.
I never told her how I felt. I was a male teenager, my underdeveloped prefrontal cortex no match for the testosterone muting any attempts at rational romanticism, but there was more than the typical “older women” infatuation at play. I can say that now because there’s a part of her that haunts me still. Whatever it was (and I’m not sure even today), it was real. Don't get me wrong, I doubt spilling my guts would’ve led down some glorious path where I'd be summering in the Hamptons with Deb and kids. We were headed in different directions even then, but who knows what a few weeks or months would’ve been like? Did she feel the same or even anything at all? I have no clue, and that’s the point. “Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, ‘It might have been.’”